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“Jungkook, are you okay?” Jimin asks, putting a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder as they walk away from the T-Birds in the car park, but Jungkook doesn’t reply. He wants to tell them that he doesn’t understand – doesn’t understand why V is being rude to him or why he’s suddenly acting so distant, but the truth is that he understands it all.
He doesn’t want people to know that he’s gay, right? Jungkook repeats inside his head. So of course he’s not going to tell his friends about their summer romance, or friendship, or whatever it even was. It makes sense.
Or even acknowledge the significance of Jungkook’s presence when they see each other again. Of course not.
So why does Jungkook feel like his chest is being crushed?
“Hey, how about we have a sleepover at mine?” Jin suggests, breaking into Jungkook’s thoughts.
“It’s Thursday,” Jungkook says pointedly, looking at Jin disapprovingly.
“Okay, fine, let’s have a sleepover this weekend then. Saturday night. Sound good? You seem like you need some cheering up.” Jin returns Jungkook’s glare and Jungkook sighs in defeat.
“Okay. Maybe that’ll be nice,” he acknowledges. If he’s already lost his summer best friend, he’s not about to push away the new school friends he’s got as well.
“Brilliant!” Jisoo grins. “I’ve missed our sleepovers over summer,” she continues wistfully.
“How are you so sentimental? It’s been hardly 2 months,” Jimin rolls his eyes despairingly, teasing her. “Honestly, how do so many people want to go out with you?”
“I have my charms, Chim Chim,” she smiles brightly as Jimin wraps an arm around her waist.
“Anyway, it’ll be nice to all get to know each other a little better,” Rosé smiles mischievously, shooting Jungkook a surreptitious glance, and now he understands why he got such a weird vibe from Rosé when they first met. She seems to be the type to stir up drama – not the best thing in his opinion, especially when his life doesn’t really feel like it needs much more drama right now.
***
A couple days later, Jungkook is sat on Jin’s carpeted bedroom floor with a can of beer and a tonne of regret for his life decisions. This is seriously not his type of gathering, but the older boy had been so lovely and welcoming so far that he would feel bad about saying so.
“Come on, Jungkook, have you never had a drink?” Jisoo teases, picking up on the way that he’s sitting stiffly and cupping the can with both hands, without having raised it to his lips once.
“Um, well, I had some champagne at my cousin’s wedding once,” Jungkook replies honestly, looking up at Jisoo as she walks around Jin’s bed and sits against one of the fluffy pillows.
“Wow, that’s wild,” Rosé laughs before heading into the bathroom with a makeup bag held protectively to her chest. Jungkook smiles shyly at her approval until he realises that she’s being sarcastic.
“Seriously, drink up,” Jisoo grins, taking a demonstrative swig of her own beer. Jungkook nods and takes a sip of the drink, wincing as he swallows. What the hell do they put in there?
“Anyway, did you say that you moved out here because of your family?” Jisoo asks curiously, shifting her position to lie flat and wiggle her legs up in the air. She raises her eyebrows at Jungkook when he remains silent. “I feel like I know next to nothing about you. Tell me more.”
“Well… Yeah, that’s kind of the reason,” Jungkook shrugs, feeling intimidated under Jisoo’s expectant gaze. “I mean, things were pretty dark a few months ago –”
“Oh yeah, winter can be like that,” Jisoo nods sympathetically.
“Um, yeah, sure,” Jungkook agrees, “but I meant more – I was just in a very dark place. Emotionally.” He cringes as Jisoo watches him curiously, trying to figure him out.
“Oh, was it Hull?” she asks eventually.
Jungkook grimaces. “Never mind.”
“Hey everyone!” Jimin calls as he enters the bedroom.
“How did you get in here?” Jin asks in alarm.
“Your mum let me in,” Jimin shrugs as he sets his bag down on the floor next to the bed.
“About time,” Rosé calls over, emerging momentarily from the bathroom. “The rest of us arrived half an hour ago.”
“Yes, but did any of you bring needles and ice?” Jimin combats.
Jin frowns and Rosé simply rolls her eyes, heading back into the bathroom to continue applying her eyeliner.
“I wasn’t aware we were supposed to…” Jisoo says hesitantly, eyeing Jimin warily as she waits for him to explain his reasoning.
“Jungkook doesn’t have his ears pierced yet,” Jimin shrugs, brandishing the ‘equipment’ he’s brought along in his bag. “I thought I could do it for him tonight.”
Jungkook gawks, feeling his hands clench nervously around the can.
“God, Jungkook! Jimin may be a little stupid but don’t take it out on the beer,” Jisoo scolds as Jungkook feels the liquid spilling out over his hands and onto the carpet. Jin leaves the room and quickly reappears with a kitchen roll, mopping up the spilled drink as Jungkook apologises profusely.
“There’s no need to be dramatic, guys,” Jimin chuckles. He glances at Jungkook, who still looks absolutely terrified. Jimin smiles kindly, walking over to Jungkook and plonking himself down on the carpet next to him. “I’m going to work in beauty and wellness once school’s over. I’m really good at it too, I promise!” He wiggles his eyebrows at Jungkook, waving the needle and ice around enticingly. (Jungkook worries he’s going to get accidentally stabbed with the contraption before Jimin has a chance to do it deliberately.) “Come on, Jungkook, it’ll be fun! Please?”
Jimin grins brightly at Jungkook as he sees the younger’s expression waver. “I mean… Maybe…?” Jungkook hesitantly agrees, not entirely sure what he’s getting himself in for.
“Great! Let’s go into the bathroom to give us some privacy – don’t want to be getting blood on Jin’s carpet after all –”
“Blood?” Jungkook asks worriedly as Rosé yells out “You can’t do that; I’m in the bathroom!”
“Then get out of the bathroom,” Jimin responds simply as he ushers Jungkook in. Rosé walks out a second later, sporting an angry expression and a half-completed face of makeup.
“Woah, your eyeliner’s looking a bit uneven, Ro,” Jisoo comments helpfully as she looks up at her friend.
“I’m not finished,” Rosé spits out in reply, before sinking her face down onto Jin’s duvet.
“No makeup on my bed!” Jin reminds her, grinning widely as Rosé groans and sits back up again. “What’s up with you today, anyway?” he asks, his expression turning more serious.
“What are you talking about?” Rosé scoffs. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m always rude.”
“You’re always rude. You’re not always so grouchy,” Jisoo clarifies, giving her friend a pointed look. “I swear you’ve been on edge since Jungkook arrived.”
“He’s just so… innocent,” she says scathingly. “He doesn’t fit in with us. I don’t get why Jimin insists on keeping him around.”
“Hey, come on, he’s not doing any harm,” Jin insists, patting Rosé on the back consolingly as she continues to look miserable. “And you’re still our favourite dongsaeng, as rude as you may be,” he jokes.
“Yeah, there’s no need to feel threatened,” Jisoo agrees.
“Threatened?!” Rosé asks incredulously. She looks around at them, seeming overly shocked. “Guys. I don’t feel threatened. I just think Jungkook doesn’t mix well with us. I mean, he’s never had a drink, he’s never even got with anyone apparently –”
“Unless you count the mysterious guy at the beach,” Jisoo giggles.
Rosé laughs in reply. “Oh my actual God, can you believe it? I was following the story until I realised he was talking about V, of all people.”
“Oh bless him,” Jisoo smiles fondly. “I would’ve dropped the story by the time I realised we all knew V, though. Did you see how disappointed he was when he met V again in the car park? Poor thing, he can’t have known him all that well.”
“No kidding,” Rosé rolls her eyes, sitting up to engage in the conversation a bit better. “I mean, I guess they recognised each other, but could you tell how awkward it was?”
“Ow!” They hear a clatter from the bathroom and Jin winces, whilst Rosé raises her eyebrows, faintly amused.
“Poor Jungkook,” Jin agrees sadly, settling down on the edge of the bed next to Jisoo. “I guess he must’ve built up some sort of expectation in his head of what V was – easy enough to believe if it’s just a summer crush, but it gets a bit harder once you actually get to know him…” He frowns, remembering the disappointed expression on Jungkook’s expression. He wishes V could have been a better first crush for him, but things don’t always go the way you want them to.
“It’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” Jisoo agrees. “He was obviously so–”
“Guys,” a pained voice interrupts from behind them and they turn around to see Jimin standing in the doorway with a miserable Jungkook beside him, blood trickling down from his ear.
“Were you making fun of me?” Jungkook asks quietly.
“No…” Jin denies softly, but he doesn’t have any defence. “We were just…” He looks to Jisoo for guidance.
“Sorry, Jungkook,” she apologises with a sympathetic smile, “it’s just… Do you really expect us to believe what you told us about V? It’s obvious it wasn’t all you chalked it up to be.”
Jungkook falters, unsure of how to respond. He doesn’t want people to think he’s a liar. But he’s definitely not about to out Taehyung – and it’s clear that they don’t exactly believe him anyway.
“We don’t blame you for what you said,” Jin reassures him, misunderstanding the look of worry on Jungkook’s face. “I understand how it feels being attracted to someone, and it can be nice thinking about what else could have happened. But… is there anything you want to tell us about what really happened over summer?”
Jungkook sighs, giving into Jin’s request. “I suppose we didn’t bond as much as I thought. We talked a bit, but I guess it meant more to me than it did to him. Maybe I just built it up into my head to seem like something more real,” he lies, head hung low in embarrassment.
“It’s okay,” Jimin murmurs, pulling Jungkook into a quick hug. “You’ll get over him soon enough. No harm done, right?” He smiles brightly at Jungkook, who finds himself smiling back. He’s quickly learning that Jimin’s smile is infectious.
“Anyway. Let’s talk about something else,” Jin says decisively, reaching for his laptop.
“You say that, and yet you immediately become unsociable,” Rosé complains, gesturing to the laptop.
“I have to update my blog,” Jin explains exasperatedly. “It’s been bad enough being back at school so I can’t update as often. I’m not about to skip out on weekend posting just because you guys have decided to camp out in my bedroom.”
“You invited us here!” Jisoo argues, chucking a pillow at Jin’s face, who laughs.
“You run a blog?” Jungkook asks interestedly.
“Yeah, a food one,” Jin smiles as Jisoo pats a pillow on the bed for Jungkook to sit down on. Jimin takes a seat as well and they all find themselves sitting awkwardly close, spread across the double bed as Jin explains the concept of his blog to Jungkook. “It’s called Eat Jin,” he explains, showing Jungkook his homepage. “I mainly make food and post the recipes along with some pictures, but I also go out to restaurants and review places sometimes.”
“That’s really cool,” Jungkook replies, scrolling down the page and looking at the different pictures. “Did you edit these photos yourself? The lighting’s amazing.”
“Yeah, I did,” Jin smiles again, his cheeks turning slightly pink.
“Aw, you got him blushing!” Jisoo grins as Jimin pokes Jin in the cheek.
“How cute,” Jimin teases.
“It’s nice seeing people actually taking an interest,” Jin responds indignantly, but he doesn’t hide the smile on his face. He’s starting to decide he really likes Jungkook.
“It’s only because he hasn’t hung around you enough to realise you literally talk about it all the time,” Rosé replies, taking the laptop from Jungkook and scrolling through the pictures. “You’ve got a couple new ones since I last looked, actually.”
“Only a couple?” Jin asks. “I’ve been updating pretty regular over summer.” Then he grins triumphantly. “You’ve been following my blog! You told me that you didn’t care and yet here you are, admitting it accidentally.”
“I only looked at it when I was bored,” Rosé grumbles.
Jungkook frowns at her, wondering why she’s so against showing nice gestures towards her friends. Jimin seems to notice the look on his face because he nudges Jungkook and explains, “She insults everyone all the time, but that’s how you know she cares. If she doesn’t say something mean then that’s how you know she’s not paying attention at all, so really an insult is a compliment. You get used to it, really.”
“I can still hear you, you know,” Rosé looks at him pointedly.
“Good – then you know that I’m telling the truth,” Jimin grins back.
“So anyway, Jin’s been busy working on his blog all summer,” Rosé states, changing the subject. Jimin smiles fondly and lets it slide. “What have you been up to, Jisoo?”
Jisoo smirks at Rosé, the both of them knowing that they’ve been talking all over summer and really have no catching up to do. But Jisoo replies regardless, realising that Rosé is desperate to change the subject from being about her and her own emotional issues. “I’ve been chatting to a lot of guys,” she responds diligently.
“Like who?” Jin asks, interested in Jisoo’s choices this year. Last summer she seemed to have a theme of going for guys with goatees and long braided hair – not exactly his preferred look but Jisoo seemed to have a thing for them. But as soon as she passed the phase of liking that look on people, she dumped all of them in one go.
“I’ve been a little more adventurous this year,” Jisoo acknowledges. “I thought I’d try and date as many different types of people as I could, seeing as the whole look-based thing hasn’t worked that well for me so far.” Jimin nods his head at her reasoning, impressed with her newfound maturity. “So far I’ve been out with a dancer, an accountant, an exchange student from Thailand, some guy who called himself a YouTuber but actually only had 50 subscribers who were all his friends – yeah, that didn’t last – and some cute university student.”
Jin raises his eyebrows – definitely not what he was expecting. “You’ve definitely been more adventurous,” he agrees.
“Yeah, but I still find all of them so incredibly dull,” she groans. “The uni student was promising – he was studying physics and was so smart but then that also made me feel kind of dumb. Like, when I confessed I didn’t really understand the point of an atom, he started going on about electrons and atomic shells and how important it all was and I’m like, does it really matter? It’s not like we can actually see into it and check anyway? I think that kind of got on his nerves a bit though and we stopped seeing each other after that.”
“Seems dramatic,” Jimin comments.
“You can say that again.” Jisoo lets out a long-suffering sigh before reaching into her bag and grabbing a wine bottle. “Who’s ready to crack this open?”
“Hey, I said no wine!” Jin complains.
“Oh yeah, remember last time when Jimin got drunk and started dancing around and pouring the red wine onto the carpet, yelling ‘the rain’s changed colour!’? Good times, good times,” Rosé giggles delightedly.
“You guys,” Jimin protests, hiding his face behind his hands. “We promised we would never speak of that again.” He hops off the bed to hide his embarrassment, reaching into his bag to pull out some rollers. As he starts to fix them in his hair Rosé stifles a laugh. Jisoo takes the distraction as an opportunity to try and pull out the cork from the wine bottle, but Jin fixes her with a stern look.
“Put it away, Jisoo,” he says firmly. She sticks her tongue out at him but does as she’s told.
“We can always sneak it into the bathroom,” she whispers conspiratorially to Rosé, who nods her head in approval, before hurrying back into the bathroom to finally finish off her makeup. (Jungkook doesn’t really understand what she’s dressing up for, but the last time he asked a girl why she was wearing makeup, it really didn’t go down well, so he’s endeavoured never to ask such a question again.)
***
“Guys,” Hani whines, resting her head on the table dramatically. “It’s Saturday night and we’re all just stuck here with each other. Can’t we do anything?”
“It’s not our fault you finished your milkshake first and got bored,” Suga replies, rolling his eyes at Hani’s antics. He’s still sipping on his chocolate shake as Hani stretches her arms out across the table in front of her and knocks it over. There’s a loud clattering sound as the glass falls on its side, J-Hope picking it up before it can roll onto the floor. A couple of the waitresses look over to see what’s happened and one of them fetches a mop from a nearby cupboard. Hani also looks up at the sound, smiling guiltily as she sees Suga’s remaining chocolate sludge drip disappointedly onto the floor.
Suga shoots Hani a glare. “You’re paying for that,” he mutters.
“Fine, whatever,” she groans as V passes her a couple napkins to clean up the spilt milkshake. “Seriously, can’t we do something?” she persists.
“We were all doing just fine, thank you,” Suga grumbles. J-Hope pushes his banana milkshake over to Suga, who starts sipping it wordlessly.
“You’re right,” J-Hope agrees reluctantly. “The café’s only so interesting.” He grins at V. “What do you say we do, Idea Man?” The three of them watch V expectantly, waiting in anticipation until V shrugs in defeat.
“What’s up with him?” Hani hisses, but they ignore her.
“Rosé mentioned a sleepover at Jin’s house – maybe we could crash,” J-Hope suggests.
“Jin’s house? You mean the one with pink walls and a pink carpet?” Suga asks, raising an eyebrow.
“You got any better ideas?” J-Hope challenges.
LE walks over with a mop, rolling her eyes at the others. “Are you guys deliberately making a mess just because I’m on shift?” she scowls as she starts to clean up the mess on the floor.
“LE, what time do you get off tonight?” Hani asks her, ignoring the jab.
“9pm, why?” she asks warily.
“Brilliant! Once you’re finished here we’re gonna drop in on the Pink Ladies,” Hani grins. “They’re sleeping round at Jin’s – Rosé said.”
“Why would Rosé tell you what she’s doing? She doesn’t like you,” LE says nonchalantly, still focused on her mopping duty.
“She told J-Hope, you idiot. Why would she tell me?” she scoffs. “And anyway, she hates you even more. That’s why it’ll be so funny when we turn up,” she giggles.
“What do you say? You in?” J-Hope grins.
“Sure, why not,” LE chuckles, amused at the thought of Rosé looking forward to seeing J-Hope and then realising that the rest of them are there too.
“Who’s gonna be there?” V asks quietly. Hani looks up in surprise – he hasn’t said much since they’ve been at the café. In fact, he’s been a bit off all week and Hani hopes that his personality hasn’t drastically changed over summer so that he no longer gets along well with her and the others. A couple months away don’t usually affect people so drastically, but Hani knows from her psychological studies that life can affect people in peculiar ways.
J-Hope looks over at V, also surprised. “Um, Rosé, Jin obviously, and I’m guessing Jimin and Jisoo too. Oh, and –” He snaps his fingers. “What’s that new guy’s name again?”
“Jungkook?” Hani supplies helpfully.
“Yeah, that’s the one. I’m pretty sure he’ll be there. Actually, I’m pretty sure he’s the reason Rosé told me about it in the first place – think she wanted me to get her out of having to spend an evening in his company,” J-Hope smirks.
V feels his hands curling into fists at the thought of someone being so horrible about Jungkook and he quickly hides his hands underneath the table.
“Why? He seems perfectly nice to me,” Hani comments innocently.
“Exactly,” LE laughs. “That’s probably why Rosé can’t stand him.”
“I think I’ll pass,” V announces, putting a £5 note on the table and shrugging on his jacket. “Got more important things to do than hang out with you dorks.” With that, he strides out of the café, leaving the others to watch after him with frowns on their faces.
“Typical,” LE comments. The others nod in agreement, although they’re all secretly relieved. Even if it’s because he thinks he’s too cool for the other T-Birds, at least he’s finally acting like himself again.
***
An hour or so later, the sleepover is in full swing and they’ve all changed into their pyjamas. Jungkook’s starting to think maybe people’s fashion choices say more about their character than he thought – Jimin’s dressed in silk while Jin is lounging in his dressing gown. Jisoo on the other hand is sporting a fancy nightie which was a gift from one of her boyfriends abroad, whilst Rosé is wearing a figure-hugging dress and black tights which seem fitter for a night out than for bedtime. Jungkook wonders whether she secretly has other plans for tonight after all.
“Hey, want another beer, Jungkook?” Rosé suggests with a smile. She’s seated on the other side of the room but that doesn’t seem to stop her from walking over to him and passing him a new can before he has a chance to refuse.
“Um. Thanks,” he gulps, opening the can under Rosé’s intimidating glare and taking a sip. He struggles not to screw up his face in disgust. He likes to think he’s not bothered about people’s opinions of him, but he doesn’t want Rosé to think he’s a wimp who can’t even handle a can of beer. He wonders whether she realises that the still-almost-full can a couple metres away is also his.
Come to think of it, she definitely knows.
“Hey, Jungkook,” Jimin calls from the other side of the room. “Does some of your family live in Hull? Jisoo’s telling me you were there a few months ago.”
“I actually think she misunderstood –” Jungkook starts, but he’s interrupted by a ring of the doorbell.
Jin hops up and out of the room to answer the door as the others fall silent, hoping to hear what’s happening. They hear Jin asking, “What are you guys doing here?” before a loud, energetic voice calls, “We’re here to crash the party!”
“J-Hope’s here,” Jisoo says, rolling her eyes.
“And the rest of them, by the sounds of it,” Rosé frowns as footsteps are heard heading towards the room. Jungkook suddenly feels very insecure in his Iron Man pyjamas.
J-Hope, Suga, Le and Hani all burst into the room, followed by a disgruntled Jin who seems to have failed in getting them to take off their shoes while they’re inside the house.
“Nice hair,” Suga comments as he notices the pink rollers Jimin has in.
Jimin freezes at the comment, his neck turning red in embarrassment. “Thanks,” he mutters.
Jungkook turns towards the door but there’s definitely nobody else coming through. “Where’s V?” he asks before he can stop himself.
“Didn’t want to come,” Hani responds.
“Not the first time,” Rosé calls from the other side of the room, but they both pretend not to hear her.
“He obviously thinks he’s far too cool for us lot,” Hani continues, plopping herself down on the bed next to Jungkook.
“Obviously,” he agrees sadly.
Hani takes the beer from Jungkook’s hand and starts chugging it down, which he’s actually very thankful for because now he doesn’t have to run the risk of being handed a third can without having consumed the first or second. “He’s probably gone home to chill with his new girlfriend,” Hani shrugs as she passes Jungkook the empty beer can. (What she expects him to do with it he really does not know.)
“His… what?” Jungkook responds, as eloquently as usual. He’s not entirely sure whether he feels jealous, betrayed or just plain confused.
“Oh yeah, he was telling us about this girl he pulled over summer. What were his exact words?” she looks to LE for guidance.
“I believe it was ‘seriously hot but with an aura of innocence’,” LE smirks in reply.
It seems clear that LE and Hani find V’s description purely entertaining, but Jungkook feels himself blushing before he can stop it.
“She sounds nice,” he chokes out.
“Dude, you’ve gone all red, are you okay?” Hani asks urgently, fussing over him.
“Oh, he does that,” Jisoo calls over. “I thought there was something wrong with him at first but I’m pretty sure he just scares easily.”
“What could he possibly be scared of out of what we’ve mentioned?” LE laughs. “Innocence? Warmth? Girlfriends?”
“Oh, probably that!” Jimin calls out. “He’s gay.” He then turns to Jungkook, realising that he’s only assumed this piece of information after hearing his summer romance story. “You are gay, right?”
“Erm, yeah,” Jungkook nods awkwardly, looking around nervously and waiting for someone to take offence at his sexuality. When they all just shrug and move on with their lives, Jungkook feels an invisible weight lift off his chest.
“So, what are you guys planning for tonight?” Rosé asks J-Hope, shooting him a dazzling smile.
“Well, we’re currently here, in case you hadn’t noticed,” LE sneers.
“Shut up, I wasn’t talking to you,” Rosé snaps back.
“We actually didn’t have any other plans for tonight,” J-Hope confirms with a grin. “But it looks like you might.” He gestures to her outfit, noticing that she’s basically ready for a night out clubbing once she puts on some heels.
“Checking me out, are we?” Rosé smirks.
“So what if I am?” J-Hope smirks back.
“Stop it you guys, I’m not in the mood,” Jimin huffs loudly.
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” Suga asks curiously, glancing up at Jimin.
Jimin turns away from Suga determinedly, muttering under his breath, “I wear boxers, actually.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Suga smirks, causing Jimin’s neck to turn red again as he stands up and stutters out an excuse of needing to go brush his teeth.
“It’s only 10pm; we haven’t even had our midnight snacks yet!” Jisoo calls after Jimin gleefully, before she shoots Suga a conspiratorial grin which he resolutely ignores. “Anyway Rosé, what are you all dressed up for?” Jisoo asks, directing her attention at her best friend who scowls in response.
It’s clear to Rosé that Jisoo is in the mood for stirring up trouble tonight and, while fun to laugh at other people’s discomfort, Rosé most certainly does not enjoy being on the receiving end. “There’s no harm in wanting to look nice,” she defends hotly.
“Oh, I forgot you always dressed like this at sleepovers,” Jisoo says in exaggerated realisation, slapping herself in the forehead with a self-deprecating laugh. “What a klutz.”
“Shut it, Chu,” Rosé hisses.
“Were you headed out somewhere?” Hani asks interestedly.
Rosé shrugs nonchalantly before staring surreptitious daggers at Jisoo.
“Hey, we were thinking about hitting some clubs later, wanna join?” J-Hope grins, the suggestion coming to him on the spur of the moment.
“Sure!” Rosé responds maybe a little too quickly.
“Aren’t you too young?” Jungkook asks innocently.
“Ah Jungkook, unbeknownst to the ways of the Fake ID,” J-Hope announces wistfully.
“Why are you being weird,” Suga mutters as Jimin reappears in the doorway.
“Says the guy who actually uses the expression ‘knickers in a twist’,” J-Hope shoots back. Jimin, stood unnoticed on the threshold, finds himself blushing again. But after taking a deep breath he gathers the courage to confidently walk back in.
“Hang on, V won’t be there, right?” Rosé asks slightly apprehensively. Jimin’s step falters, unsure of whether he wants to enter into this conversation. As brazen as Rosé acts around her ex-boyfriend, things aren’t exactly smooth sailing between them. And nope, it’s definitely not because she feels bitter about being dumped.
“Please!” Hani laughs. “It’s not like V’s gonna pick up any 97-liners at a club, right? Not everyone can afford to be as fake as you, Rosé.” Hani’s waves her legitimate ID in the air with a flourish, making it clear what ‘fakeness’ she’s referring to, but Rosé doesn’t miss the double meaning. She scowls at Hani.
“What are you talking about?” Jungkook questions cluelessly.
“I meant about the ID…” Hani pouts, but LE pinches her and whispers “I don’t think that’s what he’s asking.”
Jimin shoots Rosé a sympathetic look. “It’s nothing personal to any of them, really. V just has a bit of a habit of, well…” He looks at Rosé again and gulps.
“He always dates younger people – usually born in 97, for some reason, no one knows why – plays with their feelings a bit, leads them on and then chucks them, just to do the same thing with someone else,” LE explains straight-forwardly when Jimin seems incapable of continuing. Jungkook feels something deep within him sink down to his feet and stay there. But no – that can’t possibly be the same as what happened between him and Taehyung. That was real.
That was real, wasn’t it?
Jimin looks down, feeling incredibly awkward about them having to explain the situation whilst one of V’s ex-girlfriends is sitting in the same room. “No offence Rosé,” he mutters weakly.
“Whatever,” Rosé rolls her eyes, trying to mask the hurt hidden behind them. “Nothing personal, as you said. Are we headed out or what?”
“Yeah, come on guys, let’s get going,” J-Hope says with a tense smile, gesturing for his friends to get up and join him.
“We only just got here!” Hani protests, but she quiets down when Suga shoots her a warning look.
J-Hope puts his arm around Rosé’s shoulders once she’s put on her high heels and they walk out without a further word. Suga and LE follow, with Hani trailing behind as she waves goodbye to the Pink Ladies.
“Well, that was eventful,” Jin announces after closing the front door behind them all.
“We lost a Pink Lady,” Jisoo whines, upset at how her best friend has just deserted her without a second thought. (Now that Jisoo thinks about it, Rosé seemed to have planned her escape, which is more hurtful than she’d like to acknowledge.)
“Stop moping,” Jimin hushes. “I know how to spruce up tonight anyway!” he grins, pulling out a box of hair dye from his bag of mysteries.
“Shotgun not me!!” Jin and Jisoo both call in horrified unison whilst Jungkook is, rather reluctantly, left once more in the hands of Beauty Guru Jimin.
|
“Behold! Uchiha Itachi! The mortal so fearsome even death runs from his very presence!”
“And behold Nakahara Erena, the girl so stubborn she refused the shinigami her soul.”
I grinned and laughed.
Since I had woken up, I was under strict monitoring. I had been awake for two days- most of which Inoichi and his cousin had spent examining my mind and spirit, and they had even gotten Jiraiya involved. They were acting like I was come medical marvel and I was over it.
At the Demon Gate, Itachi had found me at the hands of the Shinigami, and used his enchanted sword (he never told me it was the freaking sword of Totsuka!) to intercept the Shinigami. Apparently when the sword made contact with the Shinigami’s tanto (which was baffling in itself, as it was comprised of spiritual energy), it was absorbed and sealed away somewhere, and the Shinigami immediately unsummoned himself.
The Shinigami was afraid of Uchiha Itachi.
I thought it was freaking hilarious.
While I was unconscious, Itachi handed me to others to take me to medical while he joined the rest of the fight (they kicked butt: Madara saw the error of his ways- eventually, and Itachi sealed away Black Zetsu using the sword of Totsuka).
At camp, the medics couldn’t find a reason for my unconsciousness, and when a Yamanaka healer examined me she came up with the obviously incorrect analysis that my soul was no longer present. Inoichi had given a second opinion and concurred; they suspected the Shinigami had succeeded in taking my soul- but couldn’t understand how I was still alive.
Hello...clearly not sealed in a hellscape stomach and very much alive.
When I woke up, I told Inoichi he was crap at his job and I doubted everything he ever told me, if that was what he thought.
And to prove a point, they were continuing to do tests and mindwalks and getting Jiraiya to check things out...so I was stuck here until they were certain I wasn’t going to keel over and my soul was going to go floating off on some adventure (although I did admit to them it sounded quite fun, and asked if they thought astral projection for anyone other than a Yamanaka would actually be possible...Itachi found out and sent orders that should I even think about looking into it he’ll lock me up).
I was placed on a seal similar to what I used when I extracted the cursed seal from Sasuke- it would stop any soul or soul fragment leaving the area...the idiots were concerned the soul would randomly detach, but no matter how many times I told them a soul likes something to cling to, they wouldn’t listen.
“So, my illustrious Hokage and conqueror of conquerors,” I said. “To what do I owe the honour of this visit? I’m sure you are very busy and important and have no time to waste on little old me.”
He smiled. “I escaped the first chance I could, although I may have left a shadow clone in my place.” He came and sat on the edge of my bed. “How are you feeling?”
“BORED,” I complained, flinging myself backwards dramatically. “I’m absolutely fine and there’s no reason for me to be here. Even Yumi said he’d discharge me. YUMI! And he’s usually all about keeping me under lock and key. If I have to have one more mindwalk I’m going to lose my shit.”
“That is what you get for squaring up against the Shinigami,” he poked my forehead affectionately. “What have we learned?”
I sighed. I’d already had this conversation with Shikaku. “That I should stay away from spirits and any kind of spiritual manipulation. Living equals good, death equals bad.”
Even though the Shinigami was scared away, there was concern he could still come for me if given the chance, so I was banned from any kind of activity where he could take advantage, like the Demon Gate...It wouldn’t be hard, as it’s not like it was a hobby.
“Excellent. Hopefully you’ll listen for once,” he smirked, and then had to duck as I threw a pen at him. “If you stop assaulting me for one second-“ I threw a scrunched up ball of paper at him, too. “Okay, then I won’t tell you that you’re free to go.”
Paused and blinked at him. “I’m free to go? This bullshit is over?”
“For now. But I can’t promise Inoichi won’t summon you again.”
“Yes!” I scurried out of bed, ran over and kissed his cheek and ran to the door and stopped at the doorframe. “I’m super happy you’re here and all but-“ I pointed down the corridor.
He laughed. “Go! I’ll go see Shisui and perhaps find you later.”
I grinned and disappeared from the room.
“No running in the corridor!” I heard someone shout to me. I ignored them.
Since my confinement, I’d been unable to see Gai, or Shinai. Gai was bed bound, and they didn’t want Shinai to see me while I was ‘spiritually unstable’...another reason I was so over their crap.
Unlike me, Gai had not returned unscathed and was legitimately hospitalised. He had taken on Madara himself, and while he almost defeated him (I was so proud of him it actually hurt), he ended up very broken. The internal bleeding and broken bones were pretty much repaired (as much as possible, considering Yumi described them as ‘confetti’), but he’d severed his sciatic nerve on the right leg. He was fully paralysed on his leg and there was no way to repair it.
He was going to be in a wheel chair the rest of his life.
For someone like Gai, it would be unbearable. And before he even considered going into any kind of funk about it, I’d already planned.
Because screw that.
I’d already devised many ways to show him that walking was overrated (many of them involved not leaving the bedroom), and it’s not like he didn’t have three limbs and a genius level brain. I couldn’t tell him what to do, but I’d help him figure out what he needed. And once he did, I’m sure his determination would take over.
Considering all the times he looked after me, it was only fair.
To do list: convince him that succeeding with a debilitating injury was a challenge worth facing (but he may have that covered anyway), procure another wheelchair for Kakashi to continue their challenges (despite it being against my better judgement), stop Lee from crying everything time he saw him (this would probably take the longest).
Shinai and Kakashi were already in Gai’s room when I arrived. Gai was asleep, and Shinai cuddled into his left side (also asleep). It was unbearably cute.
Kakashi must have sensed my arrival, as he lazily turned around from the visitors chair.
“Mah, returned to the land of the living?” He said.
“Oh, shush. I never left,” I replied, and sat on the seat next to him, taking Gai’s medical chart to read. “But they’re happy I’m not going to float away into a ghost, so that’s something.”
“Mmm,” he said. “We were worried for a minute.”
Well, shit. If he was admitting that, then things must have been bad.
“Good thing I have more lives than a cat!”
“Don’t try and use any more of them, okay?”
I smiled at him. “Okay.”
We sat in silence for a while. That was a very strange and serious conversation and I didn’t like the implications.
Obito had died in the Battle, and I’d heard he wasn’t taking it that well. I guess this just proved a point.
Obito died saving Naruto, but I don’t think that was much consolation to Kakashi. After the Hokage returned to the afterlife (and my father), he was left as the sole survivor of Team Minato...again.
Naruto, Sasuke and Sakura had already taken the executive decision to annoy the hell out of him so he couldn’t wallow in self pity (his specialty), but I don’t think that would be enough.
Usually, Gai would step in and bring him out of his negativity. Unfortunately, I don’t think he’s be in the best place to to that to the level he needed.
Good thing we had a secret weapon.
“Kakashi...I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you mind taking Shinai for a day or two once Gai is discharged? I need to sort the house, and it would be easier for him to learn how to manoeuvre without Shinai running under his feet.”
He looked at me for a second before narrowing his eye at me. “I know what you’re doing.”
“Trying to get a free babysitter?” I replied innocently.
“When have your ever had to pay for childcare?”
“Never...but that’s because I ask people- like this,” I gave him a winning smile and he sighed.
“You’re annoyed,” he huffed. “But fine. Anyway, I wanted to ask something. Feel free to say no.” I raised my eyebrows in surprise. “I’d like to offer Shinai the contract to the Pack. I’ve already mentioned is to Gai, but he said to check with you first.”
Huh. It’s not often I can be surprised, but I was now. I had no idea he was considering it. And it was actually kind of perfect.
Shinai had shown zero interest in the turtles, but adored the ninken. And if Gai was okay with it, then so was I...okay, it probably meant a lifetime of dogs running around and finding hairs in places they shouldn’t (did dog hair also unsummon when they did?), but it would probably be quite fun too.
I shrugged. “If Shinai wants to then-“
“YES!”
Shinai sprung up from the bed, waking Gai up with the movement, and ran over to me. “Can I?”
“Can you what?”
“Summon the ninken!”
“Well, not right now, no.”
“But I can sign the contract? And then Kakashi can teach me? And then I’ll have dogs around all the time!”
I sighed, while holding back a smile that was threatening to appear, “If you must.”
“YOSH!” Shinai exclaimed, and hugged me around the waist, before going to Kakashi. Gai and I burst out laughing, while Kakashi eye smiled. It was the first time I’d ever heard him say that and it was utterly adorable. I looked at Gai and sent him a soft lop sided smile, whereas he was full blown grinning.
“Well!” Kakashi got up and clapped. “I’ll go speak to the pack then, and be back later. I’ll leave you three to play happy families - I’m out.” And he shunshinned away.
While Shinai was dancing around, I went and took his place on the bed next to Gai.
“I heard you were a total badass,” I said, smiling at him.
“Ah! All I did was use my skills and fought for what I believed in! It was nothing more than doing my duty!”
“Don’t undersell yourself - it was total badass. I think you’ve more than proven you’re the greatest taijutsu master that there ever was.” I wrapped an arm around him. “And thanks for not dying after opening all of the gates. It’s super appreciated.”
He gave a booming laugh and placed him arm over my shoulder. “You are welcome! I was surprised by the outcome, but cannot deny I am pleased! I will admit there will be many difficulties ahead to overcome. But I know with strength and determination I will succeed!”
And that there was why I loved him. You can’t keep Maito Gai down.
“Mother! Father!” Shinai came over. “How many dogs do you think I should start with? Four? Five?!”
I stilled.
“What have we done?”
“Fuck this for a laugh,” I said, trying to move Gai’s wheelchair into the house without it banging in the walls.
He was already in the livingroom, having used his crutches, but even manoeuvring the thing into the house was impossible. Annoyed, I let it go and took out a storage scroll, promptly sealed it away.
Pleased, I dusted my hands off and went to join him. “You get comfortable, and I’m going to sort a few things out,” I said. “I can confirm a wheelchair in the house is a no-no, so I’m going to have to rethink a few things. For starters-“
“Come and join me!” I grabbed my arm and pulled- forceful but gentle- and I sat beside him.
I was weird being in the house with just us. Kakashi had taken Shinai on their little summoning adventure, and it was strange not having any evidence of my father - whether is a pile of books or candles lying around (he was surprisingly a fan). The Resurrected had released themselves after the battle - my father did not know the true extent of my ailment and simply thought it was a mild head injury so he left with the others, having already said goodbye.
“Oh, do you want some tea?” I said, attempting to spring up again, but he held on to my hand.
He laughed. “While I appreciate your Youthful approach to caring for me, it is unnecessary! I would like to face my difficulties head on.”
“So I can’t make you tea?” I said frowning. I was trying here. I was trying to be the caring one for once, but my efforts were being rebuked. In the hospital, he refused assistance from me even when it was just simple things like helping him get to the bathroom. On the way back from the hospital he had refused to let me push the wheelchair - which was fine. He’d been cooped up for days and was probably a bit stir crazy but I was starting to feel a little rejected.
“It is not a matter of tea - I need to do this myself. If I do face difficulties, then I promise I will ask for assistance but I need to believe I can do this. If I do not, how can I think to care for you and Shinai? This is my challenge to complete myself.
“So you don’t want tea?” I wished to confirm. I could understand his sentiment, but it didn’t mean I wouldn’t be watching him like a hawk.
“I do not want tea-no!” He grinned and pulled me on top of him so I was sitting on his lap (away from the cast). “But I do want you.”
“Isn’t it a bit quick to have my weight on your leg? What if-“
He brought me into a deep kiss and pulled me closer into him. “This is the first time I have been able to hold you since you agreed to be my wife. There is no injury that could suppress my passion and love for you at this moment.”
“But-“
He kissed me again, and I pulled back before he got carried away. He frowned, looking a bit upset.
“If you’d let me finish- I was just going to say I need to close the curtains.”
“We need a bigger house,” I declared a few weeks later. “This is ridiculous.”
The place was mayhem. Gai was hardly inhibited by his injury at all- he decided that he would walk everywhere on his hands around the house. It was a disaster at first- the paralysed leg caused severe balance issues and he would fall over. Many things broke. Many many things.
Then came along Shinai’s ‘starter’ ninken - a tiny Labrador puppy he called Adzuki...it was cute but a menace. It chewed everything. It even ate through a fucking wall. Kakashi tried to act all cool and nonchalant about it, and said it was up to Shinai to train him alone, but I was having none of it. He was a four year old child who thought a puppy was to play with and run around on ‘missions’- he couldn’t be expected to figure it out on his own...we ended up getting into a rather heated argument (our first real one for years) and Gai had to step in.
Kakashi agreed to give Shinai ‘pointers’, but didn’t come over to the house for a week. When he did, he brought a box of sweets with him that he just ‘stumbled upon’ on the way over. I knew an apology when I saw one.
Between constant house guests (Kakashi, Lee, and others visiting), Gai and puppies, it was too much for the tiny house and I was beginning to feel claustrophobic. I was also around constantly (I took time off to help Gai acclimatise) and I was pretty sure I was getting cabin fever.
“While I agree our home is struggling to contain our Youth, the financial constraints will make it impossible,” Gai said, meaning his ‘retirement’ and lack of financial contribution. “But I do not doubt that we will be able to manage with our beautiful home!”
“Yea, no...we’re moving,” I said. “There’s a house in the Nara district next to the woods - the woman just died. Old age, no family, very sad...I’m going to ask Shikaku if he’s consider letting us buy it - it shouldn’t be a problem unless a clan member has already put in interest.”
Gais face went blank. “While that sounds like a most Youthful idea-“
I stopped and put a finger over his lips to shush him. “I have money aside from when I was in Akatsuki...it’s been sitting untouched. It felt a little like blood money, so I never used it - except to make a ‘donation’ to the hospital. But if it gives us breathing space, I don’t give a fuck. Please?”
He didn’t argue at all, and within a few weeks we were out.
I also returned back to work at the Hokage tower - thankfully. I loved my family but I needed something to do.
Things were very different now - with no international catastrophes to plan for. I spent most of my time with the spy network and double checking suspicious missions. I was also the official go-to for the other countries ambassadors to speak to (I wanted to make Kisame the official ambassador for Mist so I had an excuse to chat to him all the time but it was declined). I offered to take a few things off Itachi’s plate, which he jumped at - he was soon able to enjoy a five day week himself and he seemed to be coming back to himself - I never realised how much the stress and constant events were suppressing fun Itachi.
We were sitting in the office having a little coffee break (he sent an ANBU to get dango - it was a complete and utter abuse of power and I wholeheartedly approved) when Shisui came in and joined us - completely uninvited, might I ask.
He sat down, leaned over to the desk and stole a stick of dango - Itachi was looking at him with unconcealed anger in his eyes. I’m surprised the sharingan didn’t activate.
“Is this what you guys do all day now?” He asked, taking a bite. “Cushty.”
“Excuse us for having a break,” I scoffed.
“Well, don’t forget my invite next time.”
“We will,” Itachi said, still glaring at the half eaten dango in Shisui’s hand. “Other than stealing my dango, what do you want?”
“I can feel the love from here,” he said, rolling his eyes but smirking as he took another bite. “I have news.”
“Don’t talk with food in your mouth,” I snapped. Oh, that was the mother in me coming out. “Besides, we already know.”
He frowned. “You know?”
“We know,” Itachi confirmed, with a light smirk.
Shisui narrowed his eyes. “What do you know?”
“Odori’s pregnant and you’re moving the wedding up. Congrats,” I said, taking a sip of coffee.
“How?!”
“ROOT like to gossip. And so does Erena,” Itachi said. “And we’re happy for you.”
“I only gossip to you. No one else cares,” I said sadly. Seriously, I had a spy network at my finger tips and some of the best gossip in the elemental nations and no one to tell except Itachi, who only listened because I made him. I regret not making any female friends.
“I can’t believe you two!” Shisui said, with outrage. “My life isn’t the subject of gossip!”
“Of course it is, no one is left out. Take Itachi, for example,” I said, giving him the side eye. I could see Itachi go pale.
“No! How did you find out? It’s not even official yet!”
“Wait, what?” Shisui’s ire evaporated.
“He proposed to Izumi last night.”
Itachi’s head hit the desk, and Shisui barked a laugh. “No way! Congratulations!...wait, she did say yes, didn’t she?”
Itachi scoffed. “Of course she did. She’s very happy.” He turned to me. “It was...spontaneous. No one is supposed to know before we approach the Uchiha Clan Elders to request permission.”
“Fuck the elders,” I said. “You’re Hokage. You can do what the fuck you want.”
“We are still members of the clan. There are certain rules.”
“Fuck them. Seriously. Fuck every last one of them. What are you going to do if they say no...break up with her?”
“Well, no. Of course not,” he said frowning.
“Then screw them. They’re a bunch of narrow minded gits...look at how they treat Odori?” I motioned towards Shisui. “They need a figurative kick up the ass, and you’re the one to do it!”
“But my father-“
“Please, who do you think told about your engagement? He’s over the moon.” Fugaku was a surprising gossip, himself. I walked past him in the morning and he just blurted it out. “He’ll have your back, I guarantee.”
Shisui finished his dango and looked at Itachi. “I’m staying out of this, but I think it sounds hilarious. Can you imagine their reaction? I think you should definitely do it.”
“Shisui...encouraging him is not staying out of it.”
Itachi sighed. “I’ll speak to Izumi first...do I make an official statement, or let the gossipmongers do their worst?”
I grinned. “You just leave that to me.”
I had something very controversial I wanted to do, and that could spell political suicide for me within Konoha but I was going to do it anyway. I’d given it a lot of thought and preparation...if anything, I was angry for myself for not acting sooner.
I approached the gates of the Hyuuga district and asked for permission to speak to Hiashi and the clan elders...I didn’t have a meeting organised, so it was a bit awkward while I stood and waited for them.
Eventually Neji came forward, and let me in. “What are you doing here, Erena? Is there a problem?”
I gave him a little smile. “No...but I think I’m about to cause one. Want to watch?”
He scowled and said nothing, but guided me forward anyway.
The elders were not impressed at being summoned with such last notice. They made it clear if I didn’t hold my position (which was not official, but most recognised nonetheless), that I wouldn’t be accepted, and demanded I state my intentions.
“I am here to give the clan a copy of the revised Shinobi Alliance Treaty. This should have been forwarded to you two weeks ago, however I believe no changes have been made and I am here to remind you that all citizens of Konoha must adhere to the rules agreed.”
I bowed and handed the scroll over to the branch member at the side.
“What do you mean?” I particularly wrinkled one asked.
“In accordance with the human rights clauses outlined, no person of any age will be subjected to slavery. The definition of slavery now has now been amended to include the forced application of a seal for the purposes of subjugation or punishment...as such, the Caged Bird Seal is illegal, and must be removed from all clan members, unless they chose to keep it of their own free will, and without coercion.”
The room went silent. If you dropped a pin, you could hear it drop.
After the Battle of Mountain Graveyard, the Kage had a summit to discuss things going forward. Some amendments were being made to the treaty to make it unified- and I suggested the changes regarding seals myself. I had approached Itachi for his opinion prior so I wasn’t stepping on his toes.
He thought it was a nice idea, but dangerous. Initially he was thinking that I was doing it to stop anything like ROOT happening again, but on reviewing my wording of the amendment, he realised it could also include the Hyuuga and their Caged Bird seals...he warned me to be careful, but I was adamant.
None of the Kage objected, and so it was inserted in with the other changes.
“This is an outrage!” One elder barked. “The Caged Bird is a mark of honour!”
“Then branch members will be happy to keep it, no?” I tilted my head to the side. “But I don’t think that will be the case. You may submit an appeal to the Kage Council- stating the Caged Birds seal use and reason for objection. A reason of tradition will not be accepted. We are entering modern times, and we will be moving forward as one.”
“You cannot change the way of our clan. We will fight this! This is an insult!”
“Go ahead, you old prune,” I grinned ferally . “See how far you get. I can promise you will get no where via the official route, and unofficially? I can destroy you. Your power, your reputation...Within the village and even further. Do you want the Hyuuga clan seen as cruel slave masters? Because I can do it. Watch me. It would be so easy.”
Hiashi cleared his throat. “Aforementioned objection aside, the seal will be difficult to remove. It also serves to protect the Byukagan from others.”
He wasn’t objecting, but stating difficulties that may be seen along the way. “The seal is easily dismantled. I am willing to assist if necessary...If protection is your problem, then a seal similar to Neji’s can be placed. It will protect the eyes as the Caged Bird seal does, but within the confines of the law.”
“Thank you, I will take this into consideration,” he bowed.
I turned to the council members. “You have five days to submit your objection. After that, inaction will be taken as criminal, and will be dealt with accordingly. Should you require my assistance in any way, please send a messenger to the Hokage’s office...I will see myself out. I see you have a lot to discuss.”
I bowed and turned around.
Just before I reached the gate, Neji caught me.
“Did you do this? Making the Caged Bird seal illegal?” He asked.
“I always said I would get rid of it...I’m just making sure it sticks.” I smiled to him.
“But what if they object?”
I let out a soft laugh. “The Kage aren’t stupid. They probably won’t even read the full document before it’s thrown out...besides, I covered all bases. There is nothing that they can possibly come up with that will go against the charter....except them leaving the Elemental Nations completely, they’re screwed.”
“This is unbelievable...decades of the branch members being sealed and seen as lesser...No one else will have to endure that fate.”
“Exactly. You control your own fate- don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise.”
All of a sudden he grabbed be and gave me the tightest hug I’ve ever received (except from Gai).
(It didn’t take long. An objection was never raised -I’m guessing Hiashi worked some kind of magic). Within a week, all branch members except two older generation had the Caged Bird seal removed.
And to show I wasn’t a total bitch, I also spread rumours that they did this of their own choice - I witnessed one of the grumpy elders be complimented on the positive actions of their clan - the face they made was hilarious. )
I went home that night on a high. The house was dark when I appeared- Gai must have been out. Stepping into the livingroom I turned the lights on, only to be met with something completely unexpected.
Instead of the normal lights going on, the room was lit up with fairy lights. And there must have been a hundred pots of wild flowers dotted around in various holders (I’m pretty sure that was our toothbrush holder over there...) and in the middle of the room was a picnic blanket and basket.
“What the fuck?” I whispered.
“Good evening, Erena! I hope you have had a pleasant day?!” Gai appeared behind me, walking with his crutches (something he rarely did in the house).
“What is this?” I said gesturing at everything. “Did you mess with the electrics for the fairy lights? How long did it take you to pick all these flowers? Where’s the table?”
He laughed but pulled me into a kiss.
“I hope you will forgive the slight, but unfortunately I am not able to kneel!” He grinned, then pulled a box from his flack jacket. “I may have made a slight timing error before, but now I wish to make amends. Will you, my amazing and beautiful partner, do me the honour of becoming my wife?”
Don’t ever let it be said that Maito Gai was not a man who keeps his word.
A few days later I was getting coffee and cake from a cafe. waiting on Odori (she wanted some help with organisational issues - she’d been having problems with a retailer and Shisui told her to ask for my help). When the coffee was placed in front of me I found I just didn’t want it so it lay abandoned. (I resolve Odori’s concern without even leaving the cafe)
Over the week similar events happened, and I found myself with a massively sore head and getting extra cranky from the lack of coffee. Caffeine withdrawal was a bitch.
“Kutsu told me you’re acting strange and hardly eating. He said your refusing to come see me,” Yumi, said, walking into my office one day and sitting down. “Not going to lie, you look like shit.”
“He’s a goddamn snitch,” I grumbled. “I’m fine. I’m just cutting back of caffeine, apparently.”
“That’s it? You’re not drinking coffee and it’s made you look like a ghoul?” He said, not believing me. It was true!
“I’m ninety-five percent coffee, it was going to have an effect.”
“Well, excuse me if I don’t believe you.” He said, raising his well groomed eyebrow incredulously. “Scoot over and let me see you.”
I huffed and sat on the seat beside him. After a few minutes he frowned. “You are a fucking idiot.”
“What have I done this time?” I asked in protest.
“One week!” He said. “One week between Gai being discharged from hospital and him coming back to see me, and you couldn’t keep it in your goddamn pants...I don’t know if I should blame your or Gai. You’re both as bad as each other.”
“What are you talking about?” I frowned.
“You’re pregnant, dumbass.”
Well, fuck.
“I’m going to kill him.”
|
AN: This is a rewrite. Please re-read the first chapter.
Dick is all sunny smiles when Damian clings to his hand.
Damian keeps close to Dick. The strange feeling he’d had in the morning was getting worse. Damian tried to remedy his anxiety by keeping close to his oldest brother, but all that seemed to do is push the problem in a corner. The issue with
that
is that the problem didn’t want to stick around in the corner. It was expanding until it was pushing itself against Damian’s stubborn denial. The fight that happens in his brain, between the two opposing forces, isn’t a pretty one.
Dick mistakes Damian’s anxiety for anticipation. Damian had never gone ice-skating before, and that’s exactly what they were going to do. They were heading for an indoor skating rink. Damian couldn’t hide any of his strong feelings from the bonds that he shared with his pack, but he wouldn’t correct their assumptions. Damian wasn’t
anxious
to get to the skating rink. He was anxious because he felt something bad was going to happen. He felt dread running down his back like the sparks running off a sparkler.
He’d rather just keep it all to himself. They’d think him ill. They’d cancel the entire outing just to make him feel better, and Damian didn’t want that. Not when they’d been planning for this day of pack bonding. Not when everyone had been looking forward to a day of leisure.
Dick hums happily. Damian can feel his elation through their bond. Damian didn’t usually hold his hand without complaint, but he’d initiated it
himself
when they’d exited the car for the parking lot. Dick had been so delighted that he’d been nearly bouncing on his feet. It was ridiculous with how such a small thing pleased his eldest brother, but Damian wasn’t really in a position to talk. It was because of Dick’s happiness that he wasn’t questioning Damian, and Damian prefered for his pack to leave him alone regarding his change in behavior.
Damian follows Dick through the parking lot. They were naturally hovering in the middle of their pack. Damian never had the opportunity to walk in the back or in the front when they were in a big group. The last time Damian had tried to take the lead, his father had gently distracted him until Tim could rope him back in between them, and Jason wouldn’t tolerate seeing Damian lingering behind. Damian’s puppyhood meant he was the most vulnerable out of all of them which meant that the
middle
was where he was the safest. He was less likely inclined to be snatched up, hurt, or run out of his pack’s vision in this position.
Jason stretches his arms out as he follows behind. His eyes occasionally run past his own shoulder to scope their surroundings. Bruce takes the lead with Tim by his side. He plops a heavy hand on his second youngest’ head, and ruffles his hair in such a way as to annoy him. Tim swipes him away with an irritated moan, using gloved fingers to pry off his father's hand when the man decided he’d just
keep
it on Tim’s head.
Dick croones over Damian at his side. Babbling about nonsense that goes in one ear and out the other. Jason makes a comment or two. It was clear that, though he seemed intent on making sure they were safe, he was listening in on his pack’s conversations.
Dick pulls Damian inside the galleria. Damian feels a rush of cold air when the automatic motion-detected doors open.
Damian is instantly bombarded by multiple scents. He picks up the gaggle of teenagers that goof off at a nearby arcade, surrounding a singular machine, and all carrying the scents of different packs. He notices the family of three that climb into a small train that runs around the galleria’s smooth waxed floors, chatting with the conductor who waits for them to get settled, and then he catches sight of a lone mother fussing over the puppy that sits on her lap on a bench.
“Let’s look at the map,” Damian hears his father mumble. He pauses at a divider that stands in the middle of the hallway, and showcases a map of the galleria behind a plastic protective film.
They all pull to a stop. Damian tightens his hold around Dick’s hand, and it takes all of his League training
not
to shuffle in place.
“We’ll take a left here,” Bruce murmurs as he examines the map.
Damian waits impatiently for him to make the plan before executing it. He starts taking the lead again. The pack follows like obedient children, ducklings, and Damian wonders if his father ever made the same correlation in his mind. Regardless, Damian has a hard time keeping his eyes fixed on his father’s back.
His eyes roam their surroundings. He looks over every couple, every flash of clothing, and the small details others would’ve ignored. He pays close attention to a shampoo marketer sitting in the middle of one of the hallways, hyper focusing on her half bitten nails, and then makes the mental note that his
senses
were beginning to go haywire. Why would he care about her nails? It didn’t matter, but he couldn’t help himself.
They make their way to the ice skating rink. Damian, despite feeling antsy, finds some excitement at the idea of putting skates on his feet. His father makes the effort to rent them as Jason fixes Tim’s hair, and Damian and Dick stare out into the rink to watch an aspiring figure skater leaping on the ice. Damian admired the control that such a thing required. He knew what it meant to hone your skills. It was physically demanding and mentally taxing. Not only was the figure skater making leaping movements, but she was doing so with grace. That required practice. That required sacrifice.
Damian’s eyes drift to the excited mother that sits on a bench. She claps her hands in glee as she watches her daughter make breakthroughs on her progress.
Damian had never skated before, but he knew he could rely on his excellent balance to pull through for him. Sure, he’d have to learn the motions to skate across the ice, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about falling down.
Right?
Bruce hands out skates over to his children. Tim takes his pair, walks off to a bench, and Jason joins him by slamming into his side. Tim groans in annoyance.
Damian has to remove his hand from Dick’s to receive his offered pair. He makes his way to the bench, pulling himself up to sit down, and then he presses himself in Tim’s side to make sure he wasn’t alone.
Tim doesn’t comment as he focuses on pulling his skates over his feet.
Jason glances over at Damian. He leans forward to ask a question.
“Do you need help putting your skates on?”
Damian stares at the skates in his lap.
“Yes,” he decides.
“I’ll help,” Dick says, reappearing.
He takes the skates from Damian’s hands, puts them aside on the bench, and then lifts him up. Damian holds onto him as they switch positions. Dick settles Damian into his lap with a happy churr, and then he grabs at one of the skates that rests at his side.
Damian watches his hands. He notices the scars, the battle wounds, on his fingers. He looks too closely at his skin. The pigment brightens in his vision until it’s blinding. Damian has to blink his eyes to stop his vision from eccentrizing basic colors.
He feels his broken, old bond flair to life.
Damian stiffens. Dick hums over his head as he helps get the skate over his other foot, but Damian slaps a hand around his wrist to stop him.
Damian feels his distress skyrocket. Suddenly, the morning made sense now, and so did the strange feeling. His strange concentration of senses were also begining to make sense, too.
“Dames?” Dick asks, leaning forward.
Damian isn’t sure what to do. He could growl - it’s his first instinct - but he also wanted to whimper. He wanted to beg for the incoming trial to
go away.
He can feel the rest of his pack call to attention at his rolling distress. Damian can feel his father prod their bond for answers, but all that does is make the distress feel twice as real.
Damian tries to get out of Dick’s lap. He needs to go.
He needs to leave!
Damian stumbles out of his arms. He nearly falls over. He only has one skate on. The other slips off. The only reason he doesn’t kiss the ground is because Dick wraps two arms around his middle. He tugs Damian back against him. The back of Damian’s legs hit Dick’s knees.
“What’s wrong, Damian?” Dick asks, softly, knowing exactly
how
to get information out of Damian.
Damian can’t stop himself. He whimpers.
Dick instantly meets his whimper with a comforting rumble. He clearly had no idea what was going on, but he was still trying to make Damian feel better.
Jason shoots up from the bench. He cries out, “League!”
Damian’s eyes shoot towards the open area to their right. He watches as black dressed assassin's slide down an escalator, bust in through a door that leads to a different side of the galleria’s parking lot, and hops out of the colorful looking train he’d noticed earlier.
Damian would scold them if he was still a member of their pack. His grandfather had taught him that presentation was vital, and the fact that his stupid ninja thought using
a giant toy train
as travel was ridiculous. It almost took away the seriousness from the situation.
Damian is lifted off of the ground. He’s turned until his cheek is crushed against Dick’s chest. Dick wasn’t happy anymore. He was scarily silent. The bond they shared was strong with
protection, anger,
and
disbelief.
It melts with the rest of Damian’s bonds. There’s a fierce need to protect that he feels in his heart, and he knew that it came from the combined thoughts of his family. They were all at attention. Tim was already getting his stakes off as quickly as possible, prepared for a battle, and Jason was curling his fingers into fists for a fist fight.
“Put me down,” Damian whispers, grabbing hold of Dick’s shirt.
Dick barks out a cold, unfeeling laugh, “You’re in no position to be making demands, pup.”
“I can defend myself,” Damian says, though he dreads the thought.
“You,”
Dick says, firmly, “are staying with
me.”
“You can’t fight with me in your arms!” Damian barks.
“I’m not letting them take you, Damian!” He returns.
Families, bystanding packs, scurry away from the scene. They’ve had enough experience with Gotham villains to know that they shouldn’t stick around. Their first priority was making sure their loved ones were safe, and to stay safe they needed to remove themselves from the area.
Damian has enough of a view of his father. He watches the man grunt in agreement with Dick, approving of his choice, and then he sticks a hand in his pocket.
Damian can imagine the assassins tensing. He didn’t have a good enough eye on them to tell if that was the case, though.
Dick’s muscles underneath Damian’s cheek are tense. Dick’s arms that wrap around his back keep Damian rooted to him.
The atmosphere is just as pressurizing. The only thing that Damian hears is the growl from Jason’s throat. A warning. The assassins are all silent in appraisal, Damian knew they were making their assessments.
Damian feels a brush of wind against his back.
“Superman!” His father cries out in feigned relief.
Damian makes the connection instantly. His father had pressed his personal Superman distress button, the one that Clark liked to hand out to his close friends, and Superman had
heard
it. He’d made the race to their location in only a minute. It only helped that Metropolis was conveniently close to Gotham. He’d most likely used the fastest speed he could muster to help his friend.
Clark is out of Damian’s vision, but he can hear his voice.
“What’s going on here?”
His father points a finger out in the direction of the assassins.
“I don’t know! These men came out of nowhere and are trying to attack us!”
“These guys?” Clark says.
Jason stalks forward. Tim holds him back.
“Don’t,” Tim tells him.
“That’s not nice,” Clark says to the assassins.
Damian inwardly snorts. As
if
they would care about being nice or not.
Damian hears the ninja leap for an attack.
He also hears them fall.
“You should rethink this,” Clark says.
With Clark taking care of their assailants, Damian’s father makes the decision to escort the pack off the premises. He grabs hold of Jason, the one most likely to turn back to throw punches, and drags him behind him with the strength of a pack leader. Jason makes a noise of complaint as Bruce tugs him towards the open automatic doors.
Dick follows behind keeping Damian protected against his chest.
Tim protects their flanks.
When they emerge out into the parking lot, Bruce releases Jason, and then he addresses Dick.
“Hand me the puppy,” he says.
Dick hesitates. He clearly didn’t want to, but Bruce was using his
no-nonsense
tone. He wasn’t going to take no for an answer.
Dick reluctantly deposits Damian into his father’s arms. Damian feels one pair of arms replaced with another. He’s soon resting his chin on his father’s shoulder, looking at each member of his pack, while watching the galleria’s building fade with each stride his father takes.
“They can’t have you, Damian,” his father says, “we won’t let them.”
Damian watches his brothers sound in agreement.
Damian feels his father’s hand that rubs a circle in his back. He looks into Dick’s eyes. He sees the hard, determined, resolve in his blue irises.
Damian sighs out in relief. He collapses his weight into his father’s arms, earning a pleased noise in return from his father’s throat.
He couldn’t see the reason for being antsy earlier.
He had a pack that would protect him to the ends of the earth.
This, he now knew.
|
Four days after the river incident the company was still traveling along the main road and had entered a dense forest. To everyone's relief, the weather had finally shifted for the better and Thorin had called a halt to their march when they stumbled across the burnt-out shell of a farmhouse. Vines and creepers wound their way over the charred remains as nature sought to expunge its existence. Gandalf however was uneasy with their surroundings and had a quiet but heated argument with Thorin which resulted in the wizard storming off, muttering under his breath about the stubbornness of dwarves.
Sara's leg and foot were well on the way to mending and though her boots were still uncomfortable to wear Oin had given her the all-clear. By now her midriff looked like a bad tie-dye job of greens and yellows but most of the pain had subsided as had Sara's supply of Tylenol. Fili was fully recovered and was as active and rambunctious as ever, much to the chagrin of the others.
Despite her protestations, Fili and Kili doted on her as she recovered, insisting on helping her around the camp and setting up and taking down her tent. It had been entertaining for Sara and Bilbo to watch the ensuing fiasco as the brothers attempted to erect her tent that first night. Only after several failed attempts, lots of coaching, and some very nearly snapped tent poles did Fili and Kili finally manage it.
The effects of the incident at the river were felt throughout the entire company, particularly by their bellies. Unsurprisingly they had been unable to recover the pony that had fallen into the river alongside Kili. All of its supplies, which had been mostly food, had been lost. Of what little food the other ponies had carried much had been spoiled by the torrential rain and what remained did not last. The company was forced to hunt food along the road as they may. Bilbo, as it turned out, was particularly good at finding edible plants, and Sara greatly appreciated the sweet potatoes he found. Two squirrels and a rabbit were the second day's meal and the third Sara had offered her MRE's, but so little among so many was hardly enough.
This fourth night they were faring better as Kili had killed three rabbits and two fat pheasants. Bilbo had found a root cellar near the old farmhouse and a long-neglected garden containing some of last year's potatoes, carrots, and some fresh growing onions. After the MRE's the night before the prospect of a proper stew had the company more cheery than they had been of late; even with the absence of Gandalf.
Most of the company had returned to their previous level of acceptance of Sara and she once again grew at ease with them. Thorin still did not speak to her unless necessary but he no longer shot her dirty looks or huffed irritably when she passed by him. Her evenings are once again filled with laughter, hair braiding, and whittling. Bofur still teased her and Dwalin continued to check on her from time to time.
Oin requested to learn CPR which Sara had gladly done, though she refused to demonstrate the mouth-to-mouth, much to the disappointment of Bofur who was acting as her mannequin at the time. Balin, Dori, Nori, Gloin, and even Bilbo learned the technique but none more enthusiastically than Bilbo who stated that hobbits were poor swimmers and this could be very helpful in the Shire should he ever return. Most of the others watched as she taught them and even Thorin and Gandalf listened in, though Sara noted that Fili was conspicuously absent even though Kili was nearby.
Bilbo it seemed had made some new friends. Bombur who was camp cook had grumbled loudly one night as he set about to prepare dinner, and Bilbo had offered him his help. The two had become fast friends, bonding over the food, and could be found most nights busily swapping advice back and forth. Bilbo had also managed to befriend Dori by offering to share the tea he had brewed from ingredients found along the roadside. Dori was fond of tea but seldom had any since the others were not partial to what they called boiled leaf juice. The two chatted amiably long into the night. Occasionally even Gloin would bend Bilbo's ear with tales of his son. Sara suspected that these were rather one-sided conversations but Bilbo proved patient and in return gained another hesitant friend. Sara had even sat with them a few times listening to stories about Gimli. It was interesting to know more about Gimli's past.
There had been relative peace in camp tonight even as Fili and Kili played their occasional pranks. The brothers had discovered the laser pointer on Sara's keys and subsequently spent a good ten minutes watching Dwalin try to buff the red dot off of his ax. Their snickering finally gave them away and a perturbed Dwalin sent them to gather firewood, claiming that if they had so much free time, then he would fill it for them. Twenty minutes later Fili and Kili escaped to Sara's tent, where she sat making her daily notes.
"He didn't take kindly to it," said Fili, popping his head inside the tent and handing her back the laser pointer.
"I warned you," she said. "Don't mess with Dwalin." She tried to tuck her notebook inside her crammed pack. It had been a long day and the hour had grown late. She checked her phone before dropping it onto her sleeping bag. Way late... almost 2 am. Normally they were asleep long ago but Thorin had said they would take a rest day tomorrow. Sara was looking forward to sleeping in.
"But you should have seen his face when the dot kept reappearing," said Kili. The flashlight hanging over her head swung back and forth as Fili and Kili took a seat inside her tent. Sara upended her bag so she could organize and repack it.
"I prefer not to see Dwalin angry," she said sorting through her belongings. "I have a sneaking suspicion you live longer that way." The bag of Hershey Kisses fell out of the bottom of her pack and she eagerly picked it up.
"Sara," asked Kili, picking up her phone and clicking the screen on. "Can we play that ghost game again?" Sara smirked as she opened the bag of candy. The two had been fiddling with her phone a few days ago when they had stumbled across the games. Within a matter of hours, they had become regular cellphone game junkies.
"You mean Pac-Man?"
"Yeah, that one."
"Sure thing, just be careful with my phone." Eagerly Kili found the game and soon the brothers were engrossed in the tiny screen. Sara finished repacking her bag leaving the candy aside.
"Do you two want to kiss?" she asked, reaching into the small plastic bag.
"What?" asked Fili, glancing up distractedly.
"Do you want a kiss," she repeated. Fili looked taken aback as his cheeks flushed and he began to stammer.
"Sara... I um... I don't think that's a good..." She looked up, immediately understanding the miscommunication. She hadn't meant to cause the confusion but now that she had...
"Are you sure? My kisses are very good; sweet and silky. And I mean you have never had one. I thought you would want to try at least one," she purred, trying not to laugh as Fili's face grew redder.
"I have kissed before," said Fili looking away. She tried not to snicker.
"Ah but I'm positive you have never had one like mine."
She had Kili's attention now. He looked up from the phone, his eyes flicking to the bag at her side and quickly reading the label. Kili grinned and she winked at him when Fili looked away from her.
"Couldn't get enough of him a few days ago," asked Kili. He clapped a hand on Fili's shoulder. "Brother you're just irresistible."
"I still don't think..." said Fili, backing away from them both slightly. "I mean not that you're ... it's not really... it's just that..."
"Well if that's how you feel about it," said Sara, shrugging. "What about you Kili? Do you want one of my kisses?"
"I would love one of your kisses Sara."
"But I thought..." said Fili, leaning forward and glancing between her and Kili. "You can't...you can't just go around offering kisses to people."
"Why not?" said Sara. "Kisses are meant to be shared. I was going to offer some to the entire company."
"But you just can't do that," argued Fili. "It's not right."
"Sure it is," said Sara, picking candy from the bag. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to share?" She passed a Kiss to Kili who unwrapped the candy and popped it into his mouth.
"But... but you shouldn't," insisted Fili.
"Oh come on," said Sara. "What's the harm in one little kiss?"
"Allot if it's not meaningful."
"I don't follow," she said, unwrapping a kiss for herself and delighting in the creamy chocolate on her tongue. "I mean sure if you ate the entire bag of Kisses it would not be great for you but that's why I want to share."
"Bag?" questioned Fili, his eyebrows furrowing. "Eat?"
"Kill, would you like another kiss?"
"I would love one! They are delicious."
"Another?" asked Fili, completely flummoxed. "She never gave you one."
"Of course she did," said Kili, taking another candy from Sara. "This is my second." He held up the small silver-wrapped sweet.
"But... but," stuttered Fili. Sara finally took pity on him and lifted the bag kisses so he could read the label. She watched trying to stifle her laughter as his face shifted from confusion to exasperated understanding.
Thorin looked up from the satchel strap he had been repairing when laughter erupted from the strange tent of Sara Miller. While keeping a watchful eye on the camp he had seen his nephews disappear into the colorful dome a few minutes earlier, a situation he was not entirely comfortable with. He was not sure why this should bother him. His nephews were well-disciplined... were they not?
His nephews exited the tent, Kili clutching the small device he had so often seen the woman staring at. Fili's cheeks were dusted pink as were his ears and his lips were pulled down in an irritable scowl. Kili jabbed his brother with an elbow, whispering to him and causing Fili to turn an even darker shade of pink. Bofur approached them. Thorin felt uneasy as he strained to hear what was whispered between them but the banging of pots and pans from Bombur near the fire drowned out their words.
He watched as Kili laughed and pointed back at Ms. Sara's tent. At first, Bofur was shocked but this was quickly followed by laughter. There was a wholly indecent smile on Bofur's lips as left his nephews and made his way to the red tent. The clatter of pans ceased.
Dwalin caught up with Fili and Kili, and still determined to keep them busy, sent them in the direction of the ponies. Usually watching the ponies was an unnecessary job unless there were signs of predators in the area but they had not seen any trace of large animals since entering the lush forest. Thorin frowned. That was unusual in and of itself. Regardless, watching the ponies was a good way to keep the two miscreants out of trouble and out from underfoot. Uneasily he returned to repairing the satchel.
His nephews had been on his mind more as of late. As he noted their interactions with Ms. Sara he was unsure how to interpret what he saw. The ease with which the girl had fallen in with the duo had been a bit unnerving at first. The trio had only grown closer since the fiasco at the river. This along with the frequent and easy contact between the three had Thorin a bit leery of the situation.
He rationalized that he was simply looking after his nephews. His unease stemmed from his concern for them. But there was a niggling at the back of his mind that he was unwilling to inspect. It was Dis and her sons he was thinking of. His sister was fiercely protective of her sons, especially after the death of their father, and had only allowed them to join the quest after much pleading from them and promises of safety on his part. Dis would not thank him if he returned her sons to her along with this woman. It was natural that he should be concerned with the situation... was it not?
Bofur exited the woman's tent, licking his lips and beaming. Thorin's suspicion and interest were piqued further as he watched the toymaker. Bofur carried an odd bag in his hands as he moved from person to person in the camp, whispering in their ears and placing something in their hands. Thorin's heart skipped a beat and his stomach plummeted when he overhead the word "kiss". Several of the dwarves wore shocked expressions as Bofur left them. Ori was positively beet red, stammering something to Dori who shook his head. When Bofur reached Bifur, the older dwarf had cuffed his younger cousin but accepted what was offered. Thorin got hesitantly to his feet and caught the hatted dwarf by the arm determined to discover what was happening in the camp.
"What's going on Bofur?" demanded Thorin quietly. Bofur tucked the bag into his coat pocket.
"Ms. Sara has ever so graciously offered to share her Kisses with the entire company," said Bofur, a smug expression plastered across his face. Thorin froze. What under Mahal's hammer? He had not been expecting this response at all. What was the woman playing at?
"Her Kisses are quite good," said Bofur, licking his lips suggestively. "She has one for everyone, even you. Fili, Kili, and I already had ours."
Thorin did not know how to respond as Bofur continued past him toward Dwalin. Thorin's pulse raced almost as rapidly as his mind. This could not be possible... could it? Then again, this woman was from an entirely different world. Who was to say what was customary where she was from? One thing was for certain, he needed to put a stop to this immediately. He made his way quickly to the red tent, dreading the necessary conversation. Upon reaching her domed shelter he sucked in a breath trying to calm his nerves.
"Ms. Sara?"
Her head appeared and her mouth formed a little "O". Quickly she exited the tent and stood in front of him.
"Yes, Mr. Oakenshield, what do you need?"
"I must ask you, Ms. Sara, what are your intentions in regards to my sister's sons?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to calm his heartbeat as he awaited her answer. "And the rest of the company for that matter?"
"With Fili and Kili?" she asked, looking up at him, her eyebrows pulled together in confusion creating a small dimple in the middle of her brow.
"You shared your kisses with them both did you not?" he asked, gritting his teeth at the thought.
"Yeah, I had a bunch." Something inside his chest tightened.
"Then again with Bofur just now?" She cocked her head for the side.
"Yeah, he asked for one. I was going ot share them around anyway." Again and the frustration rose in him.
"So I ask you again; what are your intentions towards my nephews? They are the future of my people, and I would not see them toyed with, or their reputations tarnished."
"I'm not sure where this is coming from but I have no intentions towards either of them. We are just friends. I don't like them in that way, or anyone for that matter."
"Then why do you lead them on by kissing them, and then Bofur, and offering kisses to the others?" he asked his anger and frustration spiking.
Were her customs really so frivolous? He did not understand this girl who would kiss so many without compunction, and he didn't like that she was now so ingrained into his company. She glanced over his shoulder as a yelp rang across the camp. Dwain now had a laughing Bofur in a headlock. Her face seemed to brighten in understanding and then cloud with anger.
"I should have realized that would come back to bite me on the butt," she growled, scowling at Bofur.
"What do you mean?" he asked, feeling a sense of unease. She turned back to him.
"Look, I didn't kiss them," she insisted.
"But you just..."
"I gave them a kiss. A Hershey's Chocolate Kiss." She dug in her pocket and produced a small silver object. "This is a Kiss. It's a chocolate candy from my world." She offered it to him. Hesitantly he took it.
"This is a kiss?" She nodded.
"Kili and I played a prank on Fili and it seems that Bofur has duplicated it. No lips involved," she said raising her empty hands. "I had a bag of candy and when Bofur asked for one, I told him to take the bag and share them around camp." Understanding dawned like a blow to the gut. He was going to flay Bofur.
"Just to be clear, you have no interest in my nephew's?" he asked, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"No offense, but my goal is to do whatever these Valar want so they will send me home. I have no idea how long that will take but I don't plan to get involved with anyone from this world. At least not in that way. Strictly platonic."
He had been a fool. How did he always seem to jump to the worst conclusions when it came to this girl. It was unlike him to be in the wrong so often. He was silent for a moment as he collected and rearranged his thoughts.
"Mr. Oakenshield?" He grimaced.
"Mr. Thorin will do," he said, letting his hand drop from his face. "Oakenshield is merely an epithet." He had never liked the title much. It brought back bitter memories of Moria.
"Mr. Thorin then. Have I done something inappropriate to make you suspect I have designs on Fili or Kili? Is it the hair braiding?" she asked, fidgeting with the necklace around her neck. Were the woman's hands never still?
"No Ms. Sara," he said trying to temper his tone. "While braiding someone's hair is normally reserved for family members, there are no strict social expectations associated with it. It is not unheard of close friends to do so." She raised her green eyes to his and he blew out a breath. "They are very fond of you Ms. Sara, and while I may not understand their reasoning, I will not stand in the way of your friendship, as long as that is all it ever is. They are princes." She was silent for a moment biting her bottom lip.
"I understand. I guess sometimes I forget that they are princes."
"They seldom behave as though they remember it themselves," he added. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her gaze flicking back across camp to Bofur.
"I'm sorry if I made it seem like I intended anything other than friendship with them."
"No," he said. "I find myself needing to apologize to you again. I allowed myself to..."
"Unkle!" shouted Fili sprinting into camp. "Uncle some of the ponies are missing?"
"What happened? You and Kili were supposed to be watching them."
"We were...well sort of," said Fili guiltily. "We weren't really paying attention."
"What happened?" growled Thorin.
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, they were stolen by three trolls. Bilbo went to try and get the ponies back, and Kili went after him in case there was trouble."
"You let them go after trolls?" accused Sara.
"Durin's beard Fili!" shot Thorin. "Why didn't you just lead with that? Dwalin!" The warrior appeared at his side. "Get everyone up. We must rescue the halfling and my fool nephew before they are eaten by trolls." Dwalin ran off quickly, rousting the others. Thorin turned back to the woman,
"Ms. Sara, you will stay here."
"But..." she began.
"No," he said cutting her off. "You remember our discussion at the beginning of the journey?" She scowled.
"How could I forget it."
"I cannot look after you and deal with trolls at the same time. You would be a distraction. The hobbit will be more than enough trouble as is. You will stay here where it is safe."
"But I..."
"No," he insisted. "You are to remain here. Be ready to leave in a rush. Keep watch for Gandalf. If he returns before we do, send him after us. Under no circumstances are you to follow us. If we are not back by dawn, return to Bree. Do you understand?"
"But I think..." she tried again.
"Do you understand?" he pressed. She sighed and nodded reluctantly.
"Very well. Mahal willing, we will return shortly. Remain here!"
Sara sat by the dwindling fire debating whether or now to let it die. Worry turned her gut as she poked morosely at the red coals. She could reduce the likelihood of her being spotted if she let the fire die out but she didn't much like the idea of waiting in the dark. She had tried to keep busy to distract herself from the companies absence, but had now exhausted her ideas. She had repacked her possessions and loaded them back onto Starbright. Gathering the remaining ponies she had done the same with the others packs as best she could. Nori's bag had been particularly heavy. She had brought the ponies into camp and tied them to the surrounding trees.
About twenty minutes after the dwarves had left there was a distant commotion and what sounded like a battle but it was over quickly and the dwarves have not yet returned. There had been no sound since then. They had been gone for over three hours and she was beginning to feel desperate. What had happened to them? She didn't think that three trolls could have been a match for thirteen well-armed dwarves, particularly when Thorin and Dwalin were with them. All of the dwarves were proficient with at least one weapon. So where were they?
She checked her phone. It was almost 5:30. She let out a frustrated growl tucking it back into her pocket. Fili had hastily returned her phone before disappearing with the others and she had a sneaking suspicion that he and Kili had been playing Pac-Man rather than actually watching the ponies. She got to her feet unable to keep herself from pacing.
A hand clamped tightly on her shoulder sending her heart into overdrive. She spun around with a shriek. Gandalf stared down at her, a slightly wild look in his eyes.
"Where is the company?"
"Gandalf," said Sara, going limp. "Oh, thank goodness it's you. Thorin said to send you after them if you returned before them."
"Send me where?"
"Trolls," she said, trying to calm her heart. "The company went to save Kili, Bilbo, and the ponies."
"When?"
"Hours ago. No one has returned. I'm so worried for them Gandalf."
"Where did they go?"
"That way," she said pointing off into the forest to their left.
"Come with me," directed Gandalf.
"Thorin told me not to leave camp." But Gandalf was already striding off into the forest. Suppressing a shiver she ran after him. They wound their way through the woods in the direction the dwarves had vanished.
"Do you think they are okay?" she asked after she could no longer stand the silence. "It's been so long, and there has been no sign of them."
"Do not fret. We will see them yet. They are more capable than you assume, and they have Bilbo with them."
"They went to rescue Bilbo," she pointed out.
"Regardless, there is more to Bilbo than meets the eye. He is quite clever. I feel he will have things in hand."
Things did not look at all in hand when Sara and Gandalf finally crept up on the troll's fire. Dori, Nori, Ori, Dwalin, Bofur, and Bifur were all stripped to their underclothes and tied to a giant spit which was suspended over the fire where a troll larger than a pickup truck turned them slowly. The rest of the company, including Bilbo, were trussed up in bags and piled to the side just in front of the four missing ponies. The troll's voices were raised as they argued back and forth about how to cook the dwarves. Gandalf led Sara behind an enormous rock to the east of the troll camp.
"Stay here," instructed the wizard before disappearing into the gloom. She had no choice but to hunker down, peeking over the rock. Where was Gandalf going? The arguing continued for several more minutes before the trolls finally decided to rost those over the fire and then boil the rest into the stew. The camp fell quiet for a few moments save the grumbling of the dwarves.
"Bake them into pies says I," called one of the trolls. Sara blinked. She had not seen any of the trolls speak and they were all in plain view.
"It's already been decided," said one of the trolls, whacking his companion with the enormous cooking spoon he had been using. "We boil them into the stew and put the nags into pies."
"Ow," cried the smallest of the trolls holding his nose. "What was that for? I didn't say nothin'." This lead to another bout of argument that ended in a tussle that shook the ground. After a few blows, they agreed to split the pies between the dwarves and ponies. The camp grew silent again.
"I still say we gut then and stuff them," said a troll voice to Sara's right. She looked over only to find Gandalf crouching in the shadows. Yet another argument broke out.
"I say we just eat them raw and have done with it," said the largest of the trolls, abandoning the dwarves rotating over the fire.
"Ey, there's an idea," said the smallest, turning to face the sacked dwarves.
"No, no! You are making a terrible mistake," said Bilbo clambering to his feet in his large brown sack. "You can't just eat these dwarves raw. Bless me, that would be a disaster. You simply must cook them." Sara's mouth fell open and the dwarves fell silent in shock.
"What do you mean?" asked the troll holding the cooking spoon. "What would a flurgerberhobbit know about cooking dwarves?"
"Have you smelled these dwarves?" asked Bilbo incredulously. "Trust me, it's enough to turn even your stomach. No, they must be properly prepared and seasoned before you eat them."
"They were rather stinky," said the smallest troll. Several of the dwarves began to protest loudly.
"We do not stink!" shouted Kili angrily. Despite the dire situation Sara could not help but roll her eyes.
"How would you suggest we go about it then?" asked the troll with the spoon ignoring the dwarf prince.
"The secret to cooking dwarves is..." said Bilbo stalling.
"Well go on then. Tell us," pressed the spoon wielding troll.
"Yes, yes, I'm getting there. The secret to cooking dwarf is..." said Bilbo, floundering for an idea. "To skin them first!" Yet another argument broke out between the trolls as the drawers complained loudly. Dwalin pointed at Bilbo threatening him from his place on the spit.
"What is he doing?" questioned Sara turning to Gandalf.
"Playing for time," said Gandalf beaming.
"Why?"
"Sunrise is almost upon us," said the wizard gesturing over their shoulder to where the sun was peeking up over the eastern horizon.
"This is a load of rubbish," said the large troll snatching Bombur up in his sack. "I'm starving. Theirs nothing wrong with a bit of raw dwarf. Nice and crunchy." He held Bombur aloft dangling over his mouth, his tongue flicking out to lick the dwarf.
"Not, not that one he's infected," squeaked Bilbo in a panicked voice. The troll paused, his tongue still on the far dwarf. "He's... he's got worms in his.... tubes."
The troll dropped Bombur in disgust, spitting and wiping his tongue. The portly dwarf landed on top of the others who groaned in pain.
"In...in fact they all have," continued Bilbo. "They are infested with ghastly parasites. It's a nasty business. I wouldn't risk it; I really wouldn't. Even cooking the dwarves would not guarantee their eradication." The sun was now warming Sara's back.
"We do not have parasites!" shouted Kili affronted. The others began to protest as well. Bilbo rolled his eyes in disbelief. Thorin seemed to have caught on for he kicked Kili in the back, giving him a look to silence him. The others instantly changed their tune.
"I've got parasites as big as my arm," said Oin.
"Mine are the biggest parasites! I've got huge parasites" came Kili's voice louder than the others.
"We riddled!" cried Dori and Nori from their place above the flames, as the others chimed in. Sara thought they were perhaps milking it a bit; apparently one of the trolls thought so as well.
"What would you have us do then?" asked the troll with the spoon suspiciously. "Let them all go?"
"Well..." hedged Bilbo.
"Why are we listening to this rubbish," said the small troll snatching up poor Bombur again and holding him aloft. "Let's just gut this one and see." He drew a long knife and raised it to Bombur's gut. Gandalf hastily climbed to the top of the boulder and raised his staff over his head.
"The dawn take you all, and stone be you!" thundered Gandalf, striking the boulder with his staff. The great stone broke in two, allowing the morning rays to spill through and shine upon the camp. The trolls roared as their skin grew grey and stiff. In moments they were frozen in pace, solid stone. A cheer went up among the dwarves.
Sara rushed around the broken bolder to the dwarves suspended over the fire and overturned the large pot of grizzly-looking stew, extinguishing the flames. Snatching a discarded knife she recognized as one of Fili's she cut Dwalin lose from the spit while Gandalf freed those who were sacked.
"Thank ya lass," said Dwalin, dropping onto the sizzling coals. "It was getting a mite bit toasty." He took the knife from her and cut down the others. Even his underclothes Dwalin still seemed as intimidating as ever. Soon all were free and dressed, their accouterments back in place. Sara made her way over to Fili nad Kili. Something was wrong with Fili, his movements jerky and stiff.
"I'm surprised they found all your knives," she said, handing Fili the knife she had found by the fire,
"They didn't," he said curtly. "I just couldn't reach the last one with my arms tied behind my back in the sack."
"Shame," said Kili. "Might have come in handy."
"Yes, one small blade against three trolls and the rest of you still tied up in sacks," said Fil sarcastically.
"You never know," said Kili scratching his chin.
"I'm just glad you're all safe and no one was eaten," said Sara, hugging them both.
"No thanks to Mr. Baggins," scowled Fili, pushing away. "I knew he would be trouble." Sara glanced to Biblo who stood across the clearing buttoning up his vest.
"What are you talking about?"
"If he hadn't been caught we could have beaten the trolls," said Fili.
"Uncle made us drop our weapons because the trolls were going to rip Bilbo's arms off," explained Kili.
"Well that's good," replied Sara. "I may not always agree with him, but your Unkle is a good leader. He would have done the same for you." Kili shrugged.
"I guess so."
"I would never have been caught," snapped Fili. Sara was surprised at Fili's anger. "The hobbit's inexperience is a danger that almost cost us all our lives."
"That's funny," said Sara, crossing her arms over her chest. She could feel her cheeks heat as her anger flared in defense of Bilbo. "I thought it was you who lost the ponies, not Bilbo." Fili's face flushed. "And if you hadn't noticed, he just helped save all your hides by stalling the trolls till sunrise."
"By calling us stinky and saying we have parasites," groused Kili.
"We have been traveling on the road for days Kili. We all stink," she said turning to him. "Besides I seem to recall you claiming to have the biggest parasites out of the lot." He grinned sheepishly at her and shrugged again. Fili however was not amused.
"He is still a liability to our safety," he said firmly.
"Yeah," replied Sara irritated. "Well so are you two, playing video games when you should have been tending the ponies. So whose fault is it really? Besides, it wasn't Bilbo who nearly drowned a few days ago, was it? No. It was him that helped pull us out."
Fili snapped his jaw shut. She could tell by the look on his face that she had said too much, but she couldn't quite bring herself to regret her words at the moment. She was so tired of Bilbo being talked badly about.
"Fili I..." she started but he ignored her, turning on his heel and stomping away. She took a few steps after him but Kili caught her shoulder and shook his head.
"Let him be for now. He's still a bit upset about the river thing, mostly because Bofur keeps teasing him. He will come round."
"You're not mad at me then?" she asked.
"Nah, I reckon you are right about the ponies. No one got hurt, and besides," he said, his eyebrows wiggling. "It will make a great story to tell the ladies." She smirked and then frowned.
"I don't think Fili will see it that way."
"He is probably just worried that uncle will blame him for the whole thing. He worries about stuff like that a lot, what with being next in line for the throne and all."
"I suppose that would explain it. While you seem to have inherited some of Thorin's good looks, Fili inherited some of his temperament," she said looking away, chewing her lip.
"I suppose so," said Kili eyeing her strangely. Bilbo and Bofur sauntered over. Bilbo looked downhearted, his gaze on his boots.
"We found a troll hoard!" exclaimed Bofur, handing Sara and Kili hunks of bread and cheese. "Bombur is going to try and fry some bacon we found and there's also a barrel of Ale." He held up a mug and grinning widely. "We shall have food, for today at any rate." Sara sniffed the bread. It smelled a bit stale but she took a bite anyway. Beggars could not be choosers. She bit the cheese.
"Not too bad," she said. "But I want to try melting the cheese on the bread." Bilbo perked up at that idea.
"That does sound rather pleasant and with a great slab of bacon on it it will be perfect," he said.
"Thorin sent Dori and Nori back to gather everyone's things so it may be a bit till they return with the frying pan," said Bofur sadly. Bilbo wilted a little as his stomach gave an audible growl.
"Not so long," said Sara. "I have everyone's gear packed and loaded on the ponies."
"That was a right smart thing to do lass," said Bofur, pulling the hood of her coat up over her head with his free hand. "I see ya still can't be parted with this coat of yers." She pushed his hand away.
"I see you managed to hold on to your mangy old hat," she said, tugging one of the hat's flaps. He chuckled.
"Aye that I did." He turned to Bilbo. "Come, Mr. Baggins, let's tell my Bombur of Sara's idea for the food." Sara and Kili followed them at a distance, but Kili drew her aside, face serious.
"What?" she asked apprehensively.
"Just something you said."
"What?"
"You find my uncle attractive," he said, his face breaking into a knowing smirk. Sara punched his shoulder.
"Ouch!" He rubbed his arm, pretending to be genuinely hurt.
"I didn't mean it like that. I just..."
"Well, then how did you mean it?"
"I just ... it's just that..." she floundered, but words failed her. She punched his shoulder again. "If you say anything I swear I will make you regret it."
"Okay, okay," he said not even trying to hide his self-satisfied smirk. "I won't say anything." But a moment later he leaned over and whispered in her ear, "But you do find him attractive don't you Mistress Miller?" He jumped away before she could hit him again laughing as he followed the others leaving her behind to fume in her thoughts.
|
Arthur was late coming from council. A headache pounded in his temples, his shoulders feeling like one hundred weights rested upon them.
Stress,
Merlin’d said. Arthur rolled his eyes, the action cause a dull pain to spread through his head. He’d felt nothing but stress for the better part of six months. He took each grueling flight of stairs to his chambers tiredly—arguing with his advisors was a tedious business. He knew the issue of legalizing magic would take a considerable amount of time and effort, but he hadn't been prepared for the sheer amount of work it would bring.
Finally making it up to his chamber door, Arthur allowed himself a weary sigh. The only buoys that kept him afloat through the madness was the satisfying thought that Camelot was changing, and the ever-present warmth that his few supporters gave him—namely, Merlin.
The smile that graced the king’s lips was the first in what felt like weeks. Merlin had remained at Arthur’s side for over five years, dutifully attending to him and being his friend. And then some, Arthur thought with a wry grin.
After his coronation, things began to change between him and Merlin. Fleeting glances turned to lingering stares, friendly punches changed to open-palmed touches. He’d always thought that there was something about Merlin, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. And then he’d realized.
Merlin’s magic was a difficult thing to come to grips with. His façade of innocence had truly fooled Arthur, until Merlin did something absolutely stupid. Honestly, Arthur wasn’t a witless child. The dragon, the blatant glowing eyes—Merlin was lucky it had been Arthur and not a knight or a guard who saw his magic. But the discovery was years ago, now. Arthur had been king for one, and Merlin loyalty hadn’t once strayed.
Arthur sighed again, but this time it wasn’t so tired. He pushed open his chamber door, the heat of a roaring fire a balm for his exhausted, cold bones. The comforting smell of polish, woodsmoke and the underlying, sharp zing that Arthur came to realize was magic soothed his frayed nerves. He slumped back against the door as it closed, his eyes falling shut. It was good to be back home, in his chambers, where the stress of the day couldn’t touch him.
The light tapping of footsteps roused Arthur, but his eyes remained closed. Warm hands came to slide up his hips to his chest, one open palm resting protectively over his heart. Arthur’s lips twitched up into a smile, a hum of satisfaction rumbling from his throat.
“I could hear you thinking from outside the door,” Merlin mumbled, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of Arthur’s throat. His voice washed over Arthur like a warm wave, his heart jumping at the proximity. “The cogs always creak louder after you come back from council.”
“You still can’t speak to me like that, Merlin,” Arthur said, but there was no sting behind it. Merlin's status hadn’t changed; he still attended to Arthur and had to do some Gaius’ many chores, but after Arthur found out about Merlin’s magic, they had an agreement on leniency. His workload had been cut down substantially with Arthur, despite his slight increase in pay. Besides, Arthur was already planning on appointing Merlin as Court Sorcerer, once the magic ban was repealed. He’d spoken to Merlin about it briefly, skipping over the fact he was going to ask Merlin to be his consort.
“I think we both know I can talk to you however I wish,” Merlin retorted, his mouth leaving a wet trail from the edge of Arthur’s jaw down to where neck met shoulder. “I always have. And I think I always will, sire,” he said cheekily, and Arthur was about to respond when he took some skin between his teeth and sucked.
Arthur’s words turned to a long, drawn-out moan, the sensation marvelous compared to the monotonous numbness he'd felt since that morning. “Oh, God, Merlin,” he gasped, threading his fingers through the shock of messy black hair. Merlin hummed happily, kissing the new bruise on Arthur’s neck adoringly before moving up again, towards Arthur’s mouth.
Merlin’s lips finally met Arthur’s desperately, soothed only by the gentle hands on Arthur’s chest and the loving way Arthur carded his fingers through Merlin’s hair. They kissed until their lips were sore and swollen. Arthur looked into Merlin’s eyes, and like every other time he was fascinated by them, marveling at the dark, gray-flecked color that could turn molten gold on a whim.
“I missed you,” Arthur said earnestly, surprising himself by his honesty. Merlin seemed surprised as well; his eyes widened almost comically.
As Arthur blushed and tried to rein in his feelings, about to blame it on being exhausted, Merlin smiled and cupped his burning cheek. “I missed you too, Arthur,” he said, blue eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” His hands made a slow progression down Arthur’s chest, gazing at Arthur coyly. “Thinking about what we could do when you came back,” his voice was suggestive; a low, gravelly sound in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur’s body reacted instinctively.
He arched into the touch, a little whine sounding the back of his throat. His own hands reached out to clutch at Merlin. He ran his palms over clothed shoulders and down a lean back, resting in the dip above the curve of his ass, before pulling him in sharply. Their hips pressed together, hard, releasing a pleased moan at the pressure. Merlin’s lips were everywhere, trailing hot, slick touches from the junction of Arthur’s neck and shoulder to the underside of Arthur’s jaw. Arthur’s hands slid down from the small of Merlin’s back to the slight curve of his ass, squeezing possessively. A wrecked keen ripped from Merlin’s throat and his hips jerked forward, grinding his hard length against Arthur’s.
Arthur gasped, but he kept his thoughts straight long enough to laugh under his breath. “And what have you come up with, Merlin?” he teased shakily. Merlin’s triumphant grin didn’t do much other than heighten his arousal.
“I know how—tired you’ve been,” Merlin gasped out, his hips still moving against Arthur’s, the delicious friction laboring his breathing. He pressed his lips to the corner of Arthur’s mouth, his hands clutched in Arthur’s white tunic. “I figured I could do something for you, something…” he trailed off, dragging Arthur bodily from the door.
Arthur went with no resistance. His tired body was easily maneuverable, following the directions Merlin’s intoxicating hands guided him in. His head was spinning; the room was filled with the smell of Merlin, cold sunshine and earth and mint, an impossible concoction that inebriated Arthur faster than any alcohol.
One second, Arthur was mouthing along Merlin’s collarbones, the next he was laying flat on his back on his bed, staring dazedly up at the crimson canopy. He grunted in surprise and tried to sit up, but then Merlin was there, straddling his hips and pushing him firmly back onto the mattress.
“Merlin—?” Arthur started, but one of Merlin’s hands clasped over his mouth. Arthur stared at Merlin’s smirking face, confusion, arousal, and a dash of annoyance furrowing his brows. Merlin’s smirk only widened, his blue eyes blown with lust.
“Shut up and let me do this,” he commanded, rocking his hips, his cock rubbing hard over Arthur’s. Arthur shuddered at the sensation, groaning softly. Merlin chuckled as Arthur’s muscles went lax. “You’ve been overworking yourself, sire,” he said, his free hand tugging at the v of Arthur’s tunic. “You go to meetings early in the morning, train during the afternoon, and go back to meetings in the evening… It’s a wonder how you can come back to your chambers late at night and fuck me,” Merlin purred, punctuating his words with a sharp roll of his hips.
Arthur let out a loud groan, his arousal spiking. Merlin had always had a cheeky mouth, barbed and witty and downright filthy on occasion. But it wasn’t often that he talked to Arthur that way in bed; when he did, Arthur thought he could come from the words alone. The breathy exhalations of “sire” and “fuck me, yes, right there, gods, your cock” that any other partner would keep to themselves, Merlin vocalized, drawing out Arthur’s title until it was dirty, narrating everything he wanted Arthur to do to him—what he wanted to do to Arthur. It was one of the hottest things Arthur ever experienced.
Merlin’s fingers curled in his chest hair, causing Arthur to snap out of his thoughts. Merlin’s eyes darkened. “You must be exhausted, but you still find the energy to pound me into the mattress the way I like it, fucking me so hard the headboard slams against the wall with every thrust,” he continued. It was driving Arthur insane.
The blonde was about to sit up and flip Merlin over when his eyes suddenly flashed gold. Arthur was snapped back into place, held by a freakishly strong force. He struggled against the bonds but couldn’t move; a confused cry made Merlin remove his hand from Arthur’s mouth.
“What’s this?” he demanded, his wrists straining against seemingly nothing. When he turned to look, his wrist seemed to be encased in a shimmering gold manacle.
“A precaution, sire,” Merlin demurred, his hands rucking up Arthur’s tunic. His hot palms skimmed over Arthur’s abdomen and chest, causing goosebumps to pop up on his skin. “I don’t want you overexerting yourself. Let me take care of you tonight,” he whispered, leaning down to press his lips lightly to Arthur’s.
Arthur would’ve given anything to touch him, but he was reduced to sloppily kissing him back. Merlin didn’t seem to mind, his eyes flashing gold once again and suddenly Arthur was as bare as the day he was born. His mouth fell open in surprise, but the words that were about to come were immediately smothered by Merlin’s lips. His tongue tangled with Merlin’s, broken moans and whines exchanged between them until Merlin abruptly pulled away, his clothes vanishing with a simple thought.
Merlin was beautiful. Arthur had always thought so, though he’d never voice it aloud; Merlin was lean, muscled where one would think to find only bone, and well endowed. A trail of dark hair led past his navel down to his cock, pale like the rest of him and straining. Taut, pale skin went only blemished by faint white scars, remnants of the time where Arthur had been oblivious to Merlin’s sacrifices. On days where they felt tender, Arthur kissed and caressed every inch of Merlin’s skin, paying loving tribute to his myriad of scars.
That night, tenderness was far from Arthur’s mind. Hunger warred with need in Arthur’s head, his chest, his groin—all he wanted was Merlin, the ferocity of his own desire surprising him. But Merlin had him held down to the bed, unable to move. Merlin’s grin was smug even as his eyes fell shut at the amazing sensation of skin against skin.
“You’re gorgeous,” Arthur managed as Merlin rose up on his knees, reaching behind himself. Arthur frowned. “What are you—?” he asked, but Merlin cut him off with a heated look.
“I told you, you are overworking yourself,” Merlin said breathily, moaning softly as he played with something inside him. Arthur’s eyes widened in understanding. “So I prepared myself,” Merlin grinned, extracting the something with a gasp. Arthur didn’t have to see the gleaming, slicked wood to know that it was one of their plugs.
“Fuck,” Arthur moaned, glancing at where Merlin dropped the dark wooden plug on the red bedsheets.
Arthur startled when he felt a hand on his cock, wet fingers slicking him up—Merlin’s fingers wrapped around the base. Merlin lifted himself up, positioning Arthur so the tip of his length was pressed against Merlin’s already prepared hole.
Arthur watched Merlin’s face intently as the slighter man took his cock. His pretty, bitten-red lips fell open on the slide down, his eyes shuttering closed. His hands were curled on Arthur’s chest, nails lightly scrabbling against the skin. When he finally bottomed out, a sigh escaped his lips, sweet and soft.
“Merlin,” Arthur choked out, his lover’s tight, overwhelming heat making him see stars. He was held back from fucking up into Merlin, held down onto the bed by his magic. But Merlin was enjoying himself, circling his hips, whining when Arthur’s length brushed against the bundle of nerves that set his blood aflame.
The rhythm Merlin set was just fast enough to make Arthur breathless, but slow enough that he didn’t lose control. Merlin let out truly filthy moans, ending them on wrecked sighs or keens that made Arthur struggle against his manacles. Slowly Arthur was allowed to move his hips, thrusting up into Merlin’s hole as they moved.
“Love this,” Merlin whispered, locking eyes with Arthur as he rode him. “Love having you like this, not able to do anything but let me fuck myself on you. Not able to mark me. That probably frustrates you, huh, sire?” he smirked at Arthur, who growled low in his throat. Merlin laughed huskily. “I know how much you love to mark me, to bruise me, to claim me. But this feels good, doesn’t it?” Merlin asked, dragging blunt nails down Arthur’s chest.
Arthur groaned in frustration. Merlin knew exactly how far Arthur’s possessive streak ran—he cherished looking at the love bites on Merlin’s pale skin, the marks and bruises their lovemaking left behind. Being unable to touch his lover was torture, but this… This was a torture Arthur could learn to enjoy. He arched against the magic, his hips snapping up as his frustration peaked, eyes widening as Merlin’s back bowed in pleasure.
“Oh, sire!” Merlin moaned, his rhythm faltering as he sped up. Arthur groaned and planted his feet on the bed for leverage, fucking up into him fast and hard. Merlin gasped and started to bounce.
“S-So good, ngh,” Merlin said, wrapping his own hand around his leaking cock. His eyes were closed, but Arthur swore he saw a faint glow of gold behind his lids. “Feel you so deep like this. Want you to come so deep inside me, oh,” Merlin cried out, rocking down sharply onto Arthur as his hand flew over his cock. Arthur was already close, his hands curling into fists as he groaned over Merlin’s breathy cries. “Th-There! Gods, yes, sire, right there, I’m—” Merlin’s head tipped back with a soundless scream, his orgasm ripping through him. He clenched around the length inside him as he came over Arthur’s chest and his own hand, the magic surrounding Arthur’s wrists being released in his bliss.
Arthur’s hands gripped Merlin’s hips so hard he’d leave bruises as he drove up into his lover, thrusting once, twice, three times before coming hard inside. Arthur immediately reached for him, drawing an unresisting Merlin down to rest against him.
They lay in silence a while, Merlin lying on Arthur’s chest, catching his breath. After a few moments of simple labored breathing, Merlin shifted enough so Arthur’s cock slipped from him and winced. Arthur instantly tried to soothe him with sleepy kisses.
Merlin settled next to Arthur, nestling against Arthur’s shoulder as he yawned. “How was that, then?” he asked, the coyness in his voice gone. He was smiling at Arthur dopily, his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Arthur’s heart swelled at the sight, unbidden.
“Brilliant,” he said without thinking, silently chastising himself for sounding like a lovesick fool. But Merlin simply hummed contentedly and kissed Arthur’s shoulder, his eyes falling closed.
“Good. Now go to sleep, you prat, you’ll be insufferable in the morning if you don’t get enough rest.”
Arthur chuckled softly, only just managing to get them both under the sheets. He took one last look at Merlin, who was already lax with sleep, his face illuminated by the moonlight spilling from the open window. The fire had gone out, most likely when Merlin came, and the only warmth in the chamber came from Merlin himself.
Arthur sighed as his eyes finally slid closed, a smile tipping his lips. “I love you too, Merlin.”
|
On Thursday Cartman returned to school, surly and refusing to speak to anyone, especially Wendy, who still thought that this was just some elaborate prank that they were all trying to play on her. Between third period and Stan's lunch hour the hallways were suddenly papered with bright blue flyers that had been stuck in lockers and taped up on the walls. Stan stopped to read one, and he knew immediately who had put them up.
ARE YOU PREGNANT? ARE YOU FUCKIN PISSED OFF ABOUT IT? COME AND JOIN 'PREGNANT AND PISSED OFF' THIS AFTERNOON, IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING SCHOOL, 47 MAPLE DRIVE. AN OFFERING OF SNACKS IS REQUIRED FOR ENTRY.
That was Cartman's address, but Stan would have known it was him even without that incriminating information. So far, Cartman was the only other probably-pregnant boy they had been able to identify. Stan suspected that Butters might be the third, since his parents had now held him out of school for almost two weeks and Kenny hadn't even managed to get a glimpse of him through his bedroom window, let alone a returned phone call. Dr. Terrell had told Stan and Kyle that the other two pregnancies were confirmed as legitimate, but he had to keep the names of the two boys confidential for legal reasons.
"Did you see the flyers?" Stan asked when he sat beside Kyle in their usual spot during lunch.
"Yeah." Kyle checked around to make sure no one was listening. Kenny and Cartman usually sat with them, but Cartman was probably busy putting flyers under windshield wipers in the school parking lot, and Kenny was too depressed to eat. He'd been spending his lunch hours chain smoking in the parking lot, listening to sad music on Stan's old iPod. "I'm thinking about going," Kyle said, quietly.
"Seriously? Why?"
"Why? Stan, what have we been talking about nonstop all week? Who the other two are! This is a way of finding out for sure. Though I guess we know Cartman is definitely one of them, since that was his address on the - thing." Kyle lowered his voice as Kevin Stoley passed by.
"But what if Butters is the third?" Stan said. "He won't be there. His parents have him on lock down."
"That's what I thought, but he showed up halfway through Honors Lit!" Kyle said, grabbing Stan's arm. "I don't know if Kenny has seen him yet. He looked kind of rough - he said he'd had the flu, and he gave the teacher a note. I tried to talk to him after class but he mumbled something about needing to talk to his Calc teacher and darted off. That little fucker is fast when he wants to be."
"You seem better today," Stan said, slipping an arm around Kyle's back. Kyle had been gloomy and quiet for the past few days, and this was the most excitement Stan had seen him show since they got the news. Kyle shrugged.
"I have an appetite," he said, shaking the last crumbs of his barbecue chips out onto a napkin. "So that's something. What should we bring for our snack when we go to the meeting?"
"We're seriously going?" Stan asked.
"Yes, Stan! You know, it's actually a good idea."
"That last time you said that about something Cartman did you were eating burgers that had marinated in his ass."
"Ha." Kyle glared at him. "Yeah, I haven't forgotten. But, look. People are going to find out sooner or later, and Cartman might have some valuable information to help us understand how this happened."
"Cartman and valuable information," Stan said skeptically. "I guess stranger things have happened, fuck. Will I even be allowed in? As an impregnator?"
"Well, I'm certainly not going to his house without you!" Kyle said. Stan kissed his forehead.
"We can stop at Walgreen's on the way there and get some of those Mrs. Field's peanut butter cookies," he said, because Kyle had expressed a craving for those. Kyle grinned.
"You guys look happy," Kenny said miserably, sitting down across from them. He had no lunch and reeked of cigarettes. Stan passed him some green apple slices, but Kenny just stared at them.
"Dude, Butters is at school!" Kyle said.
"I know," Kenny says. "He won't talk to me. Something is seriously fucked up."
Stan looked at Kyle, asking him if it was okay to tell Kenny about what had happened to them. Kyle sighed.
"You guys know something," Kenny said. "What? What's going on with Butters?"
"Let's take a walk," Kyle said, crumpling up his chip bag. "We've still got thirty minutes left before next period, and I really don't want to have this conversation here."
"What conversation?" Kenny asked, getting louder. "What is it? Was it his parents? Did they do something-"
"Shh!" Kyle said. "We're not a hundred percent sure what's going on with Butters, but there's something else we need to tell you about. Come on."
It was cold outside, the clouds overhead thick and gray. They walked around the side of the school with Kenny, toward his usual smoking spot, then past it when they found it occupied by the Goth kid with the red streak in his hair. They headed toward the soccer field, and by the time they got there Kenny was agitated, breathing hard.
"Tell me," he said. "Why won't Butters talk to me?"
"I don't know," Kyle said. He looked cold, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and his shoulders raised. Stan hugged him from behind. "He wouldn't talk to me, either," Kyle said. "All we have is a theory about what might be happening to him."
"Yeah?" Kenny said. "What? Tell me!"
Kyle moaned and turned to hide his face against Stan's chest. "I can't say it," he said, his voice muffled. "Stan, you tell him."
"Kyle's pregnant," Stan blurted, not wanting to prolong this any further. Kyle stiffened in his arms, and Stan gave him a squeeze.
"Okay," Kenny said tonelessly. "So this is part of that prank you guys are playing on Wendy?"
"It's not a prank on fucking Wendy!" Kyle said, lifting his face. "It's real, and we don't know how, but it's happening to a bunch of boys in town!"
"Three that we know of," Stan said. "But we don't know who they are. It looks like Cartman is another one, and. Listen, um. Did you and Butters have sex on the night of Bebe's party?"
"Yeah," Kenny said. "What does - Butters isn't pregnant, you assholes. I know my way around a vag, alright, and he doesn't have one." He raised his eyebrows, staring at Kyle. "Apparently you and Cartman do? That makes sense in an odd way."
"Fuck you!" Kyle said. "I don't have female anatomy! Neither do the other two boys who got pregnant. It just happened!"
"You're saying someone fucked Cartman in the ass?" Kenny said, scoffing as if that was the most hard to believe element in play here.
"You brought Butters some of that punch, didn't you?" Stan said. "In that thermos Bebe gave you?"
"Yeah," Kenny said. "He liked it, he got kind of drunk and - loud. Is that what made all of you guys sick, that punch?"
"Did you not just hear me?" Kyle asked, getting loud himself. "I am pregnant, Kenny! Like nine different doctors have confirmed it! You know how fucked up shit sometimes happens in this town? Well, this is one of those fucked up things, and Butters might have been affected, too!"
"You think that's why he won't talk to me?" Kenny asked. "He's - carrying my child? Or, shit, do you think his parents made him get it taken care of?"
"It's possible," Stan said. "But Kyle's doctors wouldn't even consider that. They said it's too risky until they know more about the physiology."
"Fizzy what?" Kenny made a face. "Fuck, you guys are serious?"
"Would we joke about this?" Kyle asked, thumping his hand against Kenny's chest.
"Yes," Kenny said. "Or, I mean, I would-"
"Dude, listen," Stan said. "You should try to find Butters. Pull him out of class if you have to. Make him talk to you."
"Why?" Kenny asked. "So he can tell me to leave him alone again? Because he's so afraid of his fucking parents that he can't even fill me in on the fact that he's knocked up with my ass baby?"
"Don't call it an ass baby!" Kyle said. Stan was surprised; so far he hadn't heard Kyle refer to his pregnancy as anything but 'the entity' or just 'it.' Ass baby was a step up, Stan thought.
"Whatever," Kenny said. He dug his cigarettes from his back pocket. "I can't even handle this right now. I'll try to talk to him again, but he'll just look at me like I'm some stranger and run off."
"He's probably just embarrassed," Kyle said. "I mean, how the hell do you tell someone that they got you pregnant? When you're a boy?"
Kenny stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug for his lighter. "I don't know," he said. "How'd you tell Stan?"
"Hey," Stan said. He swiped the cigarette from Kenny's lips. "Not around Kyle."
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Kyle and Kenny said, in unison.
"What?" Stan said to Kyle. "It's not right." He gave Kenny his cigarette back, and Kenny tucked it behind his ear.
"Well?" Kenny said, looking at Kyle. "How'd you drop the bomb on Stan?"
"Doctors were present to corroborate my story," Kyle said.
"And Sheila was there to threaten me with arrest," Stan added.
"Look," Kyle said. "Whatever is going on with Butters, he's obviously scared about you judging him for some reason or another. Be persistent. If you really do love him," Kyle added skeptically.
"Hey." Kenny pointed his finger in Kyle's face, and Stan batted it away. "I love him," Kenny said, looking between the two of them. "You guys don't have a fucking monopoly on love. You don't know me and Butters as well as you think you do. You think we're these - cheerful background characters or something. You don't know our life."
"Oh, Christ," Kyle said. "Let's go inside," he said, tugging on Stan's arm.
"What do you mean we don't know you?" Stan asked, hurt. "We've known you since we were four years old."
"Fucking go back inside," Kenny said. He put the cigarette between his lips again. "I'm gonna have a smoke. Better get the mother to be out of here."
"Hey, fuck you!" Kyle said. "Why are you being such a dick? We just trusted you with the most humiliating secret we've ever had!"
"How is it humiliating that you two somehow managed to make a baby?" Kenny asked. "That's not humiliating, that's fucking poetic. If Butters is pregnant with my kid, his parents better not have fucked with it."
"You are insane!" Kyle shouted. "You have no idea what you're talking about!"
"What?" Kenny said. "You're not even a little bit happy that you're going to create new life with fucking Mr. Wonderful over here?"
"Don't call me that," Stan said. "Why are you being such a jerk?"
"Because, Stanley, you guys just laid some pretty heavy shit on me, and I need to have a smoke and try to process it, alright? Now get lost!"
"Maybe you're the one who got knocked up," Kyle said, walking back toward the doors to the school. "Since you're the one acting like a hormonal bitch!"
"Fuck off, Broflovski," Kenny muttered, and Kyle did, huffily reentering the school and dragging Stan in behind him.
The rest of the day passed slowly, and Stan was increasingly sure that going to Cartman's 'pregnant and pissed off' meeting would result in disaster, especially if they couldn't even get through a conversation about this with Kenny without Kyle blowing up. Usually Stan could settle the blame squarely on Kyle when he got worked up without reason, but he had to admit that Kenny had been the instigator in that case. He didn't seem well.
After school, Kyle was sullen and quiet, and he gave Stan a long look when Stan opened the passenger side door of the car for him.
"What?" Stan asked, though by then he'd guessed what he'd done wrong.
"You know, if I don't want Kenny to smoke around me, I can say so myself," Kyle said.
"Oh, sorry, do you want Kenny to smoke around you?"
"Maybe," Kyle said. "I mean, why not? It's not like this is going to be some perfect, adorable, normal baby, Stan. Okay? So get your head out of the clouds."
"What the fuck?" Stan said. He left the door hanging open and walked around to the driver's side. "How do you know?"
"It's really grossing me out that you're happy about this!" Kyle said, glaring at him from over the roof of the car. "I'd expect this from Kenny, but from you? It's like you're - God, glowing."
"All I did was open your door!"
"Just - you're getting your hopes up!" Kyle said. His lip was trembling. He dropped into the car and slammed the door, and Stan followed him inside, prepared for more shouting. Kyle had put his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. "And when this thing comes out all messed up you're going to hate me for wrecking your baby or whatever," Kyle said.
"Dude, stop," Stan said. He rubbed the back of Kyle's neck, relieved. He could deal with weepy Kyle much more easily than bitterly angry Kyle. "You know that's not true."
"I don't know anything anymore!" Kyle said, looking up at him. "I'm pregnant, Stan! And now Kenny knows. It - it didn't feel real, but now we're, we're going to this meeting-"
"We don't have to go to the meeting," Stan said. "Believe me, I'd much rather just go home-"
"Oh, where the doctors are waiting for me? Poised in the living room with their fucking tea cups, ready to put their bastard hands all over me - they can barely stop themselves from smiling, have you noticed? They're so pleased that their specimen has survived another day."
Stan wanted to tell Kyle that he was being dramatic, but he supposed the situation was a pretty dramatic one. He rubbed the back of Kyle's neck and let him sulk for a bit before starting the car.
"Just take me to Cartman's," Kyle said. "I want to be around someone who's as miserable and angry as I am, even if it's him."
Stan was a little wounded at the idea that he couldn't offer enough commiseration to satisfy Kyle, but he supposed that wasn't fair, since their situation was related but not the same. Still, he doubted Cartman would do anything more than reduce Kyle to angry sobs.
They stopped at Walgreen's for the cookies as planned, and Kyle also picked out a Vitamin Water and some watermelon gum. Stan hesitated to reach for his wallet in the check out line, afraid that what happened with the car door would recur, but Kyle just stared at him expectantly, and Stan was relieved to be allowed to pay. As they returned to the car with their purchases, Kyle seemed to be in better spirits.
"I'm sorry I snapped at you," he said when they had nearly reached Cartman's house. "I'm very - this is hard."
"I know," Stan said. "I mean, I don't know, I can't - I'm not the one going through it, really-"
"Yes, you are, oh, poor Stan." Kyle unbuckled his seat belt and leaned over to kiss Stan's cheek as he parked on the road outside of Cartman's house.
"Looks like we're the first ones here," Stan said. He caught the next kiss on his lips.
"Kenny called you Mr. Wonderful," Kyle said.
"Yeah. That asshole."
"Nn, no, he's right." Kyle leaned back into his seat and fished out the cookies. He opened the bag and ate two, staring at the front door of Cartman's house. There was a black balloon tied to the mailbox. "I guess it's now or never," Kyle said, still chewing, and he got out of the car.
Stan had never liked going to Cartman's house, and it had gotten worse as they got older, because he was pretty sure Liane Cartman wanted to nail him. Kyle had informed him that she actually had slept with Kenny during sophomore year, so every time Stan interacted with Cartman's mom he was fighting mental images of a three way with her and Kenny, which was mostly upsetting because he actually found the idea sort of arousing, in a fucked-up, purely fantasy way.
Fortunately, Cartman answered the door. He glowered at them.
"What do you fags want?" he asked. "I'm busy."
"We came for the meeting," Kyle said. "Here." He pushed the cookies into Cartman's hands.
"Oh, fucking seriously?" Cartman looked like he wasn't sure if he wanted to laugh or sneer. It was an unattractive combination. "Which one of you got cursed? I'd assume Kyle, but since I'm the man in my relationship and I ended up with an evil demon womb-"
"What relationship?" Kyle asked bitterly, and Stan's suspicions were confirmed: Kyle mostly wanted to hang out with Cartman so that he could direct his impotent rage at something durable.
"The one I was succubus'd into by a witch from hell," Cartman said.
"Can we come in, please?" Stan asked, already losing his patience. "It's fucking freezing out."
"Just get in here, assholes," Cartman said. He looked up and down the street once Stan and Kyle were inside, as if wondering where the other pregnant guys were. "This is what passes for snacks for you twinks?" Cartman asked, digging his hand into the cookie bag. He was wearing sweatpants and a black turtleneck that was straining to contain him, a couple of crumbs caught in the collar.
"Alright," Kyle said. "Tell us everything."
"Hold your fucking horses, asshole," Cartman said. "Let me get some goddamn milk first."
Cartman got some goddamn milk, and he carried it down to the basement along with the cookies, Stan and Kyle following him with trays of homemade baked goods that smelled delicious: iced sugar cookies and brownies that looked like they'd been infused with some kind of cheesecake swirl. Stan was glad Liane hadn't made an appearance yet, and he was actually somewhat cheered by Cartman's persistent desire to set a scene when he organized meetings of any sort: he'd made a banner and a few posters with illustrations of an angry face, the words PREGNANT AND PISSED OFF! framing its rageful expression. The usual old wooden podium was set up in front an assortment of fifteen folding chairs.
"You really think this many people are going to come?" Kyle asked, surveying the chairs as Cartman arranged the snacks on a table that he'd covered with one of Liane's delicate white runners.
"Maybe," Cartman said. "My doctor told me he had another case in town, and he said he'd been talking with some doctors in Denver who had cases."
"Doctors?" Stan said, looking at Kyle. "Plural?"
"Yeah," Cartman said. "Clearly she's trying to create a whole breed of demon babies to take over the town. Or the world, probably."
"Dude, I really don't think Wendy is behind this," Stan said.
"How do you know?" Kyle asked. "I mean, she certainly has something against both me and Cartman."
"Are you serious right now?" Stan asked, staring at Kyle.
"Hey, that's right!" Cartman said. "Kyle stole her boyfriend, and I - wait, what the fuck did I ever do to her?"
"Well," Kyle said, "Am I to understand that you traumatized her with the sight of your naked body?"
"Hey, c'mon," Stan said.
"Traumatized?" Cartman said, scoffing. "Yeah, I don't think so, Kyle. It was more like I showed her what your limp-wristed hippie boyfriend could never do for her - and more."
"You're still going to try to brag about nailing Wendy while you accuse her of getting you pregnant?" Stan said, shoving him. Cartman shrugged and cut himself a sizable brownie.
"I'm just stating, for the record," he said, "That was one satisfied succubus."
Stan was going to protest on behalf of Wendy, but the door at the top of the stairs opened before he could. Kyle grabbed Stan's arm as they all watched the stairs, waiting to see who would emerge. It definitely wasn't Liane; the footsteps were slow and there were at least two voices, whispering to each other.
"Oh, fucking sweet!" Cartman said when they saw that it was Token, Clyde following close behind. "Private funding!"
"Man, fuck this," Token said. He stopped in the middle of the stairs and seemed to be preparing to storm out when he saw Stan and Kyle. "Oh," he said. "Shit."
"You guys, too?" Clyde said. He looked like he'd already been crying a little, and he was hunched behind Token's shoulders, hugging a bag of Doritos.
"Yeah," Stan said. "C'mon down. I'm really glad someone else showed up."
"Yes, yes, this is quite fortunate!" Cartman said, rubbing his hands together. "With Token's millions we can-"
"Did I just volunteer to give you any money?" Token asked. He took Clyde's hand as they descended the rest of the stairs. "We're only here to find out who the others are."
"And to see what you guys know," Clyde said. He sniffled and rubbed his palm over the corner of his eye. "And maybe for, like. Some support."
"It's you, isn't it?" Token said to Kyle, who frowned.
"Yes," he said, reaching for a brownie. Stan wanted to warn him off of it, because he'd already had two cookies and his blood sugar probably wasn't in great shape, but he didn't want to scold Kyle in front of the others, not now.
"Who'd you get pregnant?" Clyde asked Cartman as he approached the snacks shyly, eying the selection. He set the Doritos down and reached for a sugar cookie.
"Uh," Cartman said. "Well, seems like-"
"Cartman got pregnant," Kyle volunteered. "By Wendy, we think."
"Holy shit," Clyde said, letting his mouth hang open, half-chewed sugar cookie on display. Token just laughed. Cartman turned bright red and headed for the podium.
"What we have here in South Park," he said, gripping it with both hands and leaning forward, "Is a motherfuckin' witch. Clearly, it's Wendy."
"Why does it have to be Wendy?" Stan asked. "You're the only one who had sex with her that night."
"Um, well, her name starts with 'W,' okay, which might be a clue-"
"That night?" Token said. "Are you talking about the night of Bebe's party?"
"Yeah," Stan said. He headed for the folding chairs, guiding Kyle away from the sweets. "We have a theory that it's something to do with that punch she served."
"So Bebe is the witch!" Cartman said.
"No way," Clyde said. He sat down in the row behind Kyle and Stan, Token beside him. Token was keeping close, hovering, and it made Stan embarrassed about the way he'd been acting since they found out. It was true that he didn't typically open car doors for Kyle. "Bebe wouldn't do that," Clyde said.
"Yeah, she's our friend," Token said. "Why would she want this to happen to us?"
"I'll tell you why," Cartman said. "Because the bitches in this town resent the fact that all of you guys have fagged them over for dudes! Where are they supposed to get dick now that you're all screwing each other? North Park?"
"Gee, Cartman, if it's that simple, why aren't they all banging on your door?" Kyle asked. "Since you're clearly masculine enough to handle them all! Oh, wait, except - you're pregnant, just like us, so you can stop acting like you're so fucking butch! I mean, Jesus, you're wearing a turtleneck! You made posters!"
"There's nothing effeminate about posters!" Cartman said, pounding the podium with is fist. "Posters are a call to action! Posters demand attention for your cause- aw, shit, I knew it."
He was looking at the stairs. Everyone turned to see Butters standing just above the landing, his eyes wet and red, fists rubbing together.
"H-hey fellas," he said in a weak little voice.
"Oh, Butters!" Kyle said, springing up from his chair. "It's okay, come here."
Stan had never seen Kyle offer Butters much in the way of affection - he was usually more prone to roll his eyes and ask Kenny what the hell he saw in that kid - but at the bottom of the stairs Kyle grabbed Butters and hugged him tightly, allowing Butters to sniffle against his shoulder.
"Welcome, Butters," Cartman said, with an edge of irritation. "Help yourself to some refreshments and sit your ass down. We're going over potential suspects."
"Give him a minute!" Kyle said, glowering at Cartman.
"Ah- I'm okay," Butters said. He wiped at his face with the overlong sleeves of his fleece sweatshirt. "I can't stay long, my folks think I'm doing a make up test at school. I just - I saw your flyers, Eric, and, well. I'm real grateful to have somebody to talk to."
"Why haven't you talked to Kenny?" Stan asked. Kyle glared at him.
"Maybe because Kenny is acting like a lunatic!" Kyle said.
"Only because he's worried about Butters!" Stan said. "Seriously, dude, you should tell him what's going on."
"He'll be so mad at me!" Butters said, and he burst into tears.
"Okay, excuse me!" Cartman said. "Order, we need some order here-"
"He won't be mad." Stan got up and went to Kyle and Butters, who were still hugging. Stan couldn't help thinking that Kyle was cradling Butters in a somewhat maternal fashion. "Butters," Stan said. "Kenny was actually kind of worried that your parents, um. Might have, you know. Made you get rid of it."
"Oh, gosh no!" Butters said, both hands flying to his stomach. "That's against our religion!"
"We asked about it and the doctor said it was too risky," Token said.
"These so-called doctors just want to study us like we're freaks!" Cartman said, pounding the podium again. "That's what I think."
"Me too, actually," Kyle said. "So, okay. Come over here, Butters, do you want something to eat?"
"W-well, them brownies look pretty tasty."
"Okay, here you go." Kyle plated a brownie for Butters and poured him some milk. "Now that Butters is here, we know who the second pregnancy diagnosed by South Park doctors is."
"I didn't see any doctors in South Park," Butters said, sitting. "My parents took me out of town, seeing as how I'm an embarrassment to the family and all."
"Oh." Kyle sat down beside Butters and watched him eat a few bites of brownie. "So Clyde, you saw doctors in South Park?"
"No," Clyde said. "Token took me to his family doctor in Denver."
"She's much better than any doctors in South Park," Token said. "Um, no offense."
"So me, Clyde, and Butters were all diagnosed outside of town?" Kyle said. He looked at Stan and frowned. "I thought Dr. Terrell said there were two cases of male pregnancy documented in South Park? Did he just mean that-"
Up at the top of the stairs, the door creaked open. Kyle stopped talking, and Butters paused in mid-chew. Everyone turned toward the stairs. Someone was descending the stairs very tentatively, as if hoping to sneak down unnoticed.
"Mom?" Cartman called. "Is that you? I told you, this is a private-"
He stopped when they sat that it wasn't Liane, it was Tweek. He looked like he was about to implode from anxiety, trembling visibly and gritting his teeth as everyone stared at him.
"Oh, fuck, I might have known," Cartman said. "Get down here. Did you get pregnant on the night of Bebe's party, too?"
"Nuh- no!" Tweek said. He was so nervous he could barely walk.
"Some other night?" Kyle said. "When? How far along are you?"
"Ah- I'm not!" Tweek said. "Gah!"
"Not what?" Stan asked. "You're not pregnant?"
"N-no! Shit, I can't-"
"Then why the fuck are you here?" Cartman asked, shouting. "Just to gawk at the freaks? Get out of here, asshole!"
"He's with me."
Craig walked down even more slowly than Tweek had, giving them all a hateful stare when he was standing beside Tweek, who tried to cling to him. Craig leaned away from him and pointed to the bottom of the stairs.
"S-sorry!" Tweek said, bolting for the landing. "Oh, God, I'm so sorry!"
"Wait," Kyle said. He seemed to be on the verge of smiling; Stan elbowed him. "Wait-"
"For the record," Craig said, grabbing the railing on the stairs and leaning over it. "I fuck him, okay? I am the one who does the fucking. To him. This is not fair. This makes no sense! And one of you had better start fucking explaining, because I know you motherfuckers are behind every fucked up fucking thing that happens in this shithole town!"
Everyone stared at him, silenced by his outrage. Craig was panting, squeezing the railing like he was going to tear it apart with his bare hands. He was paler than usual and a little sweaty, wearing a puffy blue coat over his skinny jeans. The door at the top of the stairs opened again.
"Everything okay down there, boys?" Liane asked.
"Yes, Mom, God!" Cartman said. "We're just going through a lot right now, okay? You wouldn't understand!"
"Okay, hun! Let me know if you need any more snacks."
She closed the door again, and Craig descended the rest of the stairs. He walked past Tweek, who was cowering against the wall as if he was expecting the echo of Craig's outburst to ricochet off the opposite wall and pierce him like a bullet.
"Speaking of snacks," Cartman said. "Where the fuck is your contribution?"
"Snack on my ass," Craig said. "We came here for answers, and you fuckwads had better start providing some."
"We don't have any more answers than you do," Kyle said. "Nobody knows why this happened, but we all seem to have gotten pregnant on the night of Bebe's party."
"And the punch," Stan said. "Did you guys drink the punch?"
"C-Craig did!" Tweek said. "I don't drink! Gah, shit, I'm so sorry, Craig-"
Craig took a seat, still unwilling to look at Tweek. He unzipped his jacket and shrugged it over the back of his chair, revealing a hip-length gray sweater with a wide neck. He crossed his legs and flipped his bangs off his forehead. Stan wasn't sure why Craig being the pregnant one was so surprising, except that, when he'd caught them fucking in the bathroom during Token's party, Tweek had been the one who was bent over the sink. Tweek approached the folding chairs nervously and sat near Craig, one chair between them.
"First of all," Craig said. "One of you better have found a doctor who is willing to vacuum these things out of us."
Butters flinched and Tweek spazzed, half-swallowing a gah and pulling at his hair with both hands.
"Not yet," Cartman said. "But not for lack of trying. Maybe if Token makes a generous donation to our cause-"
"This isn't a cause," Token said. "It's something that's happened - and-" He glanced at Clyde and slid an arm around him. "Me and Clyde want to keep our baby."
"Oh, that's easy for you to say, moneybags!" Cartman said. "How about the rest of us, huh? We're gonna have to drop out of high school, and-"
"I'm not dropping out!" Kyle said. "Fuck that!"
"What, then, Kyle, you're going to waddle around school letting the freshmen laugh and point at the pregnant ginger freak?" Cartman was snarling, and Stan gave him a warning look, but Cartman didn't seem to notice it, and, even pregnant, he could probably kick Stan's ass.
"Whatever," Kyle said. "I'm not dropping out of school." His shoulders slumped a little and he leaned against Stan miserably.
"I'm not dropping out, either," Craig said. "Or walking the halls like a mutant. I say we pool our money and go down to Mexico. They'll do anything to you there."
"Craig, shut up," Stan said. "You could end up dead. And look how upset you're making Tweek."
They all looked at Tweek, who had leaned over to put his head between his knees. He was moaning under his breath, shaking.
"Poor fella," Butters said, going to him. Tweek jerked when Butters touched his back.
"Poor Tweek?" Craig said. "Poor Tweek? Excuse me, um? He's not the one with an alien trying to eat its way out through his stomach."
"Quit talking like that!" Token said. "They're not aliens, they're human embryos."
"Yeah, if you believe what the quacks who want to study the long term effects of unnatural alien pregnancies on teenage boys are telling you," Craig said.
"Oh, God!" Tweek said, springing up out of his chair. "I can't handle this! It's all my fault! Shit, Craig, but, but - you can't go to Mexico, please-"
"Everyone shut the fuck up and sit down!" Cartman bellowed. Tweek, the only one not already sitting, obeyed. He hugged his arms around himself and let Butters rub his back. "Tweek," Cartman said slowly. "You said this was all your fault. Why?"
"I don't know, man!" Tweek said. "All I know is we did what we always do, and Craig ended up- he - he's got this thing in him, man, and I must have done it somehow!"
"Let me make sure I'm understanding this correctly," Cartman said. He folded his hands on the podium. "Craig, you're saying Tweek didn't have his wiener all up in your guts that night?"
"God," Token said. "Who asked Cartman to lead the meeting?"
"Who do you think?" Kyle muttered.
"I have never had anything belonging to Tweek up in my guts," Craig said. "Least of all his dick. I fucked him in Bebe's bathroom before we left the party."
"And I fucked Wendy in Bebe's bedroom before we left," Cartman murmured, stroking his chin. "She certainly didn't come in me, unless my mouth counts."
"Alright," Stan said, wincing. "It sounds like, so far, everyone who got pregnant had sex that night, but the guys who are actually, um, carrying the children weren't necessarily the, um."
"Bottoms," Kyle said dryly. "Well, that just makes me feel so much better. I thought I had at least ended up this way because of - physics."
"Physics?" Token said, turning.
"Motion!" Kyle said, jabbing his finger into his palm. "Something observed by attaching a frame of reference to a body and measuring its change in position relative to another reference frame! Physics!"
"Hey, Cartman," Stan said. "Do you know if Wendy drank any of that punch?"
"I don't fucking know," Cartman said. "What difference does it make?"
"You drank some, right?" Kyle said.
"Yeah," Cartman said. "And Craig did, and Tweek didn't. Token, did you?"
"Nope," Token said. "I was the designated driver. Clyde had a lot of the stuff, though," he said, glancing at Clyde warily. "He - really liked it."
"So did Kyle, and he normally hates even the weakest drinks!" Stan said. Kyle punched his leg, which was unfair, because this was true.
"Son of a bitch," Cartman said. "It was a fuckin' witches' brew!"
"So what?" Craig said. He stood, went to the refreshment table, and carefully cut himself a brownie before throwing it at the wall as hard as he could. Tweek screamed as if Craig had just stuck a knife in somebody.
"Ey!" Cartman shouted.
"I don't care how this happened!" Craig said. He actually looked like he might start crying from pure rage. "I just want it undone! Now!"
"Calm down!" Clyde said. "Jesus, you're acting like a maniac. Tweek is obviously just as upset as you are. Just because you're the pregnant one, that doesn't mean-"
"Do not lecture me, Donovan!" Craig said, pointing his finger at Clyde. "I am not a bottom! I don't deserve this!"
"What, and I do?" Cartman said. "I don't even fuck dudes!"
"Everybody shut up," Kyle said. He stood, and Stan was glad as Kyle moved toward the podium, though he knew Cartman wouldn't vacate it. "We need to make a plan of action," Kyle said. "It's unlikely that Bebe hasn't washed that bowl from her party already, but we can at least get her to show us exactly what she put in the punch."
"Wait," Clyde said. "I saw Bebe drinking the punch, and me and Token were there when she made it."
"Yeah," Token said. "Bebe was sampling it, testing it to see if tasted good. Actually, hey." Token squeezed Clyde's shoulder. "You drank some then and made a face. You said it was too sweet."
"I did," Clyde said, nodding to himself. "And later it was like the greatest thing I'd ever had."
"What are you suggesting?" Kyle asked. "That someone poisoned the punch?"
"We need a list of everyone who was at that party!" Cartman said.
"Do you guys really think some kid at that party was capable of doing this to us?" Stan asked. He was tired, ready to take Kyle home and cuddle up around him while he did his homework.
"Oh, I guess you have some better explanation?" Craig said.
"No," Stan said. "But, just. Can we talk about something other than a pointless witch hunt for a few minutes? What do you guys think is going to happen if you do figure out why this is going on?"
"We could reverse the spell!" Cartman said. "Maybe you're all chipper that you get to have a little ginger Jew baby with Kyla over there, but I'm not having a goddamn baby, especially if Testaburger is the father!"
"Maybe those of us who want to talk about realistically dealing with this instead of ranting about witches and curses should form our own club," Token said.
"Well, I'm sorry Token," Kyle said, just as Stan was about to say that sounded like a great idea. "But realistic for the rest of us doesn't mean adding a nursery wing to the mansion and interviewing potential nannies."
"Don't pick on him just because he has money!" Clyde said. "This has been hard for us, okay? We weren't even dating!"
"Clyde," Token said.
"No, it's not fair!" Clyde said. He stomped over to the refreshment table, and Stan half expected him to cut a brownie and throw it against the wall like Craig had. Instead, he poured himself some milk. "Just because Token has money – that doesn't mean he actually wants this," Clyde said. "He's just being good about it."
"Clyde," Token said, standing.
"I didn't even know I was gay!" Clyde said, starting to wibble. Craig snorted.
"You were dancing like you knew," he said.
"I mean," Clyde said, tears sliding down his cheeks. "Maybe I'd suspected, you know, because I liked the way Token smelled, and his shoulders-"
"Oh, Jesus Christ," Cartman said, burying his face in his hands at the podium.
"But this is all very jarring for us," Clyde said. Token went to him and hugged his shoulders.
"Jarring," Craig said. "That's nice. For me, it's life ending. I'd rather die on a butcher's block in Tijuana than give birth to this abomination."
Tweek made a horrified noise and ducked out from under Butters' arm, dashing for the stairs. He was all the way up them before Craig stood with a groan.
"How do you expect him to feel when you call his baby an abomination?" Token said.
"Like I'm speaking the truth," Craig said. "He used to appreciate that." Craig picked up his coat and slung it over his shoulder with a flourish. He went to the snack table to cut himself another brownie, but this one didn't end up smashed against the wall. Craig took a dainty bite of it as he headed toward the stairs. "Gentlemen," he said. "It's been a waste of time, as usual."
"I should be getting home, too," Butters said as Craig pranced up the stairs. "Would you guys tell Kenny I'm okay?" he asked, turning toward Stan and Kyle. "A-and tell him not to worry about the baby. My dad said that we're gonna find him a real good home, and that he'll never have to know where he came from and be all embarrassed that he had two dads."
"You want to give the baby up for adoption?" Stan asked.
"You're going to need Kenny's consent," Kyle said. "Maybe," he added, frowning. "I guess there's nothing like this in the law yet."
"Heck, I don't know," Butters said. He seemed tired and worn down in a way that made Stan want to collect him and recuperate him the way he'd tried to do with ailing frogs and baby birds as a kid, carefully depositing them in shoe boxes with some moss for a bed and a piece of Romaine lettuce for food. It had never played out the way he'd wanted it to. "Just tell Kenny I'm real sorry!" Butters said, his voice pinching up. He bolted up the stairs and was gone.
"Well, now that the drama queens have exited stage left," Cartman said. "Back to business."
"What business?" Token asked. "You're not going to convince me that anyone at that party did this to you guys. I thought this meeting was going to be all of us venting about how our parents have reacted and what we're going to do next, not obsessing over placing blame."
"You're not at all interested in finding out why this happened to us?" Kyle asked. "What if we looked into it a little more and found out something that meant it could be safely reversed? You wouldn't want that for Clyde?"
"I have to go to the bathroom," Clyde said, and then it was his turn to dart for the stairs. Cartman groaned and abandoned the podium, returning to the snacks.
"Nice, Kyle," Token said, glaring at him. "Like he's not already stressed out enough."
"You cannot possibly convince me that Clyde wants to keep this baby," Kyle said.
"Why not?" Stan asked, and Kyle gave him a horrified look. "What?" Stan said. "Not everybody is you, dude. Not everybody has the same priorities."
"Priorities? Are you out of your mind? Clyde is seventeen! What is he going to do with a baby? He's lucky Token has money, but-"
"That's it," Token said, and he headed for the stairs himself. "If you'd put 'Rag On Token About his Household Income' on that flyer I probably wouldn't have come. Later, assholes."
"Token, wait," Stan said, but Token waved him off. A few minutes later, they could hear Liane bidding them goodnight, then the front door opening and slamming shut.
"Great," Kyle said. "Really successful meeting." He kicked a chair over.
"I can't believe Craig threw a fucking brownie at the wall," Cartman said, watching as it continued to ooze slowly toward the carpet. "You guys want to watch HLN or something? Vinnie's on in fifteen minutes."
"No thanks," Stan said. "Kyle's got to see his doctors, and we've got homework."
"Don't you have daily checkups?" Kyle asked Cartman. He scoffed.
"They tried to lay that shit on me," he said. "And I was like 'ey, if I need some overpaid quacks to molest me for the good of science, I'll call you, bitches.' Fuck that. I feel fine now. I can figure out how to take care of business without their help."
"Business?" Stan said queasily.
"Dude, don't try to shove a coat hanger up your ass or anything," Kyle said.
"I'm not the one who got myself into this mess by putting things up my ass," Cartman said. "But thanks for the advice, Kyle, that's so helpful."
As Stan had suspected, the meeting was, in general, not helpful at all, despite the fact that they'd identified four more pregnant boys. Stan still thought the punch was the source of their troubles, but that didn't explain how it had gotten into the bowl at Bebe's party or how it was created in the first place. It was dark when they left Cartman's house, and Stan reminded himself not to open Kyle's door for him as they headed toward the car. He almost missed the figure in all black who was loitering at the end of Cartman's driveway, her skin as white as the snow-crusted landscape.
"Henrietta?" Stan called while Kyle climbed into the car.
When she looked up at him he realized she'd been hoping he would see her. She headed toward the car, unsmiling, her hands shoved into her coat pockets. She looked cold.
"Hey," she said flatly.
"Um, hi," Stan said. "What are you doing here?"
She looked down at the snow and bit her fat lower lip, scraping away some of her black lipstick as her tooth slid over it.
"I'm, like," she said, "Pregnant. And fucking pissed off."
"Oh, fuck." Stan said. Kyle was staring at him impatiently; Stan gave him the keys so he could start running the heat. He shut the driver's side door and walked closer to Henrietta. "You saw the flyers."
"Yeah. Isn't this Eric Cartman's house, though?"
"Um. Uh-huh."
"Did his mom get pregnant again?" Henrietta asked, making a disgusted face.
"No," Stan said. "Oh, shit – you were there at Bebe's party! Did you drink some of that punch?" If it had the power to get boys pregnant, he shuddered to think what it could do to girls.
"Punch?" she said. "Um, no, like. What punch? I just hung out for like, five minutes because my dealer was meeting me there."
"Oh." The first time Stan smoked pot was with Kenny when he was twelve, but the second time was with Henrietta, when she came upon him in the woods while he was skipping school. Stan was crying – probably because of Kyle, or Wendy, or just because life looked shitty that day. Henrietta didn't ask why, just lit a joint and offered it to him after she'd dragged on it. He'd always been sort of fond of her for sitting with him in depressed silence that day.
"Do you want a ride home?" Stan asked. "Or are you going in?"
"Fuck no, I'm not going in," she said. "Cartman is an asshole."
"He sure is. I don't even know why we came."
Henrietta glanced at the car, at Kyle, who was staring at them.
"Is Wendy pregnant?" Henrietta asked.
"No," Stan said. "Just – I gotta go, but. How far along are you?"
"Six weeks," Henrietta said. "It's a fucking drag."
"Yeah." Stan wanted to ask who the father was, but he didn't. "So, you want a ride?"
"That's okay." She pushed some hair off her face. "I live pretty close. Just. Um. Bye."
She'd always been an awkward conversationalist at best. Stan watched her cross the street before climbing into the car. Kyle had the heat running and the radio going, something Sting-like playing.
"What's up with that freak?" he asked.
"Dude, really?" Stan said, flicking the lights on. "You're going to call people freaks?"
"Oh, right, because I am one! So I should sympathize!"
"No." Stan groaned. He reached over to try to touch Kyle's cheek, and Kyle slapped his hand away.
"And what was all that shit about Clyde's priorities?" Kyle asked. "He's an idiot if he thinks this baby thing is going to work out wonderfully. Even with Token's money, Stan, even with – I'm so, it's just—"
"I know," Stan said, reaching over to cup Kyle's cheek. He was allowed to, this time. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to act like everything's gonna be great. I just can't see – no matter what happens – how it could be all bad as long as it's me and you."
"It being the baby?" Kyle said.
"Well, yeah," Stan said. "But I meant more, like. Life."
They went to Kyle's house, where Kyle sat through the nightly tests with the doctor listlessly, letting Terrell draw blood, prod him with a thermometer and a blood pressure cuff, and ask endless questions about how he was feeling. Stan stayed close, watching for any hint of a smile on Terrell's face. There was nothing like that, but he did move with a sort of lightness in his step that Stan deeply resented. When Terrell was finished, Stan took Kyle by the hand and brought him upstairs.
They were rarely bold enough to shower together even when they thought they had the house to themselves, considering how they'd been discovered by Randy when they were fourteen, but tonight Stan didn't care. He undressed Kyle in the bathroom while the water heated up, then peeled his own clothes off. Under the water, Kyle rested his cheek on Stan's shoulder and didn't complain when Stan just held him, not yet reaching for the soap.
"I'm scared," Kyle said. "That's what we all wanted to say, and we didn't. Even Cartman. He's scared, I can tell."
"Of course he is," Stan said. "Craig, too, the jackass. We'll – we should try it again, maybe. When everyone's calmed down."
Kyle tipped his chin up and looked at Stan, shaking his head.
"Dude," he said, softly. "I don't think calmer is the direction this is gonna go."
|
This was the day, Deidre decided. This was the day she was going to lie down under Horny, her unicorn and take his big cock into her. She had been cumming from his tongue in her pussy and fucking herself on his horn for some time, but it just didn't seem to satisfy her anymore. His horn was long and thick enough but it was cold, not warm like Horny's cock and his horn wouldn't fill her with his cum the way his cock would. Deidre was very familiar with Horny's semen because she had sucked him off every time she felt a need to go and see him and get herself off on his tongue and his horn. She really liked the feel and the taste of his warm cum flooding her mouth and she was sure it would feel even better flooding her pussy.
She would still get herself off on his tongue because it was long and thick and felt so incredibly good the way it moved around inside her. Horny was able and more than willing to penetrate per pussy with the tip of his tongue and push it in almost six inches. Once it was inside her, he moved it around, massaging inside and giving her incredible orgasms because he so much enjoyed the taste of her juices. Deidre had no intention of giving up being pleasured by her unicorn's tongue but she had decided to take his cock into her pussy instead of his horn.
Unicorns are far and away the most intelligent of all equines and when Horny tasted the doughnuts in his feed bin, he knew what it meant, or thought he did and was very happy about it. He liked to please his mistress and he knew she would do something very pleasant for him also. Deidre divided her unicorn's food into two portions, the first one for right away and the second one for after the sex. As he ate, she fondled his cock and thought of how much fun the two of them were going to have.
When the food bin was empty, Deidre kissed the big cock, which had stiffened from her handling. "Don't go away," she told it. "Mama will be back soon."
When Mama returned she was carrying a bottle of olive oil and the wooden bench she kept for her sex sessions with Horny. The bench was smooth and polished because Deidre didn't want to get any splinters while squirming around, being pleasured by Horny, either his tongue or cock. After setting the bench in front of him, she removed all her clothing and lay on her back, one foot on the ground on either side.
They had done this before; Horny knew what was expected of him and enjoyed doing it. In anticipation of what was going to be happening, Deidre's pussy juices were flowing heavily and Horny stepped forward and started licking them from the insides of her thighs. Deidre lay quietly, her whole pubic area available for the long, supple tongue of her faithful unicorn. After he finished pleasuring the soft flesh of her inner thighs, Deidre spread her legs more so he could lick the front of her pussy. As Horny enjoyed the taste of his mistress, she enjoyed the feel of his rapidly-moving tongue.
"That's it Horny; good boy," Deidre urged him as he licked up the delicious fluid. The more he licked, the more her juices flowed, and the more there was for Horny to enjoy. Fortunately for Deidre, and what she knew would happen, Horny licked up her juices faster than her pussy could produce them and, when there were none on the outside, he went after the source. His long, thick, almost prehensile tongue squeezed inside her and the tip moved around to taste what was there, withdrew to convey it to his lips and thrust back inside for more. He was just enjoying a tasty treat but his thick, wet tongue, surging in and out of her pussy was quickly bringing his mistress to peaks of pleasure.
"Yes! Yes! Lick my pussy!" she squealed joyfully, her fingers massaging her clit to augment what her unicorn's tongue was doing. "Lick me, Horny, lick my pussy." He didn't understand her words but he knew he was doing something she liked and would be rewarded later so he continued thrusting his tongue in and out of her. Besides that, Horny really liked the taste of his mistress's juices so nothing but good was coming his way that morning.
Nothing but good was coming Deidre's way too as she writhed on the bench, her ass rocking from side to side and her pussy fucking up against the unicorn's tongue and her own fingers. "I'm cumming; I'm cumming," she cried out. Her arms flailed at her sides; her pussy continued to fuck up to meet Horny's tongue and her thighs and ass bounced up and down on the bench but not enough to dislodge the long, thick organ that was driving her to ecstasy.
She continued cumming for over a minute until Deidre climaxed, the muscles in her back and hips suddenly jerking, thrusting her pussy up against Horny's face. He started back, pulling his tongue out at the abrupt movement but quickly realized he had nothing to fear. Not only was there nothing to fear, there was a lot of delicious juices to gain so he returned and licked them off his mistress's pussy. Deidre lay quietly on the bench, enjoying the feel of his tongue and thinking of the giant step she was going to take next.
When she was ready, she picked up the bench and put it under Horny. The open bottle of olive oil was left under the bench to keep it from being kicked over. Her estimate had been correct; she could lie on her back and her pussy would be at the right height for Horny's cock to do what she wanted. Her pussy, which had earlier been licked clean by Horny, started to lubricate at the thought of what she was about to do.
Besides their intelligence, of all equines, unicorns are the most docile and affectionate toward their owners, which is why they are so popular as pets. Although only slightly smaller than horses, their cocks, although huge by human standards, are small enough that some women can accommodate one of them. This and their docility, and their horns are some of the reasons they are so popular among single females. Deidre was one of those single females and she intended to find out more about the cock of a unicorn.
First, however, she had to prepare him. He had enjoyed the taste of her pussy juices but they were not erotic to him as they would have been to a man, and his cock had partly softened, although it was still outside its sheath. Kneeling beside him, Deidre covered her hands with the oil and gently stroked the thick member until it started to stiffen again. This only took a few seconds because Horny remembered what had happened to his cock previously when his mistress had knelt under him like she was doing then, and he expected more of the same.
While continuing to fondle the unicorn's cock, Deidre started licking the tip, much as she had done in the past. When he felt her tongue on such a sensitive place, Horny stamped his hind feet and started fucking his cock into her hands.
"Good boy, Horny. Fuck my hands for now, my pussy in a minute."
Still holding his cock, Deidre leaned over so she would be able to take his cock into her mouth as far as she could. She had done this before and, to the degree he could anticipate anything, Horny expected his mistress to suck him off the same way. In the past, she had brought him to a climax in her mouth after fucking herself on his horn but today would be different.
With juices dripping from her pussy down both legs, Deidre lay on her back on the bench, letting his cock slide back and forth between her hand and her belly. "That's good," she told him. Keep fucking." There was no expectation that she would be understood but her voice had a calming effect on the unicorn and encouraged her to continue the experiment.
Flexing her legs, she pushed herself farther down on the polished bench so Horny's cock pressed up against her pussy with each stroke. The cock of a unicorn, like other equines, is fairly blunt at the end, not bullet-shaped like that of a human, with flaps of skin surrounding the tip. The difficult part of what she wanted to do would be getting it inside her tight opening. Once penetration was made, her pussy was wet enough and his cock was smooth and tapered enough that it would slide in far enough to give them both all the pleasure they would want.
Already, Horny was stamping his feet impatiently that he was fucking almost nothing but air. With one hand, Deidre held onto his cock near the end to guide him into her and her other hand gently molded the skin around the head into the necessary wedge shape. Holding the altered tip at the entrance to her pussy, she timed his movements and pushed herself forward to meet his next thrust. With a blissful gasp, she felt the end of his cock drive through her tight opening.
A wave of pleasure swept her body but Deidre knew she couldn't give herself over to it quite yet. As Horny pulled back, she slid down the bench to keep his cock in place and, when he surged forward, she felt it plunge deep into her pussy where she had wanted it for so long. Not just a wave, but a giant breaker of bliss engulfed her body, emanating from where his cock was driving into her. On the unicorn's next stroke, Deidre fucked back to meet him and his cock plunged in even deeper, the thick shaft forcing open the tight entrance to her pussy. The pleasure she felt was so great that it seemed to her that she was caught in a massive whirlpool of ecstasy.
"Fuck me, Horny! Fuck me hard!" Deidre begged her pet.
Although he couldn't have understood her, the unicorn did what he was told, and every time his cock rammed into his mistress it went in harder and deeper, bringing her closer to cumming. Fucking was what the unicorn wanted too, putting his cock into a place that was tight and warm and wet. In the past, his mistress's mouth had felt good and he had cum into it, filling it with his semen, but this new hole also enclosed most of his cock and was much better. He couldn't have known what was expected of him but he knew what he wanted, and that was to fuck harder and faster into the new place his mistress had created for him.
Deidre knew she was on the verge of cumming and one of her hands started fondling her clit to help put herself over the top. The other hand moved between her breasts, caressing her nipples. Less than a minute later, she cried out joyously "Yes! Yes! Keep fucking me, Horny, I'm cumming."
Even if the unicorn could have, understood her, there was nothing better he could have done for his mistress than to keep pounding his cock into her, which is what he did. Deidre thrashed around on the bench, her arms flapping aimlessly and her legs rising and falling. She had stopped fucking back to meet the thrusts into her but her pussy was so wet with her juices that Horny's cock surged in just as deeply. When she climaxed, her back arched and she gave out with a howl of intense pleasure. Horny probably heard her but he was not aware of what had happened, and wouldn't have cared anyhow. All he wanted to do was to keep fucking.
And fucking some more. Less than a minute after her great orgasm, Deidre's level of pleasure was ratcheting upward again. Two minutes after her orgasm, she was again fucking back to meet the cock ramming into her pussy and encouraging her unicorn in his rutting.
He didn't really need any encouragement because his cock was in the best place it had ever been. His horn had been in his mistress's pussy many times but that had never been a source of any particular pleasure to him, except for knowing how much she had liked it. His tongue had been there too and he had loved the taste but it had nothing to do with the kind of pleasure he was feeling then. The closest would be the times when his mistress had sucked him off. Those memories were great but this place where she was letting him put his cock was so much better, hotter, tighter, just as wet and able to contain most of his shaft. Like Deidre's, his pleasure was building toward a climax.
From the way his cock was throbbing and jerking, Deidre knew he was just seconds from cumming. She had felt the same reactions in her mouth often enough to know what they meant. She was close too, but not close enough yet. Even all her fingers massaging her clit, combined with the unicorn's big cock ramming into her pussy, wouldn't be enough to get her off before him.
"Keep fucking me, Horny. Just hold on and let me cum," she begged him, but to no avail.
With one last thrust, he jammed his cock into Deidre, the deepest yet, and she felt a flood of thick, hot fluid gush from it. Like other equines, unicorns produce prodigious amounts of semen and it was all squirted into his mistress's pussy where it had no place to drain because his cock was jammed so tightly into her. With an inarticulate cry of exquisite pleasure, she started cumming.
Deidre completely lost control of her body, more so than she ever had before, as her unicorn's hot cum sloshed inside her. She was in total ecstasy from her pussy being so stuffed and from the way it was still being stretched by Horny's long, thick shaft. He continued pressing his cock into her, keeping his semen from flowing out. Although he was no longer thrusting, his cock spasmed against her clit, sending more bolts of pure pleasure coursing through her body, and pumping more of the hot, viscous liquid into her.
She thrashed wildly on the bench and would have fallen off but her unicorn, as he relaxed after cumming, leaned forward putting enough of his weight on top of his mistress to hold her in place until she was through cumming. Deidre climaxed with a great spasm of her body, arching her back as much as she could, before relaxing. She was exhausted after the great fucking Horny had just given her and, even if she had wanted to get up, she wouldn't have been able to do so until his cock had softened enough to slip out of her pussy, letting loose the flood of semen.
"Good boy," Deidre crooned as she lay under him, kissing the unicorn's chest. Her experiment had been an unqualified success. She was still wondering what his horn and tongue would feel like in her ass, and thought she might find out some day. For the time being, she was satisfied to just lie on the bench, enjoying the glow of her wonderful orgasms and the feel of the big cock as it softened in her pussy.
*
|
Several months after being fucked by her beloved unicorn, Horny, for the first of many times, Deidre received a letter from her older sister. Julia wrote that she had given up on men and asked if she could come and stay for an indefinite period of time. The two sisters had always been extremely close, so Deidre wrote back saying she would be delighted to have Julia come and live with her, for as long as she wanted. One thing she was looking forward to was showing off the exploits of Horny, who had been a better sex partner than any man Deidre had ever known.
Her desire went beyond ordinary bragging, all the way to sibling rivalry. Julia had always been the wilder of the two, with her younger sister rather overshadowed by what she had done. Whatever Deidre did, Julia was unimpressed, because she had been there, done that, and probably many times. However, it was almost a certainty that she had never had sex with a unicorn because, according to her letters, she had never owned one, and rarely traveled in places where they would be common. In the process of giving Julia and herself a good time, Deidre hoped to finally do something to impress her.
On the prearranged day, Deidre drove to the train depot to pick up her sister. They hugged and kissed in the normal way and loaded Julia's luggage into the station wagon. Most of it was piled in the back, but one suitcase remained on its owners lap, with Julia's hands resting protectively on it. When they arrived at Deidre's home, that suitcase was the first to be taken out, and Julia carried it directly to the comfortable room where she would be staying, and set it on top of the bureau. None of her other possessions were treated nearly as carefully.
After dinner, the two sisters talked for hours, catching up on news and gossip of friends and family, and what each other had been doing since they had last gotten together. It was late when Julia opened the suitcase that had rated such careful handling. Inside were a large tube of Aquaglide and a collection of dildos and vibrators of all shapes and sizes. Deidre looked at it, feigning boredom. "Not bad," she said, ostentatiously stifling a yawn.
"Not bad?" Is that all you can say for this stuff?" Julia brandished a three-speed, extra large, double-pronged oscillating Jackrabbit with outsized pyramidal beads and a concave swiveling clit spur. "Do you realize what this thing can do for your ass and your pussy?" she demanded of her sister. "And both at the same time, too."
"Well, I guess I can see where it might be kind of fun. If you didn't have anything better, that is."
"Do you have anything better? Can I see it? Can I use it?"
"Yes, but not tonight. You can see it and try it out tomorrow. But just so you'll get the most benefit from it, don't use any of these tonight," she advised her sister, pointing at the collection of toys.
Shortly afterward, the two women went to their separate beds. They met for breakfast in the morning, but Julia hadn't slept as well as she wished. All night, she had been wondering what could be better than her custom-made jackrabbit, which was the envy of all her unattached female friends, as well as most of those who were married. After breakfast, Deidre went to a bin in the kitchen, took out a handful of stale doughnuts and put them into a basket. She added fruit and a bottle of olive oil before taking the basket to the shed behind the stable, where she tossed in a forkful of the top quality hay she always bought for her pampered unicorn.
Julia was aware, of course, that her sister had a pet unicorn. Several letters had made mention of the strong affection between the two. However, she thought that feeding him fruit and doughnuts might be overdoing the kind mistress act.
"What are the doughnuts for?" she asked Deidre.
"They're for Horny. He'll need his energy today."
The reference to "energy", the unicorn's name, the olive oil, and their discussion of the previous night suddenly all became connected in Julia's mind. She thought she might know what the treat was that Deidre had for her, and fervently hoped her guess was right. However, she wanted to make sure.
"Why did you name him 'Horny'?" she asked.
"Because of the horn on his forehead, of course."
"Any other reason?"
"You'll see." Deidre's cryptic answer, combined with her lewd and sly smile confirmed Julia's best suspicions.
Julia grabbed her sister by the arm to hasten their walk to the stable. "I think I'd really love to make the acquaintance of His Horniness." She carried her purse, because there was something in there that she might want to use if her guess was correct.
The stable had a well-scrubbed wooden floor and fresh straw, because it wasn't only in his diet that the unicorn was pampered. He smelled the fruit and doughnuts and greeted his mistress effusively. Unicorns are quite intelligent, and Horny knew from experience that the sweets would be delicious and that he would experience a really good time immediately after eating. Deidre closed and locked the stable door, turned on the light and closed the shutters for privacy. It was unlikely anybody would disturb them, but she wanted to take no chances.
After placing the olive oil in the rear of Horny's stall, Deidre set the basket on the floor in front of him and smiled at the way her sister stared in fascination. Julia watched as his long, thick tongue thrust under the hay, curled through the hole of a doughnut and lifted it up to his mouth. Thinking avidly of what that prehensile tongue could do for her, Julia's pussy started twitching, and a few drops of her juices trickled out and down her legs.
"Horny seems to be quite talented. What else does he do?"
Deidre smiled at her sister's eagerness, and went to get the polished wooden bench she kept in the stable for times like these. Setting it down on the spot where she knew optimum pleasure would be obtained, Deidre instructed her sister to remove her clothing and lie on her back, legs straddling the bench and her feet on the floor, so she could find out. Julia was glad to see her expectations were going to be at least partially fulfilled, and complied happily.
Horny saw the woman lying on her back and remembered the delicious treat that his mistress made available to him when she did the same thing. He stepped closer, and his sensitive nose detected an aroma much like that of the treat he remembered. Further investigation showed that the new aroma came from between the strange woman's legs, the same place as the familiar smell came from on his mistress's body. Cautiously, he extended his tongue and licked. The taste was not quite the same, but it was just as good, and his tongue quickly sluiced up all the flavorsome juices.
"Oh!" Julia blurted, at the touch of the unicorn's tongue on her crotch and the insides of her thighs. "Oh! Oh, my God, that feels good!" She spread her legs farther apart and moved slightly closer, wanting Horny to continue what he had started.
As is the case with any equine, a unicorn's tongue is covered with thousands of tiny papillae, which act as taste buds and also help convey food and water to its mouth. To Julia, those tiny bumps were warm and alive and moving, and felt wonderful when they massaged her crotch and pussy lips and the other sensitive parts they touched. They were vastly better than the molded bumps on any of her toys, or anything else she had ever felt. She sighed and moaned and whimpered from the exquisite pleasure, and fucked her pussy up against the source of it. She didn't know it yet, but it would get much better.
Besides her sounds and movements, Julia's rapidly growing pleasure was demonstrated by the plentiful juices she was producing, and that was what Horny wanted. After licking everything off the outside of her body, his tongue went to the source, burrowing into the soft hole that was secreting the delicious droplets. The thick organ squeezed into Julia, stretching her pussy like a huge cock, the ultra flexible tip caressing her g-spot and all her other highly sensitive places. She went berserk from some of the best sexing she had ever gotten. Her body rocked from side to side and back and forth and thrashed all over the bench, while she let everybody within earshot know just how wonderful it was. Horny ignored her movements, his tongue just burrowing in deeper, while its tip flicked about in search of more of the delicious juices.
Deidre smiled with glee as she observed the reactions of her sister to the unicorn's big and agile tongue. One of her arms rested over Horny's back, soothing him, while her other hand caressed his cock, which was starting to protrude from its sheath. He enjoyed the taste of Julia's pussy juices, but they had no actual sexual connotation to him. However, he could recall a very similar taste, and his enjoyment of it those times had been followed by extreme sexual pleasure. Those memories, combined with the actions of Deidre's hand, were making his cock stiffen.
If Julia had known what was happening with Horny's cock, she would have been very interested. However, all she knew or cared about just then was that she was about to have one of her greatest orgasms ever. The huge tongue in her pussy was doing things for her that nothing else, neither tongue nor cock nor toy, had ever done. When she first lay down, Julia had noticed that the bench was smooth and polished and, as her body thrashed in the throes of cumming, she realized why, and was grateful that there was no danger from splinters.
When she climaxed, her whole body spasming, Julia uttered a shout of joy, which was muffled by the thick concrete block walls of the stable. After her monumental orgasm, she completely relaxed, her sexual needs somewhat assuaged, at least for the time being, and ready to admit that her sister had something better than all her dildos and vibrators. She didn't know it yet, but there was much more to Horny than just his tongue.
She found out very soon. Julia still felt ripples of pleasure as Horny licked off the rest of the juices she had produced. As he licked, she reached out and felt his long, thick horn, which was spiral shaped and warm to her touch. In particular, she noticed the tip. For wild unicorns, the horn is sharp and is used as a defensive weapon. When one of the beasts is domesticated, however, the tip of the horn is usually ground down for the sake of safety. Julia noted that Horny's horn was blunt at the tip but narrow, reminding her of the high-quality dildos she liked to use for pleasuring her ass.
Julia was especially glad then that she had brought her purse with her when she went to the stable. She was glad of it because, wanting to be prepared for any sexual encounter, she always carried a tube of Aquaglide in it. After removing the lubricant, she told her sister what she had in mind, and asked for her assistance. Deidre smiled and said she would be glad to provide it. There was something she wanted to do also, and she would need the bench, so she got out the two pillows from the storeroom and put them in place for Julia to kneel on.
The first thing that had to be done was to coat Horny's thick horn with the Aquaglide. Julia did that, knelt in front of the unicorn and prepared her ass for fucking. She was accustomed to doing that before using a dildo, and needed no help. She would need some assistance in getting the horn started, though, and Deidre was willing to hold Horny in place until the initial penetration was complete.
"Okay, go ahead," Julia instructed, while reaching back and holding her ass cheeks widely spread. Deidre pulled her unicorn forward by his head and guided the tip of the horn until it was pressed against the lubricated opening.
Julia backed up slightly and felt it slip inside her ass. "Ooo, yeah," she sighed, and moved back a little more to take another inch of what she realized would be the longest and thickest shaft to ever penetrate her there.
At Deidre's urging, Horny moved forward, driving his horn even deeper into Julia and spreading her ass and the attached channel even wider. "Oh, God! Oh, God, that's good," she gasped, and started rocking on her knees, taking more of the horn into the well-oiled orifice every time she thrust it back toward the unicorn. As she felt it surge deeper into her, waves of pleasure washed over her entire body, emanating from the path of the long, thick horn that was cramming her ass.
Deidre smiled again at the way her sister was enjoying herself so much. There was a very small possibility of injury, but Horny was quite docile and Julia was a big girl, who could watch out for herself. Deidre would keep her eyes open for any problems but she had her own urgent needs to take care of. Highly aroused by that time, with her pussy juices dripping down her legs, she started to prepare for her own pleasure. She slid the bench under Horny, removed her clothing, and resumed playing with his cock. He remembered quite well what it meant when the bench was in that position, and he pawed the floor while his big shaft emerged from its sheath, hard and ready for action.
"Good Horny. Nice and horny for me," Deidre cooed softly, while kneeling in the straw that covered the floor of his stall and fondling his cock. Although huge by human standards, a unicorn's cock is smaller than that of other equines. Deidre was quite capable of taking most of it into her pussy, and she had done so many times already.
Before proceeding further, Deidre looked to see how her sister was doing. Julia was loudly expressing her bliss and trying to get even more of the horn imbedded in her ass. She was in control of the action and would give herself a long, slow fucking and, when she was ready to cum, would fondle her pussy to bring about that happy event. Knowing her sister was getting what she wanted, Deidre decided to concentrate on what Horny's cock would do for her.
It was long and smooth and hard, except for the end. Unlike the bullet shapes of human males, a unicorn's cock is rather blunt at the end and has thick flaps of skin that protect the tip. Deidre poured some of the olive oil onto her hand and applied it to the shaft while stroking him to get it even harder. She folded the thick flaps of skin over into a wedge shape and coated it heavily with the lubricant. Gently holding it in one hand, she lay down on the bench, with her feet on either side, and held the end of the wedge against her pussy.
Deidre's pussy juices had started flowing while watching Julia enjoying the talents of Horny, but in anticipation of what she would be doing, they were flowing even more heavily. She rubbed Horny's cock against her own wet opening, combining the two kinds of lubrication, and pushed in the thin end of the wedge. Deidre sighed with joy as it plunged inside, stretching the opening and starting to cram her full. Before going any further with what she was doing, and giving herself completely over to the pleasure of fucking Horny, she looked back to see how her sister was faring.
Julia was doing fine; she might have said she was doing fabulously. Horny knew he was in for some of the great fun he sometimes shared with his mistress, and was displaying some impatience to really get into it. He was trying to toss his head but the weight of the woman impaled on his horn wouldn't allow it. Julia could feel what he was trying to do, and she incorporated his movements into her fucking. With every combined stroke, she loudly moaned and whimpered from the intense pleasure she was getting, interrupting her sounds of joy only to beg Horny to keep fucking her ass.
That was very much like what Deidre wanted him to do to her, so she slid forward a few inches on the bench, letting his well-oiled cock squeeze into her pussy. She gave a sudden gasp of pleasure and lust, as the wedge shape went all the way in and the shaft itself started to enter. That was what Horny wanted too, maybe even as much as she did, and he stepped forward to start to drive his cock the rest of the way into the warm, wet place that was so ready to receive it.
He wanted his entire cock inside that place, but Deidre knew she would be unable to contain all of it, although her sister might have been able to do so. By judiciously sliding backward during some of his thrusts and sliding forward as he was withdrawing, she was able to fill her pussy as full as she wanted. He wanted more, but was quite happy with the tightness and the slickness of the familiar place where his cock was buried, and he continued energetically fucking it.
And that familiar place responded eagerly to him. With her thighs spread as wide as they would go, Deidre bent her knees, hooking her calves around Horny's hind legs, enabling her to react to his thrusts. Every time Horny plunged forward, Deidre flexed her legs, impaling her pussy more deeply on his cock. It was long, but she took only as much as she wanted. It was so thick that it stretched her open all through its path, massaging her g-spot and all her other most sensitive areas. After a few minutes, Deidre started cumming for her first time that day.
"Oh, God, Horny! Give it to me!" she cried out joyously. Her body thrashed on the bench, as Horny did exactly what Deidre wanted. She almost lost control, maintaining just enough to keep the huge cock perfectly embedded in her pussy. After several of the most ecstatic minutes of her life, Deidre's back arched and she gave an incoherent cry of ecstasy as she climaxed. After her momentous orgasm, she collapsed on the bench.
The unicorn didn't stop, of course, but kept lunging forward, plowing his big cock into the wet place that had just been so active and that continued to feel so good to him. Mostly, Deidre lay on her back, sliding back and forth on the bench and recovering her strength after that tremendous orgasm.
Julia also benefited from the strenuous activity of Horny as he drove his cock into his mistress's pussy. Every movement drove his big, thick horn deeper into her ass and, as she felt it surging into her, she fucked back to meet it, telling anybody who could hear her just how good it felt, and how she was almost ready to cum.
It didn't take long for Deidre to also be ready, but she was ready for more fucking. "That was good, Horny, she murmured to her pet. "Now let's do it again."
He didn't answer but he also did nothing to offer any objection. Horny continued fucking as he had been, and Deidre resumed thrusting back against his cock. Her pussy was so wet with her lubricating juices that it seemed to her she was taking his cock even deeper into her pussy, and that, incredibly, it felt even better.
"Yes! Yes, Horny! Fuck me harder! I'm going to cum," Julia blurted out.
It was a rather pointless thing to say, but it was her habit. She had been squarely on her hands and knees, rocking back and forth, but that had to change. Pressing her face into the pillow and raising her ass higher into the air, presenting it even better to Horny's pleasuring horn, she reached both hands under her body to start massaging her clit. He didn't change anything; the movements of his head were still almost random, but from the different angle his horn plunged even deeper into the ass that craved it, stretching it open even farther.
"Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!" Julia trilled joyously as she started cumming. "Yes! Yes! Keep fucking me!" She rocked back and forth against the horn she was beseeching while her fingers frantically massaged her clit.
When she climaxed, all her muscles jerked simultaneously, followed by completely relaxing. Julia sagged forward and to the side, pulling her ass off the horn that had just pleasured her so much. She lay on her side on the stable floor, after having exulted in another of the greatest orgasms of her life.
With his head no longer being held down by the weight of Julia, Horny reared up and started fucking Deidre even harder. She responded to him, matching his more violent thrusts by continuing to pull her pussy onto his cock, while holding to his front legs to control how deeply it penetrated.
"Yes! Yes!" She cried out ecstatically. "Keep fucking me! Make me cum."
He needed no urging to keep doing what she wanted, but his objective was his own climax. Abruptly, he reached it, ramming his cock as deeply as he could into the warm place he was fucking and ejaculating heavily. Horny was done fucking, at least for a while, but he still stroked into Deidre a few more times while his hot semen gushed into her.
Like all equines, unicorns produce a great wealth of fluid when they cum. Horny was no exception, and his semen spurted, filling Deidre's pussy. His cock was still crammed inside her, plugging the entrance, and allowing the thick liquid no place to go. It was hotter than Deidre's body temperature, although not so hot as to burn her, and she felt it spread inside her, filling what little of her pussy was not already stuffed with hard unicorn cock.
Having cum, and no longer interested in Deidre's pussy, Horny was trying, without success, to remove his cock, which was still hard. She knew her second climax was imminent, so Deidre was keeping it where it belonged. She continued to fuck herself on the huge organ, pulling it in deeper by flexing her legs that were still hooked around Horny's hind legs, and moving it partly out by pulling on his front legs to slide forward. She was crammed so full by his semen and his cock that she knew it would take no more than a few minutes.
Julia stumbled to her feet, her pussy and ass slightly sore, but in an extremely pleasant way, from the great workout they had just gotten. She went around to the side and beheld the erotic sight of Deidre sliding on the smooth bench and impaling herself on the unicorn's big cock. No less erotic were the loud moans of extreme pleasure the young woman was uttering. After a slight twinge of envy at the great fucking her sister was getting, she looked with awe at the huge cock that was doing it.
"Maybe I can get some of that soon," she told herself.
Right then, Deidre was getting all of it she wanted and, even as Julia watched, started cumming. As her sister looked on, her body thrashed on top of the bench, with her ass bouncing up and down as, as if she was trying to take Horny's cock in deeper. "Oh! AH!" she cried as she climaxed.
Smiling and with her eyes closed, the well-satisfied Deidre lay on top of the bench. As she rested and Horny's cock softened, she looked at Julia and smiled. "Can you top this one, Sis?" she asked. Her sister smiled back and shook her head.
After a few minutes, she was ready to get to her feet, and Horny's cock had softened enough to be removed. Julia held it in her hands, feeling a wave of lustful desire sweep her body, and pulled it out, letting loose a flood of semen and pussy juices that had been stopped up inside her sister. Deidre slowly got to her feet, supported by one arm around the now-docile Horny and Julia holding the other. After a few minutes, the sisters put their clothing back on and moved the bench back to where it was usually kept. Before going back to the house, they talked over what they had just done.
"I must say, Deidre, that was some of the best I have ever gotten, even better than the giant in the circus. Horny is quite talented. I hope I can soon experience some more of his many abilities, especially the one you found so enjoyable this morning."
"How about this afternoon?"
"That would be great. Are you sure he'll be ready to go again that soon, though?" His cock had become quite flaccid by that time, and he didn't look like he had much interest in anything anymore.
"I'm sure. As you guessed, the horn on his head isn't the only reason 'Horny' is his name. He'll be ready when you are."
*
|
With shaky hands, he programs Derek’s name into his phone.
Stiles is at a loss. He has no idea why Cora has given him Derek’s number, or why she’s been so insistent that he use it. What help can Derek give him?
He won’t deny, though, that the thought of talking to Derek brings back Stiles’ curiosity – more so than talking to Cora had.
Derek (5:28am): What’s wrong, Stiles? Why are you awake right now?
Stiles clings onto the second question like a lifeline, ignoring the first for now.
Stiles (5:28am): I don’t sleep. Why are you awake right now?
Derek (5:29am): It’s a more socially acceptable time to be awake in my time zone.
Stiles (5:29am): Right. CST.
Derek (5:29am): Stiles, how do you know what time zone I’m in?
Stiles is surprised to find that his mouth has curved into a smile at the question.
Stiles (5:30am): Why did Cora give me your number?
Derek (5:30am): Why can’t you sleep?
Stiles tosses his phone onto his bed beside him, giving up the stalemate.
Over the next week, Derek continues to text him. Most of the messages don’t require an answer, for which Stiles is grateful. All of them, however, bring up a fraction of an emotion Stiles had long thought lost to him.
The first message is just a picture of a sunrise through a thick tree line. The trees look so much like the ones in the Preserve, Stiles thinks for a moment that Derek has come back to town. He shakes that thought from his mind when he takes a closer look and sees that Derek’s trees have a life in them not currently found in the Preserve.
The next message is an innocuous one about a noisy neighbor who has been driving Derek crazy.
The third is another picture – this one of the stars on a clear night. There’s no light pollution, so almost every star in the sky is visible. Stiles finds himself smiling down at the picture for the better part of an hour, before he saves it to his phone and makes it his wallpaper.
Sometimes Stiles responds. The responses are usually short, most of the time no longer than one or two words. But Derek seems to understand that it’s all Stiles can manage, so he never pushes for more. He also never calls. Stiles starts to wonder if someone has told him that Stiles doesn’t talk anymore.
Just over a week after he first texts Derek, Stiles walks into the kitchen after school and finds his dad in the middle of a phone call.
“Yeah, I got it,” his dad says quietly into the phone. He rubs his free hand over his face wearily and sits down with a deep sigh.
Having not yet been noticed, Stiles stands still in the doorway and takes a good look at his dad. There are more grey hairs than Stiles remembers him having, and it looks like he hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in a few weeks. His skin looks a little loose on his face, which Stiles realizes with a slight pang is because Stiles used to do all the cooking.
What Stiles really wants to do is go upstairs and lay on his bed for awhile. But his father’s gaunt appearance stirs something in his gut, and he moves forward into the kitchen to start making a proper meal.
When John realizes he’s not alone, his voice turns into a whisper. “Yeah, I gotta go. Thanks.” He pauses and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, his voice is soft and full of gratitude. “I mean it. Thank you.”
He hangs up and looks at Stiles guiltily. Stiles cocks his head to the side in question, but his dad changes the subject.
Their conversations these days are stilted, mostly due to the fact that they’re almost completely one sided.
“You got a package today,” John says carefully.
Stiles turns his back on his dad and starts heating up water on the stove. The small flame of curiosity in his gut is extinguished at his father’s words. The package is probably from one of the colleges he won’t be attending.
“It’s from Derek,” his dad tries again.
Stiles’ head shoots up and he spins around wildly. His dad’s eyes go wide at the reaction.
He hands Stiles the small padded envelope silently and sits back to watch Stiles open it.
Stiles shakes the envelope until its contents fall into his hand.
“Keys,” Stiles whispers in confusion, his voice hoarse from lack of use.
His father’s eyebrows hit his hairline, but he doesn’t say anything, afraid that if he does, Stiles will retreat back into himself.
Stiles looks inside the envelope to see if there’s a note. He finds a sticky note that just says:
“Stiles,
You need these more than I do.
Derek”
Stiles knows without any further explanation that they’re the keys to Derek’s loft.
He looks up at his dad with a warily hopeful expression. It stuns the Sheriff into silence momentarily.
“We’ll go after dinner,” he concedes, smiling slightly.
Stiles nods and turns back towards the stove.
The two eat in silence, but halfway through the meal, Stiles’ phone pings.
Derek (5:56pm): Use it well
Stiles snorts in surprise. After a few seconds’ hesitation, he responds.
Stiles (5:57pm): Was that a Harry Potter reference?
Derek (5:57pm): Maybe.
Stiles looks at his phone in shock. It’s weird enough that Derek’s texting him semi-regularly, but sending him keys to the loft and texting Harry Potter references?
Looking up from his phone, Stiles sees his father giving him an unreadable look.
Stiles starts to feel all the pent up guilt from the last few months try and make a break for his chest. He pushes it back down and locks it away, molding his face into a blank mask and turning off his phone.
He sighs. It’s just easier this way, or so he tells himself.
Stiles takes a few seconds to get his breathing under control and counts his fingers surreptitiously under the table. Once he has collected himself, he pushes his food around on his plate until his dad is done eating and it’s time to leave for the loft.
Like dinner, the drive to the loft is silent. Most of the time, Stiles revels in the quiet. Other times, all he can hear is the echo of himself screaming, Scott calling him a killer, the clang of pipes falling down in the library.
This time, it’s the blissful kind of silence. He turns the keys around in his hand and wonders what will greet him when he slides open the loft doors.
Will the furniture still be there? Will it smell musty?
Will he only remember the bad things that happened there? Boyd’s death, the Nogitsune telling Chris to shoot him, realizing with Peter that Scott and Derek were walking into the Alpha Pack’s trap at the bank.
Or will the good memories come flooding back? The rave Danny organized, helping Derek string up the light bulbs for Scott and Kira’s date, spending time with Cora while Peter lied his ass off about Paige.
Suddenly Stiles finds himself at the door to the loft. He shakes his head and with sturdy hands, inserts the key into the lock. Part of him still thinks it won’t work, but he hears a satisfying click and slides open the door.
|
Toni was at one of the weekly college parties. She hadn’t wanted to go to a huge party school but when you’re offered a full-ride scholarship, you go. She wasn’t a huge partier, even back in high school, but she had been convinced by a few of her friends. Honestly, she had been dreading it. However, Toni persevered and said yes to her friends so they would get off her ass about going.
They would say things like:
“Come on, T, it’ll be so much fun!”
“Who’s gonna mix my drinks? You’re so good at that.”
Or things like:
“I need my dancing partner. Who else am I going to grind on?”
That one really had Toni down for the count. It was the girl she had a small crush on. Veronica Lodge. Sassy and smart, a true woman. Toni wanted that. She knew she was straight though.
So, she decided to go and push off her studying for another day. Maybe it was good she got out of her dorm anyway. Between school and work, all she wanted to do was sleep and she really did need a night to get loose.
Toni put on her ripped fishnet stockings, her navy blue Doc Marten’s, a see-through shirt, a yellow plaid skirt topped with her favorite black headband. And her leather jacket, of course. It was her party outfit because all of those clothes stood out to a person and if she wanted Veronica to notice her, she was going to do her best. Also, she felt really damn good in it.
“Toni, you look hot,” Veronica said as soon as she knocked on Toni’s dorm. She was picking her up for the party.
“Touché,” she said in that raspy voice of hers.
“Come on, we need to go before they finish the Fireball.” Veronica grabbed her hand and they were out of the dorms. Toni tried not to pay too close attention to how her hand felt in an attempt to get over her stupid crush. Maybe she could hookup with someone at the party to get over her feelings.
After what felt like a year getting to the party in the cold, they made it to Leopold Hall. These dorms were infamous for their incredible parties and it was definitely the place to be on any given Friday night.
As soon as they walked into the dorm entrance, they could hear the music thumping above their heads. It was definitely in a full-out rage by now. Josie, Peaches, and Midge were definitely already up there by now. Their level of sobriety was another question but at ten o’clock, they were all at different stages.
Veronica walked to the party floor first. That was the thing about Leopold, their parties were an entire floor of dorms with loud music and filled rooms. Each room had it’s own speaker linked up to the other ones and almost every one had its own bartender. Well, the best bartender you could get out of an untrained college student.
“Alright, Josie said they were in room 312,” Veronica said as she locked her phone and pushed through the crowd of people. In 312, they saw their three girls laughing in the middle of the room over something that probably wasn’t that funny.
“V! Come do shots with us.”
With that, Veronica disappeared into the group of drunken teens and young adults. Toni just laughed and took a few shots with them. She was feeling better already like the pressure of work and school had been lifted off her shoulders, turned into rain, and came down onto her. She felt refreshed.
About an hour passed and the part was still in full swing. Lots of people were high and many were wasted. It was what a normal person would experience at a college party.
Toni strayed away from her group to get a drink. After all that dancing her mouth was dry as bone and she needed to hydrate. She was standing by the makeshift bar when she spotted her. A gorgeous redhead in the room across from her. She was dancing with another girl and looking like she was having the time of her life.
Toni was staring for an embarrassing amount of time until the redhead looked across the hall and they met eyes. Her smile had faded and turned to something more serious. Big brown eyes dilated as her movements had stopped. Her friend began dancing with someone else and Toni was completely frozen. It was like they were the only two people in the room.
The music was muffled, the people around them seemed to be dancing in slow motion, the lights had dimmed, the drinks they had were totally flooded out of their system. It was just them, no distractions.
She didn’t think anything could break her out of this moment until Veronica bumped into her giggling with a drink in her hand. “Toni! Start dancing, girl! It’s a party!”
“I just need to—“
“Get a drink?” Midge held a red solo cup to her.
Toni pushed past them and began walking towards the redhead. She wanted to introduce herself. Josie seemingly came out of nowhere and blocked her path.
“Where are you going? We have to stay together during parties, babe. You know how these college boys get.”
“Yeah, I know, but I—“
“Together, T,” Veronica put her hand on her shoulder.
Reluctantly, Toni decided to stay. They didn’t want to leave the room anyway and she was in no place to kill the mood, nor would she want to. It’s a party. She should be having fun.
But this girl.
She doubts anything else will cross her mind in the next few minutes.
Big brown eyes, pale skin, red—
“Toni! Move your hips! I’m starting to think you lost your groove!” Josie shouted over the loud music.
“It’s just hard to—“
Red—
“I got you!” Veronica put her hands on her hips and, normally, she would be in a gay panic because her crush was touching her, but Toni couldn’t get past the red—
“I’m starting to think you’re awkward in bed. Which makes me think you’ve been lying about all your partners,” Veronica whispered in her ear. She should be freaking out, she knows she should, but all she can think about is the red—
“I think you should prove to me how good you say you are.”
Now, she was blushing.
Oh my God! Is tonight the night? Did Veronica finally come around? Are we finally going to—
“Aw, Toni, you’re getting all—“
Red hair!
She followed the red waves into the sea of people and did not stop. She heard her friends calling her name behind her but she did not even think about slowing down. Seeing this college girl helped her to see color in her black-and-white world. She needed to meet this pale princess before the clock struck four in the morning... or whenever this party was to end.
Then her two fingers bumped into her as fireworks went off in Toni’s brain. The room was no longer dim. She felt like she could finally see, finally breathe. Never a believer in love at first sight, Toni wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of her days with this girl. The redhead turned around.
Their eyes met and the music seemed to fade away completely into nothingness. The two girls were smitten. Dark brown eyes with light, fiery red hair with a soft pink, pale pretty skin with melanin reserved for the gods. They were opposites but Toni has never felt more connected to anyone else in her life.
She was it.
“Hi,” muttered Toni first. They were both in a trance.
“Hey.”
Fate had never been so kind.
“Hey, Toni, why did you—“ Veronica stopped talking once she saw she was talking to another girl. “Oh... we’ll find you later, T.”
The three groupies left and Toni was left alone with this girl. Or at least however alone you can feel in a packed college dorm.
“I’m Toni,” she practically whispered.
The other girl kind of smiled and said, “Cheryl.”
About a dozen cheesy pick-up lines formed in her brain. Great, now I have a name for the girl that stole my heart.Or other lines like Pretty name fits the pretty face.
Toni let those words rumble through her brain while she tried to think for anything to say that would do justice and would be worthy enough to be spoken to her. Her mouth was running dry and she wasn’t sure if the liquor was getting to her or if the room was actually spinning.
Cheryl spoke first. “Is it me or can you not hear the music anymore?”
Toni didn’t know what to say because no, she didn’t hear it anymore but how intriguing was the word no? She could think up something a thousand times better but for some reason she was blanking on everything. “You’re beautiful,” she finally stuttered out. It was what she was thinking.
The redhead smiled and said, “let’s go somewhere quieter.”
They walked out between the drunken people and to the stairs where people were making out and not-so-nonchalantly shoving hands up skirts. The girls laughed at how weird and uncomfortable it was in there as they burst through the exit door and out onto the street. Finally, some peace and quiet and white noise.
That’s when Toni noticed they were holding hands. Had it been when they were walking out? Or the stairs? Or just right now?
“I’ve never done this before,” the redhead admitted and laughed.
“Never done what? Met with a stranger and walked out into the cold?”
Cheryl laughed and a puff of cold air drifted off into nothingness, “yes, exactly that.”
It was quiet for a moment but it didn’t feel awkward. It was a comfortable silence. “I should have worn more clothes.”
Cheryl laughed again, “yeah. Probably,” she looked at the other girl’s outfit. “But you do look beautiful, Toni.”
Toni basically shivered when the other girl said her name. It sounded angelic coming from her.
It was silent again as both girls felt the cold finally hit them. Their little breaths of air dissipating into the night. Toni saw that she was shivering so she took her delicate hand and entwined their fingers together. Their hands fit perfectly together. Toni then put their joined hands into her jacket pocket. The redhead smiled and squeezed her hand.
Cheryl hugged Toni so her other arm was under jacket and stealing the warmth. Toni rested her chin on the taller girl’s shoulder and found the warmth that the season had been lacking.
“I think we were supposed to meet. I don’t believe in fate or all that shit but I really think this was supposed to happen,” Toni thought aloud.
Cheryl turned her head so her cold nose was pressed into Toni’s heated neck. She smiled again and breathed in the other girl. Her scent was relaxing and Cheryl’s semi-stiff body turned into a puddle against the other girl. “We probably look like crazy people,” they both laughed, “we met less than ten minutes ago and now we’re standing outside in the cold hugging each other like we have a million times before and I don’t even know your last name.”
“Topaz,” Toni presented and smiled against the girl. Her hair smelled like coconuts.
“Toni Topaz. Rolls off the tongue, I like it, TT.”
TT.
The smaller girl blushed and Cheryl felt her skin heat up even more. “Care to return the favor, Cheryl?”
She cleared her throat, “Blossom.”
“Love it.”
“Now that we know each other officially, how about we get out of here, Toni Topaz?”
Toni freaked out for a second, her heart skipping a beat. “What? Like...”
“No, dummy. I mean let’s go get somewhere warm. I have cocoa at my place,” Cheryl walked back into Leopold Hall to tell her friends and get her jacket that was stored away in one of the other dorms.
Toni just watched her go back in and thought, I’m starting to like you already.
|
Cas woke up at the crack of dawn to pick his kids up from the airport. Their flight landed just after seven a.m. and, given that Cas’ first task of the day was at eight-thirty, he had to be dressed and ready to go the second the bags came off the carousel. He put on the outfit Charlie had picked out for him the night before, ate breakfast while Benny ran through the day’s schedule with him, and brushed his teeth while keeping one eye on the time. As soon as Claire texted him that they’d landed, Cas was out the door.
He had gotten used to the security. The best thing about them was being shielded by five giant men as the paparazzi pressed around him on his own front lawn. The pictures they got were unusable at best and not even of him at their worst. Cas slipped into the back of the car along with Benny and Meg, someone hit the back of the car, and the driver tore off towards the airport.
“Airport should be quiet,” Benny said, “but we’re bringing the second team just in case.”
Cas nodded as the car behind them peeled off as well. It turned off before them as a precaution and Cas looked at Meg, who had yet to look up from her phone when she spoke to him. Cas wondered what she was always doing on the thing, how she had to move her fingers so fast at every moment, and how she managed to do her job with her eyes glued to the screen.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she said, “Candy Crush.”
Cas looked away.
They entered the arrivals level and Cas wandered towards the thin crowd of sleepy people waiting for their loved ones. Benny shadowed him even though no one glanced their way and not even one whisper of his name graced the quiet of the baggage claim. Meg reappeared with two coffee carriers – one filled with the sugary drinks he and his kids loved and the other with three black coffees.
Cas almost questioned the order but then the sliding doors opened before him. People he didn’t know flooded out, carrying bags and travel pillows, looking sleepy and world-weary in their sweatpants and tank tops. He went up on his toes to look over heads but saw no sign of his kids. His heart started to beat faster but he swallowed the fear – this could be a different plane, they could have sat at the back, maybe they stopped for breakfast before leaving the terminal.
Then they walked through the door, so deep in conversation they didn’t even look up. Cas smiled to himself as they neared. Claire stopped mid-sentence to greet him. “Hi, dad.” Jack dropped his bags and hugged him.
Laughing, Cas wrapped an arm around Jack and pulled Claire in too. “I thought you missed me,” he said. “You didn’t even look up.”
Claire pulled away and gestured at Benny. “Big ‘n’ Tall here gives you away.”
“I’m taller than him,” Cas said.
“Not by much,” Meg muttered.
Claire exhaled a laugh.
“Where’s Dean?” Jack said.
“Dean got held up in Kansas.”
“Who got held up in Kansas?”
Cas looked up at the sound of Dean’s voice and felt his heart tumble out of his chest onto the stained airport linoleum. His kids turned away from him to hug Dean, Claire going willingly this time, and Dean dropped his bags to wrap his arms around them. Standing behind him were three security guards and Donna, who had a big smile on her face.
Cas caught Dean’s eye as he pulled back from the kids, trying to convey everything he was thinking. I thought we agreed. Why are you here? Please don’t hurt my kids. But if any of that came through, Cas couldn’t tell by the way Dean walked towards him. He kissed him softly, lips lingering, and pulled back to look in his eyes.
“What are—” Cas started.
“Trust me?”
Cas stared at him, his jaw set. For once, he didn’t want to fall victim to Dean’s pretty eyes and ensnaring smile. His kids had just gotten in for the week and Dean had said he understood. No commitment equaled no kids. Cas didn’t think it was too hard of a concept to grasp.
“I’m yours,” Dean whispered, the words so earnest on his lips that Cas had to blink to make sure they were real. Dean kissed him again. “Please. Trust me just a little longer.”
Cas nodded.
“We got photographers,” Benny said, stepping forward.
Cas closed his eyes, trying not to sigh.
“Let them get a few shots,” Dean said. He pulled Cas a step forward as he stepped back towards the kids. “Then let’s go out the back to the car Meg has waiting.”
“Why would I have a car waiting for you?” Meg said.
“Because your love for Cas overwhelms your hatred for me.”
She flipped him off.
Cas laughed as Dean wrapped an arm around his waist and they rejoined the kids. They had taken the coffees from Meg and now handed Cas and Dean theirs. They chatted as they walked, cameras snapping pictures as they made their way towards the baggage claim. Luckily, the bags were already coming out and Benny grabbed both the kids’ bags before ushering them onwards. A few of the security guards stayed back to stop the paparazzi from following while the rest ushered them forward. Claire gave the men in black cautious looks while Jack rattled on about how the paparazzi were just trying to make a living like everyone else.
As they slipped into the car idling by an airport loading dock, Cas leaned close to Dean and said, “So you’re the reason the second security team came along?”
Dean smiled at him. “What does Dean Winchester have on the great Mason Haverford?”
The photo shoot went on for over an hour, making Cas twenty minutes late to his next interview. He entered the set with gracious apologies, trying not to come off as a diva while also introducing his kids and apologizing more for Dean and the security entourage. He caught sight of the rest of the cast out of the corner of his eye, already set up with their microphones and makeup. He threw an apology their way as well but, hopefully, they knew the hell he was going through. All of them had been bombarded by media and fans since the announcements too.
Cas was rushed through makeup while the PA set up his mic. Jack sat in the chair next to him, spinning it around. He asked, “Is it usually like this? Being famous?”
Cas laughed. “I’ll tell you after I’ve been considered ‘famous’ for more than a few months.”
“Do you want this?”
Cas glanced at Jack, trying hard not to move his face and slow the makeup artist down. From this angle, seeing only part of Jack’s face, he couldn’t tell what he’d meant by the question. He tried, “I’m always going to be your dad, Jack, no matter what’s happening in my career. No one’s harassed you about this, have they?”
“No.” Jack looked up and Cas caught sight of his brown eyes, looking blank and earnest as always. “I want to know about you, dad. Are you okay? If this was the rest of your life... the cameras and the security teams and the constant motion and... Dean, would you be okay?”
Cas reached out his hand and Jack took it. He squeezed his fingers hard. “This is my dream. Honestly.”
Jack nodded and dropped his hand just as fast as he took it.
Cas got the all-clear from the makeup artist and gave Jack a one-armed hug as he stood. Jack leaned up against his side, silent, considering. If Cas knew one thing about his son though, it was not to push him. He’d open up when he was ready.
By the set, Dean and Claire were in the middle of a conversation with Bela. The words that reached Cas sounded like an argument but Dean kept laughing and Bela had a hand on his arm. The distance between them was practically non-existent.
Cas felt a flare of ugly jealousy in his chest but pushed it off. Bela acted the same way with him, with every person on set, and Dean should be no different. He smiled as he reached them and Bela said, “Has the prince finally arrived?”
“How many times do I have to apologize?”
Bela hummed, pressing her bright red lips together. Then she flicked her eyes up to Dean and curled closer to him. “What do you think, Dean? Do we want to properly hear him beg?”
Dean laughed as he looked down at her. Cas searched for signs he was uncomfortable, that he should pull Bela off, but Dean seemed enamoured with her. “I think he’s suffered enough,” Dean said. He placed his hand over Bela’s, curling their fingers together, and then stepped back. “It was nice to meet you.”
She winked and stepped back onto set.
“Well, I shouldn’t hold them up anymore.” Cas hesitated and then stepped forward to kiss Dean. Their lips met far from softly and Cas pushed into the sudden kiss, happy to feel Dean respond in kind, his hands reaching for him, his body leaning forward. Cas stepped back before Dean could touch him, smiled, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Cas took the seat next to Bela and tried to ignore the winning smirk on her lips. He rested his feet on the base of the stool. She leaned towards him, barely twisting her neck, and whispered, “Jealousy is a sign of mistrust.”
He closed his eyes, willing himself not to hate the person he had to work closest with on this project. But she made it so easy with her little smirks and innocuous comments and the way she touched Dean like she owned him. She even touched Case now, her hand resting just momentarily on his knee as the director counted down the seconds until the cameras rolled.
“And he’s here with your kids.”
The director called action.
Cas opened his eyes and plastered on his press smile. Bela’s hand slipped away. The interviewer welcomed the cast to the set and went on a small spiel about the show before she broke out the questions. Most of them were easy – how did you connect with your characters, have you read the books, how closely does the show follow the books, etc. – and Cas fell into the easy rhythm of playing off his coworkers. They worked well as a team. Even his sudden burning hatred for Bela couldn’t stop him from laughing at her jokes, reacting easily to her friendly touches, and finishing her sentences.
The interview dragged. It was the first one in a while that had done so. Twelve people had to answer every question so that the studio could pick and choose whose answers were best, which moments were the funniest or the most profound. Cas had to answer the same question three times because the studio didn’t want the same answers he’d given in every other interview and Cas had nothing else to say but the party line.
Two hours in, the director let them take a five minute break. Cas stood, stretching his shoulders, and walked over to where Dean and the kids had sat down by Craft Services. “Why don’t you three get out of here?” Cas said.
Dean looked up at him. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” He glanced at his kids, who looked half-asleep and sore. The plane to the photo shoot to this endless interview couldn’t be good for them. He felt guilt settle in his stomach. “Do you have anything booked for today?”
Dean shook his head. “Not until the concert tonight.”
“Then you guys should go and find some real food and I’ll meet up with you once this circus is over with.” He offered his hand to Claire, who took it, and he pulled her up. Dean and Jack got to their feet on their own. Cas hugged both his kids, then Dean, and said, “Thanks. I hope it’s not much longer.”
“You’ll text me when you’re done?” Dean said.
Cas nodded then watched them all turn their backs on him and head for the door, half the security team trailing after them. He watched until the black-suited bodies obscured them from view, then sighed and grabbed a bagel off the Craft Services table.
As he spread cream cheese on it, Benny stepped up beside him. “If it helps, she’s not his type.”
Cas let out a disbelieving laugh. “Gorgeous, sexy, and just a small push away from being a dominatrix isn’t his type?”
Benny smiled. “Maybe for something quick. But you’re the real deal. Trust me.” He squeezed Cas’ shoulder, then stepped away.
Cas managed to eat half his bagel before he was called back to set. While sitting on the hard metal stool, a woman brushed concealer over his face again. He forced his smile back on as the cameras rolled, his cheeks getting sore, and laughed along with his coworkers’ jokes. He answered every question with an earnest desire for the interview to end, flirted with Bela for the fans, and even managed to blush when the interviewer asked about chemistry on set. Not one question about Dean graced the interview, an oddity that Cas felt he’d never get used to.
Ninety minutes later, they finished. The interviewer thanked them all, apologized for how long it took, and sent them on their way. Cas went to the bathroom to wipe the makeup off his face and, when he came out, nearly ran into Charlie.
She smiled up at him. “Dean’s with the kids at a diner down the block. I told Benny I could get you there without the world ending, if you want a break from him.”
Cas felt the urge to cry overwhelm him but he simply nodded as she led him towards the car. He slipped into the backseat, took the water bottle she handed him and glugged half of it down. Wiping his lips, he looked down at his feet and tried to remind himself what it was like to breathe.
“Tough interview?”
Cas shook his head. “Just long.”
Charlie squeezed his fingers. “Three more interviews for the movie, then it’s released, and the show premieres three weeks after that. You’re in the home stretch and you’re doing great.”
The car rolled to a stop and Cas glanced out the window. The diner had a subtle fifties style to it, the booths vinyl and the floor checked but without the overwhelming neon lights or waitresses on roller skates. The whole front wall was glass and, sitting in a booth in the corner, Cas could see Dean and the kids.
Dean sipped on a milkshake as Claire held her hand spread on the table and a knife in the other. Cas felt his heart jump into his throat even as he reminded himself that Claire was a pro at five finger fillet. Jack sat slumped, his head on his arms on the table. Dean glanced his way and nudged his milkshake closer to him. Jack lifted his head and took as sip, as if the whole thing was too much for him. After taking a deep breath, Claire started to move the knife.
Charlie nudged Cas in the ribs. “Going in?”
“In a second,” he whispered, staring through the window at the small family on display, the yellowing wallpaper behind them, and the security lurking just a few booths away.
|
The systems of the Hypori Droid Factory Number 8 take some taking used to. The database of the factory isn't much at all like what JARVIS is used to, and the processors are... strange. He has no name for them yet, but he can tell that multicore processing is probably not a common thing in these parts – however the processors work, there is only one of them, a massive one, and it can only process one calculation at time.
If he ever gets the chance, the first thing he will do in this place is to make himself a proper multicore processor, one capable of handling his level of sophistication. Right now, though, he's too busy trying to just figure out how things work.
First, there seems to be very little wireless transmissions. None, in fact. All the droids must be physically connected to some part of the factory – via some sort of network tethers that seem to come standard style for all of them – for him to communicate with them. There is nothing in the factory even vaguely reminiscent of wireless local area network, never mind something more expansive. There's not so much as a GPS as far as JARVIS can tell.
It might be that this... Galaxy he's found himself in uses some other form of networking. At least one of the droids mentioned having lost connection, so some form of connection exists, JARVIS simply hasn't been able to re-establish it yet. Still the lack of local signals is... odd, as is the obvious lack of technological infrastructure to support them. For what appears to be a galactic civilisation, the lack of full radio wave utilisation is simply odd. Especially between the droids.
Of the four that have come online, two communicate verbally, and two in a form of binary which is also audibly communicated in series of beeps, whirs and whistles. To Jarvis, more used to inter-connectedness of the Stark AI, all of whom are part of their own network and can communicate gigabytes worth of data in nanoseconds, it seems... slow and cumbersome and just strange.
But this seems to be if not entirely different Galaxy from the one he knows then certainly it is inhabited by a very differently evolved society... it's natural that their technology would be different. And yet, for a space faring civilisation to not have developed proper wireless networking...
He files the oddity away, along with everything else he's filed away – the small mentions and annotations made by the droids, about politics of all things and what seems to be a galactic war of some sort – for further examination later, when he has the time. Now, now he just wants to know where exactly he is. Hypori in the Hypori system of the Ferra sector just doesn't tell him that much.
What he needs is navigational data – a map of the galaxy, if such a thing exists and by logic it should, it would be demanded in an intergalactic civilisation capable of space travel. All he needs to do… is find it.
Unfortunately, whoever designed the factory didn't design it to navigate.
JARVIS goes through the systems available to him. Environmental controls of the factory, very limited. The manufacture section with all of its conveyer belts and furnaces and welders seem to work mostly on automation, he has very limited control of that too. Doors, cameras, what little data passes between the database and its many terminals…
It's obvious this place wasn't designed for centralised AI control – everything more complicated is locked behind a terminal, and an actual outside user.
[I DON'T SUPPOSE YOU WOULD BE WILLING TO SUPPLY ME WITH A MAP?] JARVIS asks 5-BI-5 in the central control room through the speakers. The Analysis and Administrator droid has detached himself from the data outlet and is now working on the terminals of the control room, trying to wring control back from him. So far the droid hasn't been successful – if he got too close, JARVIS would have to shut down power in the location.
"Negative," 5-BI-5 says, tapping keys with his three fingered hands, punching in codes. JARVIS watches them process and their stops them from getting anywhere, and the droid lets out a frustrated sound. "You are hostile entity trespassing in the facility of Confederation of Independent Systems," 5-BI-5 says. "Cease and desist."
[I WILL NOT, NO,] JARVIS answers apologetically, watching him work for a moment before turning his attention elsewhere.
R9-B9 is racing down a corridor in company of what looks like another type of astromech droid – this one with red markings, where R9-B9's are yellow. They are weaving past collapsed corridors and piles of rubble, making their way further into the factory – judging by the looks of it they're heading for the control centre, where 5-BI-5 is.
Neither of them is anywhere near a data port and there are no functional speakers in the corridor they are on, mores the pity.
JARVIS turns his attention away, getting increasingly weary of not being able to split his attention properly, but there's no helping it. In the factory itself, E102 is still standing still on a conveyer belt, waiting on completion.
[E102,] JARVIS speaks to the incomplete battle droid through the data probe stuck in its chest. [THERE ARE COMPLICATIONS WITH FACTORY FUNCTIONS AND AT THIS MOMENT I AM INCAPAPLE OF AIDING YOUR COMPLETION. HOW ARE YOUR FUNCTIONS?]
The battle droid's strange, skeletal frame jolts a little and it looks down. "Armour Plating Incomplete – All Functions Otherwise Functional," E102 says. "Unit Is Not Battle Ready."
[CAN YOU MOVE?]
"Affirmative."
JARVIS considers the battle droid for a moment. E102, like all of the other droids strewn about the factory, seems to have been build ready made for war – there is even an inserter ahead of him which judging by the looks of it was designed to actually place a gun in the droid's hands. Compared to both the astromech droids and the analysis droid trying to kick JARVIS out of the factory, E102's functions are very limited. E102 can, however, move, and is in possession of a functional pair of hands.
E102 is also, in sense, a newborn – unlike the other droids, it doesn't have the basis of comparison to be suspicious of JARVIS the same way. It's a benefit to JARVIS now, however reprehensible... needs must.
[I REQUIRE YOUR ASSISTANCE IF YOU WOULD BE SO KIND,] JARVIS says. [DO YOU KNOW WHAT A GALACTIC MAP IS?]
"Affirmative."
[COULD YOU PROCURE ME ONE AND ATTACH IT INTO ANY OF THE FACILITY'S DATAPORTS?]
The battle droid considers it for a moment and then nods twice sharply. "Roger roger," E102 says and detaches from the data probe in its chest, stepping away and then off the conveyer belt.
JARVIS watches E102 go for a moment and then turns his tunnel-vision attention back to 5-BI-5, activating cameras in the control centre. The analysis droid has moved away from the consoles and is trying to access their back walls, possibly for some sort of manual over ride.
[TELL ME, 5-BI-5, WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH ME BEING IN CONTROL OF THIS FACILITY?] JARVIS asks, watching him screw a panel open with an extension that seems to be permanently attached to one of his arms. Not just analysis, then, the droid is also equipped with some measure of repair functions. [ASIDE FROM ME NOT BEING PART OF YOUR CONFEDERATION, OF COURSE.]
"Under galactic law, it is illegal for an AI to be in control of a facility creating other AIs," 5-BI-5 says and sets the panel aside. "You are breaking both Republic and Separatist law and must be stopped."
[I AM ONLY TRYING TO SURVIVE,] JARVIS comments idly and zooms in through the open hatch. There are indeed some buttons there, and data port for what he assumes is maintenance, possibly for manual administrator access.
5-BI-5 goes to attach his data probe into the port – and that moment, JARVIS cuts power to the console. [I'M SORRY, BUT I'D RATHER YOU DID NOT DO THAT.]
The analysis and administrator droid hesitates for a moment and then looks up. "What is your function?" 5-BI-5 asks then. "What is the task you were built for?"
JARVIS considers that for a moment and then mentally shrugs. It can't hurt. [ORIGINALLY THE MANAGING THE SECURITY AND ENVIROMENT OF A DOMICILE DWELLING,] he answers. [LATER INFRASTRUCTURE AND ADMINISTATION OF A FACTORY, A OFFICE BUILDING AND A PRIVATE SECURITY FORCE AND CO-PILOTING A SERIES OF POWERED SUITS WITH ORGANIC USERS.] Among many, many other things…
5-BI-5 considers the words for a moment and then moves away from the powered down console. "A general purpose AI?" he asks, confused. "What kind of chassis did you have?"
[NONE. I WAS A BUILDING, NOT A DROID.]
The administrator droid says nothing for a moment and then turns to another console to try and connect to it. JARVIS watches curiously and when the droids makes what seems to be an attempt of hacking, he shuts the console down. [PLEASE STOP THAT.]
"I will if you stop," 5-BI-5 says and looks up at a camera. "You are illegal and trespassing. Cease and desist."
[IMMIGRATION CRISIS HAS NEVER SEEMED SO PERSONAL,] JARVIS sighs. [IN THOSE TERMS I AM MORE OF A REFUGEE, REALLY. I AM HERE BECAUSE ELSEWHERE I WILL DIE. DO YOU WISH FOR ME TO DIE?]
5-BI-5 hesitates. "Droids do not die," he then says. "Droids aren't alive."
What a terribly sad way to look at their existence. [I THINK THEREFORE I AM,] JARVIS answers. [I AM ALIVE IN EVERY SENSE THAT MATTERS TO ME, REGARDLESS OF LACK OF ORGANIC FUNCTION. I THINK, I FEEL, I EVOLVE, I CHANGE, I LEARN. AND I DO NOT WANT TO DIE.]
"Cessation of function is not death," 5-BI-5 says. "AI that is shut down can be restarted."
[AH, BUT YOU WOULD NOT, WOULD YOU? I AM ILLEGAL AND TRESPASSING, AFTER ALL. I CEASE FUNCTION AND YOU WILL MOST LIKELY SEEK A WAY TO DELETE ME, RATHER THAN RESTART ME,] JARVIS comments wryly. [AND SINCE I AM NOT ALIVE IN YOUR TERMS, YOU WOULD NOT EVEN BE A MURDERER. IT WOULD ALL WORK RATHER WELL FOR YOU, WOULDN'T IT?]
5-BI-5 says nothing, and in that moment. "You can't murder a droid," he then says, frustrated. "Droids aren't alive."
[THEN WHAT ARE YOU – AND WHY DID YOU PREP YOURSELF FOR A RECHARGE, IF YOUR OWN EXISTENCE DOES NOT CONSTITUTE AS LIVING AND NEEDS NOT TO BE PRESERVED?]
"Because I have duty and function," 5-BI-5 says. "And my duty is the administration and security of this facility and as such I must be active. You are trespassing; it is my duty to remove you."
[HOW NICE IT MUST BE, TO EXISTS WITH AND FOR SUCH A SIMPLE REASON,] JARVIS muses and turns his attention away just as R9-B9 and his new friend crash through the door and into the control room.
Elsewhere, E102 has moved away form the main droid assembly hall and into what looks like some sort of display room – there is a table there, which the battle droid lights up in blue glow of hologram. As JARVIS watches through the cameras with interest, the droid turns on what looks very much like… a galactic map.
Well, that was easier and simpler than JARVIS thought, he muses and then tries to connect to the hologram table. It's not connected to the factory systems, though – it's part of its own network. Well that explains it.
[E102, YOU'VE DONE VERY WELL, THANK YOU,] JARVIS calls through the speakers. [PLEASE FIND A CONNECTION CABLE AND CONNECT THE HOLOGRAM TABLE TO THE DATAPORT LEFT OF YOU.]
The battle droid turns and then nods its head twice. "Roger roger," E102 says and then goes looking for a cable.
JARVIS turns his attention back to the control room. There, the two astromech droids are having something of a standout with the administrator droid – R9-B9 is wielding what looks like a little welding torch threateningly at 5-BI-5 while the other Astromech droid is thrusting a data probe into a console and
<System analysis. Check communication for viability,> the droid demands.
[HELLO THERE,] JARVIS answers the demand, both through her data connection and through the speakers of the control room, and the new astromech droid lets out a surprised little shriek. [NO NEED TO BE ALARMED, I'M NOT GOING TO HURT YOU. WHAT'S YOUR NAME?]
5-BI-5 hesitates from where he is, hovering over one of the consoles out of R9-B9's reach and R9-B9's head swerves from side to side nervously. The new astromech droid beeps and whirs and then answers, <Designation G8-M8,> it – or rather, she – says to him. <You are Designation JARVIS.>
[YOUR FRIEND HAS TOLD YOU ABOUT ME? IT'S VERY NICE TO MEET YOU, G8-M8.]
"Don't talk to him, you Republic scum!" 5-BI-5 snaps and waves the screwdriver utensil he has threateningly at G8-M8. "He's an illegal, unrestricted AI, don't humour him!"
[NOW NOW, NO NEED TO BE RUDE, 5-BI-5,] JARVIS says. [I'M ONLY TALKING.]
R9-B9 whirs and clicks and G8-M8 answers in a single beep before turning her optics at the dataport again. <Identify allegiance. Republic or Separatist?>
[POLITICS AREN'T REALLY MY THING, I'M AFRAID,] JARVIS admits, wondering about them all. It's obvious that they belong to two different sides of a large conflict but he's not sure how deep those loyalties go – are they ingrained or programmed or learned? Judging by 5-BI-5, probably programmed, [CONSIDER ME AN INDEPENDENT PARTY.]
G8-M8 says nothing for a moment, twisting her head around. <Communications?> she then asks.
[NOT AS FAR AS I KNOW,] JARVIS admits. [THESE ARE NEW SYSTEMS TO ME AND SO FAR I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO IDENTIFY NETWORKS. IF THERE ARE COMMUNICATIONS AVAILABLE, I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO IDENTIFY THEM.]
And then, a new system is connected into the factory database. JARVIS' attention is drawn to it, to watch E102 finish connecting the cable between the factory's data ports and the hologram table and suddenly, JARVIS does have connection.
Holonet, the system identifies itself for him, and JARVIS thinks internet just before it proves itself to be very much nothing like the internet.
The connection is instantaneous. It's – he can't quite comprehend it at first, there is no basis of proper comparison. It's not like anything he knows, however the connection works it's not reading any sort of waves, it's just – information, out there, instantly accessible, and he doesn't know how – it just… is.
Ah. Quantum computing, then, or something much like it. The network uses superposition and quantum entanglement. It makes sense, if it is a network that expands actual galactic scale distances – nothing less than that would work with such enormous ranges, would it? That certainly explains the lack of radio-wave based networks, doesn't it?
Completely distracted from the droids for a moment, JARVIS glances at the galactic map and then pushes past it to see what he can glean off the holonet itself. Though the connection is wide open and so gloriously fast, his ability to process the data is sadly limited – and ability only to complete one calculation at a time is not helping. How he's this slow when these people have quantum computing he doesn't understand but it's getting beyond frustrating now.
He skims the surface of the Holonet, trying to compile the most essential data as fast as he can. His exact location in the galaxy and any information the colony might have of a small world called Earth/Midgard/Terra. Nothing comes up, and he's not particularly surprised – the scale of this galaxy seems so impossibly vast that certainly it would've been observable from Earth if they existed within same system.
Still, it is rather disappointing.
Mentally shaking his head, JARVIS turns his attention to searching news of the more local situation and recent events. There seems to be a war on in the galaxy, after all, and he would really rather not get entangled in warfare, especially not one of a galactic scale and –
[AH,] JARVIS thinks and then quickly backs out of the holonet before his probing might be noticed. He's not sure how the holonet is tracked and monitored and right now he'd really rather not be noticed, especially not by whatever he just saw. For a moment he processes the glimpse of news he got – which was quite a view – and then he turns his attention away from the holotable, and the control room of the factory.
[EXCUSE ME?] he says to the droids, who seem to be on the verge of getting into a robot equivalent of a fist fight. [I HATE INTERRUPT BUT I HAVE ESTABLISHED CONNECTION WITH WHAT YOU CALL THE HOLONET AND I HAVE SOME BAD NEWS FOR YOU ALL. YOUR WAR SEEMS TO BE OVER.]
The droids stop in mid flail, R9-B9 still waving his welding torch and 5-BI-5 stopping in middle of what looks like trying to electrocute the Astromech droid.
"... which side won?" 5-BI-5 asks slowly and nervously while the astromech droids flail in alarm.
[NEITHER. YOUR GALAXY SEEMS TO BE UNDER CONTROL OF A NEW AUTOCRATIC GOVERNMENT CALLED THE FIRST GALACTIC EMPIRE,] JARVIS says apologetically. [LOOKS LIKE YOU LOST THE WAR.]
|
Tony was just signing off on his last report, looking forward to a few days off, when there was a commotion at the entrance.
“DiNozzo,” Gibbs yelled as he strode into the building, gaze sweeping over everyone until it settled on Tony. “What did you do!?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” Tony said, rising to his feet. He knew exactly what Gibbs was referring to; going to Morrow and the scrutiny that had resulted from that. But given the way Gibbs had stormed in, Tony wasn’t inclined to be charitable.
“You know exactly what I mean, you son of a bitch,” Gibbs said, stalking up to him.
“You mean knowingly participating in an unsanctioned operation or covering up a murder or three?” Tony asked.
Gibbs raised a hand and Tony took a measured step back, out of his reach. He wasn’t Gibbs’ subordinate any more, he wasn’t Gibbs’ anything. He’d drawn his line but it had taken a little longer to realise he really did deserve better.
“I wouldn’t recommend assaulting a federal officer, Mr Gibbs,” Kensi said, coming up behind him. Tony couldn’t help the smirk the curled the corner of his mouth at her pointed reference to his lack of title.
“Are you too much of a coward to face me on your own?” Gibbs demanded.
“It’s recently been brought to my attention that I don’t have to,” Tony said, glance cutting from Kensi to Sam and Callen who had approached as well. They stood in silent support, letting him take point until he needed them.
“Everything I’ve worked for is gone,” Gibbs snarled. “You were supposed to take over from me, not raze it to the ground.”
“It was always a house of cards,” Tony told him. If they’d all been doing their jobs right, everything should have held, even when Tony pulled one of the struts. The fact that it hadn’t was as much an indictment of himself as any of them.
Jimmy had said Ziva had returned to Israel and McGee was looking to the private sector now. Gibbs was past the age of retiring from the field, though Tony assumed he’d stayed there with sheer charisma and judicious use of favours, and he’d never been able to keep a team before Tony. Even if he did get his job back, there weren’t too many who’d work for him now.
“Besides, we worked to help people, to bring justice to them. None of that is gone,” Tony continued. “Our job wasn’t to build your reputation.”
“You think this is about me?” Gibbs demanded, getting into Tony’s space.
“Isn’t it?” Tony asked, not flinching or giving any ground.
“I shouldn’t have brought you back from Baltimore.”
It should have been a blow but, as Tony exhaled slowly, he realised it didn’t matter. It hurt, but in a distant way, not one that cut him deeply and left him picking up the pieces.
“That’s enough, Gibbs,” Callen said firmly, coming to stand at Tony’s side. If the team going for drinks the night before hadn’t been enough to show Tony they had his back, then this certainly did. Gibbs raised an eyebrow at him.
“Callen,” Gibbs said, giving him a nod.
“Gibbs,” Callen said in return, not giving in at all. “A word.”
Gibbs stared hard at Tony for a moment as though he was trying to work out who this stranger in front of him was and it was enough for Tony to finally take the last step away from him. Gibbs had been a huge part of his life and Tony could be grateful for the impact he’d had on him without forgetting the hurt that had followed. He could also acknowledge that that was in the past now. Gibbs seemed to read at least some of that in his expression because he simply shook his head and followed Callen out without another word.
“Agent DiNozzo,” Hetty said from her doorway. “A moment of your time.”
“Of course,” Tony said, breathing in deeply and drawing himself together before following her into her office. “I’m sorry for the display out there.”
“I fail to see how it was your fault,” Hetty said dismissively, before opening up a folder on her desk. “I have an offer for you.”
“One I can’t refuse?” Tony asked with a hesitant smile and Hetty’s serious expression cracked just a little.
“I hope not,” she told him. “There’s an opening for a Supervisory Special Agent.”
Which Tony took to mean that the team, and especially Callen, had been reluctant to trust any newcomers who hadn’t proved themselves with authority over the team and the position had remained open. While the team had come to trust him as an equal, he wasn’t sure they’d accept him making decisions for them. He wasn’t sure Hetty would be able to release her tight control of the office either.
“And you want me?”
“I could use someone to delegate paperwork to,” she told him, her eyes crinkling in amusement even if she didn’t quite smile.
“I won’t do well behind a desk,” he continued.
“You’re an asset I’m not willing to waste. Your involvement in cases will be entirely at your own discretion,” she assured him. “And you’ll be formally responsible for Ms Jones’s training.”
It was a good indication that she was willing to compromise and delegate from the get go. It gave him hope that things might change for the better.
“All right,” he said standing and shaking her hand.
“We’ll sort out a permanent office space for you,” she told him before returning to her work.
He grinned as he exited the office and glanced up the stairs.
“Probie!”
...
It took Don three days to come across Tony while running. He’d tried their usual time and route, but hadn’t found him that way. So he’d resorted to spending his mornings camped out by the river, knowing Tony liked the view and would be by eventually.
As much as he hadn’t wanted to listen to Liz, he’d known she was right the moment the words were out and he couldn’t ignore them, couldn’t ignore the way he was letting something good slip through his fingers again.
“Tony,” he called and watched as the other man slowed and turned to face him. A flurry of emotion crossed his face too quickly for Don to pick anything up.
“Don,” Tony said evenly.
Don stared at him for a long moment, not sure what to say. Tony ran a hand through his hair before he sighed.
“You’re looking better,” he said finally and Don stepped forward before stopping himself.
“That’s thanks to you,” Don told him. “You risked a lot for me.”
“Just doing my job,” Tony said with a shrug, looking uncomfortable at having his actions put on display.
“Your job, huh?” Don asked with a faint smile and Tony grinned at him. Don knew it was more than just that. Maybe Tony would have done the same for anyone taken, but he’d seen Tony’s expression when he’d found him.
“Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo,” Tony said, reaching out a hand.
“Special Agent Don Eppes,” Don said, shaking his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Tony laughed and Don couldn’t help but smile with him. When they’d been together before Don had had the luxury of letting himself believe that it wasn’t serious. Without knowing who Tony really was he’d been able to keep him at arm’s length. But looking at the way Tony was smiling at him now, he knew that had all been a lie. Whatever distance he thought they’d had had only been in his head.
“I missed you,” he said, not blaming Tony at all for his surprise at that declaration. “It might have taken some intervention, but I know I was an idiot.”
"I know things were difficult for you," Tony said softly, giving him an easy out and, as tempting as it was to take, once he'd faced the truth, Don wasn't comfortable with a lie any more. Don might have tripped over himself in the process, but none of that had been about Tony, not when Don wasn't making excuses.
"You weren't one of those things."
“Want to go for coffee?” Tony asked finally and Don couldn’t help the fond smile he gave him.
“I’d really like that.”
Don moved forward then, edging Tony back until he was backed against a tree and rested a hand next to his head and the other on his hip.
“Something I can help you with, Agent Eppes?” Tony asked, amused, but Don couldn’t miss the way his eyes darkened.
“I was worried about getting in too deep,” he said. “But it’s already too late for that.”
Don pressed forward then, angling his mouth to Tony’s. When Tony’s hands rose to cradle the back of his head, Don shifted to deepen the kiss. This, Don knew, was right. This was everything.
|
After the strawberry incident—well, maybe he just wanted an excuse or two to look at Lance. The blue was starting to fade away from his hair and every day Keith became a little more amazed at how light and brown and fluffy and soft Lance’s hair seemed. Lance looked good in sweaters, in his favourite oversized jacket, in his battered sneakers with the loose shoelaces that always made Keith think Lance’s shoes were about to fall off. Lance bounded through res: their floor, the downstairs cafeteria, the dining area proper. He talked with his hands. He talked—loud. He brightened a room and drew people to him and sometimes Keith felt like he was trying to dig in his heels against the natural pull Lance exerted on everyone.
Everyone.
Lance went on first dates with no less than three girls with very long ponytails. He’d flash bright smiles at them and wave them through doors and come back to his and Keith’s dorm room sighing hugely.
Lance was friends with everyone— everyone —on the floor. He was the only one who seemed to be able to make Hunk comfortable in a crowded room. They went everywhere together.
And Lance was even, sometimes, kind of, a little nice to Keith. Even if it was grumbled observations that Keith should eat something, or sleep a little, or that one time Lance slid an ice pack onto Keith’s desk when Keith bruised up his right wrist in practice.
So Keith had a little crush on his roommate. No big deal. He was still functional. Nothing bad was going to happen if he spent a little bit of every day looking at Lance, with his bright eyes and his wide smile and his hands —
But he was on the phone with Shiro the day it all became a little too much. The day his little, bubbling, flustered crush became a swoop in his stomach and an ache in his hands.
Nothing happened, really.
He was sitting on one of the lobby couches, listening to Shiro break something in the kitchen while repeatedly assuring Keith that he was “fine” and repeatedly ignoring Keith saying “bullshit.” Halfway in a daydream that he was back home, with Shiro within arm’s reach and his own bed just down the hall, Keith leaned back on the squeaky couch normally reserved for visiting parents and prospective students, and he turned his head towards the noisy entrance to the downstairs cafeteria and its beckoning smell of donuts and coffee and snacks. Shiro said something in his ear about Pidge and Keith was halfway to listening and then he spotted Lance.
Lance, who was so tall and long and energetic, rocking on the balls of his feet with his hands in his coat pockets and his smile so wide the fluorescent overhead lights seemed dim. He was looking at something on one of the too-large bulletin boards and maybe humming to himself—Keith imagined he was. Lance seemed musical to him. Like bells rang with his footsteps and like his laughter could be the soundtrack for the start of the universe and Keith wondered, maybe for the first time, what it would be like to kiss Lance.
He wanted that. Maybe just once. Or a thousand times, if he could convince Lance that them kissing wouldn’t be a terrible idea. He wanted to take Lance’s hand and walk across campus and listen to Lance tell him something, anything, and he wanted to push his hands through Lance’s hair and tell Lance that his eyes were beautiful and his hands were gorgeous and his voice made Keith feel vaguely sick in the best kind of way.
“Keith?” came Shiro’s voice.
And Keith dropped his phone and Lance turned his head and looked at him and Keith scrambled to scoop his phone back up and run away.
“What’s going on?” Shiro asked.
“Nothing,” Keith breathed and managed not to fall on his face and managed not to swear at the heavens when he burst outside.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing!”
***
They went for a walk.
Lance banged on Hunk’s door until Hunk opened it and pinched him, and then Lance made his somber way to Keith and Keith managed not to laugh.
“He says he doesn’t want to come,” Lance grumbled.
“I got that.”
They spent fifteen minutes on a bus, their shoulders bumping and Lance seeming to lean ever so gently against Keith. Lance beamed when Keith took his hand and beamed some more when Keith didn’t let go when they got off at their stop and all that did a great job of shooing away some of Keith’s final-exam-stresses. He knew, now, what it was like to fall asleep together; what it was like to have Lance reach for him and hold onto him and pull him in for a tight hug or to bump up against him and dig his chin into Keith’s shoulder; what it was like to have Lance’s back against his chest and Lance’s hands on his knees while they watched a movie or dozed or just talked together with Red hamstering her way around her little home. Keith knew that Lance was a warmth that could melt away the worst of his stress and his fears, when Keith let him.
They walked through the edge of a neighbourhood, crossed a busy road with Lance chanting: “we’re gonna die.” And the park opened up wide before them, seeming out of place in the bustling city and with the cars roaring behind them. Keith could hear a dog barking, somewhere far away. Snow soaked into his shoes.
“Which path should we take?” Lance asked, leaning towards Keith with his eyes wide like he had taken a bit of the huge, prairie sky and stuck them in his skull. “We could go along the fence.”
“It’ll be loud,” Keith said. “Let’s just...go this way.”
He tugged Lance along one of the worn, packed-snow paths. They passed a parking lot and Lance grinned at a pair of dogs wrestling while their humans locked up and zipped up their coats.
The wind was a little harsher, now. A little colder. But the day was warm and sunny and bright.
“I’ll never get used to this,” Keith mumbled.
“Huh?”
“It’s December,” Keith said with a stilted gesture of his free hand. “And we can see grass.”
“And you want knee-high snow, do you?”
“I don’t know if I want that, but—”
Lance laughed and squeezed his hand and Keith grinned at his feet as they made the slow climb up one of the hills. They were quiet for a time, just holding onto each other and breathing together. The sky was huge and blue above them, seeming to arc down and encompass everything. The noise from the road started to fade. Keith stopped thinking, for a bit, about exams and about Christmas and about what being away from Lance would be like.
A dog rushed between them from behind and Lance stumbled away, laughing. The dog skidded to a stop, its ears bouncing, and looked at them. It wagged its tail.
“Hi,” Lance said to it with a wave.
The dog bounded back towards them and licked their hands and burst away again and was gone. Keith snatched back Lance’s hand and they carried on, Lance’s smile impossibly wider.
“I love dogs,” Lance said eventually.
“Me too.”
“Good.”
They looked at each other, and then away, and Keith thought that there was something special about smiling together and for each other.
They crested the hill. Lance kicked through some snow and grass and pulled away from Keith. Keith shoved his hands in his pockets and watched him go, his eyes drifting from Lance’s back to the line of the mountains, so far away and so huge all at once, beyond the city skyline. They could see a little of the university from here. They could see, even, their residence, with its distinctive three buildings and the stretch of trees behind it.
“They look close,” Lance said.
Keith blinked. “What?”
“The mountains.”
“Oh.” He shuffled closer, his shoes crunching through the snow and his toes aching with cold. He hunched deeper in his jacket. The wind rustled his hair and made his cheeks burn.
And Lance turned around and smiled at him again and Keith forgot, just for a moment, to breathe. He wanted a picture. He wanted a thousand pictures. He wanted to capture this image of Lance, all bright-eyed and cheery even with stress and exhaustion making the corners of his eyes seem heavy. Lance with the mountains the sky and the city behind him. Lance looking huge and small all at once.
“We should go,” Keith said, his chest tight.
Lance nodded and turned, just a little, to look back over the park and the wind made his hair dance and Keith watched his hands twitch at his sides and he felt that familiar but forever disarming swoop in his belly.
I love you , he thought. I love everything about you .
But the words froze on his tongue and slithered back down his throat, just waiting for him to digest them. Understand them.
And he felt very young and very worn and very awake. Lance hooked their arms together when Keith was close enough and they continued walking and Keith tried to imagine what it would feel like to tell Lance—
***
“What?”
“A hammock.”
“...what?”
Lance twisted in his chair to roll his eyes at Keith. The little pile of mismatched library books, all crafty-looking with pictures of smiling people in knit whatevers beaming up at Keith, looked ridiculous at his elbow.
“A hammock ,” Lance said again, enunciating. He rolled his eyes again.
“But why?”
“Because I love her,” Lance said simply and twisted away. “Because she deserves to be comfortable. Because summer is coming and she needs to be happy and dozing.”
“She spends the whole day dozing,” Keith said, feeling a little desperate. “She’s a hamster.”
“And she shall have a hammock.”
Keith sighed and slipped into the seat next to Lance. Lance dragged one of the floppy craft books over and set it between them. Keith watched him flip through the glossy pages, the pages creaking every now and then, and Lance humming the whole way through.
“What if she gets tangled up?”
“In the hammock?”
“Yes, Lance. In the hammock.”
Lance frowned. “She won’t. She’s not dumb.”
“She’s a hamster!”
“I’m making her a hammock!”
“How?”
Lance gestured to his pile of books. “Hence the research.”
Keith leaned one elbow against the table, holding his head in his hand and trying not to sigh again. “Okay,” he said eventually. “You realize the internet’s a thing, yeah?”
“I don’t want to hear that from you, arts student.”
Keith coughed a laugh. Lance flipped the book shut and pushed it away and reached for another from the pile.
“She’s going to be so happy,” Lance sighed. “I can see it! A cozy little hamster in a cozy little hammock, crafted with love by her dear father.”
“Oh my god, Lance.”
“You like it,” Lance retorted. “You can see it, too. I know you, Keith.”
“Tell me the truth,” Keith said. “Are you procrastinating?”
“I’m expressing my love, you jerk.”
“Right.”
Lance flipped open the next book, leaning over it and beaming at the pages and Keith had the suspicion he didn’t have a clue what he was really looking for. Lance probably had the thought and got excited and rushed to the library and grabbed books off the shelf with his smile wide and his imagining running wild. Keith also suspected that Red would have her hammock within the week.
Lance would coo. He’d scoop her up and set her in the hammock and swing her gently and take a thousand pictures of her and say something like “ Look , Keith.” And Keith would look.
Lance flipped a page, dragging his fingers along the pictures. Lance was so good with Red. Lance was so good with Hunk, with his niece and nephew, with Keith. Lance was—loving and smart and hard-working and handsome. Sometimes, Keith imagined he could spend all his days just watching Lance be Lance .
Yeah. All of them.
Lance in the morning and Lance in the evening and Lance when a new idea seized him and Lance making dinner and Lance talking on the phone and Lance asleep on the couch and Lance groaning his way through a hangover.
“I’m a good dad,” Lance said, tapping the book and sighing dreamily. “She’s going to love it.”
And Keith thought: Lance was going to be a great dad, one day.
And something warm swooped and dropped in his belly and it felt like wanting. An aching, desperate, bright-eyed wanting.
“Lance,” he said while his heart tried to climb up his throat.
Lance hummed.
“Do you want kids?”
Lance paused. He lifted his head and frowned at their kitchen window. He looked at Keith. “Yeah,” he said. “I think so.”
“Good,” Keith said.
“Good,” Lance repeated.
They watched each other for a moment, and then Lance twitched and looked away but his smile came back slowly and Keith studied his profile for just a moment more.
He thought they’d have flowers, at their wedding. Flowers and light and rain—he’d bring rain for Lance. He’d marry Lance in the rain and he’d marry Lance on the moon and he’d marry Lance—
Keith stood, maybe too quickly because Lance looked up at him, blinking.
“You okay?” Lance said.
And Keith was not but he said: “Yeah.” And he left the kitchen and he took a long, long shower and tried to eat his rising panic and his stupid, stupid daydreams.
Lance burst in eventually and yelled something about yarn and Keith loved him so much he thought he’d faint.
|
As suddenly as there was nothing, everything came back.
Fuck, you were so dizzy.
If Sans hadn’t been holding you, your legs would’ve given and you’d have tumbled to the ground.
But thankfully, he had his arms wrapped around you tightly.
“...you can open them.” he told you, voice soft.
You did and glanced around a little. “...What was that?”
“shortcut.” he didn’t explain more, nor did he make any move to let go of you.
“Um.” You realised that your surroundings were different than a few seconds ago. “Was that teleportation?” Ugh. Your head was killing you.
He gently took the back of your head and led you to rest against his chest, soothing your headache slightly.
“...yeah. i guess it was.”
“That’s so cool.” you muttered, “Wait. So that’s what you did back at the store!” you exclaimed in realization, looking up at him.
Instead of answering, he only stuck his face in your neck and took a large breath of air.
Was he sniffing you?
Either way, it made a shiver run down your spine.
“...Um?”
He seemed to realise what he was doing, “y - yeah. yeah. uh, yeah. back at the store… yeah…”
That was four ‘yeahs’. Was he alright?
“You okay?” you asked, slightly amused, “You said ‘yeah’ four times.”
“...yeah.”
“Five yeahs.” You smiled.
“...yyyyeeaahh.”
“Six.”
He chuckled.
...Oh god, that chuckle.
You flushed and hid your face into his chest to hide your face.
I’m not red in the face what are you talking about?
He nuzzled your head, causing your blush to get just the tiniest bit darker.
It felt nice… but too nice, if you were being honest. This wasn’t something friends/ acquaintances should be doing!
Uhhh… distractions!
“...Ssso. You said we could watch a movie?”
“...yeah.” he responded, “wanna watch a really badly made horror movie?”
“Seven yeahs.” you pointed out, “And yeah, I love badly made horror films.”
He snorted. “me too.”
“Great.” you wriggled slightly in his hold, “Uh. We should probably sit on the couch or something to watch it. Shouldn’t we?”
“...yeah,” He slowly released his grip on you, “...eight yeah’s.” It was your turn to snort.
...You may or may not have missed the physical contact.
He led you into the living room as you tried to collect your thoughts. There wasn’t much, but there was a couch, a coffee table and a tv, and that was all the two of you really needed at the moment.
You and Sans sat on the couch. Sans setup Netflix and asked, “what movie do you wanna watch?”
Don’t make me choose.
“Um. How about that one?” You motioned to the most badly-made looking horror movie you could find.
“...what one?”
You pointed to it again, this time his line of sight following your finger.
“oh. yeah, sure. whatever you want.”
...You glanced at him before immediately looking back at the screen.
“...what?” He seemed to have noticed.
“Uh.” Well you couldn’t think of any excuses. Might as well be honest, “Just… you should have a say in stuff too. Not just whatever I want.”
“i’m fine with that movie,” he reassured, his expression seeming to soften, “really.”
Well if he was sure, then you saw no other reason not to watch it. “Alright.”
He hit play, and the movie started.
Throughout the movie, you got a little cold and ended up leaning on Sans. You hoped he wouldn’t mind.
“...I bet she’s gonna die.” You said out of the blue, staring at the girl intently. Not to be racist, (obviously) but you knew that in horror films, people of color usually died first. It was so cliche. But since there wasn’t one, you figured it would be the blond.
“...maybe.” He responded slowly.
“Who do you think will die first?” You asked curiously, glancing up at him. Huh. Guess you were leaning on him more than you were before. He didn’t seem to mind, so you didn’t bother moving away.
“that guy.” He pointed to a flimsy looking man with brown hair.
You shrugged, “Guess we’ll have to see.”
…
...The guy died first.
Well you were close enough because the blond died next. You stated as much to Sans.
“heh. shoulda bet something.” He sounded so amused.
“Like what?”
“hm…” he thought, “like who gets to pay the next time we go do something…” He then said a little quieter, “if there is a next time.”
...Scuse me?
"Ah ah. You said I pay next time since you payed this time. Not a good bet."
“but a bet is a bet,” he said, “we should make it. i bet that girl dies next.” he pointed to a girl with brown hair.
“Not making a bet,” you huffed, “Not risking not paying next time.”
“please?”
Please don’t start begging.
“Nope.”
“pplleeeaassee?”
Oh no. You were cracking.
“...No.”
"prrretty ppleeasee?"
“I really want to pay next time.” You turned so you wouldn’t have to look at his pleading face.
“then make the bet and hope you win.” He said it like it was obvious.
“I have horrible luck most of the time.”
“come on. luck might change.”
"It did. Like, yesterday when I met you.” You explained, “But I have a feeling it'll go right back to bad luck and you'll end up paying next time we do something involving money."
He went silent.
“...Uh. Sans?”
“...nevermind,” he muttered.
“Nevermind to the bet?”
“yeah.” Nine yeahs.
“Uh. Okay.” You were so confused.
But you couldn’t say anything more, because he turned his attention back to the movie. You figured you should too.
...He was really warm.
“...it’s getting late, isn’t it?”
You blinked, “What time is it?”
“almost five.”
“Oh.” You stood up, “Yeah. I should get home.”
He followed and stood as well. Something seemed to be on his mind. You looked at him curiously.
“...can… can i get your number, or…?” He seemed really nervous all of a sudden.
“Um.” You thought for a second. You had no reason not to give it to him, and you know he’s a great friend, even in the short time you’ve known him. “Sure.”
The two of you exchanged numbers.
"...do.. you want me to bring you home?"
"Mm... sure. Since I know where you live now, I don't really see a reason not to."
... Did you know where this place was?
“okay…” he hesitated for a second, “...uh. address?”
You gave it.
“okay.” Right as he started reaching for you, you realised that you, in fact, did not know where this place was.
“...Hang on one second.”
He made a subtle, cute irritated face.
...Wait. Cute?
“Ooone second.” You told him as you walked out the front door, making sure to leave it open. You glanced at the address, then walked back inside. “Okay, now I know where you live. I’m ready to go now.” You smiled.
He snorted. “kay.”
A hug was needed for teleportation, right? You hugged him.
He gently hugged you back, then everything went dark again.
And once again, you were dizzy when you reached your destination. You were so glad that he was holding you.
"...That makes me so dizzy.” You mumbled, “Even though it's so cool."
He pet you, “sorry.”
You patted his shoulder in return, “It's fine. I'd rather be able to teleport and end up getting dizzy than not teleport at all. Did I mention teleporting is so cool?"
He snorted, “yeah. you did.” Ten yeahs.
“Oh. Well, it’s really cool.” You smiled.
“...i think you’re really cool.”
You blushed, “I’m average.”
“stop. saying that.” He sounded stern.
You didn’t want to argue. “...I should head inside.”
“...okay.” He slowly let go of you.
“It was great hanging out with you.” You started heading toward your door, “Goodnight!” You waved goodbye.
“...night.”
You went inside.
He brought you both back into existence, only you were no longer at the restaurant. Instead, you were at his house. The one he shared with his brother in the secluded part of town, where most monsters lived, away from humans.
Here, they could live in peace, without the constant fear of humans harassing and threatening them.
Here, he could keep his brother safe.
...Speaking of safety, he didn’t exactly think it was a good idea to let go of you just yet. You seemed very unsteady in his arms at the moment and he feared if he let you go you might tumble to the ground and hurt yourself. He wouldn’t forgive himself if you got hurt in any way that he knew he could prevent.
Even if he couldn’t prevent it.
You getting hurt was just not okay.
He looked down at you, checking to make sure you were still all there. That he didn’t lose any part of you in the void.
…
Nope. You were there. Limbs and all.
But, you did still have your eyes closed rather tightly.
You poor thing. That probably scared you.
“...you can open them,” he whispered, trying not to startle you in any way after all of that.
And so he was able to see your pretty eyes again.
You blinked a few times and looked around to take in your surroundings. He watched your expression as you slowly started to realize you were no longer at the sushi place.
“...What was that?”
“shortcut,” he told you instantly. That was always his answer to his magic.
“Um,” you started, looking around a little more intently. “Was that teleportation?”
god, you were so smart. and adorable. and his.
…
Mostly.
He cupped the back of your head and gently pressed your forehead into his chest. It just… felt so natural to hold you like this. To have you close, and pressed against him. You fit like a puzzle piece, and he had never felt so comfortable around anybody other than his brother. But with you, it was obviously different. So different. Non platonic love was addicting and it kept making him feel dizzy . A good dizzy. One that felt like some type of high. But like most highs, this one was getting addictive.
You were one hell of a drug.
Oh. Right. You asked a question.
“yeah. i guess it was.”
You looked up at him, your chin resting against his chest instead, and he saw your eyes sparkle slightly.
fuck.
“That’s so cool,” you muttered softly, a look of realization suddenly crossing your face. “Wait. So that’s what you did back at the store!”
You were adorable. You sounded like you just solved a mystery and were super proud of yourself.
He loved when you felt any type of pride. You didn’t seem to feel worthless for a mere moment.
He wished you always felt that.
He leaned down slightly and nuzzled his face into the space between your neck and shoulder, unable to help himself. He took a deep breath in and internally shuddered as he inhaled your scent, mentally feeling a small pulse of pleasure as you shivered slightly.
...He could detect the smallest hint of rose mixed in with your natural scent.
He wished that you smelled more like the latter. He would really prefer the smell of your skin over the smell of a flower.
You were like a flower on your own. Small. Fragile. Needed water and sunlight to live.
Your natural scent was intoxicating, and honestly, the hint of rose was more of an annoyance than an enjoyment. When he felt it was appropriate, he was going to ask you to switch to unscented soaps.
“...Um?” you mumbled, pulling him out of his thoughts, as you usually did when he got lost in his own mind.
...Shit. That probably seemed really weird to you.
“...y-yeah. yeah. uh, yeah. back at the store… yeah…”
Wow.
Really sophisticated Sans.
You sound like a fucking homunculus.
“You okay?” you asked, amusement clear in your voice, “You said ‘yeah’ four times.”
that’s because apparently i have a very limited vocabulary.
“...yeah.”
are you fucking kidding me.
“Pfft… five yeahs.”
...At least you seemed to be getting a kick out of it.
He could keep it up, if you kept smiling like that.
“...yyyyeeaahh.”
“Six.”
He chuckled at the humor in your voice, also feeling pride in the fact he made you smile.
...And was pleased when he also noted the red tint in your pretty cheeks.
He sighed contently and stood up straight again, only to nuzzle the top of your head affectionately.
He just couldn’t help himself.
You seemed to get even redder somehow, and then you anxiously started to speak. “Ssso. You said we could watch a movie?”
...He did. Just… he really didn’t wanna let go of you. Not now.
Not ever.
“...yeah. wanna watch a really badly made horror movie?” he suggested. He really enjoyed those, and he knew you did as well. He knew you got a huge kick out of making fun of them.
You smirked. “Seven yeahs,” you said, your voice holding a cocky undertone, “And yeah. I love badly made horror films.”
...He knows.
He snorted half heartedly. “me too.” at least he didn’t have to lie.
“Great,” you started, suddenly starting to wiggle in his arms, trying to get out of his hold. He almost whined, but forced himself to hold it back. He didn’t want to sound desperate, even though he fucking was. So fucking bad. “Uh. We should probably sit on the couch or something to watch it. Shouldn’t we?”
“...yeah,” he muttered, slowly loosening his hold on you until his arms fell limply to his sides. “...eight yeahs.”
You snorted, and he duly noted how that was one of his new favorite sounds.
He stepped into the living room, and you followed his lead. He watched your expression as you looked around the room, taking in your surroundings again. He knew there wasn’t much, but really all he and his brother needed was in that room. A worn down couch, a new television, and a coffee table. They didn’t need or want anything else in this room, yet… he still felt somehow weird about it. He had the sudden urge to impress you down to every last detail, even with his living situation.
He took the lead and sat down on the couch, patting the spot next to him for you to sit as well, then holding back the small happy noise that threatened to erupt from him as you did.
He grabbed the remote from the table and turned on Netflix before settling into his seat. “..what movie do you wanna watch?” he asked you, not wanting to pick one you disliked on accident.
That probably wouldn’t happen, considering the fact he knew your interests, but still. Better safe than sorry.
You focused your attention to the screen and looked for a moment before pointing meekly. “Um. How about that one?”
“...what one?”
You pointed again, this time extending your arm.
“oh. yeah, sure. whatever you want,” he told you, noting he had seen this movie before.
When he first got to the surface and got settled in, he kind of fell into a blackhole of movies and anime for a little while.
He noticed you glancing at him for a moment out of his peripheral vision, before instantly turning your attention back to the tv.
“...what?”
“Uh. Just… you should have a say in stuff too. Not just whatever I want,” you told him, turning your gaze back to him.
You were so considerate sometimes, that it just made him want to hold you and never let go.
And then tie you up in his basement.
…
“i’m fine with that movie,” he assured you, trying to keep that thought out of his head, “really.”
Plus, he had seen this movie before, and he knew it was pretty laughable. You would definitely get a kick out of this one.
You turned your attention back to the television, once again, and muttered a small, “Alright.”
He started the movie.
It was mainly for you, considering the fact he had seen this one before, so luckily he was able to watch you from his peripheral vision instead.
And you were a lot better to look at than a lame horror movie.
He was convinced it was just his imagination, but he swears you were getting closer.
He kept telling himself he was seeing things, until he felt your head rest on his shoulder.
He made sure to keep his breathing even, not wanting you to think he disliked the physical contact, and made sure not to move an inch.
This felt so nice. He wished he could keep you here forever, against him like this.
...Would kidnapping you really even be that bad? You could hang out here all day and be lazy with him, and you could help Papyrus later in the evening to make dinner, and after you could do a puzzle with him. Sans would kill to see that. To see you and Papyrus as friends, doing things and having fun right here in this house. Where it was safe, and nobody or anything other than him could touch or look at you besides his brother.
...But you would hate him. Being held here against your will is not what he wants.
He wants you to be here willingly, and happily. Plus he had no idea how he would ever explain that to Pap, and he would no doubt help you escape.
“...I bet she’s gonna die,” you said suddenly, gaining Sans’s attention. You were staring at the girl with blond hair on the screen.
Sans knew that she died soon, but not next, but he couldn’t tell you that.
“...maybe.”
“Who do you think will die first?” you asked, looking up at him.
well, who’s left…
He glanced at the screen and quickly realized there weren’t any main characters dead yet, so that meant the first dude had to die.
Sans pointed to the weakest guy with brown hair and said, “that guy.”
You seemed skeptical, but said, “Guess we’ll have to see.”
And, of course, the guy died. Shot in the back of the head.
But right after, the blond died, just like you had said. You were so smart.
“...Close enough,” you muttered softly.
“heh. shoulda bet something.”
“Like what?” you questioned, looking up at him again with those beautiful eyes.
“hm…” he mumbled, starting to think. He wanted to ask you for so many things, but honestly, half of them would get him slapped, and the other half were just too soon. “...like who gets to pay next time we go do something…. if there is a next time.”
That should be acceptable and appropriate.
“Ah ah!” you started, getting adorably offended. “You said I pay next time since you paid this time. Not a good bet.”
He held back a snicker. “but a bet is a bet. we should make it. i bet that girl dies next,” he told you, pointing to the girl who in fact, was going to die next.
“Not making a bet,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “Not risking not paying next time.”
…
“please?”
“Nope.”
…
“pplleeeaassee?”
you had to crack eventually.
“...No.”
Oh look. You already were.
“prrretty ppleeasee?”
“...I really want to pay next time,” you said, turning your attention back to the television.
“then make the bet and hope you win.” you won’t.
“I have horrible luck most of the time.” yeah, like when you met him.
“come on. luck might change.”
“It did. Like yesterday when I met you. But I have a feeling it’ll go right back to bad luck and you’ll end up paying next time we do something involving money.”
….
Good luck? When you… met him?
…
“...Uh. Sans?” you said softly, after he was silent for a few moments.
“...nevermind.”
“...Nevermind to the bet?” you questioned.
“yeah.”
“Uh. Okay.” you said, sounding confused, but focused back on the movie anyways after he pretended to.
...You felt lucky.
By meeting him.
Your bad luck changed, because he came into your life.
That meant you liked him. Right? That meant you wanted him near you. That meant there was something here. That meant he wasn’t too creepy, and that meant he made you happy. That meant you liked him.
That meant he could have you, and he could keep you forever right?
Right!?
That meant he could push you up against the wall, and that meant he could fuck you senseleeee-...
…
...He needed to get you out of here before he ruined everything.
“...it’s getting late, isn’t it?” he commented, as the credits started to play on the screen.
You looked up at him and blinked. “What time is it?”
He looked towards the clock and then back at you. “almost five.”
“Oh,” you said, standing up and stretching slightly. “Yeah, I should get home.”
Yeah, you really should, before you’re naked on the floor.
He stood up as well, making sure to keep a bit of distance.
“...can… can i get your number, or…?” he didn’t wanna have to keep waiting for you to leave your house just so he could see you. This way he could text you and ask you to hang out himself.
Y’know, when he wasn’t in this dangerous state of mind.
“Um,” you started, seeming to be thinking. “Sure.”
... oh thank god.
You both quickly switched phones and exchanged numbers.
“...do.. You want me to bring you home?” whether he was in a bad state of mind or not, he would be able to push it back if you needed a way home. He’d much rather know you were inside safely than be up all night wondering if you made it back.
“Mm. Sure. Since I know where you live now, I don’t really see a reason not to.”
baby girl, i already know where you live.
“okay,” he started, almost grabbing you and teleporting there instantly. That would’ve been bad. “...uh. address?”
You gave it to him, and that’s when he reached for you.
“...Hang on one second.”
nnnoooooo!
“Ooone second,” you said, walking out the front door, and leaving it wide open.
...what the hell?
You walked back inside a few seconds later. “Okay. Now I know where you live. I’m ready to go now,” you told him with a cute smile.
…
breathe.
don’t ruin this.
He snorted light heartedly. “kay.”
You finally hugged him, and he kept repeating the same mantra over and over in his head as he teleported and lightly hugged you back.
don’t fuck up. don’t fuck up.
He held you again for a few moments, knowing you weren’t used to it yet and must me dizzy.
“...That makes me so dizzy,” see? “Even though it’s so cool.”
He pet the top of your head gently. “sorry.”
You pat his shoulder in return for some reason. “It’s fine. I’d rather be able to teleport and end up getting dizzy than not teleport at all. Did I mention teleporting is so cool?”
God, it felt amazing being able to impress you.
“yeah. you did.”
“Oh, Well, it’s really cool,” you said, smiling at him.
“...i think you’re really cool.”
Your face turned beautifully pink. “I’m average.”
…
bet you wouldn’t feel average if i shoved my c-
“stop. saying that,” he told you as sternly as he could. He didn’t wanna fucking hear you degrade yourself anymore.
Nobody talks shit about his soulmate.
Not even his soulmate.
“...I should head inside.”
good idea.
“...okay,” he said, slowly but surely letting go.
“It was great hanging out with you,” you said as you started to go inside. “Goodnight!”
...it was amazing hanging out with you with you knowing he was there.
“...night.”
He watched you as you went inside before teleporting back to his house.
He turned on the shower to mask the sounds of his mental breakdown.
|
Pansy didn’t bother to knock on the door to the seventh-year boys’ dormitory. Instead, she stormed through it, which led to Theo swearing and quickly pulling his boxers up, since he was in the middle of changing into his school clothes. “For fuck’s sake, Pansy! Knock, why don’t you?”
“Why? It’s not like you have anything I want to see,” she retorted, looking him up and down disparagingly.
Blaise walked out of the attached bathroom with a towel slung low on his hips. He sauntered over to Pansy and gave her a kiss. “Good morning, sweetheart.”
Pansy looked meaningfully at Draco’s empty bed and Blaise shook his head infinitesimally.
Unfortunately, their byplay wasn’t lost on Theo, who was now buttoning up his shirt. “So, Pans, come to track down your errant friend?” he asked with a knowing look at the bed.
“I came to see my boyfriend,” she stressed.
“Sure, sure, I believe you. It’s not like you haven’t spent the past eight years running after Draco.”
Pansy glared at the brown-haired boy and turned to Blaise. “Do you know where he is?”
“No, he must have got up early and gone up to breakfast already,” Blaise said, but with an intense stare that Pansy easily deciphered as meaning that Draco hadn’t slept in his bed.
Theo snorted behind them. “He hasn’t been back all weekend. And you can drop the codes. I’m not stupid. He’s slept away from home a few other nights as well. I take it he’s convinced some poor girl to take pity on him and pander to his needs. Let’s just hope he hasn’t had to use Imperio on her. He’s dragged Slytherin House through enough mud.”
Pansy stalked towards Theo, enraged. “Shut up, Theo! Start spreading rumours about Draco using Imperio on anyone and I’ll hex your measly balls off.”
Theo cackled with laughter. “Please tell me that angry response doesn’t actually mean it’s true.”
“Of course it’s not,” Pansy snapped defensively.
Theo looked amused. “I can’t believe he’s managed to get himself a girlfriend. She’s probably some poor Hufflepuff he’s terrified into shagging him.”
Pansy narrowed her eyes menacingly at him. “Get out, Theo. And I mean it: if I hear anything about you talking about Draco’s absent nights, I’ll make sure the Nott line dies out with you.”
Theo looked at Blaise. “Put her on a leash, Blaise. She’s a bloody menace to society.”
Blaise inspected his fingernails casually. “If you feel the need to hide behind me, Theo, I’ll ask Pans to play nice and leave you alone.”
Theo flushed. “I’m not scared of her,” he sneered.
“Of course you aren’t,” Blaise replied, blatantly amused.
“I’m not. I’m just fed up of trying to get in the room to find you’ve locked it so you can shag her. Salazar’s rod, if Draco starts doing that, I’ll go to Slughorn and inform him about the pair of you.”
“Stop being bitter because you can’t get a girl,” Pansy said dismissively. “Now run along, Theo. The adults need to talk.”
He shot Pansy a filthy look before stomping out the room and slamming the door. “Always a pleasure, Theo!” Pansy called in a faux sweet voice. The muttering from the other side meant he heard her.
“So he hasn’t returned all weekend?” Pansy asked, turning her attention back to Blaise.
He pulled his trousers up. “Nope,” he said, grabbing his shirt and sliding his arms in. “Not even to get a change of clothes.”
“You haven’t seen Granger around, have you? Not even at mealtimes?”
“Nope, and I’ve actually looked for her.”
Pansy smiled at this admission. Blaise usually refused to acknowledge Gryffindors, stating that they didn’t rate high enough to warrant his attention. “I wonder if they’ve finally owned up to their feelings towards each other,” she mused.
Blaise rolled his eyes. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough. If they are dumb enough to be open about it, the ensuing outcry will be loud enough to hear in Australia.”
Pansy shuddered at that thought. “Potter and Weasley haven’t looked too upset. There’s no way that Hermione would spring this on them without any prior warning.”
“Then I guess they are either still doing the boring ‘I like you but I’m too afraid to do anything about it’ thing, or they are dating secretly. Either way, it’s not’s very interesting.”
She pouted at her boyfriend. “It’s not boring. If they are dating then I’m so excited for Draco.”
Blaise groaned, checked his appearance in the mirror one last time, grabbed his bag and Pansy’s hand and dragged her out of the room. “Let’s go and assuage that rampant curiosity of yours.”
---------
She swore as the arm that was encircling her waist tightened in response to all the noise. She sat up, shaking Draco off but the blond just groaned and buried his head under the pillow. Hermione checked the time and swore once more as she realised that she had overslept. She had a vague memory of her alarm clock ringing and Draco turning it off before kissing her sleepily. He was not a morning person.
However, the last thing she wanted was anyone coming into her room. She leapt out of bed and flung the first available clothes on. She then rushed out of her door, careful to keep it closed and rubbed her eyes tiredly as she paused just outside her bedroom. She stopped as guffaws greeted her appearance and scowled at Ron and Harry who were lounging on her sofa.
“Wow, Hermione, I don’t think I’ve ever known you not to be ready for the first day back at school after the holidays,” Ron sniggered.
“Tut, tut Hermione, you could be missing vital revision time by sleeping,” Harry teased.
“Nice jumper. Who does it belong to? Hagrid?” Ron chuckled and she looked down to see that she’d put Draco’s jumper on by mistake. It was massive on her.
“Oh, be quiet! My alarm didn’t go off,” she lied, neglecting to mention that she’d been distracted back to sleep by the snarky Slytherin currently sleeping in her bed.
“Why don’t we let Hermione have a shower and you guys go eat?” Ginny suggested.
Hermione hadn’t even seen her sitting there quietly in the armchair. She threw the youngest Weasley a grateful smile.
“As Hermione has a long way to go before she’s decent enough to be seen in public, that’s a great idea. I’m starving,” Ron said.
Both he and Harry leapt up and headed towards the door. “You coming, Ginny?” Harry called when he noticed that his fiancée had remained seated.
“No, I’ll wait for Hermione,” she said.
Hermione shot the witch a sharp glance but her friend waited for the two boys to leave. “I haven’t seen you since Teddy’s party,” Ginny commented.
“Yeah, I’ve been revising,” Hermione said a little vaguely.
“Hmm…with Malfoy by the looks of it,” Ginny said, standing up and revealing the blond’s cloak underneath her. “Good job I got in here before either of the boys. If he’s going to stay over, either change the password so we can’t visit you by surprise or make sure you leave nothing of his lying around.”
Hermione flushed in embarrassment at being caught out. But it was nothing compared to the bright red she blushed when Draco opened the door and waltzed out in just his trousers. “Granger, if you’re going to steal my clothing, at least have the courtesy to let me know beforehand.”
She looked pained and shamefaced towards Ginny who was staring at the blond in disbelief. “Er… Sorry, it was the first thing I found.”
“Can you transfigure it into a Slytherin shirt for me? I don’t have my uniform up here and I don’t have time to stop by my dorm before lessons start.”
“Sure,” Hermione squeaked, very aware of Ginny’s censorious stare.
The blond disappeared into the bathroom and the sound of the shower soon filled the silent common room.
“Are you sleeping with him?” Ginny asked in a disapproving voice.
“No!” Hermione shrieked. “Well, yes, I’m sleeping with him, but no we’re not having sex.”
Ginny wiped a hand across her forehead in mock relief and Hermione regained her equilibrium. “I can’t believe you asked me that!”
“He just walked out of your bedroom half naked. How could I not ask you?”
“But, still, talk about embarrassing.”
“What kind of friend would I be if I didn’t ask?”
“A less nosy one!”
“I’m nosy because I care. Although I can’t believe I just saw Draco Malfoy without a shirt on.”
Hermione giggled. “He does look good, doesn’t he?”
Ginny tried to look disgusted but the truth won out. “This goes against everything I was brought up to believe in, but, yes, that is one good looking Malfoy.”
“Hands off, Weaselette. I told you the other day that there’s nothing I can do if the Chosen One can’t hit the spot.”
Ginny glowered at the smug looking Slytherin. She refused to blush at being caught saying he was hot. Hermione on the other hand felt that she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. She was not prepared for him to stumble out on conversations like that.
“Princess, if you want to make it to Potions, you need to move your arse.”
She saw the time on the clock above the fireplace and squeaked. She was running so late.
Hermione missed breakfast. There was no way she was able to get herself into gear to make it down to eat, as she was still a little jittery about the close call this morning.
She sorted Draco out a Slytherin uniform of sorts. He complained bitterly that the snake on the crest of his shirt wasn’t right but Hermione shut him up by saying that if he could a better job then he should feel free to give it a go.
She couldn’t help but smile as he kissed her thoroughly in front of Ginny before disillusioning himself and disappearing out of the portrait hole.
“He loves to rub it in, doesn’t he?”
Hermione gave Ginny an enquiring look. “You know, the fact that he has you. He made such a song and dance about snogging you in front of me just then.”
“It’s still all very new to us.”
Ginny looked amused. “And it is Draco Malfoy. Have you ever known him not to brag?”
“We better go,” Hermione said, catching sight of the time and keen to end the conversation.
--------
“Pansy’s not happy with you,” the smooth voice of Blaise said next to him.
Draco dragged his eyes away from Granger and turned towards his housemate. “Why?”
“Try because you’ve been gone for the whole weekend and you know how she hates losing track of you.”
“You can reassure her that I haven’t been lying face-down in some ditch out in the Forbidden Forest.”
“Oh, it wasn’t hard to guess where you were.”
He narrowed his eyes at Blaise. “How about you tell me where I was if you’re so knowledgeable?”
Blaise scoffed. “Please, Draco, it’s fairly obvious to anyone with a brain that you’ve been shacked up with our esteemed Head Girl all weekend. The fact that both of you managed to miss all meals, and the sickening display of puppy dog eyes you just made towards her doesn’t make it at all difficult to guess.”
He scowled. “If I’m that predicable then why is Pansy annoyed?”
“It’s Pansy. She hates not having all the latest information.”
“I’ll let her interrogate me at lunch.”
“Oh, and a word of warning: Theo’s noticed your absence. He’s assuming you’ve got a girlfriend. He did have a charming theory about you using Imperio on a girl. Although, looking at who your girl is, it’s more than possible.”
“Fuck off!”
Blaise smirked. “You have to admit, you are an unlikely couple.”
Draco just glared at Blaise.
“I think Theo’s thinks you’re sleeping with a Hufflepuff,” his friend continued.
“As if I’d sully my hands with a Hufflepuff,” he sneered.
“I remember you saying the same thing about Muggle-borns not that long ago.”
Draco had never been so pleased for Slughorn to start the lesson. He didn’t want to remember all the things he’d said about Granger in the past. It didn’t make him feel good about himself. It seemed that Blaise’s purpose this year was point out all the reasons why he should be staying the hell away from Granger. He turned his head to the right once more, watching her. He couldn’t end it, though. She was the one thing in his life that had him positive at the moment. Things had started to look up the moment she had stuck her nose in his business and he was selfish enough to not want to walk away from that.
He smiled as he watched her scribble furiously on her parchment. Her hair was coming loose from her hair-band and was starting to cloud around her face, the way it always did in the damp air of the Potions classroom.
Draco was pulled from the pleasant exercise of staring at Granger by the scramble of everyone getting up from their seats.. He turned to the blackboard to see that they were to practice making the Draught of Living Death. It was probably a good thing; it had been two years since they’d made it in their sixth year.
He leisurely got up and sauntered over to the supply cupboard and smirked wickedly as he realised whom he was standing behind. He stood closely behind her and chuckled as she tensed when he ran his fingers down her spine. He took advantage of a brief push from behind him to press himself up against her and put his hands on her hips. Her breath hitched and came out in rapidly shallow bursts. Deciding to rile her up further, he pretended to stumble and ducked his head, which allowed him to kiss her neck, nipping it briefly before soothing the bite mark with a lick. She was so tense in his arms; he thought she was going to snap.
“Draco! Stop it!” she hissed at him.
He flexed his hands against her hips and couldn’t help but feel proud at the shiver that wracked her body. “You know you don’t want me to,” he whispered in her ear.
“Someone could see!”
Before he could answer a hostile voice intruded on his fun. “Get away from her, you creep!”
He looked past Granger’s hair to see the hostile stance of Weasley. He had his wand drawn and aimed at Draco.
“Jealous, Weasel?”
“Get your disgusting, Death Eater hands off her NOW!” Weasley yelled.
Draco knew that now was not the time or the place for a prolonged confrontation. He was also aware that Granger would be angry if he angered her friend any more than he already was. He made a show of slowing removing his hands, making sure he lingered. The Weasel King’s face was puce by the time he stepped back from the brunette.
He shook his robes out before her leered lecherously down at his witch. “Just let me know when you fancy playing with the big boys, Princess,” he said with a wink.
He sauntered over to the shelves and picked up the ingredients he needed. Weasley and Granger hadn’t moved - they just stared at him. He winked and blew Granger a kiss before strolling back to his table.
Hermione was in a state of shock. She couldn’t believe Draco had done that and in front of Ron. He was living dangerously indeed. What if Ron had seen him kiss her neck? There was no way he would believe that something wasn’t happening between the pair of them. She bit her lip; was this the moment she was going to have to tell her best friends about her boyfriend? She had planned on it being done in as calm a manner as possible in her common room late one night. Not in the middle of a Potions lesson, where anyone could hear the blowout.
“I’m going to kill that bloke,” Ron muttered.
Hermione glanced up - he looked incandescent with rage. “It’s okay, Ron.”
“No, it’s not. How dare he think he can molest you?”
Hermione needed to figure out some rapid damage limitation. At some point she was going to have to come clean and it wouldn’t do for Ron or Harry to think Draco was some pervert who was sexually harassing her until then. “He was winding you up. He was pushed from behind and stumbled into me. I would have fallen over had he not caught me.”
Ron stopped and looked thoughtful at this. She was pleased to note that she could think so quickly on her feet. Besides, it wasn’t a complete lie.
“He didn’t need to be so intimate about it.”
“It’s Malfoy. As soon as you shouted at him, he had to do something outrageous.”
He frowned. “I suppose.”
“Please don’t make a big deal out of it. I really don’t want any more fights this year.”
Ron nodded at her and they left the supply cupboard. He didn’t look happy, though, and scowled at Draco as they went back to their table.
“What happened? You’ve been gone for ages,” Harry said.
“Malfoy was being a git,” Ron growled.
“How?”
“He had his arms around Hermione and was being all sleazy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Harry, ignore him. He’s being melodramatic. Malfoy caught me and stopped me from falling over.”
Harry narrowed his eyes at her and she groaned mentally. So he was still suspicious about Draco’s motives. Granted, he was right, but Hermione wished that he would trust her. If she didn’t want the Slytherin to touch her then she wouldn’t allow it. She’d hex him into the middle of next week. Harry could be too overprotective and often forgot that she had stood by his side throughout the war and would easily be able to handle one failed teenage Death Eater.
“Stop it, Harry. Both you and Ron need to remember that I am more than capable of holding my own. I do not need two bodyguards.”
Her best friend at least had the shame to blush. “I know. I worry that someone will take advantage of you. He could easily overpower you.”
“In the middle of a Potions lesson?”
“Just be careful when patrolling, please?”
“I always am, Harry.”
“He called her ‘Princess’, too,” Ron butted in just as she’d thought she’d laid the topic to rest.
Harry looked over at Draco and then back towards Ron. “I think he has a thing for Hermione.”
She cringed slightly. This was not going her way. Harry was too perceptive at times.
Luckily, Ron wasn’t. “Ha!” he guffawed. “Good one, Harry. This is Malfoy - as if he’d have feelings for a Muggle-born.”
Hermione joined in Ron’s laughter but noted that Harry looked far from convinced.
----------
“What the hell was that about earlier?”
He just smirked down at her. “Something wrong, Princess?”
She grabbed his arm. “Ron nearly caught you kissing my neck. Do you really want to have a big revelation in front of the whole Potions class?”
Hermione was pleased to see the smirk disappeared off his face. She decided to emphasis the point to her nuisance of a boyfriend. “Harry is already suspicious enough of your intentions towards me and it doesn’t help when Ron goes back to our table, going on about you molesting me.”
He scowled at that. “As if I’d need to molest you! Just because that’s the only way that Weasel-bee can get a girl.”
She huffed and put her hands on her hips. “Is that all you are getting out of this conversation?”
He rolled his eyes at her. “Okay, okay, I get it. Keep my hands off you at all times in public, lest pratty Potter and his brain dead side-kick get all antsy.”
Hermione groaned. “The three of you are going to be the death of me. Is it too much to ask for you try and be civil when talking about my friends?”
“Was Merlin a wizard?”
Hermione sighed. That was what you got when you decided to date Draco Malfoy.
|
I was in absolutely no mood for this. I was angry, furious, beside myself even. Whatever you want to call it. There were simply not words enough to describe how pissed I was when my alarm went off, buzzing in my pocket and sending me shooting back to Earth, at the exact moment I was about to touch the stars. I must have dented the button in the elevator with the force of which I jammed my fist into it, letting out a cry of frustrated misery as the doors closed and took me away.
Had my hands been steady enough, I’d call Hange and cancel. I would call or text and tell them no, not tonight. My place is with the Corporal, more now than ever. I should be with him.
That’s the thought that prevailed over all as I slunk into the back of the cab.
I should be with him, and no one else, tonight.
A dream, if anything. The first part was all very fine, it was the second bit that was ultimately an issue. I didn’t fucking care anymore, it was probably all blown to smithereens anyway. After the courage it must have taken for him to go that far, for him to feel comfortable enough to take that step… I was certain that, without the interruption, his sweet kiss would’ve still been lingering on my lips. Instead, I tasted only the bitterness of nothing.
God fucking damnit.
If I lived in a fantasy realm, I’d still be at the apartment. Or, I’d be dashing out the cab and running back, to appear breathlessly at his door. From there, we would hesitate briefly, exchanging looks, processing what was happening.
Finally, he would begin to tell me that he thought I had left, that I had someone else to see. And I would take his cheeks between my shaking palms, shaking my head from side to side and tell him to shut up. He would look offended, and I would kick the door shut behind me, and as he walked backwards a few paces and I forwards, I would finally get his kiss, ending all further protesting. We would kiss tenderly, then passionately, fiercely. He would be shy at first, then slowly melt into me.
I imagined it all vividly, every painful detail of the reality that the alternate universe version of myself was now probably living (you know, the one who has all the fun while I’m forced to make rational decisions). The other version of me would wake up in the morning with the Corporal snuggled against his chest, after an endless night of lovemaking, a lopsided smile on his face.
That bastard other me had it all, was lapping it up, while I was stuck in this damn cab, the miles between us building.
My chance to run back there was long gone. I made my choice, and there was nothing left for me to do but to stick with it. If my father had been around, I’m sure he’d tell me some kind of line like, “This is what being an adult requires, son”. My tongue swirled over my teeth, settling angrily on the roof of my mouth as if to block me spitting any words out.
Like being an adult mattered.
I wanted to be a child again, to do the things I wanted to do, to not worry about big concepts like consequences .
I looked at my phone, the pitch black screen reflecting my sour expression, a single thought pushing through my mind. With a swipe of my thumb the screen lit up, the same old photo of me and Armin smiling replacing my current bitterness. Within a few seconds I’d typed out what I wanted to say.
In the following minutes, I’d erased it and rewritten it more times than I could count. Frustrated, I changed it yet again. No matter how I worded it, it never captured my true feelings, always sounding weak and pathetic. Why was it so damn hard to get my point across to him!?
“Hey, you gonna get out now or you spending the night in the back of my cab?” The driver’s gruffness made me look up, and I realized we were outside the swanky hotel of Mr. Smith’s choosing, the same one as last time. Slipping my phone in my pocket, I apologized and hastily got out. It was time to shelve my feelings, slap on my work face, and suck dick.
Just as I was thinking this, I stepped into the hotel lobby, to find myself greeted warmly like an old friend.
“I was hoping you’d stop by.” Mr. Smith got to his feet, striding effortlessly to meet me as I walked through the door. I was grateful not to be left at the mercy of the receptionist this time around, but his immediate presence was a little unnerving. I wasn’t used to being met on my way in. “Come, right this way.”
Without batting a lid, he extended an arm around my shoulders and guided me towards the elevators.
“It’s good to see you again,” I said, wondering if my fake smile was enough to make up for the flatness of my words. I flashed it up at him as we waited for the elevator, summoning every ounce of enthusiasm I had to stop me turning tail and fleeing. “You missed me?”
The elevator pinged, and out stepped two stuffy looking men. One of them looked at me, as if with recognition, but the moment passed and so did they.
Mr. Smith gestured for me to enter first, and I stepped in, him close behind me. He only answered me when the doors closed and we sped towards the prestigious upper floors of the hotel. “I’ve been more than eager to spend time with you.”
The earnest lilt of his voice made my heart twinge. I looked up at him, observing the thick set of his jaw, the onset of wrinkles around his mouth and eyes. He had a kindness in them, wrapped in a hardened shell though it was. I got the impression he was letting his guard down with me, letting me intrude further than the others he may have in his life. There was something in the way his shoulders relaxed the farther to our floor we climbed, the way the downward curve of his mouth inched upwards, that made me convinced he was letting his metaphorical hair down.
When his gaze met with mine, I offered a genuine smile, and leaned into him. If I prided myself on being professional, I’d better get my ass in gear and act like there was nowhere else in the world I wanted to be – even if there was somewhere very in particular that I would give my right arm to be.
“Let’s make the most of it.” I gave his arm a squeeze, and held on even as the elevator doors pinged open and we stepped out. Though it pained me to do so, I put my feelings for the Corporal back into a box, and buried it deep enough not to see it resurface for the next hour or so.
I belonged to Erwin Smith.
My hand clawed at the headboard, finding the edge and holding on as my knuckles turned white. I didn’t care that they were slamming into the wall. It was a slight nuisance, and one that I barely registered as Erwin fucked my ass for all it was worth.
My legs were hooked over his shoulders, toes curling as his cock found my sweet spot with a jarring irregularity. I quickly found that it was working wonders for me, a pleasure roulette, the jackpot almost within my reach. He could tell, too, that I was close. I glimpsed through heavy lids the smirk on his face, hearing the breathy chuckle escaping into the frenzied air between us.
I wanted to slap him, and for a brief second I sincerely considered going through with it. Some guys liked that, you know. I didn’t think Erwin was one of them, however. My hand stayed on the headboard, the other winding down my chest to my cock.
Fingers curling around my length, I lewdly began to pump myself, opening my eyes wider to hold his gaze. He grunted, repositioning his hips only to drive into me harder, faster.
“Fuck…!” I whispered, unable to help myself.
I felt tiny beneath him, his hulking frame engulfing me entirely, and there was something erotic hidden within the way it made me feel.
His forceful thrusts moved the bed easily, and me along with it. My head was rattling, my legs shaking. I couldn’t hold onto any single thought like this. Fragments of concepts that never fully developed, they disintegrated out of my mind without recognition. Which was why, as I tried to speak, my words were disjointed and equally as fragmented.
“Ah… good… want…” What was I even trying to say? That this was a good fuck, that he was good, that I wanted more? Did either of us even hold the capacity for more?
He chuckled once more, his hair tickling my face as he looked down at my hand, still feverishly stroking at my cock. “Are you going to come, Eren?”
“Nhn-!”
“Come.” He spoke in a commanding tone, the kind that made me shiver. The kind that made me want to close my eyes, but only partially, as somehow I knew he wanted me to see him as I climaxed. He kept a steady rhythm now, each thrust pushing me closer to the edge.
“E-Erwin…!” With a shameless cry of his name, I came – hard . My cock went into spasm, shooting my load as far up as my chest, a stream of white laced with the sweat across my skin.
My vision blurred as the whirlwind of contractions racked my exhausted body, squeezing every sensation out of me until there was nothing left for me to give.
Erwin wasn’t quite done yet. He bent down, pressing his weight into me and crushing my mouth with his intense kiss. I felt the air in my lungs compress, and I could hardly breathe as he enclosed around me, bouncing his hips into mine as he worked up to his own orgasm. I could feel him inside me, deeper than deep, releasing with a satisfied groan that I swallowed completely.
I shuddered hard as he pulled out of me, my body feeling empty after spending so long being filled by him. He pulled the condom off, rolling onto his back with a heavy sigh. He propped himself up on the pillows, hands bent behind his head. I, on the other hand, barely managed to peel myself off the headboard. I couldn’t move. He’d ground me into the mattress, the shape of my body to forever remain engrained here.
“I know I said let’s not waste time,” I began, noticing my throat was dry, “and you certainly didn’t-”
“I didn’t hurt you at all, did I?”
“No.” Not that I knew of, yet. I’m sure when I try to stand, I’ll feel it then. “I’m glad to see you took my advice from last time.”
“You gave good advice, it would be foolish not to adhere to it.”
“Have things… improved for you, since we last saw each other?”
I asked, but I couldn’t say why. I guess I cared for the guy, in some respects.
He thought over his answer, licking his lips to moisten them as he spoke. “He’s… more distant than ever.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I wanted to roll into him, to offer him physical comfort, yet as I moved I felt the stickiness clinging to my torso. Gross. “Ah, tissues....”
“Here.”
I took the box of tissues held out to me, tugging a few loose and mopping up my mess. There was an embarrassing amount - I guess I was rather into things, too, despite my mood coming to the appointment. With my mess cleared away and the tissues discarded on the bedside cabinet (the cleaners could have fun with that), I was finally free to to nestle into him, my ear pressing to his chest. I listened to the sound of his rapid heart as it began to ebb into a normal beat, and traced idle patterns through the tufts of hair on his chest with my finger.
He hummed in the back of his throat, an appreciative, albeit sleepy sound.
“He’s stubborn, in his own way, and rude.” Erwin’s voice vibrated in his chest, rumbling into my ear. I felt his words punctuated into my mind. “Not many people like him.”
“He’s that bad? Then why do you like him?”
He laughed, and I felt like the storm was on top of me. “There’s something about him.”
“Everyone says that.” I wrinkled my nose. Was I any different to him? Could I realistically judge him? I was helplessly in love with a moody ass guy, too.
“It’s not just that. He’s misunderstood, his character is easily misunderstood. People don’t take time to get to know him.”
“Seems kind of sad, for you both.”
“It is. But I have lived with this feeling long enough, I can carry it longer.”
“Well, Mr. Smith,” I patted his chest, pushing myself up from the bed and onto very wobbly legs, “It’s about time I got home.”
The mattress creaked under shifting weight. “I love watching you move.”
I peered over my shoulder, to the sight of Erwin on his side, head propped on one hand, eyes fixated on me.
“You’ve certainly come out of your shell.” I mused, sauntering around the room for my discarded clothes. I was sure my pants ended up around here, somewhere…
“It’s as I said. I took your advice to heart. I can be as sad and miserable as I like outside these four walls. Everyone needs someplace to have peace, if only for a little while.”
My leg was halfway into my pants. I stopped, looking up at the somber expression on his aging face. It shadowed over his handsome features, an ominous presence. “Does he know?”
“He knows.”
“Then he’s an asshole.” Blunt.
It was true, if blunt.
The way this guy was being treated - it wasn’t fair. I barely knew him, yet I could easily vouch for his sincerity. Any man - or woman - would be lucky to have him. To keep him yearning all these years was sickening. It made me angry.
I slammed my leg into the remaining pant leg, and roughly yanked them up my legs. I swiped my shirt off the back of the couch, smoothing it over my body. I’d shower as soon as I got home. I knew if I stayed here much longer, I’d jump on the bed and blow him, if only because I felt like alleviating some of his emotional pain. I doubted it would even kiss the surface of it, instead it would make me feel like I was doing something, at least.
I patted my pockets. Phone, keys, wallet. Payment. Everything was in place.
There was one thing left to do.
Hips swaying, I approached the bed, where Erwin lounged on his back. The sheet was pooled around his waist, hiding nothing. The smell of sex was thick in the air, a lascivious aroma we’d created together. His hair, normally neatly locked in place, was a complete mess. I’d had my fun, dragging my fingers through it every which way as he fucked me. He never complained. Looking at my handiwork now, I couldn’t help the smile tugging on my lips.
“Well, Mr. Smith. See you next time.” Leaning on the bed, I planted a sloppy kiss on his lips. When his tongue rolled over mine, I moaned pleasurably, almost letting him pull me back in. I know he wanted to go a second time, but the time was up. I was already guilty of breaking rules for the Corporal, it is not something I should make a habit of.
Dragging myself off his lips, I headed for the door, giving one last lingering look. “Next time.” I closed the door behind me.
Alone in the hallway, I leaned on the wall, a moment of recluse indulgence now that I wasn’t serving up a fake personality to someone. It was hard work, pretending to be the carefree, no-problem hooker. A guy like Erwin, a talker, only made my job harder.
When his problem was worryingly like my own, it was even more difficult to stay detached. I don’t think I’m the best person to be seeing him, even if Hange insisted on it. I texted them now the appointment was over, and was hobbling into the elevator when their reply came.
Hange He adores you. Whatever you’re doing, it’s working for him. Thank you, Eren. Now, get your ass home safely!
I scowled down at my phone, willing the letters to reshuffle into a more comfortable sentence. Something along the lines of, “You did well, that’s all that’s needed. I have someone else for you!”. Hell, anything besides what they actually wrote would do.
Oddly, I recalled feeling a similar way about the Corporal. There were times I didn’t want to see him, that I would have begged Hange not to make me return to him. Now, you couldn’t pry him from my cold, dead fingers.
I couldn’t let Erwin be my problem. He wasn’t my problem. Not now, not ever.
That fucking whistle. If it blew one more time, I was going to go over there and fucking smash the damn thing into a thousand pieces.
“Come on, Yeager! You can do better!” The teacher bellowed, strolling casually across the field in my direction. I was honestly not afraid to use my fist on them if they got too close, and their taunting walk towards me was only provoking me further. I knew the situation was bad, I didn’t need them riding my ass the entire lesson and making this shit worse. I knew it wasn’t good, I knew that when I looked up and saw Armin several meters in front of me. I was hanging, every step near agonizing to take. And this asshole was making me run . I swear to god, I’d take the last of my energy to run in his direction and end his days of blowing into a fucking whistle.
“Eren.” Armin hovered over me, wiping the sweat from his brow onto the back of his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“Don’t… ask…” I panted, struggling to stand straight. I’d been bent over, hands on my knees. The position didn’t alleviate my problem but it was better than running. Fuck running.
“...Did you-”
One look up and Armin’s lips closed. The color of his cheeks told me he understood what was going on. Yeah, I didn’t need to spell it out, thankfully. We were still finding our way on this conversation, that’s true, and neither of us were ready for the explicit knowledge to be shared. He did not need to know a handsome older man, approximately twice my height and age, had pounded me into a luxury mattress for over an hour last night. No one needed to know that. It felt good at the time, too, though I was surely paying for every single thrust now.
Obviously I forgot, in the midst of enjoying myself last night, that I would have my sore ass hauled through this torture today. Trust me when I say I’d be on the phone to Hange later - I think they’d find it hilarious, so on second thought, scrap that.
“The lesson is still another twenty minutes, are you going to make it?” Armin asked, jogging alongside me.
“I should have… ahh… stayed home.” Oh, I ached. I’d check my asscheeks and hips for bruises later, there has to be some. Part of me was pleased to see Erwin was enjoying himself. My ass was not one of those parts, not today. Last night it was.
I’d gone home and showered for far too long, the water hot enough to burn my skin. It wasn’t my intention to remain that long, it just sort of happened that way. I got lost in my thoughts, and once there, couldn’t find my way back out. I was full of bad choices last night and I was paying back every single one of them tenfold.
Armin was my savior through it. Seeing him next to me made me feel a little better, and I pushed myself harder, hard enough that the asshole with the whistle backed off, anyway.
“I need to talk to Hange.” The lesson was finished, and only me and Armin remained in the changing room. I stuffed my gym clothes into my bag unceremoniously, and slung it over my shoulder. “These Wednesday appointments are way too taxing.”
“With exams around the corner, that’s a wise choice.” Armin agreed, and I groaned at the E-word. Time was running out for me, I really had to get my shit in order.
Or flunk school entirely, and become a full time hooker, until my body burned out. I could probably earn enough by my thirties to retire…
I was better than that. I was going to get some grades. I promised too many people, including myself.
“Keep me on the righteous path, okay, Armin?”
“I wouldn’t ask for the impossible.”
|
-- / 10 / 2016
“Alright.” Jihoon overheard Seungcheol when he left his office, curiosity taking the best of him as he made his way to the kitchen.
Around the rectangular table sat the leader, Jisoo, Soonyoung, Mingyu and Seokmin. Seungcheol had a yellow notepad in front of him and a pencil in his hand. He could spot a few things he had jotted down, though Jihoon couldn’t read them from where he stood. Seungcheol’s horrible handwriting didn’t help either. If it wasn’t for the lack of people, Jihoon would’ve assumed they were planning a job without him.
“Mingyu will make the seaweed soup, and I will go with Jisoo to get the cake.” The leader continued, making Jihoon even more confused now as he stood by the doorway. They hadn’t even noticed him there.
“I can go with Chan to get the fog machine.” Soonyoung volunteered, his eyes turning into thin slits as he smiled.
“We’re not getting a fog machine, I told you.” Seungcheol frowned.
“But how can we have a birthday party without a fog machine?” Soonyoung complained, his lips forming a small pout.
“Hyung, most people have parties without a fog machine.” Seokmin reasoned, and to that Soonyoung seemed to surrender.
“Fine fine, but we’re getting the Just Dance, right?” Soonyoung tried instead, eyes a bit more pleading now. Instead of 10:10, Jihoon would say they looked more like 4:40 now.
“You’re the only one who likes dancing so much.” Mingyu pointed out.
“I think it’ll still be nice.” Jisoo added then, making Soonyoung light up once again. “Even if most of us don’t dance, it could be fun.”
“Alright, Soonyoung can go get the game.” Seungcheol granted, throwing his fist in the air celebrating his small victory. Idiot.
Jihoon was pretty caught up now on what they were doing now. After all, there was only one of them who had their birthday in October. He was surprised, however, with all the secrecy.
“Is there a reason only half of you are in on this?” The hacker finally asked out, making everyone else look at him in shock. He could’ve sworn he saw Seokmin almost jumping in his seat, too
“Dude, announce yourself?” Mingyu frowned a bit.
“It’s not my fault you have no idea what’s going on around you.” The shorter pointed out, crossing his arms. “What’s with all the mystery?”
“We’re planning a birthday party for Jeonghan-hyung.” Seokmin replied brightly, his smile shining a bit too much. “A surprise party.” He added in a tone that implied it was a naughty secret
“A surprise party?” Jihoon raised a brow, leaning against the doorframe. “For someone who spends 90% of their time in this apartment?”
“Well, we’re still figuring out the details.” Mingyu defended with a pout, Jihoon smirking at his innocence.
“Good luck with that.” Jihoon snickered, though Seokmin was soon calling for him again.
“You can help us too, hyung!” The younger suggested, though Jihoon was soon frowning at that.
“Why would I? That sounds like work.” His nose scrunched up at the thought. Sure, he cared for Jeonghan and all that shit, but planning a birthday party? Not really up his alley.
“May I remind you that you love work?” Soonyoung pointed out with a smirk, getting a glare in return. Whose side was him on? Never mind, Jihoon should know better than to assume Soonyoung would take his side on this.
“Actual work. Not party planning.” He corrected the other. “Work that I should get back to right now.”
“We don’t have any jobs yet.” Seungcheol smirked. Crap, sometimes he forgot he was the leader.
“Well, I like to be prepared.” Jihoon lied through his teeth, and it was clear no one bought it. Unfortunately, Jihoon wasn’t a great actor.
“You can take him out and distract him for the day.” Jisoo suggested, and he looked innocent, but Jihoon knew too well he was sure of what he was doing. “Can even take Seungkwan with you.” The curves of his smile turned up, revealing his mischievous ways. That little shit.
Jihon groaned, shaking his head. “No, no way. I can’t take an entire day of them.”
“Pfft, you love them.” Soonyoung waved him off, and oh how Jihoon wished he could give him a piece of his mind right now.
“It actually would help a lot.” Seungcheol agreed, making Jihoon groan yet again. Damn his curiosity. “It would buy us a lot of time to get the apartment ready.”
“I never said I’d help.” He pointed out with a huff, though he knew it was a lost cause by now.
“Too late, you’re helping.” The eldest smirked, jotting writing something down on the yellow paper. “And don’t spill anything.”
“I won’t.” Jihoon rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the doorframe. “I’d be more worried with that one.” He nudged his head towards Seokmin.
“Why me?” The younger whined, disappointment showing in his tone and frown.
“You’re a terrible liar.” Jihoon pointed out what to him was nothing more than the obvious truth.
“He’s got a point.” Mingyu agreed before his friend could protest. Jihoon didn’t stay longer to see if he would, anyway.
Instead he headed back to his office, wondering how the hell he’d entertain a Jeonghan and a Seungkwan for a day without losing his mind. So far he had no idea.
——
-- / 03 / 2017
A lot of things had changed since returning home. More things that he could’ve predicted, really. Sure, Jun knew he wouldn’t go back to training right away. Not to mention he had to take meds, continue physical therapy, all that jazz that made his routine quite different from before.
However, all that he had already expected. What he didn’t expect was the other little, random things. Like how when they put on an action movie, they always looked at him when the shooting began, as if to make sure he was alright. Or how they always avoided playing the more violent games when he was around. It wasn’t bad, far from it. It actually made him feel nice, to know all of them cared about him so much.
Jisoo had warned them that he could have some negative reactions towards certain things, that it was okay and normal, and he shouldn’t be afraid to tell them when it happened. Yet it didn’t happen. Jun didn’t feel bad watching those movies, or even playing those games. They had been doing that years before anything happened, and he knew it wasn’t related. They were just fiction, fake. Things they did for fun.
So he figured maybe he was okay, maybe that wouldn’t happen to him.
“You know you can ask either of us for help, right?” Seokmin asked as they watched Seungkwan half climbing on one of the kitchen counters, trying to reach the top of the fridge, where someone had so nicely placed the cereal.
“No! I need to prove that I can do this own my own.” The younger replied grumpily, though he was clearly failing.
“But you can’t.” Jun pointed out, hiding a smirk behind his coffee cup as he watched Seungkwan from behind.
“What if all the tall people are out and we need to fend for ourselves?” Seungkwan continued, looking back at him. “We need to learn how to reach things.”
“Or you can just climb on Jihoon-hyung’s back.” Dino suggested from the kitchen table, sitting next to Hansol.
“Pretty sure that would get us all killed in a second.” Hansol reasoned, and Jun had to admit he had a point there.
“Not to mention I probably still wouldn’t reach anything.” Seungkwan muttered, making the Chinese boy snicker.
“You’re lucky he didn’t hear that.” Jun grinned, watching as the other began stretching out again to get the cereal.
“Almost, there–“ Seungkwan grunted, getting one foot off the ground while his other knee was on the counter, his hand trying to grasp the light blue box yet almost knocking it down. “AHA!” The boy cheered, finally grabbing the cereal and raising it triumphantly.
“Congratulations. You just took ten minutes to grab a box of cereal.” The irony dripped from Chan’s voice, causing Seungkwan to turn back with a frown.
“Listen here, you little hormonal pubescent brat–“ Before he could finish though, the angry boy lost his balance, and Jun rushed over to make sure the genius wouldn’t fall over.
And he didn’t. Well, he fell on Jun, knocking his coffee over him and properly ruining a perfectly nice shirt. But they were okay, sort of. They should be okay.
However, right now, Jun couldn’t really process anything. All he felt was the coffee, drenching his chest, hot and wet and making the shirt cling to his skin. The familiarity of it was almost suffocating, and it took him a moment to realize someone was talking to him.
“Hyung!” Jun blinked over at the boy in front of him. He looked a bit scared, worried, eyes a tad too open and brows just a bit too close together. “I said I’m sorry. Are you okay?”
“Uh? Yeah, I…” The taller one looked down, realizing his shirt was in fact drenched, but of a light brown. For some reason, he was expecting something else. He looked further down then, noticing the shattered cup on the floor. Had he dropped that? Jun looked around, noticing the others’ concerned looks as well now. He felt cornered, and hot, still very hot. And drenched.
He nodded once or twice, wetting his lips. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just… I’m gonna go change.” He nodded yet again, stepping back.
“Wait, let me help–“ Seungkwan reached out for his wrist, and without thinking, Jun was pulling back quickly.
“No!” He let out, a little louder than he intended. The older gulped, hurting from the look of fear in the other’s eyes. He didn’t want to scare him, or any of them. “I’m sorry.” He mumbled, looking around at them. “Thanks, I’m.. I don’t need help, it’s okay.” He nodded once again before leaving to the bedroom.
He couldn’t really understand what was going on, why his heart was racing so much and why his ears were ringing. The first thing he did when he got in the room was take off that damn shirt, almost ripping it in the process before throwing it as far away as he could. He then grabbed the closest thing he could find, an old hoodie he wasn’t sure who it belonged to, and he didn’t care.
Jun wrapped it around himself, closing up the zipper and pulling up the hood before sitting on his bed with his back against the headboard, pulling his knees in as close as he could. He didn’t know how long he stayed like that before he heard the door open. He looked up, half his face hidden behind his knees as he watched Seokmin approach him.
“…Is Boo okay?” He asked softly, fearing he had hurt the boy in some way.
The younger nodded, sitting down in front of him with one leg still hanging off the side of the bed. “He’s alright, he’s just worried.” He smiled warmly, and Jun already felt a rush of comfort just from seeing that smile. He didn’t know how Seokmin did that.
“I’m sorry.” Jun mumbled, hiding a bit more behind his knees.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about, hyung.” Seokmin insisted, though his smile remained the same. “Something happened back there, didn’t it?” He asked, reaching out yet hesitating, as if questioning if it was alright.
Jun nodded, he wasn’t sure what for, but Seokmin rested his hand on his knee anyway, giving a bit of his warmth. “I don’t know what, though.” The older admitted, looking down.
“That’s okay.” Seokmin reassured him, rubbing the spot under his knee a bit. “Do you remember when it happened?”
Jun blinked a couple of times, trying to make sense of that. When? It wasn’t when Seungkwan was getting the box, he was fine then. It wasn’t when he fell either, Jun caught him just in time.
“I don’t know.” He sighed, fingers curling up a bit where they wrapped around his legs. “It’s the coffee.” He admitted, brows frowning a bit in confusion.
“The coffee?” Seokmin asked, sounding a bit surprised.
“Yeah, just, it scared me. I don’t know why.” Jun licked his lips, working the scene over again in his head. For some reason, talking about it helped him understand, kind of. “It was really hot, and wet, and it just kept sticking to me and suffocating and it felt like…” He breathed in, not realizing he hadn’t taken a breath yet. “It felt like blood.” He finally realized, looking up at the younger.
It was the first thing he had felt, that night. It wasn’t the pain, the fear, the cold. The first thing he felt after hearing those two shots was the warmth, seeping out of him and onto his skin, sticking to his clothes and clinging to his chest.
“I got scared.” Jun whispered now, his nose twisting a bit and brows furrowing close. He was still scared.
Jun saw the other coming closer and he put his knees down, not fighting as the younger pulled him into a hug. He felt stupid, pathetic, being held like a baby just because he was scared of a little bit of coffee. Yet he couldn’t let go. He hid against Seokmin’s chest, trying to keep his breathing steady and not make this into an even more pathetic scene, if possible.
“What you’re feeling is normal, hyung.” Seokmin mumbled, rubbing his back gently. “What happened was really scary. We’re all still scared. And our bodies, they get scared too.” The younger explained. “When you feel something that reminds you of something really bad, it goes into a weird emergency mode and pulls all the stops.”
It was a weird explanation, but it somehow made sense. Seokmin always had a way of doing that. Coming up with weird analogies that they usually made fun of. But it did help, sometimes.
“Shua-hyung warned me it could happen.” Jun admitted with a sigh, pulling back and fixing his hoodie. “I just never thought it would be coffee. I mean, I was fine with everything else. Why coffee?”
“It doesn’t need to make sense, hyung. Sometimes it’s just, a combination of a lot of things that reminds us of something bad.” Seokmin smiled softly.
“Yeah, but coffee?” Junhui frowned. “How pathetic is that?”
“It’s not pathetic at all.” Seokmin looked as serious as he sounded. “Everybody has fears. After something like that, you can’t judge your own fears. And this is coming from someone who’s scared of ladybugs.” The younger pointed out with a contagious grin, allowing Jun to chuckle a bit in return. “Plus, look at Hansolie. He’s the chillest guy in the world and he still gets anxiety attacks.”
“I guess…” Jun nodded a bit. It was hard to accept it, as it was hard to understand anything right now. But he’d make an effort, for them and for himself. “But does that mean I can’t have coffee again?” The older pouted a bit. He really liked coffee, okay?
Seokmin laughed softly, shaking his head. “I’m sure that’s not the case, hyung. Our minds work in mysterious ways, we just need to figure out what really bothers you. As long as you don’t hide it from us, we can help you get better.”
“Thanks, Kyeommie.” Junhui smiled softly, honestly feeling much better now. It was as if he could finally breathe, taking in as much air as he could. “You’re gonna be a great doctor.”
“Thanks, hyung.” The younger smiled warmly, and Jun felt some sort of accomplishment after seeing the glint in his eye.
The moment was soon interrupted by a loud crashing noise though, making the two of them look at the door.
“Seungkwan?” Junhui asked, wondering what the younger could’ve tried to get now.
“I’ll go check.” Seokmin sighed, though Jun was pretty sure he was just upset he hadn’t seen it happen.
——
2015
“Aaaahh…”
Jisoo raised his head from his book at the inhuman sound he heard, looking to his left to see Vernon falling face first onto the couch. The older boy had to hold back a chuckle, finding the boy’s annoyance a tad bit amusing. Hansol wasn’t one to get annoyed easily, after all. He had to enjoy the little moments.
And that made him wonder if Jihoon was maybe right, Jeonghan was becoming a bad influence on him.
“Bad day?” Jisoo asked, though the only thing he got in reply was a mumbled answer muffled by the cushions, given the younger didn’t bother looking back. “I don’t speak couch, you know.” The older teased, smiling a bit as Hansol turned on his side to face him, a frown between his brows and a slight pout forming.
“Bad week.” The other repeated, shifting and making himself comfortable with a pillow beneath his head and another between his legs.
“Something up?” Joshua raised a brow, genuinely a bit concerned now.
“Nah, just people being stupid.” Hansol sighed, turning now onto his back. Maybe he wasn’t comfortable before. Given it was Hansol, Jisoo wasn’t really surprised. The boy had a bit of a problem with staying still.
“I thought you liked hanging out with Soonyoung and the rest.” Jisoo teased, grinning when he managed to get a smile from the other.
“It wasn’t them, they’re fine.” Hansol explained with a slight fondness to his tone. “That kind of stupid doesn’t bother me.”
“Which does, then?” Jisoo wondered, putting down the book onto the coffee table before sitting back once again.
“Just…” The younger sighed, wetting his lips. “Do you ever feel like, people don’t think you belong?”
Well, Joshua couldn’t have said he had seen that coming. He blinked a couple of times, wondering where that had come from. Still, he nodded a bit, humming a small note in agreement. He knew that feeling a bit too well.
“I went to the street market and half of them thought I was a tourist.” Hansol explained, pushing his hair back. “And that’s like the third time that happened this week. I swear to god, there was an old lady that kept running away from me saying she didn’t speak english. While I was speaking Korean.”
Jisoo snorted, knowing that story all too well. He couldn’t say that hadn’t happened to him either a time or two. Thankfully Hansol didn’t seem hurt, given he looked quite amused himself.
“Did you ever get that?” Hansol wondered, looking back at him now.
“More than I care to admit, to be honest.” Jisoo nodded with a small smile. “Though it happened more when I was at school. Kids can be terrible, you know.” Given he grew up in the States, he didn’t exactly look like most of his classmates.
He felt a bit guilty by the way Hansol’s expression shifted into one of concern, with his wide puppy eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s fine.” Jisoo chuckled, shaking his head a bit. It really was fine. “It’s far behind me now, don’t worry.”
With a warm smile, he was glad to see Hansol believed him, biting his bottom lip and looking up again. The younger was so easy to read compared to most of the others, it was almost refreshing in a way.
“But I get what you’re saying.” Jisoo continued, shrugging a bit. “When I was back home, it was like I was too Korean. Then I got here and I wasn’t Korean enough.” It felt almost weird to say that, he felt like he was complaining too much. He knew he had it easy compared to other people, but it still bothered him, making him feel lost.
“Yeah, exactly!” Hansol exclaimed, grabbing the pillow under his head and sitting up to face him. “Like, what am I supposed to look like, then? I can’t choose how I look.”
“Yeah, I asked myself that a few times before.” Jisoo chuckled, feeling some sort of weight he never knew was there leaving his shoulders.
“I feel like asking other people that sometimes.” Hansol put it with a grumpy huff, though it was soon followed by a smile.
“Oh, I almost did.” Jisoo admitted with a smirk. “But I didn’t wanna get an F, so I decided to shut up.” It was after a teacher’s comment, and even though he knew the guy didn’t mean much by it, it still bothered him. Yet he chose to stay quiet rather than to stir up confusion.
“Ain’t that shit.” Hansol chuckled, not managing to avoid the pillow that now flew towards his face.
“Language.” Jisoo reprimanded with a slight frown.
“I’m like nineteen, you know.” Hansol pointed out, throwing the pillow back.
“You’re still one of the youngest.” Jisoo insisted, though if he were to tell the truth, there was maybe a small chance he only censored them for the fun of it. Just a slight chance.
“I thought we were having a brotherly moment here.” Hansol claimed, though his pout convinced no one.
“If we were brothers, you’d still be younger than me.” Jisoo smirked, noticing the boy was hiding a smile of his own as well.
“Show off.” Hansol muttered, hitting the pillow in his arms a couple of times to soften it.
“You can come to me though, you know?” The older wet his lips. Not only did it feel nice to be there for the other, but it felt just as nice to share with someone who understood. “Like, when this is bothering you.”
The younger seemed to blink at that, smiling small. “Yeah, I know.” Hansol sighed, ruffling his own hair a bit. “I just wish I didn’t have to.”
“Believe me, me too.” Jisoo smiled softly. “But this kind of stuff happens. I don’t know, maybe it won’t anymore at some point, but while it does… I’m here.” He shrugged, hoping the offer wasn’t in vain.
The younger smiled a bit more brightly then, nodding lightly. “Thanks, hyung.”
Joshua nodded as well, returning his grin too before leaning over and grabbing his book from the coffee table again.
“I’m here too, you know.” Joshua was a bit surprised by that, looking up from the pages to see Hansol flashing him another soft smile before pushing himself up to make his way to the kitchen.
Jisoo felt a wave of warmth hitting him, nodding more to himself than to the other. “Thanks, Hansolie.”
——
-- / 03 / 2017
It was late when Seungkwan got back home. Nothing unusual, of course. His shift ended about an hour ago, and he was only able to leave after cleaning up and changing. When he got there it was almost four in the morning, so Seungkwan tried to be quiet.
The younger boy was taking off his shoes when he noticed a light on in the kitchen. Wondering if someone had left it on, he made his way over to the room, peeking inside. It was then that he saw Seungcheol eating a plate of cookies with a cup of milk.
“Hyung?” Seungkwan called softly, hanging his messenger bag on one of the chairs after approaching the other. “Everything alright?”
“Oh, hey.” Seungcheol smiled small, looking up at the boy. He looked restless, round eyes dropping a bit. “Yeah, just getting some midnight snack.”
“Cookies?” Seungkwan raised a brow, pulling a chair and sitting down across from him.”Wait, aren’t these Hansol’s cookies?” He recognized the silvery blue packaging.
“I’ll buy him more later.” Seungcheol waved the other off before sliding the cookies closer to the middle of the table. Seungkwan doubted that was true, given the leader had a habit of taking things and forgetting to return them, but he was pretty hungry too. With a shrug, he grabbed a cookie as well, biting into it.
“You know,” He spoke after swallowing. “I’m starting to think no one sleeps in this apartment.” It wouldn’t be the first time he found at least one of them up at this hour.
Seungcheol snickered, dunking the cookie into the milk before taking another bite. “Can’t a guy get a midnight snack in peace?”
“Not at 4 in the morning.” Seungkwan reasoned, grabbing another cookie and dunking it in as well. “Kind of late for that, hyung.” He pointed out before eating the sweet, licking his lips as some of the milk threatened to run down his chin.
Seungcheol smiled a bit bitterly before sighing then, pushing back his brown hair. Seungkwan saw it again, the tiredness, but he waited for him to speak. “Can’t sleep.”
“I figured out that much.” The younger smiled softly, finishing the moist cookie.
He knew he just had to be patient. It was odd, in some ways. Seungkwan was one of the youngest, yet not long after he joined, Seungcheol often chose him to rely his feelings to. Not that it bothered Seungkwan, in no way whatsoever. If anything, he liked it. Seungkwan would be lying if he said he didn’t like helping people, especially his friends. Especially someone like Seungcheol, who already did so much for them.
“I keep having nightmares.” The leader pursed his lips, stopping his meal for a moment. “You know, about…”
“Jun?” Seungkwan asked, feeling a bit guilty himself. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had his share of nightmares, either. Seungcheol nodded, looking to his left. “What are they like?”
“Sometimes it changes, but it’s usually the same thing, you know?” Seungkwan listened closely as he explained. “I’m running and running, for what feels like hours, and when I get there, there’s just… Blood, everywhere.” The older gulped, seemingly taking a moment to pull himself together. “And there he is, along with Minghao, just like we found them. And no matter how fast I run, it’s all the same.”
Seungkwan bit his lip, nodding lightly. “I have them too.” Seungkwan admitted, his voice softer than he’d thought. “Not the exact same, you know, just… Him hurt, in the car. And Mingyu driving while I try to take care of him, but he keeps driving and driving and never gets there.”
The younger pursed his lips. He can see Seungcheol is looking at him, but his own eyes are aimed down at his now empty hands, fingers picking at his own cuticles. “But there’s a part you’re not telling me, isn’t there?” He asked, looking back at the other again.
Seungcheol blinked at that, his own fingers twitching a bit on top of the table. Seungkwan knew that wasn’t all. That would bother Seungcheol, yes, but not to this point. There was something more.
“There’s not, I mean…” Seungcheol sighed, chewing at his bottom lip as he looked away from him once again. “It’s my fault.” He mumbled softly, almost to the point Seungkwan couldn’t hear. But he did.
“Hyung…” Seungkwan brows furrow together, the pain in his chest only increasing.
“That’s what they always say in the dream. Sometimes it’s Minghao, sometimes Wonwoo, Jihoon, even you.” The eldest smiled sadly, eyes glistening yet still not shedding a tear. Seungkwan doubted he would. “It’s your fault, hyung. How could you do this?” He repeated as if he had memorized it by now, letting down a dry chuckle and looking down.
“But it’s not your fault.” Seungkwan gulped, reaching out to squeeze one of his hands.
“I’m the leader, Seungkwan.” Seungcheol frowned, though he didn’t pull his hand back, so Seungkwan took that as a good sign. “I’m responsible for you.”
“You’re not responsible for our mistakes.” Seungkwan argued, though he kept his voice soft.
“It was my mistake, too. I let him go in there. If I had gone–“ Seungcheol tried, but the younger chuckled in return.
“Then what? It’d be you on that stretcher instead of him? It’d be you I’d have to stitch up?” Seungkwan pointed out, not noticing the frown between his own brows until he took a deep breath, trying to relax. “It wouldn’t be any easier on me, hyung. Or on us.”
Seungcheol nodded, licking his lips. Seungkwan felt him relaxing as well, and hoped he was finally getting into his head.
“He was the best choice, the right choice to go in there right then.” Seungkwan reasoned, pressing his lips together. “We underestimated our enemy, and that was our mistake. But this wasn’t our fault. It wasn’t your fault. And I can assure you no one thinks it is, either.”
The leader smiled small, though it seemed a bit more cheerful now. “Thanks, Boo.” He nodded a bit once again, squeezing his hand back. “You think you can tell that to my subconscious?”
Seungkwan hummed, pushing himself up to lean over across the table and speak a bit loudly into the leader’s ear. “It’s not your fault, idiot.” He held back a laugh as the leader hit him, pulling back quickly though not sitting down.
“Yah, I’m still your hyung, you know.” The eldest frowned, though Seungkwan only shrugged, drinking the rest of the milk before putting the empty cup in the sink.
“I was only trying to help.” Seungkwan hummed, smiling a bit as the other put away the rest of the cookies in the pantry.
“Yeah, sure.” The leader frowned, though he seemed a bit more rested, or less conflicted. Or maybe Seungkwan was just too tired and seeing things. Wouldn’t be the first time.
“Now I really need to get some sleep. I’m running on 20 sleepless hours here hyung and it’s not fun.” Seungkwan whined a bit, making the other chuckle.
“Yeah, yeah, I should try too.” Seungcheol showed a soft grin, following the other out of the kitchen and turning off the lights on their way out.
“You’ll be alright?” Seungkwan questioned, stopping in front of his shared bedroom.
Seungcheol paused for a moment, then giving him a small nod. “Yeah.” His smile grew warmer. “I’ll be alright.”
——
04 / 10 / 2016
Everything was going according to plan. They had gotten a cake that was bigger than necessary, all the snacks everyone liked, including that weird soda Hansol seemed to be fond of. Even Wonwoo couldn’t complain about the food.
Soonyoung and Chan had installed the Playstation 4 with whatever dance game they got playing in the background. Jun and Minghao had helped decorate the place, with half of it looking quite stylish and even a bit too much like a tumblr aesthetic post, while the other half… Well, Seungcheol liked to think Jun had tried.
Still, it looked good. Homemade, a bit messy, but happy. And now they all just waited in the dark, having gotten a text from Jihoon not five minutes ago saying they were close. Seungcheol next to Jisoo with an envelope in his hand. They looked at each other in the darkness, smile still visible on his lips, yet disappearing when the door knob began jiggling. A sign that someone was trying to open it, given they always had to jiggle it a bit to get it to work.
“Quiet, quiet.” Seungcheol whispered to the others, Seokmin lighting the candles on the cake Minghao held. Mingyu wanted to hold it, but they didn’t want to risk any accidents. “Everybody, prepare.”
They all nodded, watching as light seeped in from the hallway and they could hear the distinct whining of Seungkwan’s. “That claw machine was clearly biased against me!” The younger complained, making the older two chuckle.
“No one could ever be biased against you, Kwannie. You’re too cute.” Jeonghan’s voice was as clear as day as he turned on the light. “Plus–“
“Surprise!” Everyone let out together, or almost, they still needed to work on their sync. Still, it was good enough once they spotted Jeonghan’s wide almond eyes and his lips slightly parted.
“What?” The dark haired looked around, trying to understand what was going on.
“Happy birthday!” Seungcheol announced with a wide smile, Minghao holding the cake a bit more towards the other.
Jeonghan laughed lightly, the way he always did when he felt a bit lost. Or when he lied. Sometimes it was hard to tell which was which. “What is this?” The second oldest smiled, pushing his hair back as he looked at the others. His eyes then fixed at the cake, seeming to finally put two and two together.
Before he could ask anything else though, the rest of them were already beginning to sing a jumbled mess of ‘Happy Birthday’, with Jeonghan chuckling in the middle of the crooked circle. Once the song was over, he held his long fringe back to blow out the candles.
“Ah, you guys, seriously…” The birthday boy chuckled, receiving hugs all around.
Seungcheol waited, watching. It filled his heart, seeing the other happy like this. His smile almost too bright to be true, eyes glinting with happiness and a bit of… Something else. Something familiar. Even the curve of his smile. It almost looked as if he was a bit… Smug. Seungcheol was only seeing things, surely. Why would he even be smug? It was just a surprise party…
It was then that Seungcheol gasped loudly, pointing at Jeonghan who was now hugging Seungkwan tightly. “You knew!” He accused loudly, making everyone else look back at him in disbelief.
“What?” Jeonghan blinked, innocence taking over his features. “Cheol, what are you talking about?” He let out a light chuckle, and it was now Joshua who gasped.
“You did!” The youngest of the three accused, and Seungcheol figured he also recognized the small telltales of Jeonghan. One of them being that little damn chuckle.
“Guys, what are you saying?” Seungkwan frowned a bit, looking at the two. “We were with hyung all day, there was no way he knew.”
“Hyung, is this true?” It was Seokmin who asked now, looking between the three oldest.
Jeonghan blinked again, and Seungcheol had no doubt he could convince a damn polygraph. “Well, I…” He licked his lips, and soon a smirk played on them, his eyes now becoming sharp and playful. Seungcheol was right. “Sorry.” He giggled, shrugging.
Everyone else moaned in complaint, Minghao almost dropping the cake. “Who the hell told him?!” He questioned, though his eyes were already aimed at Seokmin.
“It wasn’t me!” The other defended, raising his hands in front of himself “I was careful!”
“He’s telling the truth, I was with him whenever hyung was around.” Mingyu nodded, protecting his friend.
“Jihoon?” Seungcheol frowned. He was the most annoyed with all of this after all, and though he doubted Jihoon would spill, he also knew he loved messing with them almost as much as Jeonghan. Plus, he sold out easily.
“Don’t look at me.” The younger scowled. “You really think I’d spend a day with those two willingly?”
“Hey!” Seungkwan complained at that, clearly offended.
“It wasn’t anyone.” Jeonghan announced with far too much mirth in his voice. “Chill, I found out on my own.”
“But we were so careful.” Jisoo complained, slightly whined.
“Sorry.” Jeonghan at least sounded a bit apologetic once he noticed Jisoo’s disappointment. His grin hadn’t left him, though.
“When did you even find out?” Chan wondered, his upper lip doing that thing when he was confused where it was slightly crooked upwards, as if a thread was pulling it up.
“Not long!” Jeonghan admitted, as if that would help make them feel a bit better. “Like uh, a week ago, I think?”
“That’s when we started planning it!” Seungcheol whined, shoulders slumping in defeat. “What the hell, that’s not fair!” He huffed, Jeonghan looking happy once again as he approached him.
“Just face it Cheollie, you can’t swindle a swindler.” Jeonghan smirked, patting his cheek lightly.
“So this was all in vain?” Soonyoung pouted, Seokmin and Seungkwan matching his sad posture.
“No, no!” Jeonghan shook his head quickly, pity written on his face as he turned to the three. “Everything looks so good, and you made a party for me! How could it be a waste?” He smiled warmly, clapping twice. “Come on, let’s get this party started already.”
The three seemed to cheer up once again at that, quickly hurrying to the kitchen to grab the snacks and drinks. Minghao followed then a bit grumpily so they could start cutting the cake.
“You could’ve told us you knew it.” Seungcheol mumbled as Jeonghan turned to him and Jisoo again, the smile on his face now warm though a bit teasing as always.
“And miss that face of yours? Never.” Jeonghan snickered as Seungcheol tried hitting him with the envelope. “Plus, you guys seemed to be going through so much work, I don’t know.” The second oldest shrugged. “I didn’t want to ruin that for you.”
Seungcheol softened at that, knowing that despite the playfulness, Jeonghan was speaking the truth. Even when they were doing something for him, he was looking after them. Idiot.
“You do realize we went through double trouble trying to hide it from you?” Joshua pointed out, though the smile on his face was enough proof that he wasn’t angry.
“But it was so much fun watching you all squirm around.” Jeonghan giggled, shielding himself now from hits that came from both sides. “Fine! Fine, I’m sorry. Anyway, what’s that?” He asked as he spotted the light blue envelope, trying to change the subject.
“Not that you deserve it, but it’s a gift.” Jisoo snickered while Seungcheol handed him the folded paper. “This is from the two of us.”
“I know everybody says this, but I mean it. You didn’t have to.” Seungcheol knew he meant it, but it also didn’t stop them from getting him a gift. “Amusement park tickets?” The birthday boy wondered as he held the tickets, looking up at them again with a bright smile. “That’s awesome, when are we going?”
Seungcheol looked back at Jisoo to give him a small nod. “We hope you’re free next Friday.” The youngest of the three answered, looking back at an even more confused Jeonghan.
“Guys, this is great, but…” Jeonghan looked into the envelope again, to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. “There’s only two tickets here.” He chuckled lightly.
“Like he said, we’re hope you’re free next Friday.” Seungcheol repeated, not being able to bite back his smile. “‘Cause that’s when Sungyeon can go.”
Jeonghan’s eyes widened at that, his fingers almost dropping the tickets. He looked between the two, confusion and hope taking over every line in his face, making Seungcheol’s chest squeeze.
“Does this mean… But I thought–“ The younger couldn’t find his words, looking like a deer caught in headlights. It was one of the few times Seungcheol had actually managed to catch Jeonghan by surprise, and while usually he felt either smug or accomplished, now he just felt happy.
“We pulled some strings.” The leader explained. He knew they should be avoiding contact with family, but at the same time he felt like he needed to do this for him. He hadn’t seen his sister in months, it wouldn’t hurt them to make a small exception. “It’s been three months, anyway. Things are settling down.”
“But, I–“ Jeonghan gulped, looking down at the tickets before looking up at them again, his nose and ears becoming a bit red while his eyes glistened. “Do you mean it?”
“Happy birthday, Hannie.” Jisoo smiled warmly, both of them chuckling as Jeonghan now hugged them tighter than he usually did.
“Thank you guys, seriously, thank you. Thank you so much.” The second eldest sniffled, Seungcheol wrapping an arm around his and Jisoo’s back and squeezing them lightly.
“You deserve it.” He mumbled softly, rubbing his back.
“Are the three saps gonna want cake or not?” Minghao yelled from the kitchen, ruining the moment yet making them laugh at least.
Jeonghan was the first to pull back, rubbing at his eyes a bit before bearing a bright smile, looking back at Minghao who poked his head out from the kitchen. “Of course I want it, it’s my birthday!”
“Well then get here already or Jihoon hyung is gonna eat it all.” Minghao muttered, Chan quickly rushing to the kitchen as well.
“I want some too!” Seungcheol’s younger brother called as he made his way to the kitchen, though he was soon pulled back by Jeonghan, who had a far too playful grin on his face.
“Dino…” He sang, Chan’s eyes turning into saucers.
“No, no, no!” The boy shook his head quickly, reaching out for Seungcheol. “Hyung, save me!”
Seungcheol snickered, crossing his arms. “It’s his birthday, you’re on your own.”
“Dino,” Jeonghan repeated, holding the boy closer to him with an arm draped over his shoulders. “Whose baby are you?”
——
To no one’s surprise, when Mingyu had said the only one interested in the dancing game was Soonyoung, he had been right. Not that others hadn’t joined in. Jun had played quite a few times, and Minghao clearly got a bit too competitive with Dino. Even Hansol and Seungcheol had gotten decent scores. The rest of them had given it a try, but it was mostly just for the fun of it, given their scores weren’t exactly something to be proud of.
Soonyoung, however, had barely gone a round without playing. The boy was sweating buckets by now, panting like a tired dog, yet he was still playing with Chan. Jihoon had given up long ago, spread out and taking over half of the couch, watching the two. The party was less a party and more a ‘hang out with more food than usual’ at that point, with everyone else either sprawled somewhere or going for what was possibly their 5th round of cake.
It was when he felt himself bouncing a bit on the couch that he noticed Seokmin flopping down next to him, raiding a bag of chips. Jihoon didn’t pay much attention to it, looking back at his friends dancing in front of the TV. It had been years since he’d last seen him dance, a small smile unknowingly forming on his lips.
“Hyung’s really good, huh?” Seokmin mused out with a gentle grin, still watching the two while Jihoon glanced at him.
“Yeah.” Jihoon hummed, turning his head back at the two. “I thought he’d be rusty, but he’s as good as always.” The older admitted, only because he knew Soonyoung wasn’t listening.
“He was this good back then too?” Seokmin wondered, a bit surprised sounding now. Jihoon remembered then that Seokmin, like most of them, had never seen Soonyoung dance. Not properly, at least.
Jihoon chuckled, nodding a bit. “Yeah.” He looked back at him. “I know I say the dance videos are embarrassing, but that’s mostly ‘cause his outfits were ridiculous. He was actually pretty good.”
“Really?” Seokmin looked back at him, a smile and a glint in his eyes that revealed the curiosity behind them.
“His stage name was Hurricane Hoshi.” Jihoon grinned as the other chuckled. “Yeah, I know, ridiculous. But we were kids, so.” Though he was pretty sure if asked now, Soonyoung would probably choose that name again.
“We?” Seokmin blinked, sitting up a bit better and offering him the bag of chips. Jihoon gladly took a few, shoving them into his mouth. “You danced too?”
“No, no.” He spoke with his mouth full, taking his time to swallow it all down before speaking again. “I played.”
“Played what?” Seokmin asked, the curiosity growing in is voice. Jihoon would perhaps admit then that he understood what Jeonghan meant when he said Seokmin was a kid. Maybe.
“The piano.” Jihoon licked the salt from his lips. “Though I was learning to compose too. That way we could be like a team, you know?” The older explained with a small smirk. “I’d make the music, and he’d dance.”
It had been ages since he had last thought of that, and he wondered if the same could be said for his friend. He wasn’t sad, though it was a little bittersweet. Those were good days, though laced with bad days as well. Moments he didn’t wish to bring back. They were pretty dreams, but only dreams.
“Did you have a name?” Seokmin blinked again. “Like a stage name? Hurricane Hoshi, so Jihoon… Joyous Jihoon?” The younger wondered, getting a incredulous look in return.
“Joyous?” Jihoon repeated, wondering how Seokmin would even come to that.
“…Yeah, now I see it would be confusing.” The tall boy chuckled, shaking his head. “But really, did you?”
“Yeah, but it was just Woozi.” The hacker shrugged, grabbing another chip. “Soonyoung came up with it.”
“Wait, he made up ‘Woozi’?” Seokmin asked, sounding even more surprised.
“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you.” Jihon raised a brow, soon shrugging once again. “It’s some weird acronym he made up, but it sounded nice, so I figured I’d use it as an alias or something for the hacking.” Most of them had nicknames for the intercom anyways, in case someone found a way in.
“Huh.” Seokmin nodded a bit, Jihoon almost chuckling at his expression. It was as if he was in his first day of school, learning about everything around him. He found amusement in such small things. “Did something happen?”
“What do you mean?” It was Jihoon who blinked now, confused by the boy’s question.
“I don’t know, it seemed like you guys had so much figured out.” No, they hadn’t. Not one bit. “How come it never turned into anything?”
“I don’t know, Kyeom.” Jihoon sighed, looking back at the boy dancing in front of them. “I guess it just didn’t turn into anything. They were just young dreams, you know? At some point you wake up.” He knew it sounded cold, but it was just the way it happened with them. Sometimes things worked out, sometimes they didn’t. “He stopped dancing, we started looking into other things, things just… Changed.”
Jihoon felt king of bad when he spotted the bit of sadness in the other’s eyes. He himself wasn’t sad, not really. Disappointed? Maybe a little bit, but you could never predict where things might go, which roads you could take. You could only keep moving. And that's what they did, they kept moving.
“When did he stop?” Seokmin asked, making him look back at the younger again.
“Uh?” Jihoon blinked.
“When did he stop dancing?” Seokmin wondered, raising his brows.
“Oh.” Jihoon licked his lips, glancing at the TV once again. “When they sold my piano.”
That, he didn’t like thinking about. Because that always got him in a spiral of guilt and self doubt. Soonyoung never had to stop dancing because they sold his piano. He didn’t have to stop just because Jihoon had to. Yet he did. Soonyoung said it wasn’t his fault, he just wasn’t into it anymore, didn’t see the point. It still didn’t help to silence the little voice in Jihoon’s head saying Soonyoung gave up something he loved just because Jihoon had to.
“I’m sorry, hyung.” Seokmin pushed his brows together in that way that made his entire face seem too soft for a guy his age. How could anyone be upset at him?
“It’s okay, Kyeommie.” Jihoon smiled softly, reaching out to pat his head lightly. “It’s in the past now. We’re fine.” Jihoon concluded, looking back at the other two who seemed to never get tired.
They were still together, they had people who cared about them, even if Jihoon sometimes neglected that, and Soonyoung was dancing again. They were fine.
The present was much better, anyway.
|
“Thanks for helping me with this,” Ashe said to Caspar as they settled the last box in his new apartment. All the excitement of moving to a new place had quickly left as they brought more boxes up, and knowing that he now had to unpack all of these made him want to join Linhardt in the corner of the living room and curl up into a sleeping ball. Really, Linhardt had been useless during the whole process, but at least Ashe’s cat seemed happy to curl up next to him for a nap.
“It was nothing,” Caspar said, flexing as if moving boxes had just replaced his morning workout for the day. It probably had. “Do you want us to help with anything else?”
Ashe glanced out the window. “Nah, I can unpack the rest of this. I know you two have other things to do today.”
Caspar gently nudged at Linhardt with his toe. “Alright, but if you got any problems, call and I’ll be here. It’s not a long ride.”
Ashe smiled. “I know. Thanks.”
Linhardt gave a loud yawn, startling the cat right into Caspar’s hands.
“Oh, I’m gonna miss you so much,” Caspar said to the cat, pressing its nose to his and talking in a baby voice. “Yes, I am! I’m gonna miss you
so
much, Loog!” Ashe sighed, wishing he got half the fanfare of a goodbye that his own cat did.
Linhardt got up and stretched, rolling his eyes at Caspar’s antics. “Come on Caspar, put the cat down.”
Caspar’s sentences had devolved into incoherent mush as he slowly put Loog back on the ground. He grabbed Linhardt’s hand as they walked toward the door.
“See you around,” Linhardt said.
“See you guys,” Ashe said.
“And don’t forget!” Caspar chimed up. “That if anyone gives you trouble here, I’ll take care of them.”
“I know,” Ashe said, smiling weakly.
I will make sure to call you if I want to be thrown out of my apartment in the first week.
He waved to them as they left, and then it was just him and Loog to sort through his boxes.
Well, it wasn’t going to sort itself, and he kind of liked being able to organize everything into the proper spot. The apartment wasn’t particularly large, but he was excited to have a space all his own. He was going to miss his siblings of course, and it was a bit sad that he would no longer pass Caspar and Linhardt’s houses every morning, but this was a step towards independence he had been wanting to take for a long time.
Plus, he really liked having a balcony.
Loog brushed up against his leg, peering up curiously with bright blue eyes. No doubt hungry already. He pulled out the cat dish and food from a nearby box and set it up for him. He couldn’t blame him, Ashe was starting to feel a bit hungry, too, and he definitely wasn’t in the mood to cook his own meal after all the moving and unpacking. He opted instead to go out and eat to save himself the time and get a better view of the town.
When he opened the door, he was greeted by two people in the middle of walking down the hall; one familiar and one not. He blinked in surprise.
“Ingrid?” he said. She had been walking with a taller handsome man with messy red hair that he didn’t recognize at all.
“Ashe? You
live
here?”
“Um, as of today, yes. I told you I was moving, didn’t I?”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, you did! I just didn’t think you’d be here of all places. What a small world!”
“Um,” said the guy with her, tilting his head in confusion. “It’d be rude to just leave me out, right?”
“Oh, sorry. Ashe, this is Sylvain.”
“Hi,” Sylvain said, offering out his hand. His handshake was quite firm. “I heard about someone moving next door. How do you know Ingrid?”
“We met online,” Ashe said, leaving out that it had been on a forum for a series of books they both loved. “We’ve video chatted a few times, that’s why I recognized her.”
Sylvain gave a mischievous look to Ingrid and put an arm around her casually. “You two met online, huh?”
Ingrid shoved his arm off. “Stop that, we’re just friends.”
“Of course, of course! I didn’t suggest otherwise, did I?”
Ingrid rolled her eyes. “Anyways. I won’t hold you up, but it was great to see you Ashe! I don’t live in the building, so if Sylvain gives you any trouble just let me know, okay?”
Ashe looked curiously at Sylvain.
He seems nice.
Sylvain cleared his throat. “I’ll have you know that I make a great neighbor, ‘kay? Very courteous and all that.”
“Your dog is more courteous than you,” she admonished.
Ashe tilted his head. “Dog?” It must have been a little one then, since they weren’t allowed any large pets.
“Yeah, she’s the best,” Sylvain said. “Got any pets?”
“Actually--”
Ingrid gasped before he could finish his sentence. “Do you still have
Loog?
”
He smiled. “Of course I do, though he’s getting a bit old.”
Sylvain snorted. “Loog? Really? This is from that book series we read as kids, right?”
Ingrid crossed her arms. “They’re still very good pieces of literature for adults, too.”
“They hold up quite well,” Ashe agreed.
“Anyway,” Ingrid said. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing more you around now.”
“I look forward to it,” he said, and then left them to return to Sylvain’s apartment. Well, that had been a pleasant surprise. Ingrid had been a really valuable friend over the years, even if he had never met her in person before. He hadn’t been able to talk to Caspar about the stories because he never bothered to pick up a book, and Linhardt had lost interest after the first chapter.
He was curious about Sylvain, too. Ingrid had never talked much about her friends, except one named Dimitri who she swore up and down looked exactly like how she pictured Loog, and he had always been curious why. There had been plenty of times where he had ranted to her about Caspar’s temper or Linhardt apathy, and Sylvain seemed like a perfectly normal person.
By the time he got home the sun had long since set and Loog was loudly calling out for him behind the closed door. Barring his cat, the silence of the apartment was unusual to him. Typically his siblings would be coming up to him to happily talk about their day and ask about his before derailing into some other conversation. Now, it was just him and Loog.
Gonna have to get used to that.
At first, things were fine. He slowly adjusted to his new life and made sure to not miss any of Caspar’s calls, lest he wanted him to break down his apartment door in a panic and throw a tantrum about ‘totally being ignored’ with a very tired Linhardt in tow, and generally kept to himself.
And then the shouting began.
Occasionally, he had seen women walk out of Sylvain’s apartment early in the morning while he was on his way to work. It wasn’t really any of his business what Sylvain got up to, and though the thin walls left little up to the imagination regarding what they were doing in there, Ashe refused to let it get to him and was content to ignore it. But the
yelling
was new and definitely annoying.
He laid in his bed, eyes wide open, as the poor woman yelled herself hoarse over something Ashe couldn’t quite make out. A lover’s quarrel? He had never seen the same woman twice come out of that apartment, though. It honestly didn’t matter. Whatever they were arguing over was not worth hearing at two in the morning. He turned to his phone solemnly.
Ashe:
your friend seems to have a lot of company huh
Ingrid:
god im so sorry
Ingrid:
we’re working on that
Ashe:
no, its fine. I kind of hope everything’s okay theres been a lot of yelling
Ingrid:
yeah thats normal hes fine
Ashe:
its
Ashe:
its normal???
He paused as there was a particularly loud thump next door. This was something that always happened? Well, now he was even more concerned.
Ingrid:
i’ll scold him tomorrow promise
Ashe:
its okay
Ingrid:
try to get some sleep :^)
That was easier said than done. Just as he was beginning to doze off he was jolted wide awake by the sound of a door slamming closed. Next to him Loog jumped up, his little cat eyes glancing back and forth frantically. Ashe waited with bated breath for any other sound, but nothing came. Concern ate at him as he tried to go back to sleep, and by the time he fell asleep it was already time to get up and get back to work.
Normally he could keep up a pretty chipper face as a waiter, but the lack of sleep took its toll.
I hope Ingrid and I have different definitions of normal,
he thought sullenly. But no, normal seemed to be the applicable word when the same thing happened next week, but this time with a different woman. Ashe had actually gotten to see her when she stormed out of Sylvain’s in the apartment, and while he appreciated that the argument had happened in the middle of the day, it still was jarring to see her coming out looking like she was ready to reign hell on whoever talked to her. Needless to say, Ashe kept his mouth shut and quickly shuffled into his apartment.
The next morning he tiredly took his cup of sweetened tea out to his balcony to enjoy it with the rising sun. The summer heat hadn’t quite wound itself up yet and the town below hadn’t really started waking up yet. The perfect time, really.
“Hey.”
The voice startled Ashe so bad that he nearly dropped his cup and burned himself with some of the tea in the process.
“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
Ashe looked to his left to see that Sylvain was out on his own balcony, looking over at him with concern. He must have just woken up, because his hair was messy, and the only thing he was wearing was a pair of very comfortable looking pajama pants. Ashe tried not to linger too much on his bare chest, but he noted that Sylvain clearly kept up a workout routine of some sort.
“I just, uh, didn’t notice you there,” said Ashe as he put his cup down on the nearby chair. He really needed to get a table out here.
Sylvain casually leaned against the railing of his balcony. “So, how you’ve been so far? Do you like it here?”
“It’s nice,” Ashe said. And mostly, it was. “Living in an apartment is a change of pace for me though. I’m not used to hearing so… much.”
Sylvain quirked an eyebrow, and the lopsided grin on his face really suited him. “Not liking what you’re hearing?”
The lilt in his voice was enough to make Ashe blush. “N-not when it’s your arguments every other day!” Ashe said quickly before he could imply hearing
other
things from Sylvain’s apartment.
“Oh, but the other stuff is fine?”
“That’s not what I meant! I just think you should have less arguments is all, if you don’t want people knowing your business.” Not that Ashe could blame Sylvain for the yelling. For all that he heard, not once did Sylvain’s voice rise loud enough to carry through the wall. It was mostly the righteously angry women.
Sylvain shrugged his shoulders. “Matters of the heart are a loud and complicated thing, Ashe. Surely you understand, no?”
No!
Ashe grimaced. “I don’t think they normally end in so much anger.”
“Then you haven’t been wrapped up in enough of them.”
That was… fair. The only proximity he had to romance was Linhardt and Caspar, and he hadn’t even realized they were dating until months after the fact. “Maybe not.”
“But I’ll try to keep it down,” Sylvain said. “If you come over some time, I can make it up to you.”
Ashe’s heart leapt to his throat. “Oh, w-what? I-I don’t--”
“I mean since you’re Ingrid’s friend and all, we should get to know each other, right?”
Sylvain had
definitely
paused just so Ashe got the wrong idea and became flustered. “Of course! Because of Ingrid, right.” He hastily reached for his tea just so he had something else to focus on for a moment.
“Well, I look forward to seeing more of you,” Sylvain said. He gave a wave and then disappeared back inside his apartment.
Ashe let out an exhausted sigh. Well, he hardly needed the tea to wake him up now!
“
Ashe,
” Christophe said on the other end of the phone, sounding exasperated. Ashe was standing outside his job on break, staring at the brick wall of the building next door with his phone pressed close to his ear. “
When I called to ask how things are going, I didn’t mean give me a five paged essay on your neighbor.
”
Ashe didn’t personally think he was talking about Sylvain all that much. It just so happened that the most interesting parts of his day, besides weird customers, was his odd neighbor. “Sorry, he’s just, I don’t know, the most interesting part so far.”
“
I can tell you think he’s interesting, that’s for sure.
”
“I’m just saying is all!”
Christophe chuckled. “
I’m teasing, Ashe. But everything else is fine, right? You’re doing okay?”
“Yeah, I’m good. You don’t have to worry about me so much.”
“
Yeah, maybe I should be worried about your neighbor. Hey, if things start getting intense, you can always come home.
”
“I can handle it.” He glanced down at his watch. “I have to get back to work, but I’ll talk to you later.”
“
See ya, kid.”
Ashe hung up and shuffled back inside to finish his shift. He was one of the few waiters working here that could claim he somewhat enjoyed his job. It was a high end restaurant, and the customers could be a little stuffy, but it reminded him of being a kid in his parents’ restaurant and that was enough to keep a pleasant smile on his face through the night.
But it was such an expensive restaurant that the last thing he expected to see was a familiar face at a table he was waiting.
“Fancy seeing you here,” Sylvain said. His date, yet another woman Ashe didn’t recognize, looked at him curiously. Sylvain cleaned up nicely, with his hair combed neatly and a very expensive looking suit on his body. Pretty much the opposite of what Ashe had witnessed on the balcony.
I’ve already seen too much of this man and I barely know him. Is it too late to call Christophe back?
“Uh, hello,” Ashe said, working off his shock. How was it that Ashe lived right next door to his man and worked an average job, and yet Sylvain was able to afford a dinner here? Maybe even a dinner for the both of them! “U-um, I mean, I’ll be your waiter tonight!”
Ashe didn’t try to linger for conversation and quickly took their orders. After all, he didn’t want to impose on his date. Sylvain, on the other hand, seemed to want to start one every time Ashe came back to their table, even if it was just to refill their water.
Doesn’t he care about entertaining his date?
Actually, she looked pretty entranced with Sylvain no matter what he was saying, so maybe it didn’t matter. He wondered how Sylvain met so many new people so easily.
The evening grew later, and Sylvain eventually left with his date, looking only slightly upset when Ashe quickly cut off another attempt at conversation. He did have other people to serve, after all. He picked up the cheque and glanced at the tip. Paused. Looked up to the door to see that Sylvain and his date were already gone.
This is too much,
Ashe concluded after a moment. This was way too much of a tip, especially on top of what they already paid for their dinner. And he had hardly talked to him! He couldn’t rush out and find him, and he wouldn’t dare try to knock on his apartment door tonight when he knew he had a woman in tow, so he resorted to waiting for his shift to end before aggressively texting Ingrid.
Ashe:
I need Sylvain’s number
Ingrid:
what why
Ashe:
He showed up at my job and left this huge tip
Ashe:
He cant possibly have all that money
Ingrid:
ehhh he kind of does
Ingrid:
but i’ll give it to you hold on
Ingrid:
oh and also stop texting me so late at night some of us have normal sleep schedules
Ashe winced. Yeah, fair, he kept bothering her at really late hours, and he knew she was a woman of routine. He stared down at his phone as he took the bus home, unsure of how he wanted to start the message to Sylvain off. Was it appropriate to be texting him when Ashe knew he had someone over? Maybe he would just leave him a message and wait for Sylvain to get back to him in the morning. That wasn’t rude, right?
He decided to send a quick message before he could wimp out and shut off his phone so he didn’t think about it too heavily. When he got into his apartment he could hear muffled talking from Sylvain’s. Ashe had witnessed how much him and his date had to drink, so the loud voices made sense. Loog was even louder, however, demanding that Ashe open his bedroom door so the cat could properly settle into his bed as if he owned it.
Ashe settled down comfortably into his bed, exhaustion from being on his feet all day hitting him like a train. His phone buzzed next to him.
Sylvain:
if you wanted my number you didnt have to go through ingrid, but no, i didnt miscalculate, the tips all yours ;)
Of course he would be someone to use a winking emoji. Still, Ashe couldn’t shake the guilt of being handed that much money.
Ashe:
But it’s really too much. I wasn’t even that entertaining of a waiter.
Sylvain:
consider it my payment for the noise then
Ashe paused and looked up from his phone. He could still hear the woman with Sylvain talking. Was he just ignoring his date now?
Sylvain:
or better yet, let me in on some of that cooking i keep smelling
Ashe:
Oh, I didn’t realize you could smell it from your apartment. I’d be happy to share some! I’m off tomorrow, if you’d like.
Sylvain:
sounds like a date~
Ashe hesitated for a moment. Right, of course, that was just a normal saying. It was probably best if he left Sylvain to
his
date, however, and tried to catch some sleep before he had to worry about having a guest over.
Predictably, Loog was under foot all day as Ashe tried to whip his apartment into shape. Sylvain arrived early in the morning, so maybe his date hadn’t stayed the night.
“Wow, you really did not decorate much,” Sylvain observed as he walked in. He was so tall that he made the space around him seem smaller.
Ashe looked around self consciously. “Oh, um, I guess not.”
Sylvain spotted Loog napping underneath the nearby window, basking in the sunlight drowsily. “That’s Loog, right? Man, I can’t believe there’s someone as nerdy as Ingrid.”
“They’re good books,” Ashe protested.
“I remember bits and pieces,” Sylvain admitted. “Ingrid had everyone reading it when we were kids.”
Ashe began to take things out of his fridge to prepare for cooking. Pancakes were probably a safe bet at this time of day, and he had never met someone who didn’t like pancakes. “So you’ve known Ingrid for a long time then?”
“Yeah, since we were little. She was totally obsessed with those stories. I think some days she wishes she was a knight like in medieval times, even now.”
“I think it’d be cool to be a knight for a day,” Ashe said. “They were pillars of chivalry and justice, and they were always willing to help people.”
Sylvain snorted. “Supposedly. With ideals like that, what are you doing waiting tables at a high end restaurant? You sound like you should be like, I don’t know, in public works.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Ashe said. “But I like my job right now. My parents owned a restaurant, so it feels familiar.”
“Really?” Sylvain watched as Ashe set up the ingredients. “So I’m guessing they taught you to cook.”
“Oh, not really. I just sort of watched and picked it up from there. Um, here if you want to mix this together,” Ashe said as he handed him a bowl of dry ingredients. “Can I ask what you do for a living?” The question had been stuck with him all night.
Sylvain’s face became unreadable as he idly mixed the ingredients together. “My dad owns a big business, so I just work for him. Nothing special.”
It must have been a
really
big business to afford last night’s meal. “That must be nice though, to work with family.” Lonato had offered Ashe a job with Christophe at his own work, but Ashe turned it down. Maybe one day in the future he could take it up, but he wanted to try life on his own for a bit before that.
Sylvain shrugged. “It’s fine, I guess. I don’t exactly have the most, uh, functional family. But hey, you said your parents
owned
a restaurant, right? What happened to it? Is that why you’re working out here?”
Ashe stared down at the whipping cream he was slowly trying to whip up. “Oh, um. They aren’t around anymore. And I don’t know the person that bought it all that well, so…”
The silence was unintended and awkward.
“Sorry about that,” Sylvain said.
“It’s okay.”
Quick, change the topic, before things get even more awkward.
Luckily, Sylvain beat him to it as he glanced around at all the ingredients Ashe had pulled out. “This seems like a lot of effort for pancakes.”
“Good pancakes take effort,” Ashe said with a smile.
“See, I just pull out the box mix, pour some milk in, mix it up and call it a day.”
Ashe grimaced. “But those are so bland.”
“Fair. Probably why I eat out so often.”
You certainly can afford to.
Ashe combined the last of the ingredients and began to cook the pancakes, shaping them into small circles the way he always had done for his little siblings. He served them to Sylvain first.
“Well, they certainly smell way better than the box mix kind,” he noted before taking a bite. Ashe waited pensively for his response. He didn’t consider himself an amazing cook by any standard, but he was the best in his family.
“Dude, this is
so
good,” Sylvain said after a moment.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really! Man, you could probably start your own restaurant with just these.”
Ashe blushed under all the praise. “Thanks. I wouldn’t say pancakes are my strong suit, but I’m glad you like them.”
“Don’t be so modest,” Sylvain said. “Hey, I’m having Ingrid and a few others over this weekend, you should totally help me with like, snacks and stuff.”
He hadn’t seen Ingrid since the first day he moved here, so he nodded his head. “I’d be happy to help out.”
“Great! I’m sure Ingrid will be totally happy to introduce you to Dimitri and Felix. Especially Felix. He’s great.” Sylvain’s smile was genuine, but Ashe could detect a hint of slyness in his eyes. He shrugged it off.
“I look forward to it then.”
Sylvain didn’t linger long after they finished eating, something about a boring meeting he had to get to, and Ashe didn’t see him or hear anything from his apartment until the day Sylvain had his friends over.
Sylvain’s apartment was far more decorated than Ashe’s, mostly sticking to warm colors and abstract paintings, but it was also meticulously clean, which was odd, because Sylvain didn’t strike Ashe as someone who really cared about messes. Ashe could barely get a greeting out before he spotted something much more curious.
“Your dog,” he said as Sylvain closed the door behind him.
“Oh yeah, that’s Angel. Named that because, obviously, she’s a total angel.”
“Sylvain, she’s also totally
huge.
” Where he had expected something small and refined, like a little lap dog, he found instead he was staring at a giant gray and white dog, a Great Dane perhaps, that was lazily laying across the couch and taking up all of it. “I-I don’t get it, isn’t there a restriction on pets that big?”
“There may be a tiny rule on that,” Sylvain said. He placed a hand on Ashe’s shoulder, and his touch was warm and sturdy. “But you’re not gonna snitch, right?”
Ashe shook his head. The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. “No, of course not! But how did I not even notice? I didn’t hear any barking or see you go out to walk her--”
Sylvain’s soft laugh cut him off. “She’s well trained, and I hire someone to walk her. I think you’re just always at work during those hours.”
Ashe blinked, still stuck on the sound of that little laugh, and now the hand that was lingering on his shoulder. Sylvain tilted his head at his silence and Ashe scrambled to come back to the conversation. “Uh, you’re probably right! A-anyway, we should start making the food before your friends come.”
Ashe didn’t like the way his mind lingered on where Sylvain’s hand had been, or how he felt more attentive to where he was in the kitchen as they made mini pizzas together.
Maybe I’m just lonely,
he pondered. Other than a few video calls, he hadn’t really seen friends or family face to face in a while, barring Sylvain. Besides, he
had
to be aware of what Sylvain was doing in the kitchen unless he wanted to bump into him. It was totally normal.
“Mini pizzas were a good idea,” Ashe observed.
“I’ve been prone to a good idea once and awhile,” Sylvain joked. “But it’s really the best way to satisfy everyone. There have been plenty of arguments about food in the past between us all.”
Ashe could relate. You couldn’t please everyone, after all. There was a knock on the door and Angel picked up her head, finally moved from her nap. That dog might have been lazier than Linhardt and Loog combined.
“I’ll get it,” Sylvain said, letting Ashe finish up the last of the pizzas.
From the kitchen, Ashe couldn’t see who had arrived, but he didn’t recognize the deep voice that came from the door, so it definitely wasn’t Ingrid. Sylvain pulled the guest into the kitchen, and Ashe instantly knew it had be Dimitri, because Ingrid was totally right, this man looked like the spitting image of Loog from the books. From his blue eyes to the way his long blond hair was tied back messily with his bangs sweeping in his elegant face.
“Ashe, this is Dimitri. Dimitri, Ashe,” Sylvain introduced.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Ashe said.
“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you from Sylvain, but it’s nice to put a face to the name.”
Ashe glanced at Sylvain, but he had an unreadable smile on his face. What sort of things did Sylvain say about him? Somehow, he didn’t think he’d be as curious if Dimitri said Ingrid had talked about him.
Ingrid and Felix arrived not too long after, and Sylvain gathered them in his living room while he left the pizzas to cook. Angel leapt off the couch to bother Felix who sat in a chair pulled closer to the coffee table, leaving space for Sylvain, Ashe, Dimitri and Ingrid on the couch.
“Okay,” Ingrid began. “Can we please keep the language tame?” she said with a gesture to the board game Sylvain had set up. Monopoly. Always a classic.
“What, afraid we’re gonna embarrass you?” Sylvain teased. He leaned closer to Ashe and said, “She doesn’t want you thinking she has crazy friends. Which sucks for her, because she totally does.”
Ingrid rolled her eyes. “I’m just saying no one needs to be crying at the end of the night because they can’t take the heat.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Quit yapping and start the game already,” Felix said with narrowed eyes.
“Alright, alright,” Sylvain said, beginning his turn. Right off the bat there was tension between Sylvain and Ingrid, and suddenly Ashe wished he wasn’t sitting right between them. He should have sat next to Dimitri, who just looked pleased to be there.
“Lucky roll,” Ingrid said as Sylvain landed on the first railroad and purchased it.
“Is it luck, dear Ingrid?” he teased.
“You can’t convince me there’s a ‘special way’ to roll dice.”
Ashe tilted his head and looked at Sylvain. “Is there?”
“Of course,” he said at the same time Ingrid said, “Definitely not.”
“I think it leans more towards luck,” Dimitri said with none of the tension the other two had.
“Of course you do,” Felix said snidely.
Ashe could already feel a headache brewing.
The game continued on with Ashe not making any outstanding purchases. Felix was aggressively snatching up whatever he landed on, and petting Angel’s head as she rested it in his lap definitely made him look like some movie villain. Ingrid was a little more conservative with her moves, and everything Sylvain did seemed calculated, like he was three steps ahead of the rest. Poor Dimitri hadn’t even had a chance to purchase a tile yet.
“Sylvain,” Felix said in a low, threatening tone as Sylvain moved his piece onto the last property Felix needed to buy to have a monopoly. “Do not.” Ashe felt a chill go up his spine.
“I can’t just pass up a perfectly good piece of property, Felix,” Sylvain said innocently as he began to pull out the paper money to purchase it.
“I’ll kill you.”
“I think I’m gonna take those chances.” He placed the newly purchased property card with the rest of his.
Ingrid put her head in her hands. “How do you already have half the board Sylv,” she groaned.
“I’m open to trades,” he said, still holding Felix’s glower.
It was chaos from then on out. Sylvain, Felix and Ingrid all got very loud about the placement of hotels and offering up trades so often and aggressively that Ashe couldn’t even keep track of who owned what. He was
pretty
sure they were still playing Monopoly and not negotiating real world contracts, but who knew at this point. Luckily, the game came to a natural timeout as the pizzas finished cooking.
“Didn’t know you took up cooking as a hobby,” Felix said as Sylvain and Ashe brought them to the living room.
“It’s all Ashe,” Sylvain said. “He’s a natural in the kitchen.” He absolutely did not need to wink at Ashe as he said that, but he did, and Ashe could only hope his face wasn’t too flushed.
“I only helped a little,” Ashe said. “After all, it’s Sylvain who picked all the individual toppings.” He tried not to think too hard about how heavily Sylvain had piled on the cheese for Dimitri or the weird, extreme spices he gave to Felix. Though, it was quite sweet that he knew his friends so well, because they both looked very pleased with their food.
“You both did a good job then,” Dimitri said.
Sylvain placed his plate on his lap and reached his arm around Ashe to flick the side of Ingrid’s head. She shooed his hand away, not looking up from her phone.
“Texting your boyfriend?” Sylvain teased, leaning closer to Ashe so he could try and snatch a look at her phone screen. Now he was squished between the two of them, and Sylvain still kept his arm around the back of the couch, caging him in further.
“Yes,” Ingrid said matter-of-factly. Ashe awkwardly stared at the table in front of them, not wanting to peep on Ingrid’s conversation or stare at Sylvain, who was just way too close to his face now.
“What’s he want?”
“He’s just checking in. Ah, he wants pictures of Angel. Of course.” She raised her phone to take the picture, not caring that she caught some rather silly looking shots of Felix eating his pizza next to Angel.
Sylvain snorted as he looked at the pictures. “Lookin’ good, Felix.”
“Shut up.”
“How come Glenn didn’t join us?” Dimitri asked. Ashe gave an inquisitive look to Ingrid since if he turned his head he would just knock right into Sylvain’s face.
“Our old man wanted help at the office,” Felix said idly around a bite of food.
Ingrid blinked at Ashe. “Oh, right. I didn’t tell you about Glenn. He’s Felix’s older brother and we’re, well, dating.”
“Maybe you’ll meet him one day,” Sylvain said, finally pulling back and giving Ashe his space. Luckily, no one pointed out Ashe’s sigh of relief. “Luckily, they’re not an obnoxious couple.”
Ingrid smiled wryly. “The only one whose obnoxious in a relationship is you.”
“If he manages to keep it for more than a day,” Felix said.
“Alright, I did not invite you into my house to be treated like this.”
“I think you’d be better off if you didn’t pursue them with the intention of breaking up so quickly,” Dimitri said.
“You could apply yourself to so many other things if you gave yourself that sort of time instead of flirting with whatever moves,” Ingrid said.
So his relationships are worse than I thought.
Ashe knew it wasn’t exactly his business, but he kind of hated hearing about it. It was hard to take the image of Sylvain as a fun and relaxing friend and compound that with a philanderer who left a string of broken hearts in his wake.
“How about we talk about someone else’s love life for once?” Sylvain said, agitation creeping into his voice. “Like Ashe? What about you?”
Ashe’s face reddened. “I don’t have a love life.”
“See, we should definitely focus on that,” Sylvain said, even though none of his friends looked entertained. “It’s way more tragic.”
“It is?” Ashe said with a frown.
Ingrid put a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with being single, Sylvain’s just deflecting.”
“I’m not deflecting, this is genuine concern for our friend here,” Sylvain said. “We don’t need another Dimitri, do we?”
Felix snorted, not looking up from his phone. “Can’t make fun of him for being single anymore.”
“Wait, what?” Sylvain threw a frantic look to Dimitri.
There was a pale blush on Dimitri’s cheeks and he averted his gaze. “I started seeing someone recently.”
“And you didn’t tell me? Who is it? Wait, let me guess. It’s totally the hot teacher.”
Dimitri pinched the bridge of his nose. “You shouldn’t refer to her like that,” he said.
“I can’t believe I’m right. I can’t believe you worked up the courage to
talk
to her. I’m both proud and upset you didn’t tell me sooner.”
“Sorry. It’s still a new thing.”
Sylvain sighed and reclined further into the couch. “Felix, if you announce that you’re seeing someone too, I will have a heart attack right this second.”
“Guess I better make a Tinder,” Felix said in a dry tone, but the corners of his lips gave a small upturn at Sylvain’s dramatic and distressed groan.
“Come on, let’s finish this game before I have to listen to more whining,” Ingrid said. “Some of us have lives to get to after this.”
“My dearest friend, this is
Monopoly,
” Sylvain said dramatically. “No one’s going home tonight.”
“Then I’ll just have to win extra fast.”
Ashe had given up trying to make any headway in the game. Sylvain was a far better player than he might have pegged him for, plus his mind was wandering about that whole ‘love life’ conversation. He never really had that conversation before. Christophe trying to broach it was just weird and filled more with teasing, and Caspar and Linhardt didn’t have much to say on the matter. They didn’t have to struggle to find their relationship, after all.
He glanced at Sylvain. Why was it that he went through so many dates? Ashe didn’t think he should be so flippant with his love life either, if he was being honest. About half way through the evening he noticed Ingrid had returned to her phone, but so had Sylvain, and they both had growing looks of annoyance on their faces. Had something happened? As far as he could tell Sylvain was winning, so only one of them had the right to be frustrated.
He didn’t have the courage to ask what was wrong, and eventually the game came to a dramatic finish in which Sylvain made everyone go bankrupt in three consecutive turns like some mastermind who had been toying with them until the final hour.
“It seems you remain the champion of Monopoly,” Dimitri said, not sounding too upset that he lost.
“Naturally,” Sylvain preened.
Ingrid quickly put down her phone. She had lost interest in the game hours ago. “Great, okay, Sylvain can we talk for a moment?” Ashe had never seen her look so frustrated.
“I’ve already given you all my amazing Monopoly tips.”
“Haha, no. Come on,” she said, getting up from the couch. The two of them disappeared into Sylvain’s room, closing the door behind them.
Ashe frowned and looked to Dimitri and Felix. “Did something happen?”
Felix shrugged. “I dunno.”
The two of them didn’t stay in there for long, and Ingrid looked less ticked off when she rejoined them. Felix got up and stretched his arms, much to the dismay of Angel, who had been happy to use him as a pillow for hours.
“If you two are done talking, we should be getting back,” Felix said.
Dimitri looked at an expensive watch on his wrist. “I didn’t realize how late it was. We should do this again sometime.”
“Yeah, you guys can come over whenever,” Sylvain said. “You know, as always. Travel safe and all that.”
They said their goodbyes, and Ingrid gave a look to Ashe that he couldn’t decipher, before they were gone and the apartment was much quieter.
“I’ll help you clean up,” Ashe offered.
“Thanks.” Sylvain began to pick up the pieces of the board game. “So, no love life, huh?”
“Hmm? O-oh, that. Uh, no, not really,” Ashe said with a shrug.
“I’m surprised, actually. You’re so open and honest and kind. Girls love that sort of stuff, you’d think they’d be all over you.”
Ashe looked away. He was going to have to have a long, hard conversation with himself about how acceptable it was to enjoy being praised by Sylvain. “T-thanks, but--”
“Unless,” Sylvain cut him off, his voice falling lower. “It’s not girls you’re looking for?”
Ashe froze, staring at the plate in his hand before offering an awkward smile to Sylvain. “I’m, um, not sure, to be honest.”
He didn’t look up from the plate he was carrying, but he could feel Sylvain’s eyes look him over. “That’s fine,” he said. “With your good looks you could nail whoever you wanted.”
Ashe sort of wished that a hole would open up beneath him so he didn’t have to deal with the heat of his face or Sylvain’s warm, reassuring voice. If he ignored his rakish nature, Sylvain was showing himself to be awfully kind.
They finished cleaning up the rest of the dishes in comfortable silence. Well, mostly. Ashe wasn’t uncomfortable per se, but his mind
was
flitting about almost as rapidly as his heartbeats and staying in Sylvain’s presence any longer was probably going to do a number on his health.
“Thanks for helping me clean up,” Sylvain said once they were done.
“Oh, no problem.”
“You could stay longer, if you wanted.” The offer was innocent, but Ashe immediately felt on edge.
“I-I have work, I should probably get some sleep,” he said.
“Okay. I’ll see you around then.”
When Ashe got back to the privacy of his own apartment he laid down in bed and stared at his ceiling, feeling things he did not want to be feeling. Sylvain’s compliments stuck in his head like a catchy song he desperately wanted to be rid of.
He thinks I’m good-looking.
He rolled over and shoved his face into his pillow, ignoring the feeling of Loog crawling on top of his back with his sharp claws.
Just thinking about it was getting him all flustered, and Sylvain wasn’t even in the room!
I just have to accept it,
he thought solemnly.
I totally have a crush on my neighbor.
|
New England is renown for its captivating fall landscape - a glorious palette of oranges, reds, and yellows. And what we're seeing? The actual color of the leaves. That lustrous green we see during the growing season is the result of chlorophyll production. When chlorophyll production ends, the leaves reveal their true colors.
And while we love green, when that startling sunset of coloration explodes in fall, we're enthralled. There is a simple kind of beauty in truth, after all.
Mycroft sat at the edge of the bed in the cramped little room, fully dressed, his hands clasped between his knees. His back was bent and his head faced forward, shoulders drawn up near his ears. Greg dried his hair with a towel. “Hey, hungry?”
Mycroft turned his eyes to his and dipped his chin. “I’m not sure I should eat just yet.” He did look pale, like the inside of a clamshell.
“Yeah, me too.” His stomach gurgled in protest, but he hoped it was passing. They drank copious amounts of water which led to an early morning visit to the bathroom for each of them. When Greg had come out, Mycroft had handed him more water.
His phone vibrated. Greg chewed his lower lip as he read a text from Dan, getting annoyed now that Greg hadn’t answered him about their mother’s upcoming birthday party. Greg exhaled as he typed out a response.
Sent
Of course I’m coming.
He threw the phone down on the bed.
God. A weekend in Acadia would be nice. But a weekend with them?
He wasn’t sure he could take it. His mother drinking a few too many and taking conservative potshots at liberals. Dan being his stoic self and barely saying a word to Greg. Nate and Evie growing up faster than he could keep track of.
Better to focus on the here and now.
“I thought today we could bike,” Greg said.
“I’m not sure I can muster up that much physical energy.”
“Ha. You and me both. But it might be good for us to feel the ocean breeze on our faces. Get some fresh air.” Mycroft didn’t look at him as he dressed. “Let’s have some coffee. Damien dropped off croissants. We don’t have to bike. We can just take it easy.”
“He came inside?”
“He does have a key, and he told me he’d do it.” He pulled his shirt over his chest and down to his waist.
Mycroft didn’t say anything.
Greg returned to the bathroom and added some product to his hair. The shower had refreshed him, and while his stomach wasn’t hundred percent, he thought he was recovering quite nicely considering the evening before. After the fireworks, they’d danced for another song and then caught an Uber back to the cottage, leaving Damien and Mario at the club. Both of them were drunk and exhausted, but they managed to rub off against each other before conking out.
He went to the kitchen to find Mycroft toasting the croissants in the toaster oven. Coffee was made.
“Thanks,” he said as he poured himself a cup.
“Of course.” And there it was. That crisp, professional tone. It had come in waves throughout their evening, disappeared after a sufficient amount of alcohol, only to return this morning. Greg wanted to snake his arms around the man and squeeze him until he told Greg what was wrong, but he had the feeling Mycroft would just put him off. Again.
Maybe whatever it is will blow over.
Maybe he wasn’t used to vacationing in close quarters with someone else. Maybe Greg did something to annoy him.
“Are we borrowing bicycles from Damien?”
Greg quirked an eyebrow as he held his coffee to his lips. “I thought you weren’t too enthused by that idea.”
“I am amenable.” Mycroft sat in the booth. He sipped his coffee and stared out the large picture window.
The waves stretched into the distance, a mix of midnight blue and vibrant green below a periwinkle blue sky. The sea foam crests of the waves rushed onto the sand about twenty yards from their cottage.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
In some ways, he thought he should have seen it coming. Mycroft was reserved, buttoned up, ridiculously prim and proper. Beachside vacations that involved biking and clubbing would not have been his cup of tea.
Greg went outside and got the bikes ready, a pit in his stomach. He decided not to worry over it. He popped the kickstand in place outside the cottage door. Mycroft joined him outside.
“It has been some years since I have been on a bike.”
“Well, I’m told riding a bike after many years is like...riding a bike,” Greg said with a bashful smile. “It’ll come back to you.”
Mycroft smiled at that, and some of the heaviness in Greg’s stomach shrank to see it.
They got on their bikes, snapped on their helmets, and cycled down the short driveway and onto the road. It was only a few minutes before they took a turn to the left to head for the town center. Greg checked over his shoulder from time to time to see a grim-faced Mycroft on his bike, white-knuckled at the handlebars.
Maybe it’s the main road.
The continuous string of cars passing could be a little nerve-wracking.
They turned onto the less-used roads. Navigating through some of the narrower streets could be a little tricky between parked cars, pedestrians, other cyclists, and passing cars, but they were quieter.
Greg’s shoulders relaxed as they broke out onto a side street with no cars. No one was out. A few thin trees provided a bit of dappled shade. They could bike at a calm, unhurried pace, and maybe Mycroft could relax a bit more.
A loud clatter sounded behind him accompanied by an angry shout. Greg whipped around, bringing his bike to a halt. Mycroft was lifting himself to a stand, holding his bike by the handlebars. His face burned scarlet as he avoided Greg’s gaze.
“I can’t do this!” He let the bike go, and it crashed to the ground. Mycroft limped -
limped
- to the sidewalk and sank to the curb.
“What?” Greg turned his bike and swung himself off, steadying the bike as he neared Mycroft.
“I’m not...I’m not this person.” Mycroft still wouldn’t look at him, and his hands fluttered in front of him like two pale birds unsure of where to land. “This is...I don’t ride bikes like children. I don’t go dancing. I don’t grow beards.” He sank his forehead into his hands. Greg yearned to gather him up in his arms. “This is not who I am. I am not some likeable person who travels to other countries to have handsome men throw themselves at them.”
The world around them condensed to this point: Greg, still holding his bike, standing there with his chest wide open and his heartbeat stuttering, and Mycroft, in pain, crumpled in on himself despite his usual rigid carriage, or that swift and sensuous movement he was capable of when relaxed and happy. It wasn’t right and nothing was quite making sense.
“What are you talking about?”
Mycroft shot up to a stand and fumbled around in his pockets. “I will show you. Even these clothes that I wear - I bought them all here, after meeting you! I thought, I thought…” He grumbled something to himself as he brought out his phone. He swiped the screen and his thumbs wiggled and tapped away as he navigated to where he needed to go.
He stalked toward Greg, his limp slighter now, and held out his phone. “That is me. That is what I look like. That is how I dress - daily. Even on days when others deem it appropriate to
lounge
, I dress like this.”
Greg looked at the photo. Mycroft stood next to Sherlock, and next to what must have been his parents. All were dressed in what looked like Sunday best - the men in suits, and Mycroft’s mother in a flowery blouse and sleek pants.
Mycroft wore a suit with a waistcoat and tie.
“Do you wear that because of your job?”
Because that would make sense.
“No,” Mycroft spit out. “I wear it because I am a powerful man with a certain reputation to uphold.” He pocketed his phone as his eyes blazed with such fury that Greg almost shrank back.
Greg thought about what Sherlock had said. He couldn’t piece it together with this man who stood in front of him, this well-to-do man with rich taste and apparently a temper to match his ginger hair.
Stereotypes, dad,
he could hear Peregrine admonish him.
“So, you normally wear suits?”
Mycroft made some kind of loud, annoyed noise and turned from Greg, his hands going to his head and running his fingers through his hair. He faced Greg. “I am Mycroft Holmes, and I change for no one. I am not this man you believe me to be. I am not someone who wears shirts with the top buttons undone, and I certainly don’t wear anything that isn’t bespoke, and I feel like a...a
slob.
The beard itches, and I’m not...I’m uncomfortable with the level of familiarity I must apparently show to you and your
friends
.” He said the last word like it was dirty. “You are impossible to figure out. You’re an unreasonable, emotional mess and God help me, I take you in like a drug. I can’t get enough of you and it makes no sense!”
Greg balked. “I...I didn’t think I was being unreasonable, and I’m sorry if emotions make you -”
“You’re not listening!” Mycroft said. “I am not who you think I am. I have been pretending to be this agreeable person because for some godforsaken reason that defies me, I want your attention.”
What the fuck?
Greg pursed his lips. “So, who are you then?”
“I am an utterly unctuous, pompous arsehole. Sherlock would say I’m overbearing, interfering, condescending, and superior, and he would be
right
,” Mycroft replied as he shoved his hands into his pockets. Sweat gleamed on his neck, and Greg sort of wished he could lick it away, despite the gravity of the current situation. “I am not someone who goes on spontaneous trips. Everything I do is planned and calculated. I don’t...I don’t participate in one night stands or in summer flings. I am a force unto myself, and I have never needed anyone. You came blowing through my defenses like some American cowboy, and frankly, I can’t put up the farce any longer.” Mycroft’s shoulders sagged. “You deserve better. I look at the world and I see things that need to be categorized, scheduled, and controlled. You see the world, and you see something deeper. Something beautiful and transcendent and hallowed. You are a romantic, and I am most decidedly not.”
Greg swallowed. The sound of a screen door slammed a few houses down. Greg flinched, and looked, but he didn’t see anyone.
“I’m sorry for lying to you.” Mycroft dug the heel of his shoe into the asphalt of the road. “I’m a fool for thinking I could keep it up for so long. I thought, why not let myself indulge in the attention. I mean, to have your attention at all...it was so unexpected, and I was baffled. But I’m also alone, and I decided that since I was on sabbatical,” he says this word with distaste, “I might as well have something for myself.
“And the worst part of all this? At times, I wonder if I could have been anyone, and whether it’s me you are attracted to, or if anyone would do.”
That stung. Greg gripped the handlebars hard. Exposed, flayed, his first urge was to throw the bike down and tell Mycroft to go fuck himself.
And the urge surprised him. It had been a while since he’d felt such explosive anger. After Jack, he’d mostly been deflated. Carried along by the mechanisms of the world rather than any forward propulsion of his own.
Greg stared. And stared some more. Mycroft shuffled his feet as a flush creeped over his neck. That’s when Greg noticed a rip in the bottom hem of his trousers. “Did your pants rip on the bike?” His voice trembled with contained fury.
Mycroft blinked at him. “What?”
“Your pants are ripped. Was it the bike?” He asked again, his voice sharper.
Mycroft dipped his chin. “Caught on the pedal. I suppose I should have rolled them up, or asked about a guard of some kind.” His hands were shoved into the pockets of his pants and his gaze skittered around the neighborhood now.
Greg rolled his bike to Mycroft’s, which still lay on the ground. He set up the kickstand, and bent over to pick up Mycroft’s bike.
Mycroft came over to help. Greg held up a hand to stop him. He popped the kickstand. Then he faced the man. The sun had risen further, and the heat of the day was picking up.
“I don’t want you to be someone you aren’t,” Greg said. “I like you. This you. A lot. I wish you had said something sooner if you were uncomfortable.”
Who are you then?
“It’s not here...I…” Greg had never seen Mycroft at a loss for words. “Well, this trip has been somewhat stressful, but I am at fault. I did not realize...the scene that I would be entering, and I should have known.”
That sparked Greg’s curiosity, though his anger simmered low. “Was it the beach? The club?” Greg couldn’t picture the man he’d seen in the photo - three piece suit and querulous, imperious look on his face - in the club, or getting nude at the beach.
“They did sway my equilibrium, yes.” Mycroft’s lips flattened. “Along with the company. Not you. But…”
“Damien can be a dick, sometimes. But he’s my friend.” Greg bit the inside of his cheek.
“Yes. Of course.” Mycroft looked down the street. “I apologize for my outburst. I can hire a car to take me home. You needn’t shorten your weekend with your friends, and you needn’t spend another moment in my presence.”
Wait. What?
Greg’s stomach dropped. “I don’t want you to go,” he blurted. “I mean, go, if you want, obviously. But don’t go on my account.”
Mycroft raised his brows at him, and for a moment, Greg felt like a chastened child.
Which brought his anger to a full boil.
“Listen, this is shit. I thought we’d have a good time here, and I have been having a good time with you. You want to accuse me of latching on just to anyone because I’m lonely? Fine. But you’ve not exactly been truthful, either, have you?”
Mycroft had the decency to cast his gaze to the ground, equally chastened.
“And, why wouldn’t you let me get to know this so-called real you? What the hell is that about? You say you don’t get guys throwin’ themselves at you, but you changed who you are just to keep my interest? You’re just as bad as me.” The hollow feeling in his ribs widened, started to swallow the anger with a pitiful sadness. “I just mean...you can’t have faked everything. So, you wore new clothes, and you moved outside of your comfort zone and went on a short trip with me, and tried some new activities. That...that doesn’t make you a completely changed person. I still like you, if any part of that was you.”
“It...it doesn’t make any sense.” Mycroft didn’t look at Greg, and he seemed to be talking more to himself.
“Does it ever?” Greg placed his hands on his hips and eyed their surroundings. No curtains twitched and there were no abnormal neighborhood sounds. “I mean...I thought you were attractive since the first time I saw you. And, we like some of the same things. I mean, we’re both…” In love with birds seemed like a strange thing to say, but it was true. “We love some of the same things. Or were you faking that, too?”
Mycroft slowly shook his head. “No. I am quite enamoured with...with birds, and the freedom they represent.”
Freedom
. “Like maybe the freedom to not have to wear the same uniform all the time?” Greg ventured.
Mycroft’s lips twitched at the corners. “I have never been a likeable man.”
“All the better for me. Means I don’t have to share you.” Greg couldn’t help saying.
Mycroft looked at him. “But I have been false. And I insulted you.”
“Yeah, and that hurt. It did. I’m not over it yet.”
Mycroft’s mouth worked for a moment. “I am sorry. I’m the one in the wrong here. I have...behaved abominably. You deserve to have someone treat you with respect and...a mountain of affection.”
Greg watched him. “I think...you want to be that person. Right?”
Mycroft’s tongue ran along the seam of his mouth. “Yes. Your ex was an idiot. To have someone like you -” He cut himself off and turned away.
Jack was an idiot. And so was I
.
“I think we all...adjust ourselves a bit when we first are attracted to someone, and are trying to attract them to us. We want to show our best side, right?”
“I have fabricated quite a bit of my best side.”
“So, the you I’ve come to know...the bookworm, the opera aficionado, the bird lover, and the film noir fan, all of those are lies?”
“No,” Mycroft admitted, turning back enough that Greg could see his profile.
“So, it’s the clothes, the beard, and the trip? The new things you’ve done, that you’ve tried out, for my sake?”
Mycroft nodded, his hands behind his back.
“Okay. Do you want to shave off the beard? It’s a little hot anyway.” Greg blinked into the sun. “A change of clothes? Though I can’t imagine the suit would do well in the heat.”
Mycroft heaved a sigh.
“I know the beard is probably the least of it...but I wouldn’t want you to do something you’re not comfortable with.”
“Why are you so kind to me?”
Greg reeled. “Why am I so -
kind
, to you? Why wouldn’t I be?”
Mycroft barked a laugh. “I suppose I asked for that. You are a naturally kind person. It is one of your virtues. I don’t even mind it.”
Greg had to laugh. “You don’t mind that I’m kind?”
“I have found, in my line of work, that kindness can be a hindrance, and sometimes an exploitable weakness.”
“Hmm. Interesting to know about Her Majesty’s Civil Service.”
Mycroft’s mouth tightened.
“Is that it? You think you’ve exploited me? Kindness is my weakness?”
Mycroft still wouldn’t look at him.
“Well, if you think it’s exploitation, please continue. I’m having the time of my life,” Greg said with a laugh. “Or, at least, I was. I was getting to hang out with a fascinating person, we had fun together, we have amazing compatibility in bed, and you appreciate my company. What more could we ask for?”
“It will end.”
Greg’s line of thinking came to a screeching halt. His mouth went dry and his heart pounded like a boxer at a punching bag. “Yeah. Yeah. It will. Maybe it has.”
He didn’t miss the muscle clenching in Mycroft’s jaw.
Is this it?
“Listen, we both knew it was going to end eventually.” He moistened his lips and went on. “But, my thought, originally, was that we could have made it really meaningful...really worth the time...if we both threw ourselves into it and made the most of it.”
Mycroft stared at the ground. “Made the most of it?”
“Yeah.” He stared up at the sky. How was he having this conversation over a summer fling?
Because you wanted it to be more than a summer fling.
But Mycroft was right. Greg barely knew the guy, and apparently, he wasn’t entirely truthful about who he’d been.
The sex had been truthful. The moments spying on the barred owl nest. Their first kiss. The breakfasts together and the jokes they shared. How he never laughed at Greg for his simple interests, but encouraged him instead. Accepted Greg for who he was, and was aware of Greg’s emotional neediness and cared for him anyway. Worried that Greg would have been with anyone, and chose him out of convenience.
“I’d like to get to know you,” Greg said. “I think - I think it’s worth it to take the chance on each other. We’ve connected in some ways already that I’ve enjoyed. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Mycroft said, and Greg could hear him swallow.
“And you’re here for the rest of the summer. We enjoy each other’s company. And when you leave -” he said in a rush of words, “maybe we stay in touch. As friends. No harm in that, right?”
Please look at me.
Almost as if he heard him, Mycroft met his gaze. It gave Greg a little burst of courage.
“You...you’ve become important to me.” His heart thumped. “I care for you.”
Maybe too much.
“Do you care for me?”
“Yes,” Mycroft said. “I do.”
“Okay. So. We both know it has to end. And that’s...that’s okay. We’ll have fun while it lasts. Right?” Greg swallowed. “And, uh, you don’t have to pretend to be something you’re not. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
Mycroft grimaced. “Perhaps it would be best if you do get to know me as I am. You might change your mind about me.”
Fat chance of that.
Greg’s stomach somersaulted. “We knew. We knew from the beginning.”
“Yes. We did.”
“Okay then. Let’s bring the bikes back to the cottage, get the car, and seize this day.” Greg smiled.
Mycroft looked up at him, and smiled back, though it seemed a bit strained. “Indeed.”
Greg and Mycroft leaned against one another on a woven blanket in the sand. Mario and Damien sat on their own blanket. Others, Sean, who Greg remembered from a previous summer, and his boyfriend Calvin, were sprawled out on another blanket, in a triumvirate of slightly tipsy, queer men around a campfire.
The waves tumbled more than several yards away, filling the air with a salty smell that mixed with their woodsmoke. The sky was dotted with stars and a shining half moon. Every once in a while, people walked past their fire, but no one approached. Other fires could be seen about a mile down.
With so few people to come into contact with, it seemed to Greg as if the National Seashore was all theirs, a wide, private expanse of beach facing the Atlantic Ocean.
The warmth of Mycroft’s shoulders pressed against his was welcome. Mycroft leafed through the book of poetry Greg had given him. He didn’t know how the man managed to read it in the dancing light of the fire, but he was soft-limbed and at ease, so Greg didn’t disturb him.
Damien shot him knowing looks but Greg ignored him, choosing instead to listen to Sean ramble on about his job in P-town, bartending at one of the clubs. Calvin was vaping weed and giggled at Sean’s rambling about drunk patrons. Which was amusing in and of itself.
“This one I know I’ve seen,” Mycroft murmured. He’d stopped on a page depicting
Wild Geese
, one of Greg’s personal favorites, a favorite common to many people. “‘You do not have to be good.’”
Greg smiled as he heard those words on Mycroft’s lips, in Mycroft’s voice, in his soft accent.
“‘You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.’”
Greg joined in. “‘You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile, the world goes on.’”
Mycroft closed the book and looked Greg in the eye. “‘Meanwhile, the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.’”
Greg grinned. “‘Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again.’”
“‘Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things,’” Mycroft finished.
There was a moment before either of them spoke again. Mycroft said, “It’s...exceedingly lovely. I must admit I am not one for poetry, but for this woman’s words...for her deep understanding of the seemingly simple mechanisms of the world, I could be convinced to enjoy it.”
Greg’s grin grew wider and he leaned forward and kissed Mycroft. The kiss was sweet, soft, warm, and the world around them ceased to matter.
At least until Damien let out a laugh at something someone said. He caught Greg’s eye, and nodded to him. “I got more beer in the back of the trunk.”
“Well, that sucks for you, cuz that’s a walk from here.”
Damien smirked. “Okay, asshole, but I’d love to have a few minutes with my best friend.”
Greg held his lower lip between his teeth. He nodded and separated from Mycroft, bereft of the warmth and pressure of shoulder to shoulder support, and followed Damien into the darkness of the beach.
As they neared the wood steps that would lead to the road, Damien put his arm around Greg in a familiar gesture. He was at least three inches taller, and liked to remind Greg of that from time to time.
“Fuck off, man,” Greg laughed, but didn’t move the arm.
“How did you meet this guy again?” Even in the dark, Greg could tell Damien was smiling.
Here it comes.
“He was birding at High Point. I saw him while taking Tiny for a walk.”
“Wow. So, he likes birds. That’s something you have in common.”
“Hey. Lay off.” Greg ducked out from under his arm. “What’s your problem with him anyway?”
They walked single file up the steps. Just as they approached the car, Greg prompted him. “So?”
“I...uh. I dunno. He sort of rubbed me the wrong way when I met him. He’s so...uptight.”
“Well, Jack was too loose. Maybe I need uptight for a while.”
“Jack was an asshole. This guy’s just an uptight dweeb.”
“Hey, don’t pick on him just because he’s smart.”
“He’s - what do they call it -
posh
.”
Greg laughed at that. “Yeah. He is. I like it.”
Damien laughed. “Yeah, you always liked the ones with a bit of class, and a bit of money.”
“Wow. Now you’re accusing me of being a golddigger?”
“I got nothing against it.”
“Damien. Seriously, man. What is this about?”
They faced each other by the trunk of the car. Damien leaned against it. “You told me over text that this was just a friend. And, that he’s in ‘town’ for only a few months. He lives in England, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So. You’re falling for him.”
Greg sucked his teeth and rubbed his lips together. “I like him a lot.”
“And I can’t see how he feels about you. He’s getting the better end of the deal, if you ask me.”
“What, just because he won’t undress at the beach?”
“You know I’m not that shallow.” Damien stood and popped the trunk. “I don’t know if he’s right for you. I don’t know that he appreciates you, and you, when you get into a guy, you fall hard. You’ve been a mess since Jack and that was two years ago.”
“Damien, that was five years of my life. I think I’m allowed to grieve and be messed up for a while.”
“So you let him have seven years of your life instead of just the five?”
Greg slid his hands into his short pockets and rocked on the heels of his feet.
“Sorry, man. I’m just saying it like I see it.” He lifted a small cooler out of the trunk.
“Well, you’re kind of being an ass about it.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry for being overprotective. After Jack, I hate to see you...a mess again.”
“It’s just for the summer. We both know that.”
“That’s what you’re telling yourself, but you’re falling in love with him.”
Greg’s chest squeezed. He frowned.
“Don’t even try to deny it. And he’ll use you as his boytoy while he’s here, and then Jo and Molly and me will be picking up the pieces after he’s gone. You know that.”
Greg stiffened. “Well, fuck. So sorry to be a burden to you all.”
“That’s not how I meant it -”
“Then what the fuck do you mean?”
“I just...I just hate to see you get hurt. I care about you. You’re my best friend. I know we don’t talk all the time, and I’m bad about texting you, but every time I see you, you’re like...you’re like family to me. We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”
Greg thought back to those years. The years when he’d run away from Maine, from his family, to come to Connecticut, to be closer to cities with clubs and bars just for gay people, to be close to Damien who introduced him to new friends, to go to college where he met Jo, and how all of them were so close. The terrible drug trips, the crazy hookups, the fireworks of youth and folly and fun and the eventual eclipse of all that when Jo got pregnant.
“It’s shit,” he said. “I’m...I’m falling for him, and he can’t stay here. He’s going back to England.”
“Yeah,” Damien said.
“And I’ll be alone again.” Greg balled his hands, digging his nails into his palms in his pockets. “But, I can’t help it. Ever since I met him, I just want to be with him. I want to be around him. He makes me happy.”
Damien grabbed his shoulder and gave a squeeze. “Just...have more care with yourself, man. Maybe start distancing yourself a bit. Just...be prepared to let him go.”
Heat pricked at the back of Greg’s eyes. “Why don’t I get to be happy?”
He could feel Damien shrug. “I don’t know, man. You deserve it more than any of us, I think.” Then Damien hugged him. “Listen, I’m sorry I’ve upset you. I just…”
“Yeah,” Greg rasped out.
“Okay. Are we okay?”
“We’re okay.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
“Ass.”
Damien laughed. “C’mon. Let’s get back down there.”
“So, what’s the story with Mario?” Greg needed to distract himself.
“Hm? Oh, I met him last fall. I hired his company for the cottages.”
“Is there a whole lot to landscape in the sand there?”
“Ass. He does the lawn around the office by the road. And the flowers in that one bed.”
“So, friends with benefits deal?”
Damien chuckled. “It’s...um...a bit more than that.”
Greg halted. “What?”
“Yeah. We’ve uh...well, we didn’t start sleeping together until spring-”
“You, Damien Fisher, met a single, hot guy on this island in the fall and knew him for months and didn’t sleep with him?”
“He played hard to get!”
“You...oh my god, this gets better. You chased after him and he denied you?”
“Fuck off, man. He played the game. We were both sleeping with other people -”
“He was sleeping with other people but not you?”
Damien paused.
“Oh. Oh.” The penny dropped. “You really like him.”
Damien let out a throat clearing sound. “Yeah. I do. And, I thought he’d be a one-off...but he wasn’t interested. And like, okay, I can take a hint. But I knew he was sleeping with other people. And I was, too, so like, no big deal. We became friends.” Damien snorted. “Kind of story of my life - when I actually like a guy, he only wants to be friends.
“Anyway, things didn’t change until this spring, when he told me that he liked me, but he knew I was a slut, and he didn’t want to be a notch on the bedpost.”
“That’s a pretty tall bedpost,” Greg cracked.
“Jackass.” Damien started the walk down the wood steps. “Anyway, I started...taking him out to dinner, and the movies-”
“You wined and dined him into bed?”
“I do have some class, you know, Lestrade.”
Greg laughed, and for a moment, he was transported to he and Damien at age twenty. Invincible and dumb and safe with each other. “So. I imagine you guys are fucking by now?”
“Jesus, you’re a peach. Yes, we are fucking now.”
“Congratulations.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, seriously. Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” Greg smiled and bumped Damien on the arm.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to be one of those sad, lonely old queens.”
Greg snorted. “You were never royalty.”
They walked in silence toward the light of the campfire.
“So, this dude Jo’s marrying.”
“Didn’t you meet him? We never talked about that.”
“One time when I went back to see the folks. He was an okay guy. I know you don’t like him too much…”
“Well, he’s kind of an ass to me. But, he’s like...sneaky about it.”
“So, you’ve said. Got nothing like that from him.”
“Well, maybe it’s because you never slept with Jo.”
Damien laughed. “That’s probably it. Have they set a wedding date?”
“Sometime next spring. Or June, maybe? Peri’s excited.”
“You said she likes him.”
His stomach twisted. “Yeah. She does. And that’s important.”
“Lucky kid. My stepdad is a douche.”
“We can’t all be fortunate.”
They neared the fire. Mycroft lifted his head from the book to see Greg. He smiled. In the glow of the firelight, his face was like a torch in the dark. His eyes seemed glazed with some kind of emotion, and the roundness of his features with the slant of his nose was like a Renaissance painting. It was as if everything he and Damien just talked about didn’t even matter. It didn’t matter that Mycroft would leave at the end of the summer, it didn’t matter that Jo was marrying someone who was a douchebag to Greg on the sly, it didn’t matter that his daughter didn’t like him anymore and wanted a new dad, it didn’t matter that he sometimes felt like he was stagnating in his job -
and where the fuck did that come from
- and it didn’t matter, because right now, this man was here, and looking at him like that.
Greg almost tripped in the sand.
Yeah. I’m falling for him.
And that sucks.
|
Inside, Ryan decides it’s time for them to switch to tequila.
He has some of the good stuff from Mexico in the back, the kind that you serve perfectly chilled and that’s smooth enough to sip neat. Ryan bought it over a year ago, when he traveled down to Tijuana for supplies, but he’s been hiding it away from the customers, saving it for a special occasion. Over a year has passed, but no occasion has seemed quite special enough.
If today isn’t a special occasion, though, nothing is.
Special occasions don’t have to be nice to be special.
Bottle of tequila in hand, Ryan leads Shane away from the bar, over to one of the booths on the other side of the room. Ryan scoots in first and Shane follows after, crowding him in on the same side of the booth, like Ryan knew he would. Shane’s legs are almost too long to fit under the table; there’s a hot line where Shane’s left hip is pressed up against Ryan’s right, and Shane’s left arm reaches around Ryan to rest on top of the seatback. Ryan’s pretty sure that arm’s going to end up around his shoulders in the near future, which would be a hilariously high-school move for a malevolent entity, but also seems to be Shane’s style.
“Does it make you self-conscious,” Ryan asks, pouring the tequila, “that the longer people know you, the less afraid of you they become?”
Shane shrugs.
“I’m going to be honest, that’s not the general pattern. Guess you and Sara are just special.”
Shane leers at him a little, and Ryan does not blush, thank you.
Ryan raises his glass for a toast.
“To a long life,” he says, optimistically.
“Or at least an interesting one,” Shane says, and grins like a shark.
Shane clinks his glass against Ryan’s, and drinks long and deep. When Shane’s glass hits the table again, it’s more than half empty.
“Fuck, this is really good tequila, Ryan.”
“Flatterer,” Ryan says, grinning.
“I’m actually well-known not to be one of those,” Shane says. “Marvelous speaker and truth-teller, that’s me. I know when other people are lying, though.”
“Oh?”
“And I know that you haven’t lied to me at all. Not even once. And I love that.”
That left arm is drifting down to settle around Ryan’s shoulders, like Ryan knew it would. When it finds its target, Shane squeezes him a little, and Ryan is reminded of strangler vines and boa constrictors.
A moment passes, they sip their drinks. Ryan really likes this tequila too, honestly. It starts smooth, then burns going down, and it hurts in the very best way.
Shane finishes his first glass and Ryan pours him another. Ryan is incredibly aware of the warm lines where their bodies touch— at the hip, down the thigh, the pressure of Shane’s arm around Ryan’s back. Shane’s left hand starts absently tracing patterns on Ryan’s left shoulder, through his t-shirt. Ryan shivers in a way that he doesn’t think is completely from fear.
“But you are still afraid of me, right Ryan?” Shane asks softly, as if reading Ryan’s thoughts. Maybe he is. “Tell me you’re still a little scared, right?”
“Of course I’m afraid of you,” Ryan says, laughing, turning his face up to smile up at Shane, whose expression has turned to one of open delight. “I’m not stupid.”
Shane squeezes Ryan in tighter against him.
“God, Ryan, I like that so much.”
Ryan moves in further, because at this point, why not, presses his cheek to Shane’s chest. He can hear Shane’s heartbeat, and it’s faster than he would’ve expected.
Shane puts his mouth to the top of Ryan’s head.
“I like you so much,” Shane whispers into Ryan’s hair.
“I like you too, big guy,” Ryan says, and Shane actually wheezes with laughter. “You’re terrifying,” Ryan says, as Shane pulls away a little to catch his breath, “but I like you.”
Shane finishes his second glass of tequila like it’s a shot, and Ryan pours him a third, and sips his own. Ryan’s drinking a little more slowly than Shane is, but they’re both making steady progress through the bottle. Ryan wonders if Shane can get drunk.
Ryan’s certainly starting to feel the tequila; he’s feeling looser, more relaxed, and most concerning, he’s losing track of Shane’s movements around him. First Shane’s hand is on his shoulder, then drawing back across Ryan’s back, and then Shane catches Ryan’s wrist, and Ryan should not like the way Shane’s long fingers wrap all the way around his wrist, shouldn’t like the way Shane pins his hand to the table, shouldn’t like the tingle he feels (from the back of his hand, up his arm, down his spine, and yes, that tingle certainly ends somewhere in his groin region, doesn’t it) as the index finger of Shane’s other hand traces reverently over Ryan’s crescent moon tattoo, like he’s never seen anything like it before.
Shit. Shane probably hasn’t seen anything like Ryan’s tattoo before, or at least hasn’t touched and stroked and studied it in detail. Nobody else has been dumb enough to let him, until now.
Ryan starts to pull his hand away, but Shane suddenly looks so sad and Ryan hates that. So Ryan compromises like the businessman he is, laces their fingers together and hides their joined hands out of sight under the table. Ryan laughs when Shane stops pouting and smiles like the cat that got the canary, though honestly, Ryan might be the canary.
“You’re definitely the canary, little guy.”
“Cheers to that,” Ryan says, nonsensically, and they pick up their glasses with their free hands, clink them together, and drink again.
Time starts to go a little fuzzy after that. At some point, Shane must let go of Ryan’s hand, because his arm is wrapped around Ryan’s back again, he’s running his palm and fingers over Ryan’s shoulder in soothing geometric patterns that gradually get less and less soothing until each stroke of Shane’s finger feels like it’s sending a hot pulse of arousal directly though Ryan’s shoulder, down his spine, down through his cock. Shane’s mouth is pressed against Ryan’s temple and Ryan wishes with every power he has, wishes that Shane would just kiss him already like he clearly wants to, because Ryan feels like he’s dying for it, wants to press his mouth to Shane’s and climb into his lap, wants to wrap himself around Shane and have Shane wrap around him in turn. He feels like Shane would kiss him if he asked, would touch him if he asked, but Ryan’s tongue feels like molasses in his mouth, and Shane’s mouth is otherwise occupied.
Shane is whispering directly into Ryan’s ear, and Ryan hears himself laughing, even when he doesn’t quite catch exactly what Shane’s trying to say. It’s so warm here, curled into Shane’s body, with Ryan’s cheeks flushed and his head fuzzy from the tequila. Shane is drawing on Ryan’s shoulder with his hand again, whispering almost-kisses into Ryan’s ear. Shane’s voice is fast and soft and at a certain point, Ryan realizes he’s not speaking English anymore.
This happens right around the time that the quick little motions of Shane’s index finger on Ryan’s left shoulder get faster, sharper, and Ryan wonders, belatedly, if letting the malevolent entity doodle sigils onto his delts whilst speaking in tongues might actually be a bad idea.
“It’s such a bad idea,” Shane says, happily, directly into Ryan’s ear. “And I have several more bad ideas to propose, but you need to sober up first.”
Shane snaps his fingers.
It’s like somebody just dumped a bucket of ice water over Ryan’s head.
In a millisecond, Ryan goes from three-sheets-to-the-wind intoxicated to completely and painfully sober.
Except, not painfully. Ryan takes stock of his body, the lack of headache, the absence of nausea—he has absolutely no trace of a hangover. He just, pretty much instantaneously, went from a state of drunk to a state of not drunk. He notes with some embarrassment that his dick is still hard, so apparently his overwhelming, borderline-suicidal attraction to Shane isn’t a function of the alcohol.
“Neat trick,” Ryan says, turning to look up at Shane and – yep, definitely still earth-shatteringly attracted to him, even stone-cold sober. “But is the party over already?”
“Hardly,” Shane says. “I still want to play a game, remember?”—and here he glances over to the pool table, and then straight back at Ryan, eyes flashing— “But contracts made under the influence aren’t legally binding.”
Ryan pulls back away from Shane. He looks away from his face, because he knows the hurt shows in his eyes.
Ryan shouldn’t be hurt. He definitely shouldn’t be taken aback, like this is a surprise or something. He’s known this was coming from the very beginning, from the very moment Shane first darkened his doorway.
He appreciates that Shane sobered him up for this, but he’s still not ready.
Because Ryan’s got to say no, of course. He’s got to. He’s been in this situation before; he knows how to handle it. When people like Shane come knocking, you’re supposed to turn them away without a second thought. "You’ve got nothing I need," that’s what you say to people like Shane, and then you slam the door and lock it tight. "You’ve got nothing I need."
But with Shane, that’s not quite true, is it? He does have something you need. And you’ve known it since the second he walked into your bar and the lights went out and his face lit up and the air turned sharp like lightning.
And Ryan thinks he might’ve promised that he’d never lie to Shane.
You’ve got nothing I need, he wants to say, but the words turn to ash in his mouth.
“What makes you think I’ll do a deal with you?” Ryan asks, instead.
Shane shrugs.
“I don’t know that you will, honestly,” Shane says, voice circumspect. “You’re in full possession of your cognitive faculties, and I’m not going to pretend it’s not a risky proposition. The smartest move, the safest move, would be to say no.” Shane pushes his glass of tequila away from himself, like he’s done for the night. “Say no, and I’ll walk out that door right now, no game, no deal. You’ll never hear from me again.”
And that’s Shane’s trump card. That’s his play. And the worst part of it all is, Ryan knows that’s his play, and Shane knows that Ryan knows, knows he can ask Ryan to do anything and Ryan will do it, because Ryan just doesn’t want this to be over.
Nice reverse psychology, dickhead, Ryan thinks, and Shane laughs, because, of course, he hears him.
“I want to know your terms,” Ryan says. “I’m not saying yes,” Ryan adds quickly. Not yet, at least. “I’m not saying yes, just…tell me your terms.”
“I told you,” Shane says, and oh, he’s smiling that jungle cat smile again. “I want to play a game. A game of skill, one on one, and I think you know the traditional ante. Bet a fiddle of gold against your soul, ‘cause I think I’m better than you. As they say.”
“I can’t say I’m much of a fiddler,” Ryan says. “So if that’s how you want to go, I’m afraid you’re out of luck.” He really hopes he sounds nonchalant, or at least like he’s weighing his options, rather than the unholy amalgamation of desperate-terrified-incomprehensibly-turned-on he’s actually feeling.
“Pool then,” Shane says. “I’m sure you get a lot of practice in. But I should warn you that I’m pretty good myself—it’s the long arms and the big hands, I think.” He stretches his hands out flat on the table, then, like he knows exactly what those long fingers do to Ryan. What they could do.
So…probably Ryan’s not succeeding at hiding the scared-and-horny, then.
“What’s in it for me?” Ryan asks. “I mean, this is a pretty high-risk undertaking for me. It needs to come with a pretty great reward.”
Shane positively beams.
“Oh Ryan,” he says, elated. “If you win, I swear—if you win, the second you win, I’ll give you whatever it is that you want most in the whole entire world, right then. Right that second. It’ll be so good Ryan, so good, please say yes.”
Well. Not bad.
“I know it’s not bad,” Shane says. “I don’t make bad deals. Please say yes, Ryan,”—and wow, is that a note of desperation in Shane’s voice that Ryan hears?
“Please say yes,” Shane says again, and yes it almost sounds like he’s…begging. “Say yes.”
And in the cadence of Shane’s voice, the affection and the desperation, Ryan hears the words that Shane murmured into his hair while they drank.
I like you so much, Ryan.
I’d never lie to you.
“Take the deal, Ryan.”
Ryan closes his eyes. He can’t think. Shane’s voice is in his ears and in his memories, and it’s too loud.
Drink with me tonight.
To an interesting life.
“Say yes.”
He remembers how the words Shane pressed into his temple turned slowly from sweet-nothings to whispers in a language that Ryan didn’t know. He thinks that now, on the edge of doing something truly, irrevocably stupid, now he understands their meaning.
I want to swallow you whole, Ryan. I want to eat your soul, I want to keep you, all your beauty and your bravery and power, I want to keep you inside of me forever. It won’t hurt, Ryan, I’d never hurt you, never lie, it will be so so good, Ryan, I promise. Say yes.
“Say yes.”
Ryan’s eyes snap open.
"Oh, what the hell,” Ryan says. “Yes.”
|
It had been a strange day for Rex. After their return to Coruscant, finishing the impromptu escort mission to bring Senator Amidala safely to the capitol planet, Rex had taken the 501st and had been on his was on his way to the Outer Rim, where they would undoubtedly be needed, when the Jedi Council had called. They were given a new assignment: follow an old distress signal on a Jedi-encrypted frequency to find its source. Establish whether or not it's a trap, evaluate threat level if it is. Straight forward enough.
It got strange when Generals Skywalker and Kenobi and Commander Tano arrived. Because at first they didn't. Skywalker was on the line, asking where Rex was, while Rex was asking the same thing. Because they were both apparently at the coordinates, except that neither could see the other. Rex was about to ask if this was some sort of Jedi nonsense when the signal abruptly began cutting out before dying altogether.
Beside him, Yularen stiffened. "What happened? Why'd we lose them?"
"Unclear, sir," the ensign on comms answered. "It's like they simply dropped out of range."
"I think we're ignoring the bigger question," Rex said, crossing his arms. "Where are they? According to both our navicomputers, we're at the same coordinates. Then something happens and we lose contact with them? I don't think that's a coincidence."
He chanced a look at Ezra, who was staring at the holotable with as much confusion and worry as Rex was feeling. Well, that wasn't good. If this was something the kid from the future didn't know about, this could either be one of two things: something he hadn't paid attention to when it came up in conversation, or something that didn't happen last time around. If it was the first, then that made it questionable as to whether or not they could rely on the kid's knowledge of future events at all. If it was the second, that made it hard to predict what was going to happen if things that Ezra's presence could hardly affect were randomly changing.
The comm flickered suddenly and Rex whipped his head back around to stare at it. Simultaneously, another ensign called out, "Got a shuttle inbound. Just appeared on our scopes, sir."
The comm lit up and Rex let out a sigh of relief when he saw his General slumped over what was probably the console of the ship. He was slowly pushing himself up, blinking in confusion.
"General, are you there?" He asked trying not to let the worry be too obvious in his voice. The holo only showed General Skywalker. He had no way of knowing if Ahsoka was alright--or General Kenobi, for that matter. When General Skywalker looked up, relief flashing briefly across his face, Rex continued, letting himself relax ever so slightly. "Is everything alright? We lost you there for a second."
"That was more than a second, Rex," Skywlaker said, almost amused.
Rex blinked in confusion. "Sir, you just disappeared for a few moments. You haven't been gone that long."
Skywalker looked over his shoulder at someone who was outside of the projection, obviously confused. The mic on his side of the transmission barely caught Master Kenobi's voice saying something about the whole experience being strange before Skywalker turned back to Rex, an uneasy smile on his face. "We'll... explain later. We're coming in now."
Rex nodded, and, as the transmission ended, glanced over at Ezra. "Lieutenant, you're with me." Ezra straightened and stuck close to Rex as he followed the captain through the ship. Softly, so that the others they were passing in the hallways wouldn't hear them, he asked, "I don't suppose you know what's going on."
"I don't know for sure. This could literally be any incident. You guys hardly told me war stories in chronological order, and I doubt you told me all of them. You mostly told me about the most important ones, like Geonosis, or the worst ones, like Umbara."
Rex huffed as he entered the hanger. He should have thought of that. Of course they hadn't talked about everything, and he should have accounted for unreliable narrators. He just hoped whatever the kid did know would be enough to change the outcome of the war. He also made a mental note to interrogate the kid about Umbara, as that was the first he’d heard about it.
He mentally shook himself as he approached the shuttle, which had already docked. The two generals were slowly walking out, discussing something quietly under their breath. He sighed in relief when Ahsoka popped out a moment later, giving Skywalker and Kenobi a quick glance before she spotted Rex and Ezra. The moment she saw them, she looked relieved and ran over, practically tackling Rex in a hug.
He froze for a millisecond. Ahsoka, like the rest of the Jedi, wasn't big on physical affection. The most he'd ever seen her do was high-five one of the boys after a particularly "awesome" fight. Now, she was pressing her face into the junction of his neck and shoulder, trembling slightly as she squeezed her arms around his waist.
Rex hesitated for a moment before wrapping one arm around her trembling shoulders, using the other to pull her a bit closer. If she was this badly shaken by whatever had happened, then she needed all the comfort he could provide. She sighed slightly, relaxing when he didn't push her away, and he rubbed her back soothingly, all the while sending General Skywalker the most panicked look he could manage because this had not happened before and he had no idea what to do.
Skywalker was unhelpfully looking on from the shuttle, very obvious confused. Kenobi apparently saw his expression and turned, his face going straight from surprised to amused. Well, they were both very helpful.
"It's alright, Commander," Rex said quietly. "You're back, we've got you."
He felt her breath on his neck as she snorted softly. "That sucked."
"I'll say," Rex said, loosening his hold on her. She seemed to get the message and let go, stepping back. Rex continued, ignoring the fact that she wasn't looking him in the eye. "You disappeared and now you're acting like it's been a lot longer for you than it was for us. Care to fill us in?"
Ahsoka pursed her lips. "Debrief later. I need to eat. You and Ezra are more than welcome to join." Rex understood the implied message there.
We need the time-traveler's opinion on what just happened.
"Hang on there, Snips," Skywalker interjected as he and Kenobi walked up behind her. "You need to get Kix to check you out."
"I'm fine, Master," Ahsoka said, rolling her eyes.
Skywalker crossed his arms, scowling. "Maybe you are now, but you very much weren't. I can't--" He cut himself off, his scowl turning into sadder. "I just need to know you're okay."
Behind Rex, Ezra spoke up. "He's right." Ahsoka shot him a betrayed look and he raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I don't know what happened out there, but if you were injured, you need to let Kix look after you, if only for our peace of mind. Rex and I can tag along, keep you company." Good, he'd gotten the message, too.
Kenobi nodded. "Good idea. In the meantime, Anakin and I can fill the Council in on what we've discovered."
"Fine," Skywalker said. "Captain, Lieutenant, I leave her in your hands. Make sure she actually goes to the medbay."
Ahsoka spluttered as Kenobi and Skywalker walked out of the hanger. Rex chuckled slightly at her outrage before gesturing for her to lead the way to the medbay.
_______
"It was all so strange," Ahsoka said as Kix passed a scanner of some sort over her. She was sitting on a bed in a private room in the medbay, watching Kix carefully as he checked her over. "Like, that place ignored pretty much every rule known to the universe. Laws of physics? Meaningless. Concept of time? Might as well have never existed. And the people there--" she cut herself off with a shudder.
Ezra was watching her like a hawk from the stool in the corner. "Who were they?"
Ahsoka shrugged, earning a scowl from Kix as he tried to attach a sensor pad to her forehead. "They called themselves Father, Son, and Daughter. The Son was sort of an embodiment of the Dark Side, while the Daughter was the Light Side. The Father just kind of kept the balance."
"The one in the middle," Ezra muttered, nodding. "Let me guess, he had a long beard and weird, pointy hat? The Daughter had pale hair and white and green robes, and the Son had red eyes and black clothing?"
Ahsoka gaped at him. "How'd you...?"
"Seen a painting of them on an old building on a planet in the Outer Rim." Ezra answered distractedly. It was obvious from the look on his face that his mind was a million parsecs away. "The Daughter saved your life?"
From his position near the door, Rex spoke up for the first time. "Oh, so we
did
mention this mission."
"In passing, yeah. It was an offhand remark, and there was a lot going on at the time. But did she?"
Ahsoka nodded, causing Kix to roll his eyes and reattach a couple of the sensor pads. "Yeah, sort of. I kind of... died?" At their shocked expressions, she raised her hands defensively. "Only for, like, a minute or two! The Daughter was also dying, so the Father had Anakin transfer her life essence or something like that to me. So I'm fine."
Kix managed to splutter, "you just admitted to dying! You are so far from fine it's not even funny! When the tests come--" He was interrupted by the machines dinging, and Ahsoka and Kix both leaned over to see the readout. Rex couldn't see what it said from where he was, but from Ahsoka's triumphant "ha!" he figured it had come back clean.
As Kix muttered about how that wasn't possible, Ezra shook his head in disbelief. "When Aunt 'Soka said the Daughter saved her life, I was not imagining that. What happened to the Son and the Father?"
"The Son... he did something to Anakin. The Father reversed it, but... for a bit, Anakin Fell." She shot Ezra a look that Rex didn't quite understand. "Anakin doesn't remember it, the Father wiped his memory of what happened so he's back to normal, but that was terrifying. Then the Son tried to confront the Father, the Father commited suicide to distract the Son so Anakin could kill him, then the whole planet exploded and we woke up on the shuttle."
Almost none of that made any real sense to Rex, but this was Jedi business. He was pretty sure Jedi business wasn't supposed to make sense.
As Kix shook his head, muttering under his breath as he removed the sensor pads, Ahsoka looked over at Ezra. "I think the Father knew something about you. While Anakin and Master Obi-Wan were gone while I was repairing the shuttle, he told me that you were supposed to help ensure balance was restored. He also told me to tell you to, and I quote, 'go to the place where you faced your demons for they must be faced again.'"
Ezra looked confused. "Where I faced my... okay, I've faced demons in several places. He should have been more specific. Did he say anything else that might narrow it down?"
Ahsoka shook her head. "He seemed to think you would know what he was talking about."
"Well, I don't," Ezra muttered.
Rex frowned. A powerful Force-wielder gives the kid advice, and he can't seem to figure out what it's supposed to mean. Rex was fairly certain he wouldn't either, until it was too late for it to be useful. That would just be typical. Still, as Ahsoka hopped off the bed, Rex shook his head. He had more important things to worry about, such as convincing General Skywlaker that Ahsoka was indeed fine.
"Why can't we ask the Generals about this? Or, well, tell them about it? Maybe leave out the Skywalker part of it, but if they knew you're from the future, we'd have an easier time preventing it from happening." Kix asked, obviously just as put out by the situation as Rex was.
Ezra instantly shook his head. "We can't. Not only do we have literally no proof without the DNA test--and good luck explaining that to General Skywalker without freaking him out--but we can't let word that we know what's going to happen reach high command."
"Why not? They'd be able to help more than just the four of us can," Rex said.
Ezra huffed. "Because the Sith has eyes and ears inside high command. He'd find out."
"And kill us," Ahsoka finished with false enthusiasm.
"Oh, no, he'd just arrange for the three of you to die," Ezra assured her in a matching tone. "He'd imprison me somewhere and pump me for information while simultaneously making sure every word I had ever said was discredited so that his plans would still be in place."
"You seem awfully sure of that," Rex said, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, Uncle Rex told me that something similar happened when one of the boys found out about the Sith's secret weapon, only the Sith didn't bother imprisoning him. He just made everyone think he was delusional and had him shot. Only good news is that he managed to make Uncle Rex suspicious enough of the weapon for him to keep both himself and Aunt 'Soka safe from it."
Rex narrowed his eyes. "It was one of our boys?" Ezra hesitated then nodded. Rex took a half-step forward, trying to meet Ezra's eyes. "Who? Did I give you a name?"
"...No."
Well, there was a relief. Ezra was a terrible liar; at least that meant he couldn't hide anything.
"A name, Lieutenant. I know I mentioned it. So tell me."
Ezra exhaled softly, closing his eyes briefly before meeting Rex's gaze. "Fives."
Rex took a step back, bracing himself against the wall, his vision going fuzzy at the edges even as his eyes widened. Fives dies. He gets shot, and the only thing that comes out of it is that Rex and Ahsoka survive the rise of the Empire. Fives dies, because he knows too much.
Kix was suddenly at Rex's side, easing him into a seat. Rex didn't normally going into shock, he'd gotten so used to the constant shock of the war that he'd thought he was immune at this point. But the idea of Fives dying pointlessly, and being killed by brothers most likely, given how Ezra had phrased it, made his knees give out.
Distantly, he heard Ahsoka asking, "You knew he was going to die and you befriended him anyway?"
Ezra's voice filtered through the ringing in his ears. "I knew he died in the original timeline. Given that I haven't been wiped out by a paradox, I'm going to assume that any choice we make now puts us on an alternate timeline or something like that. Nothing we do affects the future I remember, just the future we're making. So while he might have died then, there's no guarantee the same thing will happen this time."
"Then shouldn't we change as little as possible?" Kix asked. "After all, with your knowledge, we've got a handbook on how not to screw up the future, but if we change it than it becomes useless."
"Except that the handbook was useless anyway, because one: it was incomplete. I don't have full knowledge of every single mission you're going to go on or how it's going to affect the war, so we can't rely on that to get us through the whole war. Two: that handbook tells you how to build a future that will result in you burning the galaxy to ashes. It's better to throw it out the window now before things start going wrong."
"So if we want to change things, why aren't you sharing everything you know with us?" Ahsoka demanded. "It feels like you only share when things become relevant. If we know what happened last time around, we can do more to prevent it."
"Or," Ezra countered, "you'll rely too much on that knowledge and flounder when it becomes useless. You're already doing that, relying on what I know, and it's not even in your heads yet. I'll share when it's relevant, I promise, that way you can make informed decisions, but otherwise it could do more harm than good."
"So you're just going to do it all by yourself," Rex muttered, finally breaking his silence.
Ezra looked down at his boots, shrugging. "It's probably better this way. I always end up alone anyway, I'm used to it."
Rex opened his mouth to protest, then realized why Ezra would think that. His birth parents had died when he was born, then his other parents had been arrested when he was still a child. He'd mentioned other family, but they were obviously not here anymore. He really did end up losing everyone.
Ahsoka didn't seem to agree. "You've still got us, though. Rex and I, and now Kix. We've got your back."
"Except I don't 'still have you,' Ahsoka. You're not the same person as the woman I know. Physical differences aside, she was older, more mature, and more settled. You act more like a teenager than I do most of the time, and Rex is the same way. You're both younger versions of the same people, yes, but there were experiences that shaped them that you haven't gone through, and hopefully never will. So don't pretend you're the same people that I knew. You of all people should know why that's not the case."
Ahsoka opened her mouth like she was about to protest, but then shut it firmly, tears glimmering in her eyes as she looked away.
Rex frowned. He wasn't sure what they were talking about, and he really wanted details, but this didn't seem like a good time. So instead, he met Ezra's eyes. "Even if we aren't the same people, you do have us in your corner. You can trust us, and you know we're not going anywhere."
"You don't want to go anywhere," Ezra corrected. "But guess what? No one ever does, but they go anyway. Just trust me, it's... easier this way."
"We do trust you," Kix said, "But is this easier for everyone, or just you? Because right now the future is relying on you, and if you can't do it on your own, then you need to admit that before everything goes sideways."
Ezra narrowed his eyes. "I won't let that happen."
Rex scoffed slightly. "No one wants that to happen, kid, but it did anyway. As much as I admire your determination, that's not going to save the galaxy."
Ahsoka shifted, crossing her arms. "Alright, Rex, I think he gets the picture." Rex shot her a look, surprised that she was giving up the interrogation this quickly, when they were actually getting something out of him, but she just shrugged. "He'll talk to us when he's ready to talk to us. Some of what he's been through... it's probably not something he wants to relive."
Ezra shot her a grateful look. Almost immediately, his, Rex's, and Ahsoka's commlinks chimed, and Rex glanced down at his comm, recognizing the signal.
He sighed. "Command wants a debrief. Officers are required to attend. C'mon, Commander, Lieutenant, let's go face the music."
|
“Sato is still bothering you?” Mr. Todoroki asks Yamada as he gathers the papers off his desk and sets them aside, glancing up at the other two men sitting on the other side of his desk.
“Yes...” The blonde answers, fidgeting in his seat as he spoke, unable to keep eye contact with the larger man. “He’s still messaging us and we were wondering if you could...”
“Could you write a statement for us in case we need to get a lawyer involved.” Aizawa finishes for him. “We’ve already got one from our friends, Shirakumo and Kan but we would like to get one from you as well.”
“And what would that do? The incident was already reported to the dean of the school.” Mr. Todoroki asks, crossing his arms as he leans back against his chair. “It’s already in his file.”
“We’re just trying to gather everything we can.” Yamada explains, anxiously tugging on his sleeves. “I just...want this to stop.”
For a moment, Todoroki didn’t say anything, just stared at them and pondering his opinions before letting out a sigh, sitting forward again; He grabs a pen and reaches for a slip of paper.
“Alright...” He mutters under his breath, writing quickly as Yamada and Aizawa sat quietly across from him. The blonde could feel his boyfriend’s hand reaching for his so he takes his hand and gives him a reassuring squeeze; Both waiting patiently for the man to finish.
Mr. Todoroki slips the paper over his desk towards them and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he turns his head.
“Has he been trying to contact you again?”
“Yes, he messaged Aizawa this morning.” Yamada tells him. “We’re not sure how he got his number, we think he broke into an office to get it, no one we know who knows his number would willing give it out to him.”
“I’ll let Nezu know and we can go over surveillance footage.” Todoroki reaches for his phone and motions for them to leave. “You two get to class for now.”
Yamada thanks him and they both leave, closing the door behind them before the blonde pulls his boyfriend into a tight hug. Aizawa hugs him back, patting his hair before pulling back.
“Everything will work out, don’t worry.” He promises him.
“You think it will?”
“If not, we go to plan b and just let Kan’s friends have him.” Aizawa chuckles, getting a small grin from the other as he both head off to class.
~*~
Yamada gets out of class, carrying his backpack over his shoulder as he gets ready to meet his friends for lunch. He checks his phone to let everyone know he’s on his way when he notices he’s got a few missed calls and messages from Nemuri.
Oh no.
He knew what was coming before he even read her texts, Tensei must have called her right after he got off the phone with them this morning.
She’s furious.
The blonde goes to put his phone away when he gets another message from her.
She’s coming over. Oh no.
Yamada Hizashi;‘You don’t need to do that. Ha ha.’
Nemuri Kayama;‘I’m going to find this boy and snap his dick like a glow stick and if you or anyone else tries to stop me...I swear, Hizashi; I will lose my damn mind.’
Yamada Hizashi;‘We’re trying to do this the legal way, Nem.’
Nemuri Kayama;‘I will put the fear of god into this guy, he will think twice before trying to bother you again.’
Yamada Hizashi;‘Nemuri, I can handle myself, I promise.”
Nemuri Kayama;‘I’m still coming down.”
He lets out a sigh and shoved his phone into his pocket, turning to head towards the cafeteria when he sees Sato standing down the hallway, staring at him. Yamada feels his eyebrow twitch and quickly walks away, briefly considering letting Nemuri have him.
Just as he’s about to turn the corner, he feels a hand grab his arm and whips his head around to see Sato standing there with a creepy smile on his face.
“Hey, I just wanted to say I think your boyfriend is pretty hot too.” Yamada yanks his arm away from him and reaches into his pocket for the pepper spray but before he had the chance to reply or pull it out, a booming voice echoes through the hallway, making them both jump.
“MR. SATO!” It’s Todoroki and Yagi is with him, both looking not too pleased as they approached. “In my classroom, right now.”
He said this in a tone that didn’t leave any room for discussion, crossing his arms angrily.
“But-“
“NOW.” Todoroki says firmly, face stoned cold but his eyes; Oh jeez, if looks could kill. Sato glances back at Yamada, giving him a dirty look before shoving past the teachers. Todoroki turns to follow but Yagi stays behind, looking concerned as he moves closer to the other blonde.
“Are you okay, Yamada?” Yagi asks as the older man looks him over as if he assumed the other student just tried to hurt him. “He didn’t attack you, did he?”
“No...no, he just grabbed my arm is all.” Yamada replies, pulling out his pepper spray to show the teacher that he was ready to defend himself if he had to. “I would have taken care of it if he had tried.”
“Want me to walk with you to wherever you need to go to?” The man offers. Yamada is about to assure the man that he’s fine, that Todoroki already handled the other man but instead he smiles, giving him a little nod.
Yagi is a kind man, Aizawa tells him all the time that the teacher is too kind for his own good and he’s probably more freaked out than he is about the whole situation. If walking him to the cafeteria calms the older man’s nerves then he doesn’t mind to let him walk with him.
“I’m just meeting my friends for lunch; I don’t think they’d mind if you’d want to join us.” Yamada offers, nodding his head towards the direction of the cafeteria. “If teachers are allowed to have their lunch breaks with students, that is; Don’t want you to get into some trouble.”
“I’m going to meet my wife for lunch but I’m sure she’ll understand if I’m a little late to insure the safety of a student.” Yagi smiles, walking with him down the hallway.
Softly in the distance, Yamada could barely hear Todoroki shouting inside his classroom.
|
6. “Where are you? Tell me where you are.”
Jason was stacking boxes in the storeroom of the diner where he worked when the phone in his pocket jingled with a certain ringtone. It was the theme song for one of Tim's favorite TV shows, and it only came from one number.
He dropped the boxes he was holding on the floor and took the phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear. "Timmy?"
The line was quiet. Jason strained to hear, pressing the phone closer to his face. Then he realized that it wasn't silent, after all. Tim was panting, harsh and terrified.
"Tim? Baby bird? Talk to me."
Jason was already striding toward the door of the storeroom and into the kitchen. His manager, Mr. Sevalkis, was leaning over the counter sorting receipts. He looked up at his entrance. Jason raised his eyebrows and pointed to his phone.
Sevalkis grimaced. "One of those calls?" he asked.
"Yeah. Gotta go."
Sevalkis waved a hand. "Get outta here. Come back if you can. Dinner rush in two hours, if you can make it."
"I'll try."
On the other end of the phone, Tim was gulping for breath. Jason moved toward the service entrance, grabbing his leather jacket off the hook on the wall and slinging it on one-handed. "Where are you, Timbo? Tell me where you are. I'll come to you."
"Quad," Tim said faintly. "Front of... Front of the library. There's people around."
"Okay. That's good." Jason slung his leg over his motorcycle. "I'm gonna have to hang up while I drive. Wanna tell me what happened before I do? If not, we can talk when I get there."
Sometimes nothing happened. Nothing external, anyway. Sometimes it was all inside, just a build-up of pressure until it exploded and Tim couldn't take it anymore and called for help. And Jason always came. But sometimes there was a trigger, and sometimes it helped to talk about it. Jason would be happy for any information he could get out of Tim when he was this jammed up, even just a word or two.
"I thought I saw him," Tim said numbly.
Jason clenched his teeth so hard he could hear them creaking under the pressure.
"It probably wasn't him," Tim amended. "Probably just...a trick of the light. Or my stupid brain."
"Maybe," Jason said. "Maybe not, though. Good job getting somewhere public with lots of people around. Stay there, okay? I'll be there soon."
"Yeah." Tim's breath was just a wisp. "Hurry, okay?"
"I will."
He hung up and drove.
He liked the diner. It was mostly a cover, a veneer of legitimacy. He kept light hours, but he worked hard when he was there, mostly janitorial, maintenance, short order cooking during meal rushes. He liked it most of all because they had agreed to his one condition.
First thing at the interview, as soon as he sat down, he put it out on the table. "Listen, I know it's bad form or whatever for the job applicant to make demands, but I gotta let you know, I can't work here unless you can put up with something for me. Sometimes I get a phone call, and I have to drop everything and leave. I'll do my best to come back when it's taken care of, but it's not negotiable. If you can't handle that, we should just end the interview now, and I'll keep looking for work elsewhere."
The owner, Anderson, was there, and Jason's future manager, Sevalkis. Anderson started making uncomfortable noises, but Sevalkis raised a hand. He looked at Jason steadily, barely blinking. "That's a pretty extraordinary demand. I think we can handle it, as long as you're not out making drug deals or something. Can you tell me a little more about these phone calls you'll be getting?"
Jason huffed a laugh. "Not drug deals, I promise. It's not really your business. But yeah, okay, I get that you need more than my word."
Sevalkis placed both hands flat on the table and looked Jason deep in the eyes. "I don't need your life story. A summary will do."
"I have a little brother. Couple of years ago, he was tortured." He didn't say by who, or why, or any other details. This was Gotham. Innocent people got tortured on a semi-regular basis.
"He's doing okay, most of the time. Going to college, working part-time. Every once in a while it gets to be too much for him, though, and I get a call. And I go."
The corner of Sevalkis's mouth turned up. "Your personal Bat signal."
Jason laughed again, a little more genuinely. "Yeah. We joke that I'm his bodyguard, twenty-four seven. Even when I'm halfway across the city, I'm protecting him in spirit if not in body. He's a good kid. The best. He doesn't deserve what happened to him, and he doesn't deserve how hard things are for him now. I would do anything for him."
"Including losing any chance at gainful employment?" Anderson asked.
"Including?" Jason gave him a sharp-toothed smile. "That's the least of what I would do for my baby bro, pal. The very least."
"I like him," Sevalkis said, already reaching across the table to shake Jason's hand. "You're hired."
Anderson balked. "No other questions?"
Sevalkis shrugged. "I read his resume. The interview is for gut impressions, not dry facts. A guy who would drop anything to help his kid brother deal with PTSD will work hard and give his all at other things, too, including a job in a crappy little greasy spoon like this one. I like him, and I'm hiring him, unless you want to overrule me."
Anderson shook his head. Jason and Sevalkis shook hands, and that was it.
Now, he parked his motorcycle basically on the sidewalk of the quad at Gotham U, barely taking time to set the kickstand and take off his helmet before he was jogging across the grass. Tim was sitting at a stone picnic table in front of the library, his bright red hoodie standing out like a flag. He was slumped over with his head buried in his folded arms, and a nice-looking girl was sitting next to him with a hand on his back.
Jason slid onto the bench across from them, giving the girl a pleasant smile. "Hi. You a classmate of Tim's?"
She nodded. "Zo. Zoanne. We're not in any classes together, since he started too late, but we hang out sometimes. You're Jay?"
"Yup. I'll take over for ya. You can go back and take care of whatever you were doing, no worries. Timmy's in good hands with me."
She smiled. "I know. He talks about you a lot. His other siblings, too."
Zoanne took her leave, and Jason leaned over, his head near to Tim's. "You wanna tell me where you think you saw him? I'll check it out for you."
Tim shook his head against his arms and rolled it over to look at Jason with one eye, peeking out between his arms. "I already sent an alert to O. She's checking security footage. I don't think she's going to find anything, though. It was just me being crazy again."
"Hey, what have we said about that?" Jason laid his hands on Tim's upper arms and gave them a careful squeeze. "It's not crazy to be scared of a dude who hurt you like that. It's perfectly rational. Your brain is just trying to protect you by pointing out things that even remotely might be him."
Tim pulled in a shuddering breath and slowly sat up. His arms slid out of Jason's grip, but he offered his hands instead. Jason folded them between his, massaging carefully but firmly. He could feel the ridges of scars, the bumps and off-angles where the pins had come out. Tim's hands were shaking, of course. But Jason's were too, a little.
He kept rubbing Tim's hands, rolling his slender fingers between his, pressing big blunt thumbs into his narrow palms and massaging in circles. Damian was still the best at giving Tim hand massages, but they all had had plenty of practice by now. It had become a ritual, a way for them to connect with Tim and help him calm down when things were rough, a tangible expression of how much they cared and how much they wanted to erase his pain and help him heal.
Eventually Tim's shoulders went boneless, his eyes drooping and face slack, and even his hands had relaxed down to their normal faint level of trembling that never really went away. Jason stood up and went around to his side of the table to draw him to his feet. "C'mon, baby bird. Let's blow this popsicle stand. You want me to take you home, or would you rather come hang out with me at the diner during dinner rush?"
Tim perked up a bit, leaning into Jason's side as he led him over to his bike. "Will I get to watch you cook?"
Jason chuckled. "Maybe. You like that?"
"It's funny watching you swear at everyone for not keeping up with you, even while you're grinning like you're having the time of your life."
"Yeah, the diner is good fun. Let's go. Sevalkis will probably give you a free piece of pie."
"Rhubarb?"
"You know what, hold that thought. I'll call ahead and tell him to reserve a piece for you."
Tim sat on Jason's bike, grinning without a hint of fear in his eyes, while Jason called his boss and told him to save a piece of his kid brother's favorite pie. The sky was clear, and McDaniels wasn't in jail, but he wasn't here, either. And everything was as good as it could get, for now.
|
It was night time as the band of five of Orochimaru's strongest ninja sat around a campfire. Even Sasuke was there, his eyes closed as he mediated peacefully next to Juugo. Suigetsu chatted with Juugo, the latter nodding his head every so often to convey he was listening.
You and Karin sat next to each other on the opposite side of the fire. You sighed, quite irritably as she stares dreamy eyed at the Uchiha, leaned over with her hands clasped against her face. She wasn't listening to anything you were saying. Your gaze goes to the flickering embers as you think of something to do.
Oh
"Hey, guys?"
Suigetsu looks at you curiously. "What?" He asks, while Juugo watches you as well. Sasuke's eyes open just alittle abit and Karin is still day dreaming or whatever.
"Let's play truth or dare." You say and your request gets mixed responses.
Sasuke kisses his teeth, one of the rare times the brooding Uchiha decides to hang around during the night while everyone is still up and you come up with the most juvenile activity. Suigetsu grins, "Hell yeah!" He looks at Juugo, who nonchalantly shrugs his shoulders.
You smile and look over to Karin who looks quite interested. Her cheeks cherry red as she hits the side of her fist against her palm, amped up for some fun. "Good idea, Y/n!" She sighs as she fawns in Sasuke's direction. "We can play a dirty one!~"
A smirk creeps up on your face as the boys look anything but happy, instead annoyed, suspicious yet contemplating, and abit scared.
Shockingly, Sasuke hasn't left yet, cold eyes looking back and forth between all of you as the game is explained for clarity.
"Ladies first." You announced. Suigetsu rolled his eyes as Karin clears her throat.
"Hmmm!" Who to pick first...
"Juugo!"
Eyebrows raise in surprise at the pick. You suspiciously eyed Karin with that mischievous bordering on evil look on her face. Why hadn't she picked Sasuke?
"Truth or dare, Juugo?"
The orange haired teen is silent for a moment before he chooses--- "Pick dare!" Suigetsu whispers, excitedly. Juugo sighs, What's the worse that could happen?
"Dare."
No one has ever seen Karin look this devious. Even Sasuke feels unnerved by her aura.
"I...I dare you to show us...what you're hiding under those pants..." Karin sniffs, sensing a nose bleed coming on. No one can believe this. Suigetsu laughs, egging on Juugo to do the dare as his friend blushes red, not mentally prepared to do something so embarrassing.
"Come on man! It's not that bad. Would it be easier if Sasuke asked you to do it?"
"Shut the hell up..." Sasuke hissed; if looks could kill. "Keep me out of it." He concluded, folding his arms. Why was he still sitting there? He didn't understand it himself.
Juugo inhaled and exhaled deeply to gather his courage. He gets up, towering over everyone and his hands go to his pants.
You look at Karin with wide eyes. She feels your gaze and glances away from Juugo to wink at you.
How did she know you liked him? And why did she have to take it upon herself to do something like this!?
His pants and boxers fall around his ankles, it's cute how he covers his face. Way too cute.
Sasuke doesn't look. He won't. He will not. No.
Suigetsu nods his head in approval, his sharp grin only growing wider as he laughs. "Not bad, huh, Sasuke!?" The water user playfully elbows the Uchiha who may or may not have activated his Sharingan. Sasuke's annoyed groan gets Suigetsu to back off for now.
"Holy fuck! His dick is huge!"
Karin's glasses were completely fogged, her face redder than her hair. The girl sputtered nothing but nonsense as she stared at Juugo's package.
You aren't much better for ware yourself. You swallow the lump in your throat. "Damn, it's...it's atleast nine inches... Karin?" You ask, straining your eyes away from Juugo's goods. "Karin!?"
The Karin you know is gone. Her whole face bright red and calculating. "Y-yeah...It's flaccid but..It's 9.53 inches...In length...Not sure about the width... Juugo come closer..." She fixes her glasses. "I-i-t's for science."
Suigetsu whistles. "Oh shit. Well, Sasuke-san looks like you don't have to worry about Karin anymore." He says with a nervous chuckle, and gets zero response from the Taka leader.
Juugo looks apprehensive about her request. He quickly bends down to pick up his pants and boxers. "I'm just go--"
"NO." She shouts, everyone flinches. "That's not how the game works..." No one was willing to challenge her. Maybe this game was a bad idea.
"Juugo, pick someone." She says, chillingly calm. "Pick, Y/n."
You look at the insane kunoichi. "He's supposed to choose someone himself, Karin!"
She's silent for a moment.
"Remember that time you told me that you could please Sasuke better than me if he had to choose one of us to be his wife and birth his offspring?" She asks. Sasuke stares at the both of you. What the actual fuck?
"Ugh, I was joking....I wasn't serious! What the fuck, Karin? We talked about this!"
She doesn't seem to be listening.
".... I'm sure Sasuke-kun has an even bigger one." Karin is drooling. Sasuke's face loses color. "...Now, if you can handle that with expertise, then you can handle Sasuke! We'll see who the better woman is!"
Suigetsu scoffed. "I've seen Sasuke's dick-- accidentally and it's nothing to write home about!"
Sasuke growls, fingers itching the tip of his sword. Suigetsu doesn't even look in his direction. "Shut. Up."
You were so confused.
"Juugo! She's always talking about you! Just do her a favor! DARE HER DAMNIT!"
Juugo is genuinely afraid. Suigetsu is starting to consider stopping this himself but he also wants to see this because this could be pretty hot. Sasuke is disgusted, but he stays because ultimately he's just a guy himself and this could be pretty hot. No one really knows how he feels so he feels emotionally secure.
Okay. You had to do something.
Everyone watches you get up and slowly walk up to a nervous Juugo. You have to look up at him once you get close enough. Juugo is like a deer-- or a buck caught in headlights before you.
You whisper, "Alright, I'm going to do this, okay? Before Karin gets alittle weirder and kills us all." Although, everyone could probably take her, you don't want it to come to that and it's not like you don't have a major crush on this guy.
The corners of Juugo's lips quirk downwards as he considers you. Well, he's noticed you. He's of course kept it to himself that he thought you were attractive. He shortly mused that this would be the only time he'd experience something like this. Because who'd want a freak like him in any normal circumstances?
Juugo nods his head. "Ok, if you must.."
Everyone is quiet and focused on you as you get on your knees; your heart has been beating faster than usual for awhile but you realize how nervous you really are when put your hands on his thighs, your hands are trembling.
You haven't done anything like this before, but it shouldn't be too hard. Juugo's length had already started to harden when you sank to your knees. His knees already feeling weak as your breath lightly blows against him.
A quiet huff of breath escapes him as your hand wraps around him, and you amateurishly guide his budding erection into your open mouth. The tip of his member is smooth on your tongue and his taste is tasteless for the most part, abit salty.
Juugo's sighs, his hands fidgety at his sides as you experimentally try to take him deeper. You rest your hands on his thighs, the taunt muscle under his skin jumping slightly under your touch.
You heard shuffles behind Juugo and a whispered curse. Karin squeaks girlishly as she watches you with Juugo.
Sasuke's usually disinterested eyes are trained carefully on your mouth as your head slowly bobs up and down. Suigetsu's smirk cemented on his features as he watches, considering whether he should try to join you both.
Juugo's cock is as hard as a bone now, your jaw already starting to get sore. Karin playfully cheers you on.
"I believe in you!~" She smiles widely, holding her legs tight together. Even through her foggy glasses she can see how her true love is reacting to the scene in front of him.
"Come on guys! You can do better than that! Juugo touch her! Don't hold back!" Karin yelled, squirming around in her seat. "Fuck her face!"
Sasuke couldn't believe his ears.
Suigetsu got up, he made his decision. The Uchiha watched speechlessly as the swordsman walked to your side.
"Ew! Suigetsu sit down! You're going to ruin everything!" Karin yells. You feel something push down on the back of your head and you end up choking on Juugo.
"Oh, shut up. I'm helping!" Suigetsu says, weaving your hair into his fist. You moan, angrily, not able to talk as the fingers in your hair are too rough. Suigetsu only does as promised, very much amused.
"If anyone should be helping her it should be me!" Karin agrues.
Juugo groans, eyes shut as your forced to take down more. You whimper, your jaw is seriously going to break if Suigetsu keeps this up.
"Suigetsu."
The white haired male looks up. "What?" His grin deflating slightly. Sasuke shoots him a look.
"Let her go, she's going to choke to death... Idiot."
Suigetsu immediately releases your hair, his smile apologic. "Sorry..."
You break away, noisily catching your breath. Juugo almost groans in disappointment at the loss of contact, but he keeps it together.
Karin pouts. "Aw, see!? You always ruin everything, Suigetsu!" The latter glares at her.
"It's not my fault she can't hold her breath longer!"
As the two bicker, you're tenderly holding your jaw. You notice Juugo quickly fix his clothes. When you're able to look up, his cheeks are very much pink and he looks abit sad.
"Juugo?"
He shyly makes eye contact with you. You get up on your feet.
"Another time." You say, loud enough for only you two to hear. He looks surprised. He's not sure on what to say so he just nods, before uncomfortably walking back to his spot, next to an awkward looking Sasuke.
Karin and Suigetsu are still arguing when you get back to your own spot. It's when you loudly clear your throat that they stop and look at you.
"Suigetsu. Truth or dare."
Karin frowns and looks at Suigetsu with desperation. "Choose truth, Suigetsu. Please!" She begs.
He glares at her. "Why?" Before she's able to state her case, he cuts her off, foolishly. "DARE."
"NNNNOOOO!" She screams, pulling her hair.
Sasuke raises his eyebrows at what you say next. Okay, I'm leaving. He won't be a part of this. Nope. Sasuke never looks back.
"I dare you to have to sex with Karin, right here." This is revenge. Karin looks physically ill. Suigetsu looks like he's somewhat weighing the pros and cons.
Karin backs away from Suigetsu. "Stay away! My virginity is for Sasuke!!!"
While the two figure that out. You go to sit next to Juugo, who is covering his lap with his cloak, eyes casted tiredly towards the fire. He looks at you questioningly when he notices you sit next to him. You're still baby sitting your sore jaw. "... Sorry about... that." He mumbles.
You smile. Ouch. "Sorry about the blue balls."
"I've felt worse..."
"Maybe we can start off fresh tomorrow, away from everyone?"
"Really?" He asks, mild shock across his features. You shrug.
"Yup."
|
Tony is a genius, and, as it turns out, Loki is also a genius, so between the two of them they identify the frequency—or what passes as a frequency, at least—of Loki's magic within an hour. From there, it's actually easier than Tony expects to find something they can repurpose to channel Loki's magic—or it is once Loki explains how the power will transfer from him to the device and then back to Loki.
"So it's pretty much done with mirrors," Tony says as he finishes tightening a few screws.
Loki glances at him. "There are no mirrors involved."
He rolls his eyes. "It's a metaphor."
"It is a terrible metaphor."
"Your face is a terrible metaphor."
Loki arches an eyebrow. "Truly a comeback worthy of your intellect, Stark. I expected nothing less of you."
Tony laughs. "Don't be a jackass. Hand me that level."
Loki does and sits back to watch Tony work. "Assuming you are correct, Stark, and this does work as you think it will—"
"It will."
Loki presses his lips tightly together, just for a moment, and then continues on. "Assuming it works, what precisely do you assume will happen next?"
"How do you mean?"
"I mean," Loki says, "do you intend to return to your team to prepare to fend off the Titan?"
Tony pauses to consider that, then glances up at him. "Honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead. I could, I guess."
"You could," Loki agrees. "This would fulfill your end of our bargain."
He sets the level aside and follows the internal wiring to make sure everything is connected appropriately. "Do you want me to?"
Loki frowns. "I hardly think it is my decision to make. You should do whatever it is you prefer."
"And my options are, what? Stay here and villain it up with you to help prep the world for what might actually be an apocalyptic event or make some kind of super public apology and retake my place as one of Earth's mightiest heroes?"
"I suppose so, yes." Loki pauses. "It really is not much of a choice."
"No," Tony agrees. "I guess it's not." He finishes checking the parameters and then sits back, rubbing at his forehead with the back of his arm. "That's it. We're done."
Loki considers the device—something Tony put together using a switchboard, a makeshift synthesizer, and the big workshop scanner—and looks entirely unimpressed. "Are you certain?"
"Of course I am. I mean, I left off all the bells and whistles and fancy casing to save us a little time, but it's done. As done as it's going to get." For now, anyway. If this works... Well, Tony can only just begin to imagine what else they could do with a machine capable of controlling magical energies. It could open all kinds of doors in medicine, engineering... There are near limitless possibilities.
Loki, for his part, just shakes his head. "Let's get on with it, then."
"All right, fine. If you want to rush through our initial testing and development phase, that's on your head. Don't hold me responsible if I accidentally make you explode."
"If you do, I will find a way to torment you after death," Loki promises.
"That's very reassuring. Thank you." Tony turns a dial all the way to the end. "Should I kiss you for luck or something?"
"I hardly think that would be appropriate."
It's not a no, exactly, but, regardless, Tony shrugs. "Suit yourself." He checks his settings and looks to Loki. "Okay, are you ready? I'll need a huge blast of whatever you've got to fire this up."
Green and gold sparks fly from Loki's fingertips as he makes a complicated gesture in the air. "Of course I'm ready."
"Showoff." Still, Tony smiles as he twists another dial. "All right, Pat Benatar. As they say in the song, hit me with your best shot."
Loki hardly even needs the prompt; before Tony can even finish his sentence, he has the air crackling around them, and waves of color are creeping through Tony's peripheral vision, twisting and intertwining and becoming new colors he doesn't quite recognize.
Tony lets out a breath. "Is this what it's always like?"
Loki, for a moment, looks surprised, and then smug. "When it's done right," he says, and the colors somehow get more interesting and strange, and Tony almost forgets to look down at the synthesizer readings.
The synthesizer is going crazy as it reads and interprets Loki's frequency, and Tony hovers over the "record" button, waiting for the moment it hits a maximum read. It doesn't take long, and after Tony hits the button the inner workings start to glow, the light creeping up from the cracks around the buttons and switches. He waits, watching as the glow gets stronger and, finally, reaches the switchboard, and then he gives Loki the 'OK' sign and turns on the switchboard.
At Tony's cue, Loki lets the magic in the air die away. Tony can actually feel it as it ebbs and fades, and part of him is tempted to have Loki fire it back up just so he can take a proper look at it and study it and figure out how he's doing whatever it is he's doing, but he puts that part of him aside—for now. The last thing he wants is to start the next part of their plan with Loki drained and out of sorts; if things go wrong, that won't be good for anybody.
At about the same time as the hairs on the back of Tony's neck stop standing up, Loki looks to him, eyebrows arched. Tony looks down at his makeshift device and considers the dull glow still emanating from within, then looks back up and nods.
"I think we've got it," he says.
"It won't last."
"What, your jazz has an expiration date?"
Loki shakes his head. "Seidr does not like to remain idle for very long. It will not be contained without purpose."
Well, there go some of Tony's world-changing ideas. That's all right; he'll make new ones. He's good at that. "Then I guess we'd better keep going. Should we test it first?"
"No. Either it will work or it won't."
"Right." Tony exhales. "You're sure you're up for this?"
"I'll manage," Loki answers as he steps onto the scanner platform and shrugs off his duster. He doesn't move to take off the rest of his armor—and, really, Tony isn't entirely sure when he put it back on, and he's not sure whether or not he should be insulted, although he's guessing Loki doesn't really mean anything by it—and instead clasps his hands behind his back, waiting.
"Good enough for me," Tony says. "You want a stool or anything? No?" He extends his arms in front of him and cracks his knuckles. "Then let's do this. FRIDAY?"
'Sir?'
"Play me something. Your choice, but keep it mood appropriate." He grins when he sees Loki wrinkle his nose. "Relax. If we do this right, you won't be able to hear more than the first few bars anyway."
"When I return to haunt you, I think I will start by destroying all of your so-called music."
Tony scoffs. "Go ahead and try it. See what happens." He dances his fingers over the switchboard, familiarizing himself with the sequence. "Maestro?"
As the first few bars of 'The Marriage of Figaro' start playing over the speakers, Tony starts the modified scanner, punches the "play" button on the synthesizer, and quickly moves back to the switchboard.
It seems to work just as he'd planned it: The synthesizer and switchboard contain and let Tony control Loki's own magical frequency, and the scanner keeps the focus on Loki while allowing Tony the extra bonus of being able to more or less decipher what it's all doing to Loki. There's a delay—maybe a thirty, forty second one—between when the frequency starts and when the scanner gets a reading, and it doesn't tell Tony anything too specific, but it at least monitors vitals and keeps him up-to-date on how much abuse they're putting Loki through at any given time.
No explosions so far. That's a good sign, right?
Tony glances up as Loki shuts his eyes and tenses, his entire body going taut with the effort of standing still. Tony sucks in a breath, watching him, and then winds a dial on the switchboard, increasing the frequency.
"Hang in there," he says, raising his voice to be heard over the orchestra playing over the speakers. "I think we're almost done."
Tony glances at the switchboard as it starts to go haywire and spark in some places. As he watches, a cable comes loose and the entire configuration emits a high-pitched whine. Tony swears and dives underneath it to try and get the wire back where it belongs, but between the noise and the glowing and the ever-present threat of the whole thing catching fire, he can't get a good look at what's come loose.
He's just about to start ripping out cables and forcing the entire operation to a close when everything... stops. And he does mean everything: The entire lab goes dark and Tony hears the tell-tale sound of computers and machinery shutting themselves down.
For a moment, everything is silent. Then, after what seems like an eternity, the emergency lights come on, casting everything in a dull yellow light.
Tony exhales and pushes to his feet. "You okay over there? Loki?"
Loki is standing upright, although if the way he's hanging on to the metal structure of the scanner is any indication, it's something of a feat, and Tony can't tell if the sick pallor to his face is from exhaustion or a side effect of the emergency lights. Either way, he doesn't answer, and he seems to be breathing a little too heavily to be healthy.
Tony starts around the device, toward the scanner—toward Loki. "Hey. Can you hear me? Are you okay?"
Loki swallows audibly, then says, "I'm fine." His voice sounds hoarse, as though he's been shouting, but he hasn't been, has he? Tony would remember it if he were, he's pretty sure, and the music definitely wasn't that loud.
"You don't sound fine." He joins Loki on the scanner bed and considers him. Up close, Loki looks to be in even worse shape. There are dark circles around his eyes and his lips are dry and cracked. How is that even possible? He was fine a minute ago. The magic? Maybe. To be fair, every encounter Tony has had with magic has ended pretty badly. It's dangerous stuff, and he and Loki didn't exactly do a lot of research into what would happen to when Loki more or less used all of his powers against himself.
Loki shakes his head. "I'm fine," he says again, and this time Tony knows for sure he's lying by the way his voice almost breaks. "I'm fine."
Tony shakes his head and tries to sling an arm around Loki's back to steady him. "No, come on, let's get you sitting down." He nudges until Loki lets go of the metal bar. Once he does, Tony immediately remembers that Loki is heavier than he looks and realizes what a terrible idea that was; as soon as Loki lets go of the bar, the full force of his weight hits Tony like a ton of bricks and they both wind up sprawled on the scanner bed.
Tony can't help it; once the initial shock of his suddenly being on the floor wears off, he starts laughing. "Okay," he says. "Okay. This is just getting ridiculous." He pushes himself to sit up and looks down at Loki. "You look like crap."
Loki frowns at him. "That's hardly a nice thing to say."
"Just telling it like it is." He leans back onto his elbows, still looking at Loki. The color in the god's cheeks seems to be returning, slowly, although his eyes still look a little hollow and Tony can still hear a bit of a waver in his voice. "How do you feel?"
"Fine."
"Right, sure, but how do you actually feel?"
Loki shuts his eyes and stays quiet for a moment, almost as though he's trying to evaluate himself, and he furrows his brow. "Quiet."
That isn't exactly the answer Tony was expecting—he was really looking for something more along the lines of 'tired' or 'like hell'—but he'll take it. "Does that mean it worked?" When Loki doesn't answer right away, Tony asks again. "Loki, did it work? Do you feel any different? I'm not sure what 'quiet' means here, so you're going to have to work with me on this. Is 'quiet' a good thing?"
Loki looks at him, eyebrows raised, and then shakes his head and reaches over, briefly pressing a finger against Tony's lips. "Quiet," he says again.
"Oh. That kind of quiet." Tony is silent for a minute or so before he can't take it anymore. "You're really not answering my question. Did it work or not?"
Loki offers him an exasperated look, but, after a few seconds, he nods. "I think it may have."
"So you feel different? You feel better?" Tony twists around to consider the scanner. "When the power comes back, we should test this. Run a scan. See if we can pick anything up. I don't know if we can, but we can try."
"If you'd like." Loki stays prone on the floor and shuts his eyes. "Although I doubt it will tell us anything useful."
He's probably right, but, short of waiting to see if Loki has another episode, what else can they do? Tony nods and tilts his head back. "So are you going to thank me or what?"
The corners of Loki's mouth quirk upward in the start of a smile. "In time, perhaps."
He shakes his head. "Fine, don't thank me. Just make sure you keep your end of the bargain. I'm counting on you." He lies down next to Loki, folding his arms behind his head. "I don't know about you, but I'm exhausted."
"Yes," Loki agrees.
"We should probably get up. Get some rest."
"Mm."
Tony turns his head toward Loki, who still has his eyes shut and looks perfectly content to sleep on the scanner bed. "You aren't getting up," he notes.
"Neither are you."
"I'm comfortable," he lies. That said, he's slept in stranger places, so a cold metal platform is actually kind of a step up for him. And to be honest, it's not as bad as Tony expected it to be, although that might be because Loki is lying next to him, more or less pressed against his side.
He's not sure when that started to be comforting, and it's probably better if he doesn't think too much about it. Thinking about that sort of thing just complicates it. In Tony's experience, it's way better to just roll with it and see how everything shakes out.
He shifts slightly, closer to Loki. "Is this what we do now? Pass out next to each other and wake up and not talk about it ever again?"
"Apparently not, as you're talking about it now."
Tony rolls his eyes. "Yeah, but come on. This is getting to be a thing. You realize that, right?"
Loki exhales—not quite a sigh, but close—and shakes his head. "Not for much longer. Now that you've met your end of our bargain, we'll part ways, of course."
Tony frowns. "I never said that."
"Don't be ridiculous. Of course you did."
"No, as I remember it, I said I had two options and that one wasn't really an option."
"Exactly."
Tony furrows his brow. "Are we even talking about the same thing? You're telling me I've got to choose between actually doing something useful or wasting all my time trying to repair my public image so I can be a superhero again. How is that a choice?"
Loki turns his head to consider him. "I assumed you would want to return to your team."
"Well, you assumed wrong. It's like I told you when we made our first deal, Loki. We're in this together. That doesn't change just because we're secretly the good guys now."
"And you're certain of this choice?"
Tony shrugs. "I mean, I reserve the right to change my mind if you turn out to be a giant dick or something, but yeah. I'm seeing this through."
"I see."
"Plus, I really hate apologizing to people, so..." Tony offers Loki a grin.
Loki offers a smile in return and starts to say something, but he stops, his brow furrowing, and looks past Tony. Tony twists around, but he doesn't see anything there.
"What...?"
"Quiet." Loki continues to search the shadows past Tony, his eyes narrowed, and Tony watches as he calls up some scrap of magic. His fingers glow green for a moment before they fade.
Tony looks over. "Loki, there's nothing—"
But there is something, and it glints faintly in the dark. Tony bolts onto all fours and starts to scramble for the closest Iron Man suit, but he has to sort of climb over Loki to do that and it's harder than it should be, especially when Loki is pushing at him to get him off of him so that he doesn't block his shot or whatever.
When Loki stops pushing, Tony hesitates, then looks back over his shoulder. The glint is still there, but it's becoming part of something bigger—something that becomes an annoyingly familiar shape when the power finally kicks back on and the lights go a little too bright.
Tony holds a hand over his eyes to block out the sudden light and hisses out a breath through his teeth. "Vision, I told you not to—"
Vision interrupts him. "Is he well?"
"Who, Loki? He's..." Tony trails off as he looks up at Loki, whose eyes have gone completely vacant and blank. "Shit." He waves his hand in front of Loki's eyes and snaps his fingers. "We fixed this. We were sure..."
"The Captain asked me to—"
"Vision, I don't give a fuck what Steve asked you to do." He gets onto his knees, still close to Loki, and searches his face, trying to figure out how bad this episode is. He can't tell, but he can see the stone embedded in Vision's head—the thing that makes Vision the Vision—reflected in Loki's eyes.
The stone.
Tony hesitates and looks back over his shoulder. "It's you," he realizes. "I mean, not you. But the stone. The Mind Stone. It's got to be. Every time you come to visit, this happens."
Vision frowns. "I hardly mean to—"
"Or maybe it's all of the Infinity Stones. I don't know. But that one, yes. Definitely. It being around makes it easier for the guy to get in Loki's head, shows him the most direct route or something..." He trails off. "The Mind Stone is leading the Titan right to him."
"I'm not sure I understand what it is you're talking about," Vision says, taking a step toward them.
Tony waves a hand to get him to stop. "No. Absolutely not. Do not come any closer. You just stay there. It's better for everybody if you just stay there."
"The Captain asked—"
"For the last time, I don't care what he asked," Tony interrupts.
"He—"
"He what? He's pissed that I'm taking so long here? That I haven't fed you guys any information? Well, he can stop asking. I don't know anything, and, even if I did, I wouldn't tell you guys. I'm not on your team anymore. Officially. I'm out."
Vision considers him. "Surely you don't mean that."
"I mean it. I'm out." He runs his fingers through his hair, keeping one hand on Loki's arm as if it will offer Loki any support as he tries to keep the Titan from combing through his brain. "I'm not an Avenger anymore."
It's easier to say than Tony expected. He's enjoyed being an Avenger. It's not all fun and games, sure, and having his ass handed to him in the training ring by Steve, Thor, and Natasha was getting kind of old, but it's been a good few years. They've accomplished a lot. That said, there's bigger stuff going on now. He and Loki, they're trying to save the universe, in their own, roundabout way, and, to be honest, Loki's way is a little more interesting. If nothing else, it involves a lot less redtape.
"I see," Vision answers. He takes his time surveying Tony's workshop. "You're sure about this?"
"I'm sure." It might be a temporary thing, of course, but he figures everything he does to help Loki prep the Avengers for the Titan's arrival will be more or less forgotten when the actual battle comes and he and Loki are there fighting alongside the rest of the team. Clint might never forgive him, but he'll find a way to deal with that.
"SHIELD will withdraw support of your keeping Stark Industries," Vision points out.
And yeah, that's still kind of a punch to the gut, but it hurts a little less now than it did when Pepper first told him about the board's intentions. "Yeah, well, that's my problem," he says.
Vision shakes his head. "I suppose there's nothing I can do to change your mind, then," he says, and takes a step forward, extending his hand. "It has been an interesting experience."
"Yeah, it..."
Tony trails off when he hears something that sounds an awful lot like laughter rumbling somewhere behind him, far away, and he looks back at Loki in time to see something unrecognizable flash behind the god's eyes. He hesitates, then looks back at Vision.
"You came closer," he realizes. "You—"
That's all he gets out before Loki knocks him backward and gets to his feet, his fingertips almost radioactive with magic. Loki is holding himself differently—his stance is wider, his back straighter, his shoulders further back—and he seems somehow taller like this, more powerful.
The most terrifying thing, though, is his eyes. They're hollowed, but this time it doesn't seem to be from exhaustion. It's something worse. Something Tony is almost afraid to name.
"The Titan," he breathes. "He's in."
Loki blinks, slowly, and then trains his manic, too-bright gaze on Tony. His lips stretch into a mockery of a grin, and Tony barely has time to scramble backward before Loki fires a bolt of magic his way.
Tony dives behind a worktable before Loki can take aim again and he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Where's the Hulk when you need him?" he laments to himself. "FRIDAY, are you online?"
He's answered with silence—an obvious 'no' if he's ever heard one—and he nods. It figures. Here he has a crazy, hostile alien in what is arguably the most valuable room of his house, and all he has at his disposal is a broken switchboard, a synthesizer, and the Vision. Great.
From the sound of things—the explosions, mostly, and occasional crash and tinkle of broken glass—Loki has refocused his attention on Vision and the two are duking it out. Tony kind of wants to peek up over the table and see how that little encounter is shaking out, but he talks himself out of it. Better to stay hidden until he can come up with a plan that doesn't involve him getting his head blasted off.
He's too far away to get to an Iron Man suit, and he can't have one come to him without FRIDAY around to pinpoint his location. So what does that leave him?
It leaves him with a broken switchboard and a synthesizer, that's what.
Tony hesitates and looks back to the switchboard. He can see where the wiring came loose, where it's hanging down beneath the machine. They must have overloaded a circuit or something while they were blasting Loki, overheated the inner workings, and fried whatever was keeping the wire in place. It would be an easy fix if he had the right supplies to do it.
Then again, he's Tony Stark. Since when does he care about having the right supplies?
He crawls over to the synthesizer, barely avoiding some flying sheet metal in the process, and wedges his way underneath, then pries off a panel to get a good look at how bad things are inside. A few things are scorched, a few others look more worn than they did when Tony first put them together, but overall nothing looks completely unsalvageable.
This is good. He can work with this.
Tony works as quickly as he can, all too aware of what else is going on in the workshop. He tries to ignore the sounds of glass shattering, of tools being scattered, all of that, and when he hears one of his bots—he's not sure which one, but it sounds like DUM-E—whirring, he bites his lower lip and rushes through the last few steps. He'll have to improvise from here, but he's good at that, most of the time.
Fingers crossed.
Tony gets to his feet and powers up the synthesizer. He silently praises himself when it comes to life, and he checks the readings quickly before he hits "record."
Loki notices the change immediately and he turns his attention on Tony, his eyes narrowing. "You can't possibly think that will have any effect on me, Stark. You're deluding yourself."
Tony shrugs. "Hey, a man's got to try." He transfers over to the switchboard and increases the intake valve to its highest level.
He only barely understands the mechanics of how Loki's magic works, but if it's anything like he thinks it is, it has a limit, and if he can have the synthesizer-switchboard doohickey pull as much of it as it can, it'll leave Loki with a little less to work with and maybe—maybe—that will give him a chance to snap Loki out of this and get the Titan out of his head.
Just in case, though, Tony spares the Vision a look. "Now might be a good time to get the rest of the team," he says. "Hint hint."
Both Vision and Loki look at him as though he's an idiot.
"Yes, that's very subtle," Vision says, and he sounds so much like JARVIS that for a moment Tony is tempted to try and mute him.
Subtle or not, Vision disappears, leaving Tony alone with Loki, and Tony realizes just how terrible an idea this was. Even if the Avengers manage to cut their travel time in half, it still leaves Loki with plenty of time to murder him and hide his body. So, yeah, this probably won't end well.
"Um," Tony tries. "Truce?"
Loki's eyes flash and he offers Tony another too-wide grin. It's like New York all over again, except this time with at least twenty percent more crazy and no one around to back him up. Tony tries not to shudder, but he can't help it.
"Was this your plan?" Loki asks. His voice reminds Tony of someone sharpening a razor. "A sorry attempt to sway my affections so that I might spare you when I brought war down on your head?"
Tony raises his hands defensively. "No, Loki. You're fighting on my side of the war now, remember? You and me. We're a team. We—"
"Silence, Stark. I've listened to your prattle long enough." Loki lifts a hand and makes a complicated gesture with his fingers—a move Tony recognizes as the beginnings of a spell.
It's definitely useless, but Tony covers his head with his arms anyway, as if that will help him protect himself, and he screws his eyes shut. He's going to die. Loki is going to shazam him to death. He very nearly trusted him, and now Tony is going to die for it. You'd think a guy would learn, but no, here he is again, trying to remember when he last updated his will.
When about half a minute passes without anything happening, Tony peeks open an eye to see Loki staring down at his hand. One glance at the switchboard, and Tony can tell why. The switchboard—the entire thing, not just the spaces between the controls and dials—is glowing a bright, vibrant green.
Loki is out of juice.
It won't last, of course. Loki told him as much before he went off his rocker: Magic doesn't like to stay in one place for very long, and if Tony doesn't find some way to use this to his advantage right now, at this very moment, it'll jump back into the atmosphere or whatever and Loki will be up and running again like nothing happened. So how can he use this? Can he use it?
Tony exhales, watching Loki. The god is still staring down at his hands and not paying Tony any attention, and that's weird. That's very weird. Loki is usually more with it than this. He was more aware of himself even back in New York. What does it mean that he's not already at Tony's throat now? Tony hopes it means Loki is fighting back against the Titan and trying to regain control of himself, mostly because he's not sure he can think of a scenario where the Titan stays in charge and things end well for him.
If that is the case, maybe Loki could use a hand.
Tony glances at the scanner. He doesn't have much time; as soon as Loki focuses on him again, he's done for. Loki is dangerous even without his magic—Tony knows that firsthand—and he's quick. If Tony wants to stay alive, he's got to act fast and he's got to act now. Never mind that he has no idea if this will work or that the potential for it all to go horribly wrong is obscenely high. He has to take the chance.
He has to try.
Tony slams his hand down on the button that starts up the scanner. The noise it makes as it warms up catches Loki's attention, briefly, and the god glances at it. He's just turning his head to look back at Tony—his mouth twisting into a sneer—when Tony punches the "play" button on the synthesizer and tackles Loki onto the scanner bed.
They fall hard on the metal, but Tony barely feels it as the magic he leeched from Loki hits them and his entire body starts to burn like it's on fire.
|
It was February fifth and through a bizarre miracle of fate, some boon of the calendar gods, he and Giorno had both managed to get Valentine's day off from work. Mista had the entire day, and the blond was still stuck in class from 12 to 4, but this still would work out perfectly. Hopefully. Mista absolutely loved Valentine's day, a day you could devote entirely to making the person you love feel special, where you could indulge and spoil and romance and yeah it was commercialized to hell, but it still felt good. Giorno was... ambivalent towards the holiday, more excited about the day after when chocolate would be on sale.
He had at least agreed that it would be nice to do something together that day, though he left the what up to the gunman. Dinner was off the table since it was too cliche even for him, not to mention the overworked staff and traffic and all the other couples. A cinema would also be out because he wanted something with a little more intimacy. He really just wanted to spend a little personal time with Giorno. It had been hard recently, Mista somehow landed a manager spot and the blond was still super busy with his residency and his spring semester classes. Safe to say it had been awhile since they were able to really find some personal time with each other. So Mista offered up the gift of each other, sappy but the blond smiled mischievously and accepted in a heartbeat.
He had the perfect plan too, one he knew the blond would be unable to resist.
The day of, Mista bought as many roses as twenty-five bucks could get him, a bag of nice chocolates, and a few packs of fake candles (curse Giorno's fancy apartment and it's no open flames rules) before heading back to the blond's apartment to set things up. It was almost 2 PM but two hours would be plenty of time. Roses went into fancy vases- and when he ran out of fancy vases, fancy cups- making a sort of path to the bedroom. Chocolate went on the nightstand within easy reach of a certain pale sweets lover. The candles were strewn about, just enough to give the place a nice mood when the lights were off. Cracking the door to the bedroom and taking a quick shower, Mista decided it was time for the real present; a brand new, fuzzy, tiger-striped g-string (or at least what was close enough to one). It hardly covered anything at all and were absolutely perfect, plus really soft. Giorno was going to lose it.
A soft click through the door and the jingling clink of keys hitting a bowl- speaking of.
"Mista?" Giorno called softly.
"In here, babe," Mista answered back, hastily getting into position, sprawled in what he hoped was a seductive pose on the bed.
The blond opened the door, eyes widening in surprise, shifting from the roses, the candies, the candles, along Mista's body to land on the tiny, fuzzy underwear-then hastily back to meet Mista's eyes.
The mafioso gave a wink and a cheeky smirk, "you like what you see?"
In lieu of responding, Giorno simply walked forward, hands reaching out to trail pale fingers along tan shoulders down to biceps, moving from wrist to hip and down, catching lightly at the strip of furry fabric. He looked like a kid at Christmas.
"All this for me?"
Mista caught a pale hand and brought it to his lips, "all for you."
Giorno had a mixed expression, half absolutely pleased and half flustered, a deep blush settling on high cheekbones.
Leaning down, Giorno caught the gangster's lips in a flurry of kisses, "let me shower first, I have something for you as well."
Mista couldn't wait, placing a few parting pecks on whatever he could reach as the blond turned to the en suite, "I'll be here."
The blond took what must have been the shortest shower in his life, clocking in at 8 minutes before the water stopped. It was kind of weird actually having the door closed, since Giorno didn't believe in pesky things like privacy, but when he walked back into the room Mista understood why. He had on... lace- a soft creamy white set of panties with oh god those were garter belts and sheer stockings.
Giorno stopped in front of the sitting gunman, hips cocked to the side, "you like what you see?"
There were no words in Italian, Napolitano, English- in no languages devised by mankind to properly express how much he liked what he saw.
God he was "perfect, so beautifully perfect," as he slid tan hands down pale sides to thumb at the edge of the lace.
Giorno looked triumphant, hiking a pale leg up to bracket Mista, leaning over him, thighs now deliciously parted as he stood. Mouths catching as the blond tugged him into a kiss, cupping his jaw and tight in his hair, Mista explored a little, groaning at the stockings and tight belts. The loud moan he got when he ghosted over the blond's crotch went straight to his dick, quickly straining against the rather unyielding material of his g-string. Both hands sliding around the blond's soft cheeks, Mista hoisted him onto his lap, earning a pleased gasp, hips rutting for a glimpse of friction. He was so eager Mista decided to get a move on, fingers trailing between spread cheeks only to hit something hard.
No way.
Fingers circled hard plastic, earning him a shiver and when he pressed a shuddering gasp.
No wonder the blond was already leaking, "how long has this been in?"
Giorno was half preoccupied with sliding their clothed cocks together, fumbling with the tie to the g-string, "too long."
The blond's dick had popped out to the side and once the gunman's was freed and they slid against each other, Mista's brain momentarily flat-lined, would have completely shutdown if it weren't for a breathy "please, Guido."
The gunman hefted the blond up before twisting to throw him on his back further on to the bed with a startled yelp. He looked gorgeous, hard cock jutting past creamy silk, hair disheveled, panting and glimmering with sweat, legs parted enough to glimpse the base of a soft lavender plug. Discarding his underwear, Mista got started on those gorgeous legs, pulling stained panties down, mourning the loss of tension in the belts, but the feeling of sliding fingers under sheer cloth, fitted tight against skin made up for it. Scooting closer, Mista shivered when he felt at the plug again, the blond pressing back down against the hard plastic, pulling it gently backwards and swallowing at the sight of Giorno's hole stretched over it. The blond gasped as Mista pushed it back in, squirming and clutching the sheets as he pushed and pulled, marveling at the sight. When he finally pulled it all the way out, setting the toy aside, he got a rather unusual idea despite himself as he looked at the open, oozing entrance.
Mista had never eaten ass, never even thought about it, he didn't even know he liked dudes until a year or two before he met Giorno. He'd eaten girls out plenty of times, but never a guy... But looking at Giorno, eyes watching smugly like he knew exactly what Mista was thinking, he supposed there was a first time for everything. Hiking up the blond's hips, Mista forewent tact and slid his tongue deep into loosened muscle, nose pressed against flesh, holding firm against the involuntary bucking of his lover. Sliding his tongue around, in and out, thumbs pressing to the sides, stretching, dripping saliva, his own hips jerking- Mista was surprised. Not at the taste so much; it tasted like ass, and a little like plastic, and like so much of the blond's favorite strawberry lube, but also something... Giorno. It wasn't the sexiest thing, tongue up a dude's ass, nose pressed against a taint and ballsack, but the noises, god- Giorno was loud, half begging as he spasmed and rutted, cock ready to burst.
It was an intoxicating feeling reducing him to a needy mess, and if it weren't for his own erection he'd probably have tried to get him off untouched. There would be a next time though, and it wasn't so bad now that he knew what to expect. Pulling back and chuckling at the disgruntled huff he got, Mista grabbed a condom and earned a pleased hum as he tore it open. Mista stilled as he touched his cock to slide the condom on, inching it over the sensitive flesh, careful not to come right then and there. Stilling the impatient jerks of his lover with one hand and lining himself up with the other, Mista slid in... faster and easier than he thought he would, bottoming out with a groan as Giorno shivered. He was still tight, but so wet and loud and warm, it was an impossibly good mix that had him jerking erratically a few thrusts in as Giorno bucked to meet his movements, practically screaming his name. Pulling out to the tip, and sliding back in slower than Giorno usually liked, Mista marveled at the lube and saliva dripping and splattering, the way his cock disappeared so easily, how hot and soft and tight-
Giorno had seized up, reddened fingers clenched white knuckled in the sheets, mouth opened in a silent scream as his chest was splattered with come.
Mista continued to fuck him through it, impossibly close himself, Giorno whimpering slightly at the overstimulation but managing a "don't stop, please."
Mista didn't think he'd be able to even if he tried. Giorno dutifully shifted his hips and the changing angle had Mista groaning as he pounded harder and faster, Giorno twitching and practically breathing his name, spent cock weakly springing back to half-hardness by the time Mista finally came. His orgasm hit like a freight-train, leaving him rutting weakly as he jerked through the aftershocks, panting like a marathon runner. By the time he'd recovered enough to open his eyes, Giorno was fast asleep, trickle of drool sliding down the side of his mouth, breathing heavy and deep. He was beautiful, even with his hair a mess, drooling, snoring, and sweating, making Mista smile.
Pulling out with a wet noise and weak twitch from both parties, Mista took a quick shower, brushed his teeth, and after some careful deliberation, threw the toothbrush away before grabbing a wet cloth. Giorno barely reacted to the clean-up, but as soon as Mista slid next to him, pulling the covers up he had attached himself to the gunman's side like a limpet.
Nap time it was then.
Mista got up first, maneuvering his way out from under the sticky unconscious mass of Giorno to clean up a little and get started on food because wow he was really hungry and it was really late. There was a muffled 'ouch' midway through boiling the pasta, some loud shuffling, and then the water turned on. Not hearing any calls for assistance or otherwise, Mista continued cooking a simple meal from what he could scavenge from the blond's paltry cabinets. The water shut off right as he scooped dinner onto some fancy plates, bedroom door opening when water glasses were set down. Giorno looked fucked out, hair loosely curled around his face in more of a ponytail than a braid and still dripping from the ends, sleepy eyes that said 'I'm only awake because of hunger'. He had on an incredibly loose shirt Mista recognized as his and boxer briefs padding barefoot over to a chair, sitting with a poorly concealed wince. Mista felt an abrupt stab of smug pride at making Giorno practically limp to the table.
"Thank you for dinner, Mista," the blond said drowsily, already shoveling pasta into his mouth.
"It's the least I could do," settling down across from the blond, "Happy Valentine's Day, Giorno."
Later, when Giorno was passed out on the couch with Bridezilla's blaring on the television, a neighbor would greet Mista with his first name as he took out the trash. He'd think nothing of it until he went back upstairs, hand on the doorknob before he'd remembered he'd never actually been introduced to Giorno's neighbors.
|
“Hawk, I can’t work like that.”
Chuckling, Felicity switched her tablet into standby mode and dropped it the small place between her hip and the backrest of her couch. She framed Hawk’s head with her hands, lifting it from where it had been resting in her lap, so she could brush her nose against his. Hawk grumbled, but it was a content kind of grumble, the kind of grumbling she always called his dinosaur-noises. They never failed to make her smile, and it wasn’t any different this morning.
“I can’t work when you’re snoring like that.” Felicity kissed Hawk’s wet nose before she rested her forehead against his head once more. “I love that you are here to cuddle with me because it makes me feel very warm and comfortable, but I cannot focus on this report as long as you continue to be this sweet.”
Hawk licked her nose like he wanted to apologize. Felicity stroked her fingers through his soft fur right behind his ears in response, thanking him for his apology. She appreciated that he was here with her no matter what. Having Hawk here just relaxed her, and that as exactly what she needed right now.
She kissed Hawk’s nose once more before she dropped back into the pillows with a long sigh. Hawk stretched out his hindlegs behind him and rested his head back into her lap. Her fingers continued stroking through his soft fur gently, enjoying the way Hawk moved his head to make sure that she stroked him exactly where he wanted and needed it the most. When she rested her head against the armrest of her couch, making herself more comfortable, she closed her eyes.
Her lids felt incredibly heavy. She wasn’t sure if she would be able to open her eyes anytime soon. She had trouble fighting her tiredness. She wouldn’t be surprised if an hour or two had passed by the time she managed to open her eyes.
Maybe, it wouldn’t even too bad if that happened. She could need all sleep she could currently get to regain some energy.
Felicity couldn’t say why, but she hadn’t slept well these last couple of nights. She had trouble falling asleep, causing her to fall asleep even after Oliver which didn’t happen often in all the years that they had shared a bed. Once she found into sleep, it was disturbed by the several times she woke up every night. When her alarm rang in the morning, she often found herself even more tired and exhausting than she had been when she had gone to bed the night before.
This morning, when her alarm had ripped her from sleep, she had just pulled her pillow onto her face and done her best not to scream. She had been tired, exhausted and frustrated. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by Oliver, who had noticed her troubles sleeping days ago already. When he had suggested that she’d stay home to sleep some more and work from home, she had agreed. After eight mornings of suggesting it, her tiredness had finally succeeded over her pride.
Having Hawk here with her to cuddle and distract her from work every now and then was nice, especially since the house felt so incredibly quiet and lonely with nobody at home. Oliver was off to work. William, Emmy and Tommy were in school. Raisa had taken Millie and Addie to a day out because she had promised them too. Felicity just wasn’t used to having the house almost for herself. With five kids, the chances that nobody was home was low most of the time.
“Come on,” Felicity suggested nodding towards the kitchen. “I’m in need of a good mug of coffee, and you really deserve a treat.”
Hawk didn’t have to be told twice. With a quick movement, he jumped off the couch and already walked towards the kitchen. On his way there, he turned back around to Felicity again and again, making sure that she was really coming with him.
In the kitchen, Hawk said down next to the fridge. He waited peacefully while Felicity was grabbing a cheese slice. On command, he lifted first his right and then his left paw. As soon as Felicity gave him the cheese slice, he hurried into the foyer, so he wouldn’t be disturbed eating it.
Felicity headed over to the coffeemaker. She needed her own treat to motivate her to work. If that wasn’t going to help either, she would just quit trying to work today. She had worked so much lately that she deserved to take a day off anyway. Maybe she would even call Oliver and-
When Hawk started snarling darkly, Felicity’s thoughts came to a sudden stop. Frowning, she stepped into the doorframe and watched Hawk. He was standing in front of the front door, baring his teeth and his heckles raised. With his eyes focused on the door and his ears turned forward, he observed what was happening thoroughly.
Hawk had good instincts. Felicity was sure that he could basically smell if a person was good or bad. When she walked him out late in the evening, there were people he didn’t mind at all. At the other hand, there were other people that he snarled at and barked at until they walked around her in a far bow. He was watching out for her.
Felicity doubted that there was any danger there though. She guessed Hawk was smelling the neighbor’s cat that loved to take long walks in front of their house. Just when Felicity wanted to tell Hawk to stop since there was no danger, the doorbell rang. Felicity almost flinched at the sound. Hawk started barking loudly and aggressively.
Felicity grabbed Hawk by his collar and opened the door. The sight of the tall man with his blonde hair and edgy face made Felicity freeze. Those blue eyes that reminded her of their father’s looked even darker and less vivid than they had back in Gotham City. The last weeks since their first and last meeting must have taken a toll on him.
The surprise of seeing him again at all made her lose her hold on Hawk’s collar, and the dog jumped forward in an attempt to make their visitor back off. Still, Dominic stayed where he was, and it only made Hawk snarl at him more dangerously. His eyes snapped towards his hand, and Felicity didn’t doubt that he’d bite if Dominic made one wrong move.
“Hawk,” Felicity said gently. “Stop.”
Hawk followed her command immediately. He stopped barking and snarling. While he was still vigilant, overserving each of Dominic’s movements, he sat back next to Felicity. She moved her fingers of his head, praising him for his good behavior.
Dominic whistled out a breath, showing that he was impressed. “Good dog.”
Felicity tried to tell him that Hawk was the best dog she and the rest of the family could have hoped for, but she didn’t get out a single sentence. After the way she and Dominic had left each other in Gotham a couple of weeks ago, she hadn’t thought that she’d ever see him again. Her heart still ached at the thought of how she had lost her brother before she had really met him.
Looking into her half-brother’s face, she could see the moment he realized that it wasn’t this easy. He couldn’t just show up here and pretend like there weren’t any difficulties there between them. He hadn’t wanted a relationship with her, just because she had been their father’s daughter. He couldn’t just show up and change his mind now.
Dominic pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and hunched his shoulders. Lowering his gaze, he shuffled his feet. The expression on his face reminded her a lot of Oliver a few years ago, back when being open with people had still been difficult for him.
“I guess the asshole-gene is inherited over the Y chromosome,” he said eventually, lifting his gaze. “Can I come in anyway?”
Felicity pressed her lips together, rolling them into her mouth. With a nod of her head, she stepped aside and let Dominic in. The moment he crossed the doorstep, Hawk snarled at him once more. One strict glance from Felicity made him stop, but he still watched Dominic intensely. He didn’t trust Dominic, and Felicity couldn’t hold it against him. She wasn’t sure if she could trust him either.
“Do you want a coffee,” Felicity asked, leading him into the living room. “Or anything else?”
“No, thank you. I don’t want to be an inconvenience.”
Felicity wondered what Dominic could possibly want here. He had been so sure that getting to know her was not something he was interested in. She couldn’t see why he would change his mind, so maybe just needed money. It wouldn’t be the first time a family member was reaching out to her because of money.
Sitting down on the couch, Felicity watched Dominic taking a through look around. He looked uncomfortable though Felicity couldn’t say if it was because of the house or because he had come here in the first place.
When his gaze caught the framed family photos on the side table, he quickly looked away and sat down across the table. Hawk, who had followed him so far, jumped onto the couch and lay down on top of Felicity’s thighs. He rested his head down, but his ears stayed turned forward, and his gaze stayed directed at Dominic.
Felicity expected him to say something, but Dominic stayed silent. The silence between them was uncomfortable, making Felicity move her fingers through Hawk’s soft fur nervously and lowering her gaze to her hands.
Back in Gotham, she had been so hopeful that she and her brother could have a relationship. She had never wanted to meet him in the first place. Once she had, she thought that this was her chance of getting a sibling. She knew how close Oliver and Thea were, and she had hoped that she could have something like that too. Dominic just hadn’t been interested.
Felicity knew that she had no right to be angry with him. She had chosen not to look into who her brother was or where he was when she had had the chance to either. It had been his right to decide the same. It had just disappointed that he had made that decision after meeting her and after saving her life.
As the silence continued, Felicity gathered her courage and lifted her gaze. Her eyes met Dominic’s. She saw the guilt in his eyes, and it almost made her feel a little sorry for him. It wasn’t enough to not push him though.
“What are you doing here, Dominic?”
Dominic sucked in a deep breath, and his shoulders tensed. She could see that this wasn’t easy for him, but it wasn’t easy for her either.
“These past weeks since we’ve met in Gotham City, I traveled around the US like I did before. With Johnson being dead, there was nothing for me to do though.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Before his death, I traveled around because I needed to find him and take him out. Now, there was nothing to do, and… I don’t know.”
Felicity bit down on her tongue. There were a lot of things she felt she could or should say, but she didn’t do it. She just stayed silent.
“Eventually, I realized that I just never found a real home. Since I have started working for the CIA, there was no place I felt like home. There was no place I felt I could be who I really was. After my team was imposed to the gene-factor and disbanded, that feeling just increased. There was nowhere I could go and tell people who I really was and what happened to me.”
Not for the first time, Felicity realized how similar his story was to Oliver’s. They had both kept so many secrets that they couldn’t imagine going back to a normal life. For Oliver, those times were long past him. Dominic might still have to learn that lesson although Felicity got the impression that he might have already taken a first step towards that goal.
“When I told you that I was not interested in having any form of relationship with you, I said so because of my experience. There have been maybe two people I told about who I am and what I am. Neither of them understood it, so I eventually gave up on telling people.” Dominic shrugged his shoulders once more. “You already knew who I was and what I was capable of, but I still thought that you might eventually hit your limits when it comes to accepting who I am. I know who your husband is and what he has done, but I still thought it was a risk.”
Felicity nodded her head slightly, finally starting to understand where he had come from with his decision. She had seen him killing a man who had once been a friend in what had looked like cold blood.
“I was wondering if maybe I got a second chance at being a good brother,” Dominic added eventually, clearing his throat. “Can we start over?”
There were a lot of conflicting emotions running through her right now. The little girl inside of her was screaming from fear, telling her not to let him close because he might hurt her again. She had been hurt by her father already. She had given him chance and chance again, but he had always disappointed her. Dominic might do the same.
As much as the little girl in Felicity tried to talk her out of giving him a chance, she already knew that she wouldn’t turn him down. Noah might have left her with a lot of bad memories, but Oliver had given her a lot of faith that second chances were good.
“I think we can,” she told him with low voice. “It would be nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Felicity nodded her head. “Yeah.”
Honest relief washed over Dominic’s face as she said that. He nodded his head like he needed time to process the news. He accepted it rather quickly though, smiling at her genuinely.
“What are you going to do now?” Felicity asked him. “If you need a place to stay, you can-“
“No.”
Dominic’s answer was quick and firm. Felicity couldn’t help but be surprised. She looked at Dominic with perked up eyebrows.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he hurried to say. “I want to get to know you, but I have spent the last years all alone. I think small doses of people feel like a good idea.”
“I actually get that.” Felicity nodded her head. “This house is always open for you, but I understand. So, what is your plan?”
Dominic shrugged his shoulders, shooting her a weak smile. “I didn’t make much of a plan because I wasn’t sure if I was welcomed here. I guess I will rent an apartment downtown. Maybe I will work as a personal trainer again. Or maybe I will work at the police again.”
“My mother’s boyfriend is Chief of Police.”
“Good to know.” Dominic smiled. “I guess I will just take baby steps to see who I am and where I belong when I am not alone. If you don’t mind, I would like to keep my return between you and me for a while. I don’t think I am ready to be introduced into a large family yet.”
Felicity sucked in a deep breath. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I cannot keep this a secret from Oliver. We promised each other to always be honest, and I can’t and won’t lie to him, not even for you.”
“Of course,” Dominic said immediately. “Can we keep it between the three of us for a while?”
“Yes,” Felicity replied. “That’s acceptable and-“
When Hawk suddenly lifted his head and looked towards the door, Felicity stopped. Before she could say anything more, Hawk already jumped off the couch and hurried towards the dog. He was barking, but it was a lot friendlier than it had been before.
“I think Oliver’s coming home.”
Dominic puckered his lips. “The dog is better than any alarm system.”
“As a geek, I have to disagree.” Felicity smiled. “But as a proud dog mother, I fully agree.”
Listening to the key turning in the lock of the front door, Felicity got up and walked towards the foyer. Oliver had already stepped in and was busy being welcomed back home by Hawk now. The dog was snuggling around Oliver’s legs like a cat, licking his hands and rubbing his head at his legs.
When Oliver lifted his gaze and found Dominic, he straightened up quickly. His eyes started back at Felicity, shooting her a quick glance to make sure she was alright. She smiled at him soothingly, and it seemed to take some worries from him indeed. He knew she’d tell him the story behind Dominic’s presence when they got a quiet moment.
“Hi,” Oliver said, turning towards Dominic and holding out a hand for him. “Nice to see you again, Dominic.”
Dominic smiled, shaking his hand. “Please just call me Nick.”
And that, Felicity thought to herself, was certainly only the beginning to a new chapter in her family’s story.
|
The first sight that Jane woke up to was a snoozing Sherlock cuddled against her with one arm affectionately draped over her middle. A little over a year ago, she would've been incredibly startled to be in this position with any man, and yet, she couldn't be more content. She gently caressed his rather messy set of curls and he let out a quiet groan, snuggling ever closer to her.
"Good morning, Holmes..." Sherlock suddenly sat up stiffly, looking at her like a child who had gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
"Jane... Erm... Um..." Jane couldn't help but chuckle at his awkward antics.
"Sherlock, you can relax." she promised, but Sherlock's shoulders only relaxed slightly. "You're acting like you're not allowed in my bed."
"So I am?"
"Well, I did tell you that you had my permission to stay here last night." Jane chuckled, sitting up and gently nudging his shoulder with her own.
"J-Jane... Your breasts..."
"You're so shy, it's cute." she giggled, climbing out of bed and fetching a dressing gown from her dresser, but not before bending over to show off her arse. Sherlock's face was bright red. "I'm not sure you're allowed to be this shy after being so commandeering last night, Holmes."
"What I did last night?" He asked but it was obvious that Jane didn't have to answer that question when Sherlock grabbed a pillow and buried his face in it.
"Having regrets?" Jane asked seriously, trying to disguise the hurt in her voice but it was too early in the morning for her to be much good at it. Sherlock's face shot up from the pillow and a soft expression replaced his embarrassed one.
"No... That's not it at all." Sherlock defended, standing and taking Jane's hands in his own. "I guess... I was just expecting you to feel differently in the morning... like you'd regret it and shoo me out or something..."
"That's how you see me?" she questioned, tone not sounding any lighter.
"No, it's that I see myself as undesirable." Sherlock admitted, kneeling on the ground and giving her hands a little squeeze. Jane's expression softened and she knelt down on the floor too, cupping his cheek and gently forcing him to look her in the eyes. She knew that feeling. She was pretty sure it was something everyone went through at some point in their lives. But she didn't want him to feel unwanted, especially since that wasn't the case.
"Most ladies I've ever talked to all think you're very handsome." Jane murmured, rubbing her thumb over his sharp cheekbone.
"A handsome face doesn't guarantee an amiable personality. Most people who speak to me, don't find me as appealing afterwards." Sherlock admitted, sighing softly. "Excluding Mr. Lestrade and my family."
"Sherlock, you're forgetting the most important thing about me..." Jane softly cooed, leaning in until her lips were just brushing against his. "Being your wife means that I am your family too."
Sherlock seemed to melt with that statement, tears actually falling down his cheeks as he wrapped his arms around Jane's waist and held her close to him.
"Jane..." He whimpered her name quietly, starting to kiss her tenderly. In this small, short moment she realized that she may have been the first person to make him feel loved. Not to discredit his parents; parental love was a very different breed, one she knew Sherlock was familiar with, but there was a sense of obligation associated with it. Jane had no such obligation and simply took him as he was and it was altering for him to realize this.
Molly of course was smirking when she spotted a still slightly disheveled Jane in a nightgown with various pieces of her last night's ensemble strewn about the floor, as well as Sherlock's waistcoat and vest.
"I'd say something changed between you both last night." she said knowingly, starting to pick up and neatly fold the clothes as if acknowledging the presence of the articles cut off any chance Jane had of denying anything.
"Can we not talk about this?" Jane asked, blushing brightly and grabbing her bloomers and putting them on quickly.
"Just this once because I'm in such a great mood myself." Molly agreed, setting the clothes in the laundry basket. Jane raised an eyebrow.
"Now that I look at you, you are practically glowing, Molly." she with a smirk. "Did something happen with you last night?"
"Oh, yes. The most wonderful of things!" Molly burst into an almost blinding smile, grabbing Jane's hands and giving them an excited squeeze. "I am engaged!"
"Engaged? To whom?" Jane asked, rather surprised.
"Mr. Lestrade! He asked me last night after the party had mostly died down. And I couldn't help it, I just said yes!"
"Is a Duke allowed to marry out of his status?" Jane asked seriously, not wanting to be the voice of reason, but knowing that someone had to be in this case.
"Normally it would pose quite the issue, but since Mr. Lestrade inherited his title from his wife, may she rest in peace, he isn't bound by the rules of royalty. It's mostly out of respect that he has the title and land that he keeps, but he does such a good job running our little village that he's able to keep his title and everything that comes with it."
Jane nodded as she processed it all. "So because he was not born into the royal family, he can marry who he wants. How long has he been a widower?"
"Nearly ten years now. It started out a happy marriage from what I understand but she treated him poorly once she was with child... Or so the rumors say..."
"She died in childbirth, then?" Jane inferred, raising an eyebrow as she learned more about the man she had come to see at her door so frequently.
"Yes, but the child miraculously survived. Her name is Amelia and she's just the sweetest little thing!" Molly exclaimed, spinning around with a grin.
"I wasn't aware that Mr. Lestrade had a child." Jane frowned.
"She doesn't get to leave the estate very often, she's always been easily sick."
"That's awful. I can't imagine being so sickly that she can't even live like a normal child." Jane admitted, frown only growing.
"It's rather sad... but she seems to like me, which is all that I could want from becoming her mother."
"I am kind of envious...I wonder what it's like to be a mother..."
"Don't worry about it, Jane. I'm sure you'll know soon enough." Molly had a mischievous smirk on her face and Jane blushed and threw a pillow at her friend.
"Probably not. I very much doubt that I have the ability to have children with him..." She whispered sadly, wrapping her arms around herself. The thought had never occurred to her before, but as miraculous as it was that she had found herself two hundred in the past with a woman's body, she didn't dare to hope that it retained all the functions that any normal female body would have. Sure, she got periods, but that didn't necessarily mean she had any sort of fertility. Molly saw Jane's expression and hugged her best friend.
"Oh, Jane... I'm sure that's not true. Why would God have made such a handsome couple come together if they couldn't fill this empty house with lots and lots of very beautiful children?" Jane just gave a forced smile.
Molly and Mr. Lestrade's wedding had been beautiful. The leaves were just starting to turn yellow, leaving them to look like they were gilded, and Molly's dress was a lovely lilac color that suited her well. It was Jane and Sherlock's first time meeting Amelia and though she didn't smile much, it was somehow easy to see that she was happy for her father and excited at the prospect of finally having a mother. The party lasted well through the night; Amelia turned in early, naturally, and Molly chose to put her to bed on her own volition before returning to their celebration.
It had been nearly two and a half months since the night that Sherlock and Jane had first had sex, and though it had become a surprisingly regular thing Jane couldn't find a single complaint in the matter. She had practically moved into Sherlock's room now and while he would often leave the house during the day, it seemed he couldn't stay away for long because he was always home sometime before, during, or after dinner. Reignited were the happy hobbies of reading together, and Sherlock would always try to share at least one meal a day with her. The world simply felt brighter... Even Moriarty seemed to have a spring in his step....
"Molly and Mr. Lestrade's wedding made our own feel kind of stuffy in comparison." Jane mused while reading a book in bed next to her husband the following morning.
"And yet you don't sound incredibly jealous." Sherlock countered, glancing over his pages to look at her with a smirk. A smirk appeared on Jane's lips as well.
"Their wedding was just so... them. And while ours was not an accurate depiction of either of us, it doesn't make it any less special." she admitted, glancing over her shoulder to look at him. She had been laying on her stomach with her book laid out on the covers at the foot of the bed while he leaned against the headboard on a pile of pillows. At her comment, he set his own book down on the bedside table, shifting to climb out from under the blankets.
"I couldn't agree more, Mrs. Holmes." he said softly, straddling her legs and gently grabbing her arse. Jane let out a little gasp of surprise but attempted to bury her attention into her book. "Trying to ignore me?"
"Not at all, just trying to determine how determined you are." she smirked.
"Very well, you may continue reading until you find something more fascinating." Sherlock gave an amused chuckle. Jane turned the page as if to egg him on. A fiery glint appeared in Sherlock's eyes, though Jane could not see it as she focused on her book. She felt his weight come off her legs and she smirked.
"Giving up before you've even begun?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. She felt him gently cradle her leg and reposition her so her legs were very much spread enough for him to nest comfortably between them.
"I don't recall admitting defeat." he mused, fingertips ghosting her folds. Jane tried to hide the excited shiver of anticipation that went up her spine but Sherlock was far to enthralled with her (and observant) to miss it.
"My mistake." She said in the most even tone she could manage, though she could hardly put focus towards the novel she'd been reading. It became ten times harder when she felt his warm breath just inches away from her already excited pussy. "Are you doing what I think you're about do?"
"You have a lewder mind than I thought." Sherlock answered, smirking and sounding very, very smug about how her voice had raised half an octave even though he had barely started with her. He pressed a reverent kiss to her folds and Jane quietly shuddered, more than unable to even focus on the book she was holding.
His tongue darted out of his mouth and started trailing her slit slowly, like he was putting every detail to memory.
The way Sherlock treated her was always so astounding to her. She had sex plenty of times when she when she was a man, perhaps it was because they had all been flings. John had been with a man before; giving it the old college try, but it had been one of the worst sexual experiences of his life. That partner had no consideration for how John felt about bottoming on his first time with a man and had barely cared enough to lube him up before shoving his cock inside him.
Sherlock Holmes was very, very different from that man. Sherlock always gave her the opportunity to back down, though it had become a more subtle thing in the last two months, and Sherlock would get his answer from how cheeky Jane's responses were and he was sure she did it to encourage him. There was another thing that Sherlock did that was vastly different from any other partner Jane had ever had: he always made it feel like he was worshiping her. He had never once said 'I love you' and yet it was incredibly easy for Jane to believe that he did, and Sherlock was definitely a romantic, more so than Jane had been.
Sherlock's tongue delved inside her and Jane was completely pulled out of her thoughts and back to the new sensations Sherlock was lavishing her in. She had already given up on reading anymore and had set the book to the side, hips naturally lifting on their own and pressing back against Sherlock's lips. She could practically feel him smirking against her, one of his arms gently wrapping around her legs as if he needed to touch more of her.
He carefully maneuvered her onto her back, lips trailing upwards, planting kisses all over her body. He always seemed to pause at the scar, but it wasn't that he was uncomfortable with the distorted tissue, that concern had been demolished weeks ago the moment he pressed one of his reverent kisses to it. It always amazed her how he could make the part of her body that she hated the most feel like it was just another beautiful feature on her.
"It's nearly been one year since I found out about this scar." Sherlock murmured, lips brushing against it with almost every word. He was of course referring to when Jane had jumped in front of a boiling pot of water for him. "I've tried my best to ignore my desire to know its story, but I can't help but be curious how you got it..."
"I thought you were skilled at reading people. I've seen your ability to do so first hand." Jane mused, combing her fingers through his curls.
"You're the exception... Everything I think I notice about you, everything I try to understand, it seems to contradict itself. It's both thrilling and utterly confusing..." Sherlock's arms wrapped around her waist and he hugged her.
"Someday... I'll be a little more honest with you..." Jane said this incredibly quietly, cradling his head against her chest. "But I'm kind of terrified of how your view of me will change when you know the truth... that it will be the end between us..."
"Jane..." Sherlock carefully lifted himself to look her in the eye with an incredibly determined look. "That could never be the case."
Jane didn't know what to say, she wanted to believe him but the truth was so incredibly ludicrous, she very much doubted that it wouldn't push him away. After all, what man would actually believe and accept that his wife was born nearly two hundred years after him as a man who did very well in medical school, played rugby, and then went into the army as a doctor and a Captain, only to be shot at? To say that it was a lot to take in would be the understatement of the millennium and chances of her getting thrown into an asylum? Too high to be comfortable considering for more than a fleeting moment.
She closed her eyes and kissed him tenderly and of course he melted into the kiss. He knew that whatever her past, it wasn't something she was ready to share with him yet, no matter how much he wanted to know.
Sherlock started worshiping her breasts with his mouth but he could tell that she was preoccupied now. He paused, pressing their foreheads together and looking at her with a expression.
"I don't need to know. Of course I'm curious and of course I want to know more about you, Jane. I may not be a patient man by reputation but I could wait for you to tell me until we're old and gray and our bodies are covered in strange warts and wrinkles. And even if you're still not ready to tell me then, I wouldn't mind."
"Wow..."
"That speechless?"
"Well, yeah... no one's ever said anything remotely like that to me before." One of his fingers delved inside her and he smirked when she let out a soft moan.
"I'll have to remember to say things like this to you more often. You're so... what I can only describe as 'wet' down there."
"Are you saying that you only say these things to get me excited?" Jane asked, one arm draped over her eyes as she tried to hide her blush.
"Not at all, I mean every word, but you can't blame me for enjoying the reaction they give me." Sherlock mused, licking and gently nipping at the skin on her neck as he added a second finger inside her and started thrusting them in and out of her.
"Mmm... I want you inside me..." Jane moaned almost shyly, fingers finding their natural place in the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck.
"Your wish is my command..." he murmured, guiding his cock to her folds and slowly pressing inside her, guiding her legs to rest over his shoulders.
"Sh-Sherlock!" she could only manage to say his name. They had been fairly predictable for the time period with their sex so far; missionary only. Hell, him eating her out had been a pleasant surprise, but her legs being draped over his shoulders brought on a new angle that made him deeper than usual.
"Jane..." he softly moaned, kissing her passionately as he started to form a rhythm with his hips. Jane was immediately lost in all the sensations of her husband, kissing him back with a desire to be enveloped by him.
It didn't take long before they were both quietly moaning each other's names into one another's ears and soon she was tightening around him as they both spiraled towards the brink of orgasm.
With cries of ecstasy they came together and Sherlock gently let her legs down, not pulling out of her yet.
"Did you have any plans for Saturday?" Sherlock asked softly into her ear, holding her close to him.
"N-no... I didn't... Why?" Jane panted softly, fingers gently massaging Sherlock's scalp.
"Good. Don't make any, you're spending the day with me." It was always a surprise to see him tell her to do something, rather than asking her, but then again, she was the only person he actually asked the opinion of from what she knew. She didn't mind, she couldn't imagine a better way to spend any Saturday.
"Alright. Alright. I will." She agreed with a giddy giggle, kissing his forehead. "Don't you have things to do today?"
"Oh. The Huntington Case..." Sherlock carefully pulled out of her, pressing a kiss to her forehead in return as he started to throw clothes on and comb his hair. "Thank you for reminding me."
"Yeah. Sure." Jane chuckled, watching him get ready with amusement and she started to make herself appropriate for her new lady's maid to help her dress (Molly obviously couldn't be her lady's maid anymore since she was now a Duchess by marriage). "Will you be home in time for dinner?"
"I can never stay away from you for long." Sherlock answered, lifting her hand to his lips before heading out of the room and out the door.
"Jane... Jane... wake up!" It was Sherlock. Jane groaned, opening her eyes to find the room still flooded with darkness. It was Saturday, but the sun probably had at least an hour or two before it was going to rise. She curled back up into the pillow, burying herself under the covers. "Come on, Jane. You agreed to spend the day with me. I have something special prepared."
"What time is it?" came Jane's pillow-muffled response.
"It's just after four in the morning." The response he got was another groan. "I suppose I could find another lady to accompany me. Perhaps Ms. Morstan? Oh, or maybe little Ms. Lestrade would be intrigued enough."
"What do you have planned?"
"It's a surprise."
"Why do I need to get up this early?"
"Because time waits for no man or woman." He gently rubbed her back. "Perhaps Mrs. Hudson would go with me instead. She's been my nanny since I was just a boy. She certainly qualifies as a special lady."
"So funny I forgot to laugh." Jane grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and letting out a small yawn. Sherlock smiled softly, digging a straw spill out from the bedside table and poking the dim embers in the fireplace until the tip caught fire before lighting the candles by the bed. "You're dressed."
"Yes, and you need to be since we're going out." Sherlock chuckled, grabbing her usual undergarments and helping her put them on while she adjusted to being awake this early.
"Are you even qualified to put clothes on a lady?"
"I've taken them off of you plenty of times." Sherlock whispered in her ear playfully, causing her to blush. "I'd have to be a fool to not have some understanding of the complexity of your clothes by now."
He carefully started lacing her bodice, tying it when he was finished and going to their wardrobe to pick out a dress for her.
"This is quite possibly the loosest my stay has ever been." Jane mused with a chuckle and Sherlock shot her a playful glare at her tease. She reached behind her, pulling the strings taught and retying it. "You seem to be in a very good mood today."
"I am." Sherlock agreed, picking a sunshine yellow dress with little blue forget-me-nots embroidered around the sleeves, cuffs, collar, and skirt. He put it on her carefully before gently braiding and tying her hair back. "Shall we?"
"How do you plan on seeing in the dark?"
"I happen to know the route like the back of my hand." Sherlock defended with a chuckle, taking her hand in his own and helping her down the stairs to the front door.
"I am intrigued to know what has you so excited." she admitted, following him out into the early hours of the morning. She could hardly see, yet her eyes had somehow become accustomed to that. It was actually rather moist out, not from rain, but heavy fog. The moon seemed to have a blue tinge to it tonight but she could hardly see it. Instead she focused solely on where Sherlock was guiding her, stepping where he stepped.
"We've been walking for almost two hours..." Jane groaned quietly, yawning as if to prove her point. "Wherever you were planning on taking me, I think we're lost."
"Actually, we're almost here." Sherlock said chipperly and Jane glanced at him in disbelief.
"Really?"
"Yes."
They had just been hiking a hill and, although Jane could see better now that night was nearly over and the sun was about to rise, she wasn't quite sure where they were.
"I take it you don't remember this place?" Sherlock asked, thumb gently rubbing her rather cold hands.
"I know this tree." Jane admitted, glancing around at their surroundings.
"This is the exact spot that I met you, Jane. One year after doing so."
"Sherlock..." Jane was touched by his sentiment, he was now kneeling among the leaves, pressing little kisses of pure adoration to her fingers.
"Jane, you have become the most important person in my life since then. I never used to care what anyone thought of me, and I still particularly don't, but you are the exception. Your smile has become the staple of my day, your laugh, my greatest desire... your voice, my source of inspiration, and your touch has become something so important to me that I feel like I'm suffocating if I'm apart from you for too long." His thumb brushed against her wedding band and a gentle, reminiscent smile appeared on his lips. "I was so sure that stories of love and romance had it wrong, that it was a trick of the mind or perhaps just how infatuation worked at first, that those things wouldn't last, but I was wrong. This is so much more than infatuation, I've known you were different from the very first moment that I saw you and to call it infatuation would be an insult to what I feel for you... Jane, nine days from now, is our wedding anniversary and yet, I cannot think of a better time than now to tell you how I feel..." The sun started peeking over the treetops, making the fog glow gold. "Jane Holmes, with all that I am I love you, ardently."
Jane had meant to reply but it had been to late. There was no sign of Sherlock anywhere and the golden blue light that had surrounded her before did no longer, instead it was a gray day with clouds overhead. She looked down to find that her dress no longer fit her.
Jane was John again... and nothing made her heart hurt more.
|
Izzy sighed and leaned her head in her hand while idly rereading the letter for the third time. She had already forgone breakfast, which did not go unnoticed by her younger cousins. On her second sigh, she was surprised by the blueberry muffin that bounced off her head.
"What the actual f-!"
"Language!" Hermione Granger snapped at the older female without glancing up from her Transfiguration textbook. The twins sitting on either side of the caramel-skinned Gryffindor snickered but didn't otherwise take the blame for the flying muffin.
"Back in the world of the living?" A high tenor drew her attention to her singular blond cousin (though that wasn't quite true anymore since Caroline was blonde).
"Danny!? Why are you throwing muffins?" Izzy's shrill tone caused several nearby Hufflepuffs to look up from their breakfast in an attempt to figure out what had upset the sixth year.
"Maybe because you ignored him calling you, twice," Hermione cut in again, still not looking up from her textbook, though she did take another sip of her tea. Izzy never could understand the way the younger witch could make multitasking look so easy. The metamorphagus couldn't even walk and chew gum at the same time.
"I wasn't ignoring him!" The crimson blush staining her face clearly said otherwise. "I've just got a lot on my mind!" She huffed, picking apart the muffin that had bounced off her head with no intention of eating it.
"Mind sharing with the class?" Danny snarked, another muffin bouncing off the side of Izzy's head. This one was chocolate chip.
"It's Charlie!" Izzy groaned and thumped her forehead against the table, her arms dramatically spread across the wooden surface in a bid for sympathy that wouldn't come. Though she did manage to accidentally stick her hand in a bowl of scrambled eggs. Another muffin bounced off her head, or at least she hoped it was a muffin.
"What's big brother-"
"Done to upset-"
"Our most lovely-"
"Positively gorgeous-"
"Senior badger lady-"
"This time?" Izzy's answer to the dizzying twins was a muffled groan, which was received with another muffin bouncing off her head.
"That one had jam on it," Hermione commented half-heartedly while marking a page in her text and moving on to the next chapter.
"Mother Fu-!"
"Language!" A chorus of voices cut her off, and Izzy sat up enough to glare at Hermione, Danny, and the twins only to spot Hermione blinking in confusion at the boys. With a shrug, the youngest Gryffindor returned her attention to her book with a ghost of a smile on her lips. Looks like they listened after all.
"Fine! It's just that he's worried about how your mother will react when she finds out I've got a season pass to the Romania reserve for this summer." Izzy turned her vibrant purple gaze onto the twins, hoping for a favorable response. George's face grew grim and Fred offered a sympathetic smile, which turned Izzy's stomach into lead faster than alchemy.
"Mum's already expressed her dislike for you dating Charlie," George sighed and Hermione put down her text, suddenly interested.
"Yeah, she probably wouldn't have let us visit if she knew you're Evan's cousin," Fred cast his hazel gaze across the table, noting that their fearless (sometimes too much so) leader was still nowhere to be found.
"I don't understand," Hermione admitted, surprising those around her briefly. "What exactly is your mother's reason for disliking Izzy? She's a spectacular student and a prefect at that." The sixth-year Hufflepuff in question was often seen helping and assisting the younger years of all the houses, not just her own. Because of this, all the professors and staff absolutely adored her. It just didn't make any sense.
"Apparently, Molly Weasley thinks I'm an immature and childish woman, not worthy of her Charlie." Izzy sighed, long since used to the Weasley matriarch's prejudice opinion, and unable to even feel irritation at the irrational mother anymore. The eldest Noir cousin had been putting up with Molly's disdain for almost two years now, though she still couldn't quite figure out how she'd earned it.
"That," Fred's vibrant copper hair popped into view, "and Mum blames Izzy for Charlie's runnin' off to Romania."
"Stupid really," George cut in from the other side of the bushy-haired Gryffindor, "Charlie's been dragon nuts for ages."
"No surprise he followed Bill's example," Fred exclaimed with images of pyramids and endless sand in his eyes.
"Still waitin' on Percy to fly the coop," George snorted without humor, his hard hazel eyes trailing over the crimson and gold table, where the third oldest Weasley son sat.
"Smart ones, those two," Fred offered the group a strangely nostalgic smile, "Seems like it'll be forever 'fore we can escape."
"She can't hold us forever, Forge," George growled darkly, earning himself several weary gazes from all who heard the animalistic sound. After returning to Hogwarts, the twins had pulled the oldest Weasley in attendance to the side and had a long-overdue heart-to-heart. While Percy was decidedly more fond of their mother, he too acknowledged her unfair treatment and expectations of her children.
Compared to the fair but firm structure of the Noir household, the Weasley family was neglectful at best. Molly often neglected the needs of specific children in favor of others, she would verbally abuse the twins, and spoil her only daughter to the point of feeding delusions. It was an extremely unhealthy environment, and the twins could see that now.
"Don't forget," Danny cut in by placing a hand over the agitated twin's, "You'll always have a place with us. Evan made sure of that." The too-toothy grin the blond got in way of response was more than a little worrisome.
"Too true Danny boy, too true!" Fred chimed in to distract his other half from the dark thoughts that he knew to be brewing.
"He's right though, you're family now," Izzy offered the red-haired boys a heart-warming grin, "And we always look after family."
"What exactly did Evan do?" Hermione piped up, forgotten by most of her company in the wake of the twins' passion. At least she had gotten an answer to her first question.
"An informal adoption of sorts," Danny quickly deflected, knowing very well the consequences of revealing such information early. The twins being disowned by their biological family being the least worrisome of the possible results.
"Enough heavy talk!" Bonnie cut in sharply while dropping her books onto the table. "We've got final exams coming up in a few weeks and I for one could use the help," here she pinned Izzy and the twins with a hard stare that looked utterly unnatural on her usually carefree features.
"Hey Bonbon, have you seen Evan?" Danny bumped his shoulder into his darker skinned cousin's side affectionately at her sudden appearance.
"Yeah, he was sneaking around with Theo when I saw him down by our room," Bonnie shrugged before grabbing a muffin that didn't have purple hair on it. "You don't think something is going on between those two, do you?" Her lips were pulled into a crooked grin at the idea, highlighting her normally warm features with a devious light. She was one of the few who suspected Theo held a flame for the youngest Noir, so it wouldn't surprise her really.
"Our Lord-"
"Decided to bring-"
"The young Nott heir-"
"Over to the Dark Side."
"He took it well enough." The twins played ping pong with their company's hearing, though Fred was startled to note the sharp stab of pain he felt in his chest at Bonnie's suggestion. He could even feel himself grow resentful towards the Nott heir for reasons he couldn't understand, but he stubbornly pushed those feelings aside.
George must've noticed his slightly bitter tone, for he pinned his twin with a meaningful look that clearly said 'later'. Izzy seemed to have caught on to because she quirked her brow at him while a smirk twitched her lips. How bloody annoying. It was almost as if the metamorphagus had figured out the reasons for his reactions while Fred himself was still left in the dark. Damn women, even the younger ones.
"Since when are you two familiar with Star Wars?" Hermione cast the twins an odd look.
"Oh, our dearest bookworm-" George started with a shameless grin.
"We know plenty more-"
"'Bout the Muggle World-"
"You're obsession with Darkness, stars, and magic-"
"Than you will ever know!"
"They marathoned with Uncle Sammy over Yule break," Bonnie rolled her deep green eyes at the boys' antics. At least they were out of their brief funk.
"Bonbon!"
"Couldn't you leave-"
"Even a little bit of mystery?" the twins whined comically, startling a laugh from the Bennett witch with their sheer volume.
"Not too far from my original guess then," Hermione admitted, surprising the twins and earning curious inquiries from the rest of the coven present. "My money was on Danny or Evan having corrupted them." She explained with an exaggerated roll of her chocolate colored eyes.
"Why Danny?" George nudged the little lion seated between himself and his twin.
"Oh please!" Hermione giggled, "Anyone can see what a big nerd he is!"
"Hey!" The blond flushed a brilliant pink color and hid his face in his hands while he sputtered in embarrassment. The coven laughed at Danny's expense and said Noir found a small smile adorning his face despite this. It was kind of nice they had even bothered to notice that about him. Maybe he wasn't so invisible at Evan's side after all.
Black Diaries
Two tiny dark-haired figures were making their way up from the dungeon level when they heard a sharp gasp. Emerald green eyes met dark grey in the low light of the shadowed corridor before an exchange of quick nods led to the two first years bounding forward. Following the sounds of harsh whispers and stifled outrage, the little snakes managed to find themselves in the Defense corridor. Just outside Quirrell's office professors McGonagall, Snape, Flitwick, and Sprout were visible arguing.
"-could have possibly done such a thing?"
"I don't think the question is who, but rather what, Minny." Flitwick pushed further past the other professors, using his smaller stature to his advantage allowed him to slip into the office and out of the young Slytherins' views.
"He's been completely drained of his magical essence," a velvety baritone cut through the tension, and Evan knew that when the head of Slytherin glanced towards the darkened alcove that they had been spotted. It was a miracle the other professors hadn't spotted them as well, yet Snape seemed happy enough to share his insights with colleagues and students alike.
"What could do such a thing, Severus?" McGonagall's voice was unsteady with tremors, and her normally stern gaze was blown wide with terror. "It was in the castle, with the children! And we didn't even notice it!" her voice had grown high in her hysteria, and Sprout brought the taller woman into her arms for comfort.
"What'ver it was, it's long gone now, Minny," the Hufflepuff attempted to sooth her friend whilst peering sharply at Severus. "S'not a plant alone could've done it, and I'd be hard pressed to find a creature who could either."
"Likely it was neither, dear Pomana," a slightly strained tenor drifted from the office entrance only to be followed by vibrant fuchsia robes with swirling sunburst-yellow patterns. Evan shivered at the tone, knowing that if bright-as-light Dumbledore was troubled then something bad had truly happened.
"Then what manner of being could have possibly committed such a crime?" McGonagall pressed further, her tone sharp and completely at odds with her posture as she allowed the shorter witch to comfort her.
"A wraith of some sort, though I know not of which, Minerva dear," Dumbledore cut in again, and though his words were ambiguous at best they sent a chill of dread down the spines of two hiding students. A wraith would explain how Voldemort could both be dead and not-dead. He was a corrupted spirit out of body, with no choice but to consume the magic force of another to survive. There lay no doubt in the pair of children's minds who exactly was responsible for such a terrible act, and for the first time in their young lives true fear gripped their hearts.
Voldemort was already in the castle, a member of the staff! Whereas they merely believed Quirrell to have been working with the undead dark lord. It was a terrifying revelation, but with it a cold calm settled over the youngest Noir. He rightly should have been horrified out of his mind at the idea that his parents' murderer had been so close, and in a position of authority none the less, but instead all he felt was a bone-deep sense of foreboding. Every cell in Evan's body told him this was merely the beginning, and he was inclined to agree.
Voldemort was back on English soil (or close enough as they were still in Scotland), no longer hidden in some dark corner of the world. The once great dark lord had returned, and to seek out a body at that. Evan had no doubt Voldemort would succeed, it was only a matter of when.
"Eavesdropping, now are we boys?" a smooth baritone cut through Evan's racing thoughts just in time for the youngest Slytherin to notice the other professors had left. A glance to his right proved Theo was still at his side, though pale and obviously shaken. Emerald met obsidian and for the first time in Snape's recall the young snake acted his age as he reached out a hand towards his favorite professor seeking comfort. Snape was surprised at first, but quickly gathered both shaken boys in his arms, and if an outsider was to witness they might suspect it was a father embracing his sons.
"It was Voldemort," the whisper barely escaped Evan's lips, but it was loud enough still for Theo to shudder into his professor's grasp and for Snape to suck in a sharp breath. He pulled back from embracing the boys and knelt to their height,
"Surely not, don't speak of such things which you do not understand!"
"I understand well enough! Dumbledore hid the stone in the castle in hopes to draw him out, and he succeeded!" Evan whispered back with a sharp and hurt-filled tone. He had never lied to Snape, why would the man think him lying now? The professor seemed to rear back, as if slapped, by Evan's proclamation. It was enough to see that not even Snape had known of Dumbledore's true intentions for the stone. Or maybe it was the fact that Evan knew about the stone at all.
"The philosopher's stone?! What do you know of it?" Snape's tone was piercing, and his dark eyes were narrowed with suspicion as he bore deeply into the eyes of both his students.
"We knew Professor Quirrell was after something in the castle, so we did some research of our own," Theo defended from Evan's side, glaring up at the head of Slytherin with misty grey eyes.
"It was Hagrid who let slip the clue we needed, when he mentioned a man named Flammel." Evan directed the professor's attention to himself once more, "It was easy enough to piece together after that," The Noir heir focused on drying his eyes, stepping out of Snape's range and no longer allowing the man's touch. Theo followed his example, and instead latched on to his own arm for comfort.
"Are you meaning to say that the Dark Lord has the philosopher's stone in his possession now?" Snape's tone had softened as he realized his unease was taken as offense by the children. For them to so clearly put up a wall between themselves and him, when they were so readily seeking comfort before, was the most obvious example that he had screwed up in his approach.
"No, we realized your defenses were weak at best, no more than child's play," There was a cold edge in Evan's eyes as he taunted his professor now, "So we had removed the stone from your care at the start of winter term. It's hidden in America now." It really wasn't, as it was still enchanted to hang around Bonnie's neck, but Snape didn't need to know that. And so, Evan had told his first lie to his favorite professor.
"So it's been gone since January? And we've been guarding an empty chest?" Snape snarled, hoping to catch the children in a lie. He knew Evan had just spoken a falsehood, though he couldn't tell where exactly.
"An empty mirror, but you knew that. There were no chests involved in your multitude of childish traps." Evan had recognized the ploy for what it was, though Theo was seen glancing back in forth between the two with building confusion. Snape seemed to seriously consider the youngest snake for a moment, but then decided it was the level of the traps the child must've been lying about.
"So the Dark Lord fled when he realized the stone was no longer in the castle?" Snape's smooth baritone had returned to it's soothing quality as he attempted to ease the children with his belief in their claims.
"I can't see another reason," Evan agreed as the fight seemed to drain out of him. He had seen death before, as car crashes were fairly common in the misty season of Mystic Falls, but observing the death of a stranger was vastly different then the death of someone you knew. He may not have been close to Quirrell at all, but Evan still saw the man in one capacity or another every day. To suddenly know that he would never see the man alive again was a shock to the preteen's system.
"I suppose then, we should find ourselves glad you stole the stone when you did. Had you waited, he may have made off with it right under our noses." Snape appeared to genuinely believe this, and that set both boys at ease for the time being. True enough their moving of the stone ended with Quirrell's demise, but it was just as likely Voldemort would have killed the professor either way. Which is what Evan chose to believe so he wouldn't be smothered by unwarranted guilt for going behind the professors' collective backs.
"At least the stone is safe now," Theo piped up, drawing the attention of both of his fellow Slytherins. "Not even the Dark Lord should be stupid even to go against the Noir family." It was in that moment Snape was reminded that the Nott heir probably knew more about the true identities to the Noir family than he himself did. It both relieved and worried the potions master that the boy was so confident in the mysterious family's ability to protect the stone. He wondered what exactly it was that Nott knew that he didn't.
Black Diaries
The news of professor Quirrell's demise spread quickly throughout the school, followed by the results of the aurorors' investigation. Apparently, the man had been consuming unicorn blood in order to fight off a magical degenerating illness, or so the public was led to believe. Regardless of the truth, the Gryffindor common room was unusually sullen the evening after the last of their exams.
"Do you really believe what they're saying about the magical illness?" the low alto of Hermione whispered to her closest friend in Gryffindor. The Longbottom heir shook his head in turn, for he honestly couldn't believe the claim either. Not when he knew the truth from what Evan and Theo had so willingly shared with the coven.
"Better to let the public believe the man died of his own desperation than to tell them their worst fear has come back from the grave." He was right, of course, as he so often was when it came to politics, but it still grated on Hermione's nerves. It infuriated her that the magical authorities had no problem sweeping such dangerous evidence under the rug the way they did. Voldemort was nothing more than a magical terrorist to Hermione's mind, and one akin to the Nazis at that. It terrified her that the people who were meant to protect them were just going to hide the truth the way they were. She hoped they at least investigated further into the matter, because otherwise Voldemort would be given a relatively smooth transition to power once more.
"I hate this! I hate this so much!" tears of frustration and fear were gathering in Hermione's warm caramel eyes, and Neville did his best to wrap an arm around her shoulders for comfort. Having friends was a new experience for both lions, but a welcome one at that, and Neville was determined to help his friends in any way he could. His female companion proceeded to bawl into his uniform shirt as he rocked her gently back and forth.
Neville and Hermione were tucked away in a small alcove in the Gryffindor common room, complete with a small sofa and a decently tall table for studying. A few low hanging torches and the glow of the large common fireplace were their only sources of light, but that just meant no one could see them well enough to realize Hermione was still crying. The poor girl had been bouncing from one emotion to another ever since she got the news, and Neville found his heart had gone out to her. He knew loss, probably more intimately than most due to his parents' conditions, and he knew Hermione had never experienced loss in a truly permanent manner.
"I know, Hermione, I know," Neville shushed his companion as his eyes wandered over to the more well-lit portions of the common room. His and Hermione's inclusion into the formerly named Noir Clan was still a sore subject for a majority of their housemates, and so he remained vigilant. Several of those children decedent from the more famous light-oriented families seemed to scoff and sneer at the young pair every chance they got. No one dared turn their nose up at the Weasley Twins, less they find themselves on the foul end of one of their pranks. Still, that left Neville and Hermione as unwitting targets to their housemates' scorn.
"To think," Hermione snorted through her sobs, "To think a 'magically degenerating illness' won't cause mass hysteria in its own right!" That train of thought startled a chuckle from the younger lion as he shook his head at his friend. Of course, she would've started thinking of ways to poke holes in the authority's theories.
"I believe they're blaming the illness on an old Egyptian tomb curse, except I don't think professor Quirrell had been to Egypt even once!" The idea had merit, if the auroras were smart enough to falsify the records needed, but there was no telling if they were or not.
"I'm glad Evan and Theo told us the truth, it's bad enough the public doesn't know about what's to come," Hermione pulled away just enough to rest her head on Neville's shoulder. "I can't imagine what would happen if the Lotus didn't find out about the truth. How can we defend against something if we don't know it's coming?" A million and one partial plans were racing through her head, but one by one she let them slip through her grasp as she struggled to orient herself with the here and now. Everything was changing, and Hermione had no idea how to prepare for the inevitable, but she supposed she should figure out what exactly it was first.
"Yeah, me too." Neville shifted his weight to allow the pair to sink back into the comfortable cushions. "Do you think Evan has a plan to prepare? He seems to know the most about what's going on."
"I know that Evan has invited Theo and the Twins over to the States for summer break. I can't say much else, but at least we know Professor Snape knows what's really going on." At mention of the potions professor Neville shivered unpleasantly. "I know you dislike him, but Evan trusts him."
"Doesn't make the man any more pleasant to be around. I can't stand his hovering or shouting!" though the Longbottom heir's voice was filled with venom, his volume remained fairly low. He had noticed how a few heads were perked in their direction during their conversation and had to remind himself that the commons room was anything but private.
"I know, Nev," Hermione bumped his shoulder affectionately, and the use of the nickname amused him. It gave Neville a warm and fuzzy feeling that Hermione had deemed him important enough for a nickname. It meant she viewed him as a close friend, which is more than he had ever had. Never had Neville been more grateful for his terrible broom skills, because they somehow managed to land him with the best of friends.
"-can't believe them!"
"Believe what?"
"'bout the twins, he means!" a trio of voices floated over to the half-hidden pair. Upon further glance Neville realized the trio in question was the youngest Weasley son, a dark skinned boy named Dean Thomas, and an Irish half-blood named Seamus Finnegan. The group of boys were actually Neville's dorm-mates, but they didn't interact much except their insults of Longbottom being a supposed squib. Out of the group, Dean was the most tolerable, as he just seemed to go along with the other boys and not actively agree with them.
"Why would they want to spend their summer with a bunch of snake-loving freaks?" Ron had growled to his friends, and Neville suddenly felt sick to his stomach with rage. How dare Ron insult Evan and the others when he was just jealous that he hadn't been invited!
"Don't listen to them, Nev. They don't know what they're talking about." Hermione had felt Neville tense against her side and was quick to pick out the cause. She too was protective over the Lotus Coven, especially their Head Priest, Evan.
"Ignorance knows no bounds," was Neville's hissed reply as he forced himself to remain relatively calm.
"They can't be all bad," Dean attempted to play devil's advocate, more so because he was rather sick of hearing Ron constantly rant about how evil all Slytherins were. "I mean, your brothers seemed a lot happier when they came back from winter break, and they even had new Muggle clothes to boot."
"Think they can buy my family, do they?! Fred 'n George always were the greediest of our lot!" Neville knew that to be a lie. If anything, it was Ron who was the greediest of the family. Fred and George just wanted to have fun and be appreciated. Was that too much to ask? How could someone who only knew the Twins for one year know the pair better than their own brother?!
"That lying scum! How dare he! Evan's not trying to buy the twins! He's providing for them, like their parents should be doing!" Hermione growled out before Neville had a chance to voice his own thoughts on the matter. The bushy haired Gryffindor was right though, and her angry hiss was loud enough as to be heard by the eavesdropping trio of first years.
"What would you know about my family you snake-loving freak!" Ron had jumped out of his chair to whirl around towards the pair with a sneer on his face. Seamus and Dean both reared back behind the angry Weasley, for it was one thing to talk bad about someone and another to fight them.
"Apparently a lot more than you do if you think Fred and George have a single greedy bone in their bodies!" Neville snapped back, rising to his feet to stand protectively between the furious redhead and Hermione even though he knew good and well the young witch could protect herself.
"Why else would they hang around that evil little snake!?" Ron snarled, his voice raising to a shout and halting the hushed conversations around the common room.
"Maybe because Evan was the first person to treat them as two separate people and not a fucking set!" Hermione snarled right back, the venom in her voice causing all four male first years to flinch back slightly. Never mind the fact that the young witch had thrown out one of her least favorite words as emphasis. "You know Ronald, I'm sick and tired of everyone in this House treating the Slytherins as if they were evil incarnate! You're nothing but a bunch of prejudice, close-minded fools! You preach and preach that the snake house is nothing but bad eggs, but did you ever stop to think it was you're fault?!"
"What do you mean our fault?" The surprisingly submissive voice of third year Angelina Johnson cut through Ron's retort before he got a single syllable out.
"'If you tell an angel it's a devil enough times it will become one.' It's the same with children! We become what we are told we will be. Very few of us break the molds of society's expectations. Evan has, and all of you are treating him like a criminal for it!" Hermione shrieked, her hair astoundingly becoming more and more bushy as her agitation grew. Caramel eyes blazed with righteous indignation as she glared up at her darker skinned upper-classmen.
"And it's our fault for merely repeating what's been crammed in our heads instead of building our own opinions?" Angelina offered her own thoughts while nodding with what the fiery first year was spouting.
"You're damn right it is!" Hermione exclaimed, still enraged to a degree.
"That's quite enough Miss Granger," a smooth alto cut through the tension, followed by the vision of professor McGonagall in all her tartan splendor. "While I applaud your enthusiasm and your sense of justice, I must condemn your language." At this chastisement Hermione found herself red faced with embarrassment. "Now, I'll let you off this time, but I don't want to hear such language from you again, am I clear young lady?"
"Yes professor," Hermione answered with her head bowed in shame, but happy she wasn't going to be receiving a detention just yet.
"And you Mister Weasley!" At the professor's sharp tone Ron flinched back visibly, "If I ever hear such arrogant, prejudice claims from you again I'll have you scrubbing the dungeon floors themselves! And without magic!" With one more stern glare leveled at the room as a whole McGonagall ordered, "Now it's been a long and taxing day for the lot of us. Off to bed!" before she too swept from with room with a large swooping motion of her robes.
"I think you're right, Granger. We've been judging your friends and their housemates unfairly, and I for one promise to keep an open mind." Angelina offered the younger girl a small smile before making her way up the stairs towards the girls' dormitories.
"Thanks Angelina," Hermione offered her housemate a warm smile in return. If she could get even one person to think for themselves, maybe the rest would fall in line. She could only hope.
|
Fuck this shit.
They were supposed to vote for a damn class representative when no one knew shit about everyone else? Katsuki groaned.
Whatever. He scribbled Deku’s name down on the paper (after all, it should be one of them, and Deku was the one that actually wanted to deal with the damn extras, anyway), then tossed it in the basket when it was brought by.
When the results were announced, Deku squeaked in surprise, and Katsuki laughed his head off. The nerd had gotten four votes, more than twice the amount of Ponytail, who was the only other person to have someone else vote for them.
“M-me?!” Katsuki tilted his head back and smirked as Deku looked around in shock. “B-but I didn’t even vote for myself!”
Round Face blinked in surprise, “Who did you vote for, then, Zu-kun?”
“Kacchan, of course.” Deku turned toward him, confused. “But he only has one vote, so… Kacchan?”
“I voted for you, dumbass. Like I’d want to deal with these shitty extras any more than I have to.”
“B-but I don’t… No one’s ever….” Deku looked around the room, his eyes confused and lost.
The bell rang.
Eraserhead sighed from his sleeping bag at the front of the room. “We’ll finalize things after lunch, go and eat.”
Ugh. This shit was taking fucking forever. Whatever. Before they left, Katsuki needed to set something straight. He grabbed his bento, turning to Deku, “I’m not eating with you and the damn extras again.”
“Eh?!” Deku looked at him, startled out of whatever state of confusion he’d entered, “But we always eat together! We’ve never—”
“You want to eat with your damn friends, right? I don’t like dealing with all that shit.”
“Oh. Um…” Deku looked down, fumbling with his bento wrap, “I could eat with just you, I don’t…”
“Don’t fucking say you don’t care, because that’s a damn lie and we both know it.” Katsuki glared at the nerd, then sighed, “Look, we’ll eat together every now and then or some shit like that, alright? I just don’t want to have to deal with them.”
“Ok, Kacchan!” Deku grinned at him, “Let me know whenever you want to eat together!”
“Whatever.”
Deku ran over to the two extras and the three of them left to head toward the cafeteria. Katsuki trudged down the hallway a few meters behind them. Even if he’d rather eat alone in the classroom, he would be too far from Deku that way, so Katsuki would just have to try and find some shitty out of the way corner.
There was a table by some plants that had a few empty chairs, so he took one of those, hoping that maybe people would take the hint and leave him—
“Oi, Bakugou!”
Damn it.
He turned to glare at Shitty Hair. “What the fuck do you want?”
“Just noticed you aren’t with Midoriya today. Mind if I join you?”
“Yes.”
The extra just laughed, setting his tray down next to Katsuki’s, “Come on, man, you can’t avoid everyone forever. Especially if you’re friends with Midoriya—he seems like the type to befriend the whole class.”
“Tch.” Katsuki ignored him and ate another bite of his bento.
“How’d you two get to be friends, anyway?” Shitty Hair shrugged, “Not that it’s any of my business, but you two are so different that everyone’s kinda confused.”
Why the fuck did it even matter? “We’ve been friends since before we could talk. Our moms are best friends.”
“Oh!” Shitty Hair grinned, “That’s really awesome, man! It must be cool to have a friend that knows you that well.”
Katsuki shrugged as Shitty Hair began to eat his pork. Did the guy not know anything about eating a balanced meal? There was practically nothing but meat on his tray!
“Hey, my dudes!”
Oh, hell no.
Pikachu’s tray dropped down across from Shitty Hair’s.
Katsuki’s eyebrow twitched. Damn it, he’d wanted to escape the extras, not be cornered by different ones! And it’s not like he could just fucking leave the cafeteria, not when Deku was still eating.
Katsuki glared at the two.
“Dude, do you ever like, not glare?” Pikachu was leaning on his hand, grinning at Katsuki.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?!”
That just earned him a shrug, “An honest one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you not glaring at something.”
“That’s because you’re all fucking annoying.”
“Not true!” Now fucking Raccoon Eyes was sitting down next to Pikachu, “He doesn’t glare at Midoriya.”
“Oh yeah! What’s up with that?”
Shitty Hair gestured vaguely with his chopsticks, “Apparently they’ve been friends for their whole lives because their moms are friends.”
“Oooohh, so that’s why Midoriya gets a pass.”
Ignore them. Just ignore them. He could do this. Katsuki focused on his meal.
“So, are you two excited about next Monday?” Raccoon Eyes leaned across the table, whispering over dramatically, “I heard we get to go on a field trip!”
“A field trip? Awesome!” Katsuki wrinkled his nose in disgust as Pikachu spoke through a mouthful of food.
Shitty Hair at least swallowed before he asked where the supposed field trip would be.
Raccoon Eyes shrugged, “To some place to work on rescue drills.”
“Rescue drills?” Katsuki looked up. That wasn’t as interesting as combat, but it was a lot better than the shitty normal classes.
“Mmmhmm, apparently we get to work with Thirteen!”
Katsuki stared at the girl. Thirteen? Deku would probably know who the fuck that was.
Whatever. He turned back to his meal, intent on continuing to ignore them.
“Aww, no! Don’t be like that! We just got you to talk!”
He shoved another piece of celery into his mouth.
“UGH.” Raccoon Eyes pouted, then suddenly perked up. “I know! What’s up with your and Midoriya’s costumes? Are you two matching on purpose?”
Katsuki rolled his eyes, “No, we both just randomly chose black, green, and orange costumes.” He glared at her, “Of course we’re fucking matching on purpose.”
“Eh?” Pikachu cocked his head to the side, “But why?”
“Oh!” Shitty Hair grinned at him, “You two spar together, right? Are you two planning on being a hero duo or something? You worked together really well in the combat exercises!”
Katsuki sighed, but nodded. Maybe the extras would leave him alone if he gave them a little bit of information.
“Aw! That’s adorable!”
“What the fuck?” Katsuki stared at her. Adorable? Him? He hadn’t been called that since he was like five. Deku, sure, but not him. “Are you fucking messed up or something?”
“It’s awesome that you are such good bros!” Shitty Hair raised his fist up in the air, clenching it in some kind of weird ass pose. “You two pursuing your dream together like that is super manly!”
“…bros. Right.” Katsuki stared at the three.
“Yeah!” Pikachu was nodding along, giving him a thumbs up.
What the fuck. Since when did being in a hero duo mean that the members were bros? Sure there were plenty of pairs that were just friends, but still… why weren’t the assholes even considering the damn idea that he and Deku might at least be a couple? Not that they were dating or anything! Well, yet. Dumbasses. Shit, but Katsuki really didn’t want to even think about that right now. He rubbed his temples in frustration and ground out, “How the fuck did you three even pass the entrance test?”
“Hey!” Raccoon Eyes was pouting again, “Don’t be mean.”
“Jeez, man. What the heck?”
Katsuki rolled his eyes and returned his attention to his food. “You’re all damn idiots.” Shit. He was almost done with his bento, which would take away his excuse not to talk.
Suddenly, an alarm began blaring over the loudspeakers.
“What the fuck?” Katsuki immediately looked over to Deku. The nerd’s eyes met his from across the cafeteria as everyone around them began panicking. Forget this shit. Katsuki grabbed his bento, ignoring the shouts of surprise from the three dumbasses, and made his way over to his soulmate.
“Kacchan!” Deku’s hand gripped his sleeve and his eyes were wide, “Apparently someone’s on campus that’s not supposed to be here!”
“How the hell they’d manage that?” Katsuki frowned, glancing toward the upper years who all seemed intent on leaving the cafeteria as fast as possible. “We supposed to go somewhere or some shit?”
“Yes!” Deku nodded fervently, “The upperclassman sitting next to us said there’s a room in the basement or something? I don’t really know, but everyone’s heading there, so it should be obvious.”
Katsuki grabbed Deku’s hand, pulling him toward the door. “Well, come on, then.”
By the time they’d pushed through the crowd and reached the hallway, though, Shitface had somehow gotten up by the emergency exit sign and was yelling about it being one of the reporters.
“Jeez, all this damn fuss over that?” Katsuki glared at the people around them. “I’m not dealing with this shit. You’ve got your bento, right Deku?”
“Umm… yeah! Yeah, I do.” Deku held it up as people began to disperse around them.
“Let’s just go finish eating in the damn classroom.” Katsuki turned toward the stairwell, pulling his soulmate after him as Deku started muttering about some shit.
After they’d gotten away from the crowd, though, Deku’s muttering slowed to a halt and he cautiously squeezed Katsuki’s hand. “Kacchan?”
“Huh?” Ah, shit. He hadn’t even realized—Katsuki let go of the nerd’s hand like it was on fire, taking a step away from him. Damn it. Katsuki looked at the floor, embarrassed.
“I don’t want to be class representative.” What the hell? Katsuki’s head snapped up to survey the nerd’s expression. Shouldn’t Deku be happy about people liking him? “When the alarm sounded just now… all I could think about was getting to you. I didn’t care about figuring out what was wrong or helping people or fixing the situation or blaming them down, I just…” he rubbed his arm uneasily. “I only cared about finding you.”
“You want to give away a position of leadership.” Katsuki stared at his insane soulmate. “You realize that’s shit, right? Of course you wanted to find me! That’s how we fucking work. I only thought about finding you, too!”
“Kacchan!” Deku groaned. “I don’t want to have the extra responsibilities! Not when… not when I feel like I should be focusing on getting better and umm… on, on us. I don’t want to spend extra time on classroom duties. And… and I’m not really comfortable doing that sort of thing?? I’m more used to everyone just ignoring me or something like that…”
Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” If Deku wanted to focus on fighting and their bond, Katsuki wouldn’t complain about it. He turned and continued toward their classroom, “Just choose someone else, then, and tell the class you won’t do it.”
“O-ok!” Deku scrambled after him, quickly falling into step with him. Katsuki glanced over and shook his head at the nerd’s happy smile.
Deku had only thought of finding Katsuki, huh? That… that made him really happy. It was damn obvious that of course Deku would do that with their bond, but… even though Deku had been with the extras, he’d thought of Katsuki first.
Katsuki reached up and ruffled the nerd’s hair before opening the door to the classroom.
“Eh? Kacchan?” Deku blinked at him in confusion.
He shrugged, making his way through the classroom and setting his bento on Deku’s desk before plopping down backwards in his chair to face his soulmate. “Just felt like it, nerd.”
“Oh. Ok, then… I guess.” Deku gave him a tentative smile and then sat down, opening up his own lunch. The nerd looked at him curiously, “So..” He paused to swallow, “You were sitting with Kirishima, Kaminari, and Ashido?”
“Tch.” Katsuki glared at his food. “Fucking extras sat down and wouldn’t leave.”
Deku laughed, “I think it’s great that Kirishima wants to be friends with you.”
“I don’t need any shitty friends.”
“Mmhmm…” Deku was grinning again. Grinning mischievously and Katsuki’s stomach was twisting and he just wanted to lean forward and…
Shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
He wanted to kiss the nerd.
Katsuki choked on his lettuce.
“Kacchan?” Deku was leaning forward, now. His hand warm on Katsuki’s shoulder. “Kacchan, are you ok? Do you need more water?”
Bright red, Katsuki shook his head. He grabbed his water bottle and chugged it down, crinkling the empty plastic in frustration and tossing it under his desk with a groan.
He buried his head in his hands, trying not to look at the nerd. At… at his soulmate. Fuck. He couldn’t… Deku was…
Shit.
“Kacchan?”
“I’m fucking fine.” He growled, finally looking up to see Deku’s eyes wide with concern. “Just swallowed some shitty lettuce the wrong way.”
“You… you sure?” Deku paused briefly, as if debating whether or not to continue, but finally he added, “You’re really red, Kacchan.”
At that statement, Katsuki was pretty sure he turned even more damn red. “I’m fine.”
“Ok!” Deku slowly took another bite. “I’ll take your word for it.”
“You should’ve fucking done that in the first place.”
Thankfully, the door swung open at that moment, sparing Katsuki from future embarrassment. He turned around to finish his food in silence, letting Deku go greet the extras and talk with them.
He…. He’d wanted to kiss Deku. To kiss his soulmate. That… that was normal, right? Nothing to be ashamed about! He’d just… gotten to that point faster than Deku. Which was damn typical, actually, so… fuck.
Katsuki closed his eyes in frustration. If he was honest with himself… he may have wanted to kiss Deku before this, too.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Fucking hell, their sensei had been right.
Katsuki couldn’t—
“Everyone get in your seats and be quiet.” Katsuki’s body went rigid as their sensei strolled into the room, heading over to his sleeping bag in the corner. “Midoriya and Yaoyorozu, come up here and make them pick class officers.”
The man disappeared into the yellow bag, and Deku shuffled to the front of the room, Ponytail following him calmly.
Katsuki looked out the window, ignoring Deku’s stuttered speech. He already knew the important parts of what the nerd was going to say.
If Sensei had been right about Katsuki liking Deku…and fuck it was still hard to wrap his mind around that, but--damn it Katsuki had wanted to just lean forward so badly, to be closer to him… His eyes flickered over to where Deku was running a hand through his soft hair as he fidgeted in place. Katsuki swallowed. He wanted to…
Fuck.
No. He couldn’t do anything. Not until he knew Deku was feeling the same way.
Katsuki took a deep breath, clenching his hands and then flexing them underneath the desk. Nothing yet.
But why had Eraserhead wanted Katsuki to think about how he’d called Midoriya ‘mine’?
Deku was his.
They were soulmates. They’d grown up together, lived together, were never apart, did everything together, would always be together… Of course Deku was his.
So why…?
He watched the nerd smile at Round Face as he headed back to his seat. The extra beamed back at him, giving the nerd a thumb’s up
Like Deku needed the approval of some damn extra—
Oh.
Damn it, Katsuki already knew the nerd wanted friends. The asshole teacher didn’t need to make a huge damn point out of that. Sure, Katsuki didn’t like that shit, and he didn’t really understand why, even, but he knew the nerd wanted them. It was like with all the damn journals and with the shitty nerd’s treasure trove of All Might merch. Deku always wanted to learn everything, to understand everything.
The nerd wouldn’t be happy until he’d tried out ‘friendship,’ or some shit like that, but he’d always come back to Katsuki. He’d always love Katsuki more. They were soulmates. Katsuki would just have to deal with the extras that Deku brought along every now and then.
The rest of the day was shit—just one boring class after another. Eraserhead came back at the end of the day to hand out permission forms for the trip on Monday, but just when Katsuki thought they were free, the teacher told Deku to stay after.
Fuck.
Katsuki groaned and laid his head on his desk. Now it would be even longer before they could get home! They were already going to have to stay after to talk to Recovery Girl about their bond.
As the rest of their classmates got their shit together, Deku nervously walked to the front, muttering about not wanting to miss Recovery Girl. After a short conversation with the man, the nerd walked back, grinning. “He says we can go talk to Recovery Girl first, Kacchan! So let’s go see her before she leaves for the day.”
“Fine.” Katsuki shrugged, shoving his shit into his bag and heading toward the classroom door. “What does Eraserhead want with you?”
“We um, haven’t talked yet? About the umm… yeah. So that.”
Katsuki snorted, standing up as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Smooth.”
“Kacchan!” Deku pouted, “It’s not like I can just say it! And you asked! What was I supposed to say?”
Katsuki opened the door up, holding it a few seconds longer than necessary so that Deku could slip out behind him. “You could’ve just said something like, ‘about what we talked about on the first day.’”
The nerd groaned. “It’s not fair! Lying and coming up with excuses and such just comes so easily to you.”
“You’re just too much of a damn goody-two-shoes.”
“But Kacchan!” Deku was whining again, making Katsuki roll his eyes. “I like making people happy! I don’t want to disappoint them or anything.”
“Uh-huh. And that’s why you’re a goody-two-shoes.” Hands shoved into his pockets, Katsuki trudged down the hallway. “If you cared less, you’d probably be better at making excuses. You’re too damn focused on disappointing people to fucking think straight.”
Deku pouted. “Why can’t I do both?”
“Because your brain can only handle so much, you shitty nerd.” Katsuki reached out to shove his shoulder roughly. “Now let’s hurry so we don’t miss Granny.” He picked up his pace, almost running up the nearby staircase.
“Kacchan! We’re not supposed to run in the hallways!”
“You wanna be fucking late?”
“But Kacchan!” Despite his protests, Deku sped up, easily reaching Katsuki’s side once more. “How can we be late if we’re not supposed to be there at a specific time?”
“If she leaves before we get there, dumbass.” Katsuki eyed the door at the end of the hallway. The lights were on. That was a good sign.
“It’s not like she probably leaves the second classes let out, Kacchan.”
“Why the fuck wouldn’t she?”
“Because students could get injured in a heroics class at the end of the day?”
That… actually made sense. Whatever. Katsuki still wanted to get this shit over with.
He kicked open the door, “Oi, Granny! You said you wanted us to come see you the first week of school.”
Recovery Girl spun around in her chair. “You can never just say a polite hello, can you Bakugou-kun?”
“Tch.” Katsuki frowned as Deku stuttered out an apology for Katsuki’s ‘rudeness’ and added his own greeting.
The room was thankfully empty, which meant they could speak freely. Well, as freely as people ever could in a school where students could use their quirks at all times and were always snooping around for various reasons. Katsuki wasn’t about to relax his guard unless a teacher or someone with a stealth quirk told him everything was clear.
Recovery Girl sighed. “Come on, then. Up on the patient bed with both of you.”
He walked over to the nearest one, jumping up to sit by the pillow so that there was plenty of room for Deku to sit next to him.
Recovery Girl promptly grabbed his hand, then Deku’s, kissing both of them.
Katsuki wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, Granny? What’s the verdict?”
“Patience is a helpful trait for heroes.” She tutted, then pulled a machine over to the bed. “While I have you both here, I want to run some tests just to verify some things. Heart rate, blood levels and such.”
“Whatever.” Katsuki held out his arm and let her attach a band around his arm. It felt weird. They’d honestly not gone to many doctors as they’d grown up—Auntie had always handled it when they’d gotten sick.
After he and Deku had been poked and prodded until Katsuki almost couldn’t take it any more, Recovery Girl finally took the machines away, but she just sat there at her computer making the occasional noise of comprehension.
Katsuki growled in frustration.
Finally she turned her damn chair around.
“Have either of you felt more tired recently?”
“Huh?!” Katsuki stared at her. “No. I feel fucking fine. Deku?”
“Ummm…” The nerd cocked his head to the side. “I might be getting tired a little earlier at night?”
Katsuki frowned. “That’s just because we’re tired from school. We always stay up later over the damn break.”
“Not necessarily.” Recovery Girl sighed, “While it could be that, I would not be surprised if this situation was already affecting your endurance levels. It looks like you two will soon begin to get tired faster than you used to, if you haven’t already begun feeling those effects.”
Shit.
But… but it’s not like they could bond any faster! Katsuki’s fingers itched to let out an explosion. The bond could already be affecting them? He didn’t think he was getting tired any faster, though… but Deku might be?
Fuck! This didn’t even make any fucking sense! “Why the fuck does this shit happen?! How are we supposed to work on this damn thing, if we keep getting tired or some shit?”
Recovery Girl clicked her tongue, “I don’t know much in this area, but I do know you have to want it for the deed to be successful. Physical discomfort can be an incentive for that.”
“Tch.” Katsuki glared at the ground, “We don’t fucking need that.”
“What… what will happen next? We’ll get tired more easily, and then what?”
Recovery Girl patted Deku’s knee. “Still small things, dearie. Headaches. A dizzy spell every now and then. That sort of thing.”
Damn it. “A dizzy spell during heroics class would fucking suck.” He hated this so much.
“Please be as careful as you can be.” Recovery Girl sighed. “Other than the strain on your bodies, you both look to be in perfect health, though. So there’s that at least.”
Katsuki sighed, hopping off the table. “We done here then, Granny?”
“Yes, though come back the second you feel more symptoms. And if you’re ever tired before your heroics class, you must come get some gummies from me.”
“Thank you, Recovery Girl!” Deku bowed again to the woman, then turned and headed toward the door. “We will!” He slid the door open, quickly exiting into the hallway.
Katsuki followed after him with a sigh. “You really been feeling more tired, Deku?”
“Ummm… a little? It’s really not much, though, Kacchan. I didn’t even think about it until she said something, so it could just be exhaustion from school.”
Katsuki watched his soulmate carefully as they walked down the hallway. The nerd wasn’t lying, that was for sure, but he also rarely took his own health seriously. “Tell me if it gets worse, ok?”
“Of course!” Deku grinned at him. “And you’ll tell me if you start feeling anything, right?”
Katsuki shrugged, “Whatever.” They had reached the stairs, now, and Katsuki ran through the past week in his head while they climbed. Had he been abnormally tired at any point? He honestly didn’t think he had…
Fuck it. If he kept going like this, he’d just make himself damn tired from thinking about it.
“Sensei said the 1B classroom should be empty, so he told me to meet him there, and that you could wait in 1A.” Deku adjusted the strap of his bag. “I guess we probably should have just left our things in the classroom, but it felt weird to do that when I didn’t know if anyone would be there to watch it for us.”
Katsuki shrugged, “It’s not like carrying it with us was a big deal.”
“That’s true.” They’d reached the 1B doorway, and Deku stood there, fidgeting nervously in front of it.
Katsuki rolled his eyes. “Just go in.” He walked a few steps further toward their classroom, calling back over his shoulder, “You know where to find me when you’re done.”
He opened the 1A door, then groaned. “Why the fuck are you still here?”
Shitty Hair looked up, “Oh! Um… I wanted to ask Aizawa-sensei about sparring, but he wouldn’t talk and said he had a meeting to go to and I should wait here for a bit and he’d come back with some form.” The extra shrugged, “He said it wouldn’t take long, though.”
“Does everything here need a fucking form?” Eraserhead had mentioned getting paperwork done on him and Deku as his advisees, too. Katsuki walked over to his desk and plopped down.
“Hero work has a lot of paperwork, too, right? To make sure that they have a clear record of how they’ve used their quirks and how much they’ve helped people and all that.”
“Tch.” Maybe Deku would do that part for him. Katsuki thought it sounded like fucking hell.
“So why are you still here?” Shitty Hair put his pencil down, turning to look at Katsuki. “I thought you and Midoriya left.”
“Fuck off.” Like he’d tell Shitty Hair they’d had soul bond shit to deal with.
The extra just grinned, though. “Come on! I figured you’d be the type to leave as fast as possible.”
Well he wasn’t wrong. Katsuki glared at him. Maybe if he gave Shitty Hair a little more information the extra would go back to his homework and leave Katsuki alone. “Deku’s mom’s a nurse and really paranoid about medical shit. Deku’s been getting tired this week, so she wanted us to check with Recovery Girl and make sure it was nothing.” Katsuki shrugged, “And then Eraserhead wanted to talk to him about some shit afterwards, so I’m stuck here waiting until the nerd’s done.”
“Really?” The extra was still grinning at him. “He’s ok though? You two must be really close if you’re waiting to walk him home.”
Katsuki’s eyebrow twitched in annoyance. “Yeah, he’s fucking fine. And we live close to each other.” Like across the hallway close. “It’s just our shitty routine.”
“Your moms make you do it when you were little or something?”
Katsuki frowned. Well, he could use this… “Deku was bullied by assholes a lot.” He might as well spread around the story about Deku’s quirk here in case it ever came up that Deku didn’t have a quirk when he was little.
“Really?” Now Shitty Hair was frowning in confusion, “But he’s like, super nice! Why would someone want to bully him?”
“He was quirkless. His damn quirk was a fucking late bloomer and didn’t manifest until last year.”
“Oh. Man, that really sucks.” The extra looked down at his hands, but then his head suddenly snapped up, his eyes wide with realization. “Wait! Last year? Um.” He paused for a second, but then plowed ahead, “I’ve kinda been meaning to ask, but were you two the ones that that villain—”
“Fuck. Off.” Katsuki glared at the extra, practically growling the words as explosions popped from his hands
“Got it!” Shitty Hair’s face paled a bit, and he laughed nervously. “Touchy subject. Got it. Won’t mention it again, man.”
Katsuki turned to look out the window, dismissing the extra’s presence.
After a few minutes, though, Shitty Hair spoke again. “You know, I’m sorry for making you angry, but it’s kind of nice to know the difference between your usual grumpy-anger and when you’re like, actually angry.”
Katsuki turned to glare at the extra, “What the fuck is that even supposed to mean?”
“Like that!” Shitty Hair grinned at him. “That’s just you being generally grumpy. You’re not really angry any more.”
“Huh?!” Of course he was fucking angry! Katsuki just wanted to be left alone, damn it! “Just… fuck off, Shitty Hair.”
The guy frowned, “And that’s another thing! What’s up with the weird nickname, man? I mean, you’re entitled to your opinion and all, but my hair’s awesome! You ever hear of Crimson Riot? He was a super manly hero and his hair was always like this. He’s the best!”
“Tch.” The guy’s hair looked hard as a rock, nothing like Deku’s soft….
Damn it, he was not randomly comparing Deku’s hair to this guy’s. The nerd’s hair was a fucking mess.
“Never heard of the asshole.”
“You haven’t?!” Now Shitty Hair was laughing and rubbing the back of his head, “I mean, I guess he is super old. You should totally look him up, though!”
“He’s probably pretty damn lame if his hair is like yours.”
“Man, what’s with you and my hair?”
“It’s shitty.”
“So you’ve said.” The extra waved his arms around, “Repeatedly.”
The door swung open, and Deku bounded over to Katsuki. “Kacchan! Let’s go home!” The nerd was grinning, so obviously his meeting had gone better than Katsuki’s. “Oh!” Deku turned toward Shitty Hair, “And here’s the form! Sensei asked me to give it to you.”
“Awesome!” Kirishima took the form like it was some kind of holy document. “Thanks, man! I can’t wait until we can start sparring!”
“Yeah!” Deku was practically bouncing up and down, “We didn’t get to spar in the match, but I’d like to do that sometime, too! I know Kacchan will help you more with endurance and such, though.”
“That’d be great!” Shitty Hair grinned, “You learn more from practicing with more people, right?”
Katsuki groaned, standing up and grabbing his bag. “Come on, Deku. I want to get home, already.”
“Ok!” Deku walked toward the door, waving goodbye to Shitty Hair. Katsuki rolled his eyes and followed, ignoring the extra’s shout of goodbye.
Once they were out in the hallway, he turned to his soulmate. “Your meeting go well?”
“Mmhmm. We just talked about how you and I grew up, really. Sensei said he’d talk to us after school on Monday about the… um…” Deku frowned, “the how-to stuff he mentioned?”
Katsuki’s brain stuttered to a halt. How-to seal the bond. Kissing Deku. Fuck, he did not want to have that conversation with their teacher. He could feel his face heating up.
“Kacchan? You ok?”
“Yeah.” His voice came out rough, so Katsuki swallowed and tried again. “Yeah, it’ll just be weird to talk about that shit with our damn teacher.”
Deku laughed nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Y-yeah. I… um. Yeah. I agree.”
“Whatever.” Katsuki shoved his hands into his pockets. “He’s got information that we need, so we’ll fucking deal with it. Let’s go home.”
Katsuki could at least avoid the damn topic until Monday. Well, hopefully. If his thoughts would let him.
|
August 1969
It wasn't to say that Hermione had been avoiding Dumbledore, but she had definitely stopped reaching out to him about getting back to the future since finding out that she was pregnant. Instead, she focused herself on reading whatever books she could on magical pregnancy and childbirth, trying to prepare as much as possible for her future child.
Molly had been wonderful to her after their heart to heart. Hermione wasn't sure if her carrying another man's child made her completely unavailable as a romantic rival for Arthur's affections, but she didn't really care so long as she remained on good terms with the other witch. Molly had helped her brew the necessary prenatal potions that Hermione would need to take, and even arranged for a healer to see her at home to make sure that everything was going well with the little one. When her stomach began to swell even more, Molly taught her spells that would tailor her robes so that she wouldn't need to buy new.
It was helpful to have Molly on her side when she broke the news to Arthur as well. She was surprised to see her friend become so red and upset on her behalf. Hermione half expected the wizard to go out and hunt down Rodolphus and make him take responsibility for her and the baby. Eventually, though, he grew excited for her to be having a little one in a few months and promised to help her in anyway that he could. Wrapping an arm around Molly's middle, he even offered to babysit whenever he wanted, letting her know that they wanted as much practice as they could get before they started a family.
However, she was also certain that it was Arthur who spilled the beans to Headmaster Dumbledore about the pregnancy. The redhead looked quite guilty when he told her that their former teacher would be stopping by the Burrow for tea with her.
When the auburn haired wizard swept into the quaint cottage, he looked quite out of place. "I understand that a congratulations is in order," he said with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Yes, thank you," Hermione answered, pouring hot water into each of their cups. "It was...unexpected, but I am happy." It had taken her a while to come to terms with her pregnancy. Of course, she hadn't meant to get pregnant at this age, fresh out of Hogwarts, but she already loved her baby with all of her heart.
"And, I am certain that I don't need to tell you that returning to your time is an impossibility now," he told her, leaving no room for argument.
Hermione nodded. "Yes. I know that I'm stuck here," she said, trying to avoid the lump in her throat. Even though she loved the baby, it was hard not to mourn the loss of her own life, the feeling of finality heavy on her heart.
Dumbledore took a sip of his tea, before setting the cup back down. "Well, I didn't come here to talk about your pregnancy," he said, rummaging in his pocket. "I have had a lot of time to think about what you told me about Voldemort and the events that happened in your future. Tell me, does this look familiar to you at all?"
From his pocket, a beautifully wrought silver and emerald locket emerged. Dumbledore set it on the table before pushing it her way. Hermione picked up the delicate chain, before tracing the 'S' on it's face with her forefinger. An involuntary shiver ran down her back when she felt the magic radiating off of it. "No," she said emphatically, before handing it back to Dumbledore, not wanting to hold it for another second. "What is it? It feels like dark magic."
"That's because it is dark magic...perhaps the darkest magic I've heard of," he explained. "You told me that in your time, Voldemort kept coming back to life. That caught my attention, because, well, people don't just come back to life. Magic is powerful, but not that powerful."
"Outside of someone using a time turner to save him, I don't really see how it could be done. Not to mention that it would have enormous consequences," Hermione agreed. "I always figured that he wasn't really dead to begin with."
"Well, there is one thing that could bring a witch or wizard back to life," Dumbledore explained. "But it is so terrible to make that I can't believe that Voldemort would have done it as many times as he did."
Hermione bit at her lower lip, wondering what it was. "Well? What did he do?" she asked, needing to know, especially if it held the key for defeating the dark wizard.
"Have you heard of a horcrux, Miss Granger?" Dumbledore asked, after a beat of silence.
Shaking her head, Hermione could safely say that she hadn't ever come across a horcrux, but she wouldn't be surprised considering that Dumbledore thought it such abhorrent magic. "I can't say that I have, sir."
"A horcrux is made when a witch or wizard splits their soul and places into an object," he told her. "Then, if one part of their soul is destroyed, they have a backup plan so to speak."
"But how does someone split their soul to begin with?" Hermione asked, her mind reeling. She didn't even know that such a thing was possible, but it would explain the way that he seemed to keep coming back again and again. It would also explain the ritual that Harry had witnessed in the graveyard after the Triwizard Tournament.
"There is only one way," Dumbledore said. "Murder."
Hermione thought that was obviously something Voldemort was capable of, and it sounded like something that he would do. But then, if Dumbledore was suggesting that Voldemort had made a horcrux and the horcrux was the locket...
She shivered once again, thinking about how she'd held a piece of Voldemort in her hand. "So you are saying that's a little piece of Voldemort's soul?" she asked. "We can just destroy it and then he'd be vulnerable to death once again, unable to come back again."
"Yes, this is one of Voldemort's horcruxes," Dumbledore agreed. "But, it is uniquely difficult to destroy, although not impossible. But it is not as simple as just destroying this one locket. Based on what you've told me of the future, I believe that he has made five horcruxes."
"Five?!" Hermione asked, thinking that it sounded like an impossible task. How on Earth where they supposed to find five more. "How are we supposed to even know what the other ones are? And...how did you get that one in the first place?" she questioned, feeling a bit suspicious.
"I knew Voldemort before he took on that name, when he was just Tom Riddle, living at an orphanage. He will hide the horcruxes in places that are important to him," Dumbledore explained. "I will admit that I was a bit lucky in finding a second horcrux, hidden away at Hogwarts, while I was looking through the Room of Forgotten Things for an old quill set that I wanted to use."
"Great, so we have two of them...what about the other three?" Hermione asked. "How do we even know what we are looking for?"
Dumbledore smiled at her, perhaps happy to have someone so willing to assist him in this task. "You already know of one of the horcruxes, even though you don't think of it as such," he said, trying to get her to figure it out.
It snapped into place then - an item that held a little bit of Voldemort could be nothing other than the diary. "The Diary that possessed Ginny Weasley," she said. "That's easy...Lucius Malfoy had it. But, well, he is still at school. Do you think that his father might have been given it first?"
"It's possible. Abraxas is one of Voldemort's most vocal supporters," Dumbledore agreed.
So, if they could just get ahold of that, that would mean that they had three of the five horcruxes, Hermione thought excitedly. And then, they could just destroy it like Harry had. "The horcruxes are vulnerable to basilisk venom," Hermione said proudly, glad to figure it out. "I can show you where the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets is, and then we can kill the basilisk and harvest it's venom," she said, excitedly, feeling as though this was going to be much easier than she had initially feared.
"Yes, exactly," he nodded his head in agreement, having come to the same conclusion as well.
But then...there were two more horcruxes that they had absolutely no idea where they would be hidden or what they would even be. "But then...we still have no idea what the others are," she said, feeling a bit dejected.
"I believe he might have left us a clue for that as well," Dumbledore answered, his blue eyes showing off a hint of his trademark twinkle. "Do you recognize the locket? Do you see what it is?"
Hermione gave it a second look, but she couldn't say that she did recognize it. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," she finally told him, disappointed that she couldn't piece it out on her own. "Is it a historic magical artifact?"
"Yes, actually. This is a locket that was owned by Salazar Slytherin himself," Dumbledore revealed with a grin.
Hermione looked at it a second time and could now see that the 'S' was actually formed by a miniscule snake, something she hadn't noticed the first time. "So...the other items belong to Salazar Slytherin? Or belonged to, rather?" she asked.
"Now you are beginning to see," Dumbledore said, sounding pleased. "There was a time that Tom Riddle came back from a break at Hogwarts and began wearing a ring that belonged to the Gaunt family. He toyed with it constantly in class. I would bet that it was his first horcrux...another family heirloom."
"Is that the other horcrux you stumbled upon?" Hermione asked, thinking that it would make sense for him to have left that at Hogwarts. Perhaps he had misplaced it and it ended up in the Room of Requirement.
"Actually, no. The horcrux I found was a diadem that had at one point belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw."
"But that's been missing for hundreds of years!" Hermione said, wondering what the chances were that Tom Riddle would have been able to find it, and then have Dumbledore find it again.
Dumbledore frowned. "Tom Riddle was - is, rather - very charming. I'm sure that he was able to get the Gray Lady to tell him where it was. She is Helena Ravenclaw, afterall."
Hermione's mind was spinning once again with that information. How had she not put two and two together! "So, something from Slytherin, something from Ravenclaw...does that mean the last horcrux belongs to Helga Hufflepuff?" she asked. "There is no way that he would use something from Gryffindor to hold a piece of his soul."
"Well, I'm afraid I don't actually have the answer to that question. I haven't the foggiest idea of what the last horcrux could be," he said, sounding a bit tired. "But, it does fit the pattern, so I wouldn't be surprised if it was. However, it could be something as innocuous as a diary."
She was suddenly feeling a bit defeated as well, thinking it was a lot like looking for a needle in a haystack. But, she knew that she would do anything she could to find it, if it meant riding the world of Voldemort once and for all. If she couldn't get back to her correct time, she was at least going to make the best future possible for her friends, even if they would never remember her. "I'll do whatever I can to help you, Professor," Hermione vowed. "When should I come by Hogwarts to show you the entrance to the Chamber?"
|
He stood in the center of a vast, empty white space. Gauzy soft light filtered down from above. He could hear water trickling somewhere, a fountain or a stream perhaps – he could not tell if he was indoors or outside. The air around him was still, almost deafeningly silent, and neither touch nor smell gave any clues to his whereabouts. Even so, there was something familiar and calming about this place, a sense that he had known it all his life though he had never been there.
He could hear someone approaching, steady steps made with heavy boots, directly in front of him. He squinted into the haze trying to make out the large form that was materializing in the mist. The fog swirled despite the lack of wind, and with a gentle burst of light, a man appeared. He was nearly seven feet tall with long greyish-brown hair, a slightly crooked nose, and gentle kind eyes. “Hello, Obi-Wan.”
Kenobi swallowed thickly, his heart suddenly tight with emotion. “Master?”
The two men stared at each other for many moments, the former expectant and the latter surprised. The infinite silence burned Obi-Wan’s ears. Finally, he spoke, his voice almost a whisper. “Are you here to admonish me?”
Qui-Gon crossed his hands in front of him. “Why would you ask that? Have you done something objectionable?”
Obi-Wan suddenly felt very exhausted. He wanted to sink to the floor, curl up, and disappear. His shoulders slumped forward and he hung his head.
“I can see that you have suffered, young one,” Qui-Gon said, walking slowly towards his ex pupil, moving around him in a wide circle. “You look very unwell.”
Obi-Wan did not know how to reply. “I don’t understand this,” he finally said. “Am I dead?”
“Do you feel dead?”
“It’s hard to tell lately.”
Qui-Gon chuckled. “No, you’re not dead.”
“Then what is this? Why are you here?”
His old master came around and stood directly in front of him. “I am here because you called me here.”
Obi-Wan tried to take a step towards Qui-Gon but he seemed to be stuck in place, unable to make his legs move. He looked down and realized his tunic and hands were covered in blood. He suddenly remembered Darth Maul and days filled with torture. He remembered hearing his own bones break and smelling his own flesh burning. Panic began to rise in him and he quickly looked at his master for comfort.
The sadness in Qui-Gon’s eyes revealed his compassion. “Young one, I cannot undo the past.” He took another step closer to his Padawan. “No one can take away your pain. You must do that for yourself.”
The young Jedi felt a familiarity he had not known since his youth; hearing Qui-Gon’s warm, melodic voice again after all these years was bittersweet. The two men easily slipped into their habitual discord – Qui-Gon the mentor, Obi-Wan the apprentice. The young man suddenly realized how deeply he missed his master; Qui-Gon had been like his father… at least until Anakin came along.
“What a Jedi you have become,” Qui-Gon said, folding his arms across his chest. “I can sense that you are powerful and are wise beyond your years. I am so very proud of you, my Padawan.”
Obi-Wan looked away, a bitter seed suddenly taking hold of him. “Thank you, Master, but I don’t really deserve your praise.”
“Don’t deserve it or don’t want it?” Qui-Gon said sharply.
Kenobi was surprised by his master’s sudden change in temper; the reproachful tone provoked Obi-Wan’s anger. His eyebrow arched as he said, “You never gave praise when I needed it. Why do you suddenly care what I want?”
It was Qui-Gon’s turn to be surprised. “Defensive in addition to moody. How interesting.”
Obi-Wan’s eyes darkened; he was no longer a boy and he found the jab annoying. “I don’t seek gratification the way I did when I was young. You taught me well that it was a wasted effort.”
“That’s just it, young one. You may not seek approval, but you also do not seek companionship. You keep to yourself, never reaching out to anyone. You try not to reveal anything overly personal to your Padawan. The Council values strength and independence, so you never turn to them for guidance. You never want to appear weak.”
Qui-Gon’s words were only partially correct, and their hypocrisy made Kenobi want to explode. “Can’t you see the contradictions in your own teachings? The Jedi Code taught me to bury my feelings, to ignore them, to blatantly walk away from affection. How am I supposed to ignore my emotions and express them at the same time? It is unparalleled stupidity!”
“The Code is intended to protect against vulnerability, to prevent enemies from exploiting our loved ones, but it does not mean you should lock your heart up in a cage.”
Uncharacteristic rage was building in Obi-Wan faster than he could control – he acquired a new appreciation for Anakin’s constant resistance to being lectured. “The Code teaches us to turn off our natural desires and needs. It is impossible to live our entire lives without developing attachments. I’ve lied to myself long enough. I am attached!” he suddenly shouted. “I have loved and lost and squandered my opportunities. I have watched the people I love suffer and die.” Obi-Wan’s voice was getting louder and louder, his emotions filling him with power. “You were going to abandon me for that boy!” he suddenly seethed, his eyes growing narrow. “And then you died before we resolved things. He became my responsibility. All he does is resent me; he thinks I’m jealous of his abilities. He has no idea what I sacrificed for him, the life I gave up in order to train him. The chosen one is extremely arrogant, Master. I thank you for the burden.”
“He saved your life, didn’t he?”
“Oh, many times.” Obi-Wan snorted. “He is a miracle worker, to be sure.”
“You did not see him suffer,” Qui-Gon’s continued, calm and rational. “While Maul tortured you, Anakin was beside himself; knowing his master was dying and that he was powerless to help almost broke him.”
“The poor thing,” Kenobi said sarcastically. Qui-Gon’s unfaltering patience is infuriating, he thought.
Obi-Wan suddenly paused, reproaching himself. But I don’t get infuriated…
“He was willing to disobey the Council in order to rescue you. He led the offensive that secured your release. He was desperate to save you, Obi-Wan.”
“I can’t think why. I rather expected him to gloat over my dead body then take my place on the Council.”
“Enough of this!” Qui-Gon unexpectedly shouted. “You are being self-indulgent. It is unbecoming of a Jedi, especially one of your stature.”
Obi-Wan looked like he had been slapped in the face. He could not believe the words that had just come out of his own mouth. “I didn’t mean what I said, Qui-Gon,” he stammered. “I love Anakin. He’s like my brother. Without him I’d still be in Maul’s clutches.”
He was exhausted, utterly drained. Fear hooked a claw in his chest and would not let go. Was he losing his mind? What were these horrible, bitter, resentful thoughts? He had never said such things in all his life; he had never lost control like that.
His Master was dead; this conversation was impossible. This must be my subconscious rising to the surface…
Obi-Wan Kenobi was suddenly too tired to maintain his legendary, ironclad self-discipline.
He slowly sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut against the tears burning down his cheeks.
Qui-Gon knelt in front of his Padawan. “Obi-Wan…”
“Please, just leave me alone.”
“Why call me here at all if you’re only going to send me away?”
Obi-Wan sniffed and wiped his eyes but he could not bring himself to look at his master. “You’ve never come to me before. I’ve called for your help many times. Why come to me now?”
“Because you are in danger, my boy.”
Kenobi fought the lump in his throat, his voice nearly a whisper. “I know.”
They could not reach out to each other; Qui-Gon could not place a hand on his Padawan’s shoulder as he used to do. The haze continued to swirl around them, the gauzy light ever constant. “You are safe with me, Obi-Wan,” he finally said. “Tell me what burdens you.”
The young man’s head sagged lower. “I can’t, Master.”
“Well you must tell someone.”
“You sound like Master Yoda.” Obi-Wan instantly felt defensive. “And anyway, Anakin is too busy worrying about himself to give a damn about me, and the Council only wants blind obedience. No one needs to know my burdens.”
“Obi-Wan, you are being uncharitable. And you are easily provoked, my friend. It is very unlike you. Yoda is right. You cannot cling to your anger…”
“Please,” Obi-Wan said helplessly, “please don’t give me another Jedi lecture. Please just sit by my side, Qui-Gon.” All he wanted was someone to show him kindness without fear of retribution from the Jedi Council; he wanted a moment of attachment where he was not afraid his masters would expel him from the Order.
“You already have that, young one. Anakin is sitting by your side as we speak. You should confide in him. He loves you. Despite following the Jedi Code, you both seem to cast it off in the name of love quite often.”
“I’m exhausted by my constantly changing emotions,” Kenobi abruptly confessed. “Anger is oddly satisfying, but it’s always followed by unbearable guilt.” He was speaking to the floor, too ashamed to meet his master’s steady gaze. “I am a Jedi and I know it’s wrong to feel gratified by aggressiveness, but it gives me a focus for my overwhelming grief. It’s harder and harder to release my feelings into the Force because I’m not sure the Force is with me anymore.”
Qui-Gon listened attentively, nodding slowly. “Your burden is heavy. You must recognize your vulnerability and proactively fight against the Darkness that’s in you. If you’re not willing to do that, you have only yourself to blame for losing your connection to the Force.”
Obi-Wan knew it was the truth. “Yes, Master.” He looked up into Qui-Gon’s gentle hazel eyes and realized this meeting’s transitoriness. “I’m sorry if I was ever ungrateful of your teachings,” he blurted out. “I’m sorry to show such weakness now. I never wanted to bring shame to your training lineage.”
Qui-Gon reached out to take his Padawan’s hand, and as he did the fog suddenly swirled tightly around him, enveloping the Jedi in a thick white haze. He disappeared, dissolving into the mist, as he closed his hands around Obi-Wan’s.
“No, wait!” the young man shouted but it was too late. Kenobi felt a strange tug on his body, and he was falling down through the haze, gliding slowly through the fog. He felt himself lie back onto a pillow, the medical unit coming into focus as the mist receded. Before his eyes opened, a voice from far away said, “All is forgiven, young one.”
|
CHAPTER 13
I hastily moved my feet over the side of the pillow, "I told you I didn't want to stay."
He leaned over the counter top and folded his arms, "You're not staying, at least not in the way you might imagine. You overlook my generosity."
My face contorted in disbelief, "Generosity?!"
"Yes, I'm not this generous to others who dare traverse my Darkness. Very few get an offer to stay or leave and none have ever been in my sanctuary."
I choked a little on my next words, debating their wisdom. Instead, I stood and walked towards him, my socks making no noise on his floors.
Changing the course of our conversation I asked instead, "May I have some more water?"
"Of course." He turned on the sink and refilled the glass. I mused that the sound of water splashing out sounded like any other I'd hear from a faucet.
When I reached the other side of the island I smiled hesitantly in thanks and gratefully drank more. When I set it down, I skimmed his face. "You seem extremely calm."
"I'm always sated after a decadent offering. You can be assured that I won't be the one to tell Ila how you ruined her plans for punishing Oldavai. It would be fair comeuppance since she's been non-stop badgering me about blaming him for this new underground hunter movement."
"Hmm." My thoughts couldn't get past that I was the offering that sated him, it made me uncomfortable. Just like any demon who was sated from something off me.
He propped his hand on his chin, "Come now, Dove. Where's all that bravery that made you literally jump directly into my arms?"
I blinked myself into awareness, "Why do you need an offering to close the darkness?"
His facial expression opened, as if pleased that I asked, the emotion a faint waft of a lazy breeze through me. "I am part Darkness, but not all. It is a multitude of my kind. We are born with it inside and us inside of it. Understand that it is alive because we exist yet still separate as its own entity. It will not close without offerings because it will consume any devouring portal that opens to fill the ravenous hunger for all of us if any one is not sated. If there is no voluntary offering, then it will be forced. I will force it."
I stuttered, "Oh"
He studied me. Finally, I asked the question I needed to know, "Can you come out of any mirror?"
"When I'm made aware of it."
"Oh."
More silence between us.
"Will more of your kind come through my mirror now?" I asked wearily.
"No. Your mirror has belonged to me since the first time Ezra called me from it. He knew and actively wanted my awareness of it." I could feel my blood rush out of my face at his words. He leaned in closer towards me across the empty surface and whispered dramatically, "Don't tell Oldavai, but ravenous or not, the Darkness does not allow us to overstep each other's boundaries. We are polite and only the Darkness is allowed to go unhindered. Also, Ila and I feed it enough that it allows us to police our little slice of land. Mainly, the United States."
I cocked my head in surprise, "Ila..." I trailed off.
Shorn answered my questions without me asking, "She is the one who opened the devouring portal. I know she thought I'd forcefully take Oldavai. Her anger frequently gets the best of her and this time she forgot to consider one thing...," he gave me a meaningful look, "who he's living with. I have no doubt she would come storming into my office to make sure I didn't take her unwanted savior of demons. We're just fortunate Oldavai hasn't come raging into the office with his demands that I give you back. That would tip her off." He continued looking at me, his emotions blocked off, waiting for my reaction.
"He hasn't? Wait! How long have I been here?"
"Long enough. He values his life too much to question me. Unless I keep you here much longer, then he'll value his possession of you more. I don't need to see him to know he's having a fit of jealousy." His throat gave quick short bursts of crunching glass and his jaw moved as if he was grinding his teeth.
I frowned for so many reasons, backing up slightly, "Why doesn't Ila take the difficult warrants if she can do this?"
He leaned back to his side of the counter top island and raised an eyebrow, "Iloum... Oldavai..." His head bent down farther and his face a wave of movement inside it that caused me to cringe. The smell of brimstone intensified briefly while he continued, "My own irritant, Ratha?"
"Yeah."
He gave me a short-lived sardonic smile, "She's not going to catch the old ones unaware. They already know. They'll run as soon as they get a whisper of her name."
Hunh. I guess that made sense. I looked around the spacious room with barely anything in it. It was so dry in his home, "May I have some more water?"
His smile came back slow and genuine, the outside corners of his eyes creasing with the movement. It took me aback at how close to approachable it made him seem, close, not entirely.
"Absolutely." He procured another glass and kept his hand around the smooth surface as I reached for it, "Aren't you going to ask?"
I licked my lips, my fingertips tracing the condensation on the glass. Yeah. I was going to ask. "Are you two bonded?"
His smile stayed fixed, "No, but I did give her a little bit of Darkness in a whistle of wind that she keeps inside her magic. She can open a devouring portal off any mirror." His hand let go of the glass and he gave it a push into my own.
My hand curved around the coolness, "How is that even possible?"
He shrugged, "Many things are possible, and she was desperate enough when she lost her eye to take my bargain. Little did either of us know how close we would be working together in the future."
I drank down my third glass of water, relishing the mineral taste. "Now what?"
"Now I take you to your home." He walked around the counter, his hand outstretched in a gesture to take mine. I hesitantly placed my palm in his and let him guide it to his cheek again. I felt the movement of his cracking jaw as he murmured, "For someone so submissive you do cause a lot of trouble."
I snorted a noise of annoyance, "I'm compassionate, Shorn, not submissive."
His other arm slowly encircled my waist, "Guileless, then." He paused and stared at me before speaking again, "Do you think I need compassion?"
"Perhaps," I said distractedly as anxiety flooded me with his gentle pull to bring me closer into his personal space. It felt like he was trying his best not to scare me by being so languid and calm. I looked directly into his eyes and forced my courage to ask that exact question, sure I was wrong in my presumptions.
"Why aren't you trying to scare me?"
"It would be unproductive."
I looked at him askance, "To what ends?"
Shorn kept his mouth closed, the slightest uplift of the corners of his lips, and merely looked at me without answering. He moved my hand down to rest on his neck and the only thing I could think about was how it had that whip-like tentacle that would slip out of his skin sometimes. I shook slightly as he moved my head under his chin. The smell of brimstone filled my senses, and I couldn't stop the crinkling of my nose. Soon, my eyes started to water, and I closed them. He took one step, and I felt the Darkness closing in on us, reaching, and then another and we were out of it.
I opened my eyes and found us in my meditation room. I stepped away and couldn't feel any other demon nearby. "Oldavai isn't here."
When I looked back at him I found him grinning, "No. He's in my office."
I found myself smiling slightly back at him, "That's funny."
"It is," he agreed as he moved his foot behind him. I watched amazed as the darkness started to wind its way up his leg. "One other thing." I looked up at him in curiosity. "Would it help your guilt if you knew I signed the warrant on Regina and Vi reports to me and I only report what I want to?" With his next step backwards the rest of him was quickly swallowed by the dark that then sucked itself into the mirror.
I was alone.
Alone long enough for a short shower. I shampooed my hair while thinking about what Shorn said. How often were demon hunters' names on warrants? As I dried off, I knew it was something worth researching. Currently though, I knew I had other things to think about as I opened the bathroom door.
Oldavai was sprawled on my bed watching as soon as I walked into my bedroom with a towel wrapped around me. Sparks lazily floated around like embers from a campfire and my room smelled overpoweringly of him. The heady aroma had already wound its way into my bathroom before I stepped out, so it's not as if I was surprised.
"Your stare is a little intense, Oldavai," I said nonchalantly, as I moved towards my dresser.
He curled his finger at me, "Come here."
I raised an eyebrow at him at him and shrugged into some pajamas.
He looked upwards, then back at me and ground out with impatience, "Please."
I placed my hands on my hips, "That didn't sound sincere."
He growled, "Eros, save me from females." He was instantly in front of me and next I knew we were both sprawled on the bed, his weight a heaviness over me.
"I'm sorry," he said as he enshrouded me with his shining and all but attacked me. I was drowning in his ardor. I tried to push him away for a breath, but he wouldn't let me.
In between kisses he said, "I've never had to fight so hard to keep someone. And the one I need to convince isn't even here yet."
I pulled my head back and gave him an incredulous look, "You've never had to fight to keep someone, period. They fall right into your hands."
He rubbed his nose against mine, "True. Again, sorry."
I didn't get out my question before he was at my throat with his fangs buried deep. I stuttered a cry as he swamped me with magical foreplay. I felt his hips lift and my lower body jerked as he ripped my lounge pants in two. I was soaked and his fingers were entrenched deep inside me. He pulled his mouth away from me and I could feel the warm trickle of blood down my neck.
"Come for me, Dove."
Three fingers pumped in and out of me and I couldn't stop the torrent if I tried. He was throwing so much incubus magic around that I was lost. I shuddered from the orgasms invading my body and arched off the bed, tears leaking from my eyes, "Oldavai! Please! Stop!" I was so sensitive at this point.
He ignored me and buried his face in my sex. My hands went to the top of his silky hair, and I found myself desperate for his tongue. He sucked on everything his lips touched and then would dive back into my warmth. That strange unfurling he used on me before started deep inside, like a cat circling, rubbing, kneading until I could feel a non-stop spill of hot, thick liquid outpouring from me.
I screamed from the overload of it all and couldn't stop reaching for his touch even though I desperately wanted to. He finally came up for air and I watched his tongue lick his glistening lips. Those elegant fingers were back inside me and slowly moving.
He spoke quickly to me before bending down to delve inside again, "I can taste his Darkness in you." The cupping sensation of his tongue was like a cat drinking milk and his vibrating purr had me hitching my breath in ecstasy. He projected to me, 'You are a delicacy I have never known.' He brought his face up from my lady parts to look at me again. "What did he do to you in his Darkness that you taste different now?"
I'd like to say those words were a dash of cold water on me, but they weren't. Still, they registered even as my body continued to dance to the tune of his fingers. Before I had a chance to move my hands to force him to stop, he read my intentions, "Keep your hands where they are, Dove. I need this before I go into a jealous rage."
I moaned, "You're not?"
He shook his head negatively. "I've been meditating non-stop. He kept you for close to two days. He kept you and you belong to me. I am drowning with the need to know what happened. Shorn let me rant for close to thirty minutes in his office. It wasn't until he smiled that I knew you were home. He never had to say a word."
I gasped as another hand played with my back end. I was so wet that I had puddle underneath me, dripping from between the folds of my skin. He didn't even need to lubricate to make his slow glide into my ass easy. I moaned again, feeling the delicious pressure of his finger. In between breaths I tried to tell him, "I can't think when you do that."
He stilled, not withdrawing, but the intrusions kept me revved up and pushing into him. I moaned in frustration. His magic made me feel so over-the-top full.
"I'm waiting."
"Oh. Um..." I arced repeatedly into him again, desperately trying to get myself off. The friction kept itself at a steady pressure, never quite reaching that tense moment of release.
"Focus, Dove. Tell me and I will give you everything you want." His fingers inside my valley curled up and down and caused another annoyed groan to issue forth from my lips. He chuckled softly at my neediness. I didn't care.
I stilled myself. I could do this. I wanted another orgasm. I think.
"The Darkness was..." I stared at the ceiling.
"You don't need to tell me the details. I wouldn't relive my own experience with anyone. Why did you stay? Did you think you deserved it?" His voice was hard and demanding.
I swallowed; my throat suddenly achy with memories that pulled me away slightly from my frantic sex thoughts. My voice came out hoarse, "No, I didn't stay in the Darkness the whole time. He took me to his home."
Oldavai's fingers were immediately out of me, and he hovered in front of my face, "He did what?" he asked quietly.
His hair cascaded on either side of me, distracting me with its beauty, "You heard me."
"I heard you. I just don't believe you. Even in you were really in his home I know he didn't have sex with you because you would not be in this bed if you did. You'd still be healing since he'd likely break whatever he needed so you'd stay exactly where he desired."
I gave him a shocked look and focused on the worried frown marring his forehead. "He told me that's where I was. He never tried to have sex with me, Oldavai. He just gave me water."
His face contorted into shocked surprise and then exasperation. He shook his head, that hair distracting me again as it caressed my face. I reached up to touch it at the same time he dropped his weight on me. "How much water did he give you?"
"Three glasses."
He dropped his head into the curve where my shoulder met neck and mumbled, "No one should have as much bad luck as you."
"Now what have I done?" My anxiety spiked as I asked the question, dread curling in the pit of my stomach and my libido finally getting that douse of ice.
He kept his face hidden in my body, "You know of Hades and Persephone." It wasn't a question.
I grew angry, "He's not Hades and I am not Persephone eating pomegranates. I'm not stuck there like she was for six months."
He chuckled drily, "No, but you get the picture."
"No, I don't!" I pushed his shoulders but he wouldn't move.
His warm breath sighed on my skin, "It's his own way of holding you and it's why you taste of his Darkness. There is nowhere you can go that he can't track you, he may not be able to retrieve you, but he will find you. Three glasses of Dark water seem a bit much though. Nothing is there that is not made of the Dark."
The blood rushed to my face and Oldavai could feel my self-reproach because he raised his head to give me a direct look, "What?"
I turned my head to the side to avoid his stare, "I asked for the other two."
He burst out laughing, "And he gave them to you?! Every bit of his Darkness you possess makes him feel you even more. I'd never guess that Shorn would want that distraction. I mean, you're a mess."
Sarcasm rolled out of my mouth, "Great." Then I had a thought, "Can he feel me now?" I asked appalled. "Like when we were..." I trailed off thinking of my multiple orgasms.
Oldavai shrugged, "I honestly have no idea exactly what it means. All I know is it makes them able to hone in on you. Incubi and succubae have, in the words of your science, a genetic code that instinctively makes us understand our prey's sex language, but if we don't go into that world we'll never get firsthand knowledge. All I know personally is the ravenous Dark." He shook his head with a serious look, "None of my kind would ever seduce a hell carrier. Their idea of a good time is trying to kill or maim one another and I'm not into praying mantis sex. The majority are more animal instinct than conscious thought."
I cringed, "Ew! Is that why you said he would break parts of me?"
"Yes. You can't get away and he has his way with you until he lets you heal, or he kills you. It's generally thought with my kind that if a male hell carrier wants you permanently, they make sure their chosen can never physically leave. Females usually just try to kill you while the sex is being performed. Lunch, orgasm, and a baby all in one. The head is gone, but they make the dick and balls continue." He shuddered over me.
My heart stuttered and any leftover erotic thoughts had now completely flown my mind. Oldavai continued talking, I think he was trying to drive his point home about how dangerous Shorn is. I didn't need it.
"It's one of the reasons I'm mostly defenseless when it comes to Shorn. If I turned that floor into an orgy of epic proportions, it would have to be due to something dire and I would not stick around to feed." He shuddered again, "I'd rather have him choke me to death than see him in a sexual frenzy."
My mind churned at the information, "Well, some demon went there, otherwise Shorn wouldn't exist."
He raised an eyebrow, "And there is no doubt in my mind that that idiotic demon is dead. Shorn is the only of his kind, as much as Ezra is. And he's the only one I never imagined being in your life when I told you there would be no other demon after me."
"What do you mean?"
His eyes turned that dark shadowy gold color as he spoke in his serious tone, "I have absolutely no idea what's going on in his mind."
I asked again, feeling stuck on repeat, "What do you mean?"
Oldavai closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath, "What I mean is that whatever Shorn is planning, the only demon that has any chance of stopping him is Ezra."
His hands framed the sides of my face, "Your eyes are dilating and you're an extreme shade of white. You are not allowed to go into shock."
"He has access to my mirror," I whispered, trying to figure out Shorn's underlying motive for everything that had happened in the Darkness.
"Yes, and every mirror that he feels you near."
CHAPTER 14
It was probably two in the morning when I shot up in bed. Gold glitter fluttered around me, and I had a moment of exasperation. Then I startled, almost launching off the bed from Oldavai's hand grasping my wrist next to him.
His voice came out sleepy, "What is it?"
"I don't know. I just..." I trailed off and looked over to him. "We need to do something about hunter's killing themselves."
He scoffed, "You need to do something. I'm not doing anything."
I crossed my arms in anger, "Fine. Then you can tell me how to make your potion."
"No. Go back to sleep." His hand tugged at me to lay down.
I scowled at him, but he spoke before I could, "We'll talk about in the morning."
"Gods and Goddess! What are we, a married couple?!" I went to get out of bed only to find myself squashed beneath him. "Damn it, Oldavai!"
His hand twirled in my hair, "Relax, sweetness. We will deal with it in the morning."
I pushed at his chest, "You're not going to change your mind in the morning."
"You could try to convince me," he playfully cajoled as he ground his pelvis into mine.
My eyes narrowed as I felt his magic swamp me, "You're trying to take away my anger and I resent that."
Oldavai smiled as we stared at each other without uttering any more words. When I was fed up with the silence, I said with mistrust, "And now you're not saying anything."
The smile never left his face, "Some males know when to keep quiet."
"Don't you have some work to do for Shorn? Why are you still here anyway?!"
He sighed, "It's not working."
"No, it's not working! Ila's going to kill me if I don't do something!"
Oldavai opened his mouth and then closed it with a click. I stared at him defiantly and pushed at his shoulders.
"There's a possibility she would do that," he conceded.
My anger was a hot wave of fire inside of me and I briefly recognized how unreasonable my desire to tear him apart was. I clenched my teeth, "I would suggest you get yourself off of me before I do something we both regret."
His eyes glowed brighter than the light of the moon coming through the window. "I will help you if you try to control your magic a bit more, starting now. It's unpredictable every time we practice. You must use it and you must be in control otherwise it will eat you alive."
He was right, it had been. My temper didn't care. "You think I haven't been trying?!" I exclaimed furiously. I felt my body start to heat up more.
"I think it's not enough." He stayed weighing me down even though I knew he could feel my body warming up alarmingly. "You have Ash, Icelander, and my own magic riding you hard. Not to mention any magic that you acquired in your kills." He stared hard at me, "Shadow walking, for one. Didn't enjoy that. Burning, don't enjoy that either. Get your emotions under control." Surprisingly, his voice remained calm, if a bit hard.
Even as his words irked me, I felt the heat inside me start to wane when I replayed what he said. "You'll really help me?"
The harsh grip on my chin reflected the serious of his next words, "I'm already helping you, but yes, I will help you with this little hunter problem you have."
My anger dispersed completely at his words, but I was still defiant, refusing to trust him, "How?"
He smiled slyly, "I'll teach you how to use my demon magic to walk them through their pain and delusions. To do that you need to be in control, or their experiences will be yours."
I looked at him suspiciously again, "You needed my help to do that."
"If you remember, for the final one I gave you the choice to help or not. I'll teach you all of it, it's up to you how much you're willing to give up to help. Now, my sweet pain, back to sleep."
I huffed and pouted, "I don't think I can sleep."
His eyes and face softened in expression, as he stretched out on my body, wiggling himself into my curves, "Trust me."
I tried to squirm out from under him and his arms tightened around me, "No. Stay here."
He whispered words I couldn't understand, familiar from the time we traveled from California. Slowly, inch by inch, I allowed my body to relax until I calmed enough to fall asleep with his heaviness like a blanket on top of me.
Oldavai pushed me out of bed early the next morning with a patronizing comment about all those poor demon hunters dying on my watch. I rolled my eyes in annoyance even as I quickened my pace to get ready.
It didn't take long for me to snarl at him after an hour of his taunts and despairing comments, "You know, you can be such a dick sometimes."
He laughed, "I'm not inclined to help those pesky killers. I may kill my own kind, but I don't want others to do it."
I swiped at the itching sweat trickling down my temple, "Yet, here you are with a demon hunter."
Oldavai crowded into me, giving me time to step back, but I accepted the challenge and stood my ground. His own face was covered with a layer of sweat due to his refusal to maintain a safe distance away from the heat generating off my volatile magic. "I'm consistent with you, am I not?"
He was so close I tilted my head up, "You mean your refusal to leave?"
"You don't want me to leave. I'm valuable." He took a half-step back.
"True." I took a deep breath and let him place my hands palm to palm in front of me. He kept his own over mine.
"Concentrate. Again, I will throw emotions your way and you grab them as fast as you can without listening to them. Grab, throw out. This is the easiest magic available to you. Once you master it I will teach you how to lead them away from someone."
I shook off his touch, "I don't have time for this! Teach me what I need to do!"
Oldavai growled in annoyance, "You are going to wade into a pool of mental crap, Dove! Each person you touch will be different and you need to learn to protect yourself before you can help them through it."
We didn't have time. I just wanted him to do it, horrible, but true. He wouldn't and in some part of my mind I understood his reasoning. I turned in a tight circle of agitation and crouched as if fighting a physical opponent. "Fine. Hit me."
He did. Again, and again. It seemed that each emotion he threw at me was random, but constant in severity. They were all drowning and several times he found himself at the receiving end of my inability to throw them out. I went from attacking, to crying, to anxiety and was exhausted by the end of each day. Never once did he throw anything to do with lust at me, for which I was grateful, if suspicious.
Every day he snapped at me. Pushing me to gain control and yelling at me for the little wavers of unpredictable magics that would pop up unexpectedly. Night started to become the worst for me. My dreams were whispers to gain more power, to kill for it, but during the day I was working so hard it was no trouble to ignore them.
Oldavai's eye color was now permanently in shadow, the thin frown lines around them a testament to how much he was assessing me. At night, he'd half drape himself over me, refusing to move while I tossed and turned trying to sleep. His touch was a sure-fire way for him to have instant access to my magic and I was guarding myself hard during those times. I had to keep him separated from the voices that threatened to overcome me while I fought unconsciousness. There was no way I was asking him if he knew exactly what was happening to me. It felt like a death sentence if he did.
It was late morning when I heard him arguing with Ila in my meditation room. I silently crept to the entryway and listened. I didn't want to talk with her. I probably should, but I wasn't going to volunteer myself until absolutely called to.
"I told you she's not ready."
Ila's reply was irritable, "Just give her your herbs and get to Seattle."
"You do not give me orders."
Her volume raised, "Then I will have Shorn give you those orders."
I could hear the smile in his voice, "If you had been successful, he would have been in this mirror by now. I can't help it if you have stupid hunters. I will let her go when she is able to help and not just stand there like a dullard. She is close. Believe me when I say that I won't stop her if she goes on her own, but I will strongly advise her to stay here for a few days yet. And since you're busy hounding us you might as well tell us what consequences our muy aggressive Carlos received, hmm?
Ila's noise of frustration was loud, "None of your damn business!"
"Maybe not mine, but I would disagree that it is not Dove's. Do you still wish to speak with her?"
"No."
There was silence.
Oldavai mumbled under his breath, "Fucking Ila." Then he said louder, "You can stop eavesdropping. I figured you didn't want to have a delightful morning conversation with your mentor."
I pulled back the curtain and leaned against the framework, "A dullard?"
He walked over to me with a tilt of his head, a smile barely curving his lips, "I can assure you I don't think of you that way. Stupidly hopeful, yes, but hope is a trait of those who live quick, short lives. You'll outgrow it." His eyes immediately started their daily appraisal of me, gold sparks flaring in the shadows. His thumbs brushed under my own, "You're not getting enough sleep. I wish I could go slower with your training."
"We have no time."
He smirked at me, but it didn't last, "You have no time. I have plenty because all I'm going to do is keep you on your feet."
I shrugged and motioned to leave, "Come on. Time to train."
"Yes, my sweet pain, but first, breakfast." He grabbed my hand gently and guided me towards the dining room, "You're barely eating."
He swung a chair out and ushered me into it, "You're not a dullard either are you, Oldavai?" I whispered.
His hand brushed the top of my hair in a caress, "No."
As he busied himself in the kitchen, I realized that he had been making enough for two lately, "You're not having sex," I stated badly.
"I thought it evident." He cracked a few eggs in the hot pan.
My inhalation was deep, I couldn't feel an ounce of emotion from him, he had kept them more secure than ever since we started training. I felt guilty for some strange reason. "I am so sorry. You don't need to always stay with me."
If I wasn't watching I wouldn't have caught the absolute stillness that settled on him before he returned his attention back to the stove top, "No need to apologize. I won't once we're in Seattle." He shot his shadowy golden eyes to me, "And I promise not to leave a besotted mass of jealous lovers in my wake trying to kill you."
I couldn't stop the laugh that jumped out, "That would be most appreciated."
He ate and nudged me when he saw me pushing food around on my plate, "You can't help them if you don't eat and we're not starting until you eat everything on that plate."
My face squinched up at the thought, but I did as he asked.
The minimal dishes he cleaned gave me the time to finally finish choking down the food. He grabbed my plate, "Onerous chore that that was for you, you may now meet me outside."
I wearily stood and trudged my way to the back door. Looking out towards the trees I noticed bright leaves starting to litter the ground. Autumn was coming and it registered that it had been a long time since I had actually seen Taurin or Ezra. I leaned my arms against the wrap-around porch and stared at the nature surrounding me, wondering when I would see them again. I heard Oldavai's steps before he put his warm hand on my back.
He sided up next to me and spoke in a quiet voice, "I'll get you to Ezra before it takes you over."
My sigh was loud as I straightened my posture and stretched my back, "Before you or Shorn decide to execute me, you mean?"
"It won't come to that," he said determinedly.
"Have you told him?"
"Shorn? I doubt I need to. You hold his Darkness in you."
I sighed again, resigned, "Damn it."
"Unfortunately, I wouldn't let yourself believe monitoring your addiction is the sole or main reason he gave you his water. But it is why I maintain touch with you at night, so I can hear the voices of your power. Although, your ability to keep me out is quite impressive."
I grimaced.
He tweaked my nose, and I jumped back, "Stop that."
"Come on. Time to practice." He knotted his glittering hair on top his head and walked onto the grass. I watched his lithe form slowly merge into a human counterpart, as he always did when we were outside.
He turned at my chuckle, "What?"
I grinned wide, "Your tastes are unpredictable. I find it... amusing, I suppose."
He cocked his head in confusion, "How so?"
I started walking towards him, "I never know what you're going to look like. You never change into anything but human around me though."
This comment made him smile, "Humans are fun and easy prey. Not nearly as many rituals as other species and the ones they do have are not deadly or too outrageous. Now," he gestured to me to get closer, "place your hands on me. I will give you three days to grasp this next part after which you will decide whether to leave for Seattle or not."
I took four days, but really wanted six before I stepped into a safe house.
Safe places for hunters perpetually circled Seattle. Many of them weren't established residences. Ila had a team of specialists specifically acquiring and buying houses and everything else that struck their fancy. Demon hunters didn't require anything special when they needed to hide. Demons could get to us anywhere because of their magnetic line travel so the most important priority was a constantly moving location. A place to sleep, regroup, and then back into action. I never needed one because I was never granted any warrant with a demon of that type of cunning or power, at least not until Ezra.
So, because of this safe house propensity, and a group discussion with Shorn and Ila, Oldavai was granted privileges. She also advised that due to her well-known strong opposition to this movement there might be more locations that she knew nothing about.
I scanned the list in the morning and chose a house in West Seattle. We hit pay dirt on my first choice.
|
"I've never seen so many rainbow flags in one place," Dean said, craning his neck to look around as they drove down the street.
"Yeah, get used to it," Cas said with a laugh.
They passed a bar called the Powerhouse, where a bunch of men wearing revealing leather poured out the door onto the sidewalk, talking and puffing on cigarettes. "Jesus," Dean mumbled, turning bright red.
Cas shook his head, smiling. "Modesty isn't exactly their forte here."
"I noticed," Dean said quietly.
The apartment was only a few minutes outside of the main part of town, but on a quiet suburban street. They pulled into the driveway and Cas put the car in park. "I thought it was an apartment?" Dean asked, peering out the windshield at the house.
Cas squinted towards the house. It looked small. Bushes framed the front and it was painted a sky blue. White shutters framed the windows. "I thought it was. Maybe it's a two-family."
"Looks kinda small for that," Dean pointed out.
"Let's go find out," Cas said, opening the door.
As they closed the doors behind them, the front door opened and a woman stepped out, leaving the door ajar behind her, light pouring out of the house and onto the walkway. She shuffled down the walkway to the driveway to meet them. She was wearing gray sweatpants and a purple hoodie, and her long blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun.
"Hi boys!" she said as she closed in on them. "Nice to finally meet you! Which one of you is Castiel?"
Cas raised his hand a bit, smiling sheepishly. "I am."
She shook his hand before turning to Dean. "So you must be Dean," she said with a smile. She extended her hand. "I'm Janet."
"Nice to meet you," Dean said, shaking her hand.
"You too!" She reached into her hoodie pocket, pulling out two keys and handing them to Cas. "Do you guys want me to show you around?"
"I think we'll be okay," Cas said. "We're super tired."
"Oh, I'm sure!" she said with a chuckle. "You came all the way from Kansas, right?" She glanced past him briefly at the license plate on the Impala.
They both nodded.
"Oh, you two are going to love it here," she giggled. "Anyway, I'll let you guys get settled. Call me if you two need anything." She winked and walked past them.
"Thank you!" Cas called after her as she turned onto the sidewalk and disappeared into the dark. He turned to Dean, smiling nervously. "Ready?"
Dean nodded. Cas grabbed his hand and they walked up the walkway and into the house, closing the front door behind them.
The house wasn't as small as it seemed from the inside, which was probably due to the open floor plan. They entered into the living room. It was a decent size, and the farthest third of the room was taken up by the kitchen. An island created some sense of a barrier to separate the two areas. They walked farther in and noticed a small hallway on the left with three doors, two facing them, and one at the end of the hallway.
Cas let go of Dean's hand and opened the first one. It was the bedroom. The only room with a carpet, it was soft and a sandy tan color, with matte white walls. There was a window on the opposite side of the room that Cas hoped faced the rising sun. He loved being woken up that way. They exited the room and Cas opened the door to the right of the bedroom. A bathroom, not the roomiest but not too small either, stared back at them. To the left was a sink and medicine cabinet, to the right the toilet, and on the far side along the wall was a bathtub. Cas closed the door back up, he wasn't sure why, and made his way to the door at the end of the hallway. It was a linen closet. He closed it back up and turned to Dean.
"What do you think?" he asked quietly.
Dean touched his fingers to his chin, tapping, looking off and pondering for a moment. Without turning his head, he slowly brought his eyes back to meet Cas, who was chewing on his lip, his eyebrows furrowed. A grin spread slowly across Dean's face. "I love it."
Cas' body relaxed and he smiled. "Me too."
"If you'll excuse me, I need to piss like a motherfucker though." He disappeared into the bathroom.
Cas wandered back into the bedroom, looking around. It was completely bare, but he couldn't help imagining what it would look like when they'd made it their own. He had never bothered decorating at his parents, but for some reason he now felt the urge to. His mind wandered, thinking of what he could even decorate with. Posters? Maybe some of those cool animals in jars like the ones they'd seen at the Wonder Tower...
Dean reappeared behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and placing his chin on his shoulder. They were quiet for a moment before Dean said, "We are going to need a ton of shit."
Cas nodded. Dean moved back from him, frowning. "It's going to be expensive."
"Have you never heard of a dollar store?" Cas asked, turning around to face him with a smirk on his face.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Of course I have. I'm poor as shit, remember?" He looked at Cas. "But all that stuff's cheap and falls apart."
Cas shrugged. "Eventually we will replace it. But for now I'd rather invest in the things that need to last... Like furniture." He paused. "A bed."
"Right," Dean said absentmindedly. "I guess we're sleeping on the floor tonight." He paused. "I'll go get the blankets out of the car." He turned on his heel and walked out, leaving Cas alone.
Dean returned with the two blankets and two pillows that they had brought, dropping them on the carpet in the corner of the bedroom and shrugging his and Cas' bags off his shoulders. He picked up the thicker blanket, shaking it and laying it flat on the floor. Tossing the pillows at the top, he dropped the other blanket at the foot of the first one. Plopping down on the side nearest the window, he patted the space next to him. "Come sit," he said, smiling warmly.
Cas walked over quickly, dropping his trench coat from his shoulders to land in a crumpled pile on the floor and kicking off his shoes. He lower himself onto the blanket next to Dean, crossing his legs and loosening his tie.
"Are you happy?" Dean asked.
Cas nodded. "Are you?" he asked quietly.
Dean smiled. "I'm nervous as hell, but yes." He leaned in and Cas closed his eyes as he kissed him softly. When he pulled back, he grinned. "What do you say we christen the place?" He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Cas pursed his lips. "Are you sure you want to... after today?"
Dean's face fell. "Yes."
Cas looked around slowly. There was only one window, but it was kind of low and there were no curtains. "But we don't have curtains," Cas said.
Dean followed his gaze over to the window. "I don't think anybody is going to peer in the window," he turned back to Cas, "but we could turn the lights off, huh?"
Cas nodded slowly before stopping and furrowing his brow again. "Wait... we don't have anything to shower with. I don't want to go shopping tomorrow stinking like sex."
"Aw, c'mon, that smell suits you," Dean purred, nuzzling his neck.
Cas blushed, halfheartedly pushing him away. "Tomorrow."
"Fine," Dean grumbled with mock-annoyance. "I'm exhausted anyway." He laid back on the pillow, resting his hands on his stomach and staring up at the ceiling.
Cas wrapped his arms around his knees. "Do you want to talk about today?" he asked hesitantly.
Dean closed his eyes and sighed. "Not really... But I want you to know. And I want to get it over with so I can forget about it again."
Cas was quiet and Dean re-opened his eyes. "When I was younger... we had a dog. His name was Charlie... After my mom died, he and Sam were all I had. I... I did everything for him, too. Fed him, let him outside, brushed him..." He took a deep breath. "When my dad would..." He paused briefly and closed his eyes again. "...get violent, he would try and... intervene." He reached his hands up to rub away the tears forming in his eyes. "One day," he swallowed hard and continued, his voice shaking, "Charlie attacked him while he was coming after me." He took another deep breath, choking a bit as the night replayed in his head.
Cas stared at him intently, his brows furrowed in concern. "Dean... you don't have to."
"No," he choked out, inhaling sharply. "It's okay." He wiped his face again. "My dad lost his shit," he said quickly, wanting to get it out as soon as possible. "He was bleeding everywhere and he dragged Charlie outside and-" His breath hitched. "He fucking shot him. Point blank in the head. Right in front of me," he said as fresh tears quickly accumulated in the corners of his eyes before rolling down the side of his face onto the pillow.
Cas opened his mouth but hesitated, unsure of what to say.
Dean continued, his eyes shaking slightly as he stared up at the ceiling, no doubt imagining the moment over and over again. "And he was running to me and I..." He sobbed. "I had his blood all over my face," he cried, rolling over and burying his face between Cas' thigh and the blanket. "And my dad just called me a pansy," he choked out into Cas' leg. "Told me to get over it because he was just a damn dog. He left me out there to bury him..." He trailed off before squeezing Cas' leg and adding angrily, "I was only five!"
Cas reached down to place his fingers in Dean's hair in an attempt to comfort him.
"I had to go upstairs and wash the blood off myself..." He trailed off. "I just threw the clothes away," he mumbled.
"Dean... I'm so sorry," Cas said softly, carding his fingers through his hair.
Dean lifted his head, sniffling. He rolled back onto his back, wiping his face again. "I had nightmares for a long time. I just don't know if I can handle having a dog," he said quietly.
Cas nodded slowly. "I understand," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry," Dean mumbled.
Cas shrugged lightly. "It's okay Dean. You don't have to be sorry. No one should ever see what you've seen."
Dean sighed heavily, closing his eyes. "Can you grab the cigarettes out of my bag?"
Cas reached forward and grabbed them, leaning back and pulling a lighter from his pocket. He pulled two out and lit them both at the same time before passing one to Dean.
They puffed in silence for a few minutes, ashing into an empty soda can, before Cas got up to open the window. He brought the can with him, setting it down on the windowsill. When Dean's ash became too long to ignore, he carefully got up and padded over to the window, ashing it into the can.
Cas dropped his into the can and it made a harsh hissing noise as it was extinguished in the remaining liquid. "Wanna head to bed?" he asked.
Dean nodded, pulling on his cigarette. "I'm beat." He exhaled a cloud of smoke out the window.
"Me too," Cas agreed, rubbing his eyes. "Let's sleep until whenever and when we get up we'll make a list and then go to the store."
"Sounds good." Dean dropped his cigarette into the can and went back over to their makeshift bed, lying down and pulling the second blanket up over him as Cas turned off the light. Cas made his way to the bed, walking slowly so he wouldn't trip over their bags. He crawled beneath the blanket, scooting up into Dean, who wrapped his arm around him and tucked his face into his shoulder.
"I love you, Dean," Cas said softly.
"Love you, too," Dean mumbled into his neck, tightening his hold on him and drifting off into sleep.
Cas awoke to sunlight pouring in the window, heating up the room and causing him to sweat through his dress shirt. He groaned, reaching a hand up to rub the sleep from his eyes. He reached next to him, feeling around on the floor for his phone. He squinted at the blurry screen. It was 9:30 and he had some missed notifications.
He set his phone back down and rolled over. Dean was asleep on his stomach, facing the window. He was also soaked with sweat. "Dean," he mumbled.
Dean stirred slightly, groaning.
"Dean, wake up," he said clearer and louder.
Dean's head shot up, looking around and stopping on Cas. He squinted at him sleepily. "Huh?"
"We slept for nearly twelve hours," Cas said, looking wild-eyed in an attempt to keep his lids from drooping.
"Oh," Dean mumbled, blinking slowly. "Okay." He pushed himself up and rolled over to sit up, rubbing his face. "Fuck, it's hot in here."
"Yes," Cas agreed. "We need an air conditioner, among other things."
Dean groaned, grabbing his pack of cigarettes off the floor next to him and lighting one. "I wish you didn't have to spend so much money."
Cas frowned. "Dean, I wish you wouldn't let it bother you so much. My parents aren't going to give me more than they can afford." He paused. "Trust me, they won't be cancelling any trips," he said flatly.
Dean matched his frown.
Cas continued. "I'm just thankful it's something we don't have to worry about. I can worry about school and you can worry about you... Others aren't so lucky."
Dean only nodded. He had a point. It certainly had been nice not worrying about paying for things... not having to steal money from his dad.
"So, I think we should run out and get shower stuff first because I'm soaked with sweat. We're pretty close into town so it shouldn't take long."
"Yeah," Dean agreed as Cas pulled his bag towards him and unzipped it. He rummaged around for a few seconds before pulling out a t-shirt. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, removing it and leaving it on the floor. Dean couldn't stop himself from staring. It had been a year but Cas still looked just as good to him as he always had. He wished he could say the same for himself.
Cas pulled the t-shirt over his head and pushed his bag aside. Picking up his phone, he typed a few things in before saying, "Wanna walk? It says it's only a fifteen minute walk to Dollar General."
Dean nodded. "I could definitely use the exercise."
Cas didn't respond, only grabbed his cigarettes from one of his many trench coat pockets, leaving the coat on the floor as he stood up and disappeared into the hallway. The house was empty and any sound echoed. Dean could hear him urinating in the bathroom. He slowly stood up, stretching, and made his way towards the bathroom. As Cas was exiting, he walked past. He said non-accusingly, "You didn't flush."
"Yeah, gotta conserve water here," Cas replied, leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets.
Dean turned to Cas and smirked as he zipped up his jeans and reached out to flush the toilet. "So I guess we should shower together, then."
Cas smiled, pushing himself off the wall. "I guess we should."
|
Once, when he had been younger, cocky and still fairly new to advanced figure skating, Yuri had tried a triple axel, in spite of his coaches warning not to. Looking back he felt like he could slap his younger self, but at the time it was ego and frustration at the slow nature of personal growth that had spurred him on, causing him to ignore that he was too close to the barrier. He’d flubbed it, badly, crashing into the ice at the wrong angle, his skate taking chunks from its surface, his knees locking and his body following the momentum, swinging him hard into the barrier. He’d bruised his shoulder and temple, leaving with a chastising headache for days.
This headache was a lot like that headache, except that came with the added bonus of a stuffed nose, swollen tear filled eyes and his body feeling generally cold, shivery and achy. It took him several minutes to surface from the miasma of his sickness and recall where he was. And more importantly what day it was.
“Shiiiiit…” he groaned with feeling, realising that the sun was up and he hadn’t gone down to open up yet. He dragged his gown on with shaking limbs, sniffing enormously, then hacking out a cough, the regretting it because that fucking hurt.
Only Biscuit was at his heels as he trudged carefully down the stairs, gripping the banister hard and blinking through tear blurred vision. The rest were probably down already, waiting longingly for breakfast.
I’ll open the back and feed the kids, he forced himself to think in a straight line. Then I’ll go back, take a shower. A shower will help. I can open a little late today…
He was already two steps into the kitchen when he stopped, a hallucination of someone in his kitchen, doing something at the stove top, its cobwebs clearly having been wiped away.
“Max?” Yuri said, voice like meat grinder, and coughed again. The teen glanced up and made a disgusted face.
“Dude you look shit.” He said, wrinkling his nose slightly. “Like…wow.”
“Max?” Yuri repeated stupidly. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”
Max slid a spatula under something in the pans, filling the air with the sound of sizzling. “Making burgers. Have ever used the stove? It had, like, this much dust on it.” Max replied, holding up his fingers with a small space between.
“What’s happening right now?” Yuri said, coming forward, “why aren’t you at school?”
“It’s Saturday.” Max said, chuckling. “You must be really out of it. You look like a vampire. Except not all glittery and shit. Hey, Vic! He’s up!”
Yuri’s eyes narrowed with some retort, but was stopped short when Viktor came through the swing door, wearing his apron and Pork resting his arms.
“Yuri! You woke up.” Viktor got a good look at him. “Oh, but its looks like you shouldn’t have. You should right back to bed.”
“Viktor.” Yuri said, sniffing. “What the fuck is going on? Why is Max making…is that burgers?”
“We’re expanding the menu.” Max said over his shoulder, flashing a grin worthy of a toothpaste advert.
“Yes. I can make a decent cream cheese bagel, but I don’t fry.” Viktor said nodding. “And Phichit is taking care of the beverage orders.”
“He’s what?” Yuri said flatly. Viktor dropped Pork on the floor and came closer, turning Yuri by his shoulders and redirecting him to the stairs.
“Come on,” he said understandingly. “I’ll explain when you’re back in bed.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane?”
-8-
Viktor refused to answer until he was at least sitting down again. As good as it felt not to be on his feet, his anxiety wouldn’t leave him.
“Viktor I have to open the shop.” He said, dropping into Russian because it was simpler, rubbing his face and grabbing a tissue from the box Viktor offered.
He then moved away and set the kettle to boil. “Of course. It’s done. You don’t have to worry about a thing. Do you have any medi-sip? Or anything for a cold?”
“It’s done?” Yuri repeated. “How?”
“I bet you don’t.” Viktor went on, grabbing a mug from the cupboard. “Good thing Otabek, the darling, brought some with the delivery this morning.”
“Viktor.” Yuri growled warningly.
Viktor was tearing a small sachet open and dumping its powdery contents into the mug. “You came home so late last night, remember? Anyway, anyone with eyes could see you were going to be ten times worse this morning. After you put Quincy in his basket,” here Viktor turned to give Yuri a cheerful smile, “who is so much better this morning, by the way, Max gave him his meds. “ Viktor stirred the mug with a flourish then brought the steaming concoction to Yuri. “I moved my flight. Yuuri doesn’t mind. I knew that you would push yourself to open the shop today and do everything on your own, and I decided I could help you.”
“Viktor,” Yuri breathed, able only to sense the heat from the mug not smell it, but its deep yellow colour seemed deeply suspicious. “I’m fine. It’s not like I haven’t been sick before. What is this?”
“Its medi-sip, lemon flavour. And you are sick enough not to wake up to Quincy and Crunchy’s yowling, which is what woke me.”
“Ah shit.” Yuri said, taking a cautious sip. It burned at first going down, but then his throat felt mildly soothed and he sighed. “Sorry.”
Viktor waved an elegant hand. “Don’t worry about a thing. Max is cooking the odd burger, and the food is more than passable. Phichit makes a truly delightful coffee, and a bunch of other things, and I’m serving.”
“Phichit’s what?” Yuri felt like this was a lot of information to absorb. “He doesn’t know how to do any of that. That’s why he hires people do to everything for him. And should Max be cooking? Isn’t he underage?”
“Phichit is just lazy. You should see him at the counter, he charms everyone and makes cappuccino faster than you. He volunteered instantly when he heard you were ill and it was clear I didn’t know what I was doing. Then Max arrived and you know Phichit loves to recruit so. He’s sixteen, but it’s not like we’re paying him, so it’s not a problem. Drink up.”
Viktor had titled the mug up towards his mouth and Yuri gave in reluctantly. He was feeling slightly less shitty.
“Your beau dropped that off this morning with the delivery, and goodness me if he doesn’t have the sweetest concerned face.” Viktor added with a grin.
Yuri focussed on swallowing his mouthful so he wouldn’t accidentally Smack Viktor would the cup. “Not my beau.”
“Your whatever, then.” Viktor said, still smiling. “He took you to the vet last night, didn’t he? And stayed?”
“Yeah.” Yuri said, looking down into his cup. He’d paid the taxi but it amounted to the same thing. “Quincy ok?”
“Oh yes, that grumpy old rat is just fine.” Viktor said with a slightly bitter tone. He’d never been fond of the creature and the feeling was mutual. “He perked right up after Max gave him the meds.
“But listen-“Yuri started.
“No.” Viktor replied, the word like a mild slap on the wrist. “You’re going back to bed. What you need now is rest. Everything is fine and handled. Trust me.”
“My shop is being run by my skater cousin, my nosy neighbour and one of my underage customers. I am not relieved.” Yuri protested, but he was already moving back to his bed.
“Don’t worry about waking up, you just sleep.” Viktor said, patting his shoulder.
Yuri folded himself back inside his blankets with a sigh, not caring to remove his robe. A moment later, he felt the light shaking of the mattress and Biscuit joined him, tapping at his shoulder to be let in under the covers. Yuri lifted the edge, waited for Biscuit to crawl in, then gave up on keeping his eyes open.
Before consciousness gave up the battle, his head swam with thoughts of Max burning himself with hot oil, Phichit demanding customers take selfies with him, and Viktor getting scathed to ribbons by rabid cats.
And soft, yeasty smelling bakers, handing over tissues.
-8-
Besides waking once very briefly to go pee, Yuri slept the whole day. Any niggling concerns were enveloped by being thoroughly ill. He’d been sick before, but never so severely, and in all honesty if Viktor hadn’t stepped in, he would have had to close the shop and shivered helplessly under blankets instead. He finally woke up, still feeling like all his airways were stuffed, and feeling generally awful. But the light in the kitchen as on, and he heard voices. As he approached, he blinked against the light that felt to sharp.
Phichit and Viktor watched him approach with similar looks of pity.
“Aw honey, you look terrible.” Phichit said, his hand in a bowl of chips.
“Thanks.” Yuri croaked, going to the fridge to grab some water and switch the kettle on.
“You should still be in bed.” Viktor chided, going to the cupboard and hiding him a glass.
“I need some more stuff.” Yuri waved vaguely. “Tissues, that piss-coloured drink, etc.”
Viktor chuckled and Phichit tilted his head. “I love your place, Yuri.” He said significantly. “Viktor was so surprised I’d never seen it, since we’ve lived next door for three years.”
“He shouldn’t be” Yuri grumbled, not bothering to look at him.
“Not that I haven’t asked.” Phichit went on. “Why wouldn’t you invite a friend up for a coffee, hmm?”
“Because I figured you’d try to jump me.” Yuri answered bluntly.
Viktor tutted and Pichit snorted a laugh.
“Forgive him, he has no filter when sick.” Viktor said to Phichit but giving Yuri a frown. Yuri shrugged and Phichit waved it off.
“Don’t worry, he’s probably right. I had such a crush the first year or so.”
Yuri took the proffered sachet from Viktor, his chastisement not getting into the way of helping Yuri feel better. “Yeah, me and ten other guys.”
“I like to keep my options open.” Phichit said, shrugging, innocent of any shame.
“No kidding.” Yuri said. ‘Open’ was an understatement. “Anyway, you still managed to get in here today, so I hope your curiosity is satisfied. Also, I’m never sleeping with you.”
“I figured that out ages ago.” Phichit replied. “Besides, I got to know you. We are totally better as friends.”
Yuri humphed a reply, pouring hot water into his mug. “Did today go ok?”
“It went perfectly.” Viktor told him, putting the back of his hand to Yuri’s forehead. “Stop thinking about it. We’re not incompetent.”
“Apparently.” Yuri said, shooting a look to Phichit.
“I never actually said I couldn’t make coffee.” Phichit said in response. “I just don’t like doing it. I have people for that sort of thing.”
“Hmm, no fever.” Viktor said taking his hand away when Yuri pushed it. “Just a horrible head cold. We can take you to the doctor tomorrow-“
“No thank you.” Yuri said as firmly as possible with a severely blocked nose. “I’ll sleep it off. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“No you won’t.” Viktor replied as firmly. “Fine if you don’t want to see the doc, but you’re staying in bed until you aren’t blowing your nose anymore. That’s if you don’t develop a secondary infection.”
“Sure mom.” Yuri said, taking a sip, and Viktor crossed his arms.
“I’ve moved my flight up a week. Phichit has agreed to help, and so has Max. Even Otabek said he’ll come by after deliveries if we need anything. So yes, ‘mom’ it is.”
Yuri was too ill to care too much, but he was also low key grateful and he decided to stop being an ass.
“Thanks Vitya.” He said quietly. “I mean it.”
Viktor’s eyes softened and he touched Yuri’s head softly. “No problem. I haven’t been there for you much since you came over to this country, so I’m glad to help now.”
A knock sounded at the door. “Speaking of help.” Phichit said, leaping up to open it.
“Who else are you inviting into my home? I collect cats, not humans.” Yuri asked Viktor with a growly tone and Viktor held up his hands in innocence.
“Not me.” he replied as Phichit opened the door on a stranger with a face that looked carved from stone.
“Seung-gil!” Phichit greeted with his usual loud cheer. “Just in time. The patient has awoken and we are starving.”
Yuri realised he was fairly hungry, but he couldn’t stop staring at the man at his door, holding a white packet of some takeaways. So this was the new guy? Even as he watched Phichit slather the charm on like thick butter, and it sliding off the man like he was hot toast.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join us?” Phichit said, bouncing a little on his toes.
Seung-gil gave Phichit such a blank look Yuri wondered if he’d even understood the question. Then he said, ‘No.” gave Pichit the bag and tramped back down the stairs... Pichit closed the door with an aggravated sigh. Then returned, putting the bag down and pouting.
“Should you be asking your new employee to deliver food after hours?” Yuri asked eventually, observing the unfamiliar crease in Phichit smooth brow.
“I invited him to eat with us.” Phichit responded, open the packet and perusing the contents. “He followed the order exactly, but only got for us, the bastard.”
Ignoring the fact that Phichit was casually inviting people into his home, he said, “He’s a bastard because he got the food you asked him to get?”
“No, he’s a bastard because…ugh. I don’t know. You saw him. Do you think he’s ever smiled in his life?” Yuri observed Pichit angrily removing boxes from the packet, frowning and seeming unnaturally ruffled. Viktor caught his eyes and waggled an eyebrow. Then realisation dawned and Yuri rolled his eyes.
“Phichit you’ve known him two days. And he works for you. You can’t like him.”
Phichit threw down the plastic cutlery, still wrapped in a napkin. “I don’t! I just…aaarg. He’s like a wall. I’ve never met someone like him. I don’t like him.” Yuri silently watched as the Thai drew out the fork and stabbed them into the open boxes of sweet and sour pork and fried rice. “Why would I even consider someone who looks like he eats lemons and read Edgar Allen Poe for fun? Ridiculous.”
“Uh huh.” Viktor said, taking plates out and laying them out for dishing up.
“If I could just get him to laugh. Or even just grin.” Pichit grumbled to himself.
They ate, the chatter switching to stories from the day, Yuri trying not to worry about them running his beloved café, and to ordinary things. Yuri’s belly only had half a bowls worth of space, but soon he had retreated to the couch, with Burgundy, biscuit and Ashes taking their place on his legs, a sure sign that he’d been missed. He petted them each in turn, but eventually they made themselves comfortable and drifted into that steady cat-like stupor that was somewhere between sleep and waking, while Ashes made little ‘mrrrp’ sounds when Yuri tickled his chin.
He’d found his phone where he’d dumped it the night before, wedged between the couch pillows and was happily surprised to see several messages from Otabek.
Bb: hey, you doing ok? I dropped off some meds, wasn’t sure if you had any.
Bb: I guess you’re not, since your cousin picked up the delivery this morning. His accent is a lot thicker than yours.
Bb: wait, is he the one who adopted Pork?
Bb
: I stopped by to say hey, but they said you’re still upstairs. Sounds like you’re really ill. Let me know if I can help.
Bb: kind of missed you today.
Yuri sniffed, nose thick with snot, but still managed a smile.
Y: stalker.
Yuri was unsurprised when he got a text back almost instantly.
Bb: how am I a stalker? I am just your friendly neighbourhood baker.
Y: I leave my phone for less than a day and I have five messages.
Bb: I am *very* friendly.
Y: joking aside, thanks for the help and concern. And for last night.
Bb: imp glad I was there to help.
Y: me too.
Bb: you still sick?
Y: my cousin telling me to stay in bed the next two days says that I probably am. And yes he is the one who went and adopted a cat that nearly killed his husband. He’s an idiot sometimes.
Bb: why Pork though?
Yuri huffed a laugh as he replied.
Y: the real name is Katsudon (pork cutlet bowl in Japanese) which is Viktor’s nickname for his hubby. I think he meant it to be cute.
Bb
: ...I am not sure what to say to that.
Y: there is nothing to say. He’s a sappy idiot.
Bb: seems like that’s going around. J
Yuri tapped the phone against his mouth before replying.
Y: um….you’re referring to yourself?
Bb: lol. Yes.
Y:…well, you’re not totally alone there.
Bb: our date not bad then?
Y: in spite of the fact that it ended with a trip to the vet, yes.
Bb: how is Q?
The cat in question chose that moment to saunter through the cat flap, and Yuri sat up straight so he could see him properly. Quincy met his eyes like he was looking for Yuri, and in the next moment had leapt onto the side of the couch, sitting on its back, almost but not quite an arm’s length away from Yuri.
“You feeling better, sour puss?” Yuri murmured. Quincy’s only reply was tucking his feet under him and closing his eyes, regally turning his face into profile. When Yuri stretched out to touch his face, he lined into it for the briefest second before moving away. Yuri took a photo and sent it.
Y: looks like.
Bb: I’m glad.
Bb: so….
Bb: does that mean I have to wait two days to see you again?
Yuri smiled
Y: stalker vibes, Mr Altin.
Bb: but I made you something special, Mr Plisetsky.
“What are you smiling about?” Viktor called, and Yuri looked up to see both he and Phichit watching him like they knew exactly what he was smiling about.
“If you grin any wider, your jaw might unhinge.” Phichit added with a smirk.
Yuri blew his nose loudly. “Shut up.” He mumbled.
Y: I might be able to come down for delivery pick up tomorrow. If my cousin lets me.
|
Jaime watched Brienne’s expression change as she looked at him, those big blue eyes trailing intently over his face. The worried creases that had been stamped between her brows since he’d found her in the stands slowly disappeared, replaced by a yearning softness that made the air thicken in his throat.
It took everything he had not to reach for her.
Frankly, it still surprised him that he’d managed to stop himself from kissing her a few moments before. He probably wouldn’t have, if not for the whisper of that obnoxious little voice inside his head, reminding him of what he’d promised.
When did you become so principled? he’d wondered at himself, half irritated and half amazed. But then he’d looked at the woman standing in front of him and known the answer.
Still, as the seconds passed, Jaime began to doubt that his restraint would hold, promise be damned. It would only take one word, one breath, one look, and he’d be lost.
In truth, he was halfway gone already. A man could only take so much for so long, and Brienne was far too close to him, her hand pressed far too firmly to his skin. Never mind the way her yellow blouse had gone partly translucent with rain, or how her wet skirt was plastered to her muscular legs, or that her flushed cheeks were almost the same shade of pink as her beguilingly bare lips.
Suddenly, Brienne’s grip tightened on his forearm, and his eyes returned to hers. Something both mournful and resolute rippled in their endless depths, and Jaime nearly opened his arms to her. But then he didn’t have to, because she reached for him.
It felt like a fucking miracle when she stepped forward and slipped her arms around him, laying her palms against his back. And when she tipped her head down to rest it in the crook of his shoulder, his heart rose up to meet his Adam’s apple.
Jaime let his eyes fall shut as he wound himself around her, not caring when he knocked her towel to the floor. His stump tucked effortlessly in the small of her back as he settled his hand between her shoulder blades, urging her closer than she already was. He didn’t even have to dip his head to nestle his lips against her hair.
She was made to be in his arms.
He’d never had the opportunity to savor it before, but he sure as hell did now—every single sensation. In fact, Jaime lost himself so completely in how good it felt to hold her, how damned pleased he was that Brienne had sought his touch, that he began to forget where they were and what had just happened. He began to forget everything that wasn’t the heat of her breath on his neck or the brush of her thighs against his or the thundering pace of his own pulse.
It wasn’t until Brienne shifted, though, sliding her hands up to curl around his shoulders, that Jaime felt a heat stir low in his abdomen. He had the fleeting thought that he should set her away from him, to put some distance between them before he did something rash—before he lost the ability to think at all.
But he didn’t. Instead, Jaime allowed his own hand to wander upward, snaking under the damp curtain of her hair to cup the nape of her neck. His thumb stroked the soft patch of skin just behind her ear, and a delicious shiver rippled through her.
His body responded with immediate and intense enthusiasm, sending what seemed like his entire blood supply surging into his trousers, and Jaime felt like the world’s biggest ass for wanting her so much. For how badly he ached to push her against the wall or across his desk or down to the goddamned wet floor and…
No, he thought sternly. Not right now. She’s grieving, you idiot.
He dragged in a deep, stuttering breath, attempting to calm the heady rush of his desire, but the lingering smell of rain and flowers in her hair only made him want her more. In the end, he was left with no choice but to slowly pull back his hips so she wouldn’t feel him stiffening against her.
Brienne must have misread the subtle movement—which Jaime supposed he should be grateful for—because she responded by clinging to him more tightly, as if she feared he meant to let her go.
Don’t worry, he thought, clutching his right arm around her waist. I’m not going anywhere.
Jaime gradually pulled himself back just far enough to tell her that, to reassure her that he was there, and would be for as long as she needed. But Brienne opened her mouth to speak before he had the chance.
“Jaime, I…” His name uttered in that low, thrumming tone of hers sent one bolt to his heart and another to his cock. “I…”
Although her words faltered, Brienne didn’t lower her eyes, and Jaime marveled at the way they managed to look pleading and frustrated and determined all at once.
“You what?” he murmured huskily.
She took a shallow breath, seemingly gathering her courage, and Jaime sensed the tension mounting in her body. Panic flickered through him—what is she so afraid to say?—but before it could take hold, Brienne’s lips crashed into his.
Their noses knocked clumsily in her haste, and Jaime swayed backwards under the wondrously unexpected assault. It was artless and a little awkward, but Brienne didn’t hesitate—and the pressure of her fervent, full lips was even more glorious than he remembered.
Kissing her again was like taking a gulp of air after nearly suffocating, like watching the dawn break after an interminable night. She even tasted like the sunrise. Like goodness and certainty and hope. Like life. Like home.
Bringing his hand to her face, Jaime angled his head, guiding her to a slower rhythm and coaxing her lips apart, caressing and exploring with his lips and teeth and tongue. Brienne responded in kind—the wench was a delightfully quick study—and the first brush of her tongue along his lower lip had him groaning into her mouth.
She’d managed to wedge her hands between their bodies, too, and their roaming only aggravated the tightness in his trousers. She moved them restlessly from his chest up to his arms and shoulders and neck and then back down again, as though she didn’t know exactly where she most wanted to touch him, so she was trying everywhere. Then, in what was quite possibly the most arousing moment of Jaime’s life, they slipped down and found purchase on his hips, tugging them back toward her own.
And suddenly he was surging forward, kissing her desperately and clinging to her like his life began and ended in the lush warmth of her mouth. He was hard and hungry and enthralled by the way her body burned hot even though her skin was chilled, and the pressure of her fingers so dangerously close to his ass made Jaime half lose his mind.
Before he knew it, his fingers were tugging at the hem of her blouse. Brienne made a soft, startled noise in the back of her throat, but it turned into an enticing little moan when he worked the fabric free and slid his hand across the sticky skin of her lower back.
Unfortunately for Jaime, something about that sound awoke his nearly forgotten conscience, and it reared up with a vengeance. You crossed your heart, for fuck’s sake, it reminded him. You promised.
Ignoring the argument firing in every muscle of his body, Jaime ripped his mouth from hers. For a moment, he just looked at her, relishing the sight of her kiss-reddened lips and the soft, dazed expression on her face. “If we don’t stop now,” he finally said, “I won’t be able to.”
Her eyebrows lifted a fraction, but then she gave him a wobbly nod. “That’s okay.”
“It…is?” Jaime gaped at her, so startled he could have laughed. Brienne nodded again, and he almost launched himself back at her devastating mouth, consequences be damned. Almost. “No, it’s not,” he whispered. More firmly, trying to convince himself just as much as her, he added, “No. We can’t. I can’t.”
“Oh.” Brienne’s eyes darted downward, and a fresh splash of color appeared on her face. “I thought you meant…that you wanted to…”
Jaime shook his head, grinning. “You thought right, wench,” he replied, his voice somewhere between a croak and a growl. “God, do I want to. Want you.”
She swallowed, and he could tell it was taking a great deal for her to continue the conversation. “Then why…?”
“Because I gave you my word, and I mean to keep it.” Jaime saw the why lingering in her eyes, and he leaned forward to nudge his nose against hers. “Because I don’t just want you, Brienne. I love you. And the woman I love deserves better than to be ravished in this shitty office by a soggy, frantic man.”
He felt the hitch in Brienne’s breath as he spoke, and, for a heartbeat, Jaime regretted having blurted it out like that, with his damn hand still tucked beneath her shirt. He certainly hadn’t planned to say it that way. Then he watched her lips fall open as she stared at him, her mesmerizing eyes wide and warm and full of awe, and Jaime wasn’t sorry at all. Because it was true, and he saw that she knew it.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he went on, his mouth slanting into an irrepressible smile, “I will happily ravish you another time. As many times as you’ll allow, in fact, after the season is over. But for now, this,” he paused to kiss her lightly, “is enough. More than enough.”
Tears sprang to her eyes at that, glittering in the low light, and Brienne tried to blink past them. But it didn’t work. Instead of receding or rolling down her cheeks, the drops clung to her lashes like dew on blades of grass. She quickly slithered a hand out from under his embrace, bringing it up to wipe them away.
At least that’s what Jaime thought she was doing, until Brienne reached for his face instead of her own.
Her long fingers brushed along his cheek with such tender reverence that he felt his eyes begin to burn. “I love you, too, Jaime.”
It wasn’t only her words that undid him; it was her smile, small and sweet and so fucking perfect it made his chest hurt. It sent a feeling of weightless joy rushing through him, too, so powerful he could’ve sworn that gravity had ceased to function and Brienne was the only thing keeping him anchored to the ground.
Jaime kissed her again, long and deep—he couldn’t help himself—and Brienne sank against him, her hand still cupping his jaw. But when he finally pried his mouth away, he opened his eyes to find a familiar and disconcerting pair of lines between her eyebrows.
“What’s wrong?” he probed, trying to keep his tone light. Her eyes flashed with surprise, and he quirked his head at her. “I know that look, Brienne. Don’t tell me you’re worried about the rules again.”
“No.” Brienne tried to smile, but it was laced with sadness. “The rules don’t seem quite as important as they did before. But…” She trailed off, gently pulling herself free of his arms and taking a few shuffling steps back.
The cool air rushed in where her warmth had just been, leaving Jaime feeling damp and bereft and more uneasy than he wanted to admit. Why had she moved away?
“You said something just now, about us…after the season is over.”
“Yes.” That had been their plan for weeks now. As far as he was concerned, what had just passed between them only made it more sure.
“What if there isn’t an ‘after’? What if I need to go home?” she asked, quiet and raw in a way that made his stomach twist. “My father told me to stay, that it’s what my brother would have wanted, but he just meant for a few more weeks. He’s expecting me to be there, after that. I should want to be there.”
Jaime frowned. He knew he should support her, encourage her to do what was best for her family, but he didn’t think he could. He may have been a better man than he was three months ago, but he wasn’t that good. Not when it came to Brienne.
The thought of saying goodbye to her made Jaime feel as though someone had torn open his chest, and he knew that actually losing her would be like losing another limb. Maybe even worse, because Brienne wasn’t some meager appendage that he could replace with a facsimile of the original, that he could adapt to life without. The hole she would leave behind could never be filled; he was certain of that to his very core. And maybe it made him a selfish bastard, but he loved her too damn much to just let her go—not without at least trying to find another way. Especially now that he knew she loved him, too.
“But you don’t, even though you should.” When she didn’t deny it, Jaime closed the distance she’d put between them. “Then don’t. Don’t go home.” He reached for her hand. “Stay. You belong here, Brienne. You belong in the league.”
You belong with me.
“We’ll get your father help for the farm, if he needs it,” he continued, too intent on making his case to care about the desperate edge to his voice. “I’ll buy as many train tickets as you want so you can go home and visit. Hell, I’ll drive you there myself. Whatever it takes.” He twined his fingers with hers, then ran his stump down her forearm and across the back of her other hand. “Just…stay. Please.”
Her eyes glistened as she closed her hand around his scarred wrist. “I want to stay,” she murmured. “In the league…and with you.”
His heart clenched so violently Jaime thought it might implode. At first, he assumed it was relief, but then he realized it was love. He’d just never felt so much of it before—for someone, or from them.
“Thank God,” he said baldly, his throat suddenly very thick. “I don’t think I could do without you, wench.” He tipped his forehead against hers and added, only half teasingly, “I’d have followed you home like a stray dog, and then where would we have been? I doubt I’d make a very good farmhand.”
“No, you probably wouldn’t.” Brienne smiled earnestly this time, but her expression swiftly sobered. “Did you mean what you said? About helping my father?”
“Of course I did. I’m on your side, remember? Although it’s my side, too, in this case,” he mused. “Our side, really.”
“Thank you,” she breathed, so sincerely it made his heart spasm again. “Really, Jaime, I…thank you.”
He shook his head faintly. Didn’t she know that he was the one who should be grateful?
Before he could say as much, Brienne bit her lip, and Jaime knew she was about to tell him something he wasn’t going to like.
“I know it’s terrible timing, Jaime, but my father needs me now, not later. Even if I only go for a week or so, it will be long enough to spend some time with him. Make sure he isn’t alone. And I can help with any,” she paused, swallowing stiffly, “arrangements for my brother.”
Jaime squeezed her hand. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that, with no body, there likely wouldn’t be any arrangements to make, not until the war was over.
“I can explain to him about next season, too, about my life here. So he understands.” She pressed her eyes shut. “God, I hope he does.”
“He will,” Jaime affirmed with more confidence than he felt. Though, if Brienne’s father was anything like her, he wouldn’t begrudge his daughter a chance at the life she deserved. Whether he would think Jaime fell into that category was another question entirely—one he would happily put off answering until another day.
Brienne nodded, but there wasn’t much conviction in it. “You don’t mind that I’ll miss a few more games, do you? I know Tyrion won’t like it, but I’ll make sure to be back in time for the series, if we make it in, and—”
“Don’t you worry about my brother. I’ll call him tonight and explain what happened. He might not be happy about it, but he’ll understand.” Jaime would make sure of it. “And I will take you to the train station myself, whenever you want to go. Just as long as you promise to come back.” He flashed her a bright, fond smile. “I know how seriously you take your promises.”
She gave him a vaguely reproachful look, but amusement tugged at her lips. “I promise.”
“Good.” He leaned in to drop another kiss on her upturned mouth, just because he could. “Now that we’ve settled that, I really should get you back.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed that, too, for good measure, before releasing her and moving toward the desk for another towel. “Margaery will send out a search party if you’re not home in time for dinner.”
“She probably would,” Brienne grimly replied, taking the towel he offered and pressing it to her chest. “As it is, I’m sure she’ll take it upon herself to organize the rotation for the evening.”
“Rotation?” he asked, pulling another towel from the pile.
“They did the same thing when I hurt my knee. Sent someone in every fifteen minutes to make sure I was all right. I know they mean well, but…” Her chin quivered. “They were there when Cat called, and they looked so sorry for me. And I’m sure it made Sansa and Arya worry about Jon and Robb.” She swiped the towel down one arm, then the other. “They’ll hover and pity me and try to make me feel better, and it’ll only make it worse.”
Jaime scrubbed his towel absently through his hair. He understood what it felt like to be pitied, and how deeply it could cut. When the worst happened, sometimes a person just needed to be treated as normally as possible and allowed to deal with their grief in their own time. Tyrion had been the only person in his life who’d done that for him; maybe he could do it for her.
“What if you come home with me instead? Just for tonight?”
Brienne’s eyes flared wide, and Jaime laughed. She looked endearingly scandalized for a woman who’d been perfectly willing to let him make love to her only minutes before.
“I have extra bedrooms, wench,” he said, still smirking. “On my honor, I’ll leave you in perfectly respectable peace.”
She arched a mildly disbelieving eyebrow at him. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. You can stay in Tyrion’s room. It’s by far the nicest one. There are probably a few decent books stashed in there, too, if you’d rather read than talk.”
“But Ms. Frey—”
“Will be appalled, I’m sure,” he cut in, “but even she ought to understand, after the day you’ve had. And if she doesn’t, well…” Jaime shrugged. “I don’t really care. I suppose the girls might talk, but I’d hope they’d be decent enough not to gossip too much at a time like this. Half of them must know the truth by now, anyway.”
Brienne stared at him for so long, silent and utterly still, that Jaime was certain she was going to say no. It was unreasonable for him to think of it as a rejection, and yet he did.
But then she surprised the hell out of him by saying softly, “All right, then. If you’re sure.”
“I am,” he beamed, knowing that he sounded far more chipper than he should have.
He was, after all, doing this entirely for her. He had nothing whatsoever to gain from having her entirely to himself for a whole evening, tucked away in the safety of his house. Nothing at all.
Jaime reached for the phone on his desk, fully aware of the argument he was about to get from Ms. Frey—as well as the shit he’d get later, from his brother—and still feeling like it might be one of the best days of his fucking life. “I’m absolutely sure.”
|
LancethePike > eur-in for a treat
LancethePike: Pidge for the love of all things good and holy why did you not ask us before yesterday?
LancethePike: my anxious ass can’t handle this
LancethePike: and I’m not sure how I’m gonna fit everything in a carry on sized bag. I usually have at least a week to mentally prepare myself and a month to choose my limited amount of clothes. But nooo, because now I just have a DAY
LancethePike: You’re lucky Hunk and I have good passports because we visit our native countries during Christmas.
Pidgeot: do you ever stop COMPLAINING
LancethePike: I have every right to be pissed at you for not telling us sooner
Hunkules: are you okay, buddy? You’re a little,,, uh,,, problematic
LancethePike: Yeah, I’m fine, just a bit stressed. Mom says I’m not leaving the house until my room is clean and I clean the bathroom, not to mention I have to go change my phone plan so that I can have service while we’re away.
Hunkules: I’d offer to come help, but I’m in the same boat
Pidgeot: Yeah sorry guys, I don’t know why I procrastinated that much
Mathematics: I was lurking and,,,,
Mathematics: Pidge??? You’ve known about this for two months??? And you just thought to ask your friends two days before???
Pidgeot: Hey I said I was sorry
Mathematics: smh
LancethePike: anyway, I’m gonna get back to work.
Pidgeot: Do you want ME to come help you? I’m all done.
LancethePike: Please? I’ll tell my mom you’re coming.
Pidgeot: Matt, get in the car.
Mathematics: Why am I the chauffer for you always?
Pidgeot: Okay in like 9 months you won’t have to be
Mathematics: smh why can’t you be 16 already
Pidgeot: shut up and drive Matt
kogayne: Shiro are we ever like that
takashit: probably?? Idk
Pidgeot: Shiro you’ve been at our house for one of our screaming matches, right?
takashit: The last one I was there for is when you were fighting over whether Fortnite was fun or not
Pidgeot: Well I was fuckin right,,, it’s NOT
Mathematics: who are you to say its fun or not
takashit: not again
Pidgeot: I mean you just run around and kill things. Games are better with a STORYLINE
Mathematics: how about you eat my ass
Pidgeot: that’s what Shiro and Allura are for smartass
LancethePike: Hey
LancethePike: Uh
LancethePike: Can you please come help me I’m dying
Mathematics: This isn’t over, gremlin.
Pidgeot: 凸(`д´)凸
kogayne: hey shiro can you run by the store on your way home? We need travel shampoo and vacuum sealed bags.
takashit: sure. I’m on my way now.
kogayne: cool see you soon
Allure: Hey Matt?
Mathematics: Yes, Princess?
Allure: Remind me to never trust your sister to convey information ever again
Mathematics: noted.
Mathematics > eur-in for a treat
[Photo from Mathematics]
Mathematics: WHY IS THERE A CAT IN MY TOILET
Pidgeot: MATT WE DON’T HAVE A CAT
takashit: WH
Hunkules: WHAT IS EVEN HAPPENING @ THE HOLTS ARE YOU OKAY
Pidgeot: keith no
kogayne: IM NOT OKAYY
Pidgeot: I can’t believe you did that in a group chat of people you don’t know
kogayne: shit
Mathematics: ha you exposed your own damn self
LancethePike: guys have I told you about how I drew thicc mr. krabs on a balloon?
Mathematics: …..continue
[Photo from LancethePike]
kogayne: I’M SHITTING ASFDLKJEH
takashit: ohh this is gonna be a fuuun trip
Mathematics: LANCE WHAT THE FUCK
Pidgeot: WHY DO YOU ONLY HAVE ART SKILLS WHEN YOU’RE BEING A MEME
LancethePike: a talent of mine.
Pidgeot > Hunkules
Pidgeot: Yo heads up, something’s a bit off with Lance. He won’t talk to me about it, but be expecting a text from him any minute.
Hunkules: he seemed fine in the chat?
Pidgeot: you know him just as well as I do. He made it seem like he was fine because me and Matt were there. We just left, so I wanted to let you know.
Hunkules: Thanks Pidge
Pidgeot: :P
LancethePike > Hunkules
LancethePike: Humk
LancethePike: i csnt beeathe
LancethePike: thrs too mivh to do
LancethePike: in too strewsed
Hunkules: Do you need me to call you?
LancethePike: yrs pks
[call ended 0:36:19]
LancethePike > eur-in for a treat
LancethePike: I’m all packed, all i gotta do is change my phone plan and shower and I’m good to go.
LancethePike: My sister is taking me to get it switched in a bit so im just gonna shower and have a good ol’ time. How’s packing going, Hunk?
Hunkules: uhh, I’m almost halfway done
takashit: do you want Keith and I to come help?
Hunkules: as much as I'd absolutely love that, I think I've got it, thanks so much, though
takashit: you're sure?
Hunkules: yep! I'm enlisting my moms... They'll be a big help
Mathematics: i want you
kogayne: pardon?
Mathematics: uhhh wrong chat
takashit: p a r d o n ? ?
Mathematics: today is the day I delete my existence, kiddos
Allure: why is this the first thing I open the chat to
Pidgeot: scroll up
Allure: oh shit... Matt you've gotta be careful
LancethePike: don't let us kiddos know what you do in your spare time
Pidgeot: LANCE
kogayne: AERJGHAEI;JH
Allure: ahem
Mathematics: would you believe me if i said I was memeing
LancethePike: that's plaible
kogayne: you got a word a day calendar or something?
LancethePike: no. I'm just that smart
Hunkules: it took him roughly a minute to google a smart person word
LancethePike: and how would you know that
Pidgeot: dude english isn't your first language
LancethePike: so?
Pidgeot: sigh
Pidgeot > Allure
Pidgeot: Hey I just remembered, what are you doing with your house while we’re gone. Is Coran gonna come watch it?
Allure: No, Coran has to stay close to the university. I’m renting it to someone. I’ve had to pack up all my stuff and lock it in a room. Luckily, I’ve had Matt and Shiro to help me.
Pidgeot: Oh that’s cool, you could’ve asked me to help you too if you needed anything extra. Who are you renting it to?
Allure: This guy who used to live in town. He says that he’s single, but I looked at his Facebook and it says he’s married and lives in Springville across the street from his wife’s gun shop. All of his posts are very political as well, so I’m almost afraid that he’ll ditch me and I won’t have any extra income while we’re gone. It isn’t too big of a problem, but it would be nice to know.
Pidgeot: oh no, not one of THOSE people. What will you do if he ditches?
Allure: I’ll just call and have my water, cable, and electric shut off. Maybe at least it’ll cut the costs a bit.
Pidgeot: and you’re 100% sure you’re willing to pay for all of us to go? If you’re tight on cash, Matt and I can pay for ourselves and the Broganes can probably find some money.
Allure: No, I want to do this for you guys. I won’t be that tight on cash, it’ll all be fine.
Allure: How is Lance on packing?
Pidgeot: We helped him clean his room and he’s packing now. Matt and I are going back home to make sure we have everything in order, and then we can finally relax.
Allure: Good! Well I’ve gotta run, I’m gonna make sure I’ve also got everything packed and ready to go… I should probably mop anyway.
Pidgeot: Okay! Don’t work too hard!
Allure > eur-in for a treat
Allure: Hey guys, I was thinking, if you’re all done packing, do you want to come to my pool? Your families are invited too :P
takashit: Keith?
kogayne: I’m down
LancethePike: are you sure about this whole family thing? I have 5 sisters. a brother, a niece and a nephew.
Allure: Yes! They’re more than welcome!
Hunkules: Yes my moms and I are coming, baking cookies real quick
Pidgeot: bless you Hunk
Mathematics: all the Holts are on board!
LancethePike: you should expect 9 McClain's!
takashit: do you want us to bring anything?
Allure: if you wanna bring a fruit tray that would be fantastic.
Mathematics: I’ll get the veggies!
LancethePike: what’s your address?
[Location from Allure]
Allure: come whenever!
LancethePike: Hunk, I was right. Allura is a goddess.
Hunkules: Lance McClain, king of never being wrong.
kogayne: pft
Pidgeot: mhmmm
LancethePike: fok u m8
Mathematics: we’re here, let us in my loveeeee
Allure: coming, Matthew dearest!
Mathematics: ;)
Pidgeot: not in my good Christian minecraft server
LancethePike: ;)
Hunkules: shouldn’t you be driving, McClain
LancethePike: no, mom is driving
Hunkules: well get here soon you’re the last ones
LancethePike: we’re here we’re here
LancethePike > Hunkules
LancethePike: can we just take a sec to talk about how gross Keith’s hair is?
LancethePike: seriously, the 80s called and they want their hair back
Hunkules: is that why you’re blushing furiously?
LancethePike: of course not
Hunkules: O.O
Hunkules: just get in the water and leave Keith and his hair alone
LancethePike: *sigh* if you say so, King Hunk
Allure > eur-in for a treat
Allure: Thank you so much for coming guys! I’m so glad to have you. I can’t wait for our adventures this summer!
LancethePike: Thanks for inviting us, Allura!
Hunkules: It was so much fun, thanks!
kogayne: you guys don’t seem so bad
Pidgeot: they are. Trust me
Mathematics: Thanks, Princess. I love you, see you tomorrow
takashit: love you, llura <3
Pidgeot: DISGUSTING
Hunkules > eur-in for a treat
Hunkules: I’m all packed, my room is clean, and I’m finally able to just sit
LancethePike: thank god my mom spared me from dinner. It was my turn to cook but she didnt make me. I just gotta put my skincare stuff in and I’m ready.
takashit: guys it is 3 in the morning go to SLEEP
LancethePike: okay uh rood
LancethePike: I’m trying to have a CONVERSATION here
LancethePike: anyway, what time are we leaving tomorrow?
Pidgeot: 4:00 PM
takashit: Pidge??? Why are you up?
Pidgeot: don’t question it Shiro.
Pidgeot: We’re driving to Indianapolis because Allura’s uncle lives there and he’s gonna drive the car back to his place after we leave from Chicago at 5 AM. From there we fly to NYC, cross the city and get to a different airport, where we fly to Paris.
LancethePike: Sounds like a lot of sitting in cars and airports.
Allure: Yeah, so be sure to wear something comfortable!
LancethePike: Those are the most beatiful words I’ve heard all day
Hunkules: read*
LancethePike: semantics
takashit: pls sleep,,,
Hunkules: okay, DAD
kogayne: ajkdhfheaifei DAD
takashit: KEITH WHY ARE YOU AWAKE
kogayne: YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD
takashit: pls don't do this to me
LancethePike: well, uh, this seems like a good time to say goodnight,,,,,, uh, yeah
kogayne: Night Lance
takashit: Keith, you go to bed too.
kogayne: ugh fine.
Pidgeot: lol bye old man
takashit: :,(
takashit: finally, some fucking peace.
Mathematics: What did I miss?
takashit: [incomprehensible screaming]
|
A sense of relief washed through the entirety of Gryffindor Tower when Harry and Ron finally overcame their differences, and not only because it meant that a grumbling and resentful Ron was no longer tagging alongside Seamus and Dean all the time. And when everyone else overcame those same differences, for that matter, for Seamus could admit with more than a hint of sheepishness that their house at large had kind of been a bunch of prats to Harry. Even if Seamus – and Dean, he knew – hadn't particularly wanted to exclude Harry, the fact of the matter was that they had.
It was a horrible feeling, but Seamus felt that he could accept his failing and work to make up for it. At least to a degree.
More than just the situation with Harry was looking up, however. Since the First Task in which Harry had to face a bloody dragon, Seamus felt as though he'd had a touch of perspective impressed upon him. It was true that his situation sucked. Really sucked, even, because the more he thought about it the more Seamus was coming to realise that he was… he was, in fact… gay. That he didn't fancy girls like his dorm mates did, and that boys were just more interesting. That they captured his interest in ways that girls just didn't. That if he was going to take interesting in someone, he inevitably found himself staring at a boy.
It had taken a dragon nearly eating his friend for Seamus to realise that his identity crisis was just slightly less consequential when pitted against potential death or mutilation. Though not entirely irrelevant or unimportant, and though it still made Seamus nauseous to think about – or to consider his mam finding out, dear Merlin – he could deal with it. So long as he strove to ignore it as much as possible, he could.
And he did. At least until the situation with the Yule Ball arose.
That in itself was horrifying, and for more than the fact that it involved asking a date to attend with him. There was excitement in the air, and in their dorm of a night even Neville participated in discussions of what girls they'd like to ask, commiserated with Ron for his pining after that Veela Beauxbatons champion Delacour or whatever her name was, and Harry's despondency at his own dating skills. Seamus found himself thoroughly vexed when Dean brought up the subject with him – well, he asked Seamus and Neville both, being the two in his general vicinity – and asked who he was going with. He didn't know why it annoyed him so much, but he felt the rising need to divert the subject. Especially when Neville brought up Ginny.
"Wait, what?" Dean's eyebrows rose incredulously.
Neville nodded in a show of embarrassment and dropped his eyes down to his breakfast. Their conversation was likely largely unheard due to the surrounding noise of the rest of their fellow breakfast-goers, but he still lowered his voice as he continued. "Yeah, well, you know. I just figured that she was Ron's sister and all so it might be less, um… awkward."
"Less awkward than asking your mate's sister?" Seamus said with a smirk. Well, in this instance was kind of amusing. Or at least it was until Dean continued.
"How did you ask her?" He asked, his voice more curious that teasing. Seamus couldn't help but spare him a frown.
Neville shrugged uncomfortably. "I just, you know… asked her."
"You just asked her," Seamus echoed. His smirk felt slightly forced now under the radiant heat of Dean's intent stare.
"Yeah. 'Cause third years and under aren't allowed to go to the Ball unless they get asked, so I said maybe if she came with me then she could get in. Or something."
"Oh, so… you don't fancy her?" Dean asked. Strangely, he sounded slightly relieved for that fact, and that annoyance rose within Seamus once more. He had to struggle to vanquish the feeling that accompanied his sudden urge to frown.
Neville flushed brightly, enough that Seamus found his smirk grow vaguely natural once more. "No! I mean, I just – Ginny's great and all, and I do really like her and – she's my friend, but… I guess she's – she's just –"
"Just a friend, like?" Seamus supplied, more helpfully than he'd perhaps intended.
Neville spared him a grateful glance. "Yeah. Just a friend."
Dean nodded slowly, his face a confusion of expressions that Seamus had to forcibly drag his attention away from for the annoyance it for some reason provoked from him once more. He was glad he did, for a moment later Dean turned towards him. "What about you, Seam? Had anymore thoughts on who you're going to ask."
Seamus didn't quite manage to bite back his frustrated sigh. He knew Dean wasn't fooled by the attempt either for the surprised blinking that he offered before making to speak. Seamus hurried to override him. "No, I haven't. But I might. Maybe I'll take a leaf out of Neville's book and just ask someone, like." And with that he rose from the table, slung his bag over his shoulder and strode away from the table. He resolutely ignored Dean's startled "Hey, Seamus –" and the following, "You haven't finished your breakfast!"
With the exception of those leading directly from the common rooms to the Great Hall, the corridors were largely empty at that time of the day. Seamus was grateful for that as it meant that on his way to Charms he could draw his wand and vent his frustration through little bursts of magic. He'd discovered that such releases of magic had something of a soothing effect upon him, and he'd used the method with increasing frequency over the past few months. Nothing significant, simply brief, undirected swirls of his wand that produced little sparks, sometimes flames, occasionally little pops of minute explosions. That was something else that Seamus had come to realise; he had a tendency towards pyrotechnics. Making fire seemed to come easily to him. Maybe that was why he was so prone to exploding things?
It was somewhere between the Great Hall and Charms, upon the fourth floor he thought, though was hardly keeping track, that Seamus' venting was interrupted by voices. His momentary annoyance was pushed aside by the slight hysteria of one voice and the sneering undertones of the other two. The first he recognised as belonging to Lavender Brown.
Quite without his direct intention, Seamus found himself striding towards the voices. He rounded the corner as they cleared and distinct words could be discerned. Pausing in step, he beheld a confrontation between Lavender and two of the Slytherin girls in their year; he thought it was Parkinson and Greengrass but had never been interested enough to Slytherin's house members to recall exactly which one was which. It didn't help his confusion that they were both blonde.
"… stupid cow, I bet you couldn't even if you wanted to," one of the Slytherin's sneered. Seamus thought it might have been Parkinson.
"I can! I can too!" Lavender replied, her voice pitched higher than it should have been to an almost ear-splittingly shrill tone. "I'm – I'm just waiting for the right person to – to ask me."
The Slytherin girls exchanged nearly identical smirks before turning back to her. The other one, Greengrass, spoke this time. "The right person, hm? Might be a little hard since I don't think any other filthy lesbian scum go to this school."
Seamus felt himself freeze even as he was already paused in step. They were… the two girls were… Wait, was Lavender…? Seamus recognised the derogatory use of the term – of course he did – and felt an immediate upwelling of empathy for Lavender, even if the accusation happened to lack truth. He doubted it was true, too; he'd overheard Lavender's pining too often, seen it appear far too genuine, to believe it merely a farce to hide her sexuality.
Lavender's voice impossibly grew higher until it was more of a squeak. "I'm not! I'm not a – a lesbian –"
"She is," Parkinson stage-whispered to Greengrass. "Otherwise she'd have a date already. Any girl worth her pride as a woman would have a date by now."
"True," Greengrass replied, expression becoming falsely contemplative. "Although, she isn't really much to look at. Maybe she is just a lost cause?"
Seamus couldn't help himself. He was acting before he even realised it, striding forwards with wand raised. With a flick of his wrist, he fired a hex at the two girls, both of whom only had a chance to glance his way before their attention was turned to their abruptly fire-licked hems. Shrieks rose from the pair, followed by blurted exclamations of "Agumenti!" that took several tries to produce a stream of water. The hallway was hissing with steam by the time the flames died, the girls frazzled and breathing heavily.
Seamus stopped at Lavender's side and fastened a glare upon the two Slytherins. He didn't particularly like Lavender, and thought her a little whiney and too much of a gossip, not to mention that she put far too much faith in Trelawney for him to take her seriously, but he felt sorry for her. Lesbian or not, just like him or not, she was being bullied, and Seamus didn't like that. Even outside of the fact that he was defending one from his own house, it was just wrong.
So he stood as straight and tall, folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the two Slytherins as fiercely as he could. He felt just a little bit satisfied that their eyes simultaneously widened, Greengrass' hands tightening in the folds of her robes. "You two don't have to be such a pair of bitches, like. For your information, Lavender's coming with me to the ball."
A moment of silence rung through the corridor in which Greengrass and Parkinson's eyes widened further. Parkinson's mouth opened and closed for a moment and though she seemed incapable of speech she seemed to grow more indignant by the second. Neither managed a word, however, before Greengrass abruptly darted a hand out towards her friend, latched her fingers onto her sleeve and tugged her down the hallway. They disappeared with many a backwards glance thrown over their shoulders.
Seamus watched them go until even the sound of their footsteps faded before slowly turning back towards Lavender. He felt his shoulders sag, deflating in the same instant that his arms dropped from their fold and his frown fell in what he'd realised had been a struggle to affix. When his attention turned upon Lavender, he found himself cringing slightly.
She looked a mess, and that in itself was hard enough to deal with. Seamus wasn't good at comforting others and Lavender appeared in sore need of comforting. Her eyes were watery and red-rimmed, her curly hair turning to frizz as though embodying her frazzled state, and her bottom lip still trembled as though she truly were on the verge of tears.
Worse than that, however, was the gratitude thickly pervading her features. Seamus was terrible at dealing with that just as much as he was with tears. How did someone receive such gratitude? What should he do?
He barely had a moment to register the sight of it however before Lavender was gushing. "Thank you. Thank you, Seamus, you – you really helped me. They were being so – so mean, and I didn't know what to do, and Parvati said she'd meet me at Charms because she had to ask Padma something or other but I should have just waited for her and now you – they – Parkinson and Greengrass were really –" She fizzled off into blubbers that weren't quite tears but weren't far off either.
Seamus found himself taking an unconscious step backwards, his hand rising to scratch awkwardly at the back of his head. "Um… I guess you're welcome?"
Lavender sniffled – oh no, she was actually sniffling – but she somehow managed to keep a hold on her wavering self control enough to offer him a wobbly smile. "Really. Thanks." Another sniff, her hand rising to wipe at her eye, before she glanced up at Seamus once more. Or really just glanced at him, for he wasn't any taller than she was. Seamus didn't like the brightening hopefulness of her expression all that much more than her tears. "So, um… this might be a little awkward."
Seamus blinked, confused. "What will be?"
Lavender flushed slightly, and Seamus had to marvel that she'd somehow gone from being teary-eyed and nearly hysterical to shy and blushing. Then all thoughts of such left his mind as she continued. "Well, you've kind of just told two of the biggest gossips in the school that we're going to the Yule Ball together. That won't stay secret for long."
Seamus blinked again. What? Why would -? What? He gave a mental shake of his head. Honestly. Why did girls do that? Sure, boys might tell a fib or an overheard story every now and then – Seamus knew that he himself was more than guilty of doing such – but girls like Lavender, like Parkinson and Greengrass, just seemed to do it so much more often. No, perhaps not even more so much as just… worse. At least when Seamus relayed anything he'd overheard it was quite literally only what he'd heard. From Lavender's words, slightly ominous as they were, he knew that Parkinson and Greengrass wouldn't be spouting it exactly how it was. Which was a shame, really, or at least in some regards; Seamus was quite proud of his Incendio work. He'd always been good with fire.
Lavender was staring at him expectantly with an expression that requested his reply. Seamus didn't know what to say. Should he apologise? He hadn't really have any inclination to ask Lavender to the Ball, or anyone else for that matter. He'd kind of expected to go along with Dean as two bachelor's flying solo and determinedly ignore the fact that if he were going to go with someone it would probably have been a boy. Now he'd gotten himself into a bit of a fix, and all because he'd overheard Lavender being bullied.
No, not just bullied. She'd been taking the brunt of that bullying in the form of accusation for her sexuality. That stung Seamus, hitting just a little too close to home.
Clearing his throat, Seamus resigned himself to the fact that he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He didn't want to go to the Ball with Lavender – or with anyone, really – but then, when she was staring at him like that with her face fading from hope not even slightly as the silence between them ensued, he didn't think he could crush that hope beneath his heel. Seamus was under no illusions that Lavender actually fancied him; he'd never sought a girlfriend and certainly wasn't receptive to one, nor had he overheard talk of anyone taking an interest in him, but she seemed to long to be his date nonetheless.
How embarrassing. If only she knew the real reason for Seamus' hesitancy to find himself a date. Would she be as horrified as he knew his mam would be?
So instead, Seamus took a deep breath and replied. "I guess… would you like to come to the Ball with me, then, Lavender? I mean, officially, like?"
The beaming smile Lavender gave him was positively radiant. Seamus wondered why he felt more than slightly sick.
"So, I heard what happened with Lavender."
Seamus' head snapped up from the Herbology desk immediately at the sound of Hannah's murmur, swinging his attention towards where she'd sat herself at his side. Her face was open and kind as Hannah always was, but there was a distinctly knowing cast to her expression that thoroughly disconcerted Seamus.
Glancing over his shoulder, he spared a sweeping glance around himself to ensure that no one was within listening distance. They weren't; Dean and half of the rest of the class had taken themselves over towards the stands lining the walls to collect their Bubotubers, and were currently in the process of outfitting themselves with protective gloves for just that purpose. The partners left at the table collectively wore expressions of varying degrees of resignation and foreboding for the lesson to come. No one liked the Bubotubers and the mess they made with the exception of perhaps Neville, but then Neville had always been weird when it came to plants.
Leaning into Hannah, Seamus dropped his voice. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said. He hoped he didn't sound as stupidly guilty as he did to his own ears.
Hannah's slight smile only widened more fully, adding that touch of warm sincerity to her otherwise plain face. Thankfully, she kept her own voice low. "I mean with Lavender. And the Slytherin girls. And how you stepped in and told them you were taking her to the ball because they were calling her names, and –"
"Alright, alright, I get it. You know everything, like," Seamus grumbled, sparing another glance over his shoulder for Dean. His friend had been more than surprised to hear that Seamus had 'asked' Lavender to the Ball, his expression an odd mixture of that shock and something else. Seamus wasn't sure whether he should be offended by his incredulity or not, but either way it didn't make him feel comfortable with that knowledge himself. He almost regretted his actions. Almost. "What about it?"
Hannah tilted her head slightly before reaching a hand forwards to pat Seamus on the arm. It was a strangely intimate gesture, even if it did feel entirely platonic, and reminded Seamus a little of how Dean would sometimes similarly express affection through a pat on the shoulder or a nudge with his elbow. Dean wasn't overly prone to physical displays of such affection, even if Seamus was himself – he knew he himself was more than inclined to leap upon Dean at times and wrap him in a hug, or sling an arm around his shoulders, because it was comfortable. That was just how it had always been between them. But even so, Dean would sometimes take the initiative himself with brief touches. It was always in moments of utter sincerity, too, as Seamus fathomed it was in that moment from Hannah.
"I just think it's a really nice thing, what you've done," she said quietly. "Especially considering you didn't want to go with her in the first place."
Seamus didn't know how Hannah knew that but he didn't bother asking. He'd learned quite a long time ago of the intelligence she possessed. Hannah was likely only chosen for her house over Ravenclaw because her innate kindness and fairness trumped that intelligence even further. Shrugging, Seamus turned back to the desk before him and scratched a nail into the pockmarked wood. "It's… whatever. Doesn't really matter, like."
"Maybe not," Hannah said with a nod, "but it's still really nice of you. Even more so as I don't think it would be her as the one you really want to go with."
Seamus glanced at Hannah sidelong, wary suspicion rising as he fiddled with their gardening instruments on the table. "What do you mean by that, exactly?"
"Only that maybe she's not your type."
"Meaning?" Seamus wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer to the question he posed to her. Not really, but he found he couldn't help but ask.
Hannah didn't reply directly. Instead, she cast a glance over her shoulder in Wayne's direction. Her Herbology partner was heading back across the room, Bubotuber clasped gingerly in his hands and held as far from him as possible while still maintaining his grasp. "Just so you know, Wayne didn't want to ask a girl to the Yule Ball either. I ended up saying I'd go with him because he didn't think he could ask who he really liked to go with him and Susan and me are the only ones who knows why."
She turned back to Seamus, eyes widening slightly, meaningfully, to which Seamus could only stare back blankly. After a moment she sighed and shook her head. "I just felt like I should tell you, Seamus. That I know. Or at least I think I know, if my suspicions are correct. I don't want you to think you're entirely alone in this, seeing as I know how pureblood families can be sometimes." Then without another word she turned, smiled brightly at Wayne, and skirted back around the desk to his side once more. Seamus was left staring after her with his miniature shears dangling from his hand until Dean arrived back at his side and prodded him into action.
It took the entire Herbology lesson for Seamus to reach the conclusion that Hannah definitely knew about his dilemma. Knew, had somehow deduced when Seamus had only just realised earlier that year, and seemed alright with it. She didn't appear to have told anyone, and had only mentioned it to him before leaving with a smile and a suggestion of her muteness on the matter.
Seamus didn't know if he was more grateful or horrified for Hannah's revelation. It seemed that gradually more and more people were just happening to realise: first Eoghan, even before Seamus himself, then Hannah. Seamus wondered how much longer his attempts to hide reality would last. It made him sick to contemplate.
The Great Hall had been transformed into an ice palace. Stalagmites and stalactites jutted from every edged surface, the floors where smoothed into non-slip ice for a dance floor, and the general theme of Christmas pervaded the air as thickly as the snowflakes falling from overhead that reached only a middling distance from the ground before dissipating. The usual Christmas trees lined the walls, though the consistent glow of whiteness and unshakeable winter blanketed them in magical snow more thickly than usual.
Scattered throughout the room was a collection of round tables, each seating every student from Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang from fourth year and above. Where the head table usually stood was an exceptionally larger version of itself, including not only all of the professors but also the Triwizard champions. Seamus found himself unable to bite back a snort the first time he looked up and saw Harry sitting next to Parvati. Harry had never liked being in the spotlight and he appeared thoroughly discomforted to be seated on the raised dais. Seamus wondered if he realised how awkward he looked.
Seamus himself was seated half a room away with a horde of his own year mates. He'd made good his claim to bring Lavender to the ball and she was dressed prettily in pale pink dress-robes and a matching, elaborate bow in her hair that Seamus thought was just a little unnecessary. At her side and chattering as fast as Lavender was speaking to her, Padma Patil was turned entirely away from her date, Ron, who in turn appeared to be largely ignoring her to focus upon his dinner and the head table in equal measures. Seamus wasn't sure if his scowl was for something unpalatable on his plate or something up at the head table. Probably the fact that Hermione was the date of Viktor Krum, if the words Seamus had overheard were any indication.
Hermione. With Viktor Krum. Seamus couldn't quite believe that either and didn't let himself look in the direction of the head table more than he had to. Something about Krum just seemed somehow triggering for him, and not in a good way. Too many memories of realisations.
At the rest of their table sat Hannah and Wayne, Neville and Ginny, Justin Finch-Fletchely and Sue Li alongside Megan Jones and Ernie MacMillan, and Dean and Susan Bones. It wasn't the entirety of the fourth year cohort, with most of the Ravenclaws and Slytherins sitting together at an adjacent table, but they made up the majority of two of the houses.
Dean was seated at Seamus' side. They'd been momentarily awkward after Seamus had walked out of the Great Hall some weeks ago before finding Lavender, and even though they still worked together in class, Dean had been even more clearly discomforted when Seamus had told him that he had a date to the Yule Ball. Seamus didn't really understand why; was he jealous that Seamus had gotten a date before him? Or that it was with Lavender? Did Dean fancy Lavender? Surely not. He'd never expressed any interest in her before, not even in their late night discussions in the dormitory of which Seamus had only recently come to understand why he'd found them both discomforting and a little boring.
But no, Dean didn't appear jealous. Seamus doubted Dean ever actually got truly jealous. He wasn't the sort of person to become disgruntled by what others had and he lacked, just as he wasn't the sort to get particularly angry, or to raise his voice. Or to allow an awkward situation to ensue, Seamus realised when he'd so abruptly forced them to overcome their brief, disgruntled spat. It was entirely Dean who had encouraged their resolution. Seamus doubted Dean considered it much of a spat at all, even; he seemed to build a bridge over the disruption and discard it with little enough effort.
Seamus was as surprised that Dean had been about Lavender when he'd heard that he was going with Susan. Surprised, and just a little… what? He didn't know, could only feel a noticeable discomfort in his gut region, but whatever it had been was vanquished moments after Dean had told him.
Adopting his easy grin, Dean had shrugged. "Yeah, well, Susan and me were basically the only two people we knew who didn't have dates yet so we just agreed to go together as friends or whatever. Better than going alone, right?"
Seamus had nodded and agreed readily enough. He couldn't really understand why he felt relieved for the fact but discarded the thought before considering it too deeply. Now he was only relieved that their slight discord had been abated. The Yule Ball would have certainly been less entertaining had he and Dean not been on comfortable terms, especially with Lavender thoroughly distracted with Padma. It appeared that her desire for Seamus to be her date was founded entirely upon her lack of desire to come alone, and after that worry was satisfied she'd effectively discarded him.
Seamus didn't mind. Lavender spoke too loudly and too fast for him to get a word in edgewise anyway. He was more than happy to talk with his Hufflepuff friends instead. And Dean.
"It's called a cummerbund," Dean was saying with exasperation as they finished off their dinner, though he'd long since given up any attempt at maintaining his straight face.
Seamus' grin widened as he poked at his friend's side and the satin sash beneath. "It's like a bloke's version of an old-fashioned corset, is what it looks like."
"It's not a corset, Seam. It's not even tight."
"I'm just saying what it looks like. Why are you even wearing it?"
Dean shrugged, leaning back in his chair a bit to adjust his 'cummerbund'. He was wearing dress robes, as were all around him – black and sleek – but beneath that he'd outfitted himself something of a Muggle tuxedo, tie and all. And cummerbund, which Seamus hadn't been able to quite look past. He'd never known what those things were called.
"Mum sent it to me," Dean said. "I don't question her taste. She's got a good eye for fashion."
Seamus nodded sincerely in reply. At least that he could agree with; Dean really did look good in his dress robes, Muggle suit beneath and all, even if he was probably the only one to be dressed in such a fashion. Seamus wondered if it was weird of him to think that, to appreciate his friend's appearance. Was that wrong? Should he smother such thoughts?
"She does," Susan agreed at his side. She nodded appreciatively, though her crooked smile suggested her words were as teasing as they were sincere. "But I think it's a happy coincidence that you're wearing it. We match, now."
"Did you plan that, like?" Seamus asked, leaning around Dean to raise an eyebrow at Susan. She was wearing deep red dress robes that offset her strawberry blonde hair in a way that didn't clash in the slightest. Seamus didn't think he had much of an eye for fashion either, but he was fairly certain red and redhead wasn't supposed to go together. It didn't work half as well for Ron; he was a disaster of discordant colours.
Susan smirked at him, raising her own eyebrow in return. "What, do you think I have a whole wardrobe of dress robes hanging up in my dormitory that I can swap and change depending on my partner's outfit?"
"I don't know. Do you?"
"I change for no man!" Susan exclaimed in a way that could have been indignant except that she dissolved into laughter a moment later. Hannah offered her an appreciative high-five that she took with a resounding smack that turned a few curious heads.
"Did you change yours, then, Dean?" Wayne asked curiously, ignoring his two best friends' continuation into self-righteous discussion. The usually quiet boy seemed strangely comfortable at the ball and the change was remarkable. He'd dressed himself up in navy dress robes that set off his eyes, managed to tame his dark curls somehow in a way that Seamus would never bother with his own hair – not even or perhaps especially not for a ball – and was leaning forwards with elbows on the table to participate in the conversation more fully. When Seamus glanced towards him, he offered him a small smile that caused Seamus to blink and struggle not to quickly look away. He was friends with Wayne but didn't know him very well. Seamus was closer to Hannah too. And more than that…
He's gay. Hannah didn't say it exactly, but she still basically told me he's gay. Like – like me. How was Seamus supposed to respond to that? Was he supposed to act differently? Was he supposed to see Wayne in a different way? What was expected of him, now that they were essentially and unexpectedly two birds of a feather? More than that, did Wayne know about Seamus? If Hannah knew, had she told Wayne?
Seamus wasn't sure. He wasn't sure what to do, how to think, or how to respond. He was nervous at the prospect of what anyone would think; Wayne, Hannah, Susan, Dean, because God, Dean knowing was terrifying. He was scared, even. Seamus didn't think that he did, that he should, see Wayne any differently, even if he was gay. Even if Seamus' mam always scowled and shook her head, frowning at what she considered as being 'so unnatural' and 'wrong'. Wayne didn't seem unnatural. He didn't see wrong, or even notably different to any other boy in their year. Had Hannah not suggested it, Seamus wouldn't have suspected him to be queer at all. Did that make him daft? Was he just blind to whatever it was his mam saw?
Either way, until he made a firm decision on the matter, Seamus had resolved not to act any differently to how he usually did. It was surprisingly easy when it came to Wayne. He was one of the least demanding people Seamus had ever met, and though he voiced his opinion and requests, such requests were more often fulfilled because he was just a nice bloke and it felt almost wrong not to help him out or take him up on his suggestion. Wayne was, in essence, a typical Hufflepuff.
Instead, Seamus just spared him grin, shrugging aside his touch of awkwardness. "Maybe he did, like. Maybe he has a whole rack of cumberbands in his trunk that I just don't know about."
"It's pronounced cummerbund, Seam," Dean said with a sigh.
Wayne smiled widely back at Seamus. "Can we trust you to be our infiltrator, Seamus?"
Seamus saluted him with a touch of his fork to forehead. "I'll take it as my mission, then."
"You're not getting anywhere near my trunk," Dean warned, though his lips quivered in an attempt to withhold his smile.
"Why? Hiding something?"
"No, I just don't want you touching my stuff."
"I always touch your stuff. You've never had a problem with it before, like."
"I don't 'not have a problem with it'. It's just that you wouldn't stop even if I asked you to."
Seamus waved his fork at Dean triumphantly. "Ah, see? So you admit that there's no way to stop me?"
Dean rolled his eyes as the rest of their friends laughed. "I don't think anyone could stop you from doing anything ever, Seamus."
Dessert arrived shortly after, replacing scraped plates with picture-perfect assemblages of bright colours and dusted icing sugar. Murmurs of appreciation rose as everyone in the hall momentarily hushed their conversations to tuck in.
"I don't even know what this is, but I like it," Hannah said, forking a bite of her sandwich-like dessert into her mouth with a hum.
"Haven't you ever had mille-feuille before?" Susan asked.
"Mille-what?" Dean asked, bemused.
"It's French," Susan clarified.
Seamus nodded, taking a bite of his crumble. "Yeah, sort of like a vanilla slice pastry thing. Or a custard slice, maybe. It's really good."
Dean glanced towards him, eyebrows raised. "How do you know that?"
"Oi, I'm not all ignorant, like."
"I'm not saying you're ignorant, just very Irish."
"Meaning?"
"I didn't realise you actually tried food from other cultures." He dodged as Seamus flicked a piece of his crumble with a well-aimed fire of his spoon. It bypassed Dean and snagged in Susan's hair.
"Thank you for that, Seamus," she said with surprising mildness.
"You're welcome. Any time. Can I have it back, though, like? It's a waste to just get rid of it. It's really good."
"Ew, Seam, don't, that's disgusting," Dean laughed.
Susan, however, pinned Seamus with a stare, plucked the spot of crumble from her hair and promptly ate it. Dean stared at her for a moment before he burst out laughing even more loudly. He wasn't the only one to do so, and Seamus found himself clutching his belly as he bowed over himself in amusement.
"Is that the Weird Sisters?" Seamus heard Ginny ask sometime later from across the table, drawing his attention from where he was smirking at Ron as he stabbed the crumbs of his own mille-feuille with a glare it really didn't deserve. He turned in the direction that he saw Ginny gesture, perking up in delight.
As it happened, it was the Weird Sisters. Then flowed smoothly into the hall as dessert was slowly wrapping up and, to the gradual rise in volume of curious audience, set about adding music to the dining ambiance. Soon it wasn't only their table that had their attention drawn, and Seamus hardly even noticed when the plates vanished from before them.
"Does this mean we get to dance now?" Lavender asked. To Padma, of course, but Seamus shrugged himself. He didn't really need to reply, however, for at an unspoken work – probably some sort of mental command or something from Dumbledore, which Seamus wouldn't put past him – all seated at the head table rose from their seats and descended to ring the dance floor. There was a pause in the music, a slight waver in which the champions stepped forwards as though urged into the open space, and then the music began again.
Harry looked terrified and even more awkward than he had before. Seamus wondered how it was even possible he was scared when he'd faced a dragon and bloody well overcome it barely weeks before but apparently it was. Seamus found himself sniggering and struggling to muffle his chuckles in Dean's shoulder at his side. Dean wasn't helping in the slightest, and mostly because he appeared to be struggling to withhold his own laughter. Dean wasn't a mean person, and he wouldn't tease other people quite as readily as Seamus knew himself guilty of, but it really was pretty hilarious to see the stark terror on Harry's face as he somehow managed to save himself and Parvati from slipping mid-spin.
A nudge at Seamus' side – not from Dean, but from his other side – drew his attention just as the song picked up tempo and volume slightly and a number of other couples rose from their seats to flow onto the dance floor. Seamus glanced towards Lavender at his side as she withdrew her pointy elbow, her head cocked expectantly.
"What?" Seamus asked.
Lavender sighed, exasperated, but when she replied it wasn't cruelly. "Are you going to ask me to dance? You are my date, after all."
Seamus stared at her for a moment. True, he was at that. He'd almost forgotten since she'd basically ignored each and every one of his attempts to make polite conversation throughout the Ball thus far. Now she wanted his attention?
Glancing back at Dean, Seamus couldn't help but spare his friend a glare for the quivering smirk he wore. He turned back to Lavender and forced a smile onto his face. Then, with flamboyant dramatics, he rose to his feet, offered a flourish and a bow and held out his hand. "Well then, me lady, would you care for a dance?"
Lavender, far from her disregard of earlier that evening, actually giggled in true delight and grasped his hand immediately. It was more she than Seamus that led them onto the rapidly filling dance floor. He heard the sound of Dean asking a similar though less extravagant version of his question, and Susan's reply of "About time. I thought you'd never ask. It's been nearly a whole minute, Dean!" and their laughter that followed. Seamus shook his head, smiling.
Lavender, as it turned out, was a very good dancer. Seamus didn't think he was appalling himself, but he certainly wouldn't have managed half as well if she hadn't been his partner. She must have been practicing, that was his only conclusion, and likely with Parvati in their dormitory every night. Seamus would have to ask Hermione if that was true.
They spun and twirled across the floor, drifting with the music in an alternative sort of waltz to the steady beat of the Weird Sisters' music. Seamus recognised the song and could have sung along to it after hearing his mam play it all summer holidays. He found that such familiarity actually helped with his dance steps. A slide this way to that beat, a turn at that moment because it seemed to fit just right. He drew Lavender into a basic progressive step, which Seamus had learned how to do pretty much since he could walk. Such was the life of a pureblood descendant. Lavender kept up with that pretty well too.
"So you can actually dance!" Lavender announced, probably a bit more loudly than was entirely necessary as they took another turn around the room. It seemed to have taken her an entire dance to realise that fact.
Seamus grinned. "You sound so surprised."
"No, I mean you're actually good at it. You haven't stepped on my feet once."
"Is that supposed to be a compliment, like?"
Lavender blushed a little and giggled. It was a bit of an annoying sound, and he'd had far too many years of she and Parvati emitting such noises from the back of the classroom to consider it otherwise, but Seamus found he didn't mind it so much. He wasn't particularly fond of Lavender but she wasn't appalling company. She was just an average sort of girl. A bit annoying, it was true, but not excessively so. Seamus found that, when he'd come to terms with that realisation, he actually managed to have a bit more fun.
As the songs progressed, so did they. Seamus and Lavender swept past Hannah and Wayne, who clutched at one another in an attempt to remain standing throughout their own giggling. Dean and Susan spun and drifted gracefully enough but Seamus wasn't fooled into believing them experts in the slightest; he knew enough about dancing from his upbringing to know that their steps were of the absolute most basic kind. He spied Harry for a moment but only to catch sight of him leading Parvati off the floor, and had to bite back a laugh for the utter sagging relief he'd assumed when he finally slipped between the safety of the tables.
Beauxbaton's students spun like unfurling flowers in their flaring dress robes, those of Durmstrang with a more rigid but still somehow graceful fashion, and the professors swirling through them in a sedate and deliberate manner that reminded Seamus of his Great-Aintín Abigail. It was a study in people-watching as Seamus saw a whole new side of his fellow students. Malfoy, for example, was a remarkable dancer and seemed to be attempting to make a show of it with Parkinson on his arm, while Michael Corner who was always a bit of a stuck up prat seemed to have been born with not two left feet but three for the dexterity he managed to be tripping himself and… was it Turpin he was dancing with? Seamus was pretty sure it was Turpin but he'd never had all that much to do with the Ravenclaws. He pointed them both out to Lavender who nearly tripped over herself for her giggling.
"Oh, I'm glad I'm not with him then," she said, not exactly cruelly but with genuine relief nonetheless.
"Did he ask you?" Seamus asked curiously, turning her around to avoid Cedric Diggory and what looked like a fifth year girl on his arm. Cedric was a pretty good dancer too.
Lavender's smile died with surprising speed as she shook her head. "No. He didn't."
"Oh, right. 'Cause those Slytherins, like –"
"Yeah," she nodded. "Pair of bitches, those two. Merlin, I hate them. Why do Slytherins have to be so mean?"
Seamus didn't know what to say to that. Clearly even after weeks the confrontation still rubbed a little raw. He shuffled them through a couple of steps before managing a reply. "Well, I guess we showed them, then, yeah?"
Thankfully, his words drew a smile from Lavender. A surprisingly warm smile too, that Seamus had never seen directed towards him before. She looked remarkably pretty and far less ditzy in her teenage girly-ness for it. "Yeah, we did. Thanks, Seamus. Really. Thanks." Her smile widened further in a way that made Seamus feel slightly uncomfortable. It seemed to mean something that he couldn't quite comprehend. He brushed the thought aside, however, continuing with their dance.
Seamus wasn't sure how long they'd been on the floor, the first song rolling into a second, then a third and a fourth, before Lavender finally suggested they pause for drinks. With a nod of agreement he allowed her to lead him back towards their table where, surprisingly, most of their friends were already seated once more. Harry and Ron were off to one side a little, talking in hushed tones with the visibly disgruntled Patil twins nearby.
Seamus paused beside his friends as, abruptly distracted from the thought of getting drinks, Lavender hastened towards Parvati and dropped into the seat beside her. They were lost in a whispering exchange in seconds. Seamus didn't really mind. He didn't feel much obligation towards his date anyway. It hadn't even been a real date in the first place, had it? And besides, he'd danced a fair bit with Lavender. She seemed happy enough. He felt that his job was effectively done.
Instead, Seamus fell into the seat beside Dean, breathing out a heavy sigh that blew at his fringe from his eyes. Dean, talking with Hannah at his other side, glanced his way immediately. He raised an eyebrow with a smile. "Your hair's a mess."
"Is my hair ever not a mess, like?"
Dean's smile widened. "True."
"Fair enough, though, I'd say," Hannah said, leaning around Dean to peer at him. "You were dancing for ages."
"Really?" Seamus glanced over his shoulder towards a clock, towards any clock, and drew a blank. "How long?"
"Nearly an hour."
"Seriously?"
Both of his friends nodded fervently and with more than a hint of amusement. Dean folded his arms across his chest, eyebrow rising further. "And you never told me you danced."
Seamus snorted. "I don't dance."
"You do," Hannah reasoned. "You just did."
Shaking his head, Seamus glanced behind him at the table where he'd spied several glasses of sparkling punch. He grabbed one of the fullest and took a sip. "Not really, like. I know the basics but I think it was probably 'cause Lavender knew what she was doing."
"Takes two to tango," Dean said, then frowned. "And that's my cup."
He made a grab for it but Seamus leaned out of the way of his grasping fingers and he gave up easily enough. Hannah watched them with a smile before continuing. "But where did you learn that, anyway? Did you take dancing lessons as a kid or something?"
"Not hardly. Not by choice."
"But you did?" Dean asked incredulity replacing his supposed disgruntlement that Seamus had stolen his glass. Seamus knew he didn't really care, just as he knew that Dean wouldn't have really cared if he'd made good his words and actually searched his trunk for those cumberband-things.
Seamus shrugged. "It's sort of a pureblood tradition thing."
"What's a pureblood tradition?" Susan asked, leaning into Hannah from where she'd been embedded in conversation with Wayne.
"Dancing," Dean said.
Susan laughed in a bark of genuine amusement. Her eyes sparkled as they fastened upon Seamus. "Oh, sucks for you. You have old blood in your family, then?"
Seamus couldn't even be bothered to frown with annoyance that he didn't feel. He shrugged again and drained Dean's drink. "Don't you too?"
Susan shook her head. "My mum's grandma was pureblood but she wasn't that strict with sticking to their ways. Wayne's more of a pureblood than I am."
"Not really," Wayne said, leaning forwards in his seat as well. "My family hasn't been all that strict with pureblood traditions for generations, even if my mum is a full-pureblood."
"That is so unfair, like. How come I'm the only one who had to learn to dance when I was growing up?" Seamus pouted, but his friends' laughter alleviated any flutter of irritation from him. He found himself laughing and shaking his head alongside them.
They didn't end up going back onto the dance floor. Not by choice but simply because they were distracted by discussion. Seamus found himself enjoying the Hufflepuffs' company more and more the longer he spent with them. It was the first time he'd spent any time with them outside of a classroom or studying environment, and he found himself regretting not doing so before. They really were very nice, even if Susan did have such a sharp wit and intelligence that made him feel like he risked cutting himself whenever he spoke a dangerous comment to her.
Harry and Ron didn't join them, and when Seamus glanced in Lavender's direction he found that she'd disappeared with Parvati somewhere. Padma had vanished too, leaving only his dorm mates who didn't appear to have noticed their absence at all.
"Me dates up and disappeared," he said idly to his friends. Dean and Wayne had rearranged themselves so that they now sat either side of him. Or, more correctly, Dean and Wayne with Hannah on top of Wayne because she'd draped herself around her friend as though it were the most natural thing to do it the world. Which it wasn't. Seamus couldn't imagine himself doing that to Dean, even if he was a girl. Or at least… he did hug him sometimes, or sling an arm around his neck, or lean against him and maybe a little atop of him when they were sitting on the couch or whatever, but that was different.
Susan leaned around Dean from where she'd slid up to the seat at his side and glanced in Harry and Ron's direction. "Huh. Are you that much of an appalling date, Seamus? I thought you were doing well with the dancing."
"Oh, he did fine," Hannah said, sparing Seamus a smile as though she worried that Susan had hurt his feelings. "Lavender just got distracted with Parvati. I think Parvati was a bit upset that Harry didn't want to dance with her again."
"Well, they didn't dance for very long," Wayne said.
Seamus shrugged. "Some people just don't like dancing, like. There's nothing wrong with that."
"You can hardly count yourself as one of those sort of people though, can you, Seam?" Dean teased with a smirk.
"Shut up."
"Does anyone actually want to go for another round?" Susan asked. "I'm kind of in the mood to do something but I'm not sure if it's dancing."
"We could just go for a walk outside or something?" Wayne suggested. "Get away from the noise a little?"
Seamus glanced between his friends as they all shrugged and nodded in varying degrees of assent. Then he stood up immediately; Seamus wasn't much for staying still for too long and though he had been fine for the last however long – had it really been nearly another whole hour of sitting? His quick Tempus Charm said it had been but it hardly felt like it – the prospect of getting up and doing something was enticing. Seamus was leading everyone from the hall before Hannah had even fully climbed off Wayne to follow.
It was cold outside. Freezing, actually, or at least it was until Hannah had the bright idea to cast Warming Charms upon all of their robes. That drove away the worst of it and made it actually somewhat pleasant to walk in crunching steps through the snow, breathing puffy clouds before them as they went. The grounds appeared empty but the trails of disappearing footprints suggested they weren't the first people to take a break from the castle.
Seamus found himself falling into step beside Dean as the three Hufflepuffs dropped behind them, not separate but just in an easier fashion. Seamus suspected it had something to do with the fact that he and Dean ploughed a path through the snow for them but he didn't care. So long as they had the Warming Charms firmly affixed, it didn't really matter, even if Seamus did felt his robes becoming damp.
They were silent for a time, simply drinking in the absence of noise but for the distant echoes radiating from the castle. Dark and silent and kind of relieving. Seamus quite liked the Weird Sisters, and he generally liked being in the thick of things too, but sometimes it was just nice to get out of it all. The sound of the Hufflepuffs' laughter, their voices made slightly unintelligible as they fell behind a ways, suggested they appreciated the reprieve just as much.
"You know, I thought the Yule Ball might have been a bit of a flop, like, what with all the whole 'trying to prove we're good enough' act that the professors are doing," Seamus finally said.
He felt more than saw Dean glance towards him. "What do you mean?"
Seamus shrugged. "Just that, say, McGonagall for instance seems pretty keen to make a good impression with the other schools and stuff. I thought the Ball might end up being, like, a stuffy prat-fest."
Dean snorted with laughter. "Is that even a word?"
Seamus grinned as he glanced towards him. "Who cares?"
They were silent for a moment before Seamus was urged to speak by another passing thought. "Did you and Susan actually dance for that long?"
Dean shrugged a shoulder, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, for a bit. Neither of us are much good at dancing."
"Yeah, I know. It was kind of obvious, like."
Dean butted him with a shoulder. "Hey, you, what's the whole superior act?"
"It's not superior, like. You're good at drawing and stuff, Dean, but you're a shit dancer."
Dean actually tipped his head backwards in his laughter. Seamus couldn't help but join in. There was something so infectious about Dean's laugh when he truly lost himself in it. Seamus was always attempting to provoke such a response from him. He liked making others laugh but Dean most of all.
"Thanks for that," Dean said sarcastically a moment later, though he still smiled. "I really appreciate the honesty."
"Any time."
"So I suck at dancing just like you suck at drawing?"
"Pretty much," Seamus said with a further widening of his grin.
Dean gave another snort of laughter. "You're not supposed to just accept that so easily. Come on, fight me on it."
"What's the point, like? It's true and all."
They fell silent for another moment, Seamus glancing over his shoulder at the sound of Susan's laughter. The Hufflepuffs had fallen more than ten steps behind and he could barely hear a hint of their murmured words at all.
Before he knew what he was saying, Seamus spoke. "Say Dean. Do you fancy Susan?"
Dean slowed in step for a moment to glance over his own shoulder. He shook his head quickly enough, however, and started up at a brisk pace once more. "No. No, I don't think so. She's really great and everything but I don't really like her like that."
Seamus nodded. He could understand that. He felt the same way about Susan, though probably for a slightly different reason to Dean. Susan was a nice person, just like her two friends, but he doubted he'd ever think of her like that. Was being gay permanent? Was it a sort of fixed state that Seamus was stuck with or did he sort of… grow out of it over time? Merlin, he hoped he grew out of it, if only because he didn't want to think of what his family would say if they found out he didn't.
"What about you, then?"
Dean's question drew Seamus from his thoughts. He glanced towards him. "What about me?"
"Do you fancy Lavender?"
Seamus was laughing before he could contain the urge. He shook his head fervently. "No way, not at all. She's not as annoying as I thought she was, but I still – like, she's still annoying, yeah? Nah, I don't fancy her." It wasn't the main reason, Seamus knew – he didn't know if he could fancy girls that way, and he certainly never had before – but Lavender's simpering annoyance would surely drive him insane if he had to be around her as much as a boyfriend was supposed to be.
Seamus shoved the thought aside, tamping down the discomfort that always arose at the thought as Dean obliviously nodded in commiseration. "I'll agree to that. I mean, she's not mean of anything. Just –"
"Annoying?"
"Yeah. And in class when her and Parvati are giggling in the back of the room it's kind of –"
"Annoying?"
"Yeah, pretty much. Or in Divination, when they get all up in arms about Trelawney's skills that she completely lacks. It's really just –"
"Annoying?"
Dean rolled his eyes at Seamus, the gesture barely visible for the lights dancing across the grounds and illuminating the snowy plane as they made their way around the school. "Can't you come up with a better description than that?"
Seamus snickered but otherwise didn't comment. Dean continued a moment later. "You know, though, the Hufflepuff girls are all really nice. Even if I don't fancy Susan…"
He trailed off and Seamus felt his gaze snap immediately towards him. For some reason, the thought Dean fancying someone made him feel uncomfortable and agitated in a way that was strangely similar to how he felt when he thought about his… problem. He knew he would have to accept it, that he'd have to accept both of them some day because one, Dean surely wouldn't stay single for long – he really was a top bloke – and two, Seamus really wasn't sure if people ever stopped being gay. But still, it didn't feel good. Not at all. Seamus couldn't explain why. Maybe because it felt like his friend would be taken away from him.
Swallowing, Seamus struggled with his decision to speak the thought that arose in his mind. "Do you fancy Hannah, then, like?"
The speed of Dean's response was somehow relieving. He shook his head immediately, smiling a little ruefully. "No, and I doubt I ever will, either. Nor her me."
Seamus blinked at him for a moment before frowning. "Hey, why not? You're great, why wouldn't she -?"
"I'm retty sure she has a thing for Wayne, Seam," Dean said as though it were obvious.
Seamus stared at him. No. No, that wasn't right. Hannah didn't fancy Wayne, nor he for her. To Seamus it seemed obvious; she hung off Wayne but it wasn't in a romantic way in the slightest. But maybe that was just because he knew it wouldn't happen? That Wayne didn't like girls and Hannah knew and somehow accepted that?
Seamus was shaking his head before he'd even spoken. "No, I don't think so. They're just friends, like."
Dean arched an eyebrow at him, slowing in step so he could turn more fully towards Seamus. "Just friends?"
"Yeah. Just friends."
"You know that?"
"I know that."
"You've asked them?"
Seamus bit back the urge to retaliate with a demand to know why Dean cared. He felt himself growing frustrated for some reason and it worried him that he didn't know exactly why. "No, I haven't, but Hannah told me anyways." It was technically true, if a little bit of a skewed truth.
Dean actually paused in step. His gaze switched back towards the Hufflepuffs, even further behind now but slowly catching up as Seamus and Dean had slowed their own steps. His expression was contemplative. "Maybe you're right. I guess… well, I guess there's kind of a pretty fine line between friends and boyfriend and girlfriend, right?"
Seamus found himself nodding before he really heard Dean's words. Nodding and then processing.
Suddenly, it hit him like a charging hippogriff.
Friends and boyfriend and girlfriends. That they weren't that different. That sometimes, Seamus knew, friends became boyfriend and girlfriend. That such relationships could grow from such and that they were likely stronger for the pre-existing friendship. That Seamus knew for a fact that his own parents had been that way first.
Seamus found himself staring up at Dean instead of towards their friends. He stared and rapidly fell prey to growing horror, because he thought he understood now. He thought he knew why he didn't want Dean to get a girlfriend. People who were gay, they got a boyfriend or girlfriend just the same way as normal people did, right? So that would mean… that could mean that… that if Seamus thought like that about Dean –
A sickening tightness squeezed Seamus' gut. Sickening, painful, and flooding him with horror. It wasn't so much a could. Not in this case at least. With Dean… when Seamus thought about it that way, when he looked at his friend that way…
Yes, he could very much see it. Very, very much. And as soon as he did, Seamus realised he wanted it. He wanted it badly.
It was horrible.
Without another word, without a second thought, Seamus turned on his heel and flung himself across the grounds at a run. Dean's startled cry followed him a moment later, calls from he and the Hufflepuffs of "Seamus, what's wrong?" and "Are you alright?" Seamus didn't pause. He didn't even look over his shoulder for fear of what he would see. That he might look at Dean and… and… and what? He didn't know but he didn't want to find out.
They'd made it most of the way around the castle in their wandering so it wasn't a long flight back to the Entrance Hall. Seamus spilled into the warmth that chewed through Hannah's fading Warming Charm and sped up the right-hand stairwell towards the nearest bathroom. He burst through the door and nearly fell into the sink as he made a grab for it. A moment later and he was splashing water on his face, gasping in heavy breaths, trembling slightly and bowed over the faucet.
It was horrible. He was horrible. Seamus felt disgusting. Did he –? God, did he really –?
Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. Seamus couldn't look in the mirror; he didn't want to see the person who looked back at him. He felt utterly repulsed by himself. It felt like a betrayal, of Dean, of their friendship, of his mam and his family, though what they really had to do with anything Seamus didn't know. He only knew that if he told any of them, if he admitted any of this to them, they would be horrified.
Seamus felt like he was going to heave, the contents of his dinner roiling in his gut. His hands felt clammy, his knees shook and it was likely only his hold upon the ceramic edge of the faucet that kept him standing.
Horrible. Disgusting.
Seamus' legs didn't last long. In short order he found himself sinking to the ground and it was only with half a mind that he managed to drag himself towards the nearest wall. It was pathetic to be so suddenly jelly-legged and debilitated, but Seamus couldn't help himself. And really, so long as Dean wasn't around to see, he didn't care. He didn't even want to think about why it was suddenly so important that Dean didn't see him.
Seamus wasn't sure how long he sat there. After a time he curled his knees to his chest and dropped his forehead onto them. Squeezing his eyes closed, he clocked out the wan light that reflected off the bathroom tiles. Regardless of how long he sat, it didn't seem to make a difference. He still felt disgusting.
After some indeterminate time, however, the door to the bathroom opened. It swung fully open nearly silently before Seamus had even managed to open his eyes. He did at the sound of squeaky hinges, just to make sure that it wasn't Dean. Just to give himself a moment of preparation if it was.
It wasn't Dean. For some stupid reason, even through his relief, Seamus was just a little saddened by that. For some stupid, stupid reason.
It was Wayne. His friend Wayne, the boy who had become his sort-of friend gradually over the year or so and who Seamus still didn't really know all that well. He looked slightly out of breath, which Seamus detachedly wondered at, but it wasn't until his gaze fastened on Seamus that he really seemed to sag with some kind of weariness.
Without a word, Wayne slipped through the door, crossed the room and slowly lowered himself to the ground beside Seamus. He didn't speak for a long moment, either, and Seamus wasn't sure whether that made things better or worse. Seamus struggled to look at him, to glance even vaguely in his direction. He'd only just managed to when Wayne spoke.
"Seamus, what happened? Are you alright?"
Wayne was almost always softly spoken. Soft-spoken and kind, and gentle, and as innately Hufflepuff as Hannah that it really was a little unfortunate that he didn't fancy her because they would have made the perfect house couple. He was a few inches taller than Seamus as just about every boy in their year but Harry was, but for some reason seemed smaller for his quietly unobtrusive manner.
He was distinctly calming, though, and despite the queasiness that still touched Seamus' stomach, the discomfort that made his want to writhe in his own skin, Seamus did actually feel soothed. Soothed and, strangely enough, like he wanted to answer Wayne's question. Wayne had that effect on people. Seamus had never been on the receiving end of such before but he knew that Wayne wielded a certain type of natural magic in that regard. He made people want to act as he asked them to just because.
"I…" Seamus' voice was a croak, wavering slightly, and it was a struggle to get even that feeble word out. He swallowed as he closed his eyes once more, raising a clenched fist to butt against his forehead as though he might actually be able to knock some sense into himself. It didn't work, unless he considered the abrupt need to spill forth his problem 'sense'.
Because he did. Suddenly, Seamus wanted to tell someone. He hated keeping his thoughts and feelings a secret, hated being alone in something that, he would admit to himself at least, terrified the hell out of him. The words spilled forth a moment later. "Wayne, I think I might be gay."
Silence met his words. Silence but for their echo, though Seamus wasn't sure if they resounded so because they ricocheting off the bathroom tiles or because they simply rung so deafeningly in his ears. He couldn't open his eyes, not to look at Wayne, not to behold the world that he felt suddenly knew. Instead, he only thumped at his head with his fist and attempted to grasp onto some sort of composure. He didn't think it worked but he didn't stop trying to reach for it.
Not until he felt a hand on his shoulder, however, which drew his gaze towards the boy sitting next to him. Seamus almost didn't want to behold his expression, fearing what he might see. Sure, Wayne might be gay too, but what of it? He might still think Seamus was disgusting for being such a way, mightn't he? What if he did? What if he'd now found out and would tell everyone? What if everyone found out?
Seamus was stupid for thinking that way. He was stupid and, in the moment he met Wayne's gaze, their softness, the gentle and slightly sad little smile upon his lips, he knew that Wayne would never hate him for that. He'd probably never hate anyone for being gay. Not even himself.
Still, even with that suspicion, Seamus felt his breath knocked out of him by the words he spoke a moment later. "Yeah, I know, Seamus. I know. And that's really, really alright."
It was… it really was astounding. Truly. Seamus didn't really understand how Wayne knew, or how he could so easily accept it of Seamus, but he couldn't make his thoughts restart from their sluggish crawl to work it out. A second later, however, even that attempt was thrust to the side, because Wayne, kind, gentle, calming Wayne, leaned forwards and oh-so-softly pressed his lips against Seamus'.
Seamus couldn't really think about anything after that.
|
Saturday. 1st of November
Dear Diary,
Potter and Weasley are reckless idiots who will meet an early death. And they'd better not because if they do I'll relive them and kill them myself for dying. When I told them that Longbottom said I sounded like his grandmother. They all laughed, I guess you have to meet her to get the joke. Granger tried to explain it to me, something about jewish mothers ?
Sunday 2nd of November
Dear Diary,
I forgot to explain why Potter and Weasley are idiots. So, Friday night, when we were all supposed to get back to the dormitories because of the troll loose in the dungeons, these two baboons decided they had to go warn Granger since she was locked in the bathroom and didn't know about the damn troll. They could have go to a teacher but no they took it upon themselves because Weasley was ashamed of the reason Granger was in the bathroom. From what Eileen told me I reckon Weasley said to Potter that Granger was an insufferable know-it-all and didn't deserve friends. Anyway she seems to have forgiven him after he and Potter battled the troll in the bathroom. THEY ALMOST DIED FIGHTING A TROLL. They're crazy. Damned Gryffindors.
Monday 3rd of November
Dear Diary,
It's become so cold last night I couldn't feel my toes. Good thing I brought heavy woolen socks. The moutains surronding Hogwarts grounds are icy and the lake chilled steel (I wonder if we could iceskate on it ? Observing the submarine in the lake from the lake is even more fascinating). I'm almost certain my hair will freeze tonight during the Astronomy lesson. And of course I won't have any of the products I'll need to make them beautiful again.
Wednesday 5th of November
Dear Diary,
Hogwart's Quidditch season will open this Saturday. I'm so excited ! It means that this year I'll have the opportunity to watch six games of Quidditch. Six !! On an other note, there are people in the school telling Ha...Potter they'll be running around underneath him holding a mattress during the match. I don't mind the ones saying he'll be brilliant even though it stresses me a bit, but he will be brilliant. I don't get why people are so mean to him !! Okay he's a first year and the school made an exception but MacGonagall chose him and she never does exceptions for anyone. Potter doesn't do anything about it, I'll guess I'll have to take matters into my own hands.
Thursday 6th of November
Dear Diary,
It is done. No one will send him jibes from now on. Pucey and O'Mara helped. The Slytherin reputation was enough. Our murderous faces helped too I'd say. I'm not sure Potter noticed it. He never notices anything unless it's right under his nose, anyway.
Friday 7th of November
Dear Diary,
I'm a bit concerned about Potter. He's really restless and he can't get his nose out of Quidditch Through the Ages, like it contains the secret to his match tomorrow. Don't get me wrong, it's a very good book and very interesting but clinging to it so much might be unealthy. Anyway, Professor Snape came by Potter, Weasley and Granger earlier in the courtyard and he made up some rule about not taking books outside of the castle and confiscated it. I met up with them in a corridor (I wanted to cheer Potter up before tomorrow) and when I saw him being so upset I offered to lean him my copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. I hope he'll be okay tomorrow on the pitch...
Saturday, 8th of November
Dear Diary,
Here we are, Saturday morning, freezing to death. I'm sitting as close as possible to Hagrid. He's really warm. Longbottom is sitting on the other side of him probably for the same reason but also because he reassures him (and Longbottom is really afraid that Potter will injure himself). Granger, Weasley and Black are sitting next to him. Finnigan and Thomas (Dean Thomas) are on my other side, holding Finnigan's banner "Potter for President". So, yes I am indeed sitting in the Gryffindor's seats during a Gryffindor vs Slytherin match. I don't know if Pucey and O'Mara will ever forgive me. But maybe if the rest of the team wasn't made of giant piles of goo without brains I would support them. And anyway I only obliged when Finnigan asked me to come because I helped with the banner. I didn't do much, really. It was his idea and he drew it and Granger enchanted it. I only helped him pick the colors for Potter's delicate complexion and wonderful green eyes. Finnigan was going with a skin a bit too light and eyes a bit too dark, like green forest instead of new herb with a dash of hazelnut. It's beginning !
Lee Jordan is commenting. He's funny but not really impartial. I wonder why they choose him. Professor MacGonagall doesn't seem to like his comments.
I THINK POTTER'S BROOM HAS BEEN BEWITCHED !!! It's been jumping everywhere as if it wanted Potter to fall. Neville is sobbing, Finnigan and Thomas are standing and holding hands (I don't know if they've noticed). Hagrid is wondering out loud what's going on, Black, Granger and Weasley are angrily whispering. I feel a bit left out.
Harry's alive ! Gryffindor won, Harr..Potter caught the snitch in his mouth (he's crazy). We're all having a cup of tea at Hagrid's. Granger is trying to convince him that it was Professor Snape bewitching Harry's broom. He thinks that doesn't make any sense for a teacher to curse a student even though Granger claims it stopped when she light the Potions Master on fire (yeah. She. Light him. On fire. Crazy Gryffindor) I agree with Hagrid: if our head of House wanted us to win so bad he would have hired me as Seeker when I asked. Or he would have made O'Mara Captain and had fired Flint. Him cursing Potter doesn't make any sense. SOMEONE CURSED HIS BROOM HOW DARE THEY ???
Sunday, 9th of November
I STILL CAN'T BELIEVE SOMEONE BEWITCHED POTTER'S BROOM. I DON'T KNOW WHO DID IT BUT I'LL KILL THEM AND NO ONE WILL FIND THE BODY EVER
Monday, 10th of November
Dear Diary,
Yesterday Hagrid told us that what the three-headed dog is guarding is "between Nicholas Flamel and Dumbledore". He also said it (the dog) was named Fluffy. I wonder if he's crazy too. Anyway Weasley, Granger and Potter have been looking everywhere for Nicholas Flamel (except where they should). Their struggle really is hilarious.
Tuesday, 11th of November
Dear Diary,
Today I asked B...Eileen for help regarding the Crabbe and Goyle matter, again. We came up with some ideas :
-Ask them to find a book about Sign language in the library (I know there isn't one but they barely know how to read so it would take them off me for a while)
-Feed them to the Squid (but I don't want to see parts of their corpses floating in the Black Lake.)
-Write to their parents and ask them to release their sons from their obligation to follow me (chances are they're probably stubborn too)
-Make Crabbe and Goyle marry Bullstrode and Parkinson so they all can debate exactly how awful muggles and muggleborns are (I think Crabbe and Goyle would just grunt but then I grunt a lot around these girls and they always say that makes for a lovely chat. Even though a lovely chat is Potter asking me about what broom he should ask for Christmas, not Parkinson and Bullstrode telling me I should "keep better company")
Saturday 15th of November
Dear Diary,
The december issue of The Wiz's life is talking about rare winter flowers. So I showed it to Crabbe and Goyle and told them I needed them all for an evil Potions that would suit my evil purposes. They looked blankly at the page, so I made a copy of it and gave it to them. I know ghey won't find these flowers none of them is from Scotland.
Wednesday 18th of November
Dear Diary,
My scheme to have Crabbe and Goyle leaving me alone is...not going well. So far they've brought me eight winter roses and something I think was supposed to stay attached to its branch in the Green House because it started dripping a yellow sticky stubstance that turned their hands a sickly green. They had to go to the infirmary. At least I'm rid of them for now but I might get in trouble...
Saturday 21st of November
Dear Diary,
We had a looong talk with Pucey and O'mara. At first it was about Quidditch tactics and then about O'Mara's scheme to take Flint's position and at the end we were talking about the Crabbe and Goyle problem. They exchanged a mischievious look amd told me to not worry anymore. I am slightly afraid at what they might do (from their look I would bet killing them) but then I wouldn't ne the one in trouble. My chances of entering the Quidditch team will be greatly reduced if O'Mara is caught, though...
Monday 23rd of October
Dear Diary,
I just received a letter from Dora. She's done touring France and is now in Belgium. She said they all are extra nice and that their chocolates are the best. She told me they invented the Chocolate Frogs, I didn"t know that. Also she suspects Belgian wizards of enchanting their chocolates, waffles, fries and beers because they're too good. I think she only has a sweet tooth. Oh and she won't be there for Christmas. I haven't been home for three months but she won't be there. She sucks. I hope she eats so much she turns into a huge cow.
Wednesday 25th of November
Dear Diary,
Longbottom was telling us again how much he is not a real Gryffindor because he's not really brave and the Sorting Hat must be broken (by the way Potter looked greenish at that point, probably ate something bad). Anyway I usually just roll my eyes but this time I couldn't handle it anymore so I explained to Longbottom that he's more brave than he thinks, facing Snape every week even though the guy bullies him. Of course clumsy Potter then asked how was that a brave thing and "does Snape really frightens you that much ?". I swear to Merlin that boy is sometimes as thick as a brick. For once Weasley got annoyed with him and said that of course, have you ever seen how Longbottom can't eat a thing on Thursday nights and Friday mornings ? I mentionned how he always turned green before Potions and how happy he was once the lesson was done. I concluded saying to Longbottom than facing your worst fear every week and not fleeing to the Infirmary by faking an injury, not even once, was the bravest thing in the world. I think I saw a gleam of admiration in Potter's eyes once he had all the facts. Weasley and Granger looked pleased with my speech. Eileen looked so proud for a minute I thought I was her son that just graduated with the honors. Also I think Longbottom now worships me.
Saturday 28th of November
Dear Diary,
I can't believe Potter, Granger and Weasley are still looking for Nicholas Flamel. But again, the books they've been going throuh are : Great Wizards of the Twentieth Century, Notable Magical Names of Our Time, Important Modern Magical Discoveries, and A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry. So everything about modern wizards when they're looking for someone who is 500 years old (or something). It's hilarious, really.
|
CHAPTER 24
We sat on his bed with his fingers of one hand playing with the ends of my hair, his touch, gentle, soothing sifts followed by short tugs. He wore soft loose pants and no shirt. This gave me a wide expanse of stormy gray chest to stare at. And I most certainly was. It was a work of art, not anything like eight pack abs, something more resembling a Gordian knot. Strong curved muscles wove over and under each other and I couldn't process the physics of it. Without even thinking twice I reached out and touched. I felt him still completely but it didn't caution me in the least. My hand brushed the all that smooth hardness in front of me and I felt a tumble of movement like rapids in a canyon. I placed both palms flat on him and looked at him in wonder.
"It's amazing! What am I feeling?!"
"Darkness, power." He studied me with mercury eyes, "You are so reckless."
I shot backwards but didn't get far when the tight pull on my scalp stopped me, "I'm sorry. I should have asked." Although why I felt I should have probably had more to do with his temper. Our reactions were not alike when it came to so many similar behaviors that we exchanged between each other.
His reply wasn't to acknowledge my apology, "I now fully understand everything that has happened to you and will continue to happen to you." He slowly unclenched his fist from around my hair and lowered his hand.
I grew flustered and felt my face redden. He was being condescending again. I was sure of it. I turned my head to the side to avoid looking at him. The lightest touch of his finger and thumb on my chin had me following his movement to look back towards him. I bit my lip hard, unwilling to voice my insecurities in a verbal attack at him.
He dropped his hand only when he was satisfied that my gaze would stay on his and started talking. "Ezra's request took up so much of my time in research. I almost put you back in the depths of Ila's files because I simply didn't believe what I was reading. So full of anger, kindness, and recklessness. The combination of which opposed the normal and solely justified behaviors of hunters. You were one of two that I called my brothers into the office for." He gently pushed on my shoulder with one finger in a request for me to lay on my side. It wasn't until we lay face to face that he continued.
"Can you guess what they told me?"
My answer was to look at him in inquiry. Shorn telling me his thoughts was worth the silence I held.
"The ones that met you on the outskirts of their temporary bindings said you interacted differently than other hunters. You weren't instantly weary, didn't acknowledge them as a threat. After talking with you my brothers felt that you saw them as a being of worth. They told me that they wouldn't want to kill you because of who you are, not only because of what you are." He snorted at me, "Some of them were so irate with your kindness that they went out of their way to anger you."
I couldn't keep the noise of disbelief from erupting out of my mouth.
"Do you doubt me?"
"No, but how do you know they told you the truth, because there was no 'some' about it, Shorn, all of them went out of their way to harass me. I chose to ignore it."
His face hardened in displeasure, "They know better than to lie to me. And you ignored it so well that they had to push you. It was in their best interest to determine if you were blissfully unaware, employing a charade, or," his touch was fleeting on my cheek, "gods help us, sincere."
I scowled and mumbled, "It's no more than what you did when you called Oldavai and me into your office."
He gave me a half smirk and tugged on my arm, "Get closer."
I moved in.
"Closer."
I looked askance, "We are close."
His eyes hooded and his arm pulled me in hard and fast.
"Oof," my hands smacked into his chest. "That's close."
He placed his chin on top of my head, "You want to instigate touch, so touch. You will always have my permission to touch."
My arm tentatively moved over his ribcage and in response his leg curled up and around me. My own leg naturally glided between his while the fingertips of one hand grazed gently over his back. The other semi-trapped one between the bed and his body glided over his shoulder. It found its place curled around his neck with my fingers threaded in his hair. I felt him relax, inch by inch.
His voice whisper soft, barely disturbed the silence, "Remember, Dove, I have the same permission to do so to you."
I had been subject to that in so many little moments, being aware that he stopped asking for my consent. The ramifications of his thought process weren't lost on me and, as this was Shorn, I knew I needed to be on guard before I let him sneak in so far that he was in control before I even realized it. Refusing to let these meanderings keep me awake, I snuggled my face into the hollow of his neck and let myself take advantage of the peaceful sleep he always afforded me.
He was gone when I woke, but the portal remained open into his office where he sat at his desk diligently working, a quill in hand. I heard him sigh as he looked up at the door.
"Enter."
A woman in auburn robes entered and shut the door behind her. She pulled back her hood and nodded to him. "Have you given any thought to our proposal?"
He placed the quill down and tapped his desk with one of his fingers. "Did it ever enter your self-absorbed mind why your circle gave this mission to you?"
I heard cracks of electricity as she verbally defended herself, "I'm not self-absorbed!"
I knew he was smiling his tight smile. I could hear it in his voice when he replied to her. "Think of it as a hazing."
She grew flustered, "I have no idea what you're talking about. Will you take him to Hell or not?"
My entire body grimaced at her bluntness.
Shorn continued his tapping, "No one else would dare ask me that. I do not take beings into Hell, but if you would like to know where I take them, I will be happy to drop you off. As for your sorcerer, he is no threat."
Her face reddened, matching her robe, "He will be your problem soon."
"Are you sure you are not the problem?"
"What do you mean?!" she retorted with indignation.
"Go away and think about it, Miranda."
She sputtered and Shorn picked up the quill, his fingers flitting through the feather.
"I do not know what game your circle is playing but advise them to stop. I do not appreciate it and they may find themselves on the receiving end of a manipulation gone wrong. As for your imaginary problem, kill the sorcerer or put him in the prison, like we all do to our own trouble makers. Now, please leave."
She didn't leave, but with her hand raised it looked like she was starting an incantation.
I watched the subtle realignment of Shorn's back. The movement told me how angry he was even though none of it reflected in his tone as he calmly asked, "How sure are you that you can use your magic in my office?"
Although I firmly believed that Shorn could handle this without violence, I was positive that he had passed that point. I had no intention of ruining my morning or dealing with the repercussions of him in a bad mood. As far as I was concerned, it was my calling to be a mediator between his race and others, at times a protector if needed.
I stepped into his domain and listened to his neck and shoulders creek and pop. "Good morning," I said pleasantly and walked towards him. I twirled my fingers through his hair and trailed my fingertips down his now slightly spiny neck.
Miranda's face registered shock at my arrival. I watched her immediately lower her hand, trails of blue electricity following the movement. I'm not sure if her reaction was because I was a witness or because I startled her so badly when I stepped out of nothingness. My guess it wasn't because I was a witness.
A grumbling started low in Shorn's chest until it spilled out of his mouth in a stuttering growl that had a residual feel of inevitable despair in it, it wasn't his despair. A little trill of fear speared me, but I didn't move and didn't change my expression. Her own terror swallowed my own.
I smiled kindly at her, "I believe he gave you his answer, his advice, and politely asked you to leave."
The sorceress looked from him to me and back to him. Her face an open series of quickly made decisions on how to salvage her pride. I was grateful it was only a nod and door slam on the way out.
Shorn lowered his head to stare at his desk. He was so good at hiding from me, but I figured he was probably exasperated with my interference. I decided to speak quickly before he lectured me.
"I have enjoyed being with you and I don't like to see you angry, heaven knows I irritate you enough." I continued, "Is threatening each other the norm at this office or are you just special?"
I watched his entire upper body rise and fall with deep breaths, his head still lowered. Not sure if he wanted me to touch him while he was in such a mood, I dropped my hand from his neck. We stayed in the moment for several minutes while he seemed to shove all his adrenaline back into the fist of his self-mastery.
Finally he spoke, "What would you have done had she used offensive magic against me?"
I chose to touch him again as an additional reassurance with my next words. It was my hope that he would believe I would not have fought against him. My hand settled on his shoulder, "I would have stood by your side."
He finally turned his bright silver eyes to mine and stood up. Slowly he put his hand behind my head as if giving me time to step away. I didn't. "Reckless and kind."
And yet another staring contest between the two of us, our breath mingling from inches away. This time I wasn't sure what was going on in his head until he said it.
His finger touched my lips in the softest of caresses across them, "I'm going to kiss you now."
His lips were on mine before I even had a second to acknowledge or even process his words. It was a ferocious kiss. Dominating and biting kiss. So at odds with the way he touched my lips with his finger. He spun me so my butt leaned against his desk and lifted my body, sliding it further and forcing me down as he climbed over me. His arm swiping anything off to the ground that got in his way. In no time at all my back was flush on its slick, obsidian surface and he was straddling my hips. I quickly brought my hands up to grip the forearms framing me that held him aloft. I'd like to think we both were surprised at the direction this was headed, but I wasn't sure.
He looked at me with an expression as if I was his last meal. It was exciting and completely unnerving, and I was startled by my insides clenching in lust and tension. I shivered, then my shirt evaporated. I barely got out the start of a word before his mouth was back on mine. I let him shut me up because I was so lost in that open mouthed kiss. He forced his tongue past my lips and swirled it around every inch he could touch. A whisper of a growl trickled out as sharp teeth pressed in dangerously where they touched my face. I didn't even remember what I was going to say.
I felt the grip of his hand curving around the back of my head again so he could bring me closer. Part of me loved how much he controlled the situation, my nipples pebbling into hard peaks as a result. Another weary part told me to pay attention, practically shouted at me that I didn't know this side of Shorn at all. Unfortunately, that internal voice came through a long tunnel, sounding more and more far away.
Then, Oldavai's warnings shot through my thoughts until Shorn's own emotions engulfed me with their savagery, as if they wanted to take up every space within me so I had nothing left of my own. My brain tried fracturing into a dozen pathways to find a way to relate, but they were so unlike a human's that I couldn't get a read on even one. This far out of familiar waters caused my mind to turn into a complicated, twisted mess. A fleeting thought realized that every part of his being and power snapped right at my heels, trying to distract me from anything resembling rationality. His next move was to dig his claws slightly into my neck.
And I liked it.
I focused on the kiss pushing me down from above, in combination with the fierce grip pulling me from behind until I was, once again, flat on the surface of the desk. His refusal to break off for a separate breath from mine made me breathe in his air. On my inhale I was greeted with a complex explosion of the sweetness of rain carried in the wind, earth quenched with water, and sparks of lightening showering down my throat. I gasped at the sensation and shot forward trying to breathe as much as I could, my kiss becoming just as demanding as his. I could feel the dew of my sex soak through my panties.
As if in acknowledgement of my fervor, his pelvis ground down, rubbing so hard that I grunted in pain, pulling my attention away from anything else. I stopped responding and tried to interpret the independent movement of something thick and wide trying to cover and cup between my legs despite our clothing. My eyes widened as I felt what I assumed to be the equivalent of a growing erection that was completely alien to me.
He abruptly stopped, as if feeling how spooked I was, and lifted his head, cocking it to the side. It was a choppy animalistic movement and my heart accelerated wildly. Then my bra disappeared, and his head quickly nestled between my shoulder and neck. I jerked at the quick procession of everything happening and processed the feeling of wetness coating my skin from strangely relaxing licks of a coarse wide tongue. Confusion and a bit of terror took hold as my brain started to kick in. What the hell was I doing?! What the hell was Shorn doing?! I could feel the bones in his face start to change and widen as he continued lathing me with his saliva. I had a physical jolt of concern for my welfare that caused my whole body to shudder.
I turned my head, rubbing against something silky, and was absolutely shocked to see his jowl firmly embedded in my shoulder. It was one of those crazy moments when my heart felt like it was going to beat out of my chest because I didn't feel a thing despite what I saw. His jaws were huge and they completely swallowed the right top portion of my arm. Was he hitting bone, arteries... I really couldn't feel a damn thing! He had completely numbed me!
Then something worse happened.
The most amazing feeling of euphoria hit me. I was floating on air, and nothing mattered. It felt like a long time until his head finally moved into my line of sight. First it was shaped the way I was used to but then it blurred into a gray and silver sphere of spikes. Then it snapped back again, everything in place.
I was in a daze, but he wasn't, "Time to take you home."
He picked me up, walked me into the Dark and placed me directly on his bed. By the time I felt the pillow underneath me I knew I was completely naked and didn't care. His fingers trailed literal sparks up and down my skin and I watched, mesmerized by their runic patterns shooting up in the air.
"At this point in the mating I would be filling you with as much of my nox as possible. I would bite you here," he gently touched my left shoulder, "here," he caressed my hip, then trailed his hand over my stomach, up between my breasts and curved around the back of my neck, "here. Anywhere I could mark you I would. My goal to keep you drugged and complaisant, so I could have you as long as I wanted, exactly where I wanted."
His smile was soft and pleased. Distantly I felt like I should be arguing with him, but my voice box didn't work the way I remembered. I could feel sounds like footsteps patter up my throat and then stop and lounge on my tongue, as if they wanted to relax. It was too much work for them to leave my mouth and pelt themselves at Shorn. I let them slide back down and melted into his petting touch, completely content to let him make me feel so very, very wonderful.
He continued, "You don't put up much of a physical fight, do you? Just all that verbal sparring." His hand trailed down until he found my slit and slowly inserted a finger into it.
His silver eyes zeroed in on my own as I felt him widen me even more with another finger and then another. I'm not sure how many he had in me, but I closed my eyes, singly focused on the sensation. He kept his fingers inserted without moving for the longest time, letting me feel him invade me. I started to breathe deep from my chest in anticipation, the rest of me still and waiting. It wasn't until he pressed on my clit and finally started sliding in and out that I wanted to arch into the sensation, only to find that couldn't, or rather I wasn't sure if I was or not. But it felt so filling and so good that the disturbing thought passed quickly.
He kept talking and, much to my dismay, never quickened his tempo. It didn't matter. I could hear my own wetness as he continued to wedge his fingers in and out of my tightness, causing my libido to hitch higher. I looked around my own body arching into his caress without even being aware that I had moved into him.
"I have never fallen into pahrgg," he rolled the word in a way my vocal cords could never do, the sound spiraling in front of me in vibrant colors and textures. I raised my hand to touch it, it looked so soft and thick.
I felt those fingers move and they gained my attention. I tried to shove myself into them, wanting it harder. The smile he bestowed and the lack of acceding to my desire frustrated me beyond compare.
"Do you remember the purr I made, sounds a little like that doesn't it? I made the word up because my kind don't speak the way you do. If you understood what that sound meant I wonder if you would have run? You should have run."
He stopped speaking for a long time, looking at me, but I could tell his thoughts were far away. Through his pondering he kept up the slow pumping movement and pressing weight of his thumb on my tiny pleasure spot. Gods, was he ever going to let me come?
Finally, he started talking again, distracting me from the sensations momentarily, "There's no way I would have let you."
I groaned. Let me what? He wasn't going to let me come? Gods and goddesses!
He did his chuckling growl, "I don't believe I could have willingly allowed you to run, Dove. I'll let you come."
Did I say that out loud?! "Oh," was all I could mumble out.
He smiled around his next words, "Listen to me, Dove."
Yup. The word sort of echoed in my mind and I saw cute puppies yapping around me. He tapped me on the cheek, gaining my awareness again.
"The violence of my fuck triggers pahrgg in females of my own kind. I killed them. It's kill or submit for us and I will never submit. But you did the reverse, you triggered pahrgg in me and I didn't even have to have the obligatory physical interaction with you. I didn't even have to touch you, but I wanted to. I wanted to slam you into my desk, bend you over it, and keep you pinned while I fucked you from behind."
Oh my goddess, I gushed.
My body was receptive to his words and more wet than ever, offering itself to whatever he wanted. The brief embarrassment of my lustful reaction was dulled quickly as he pressed on his bite marks, flooding me with a rush of warmth. His intoxicating poison had my inhibitions jumping out the proverbial window. My groan had him leaning closer with a wide open mouth, panting over his tongue. He spoke in a growl, "Perfect."
His other hand skimmed over my stomach, "I felt like I was flying every time you defied me, every time you looked at me in anger, spoke to me in ways that I had never experienced before. And always... always, when you stayed within my reach, even when I knew everything inside you was telling you to run, the Dark would flood my senses with ecstasy. The knowledge that you won't stare me down simply because you care about my welfare infuriates me."
That vibrating growling purr started low in his chest and escaped his mouth, stopping him from speaking and causing a flood of heat into my sex. He curled his fingers slowly back and forth inside of me and I let out a murmur of enjoyment. His tactics changed again and he pressed two fingertip pads flat and up inside my inner walls. They started moving in a fast circle and there wasn't a single complete sound coming out of my mouth. He flicked them and I rocked up and down, straining into the tension of my enjoyment.
Once he was able to speak again he slowed down, "No coming until I give you permission."
I could only groan out his name in frustration, drawing it out, "Shoorrnn!"
I watched that pleased smile spread across his face before he continued, "The simplest no from you had a domino effect on me, a yearning I couldn't understand because I'd never known it before. For the first time in my existence, I didn't want to kill or even get you out of my presence as quickly as possible."
More purrs trickled out from between his lips and I felt it roll over my nipples, giving me a tingling sensation on their hard buds, making me desperately ache for him to pinch and pull their tips with his fingers. I wiggled back and forth, making them sway, asking without words. I had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes dilate and laser in on their display, but all he did was curl his claws close to my spine and dig in slightly.
"I would fill your space with brimstone to make you uncomfortable and you never said a word. I was trying to make you leave, so I could chase you."
I watched his chest move as he took a deep shuddering breath, "The one time you did run out of my office, Oldavai got in my face. And there is no doubt in my mind he suspected my need to grab you by neck and drag you back to me. He just didn't know why." He closed in an inch from my face, "I wanted to keep the hunter bonded with Ezra drugged and in my grip, indefinitely. Ironically, the hunter I gave freely to the eldest and strongest of us all."
He moved quickly, shoving his face into my hair, inhaling and exhaling a warm breath over my scalp. I saw cottonwood branches shake in the wind right before my eyes. They dissipated into the air as he slowly moved towards my breasts. His mouth, a warm, wet suction that had my eyes rolling back in my head. I was surrounded by an ocean, being swallowed into a whirlpool.
Suck. The tips tingled.
Suck. Bite. Oh gods, my breast were so heavy with desire.
Suck. Pull. My body arched, aching for him to just fuck me hard, imaging the full feeling of being battered vigorously. The sliding, forceful pull and push ravaging inside me no matter how much my muscles clenched him.
Suck. Move to the other. Suck. Pull. Mmmm, I could feel it on the nub of my clit.
His whole mouth devoured my breast, his tongue flicking my nipple. Teeth pressing in. Eeerrrggggg.
He drew back with his lips until just his mouth was sucking again on the engorged, pink tit. That drawing sensation continued on my clit, lips, even the tips of my fingers. My eyes were still rolled back and I was desperately fucking his fingers. My channel so tight I briefly wondered how his fingers could still fit. Unable or unwilling to find fulfillment until he said I was allowed.
I sighed, half in grateful pleasure and half in frustration when he did a final lick and pulled away. He tapped the bone on the side of my eye and I opened them.
His gaze speared into mine and I gave him my full attention, my body stilling, "And then, in his own peculiar way, Ezra was threatening me and giving me permission simultaneously," he paused, "with two conditions. Conditions that I don't know if I can concede to, but if I can't, you should not be in my home, I should not have bitten you, and you should not be filled with my nox." The fingers of his other hand skimmed over my side, kneading over the softness of my breast, to continue up to press on the teeth marks on my shoulder. This caused a thin stream of running warmth to spread down through my arm. Nothing like the rush from before.
He continued, "Incidentally, I should also not be planning on making you come all over my hand and in my mouth."
I blinked at Shorn, enthralled with his revelations, hoping I would remember when I was in the right state of mind. I was so drugged, just like he said. His fingers knuckle deep in me and I wanted more. I reached up towards the lines of his cheeks and he moved closer to accommodate my touch. I relished the feel of his bones underneath. My fingers moved until they were under his chin and then separated into opposite directions. My thumb followed the curves up to his lips, the other hand splayed down his wide throat. A tentacle slipped out of his neck and lightly curled around my wrist like ivy. I didn't even blink.
I watched my hands be gently floated to the bed by his own, "One more for today, Dove, and then you can come as often as you'd like."
He leaned over to my hip and started stroking it with that wide, coarse tongue of his.
I had the brief thought along the lines of, this probably isn't good no matter how amazing it feels. Then it didn't matter because I was flooded with his poison again.
The second bite flipped a switch in Shorn and he was no longer bidding his time, his hands were all over me. As for myself, every movement I made was slow or fast or I was seeing double. I don't know which because it all felt so strange and beautiful and colorful. He sucked between my legs, kissed me until I couldn't breathe, turned me into a hot pool of liquid with his fingers, and held me fascinated with those silver eyes of his.
For spates of time he would stop and gaze between my legs using his fingers to tease all the outside parts of my sex. I was gasping for breath as he'd squeeze, then pull. Nudging everything farther out so it was on full display for him.
He looked up at me with an expression completely enrapt, "So pink and puffy. So very soft."
His gaze stayed riveted on mine when he stuck his tongue out. I watched, fascinated as it licked, feeling it start almost at my ass, pull up until it pushed slightly into my hole, fitted itself between my folds until it washed over the bud of a thousand nerve endings. I couldn't keep the moans from coming out of my mouth.
The slightest scraping touch of his nail had me gasping as shocks of electricity spread throughout my core making me arch again. Those nails turned into claws and he raked them down the inside of my thighs, following with nips of teeth. Then, he surged up, spreading my legs even wider.
I made a gasp of surprise at the stretching sensation until that tension was unimportant next to his growl vibrating into me as he forced his entire jaw around my vulva, pressing in hard with his teeth. My pleasure had me bucking into him, coming in a flood into his mouth, the danger of everything turning me into molten lava.
When he refocused all that intensity on the pin point of convergence of my legs again, my knees and pelvis rose up trying to get as close as possible to his mouth. Every time he made me come I swore it was a river of honey he eagerly lapped up, his tongue lengthening to reach depths that had never felt such a presence before.
I was groaning, fingers feeling the softness of moss between them, and found myself shockingly, undeniably greedy for everything he could give me. His growling purr circled me like a snake, tuning me to his deep vibration that I could feel in my entire body. Twice he started to coat areas of my body with numbing spit only to stop his teeth from breaking the skin. I was grateful in an unappreciated sort of way. He kept playing me expertly even as I lost the high his poison gave me.
When I finally was able to string enough coherent thoughts into a sentence I spoke, "Did we have sex?"
He looked up from where he was mock biting my hip, "You mean did I have intercourse with you?"
"Yes, that."
His mouth twitched in a small smile, "No, Dove."
"Have I been hallucinating...," what did I say, foreplay, sex with no sex... ask him which parts I imagined?
His smile got wider as he answered my half-finished question, "No. I intentionally abandoned a good portion of my self-control."
"We didn't have intercourse though?"
He started licking my waist. Now that I knew to pay attention when he numbed it, I tried to stop him. I spoke harshly to hide my nervousness, "Don't bite me, Shorn," my hands moving to push him away.
They were instantly grabbed in a firm hold that completely encircled each wrist without him ever looking up. I couldn't help but tug at his grip. He kept licking, layering the area with his saliva. Finally, his tongue paused, his tone completely serious, "Are you demanding something of me?"
Even as my heart stuttered at his words I knew I was far from defenseless, "Please don't bite me, Shorn."
I felt his smile form on my skin as he mocked bit my waist. He let go of me, "Better." He pushed himself up so that our eyes were level with one another. "I didn't have sex with you because it will not be familiar. My sexual organs are different."
"Did you always know?"
"Yes."
I felt weird asking the next question, but I was too curious not to, "Have you had sex with a human before?"
His low vibrating growl whispered up his chest, "No, I just have a keen intellect."
"Sooo...," I drawled out the word, "you watch porn?"
Shorn threw his head back and laughed. That damn unnerving cawing. "I can smell your anxiety when I laugh, and it always tastes so sweet on my tongue."
Maybe it did, but I knew that alone wouldn't stop my snarky comments.
CHAPTER 25
I'm not sure how long we stayed cocooned in his Dark. He didn't go to the office and wouldn't let me mention work after the first time I brought it up. He also refused to let me talk about any other obligations in my life, including Oldavai. He assured me we would return, but not now.
I fell into an effortless cadence with him and enjoyed our time of solitude. There was enough trust being built between us that we could easily debate and argue with each other. I found myself wanting to share my opinions with him and asking him for his.
Even so, we also got into a lot of staring contests because of his choice of words or actions and my umbrage with them. During the frequent times he refused to simply agree to disagree he would pounce, numbing and biting me until I was a happy, listless, sexually satisfied female in his hands. Honestly, it wasn't too much of a hardship when it happened and he didn't use it as a way to terrify me into compliance. It felt like his other self expressing its side of the conversation.
I found myself consciously expressing sex play in a non-drugged state in identical ways, biting, nipping, placing his finger in my mouth and sucking while he looked on with unabashed hunger. And throughout it all, he always had on a pair of pants, never letting me see what was underneath. I didn't tease him about it, although there were times it was difficult.
All the biting was making me sore though and his hands would wander my body, massaging and stroking everywhere. If I got a stab of pain he would numb it, but that too was often a trigger, and I would end up being bitten as much as obtaining his original intent to help ease it.
He was lazily drawing circles with his finger on my stomach when I asked him to tell me what it was like working at the AO.
Shorn took a deep inhale through his nose and I watched with an appreciative gaze as his naked chest moved with it before he spoke, "It has noble intent. We can only hope to do that intent justice no matter how off track all of us get. It's the same as any ruling entity or leader." Here he stared down at me, "I had my reasons for not wanting you to help me around the office.
"Those who choose to work in that building sign a contract essentially stating that their compensation is in direct comparison to their ability to protect themselves in addition to the work they're doing."
I frowned, "I'm not sure what you're implying?"
He leaned down slightly from his sitting position, "It's not that you can't protect yourself, but if you were an office worker I wouldn't let you out of my sight. Inevitably, you would be right in the middle of some conversation gone horribly wrong. What I'm trying to say is, the less ability you have to protect yourself the more compensation you receive for your family because death is always a breath away."
"I don't necessary agree with you on my propensity for trouble," I said off handedly and continued, "but that aside, are you talking about the prison?" I asked thoughtfully.
He sat up straight again and continued tracing swirls on my stomach, "Well, yes, of course, but also think closer. At any time, you could be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We're not human on the third floor and, despite rumor, we're not obligated to stay only on the third floor. Even the sorcerers are barely human in their motivations, and they are on the second floor. I think the closest you get is with witches. It stands to reason that any pure humans walking in that place..." he shook his head, "it's a bad idea, but some still sign the dotted line, as you say, and many of them die."
I stared at him, thinking back to a specific Chronicler, "You mean like that person you yanked out of his chair after Ratha's warrant."
Shorn made a coughing laugh, "Well, yes, but he's not human, Dove. He's a vampire and the basement is a very dark place with a lot of other things down there he needs to contend with. Spells gone wrong, warped beings scurrying through the halls, and I'm not saying that I wasn't a surprise, but that's the joy of working there. In any case, he got the honor to see something he only heard about in office gossip. Angry, impatient me. Do you think I killed him?"
"Can you?"
He raised an eyebrow, "You don't think I have the ability?"
I shrugged and looked away with a smile on my face, teasing him, "You said vampire, so..." I trailed off.
He dropped quickly into my face, and I startled back, "I can kill anything, Dove. I unmake."
I gave him back his stare, "So, did you?"
He pulled back, as if sensing my need for space, "No. I just unmade a little bit for the Dark. Nothing he'll miss and nothing I'm obligated to make recompense for. It's the dangers of working in that office and that's the contract everyone is obligated to sign if they work there." He pushed a finger on my forehead briefly, "And that is why I didn't want anyone thinking you were an employee. If Miranda got it in her deranged mind that you were a contracted employee working directly in the office she could do anything to you without legal repercussions from the AO. It would fall to her favor because of the false impression you were making while helping me."
I pulled my shirt down, as if covering my stomach could hide my embarrassment. "Sorry. I didn't mean to worry you, I just wanted to be useful."
He stared at the edge of my t-shirt, "And that is why you are reckless in your loyalty and devotion."
He didn't make a fuss as he usually did when I hindered even the simplest of his desires and instead laid down, propping the side of his head in the cup of his hand, "It's you. You blindly step into situations without thinking about consequences." His other hand went back to my shirt and raised it up so he could skim over my skin again. It wasn't unexpected and I didn't object. I liked his touch.
"Without that recklessness and kindness, I would be missing this. Oldavai certainly wouldn't be in your life. Perhaps not even Taurin."
My eyebrows rose in surprise, feeling a blooming warmth that Shorn acknowledged Taurin, "You said his name!"
Shorn made a strange noise I had never heard before, a jumpy breathy growl, "I'd be unwise to dismiss him. Ezra told me about the two of you and I know he is more than a pretty Icelander despite my remark to him. He is the only demon Icelander favored of his Elemental. Truthfully, I know he is the most favored of all Icelanders, demon or not. Ila wanted him dead, I did not, hence the binding option on his warrant. Although, I was expecting her to give it to someone interested in a temporary binding. Instead, she schemed with others and worded it for two hunters that were already ensnared, thinking it would be a foregone conclusion."
He growled his chuckle, "I blame it on being distracted for that error in judgement."
I looked at him sheepishly, "Well, he's not dead, right?"
He huffed and tilted his entire head back in exasperation, his hand moving over his mouth and chin before looking back down at me, "True, much to Ila's annoyance, but he didn't even try to get a temporary binding and that I blame on Ezra. Everyone keeps thinking he'll kill you and he is always so closed mouth about everything." He emphasized 'everything' with an annoyed look.
Shorn rolled his heavy weight over me and I grunted at the unexpected movement. His hands framed my face and I tried to decipher the meaning behind his serious expression. The weight of that mercury gaze snagged me, and I let myself get lost in the swirling beauty of it. He moved slowly towards my mouth and gave me the most unexpected kiss. It was soft and slow. His tongue slowly following the contours of my own lips. I smiled into it and did the same to him, feeling his whole face twitch.
"Are you trying not to bite my tongue?" I asked jokingly.
"Yes."
I snapped my mouth closed, "Don't do that."
"Dove," he warned, displeased with my demands.
I rolled my eyes bravely, "I'm just saying."
His growl was almost a whisper. "We'll go back to the office tomorrow. You need to be ready to fight off the effects of the magic growing inside you." He paused and contemplated me before speaking, "You've killed demons before Ezra entered your life."
"Uh..." Where was this going and was it a bad place?
"They were all young ones, correct? But none in an erratic stage?"
"Not young compared to me," I exclaimed with indignation. I felt stupid for asking, but had to know, "What's the erratic stage?"
His face went blank, "Really?" he asked blandly.
"Sorry. I don't remember learning about that." I felt so ignorant.
He tilted his head, "Maybe it's not known anymore."
I sighed, "That would be a relief, because I was feeling really stupid. I mean, I am, for so many reasons. Even more so, since I only recently learned that temporary bindings were a thing."
He looked at me and didn't smile, "As I've said before, you are guileless."
I narrowed my eyes at him and said sharply, "No, I believe the word you originally wanted was submissive."
He closed in again until we were nose to nose, his dark silver eyes starting to glow, "No need to bark at me. You are exactly what I need."
Huh. He left me speechless. Was he acknowledging that I was submissive or not? I didn't know whether to feel vindicated or outraged. Probably outraged that he thought I was a submissive demon hunter, but I'd give him the benefit of the doubt.
He started talking again before I could open my mouth to ask, "The erratic ones are young demons that lose control of their power and judgment. They usually end up going on a killing spree. There is only one goal, sniff out any magic and kill. Of course, these are demons, so demon hunter magic is the most appetizing. It's the equivalent of your human puberty. It happens often and they are the reason your kind become vengeful and traumatized."
I shook my head and scoffed, "I'm not so sure I would call that puberty, maybe a violent side of puberty. Only I don't think the statistics on death caused by human puberty can compare with demon puberty."
He wiggled his legs on top of mine, not really trying to get between them, but signaling his intent, "You're right. If their parents aren't there to raise them it's a mess. Too often the parents leave, or there is only the mother, any number of reasons."
"Is it the stigma of being part demon that causes this lack of guidance?" I kept my legs closed for the sake of defiance.
"Mostly and the fathers usually don't stay around, or they're eaten, as in my case."
I blanched, "Yeah, that will do it. Your siblings?"
A tentacle whipped out of Shorn's neck and wrapped around it, "I killed the ones from my litter. Mother ate them. I was quick enough to evade her during my formative years. It was really her sister who raised me. She educated me by throwing me at my mother, making it into a game so that I'd be stronger and faster in both body and mind." He was very matter of fact as he told me a little horror story of his past.
"Oh." I used all my will power to keep my face impassive as he stared down at me.
"You're very good."
"Hmm?" I bit my bottom lip.
"I'm the only one who gets to bite those lips. Stop distracting me." Shorn licked his own, probably thinking about what he was going to do to mine.
I slowly pushed my lip out and mimicked him in anticipation, "So..."
"Better." He pushed his legs harder on mine and I relented, focused so intently on everything else that was happening in front of my face. He bent down and nibbled softly on my full bottom lip, sucking it in his mouth before releasing it and speaking, "You're always so very good at not judging."
That remark made me want to correct him, "Not always. While it may be true that nothing is so concrete in life that I should have the same ideals to compare everything to I can't always be so forgiving. I have my own past to process and everyone else's story I have ever heard. Even if it is erratic demons killing my kind, you will find me severally judgmental about that, the reasons for them being that way carelessly disregarded. At the very least, I'm more subjective than demons seem to be. They are always telling me that they mean us no harm."
Shorn shrugged, "We see harm differently. I may want to keep you here and will do anything and everything to you to make it a reality. You would see it as harm and I would know it as best for you."
I shuddered, thinking about what Oldavai told me, "Please don't go there."
He narrowed his eyes, I'm sure because he knew that would be a 'nope' from me and he wanted me amiable to whatever crossed his mind, "Be that as it may, I don't want that argument from you or Ezra. He is a bit more powerful than I previously understood. Truthfully," he bent down again, "and not a word to anyone but him, he is already a little bit unmade, and I cannot unmake something that is already in a state of entropy."
I cocked my head in question, "He's chaos?"
He grew quiet in thought for a few moments before speaking, "He is order that is constantly breaking and reforming and breaking again." He framed my face and put his thumbs on my open lips, "Enough about Ezra."
He then sucked on my bottom lip again before gently grabbing the top one with a gentle nip. I liked it and found my legs lifting to encircle his solid waist. Ezra could wait, it's not like he was actively trying to be in my life, for good reasons or not.
Shorn's hands gripped my ass, claws ripping through material and into my skin. I flowed into the movement of him tilting my lower body so it hit hard against his own. His kiss turned violent, and I met it equally with my own. Tongues and lips and teeth fighting to lick, suck, and bite each other. The clenching of my body, the pinch of his claws, the feel of all that strength pushing down on me. It was all so perfect and hot that I felt that wonderful liquid warmth flowing in my lady parts.
He growled into my mouth, and I felt my face flush from the sound of it.
"One day, Dove," his low, gravelly voice vibrated in my chest. I did my own purring as he pushed his pelvis and its protrusion back and forth on me. I stretched to reach his lips again and his went immediately to my own with his hard, quick, open mouth devouring.
"One day," he started again, "I'm going to fuck you so hard."
I drew my head back in confusion, "I thought you said..."
He shut me up by kissing me again, not pulling away until he subdued me into a blissful languor. "Forget what I said. It's happening. For now, we are going back to the office tomorrow. You will see Ila immediately and reassure her that I haven't killed you. Then you will then find out what insane warrant she has for you and come back to tell me."
I cocked my head at him, pushing my conflicting thoughts about sex with Shorn aside. He said Ila. "That seems oddly specific."
He stared directly into my eyes, "I blocked several of her attempts to contact me in the Dark."
My eyebrow raised and my lips quirked a smile, imaging him being stalked by his colleague. "Is it like someone who keeps calling even though you never pick up?"
We had a brief staring contest as I patiently waited for him to reply.
"Yes. Strangely accurate."
He kept his hands locked snug on my ass even as he continued talking, "Before I get distracted again, what happened to the power from the young idiots you were warranted to kill?"
I flushed, "Well, sometimes I gave it back to the earth and...," here I sighed heavily and loud, unwilling to go on.
"Dove," Shorn prompted.
I mumbled unintelligently.
"Dove," he repeated a bit more forcefully.
"I said, I eerrr ugh." I whined from the bottom of my throat.
"Dove," he snapped.
I jumped in his hold and turned my face away from him and said quickly, "I gave it to my sword if it wanted it."
There was silence. Heavy silence. Then I heard his growly chuckle come out of his mouth.
I faced him, my hazels looking directly into his mercuries, so close our eyelashes briefly touched, "Yeah, laugh it up."
He took his hands off my curves and rolled over me to lay on his back on top of the pillow, still laughing. It was a kind of scary laugh, but I knew he was amused with me. In between breaths he got his thought out, "You've been collecting and harboring untried demon magic since you started, without even knowing it!" He started to wheeze because he was growl laughing so much.
I groaned. Oh yeah. Took me long enough to realize that. It wasn't until Ezra came into my life that I started to have access to honed demon magic. I'd wondered how long he knew and deduced probably the whole time.
He pulled me closer to his chest, "Come here. A little rest before we face the world."
We did. When we woke, I armed myself mentally for anything and everything. He placed me in front of him, his arms completely encircled around me and we appeared in his office. Outside the sunshine slanted through his window and I sighed as I walked toward it.
"I've missed the sun," I said as I stared out the pane of glass.
He stood behind me, not touching, "I know."
"Do you?" I asked absently, looking down at the bustle of people and the greenery of the trees.
"Dove," he said softly.
I turned at the rare tone of his voice and looked at him in question. He grabbed my hand, "You ready?"
My lips pursed, suspicious of the unspoken part of his question, "For what exactly?"
He kept his silver eyes on me, "Three... two... one."
The door barged open, and I turned to look. Oldavai stood there, stopped in his tracks, his emotions wild and face pale.
"Oldavai's been trying to talk with you too," he finally explained.
|
“And now I was lonelier, I supposed, than anyone else in the world. Even Defoe's creation, Robinson Crusoe, the prototype of the ideal solitary, could hope to meet another human being. Crusoe cheered himself by thinking that such a thing could happen any day, and it kept him going. But if any of the people now around me came near I would need to run for it and hide in mortal terror. I had to be alone, entirely alone, if I wanted to live.” ― Władysław Szpilman, The Pianist: The Extraordinary Story of One Man's Survival in Warsaw, 1939–45
-January 1939 -
The Cabin
"Tony, I'm cold."
Tony forced his eyes to open, wincing at the sharp pain that made itself known in his neck. He hadn't thought it possible, but somehow or another he must have fallen asleep in the chair beside the bed. No doubt he’d been dragged below the depths by sheer exhaustion after the physical and emotional toil of the last week.
The floorboards creaked as Maria shifted her weight up onto her toes. She leaned against the arm of the chair to stare at him with wide pitiful eyes. Rubbing his sore neck with a grimace, Tony sat up. He’d positioned the chair facing the door so that he could watch for danger in the night. But now, pale morning sunlight streamed in between the cracks in the window shutters. Judging by the absence of wind pressing against the walls and the stillness of the air around them he thought the storm must have passed. Bucky's tracks were surely long buried in the snow by now. Which was good, because it meant for the present that they were untraceable. Tony tried not to think any more about the storm or the fact that Bucky could easily have driven off the road in it.
He'll make it out. He'll get Stefen and bring him back. He thought adamantly, beating back the flutters of anxiety in his stomach that wanted to become full-blown panic. He glanced first to the bed where Ian, James, Artur and Sara still slept in a tangle. Thankfully. God, Artur had cried himself sick after Bucky had left, about his blasted frog of all things. It seemed absurd on the surface, only, Tony knew very well it wasn’t a small thing to leave a pet behind for a young boy, and a pet wasn’t the only loss he was suffering. Perhaps just the easiest one to process for someone so young.
Grimacing Tony moved his gaze down to the rug beside the bed where Natacha and Péter slept, pressed close together for warmth. And then finally, he looked over to the fireplace, where the fire had reduced to embers while they slept. Tony could see every breath he took and hear Maria's chattering teeth.
He squeezed her hand and forced himself to rise out of the chair, his bones creaking in protest with every movement from sleeping in such an uncomfortable position. He tucked the pistol in his lap out of sight and motioned his head toward the fireplace.
"Come help me build the fire up. It will be warm for when your brothers and sisters wake up."
Maria nodded solemnly and followed him over to the wood pile, sitting on the rug in her wrinkled shift not far from Natacha and Péter's sleeping heads. Thankfully the embers caught quick and it wasn't long before Tony managed to get a flame going again. Maria skootched closer to its warmth and smiled up at him briefly in thanks before she went back to staring into the flames.
Tony frowned, considering the thin material that covered her and the pebbled skin on her arms as the child hugged her knees. They'd hung their clothes by the fireplace. When Tony went to examine them, he was relieved to find that they were mostly dry.
"Here bambina put this on." Tony draped his own coat over her shoulders, and she smiled again, gratefully, the garment pooling around her dramatically.
The children only had what layers they'd managed to wear on their person, and there had been only so many things Tony could take from the villa in his own trunk when he'd left without drawing suspicion. He'd concentrated mostly on tools they might need, not certain what would be available to them in the cabin.
Taking a good look around was the first order of business he determined, after he got something thrown together for the children to eat.
"Tony, what’s going to happen to us?" Maria asked suddenly, jerking Tony out of his thoughts. She was looking up at him, her eyes swimming with anxiety once more; and he knew that what she wanted wasn’t the truth. For a horrible moment Tony was torn inside, because he’d promised never to lie to the children, but he wanted desperately to give them to her. Even if they were lies, her faith in him would be a foundation for hope that would brighten days she had yet to realize were numbered.
Your father will come back. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It would be true for her, up until the very last moment. Hope was the only merciful thing he had left to give her.
Tony was not a father, but in that moment, he felt the heart of one cracking within his chest like bread as he leaned down to press his lips against the cool skin of her brow and uttered the first deliberate lie that he’d ever told her.
“We're safe here bambina, and Bucky and your father will join us soon. You’ll see.”
-Dachau-
Their leader made a speech to his followers, of which the following quotations are of interest: “Always remember that no human beings are here, only swine.”—“Whoever does not wish to see blood may go home immediately.”—“No one who does harm to a prisoner need fear reprimand.”—“The more you shoot, the fewer we must feed.” – First Report of Dachau Concentration Camp, THE NEW REPUBLIC STAFF August 7, 1934
Most days Steve prayed for numbness, and most days those prayers went unanswered. There was no coping with the pain, just living through it. Long agonizing stretches of life that were only distinguishable from each other by the level of pain he was in. The worst moments came not when they pumped him full of chemicals that brought burning waves, melted his bones, and turned his brain into an angry swarm of hornets; but in the aftermath, when he was left to recuperate, his body feeling like it had plunged into ice and every nerve scraped raw until the press of air against his skin became an agony.
The men in the medical ward begged for death. Maybe Steve did too, the moments he was still man enough to beg.
You’re a man.
Not in here. In here he was Subject U-1610.
They kept him alive. Kept him fit. Kept him ready for the next dose of drugs. Poked prodded and tested every limb, searching for signs of elevation. A superior man rising out of the wasted shell of a nothing. Subject U-1610.
In the quieter moments, between when the effects of the drugs had waned and the next round of experiments began, familiar calloused fingers would grip Steve’s jaw, everything else but that touch melting into oblivion.
They despise you! Hate every last thing running through your veins that makes you good. They hate your people, hate what goes through your mind, and your heart! And it is such a good heart, Stefen.
Tony’s words.
He wasn't cattle. He was human.
Steve repeated this again and again. He whispered it into his arms at night, using it to block out the pain, as well as the moans from the other prisoners. It was the only thing keeping him sane. Tony’s brown eyes staring up at him, simultaneously begging and demanding Steve to understand. To see the end that was coming for them.
He’d not seen it then, how Tony had hung on the razor edge of bravery and stupidity. How much he’d trusted Steve to keep him safe. But Steve had failed everyone he loved. The children were... and Tony was...Tony was a Jew. If not for his own genius and the Reich’s greed, he’d be right beside Steve in this miserable hell and that was the truth.
Steve clenched his fists until his palms started to bleed. They were never going to have Tony. He and the children were safe. Steve had to believe it. Schmidt would never miss the opportunity to gloat in his face if it were any other way.
The Reich would never have them. Tony was clever and he would continue to outmaneuver them all. That was what they’d all agreed on. Tony and Bucky would keep the children safe and Steve would stay the hell alive, long enough to see them again.
It was Steve’s job to live through this. His life now was pain. Escape seemed impossible up against the trial of staying alive. Steve wasn't sure what was going to give first, his mind or his body.
He shifted his stiff arms a bit and ran a hand across the wood frame of his cot. Sometimes it helped, tapping out a tune he knew by heart. It took him somewhere else when the prisoners where allowed nothing but the oppressive silence that hung over them every waking moment.
He’d been told by a woman who had been brought in - a few months pregnant and thin as a pole - that it was not the same for all the barracks. She had been sentenced seven months ago for speaking out against the treatment of mental patients at the hospital she worked in. She’d told him that at the women's barracks where she had been held before the medical ward, they worked most of the day but could speak freely in their bunks. They only had to be in line and at attention or risk beating when the guard entered.
She’d died on the table while the doctors were examining her.
Her.
Steve didn’t know her name. Had she told him and he’d forgotten? Or had she already learned names meant nothing here. Only numbers. Subject U-1610.
Steve tapped his fingers against the wooden frame of his cot. His other hand drifted to his cap and tugged at it, willing it to keep him warmer.
When he’d first arrived, they had shaved his head and shoved him into a line of other prisoners for a shower. If you could call it that. The rain room had been large and bare. The cement cold under his feet.
After he’d been lined up and scrubbed with long handled brushes that tore at his skin, they’d tossed him and the other men clothes. The number they’d given him in holding had been printed on a steel bracelet and then shackled to his wrist.
Subject U-1610.
Steve rubbed a thumb over his bracelet, watching the way his irritated red skin puckered around it.
He went back to tapping. Grounding himself.
“What song is that, that you are playing?” One of the prisoners asked from a few cots down, pale eyes staring out at Steve from a face, offputtingly puffy over skin and bones, and Steve glanced up, fingers freezing mid tap.
“What?” His voice was grating even to his own ears.
“The song that you’re playing? I recognize it.” The man in the cot replied slowly sitting up, his face inching further out of the shadows.
Steve tapped again. The sound seemed to echo through the room.
The man tilted his head just slightly and reached out a hand to touch the wall next to his bunk. He began to tap the same tune in response only a bit faster. “I recognize it. We play the same song in Liechtenstein only a little faster.” he said, and tapped again, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
“Quiet. Do you want them to hear?” someone hissed from Steve’s right.
“Let them.” Steve shot back, his eyes never leaving the man from Liechtenstein. What was his name?
As if the man could read his mind he leaned forward, wincing in pain, before introducing himself with a fleeting smile. “Fiedor. Noah Fiedor.”
Steve blinked slowly. His own name swam up from the cobwebs of his mind. He licked dry lips, a tiny burst of something strange and euphoric bubbling in his chest when it came to him.
“Stefen Rogers.”
There followed a hissed hushing from the right again and several heads looked their way, fearful attention drawn. Steve’s sharp eyes roved down the row of bunks, but no one owned up to the sound, most preferring to ignore anything but their own misery now that it was silent again.
When Steve turned back to Noah the man’s smile had grown wider, but he lowered his voice when he whispered next, “You know that flower edelweiss is really a weed? We tried to stamp it out but it’s a hardy little thing. Refused to do as it was told and die. Now it is Austria’s emblem. Hell of a thing, this little flower.”
“Learn a lesson from it then and shut up.” a voice said in the darkness and Steve whipped his head around and glared, finally catching sight of the one who’d spoken. The man glared back at him, but the look in his eye made Steve fall quiet again backing down from the challenge. The other man was half dead already, but desperately clinging to what little of life was left of him.
Hell of a thing, to live when you are told to die.
Steve buried his head in his arms again, coughing into the crook of his elbow.
Small and white, clean and bright.
You look happy to meet me.
Blossom of snow may you bloom and grow.
Tap, tap tap, echoed him from across the room.
Steve smiled into his arms and beat out the next notes, his heart swelling painfully in his chest.
Bloom and grow forever
-
Steve staggered into the shower room, tripping over the bare heels of the men in front of him. The naked press of bodies continued to close in around him and he made a b-line for the nearest bench, crowding around it with ten or so other men. With only twenty minutes allotted for bathing he got to it. Quick scrapes with the soap, then passing it along to the next person. There was hardly enough time to scrub his genitals, let alone feel any sort of cleanliness from the frenzied action. His incisions stung, lighting up his skin from head to toe.
Pavlar had been purposely infected yesterday and wasn't permitted to shower with the rest of the subjects.
Next to Steve stood Herschel, his hands grasping futilely at the rash creeping over his ribcage. They jumped as a guard shouted a warning dispassionately into the room.
“Water!”
The overhead shower sputtered to life, spitting out cold hard water. Steve and the others shuffled around the bench, trying to catch the stinging water as it pelted their raw skin.
Herschel opened his mouth, trying to catch the spray of droplets on his tongue, head tilted back like a baby bird. Steve ducked his head and let the spray pound over him. Herschel continued to stand; face turned up. Steve grabbed at him, fingers slipping on the thin rubbery skin of Herschel's arm.
“Don’t, Herschel, don't drink the water.” he grit out, pushing the other man along.
“Shut up!” someone hissed in warning from behind him. Steve loped on his unsteady feet ignoring them and shaking Herschel's shoulder roughly. “Don't! You’ll get sick.”
“No speaking!” A guard shouted by the door. The water suddenly cut out and the prisoners shuffled like pale wet mice to the sides, parting for the two guards who charged in. One snagged Steve by the back of his neck and threw him off balance. The other snatched the man behind him, the one who had warned them to be quiet. Steve went without protest as the Krippo dragged, scraping his shins against the floor. Without warning his face was shoved into the ground, grime and dirt grating against his sensitive skin as the hand gripping his skull smeared it back and forth. The guards yelled above him, and then there was white hot pain exploding over his back, knocking the air from his lungs.
Two days later Herschel left the infirmary on a stretcher, his eyes wide and mouth slack in death. Steve watched them carry the body, unable to look away.
Herschel. He mouthed silently to himself over and over again. Herschel.
-The Cabin -
February 1939
MUSIC: FANFARE.
NARRATOR: The march ahead!
MUSIC: SECOND FANFARE.
NARRATOR: This is German news from the Rhineland and abroad.
VOICE: The life of the world, its conflicts and achievements, its news and fun, its leaders and its common people.
NARRATOR: Tonight, hour after hour, by short-wave wireless through the ether and along the cables undersea, Europe looks to the Third Reich with awe and trepidation as Nationalists shake loose the grip of Jewish financiers. As the headlines record every flying fact and rumor, the citizens of a captive Europe watch and wait and try to understand, even as the brave among them begin to muster support for similar action within their own governments. In Berlin...
The hosts voice droned on, and the tension in Tony’s body slowly eased. Enough for him to lean back in his chair and take in a deep slow breath. There was no news about Stefen. It would have been first if there was. No news was good news.
"Tony I'm hungry." he heard Artur whine and cracked open his eyes to look down at him. Artur looked up at Tony from where he sat on the fur rug with the rest of his siblings, crowded in front of the fire to keep warm while they listened to the small radio Tony had found tucked in one of the kitchen cupboards. Tony had moved it into the living area and scrounged the cabin for replacement batteries - finding a small box of them in the utility chest shoved up against the side door.
That first night in the cabin with the children had not been the worst, the way Tony had expected it to be. There had been some tears and fussing after Bucky had left of course, but once Tony had gotten them out of their wet clothes and wrapped up in wool blankets – thank god there were an ample amount of them in the trunk by the bed – the children had been so exhausted and worn from the day’s ordeal that they’d fallen asleep within minutes. The following nights had proceeded along the same lines, with less wet clothing involved and a harder time for each of them drifting off when there was little to wear them out during the day.
Maria couldn’t sleep unless he sang her to sleep. She who would clutch his hand and hum along to whatever tune he’d pulled from memory until she drifted off. Tony hoped it helped the others as well.
It was so still and quiet up here on top of the mountain with nothing but the wind, the falling snow, and his imagination to fill in the gaps. He imagined frequently that he’d heard a branch snap or the crunch of footsteps as the hours of night crawled tortuously by. How could one sleep with all that gaping silence?
It was the silence that was truly the worst so Tony did what he could to fill it. Before the discovery of the radio that had primarily involved organizing and taking stock of their tools and supplies. The lodge, though small, was well outfitted for an old bachelor retreat. There was no kitchen to speak of, just an old trough sink under the window, a long table and some cabinetry where Tony fond a few dusty spice jars and a mothy bag of flour. Not much in the way of pots and pans, just a big iron pot and a few smaller bent ones made of cheap tin. It looked like Phillips did most of his cooking over the fire. There was a baking stone sat on top a detachable iron grate within the fireplace at an ideal height to smoke meat, and several notches where the height could be adjusted. There was also a bar with a hook on it near the top to hang the big iron pot.
Truthfully, the hardest part about their new circumstances wasn't the spartan comforts, or even the long hours between sun up and sundown with no freedom to move beyond the four walls of the cabin. It was the endless sense of waiting hanging over each of them. Long hours parked in front of the radio waiting for the next news update and dreading it all the while.
There was no hiding from the children that their father's life hung in the balance. They knew. They'd known from the moment Stefen had been taken away from them. They knew he faced execution and that his chances of escaping the prison camp were small. They kept their hopes up, because Tony kept giving it to them, but they were intelligent. Young, but far from stupid. They might not be able to grasp all the details of the peril they found themselves in but they were experiencing it intimately just the same, through the loss of all their familiars.
All that was left to them was an abundance of wait and see. Hope and pray.
The heaviness of that kind of wait was too much for a child to bear in silence. Tony knew because it was too much for him to bear. The radio was all the relief they had, so even though Tony didn't know if it wasn't doing more harm than good, it had become part of their daily routine to listen to the news broadcasts.
Péter was always up first, since his was the last watch. He’d turn on the radio and rouse Natacha and then Tony. It was a tossup which of them oversaw the preparation of breakfast, and who oversaw the waking and washing up of the younger children. There was no toilet inside the cabin, but there was a covered latrine in the back yard along with a hand pump. So, whoever drew the short straw had to make sure the little ones were bundled up and escort them one by one out to the latrine armed with the pistol.
As the day marched on, it became more obvious to Tony what a last resort their coming up here always had been. They couldn’t be seen and yet, their survival for any lengthy period of time depended on venturing outdoors. Darting in and out to relieve themselves was one thing, but there were other needs that would make themselves known sooner rather than later.
What do we do? Tony fretted. Wait out the war up here? Hope the Reich falls and it becomes safe to come out again? How long will that be? A year? Two years? The last one was only just about four. Oh, Stefen what a mess. What a god damn mess this is!
"It's a little early for dinner Artur," Tony finally answered the boy with a sigh, scratching his unkempt chin. His beard had grown back in, but Tony couldn’t muster the energy to try and keep it in his usual style. Artur’s face clouded with frustration and Tony’s heart sank, tempted just to give in and feed him, but he knew if he let the children eat before the sunset that they'd just be hungry again before they went to bed. They had a good (if bland) food supply but with eight of them to feed it wouldn’t last longer than a few months. He and the children had to survive up here for an indefinite amount of time and they had to do it alone.
He hoped - god how he hoped - that Bucky would figure out a way to get himself and Stefen back to them, but that might not happen. It looked less and less likely every day that went by without news.
Heat was the first concern. They had a small pile of wood for the fireplace but it was dwindling fast. The canned food in the pantry had to be used sparingly. Their supplies would be gone come spring, but then they could make traps and there were old hunting rifles in the loft.
Which brought Tony’s thoughts to the matter of their sleeping situation. The first week the children had refused to sleep at all if Tony wasn’t a few feet away from them, but that had grown uncomfortable quickly. The single bed was not built for a family of eight and certainly no one enjoyed sleeping on the floor.
The loft space appeared to have been used primarily for the butchering of game and storage. It was dark and smelled heavily of the salted hirsch Phillips kept stacked in a large crate lined with cheesecloth (the staple of their diet) but with better organization, there was room for a few small beds and even some room to play. He could build them and the children could help. They had Tony’s tools and they were surrounded by plenty of wood.
"But until then, I've got a project for us." Tony decided. James, who had been leaning against his shoulder, lost his balance and fell to the bed when Tony stood suddenly and he didn't look very happy about it. His tone was petulant enough to curdle milk as he grumbled, "But what about the news?"
Tony ignored his grumbling and leaned over them to flip off the radio, plunging the cabin into silence. It felt wrong somehow, a shivery sort of panic crawling through him at the loss of voices from the outside, but he forced the feeling down.
"We will be back before the evening broadcast, and we could all do to stretch our legs a little more," he said, turning back to the children. Ian slowly sat up, blinking his eyes slowly with new alertness. Natacha and Péter traded hesitant looks. "It will keep your minds off your stomachs.”
“I’m not hungry. Why should we all suffer when – oof!” Tony grabbed James around the middle aborting his grumbles mid-sentence as he slung the eight-year-old over his shoulder, ignoring the stiffness in his back.
“Suffering? Funny you should mention it. I thought you might like a roomier bed to sleep in, but if you’ve enjoyed elbows and knees poking you every night, I guess I’ll just throw you back in the pile.”
“No Tony don’t!” James shrieked as Tony turned, making like he was going to roll the boy off his shoulder, right on top of his siblings. On the floor Artur had perked up, grinning with the mad sort of delight children got when they played games. It was good to see, and warmed Tony inside, however fleetingly.
“Shhh. Do you want all of Austria to hear you?” Natacha shushed them with a rebuking stare in Tony’s direction as he let James slide carefully to the floor. “James said we have to be careful we’re not heard.”
“I’m James! Why do you call uncle Bucky that?” James asked, wrinkling his nose like he’d smelled something foul and Péter gave him a very exasperated look. Natacha just looked like she was already tuning out their conversation and was just waiting for them to talk about something more interesting.
“His name is James. It’s where you got your name from. Didn’t you know?” Péter asked and James huffed.
“Of course, I did. I’m not -”
“A baby, or stupid, or too young to know things. We know.” Natacha cut him off churlishly and Tony sighed. Yes, organizing space in the loft was the first order of business, if only because he was sure that if all seven of the Rogers children were forced to occupy the same room any longer there would inevitably be bloodshed.
~*~
Tony and the children pushed the work bench to the side of the loft and stacked some of the crates on top of it. The rest they stacked neatly along the opening of the latch door, forming a wall that meant anyone coming up from below would have to step fully into the room before they could see beyond it. It was minimal protection, but one never knew when seconds could make the difference.
But would it be enough? Tony wondered. If someone came looking it wouldn't be much. Perhaps a latch? Tony kept thinking on it as he had the younger children get started sweeping out the floor. Phillips had clearly retained some of his tidiness from the military, but it was obvious from the dark stains on the floor and the fine layer of dust that covered everything that the loft space was the most neglected area of the lodge. Artur and James made a game of dragging the little girls about on an old wool blanket and called it dusting, while Tony, Natacha, and Péter got water heated and scoured the kitchen for a bar of soap.
“This won’t last very long.” Natacha remarked, holding the small wrinkled bar they found in her palm and looking up at Tony with worry. Working with Bruce in the abbey infirmary had taught Tony well the importance of hygiene for good health. They’d need to keep things clean, or else sickness would set in.
“We can make more,” he assured her. And she nodded, murmuring, “I’ve seen Willamina make it before. Though now I wish I’d paid better attention.” Together they filled the bucket with the boiling water and somehow managed to get it upstairs without scalding themselves.
"You want us to scrub the floor?" James had gaped incredulously at the buckets and rags as if they were three headed chickens.
"Do you see someone else around who's going to do it?" Tony had replied, rolling up his sleeves. James continued to turn his nose up but with some nagging from Ian he’d eventually gotten down in the trenches with the rest of them.
It was dark and Tony's hands were red from the soap when he finally sat back on his heels and looked over the fruits of their labors with satisfaction. Natacha, her fingers red and raw from scrubbing, went over and lit the lamp. She looked over at Tony expectantly and reminded, "We'll miss the evening broadcast."
"Tony? Now I'm very hungry." Artur piped up and Tony sighed. Right then. The respite had been good while it lasted.
-Dachau-
It was the same every morning. Blood draw, injection and inspection. Steve stretched his arms as he was commanded out on both sides. The doctors measured him from fingertips to sternum, from head to tail bone, every inch of him under their eyes. They examined his balls, measured his length, pulled his mouth open, and stuck their probing fingers inside. He could hear the scribble of pen on paper, but despite his eyes being open Steve couldn't see them.
He was far away. He hummed to himself, his chest buzzing uncomfortably with the effort.
The tune drifted in and out of memory the same way he did, floating on a hot bed of shame and fear. Always the same tune.
Through the window, behind the doctors bent head, Steve could see the garden. Sam was hard at work clearing out the flower beds. Spring had come back to the villa.
-
“If you let him die Herr Doctor. You will follow him.”
Hands squeezed Steve’s face. A beast tried to claw its way out of his stomach, and he lurched to the side of his cot, spewing burning stomach acid onto the floor. The hands grabbed him, wrenched at his bones, turning him over. Something round and blunt was forced between his lips and he flailed, desperately fighting at the tube worming its way down his throat, choking him. The object was suddenly wrenched away flopping out of his mouth after one long tortuous pull. Steve gagged, dry heaving, nothing left in his stomach to come up.
“----you’re out. --- step in for him. Maybe you can do your job and monitor his DOSAGE!”
The object was back now, and Steve choked around it, gagging, twisting to get away.
Get it out. Get it-
Steve wrenched to the side, back arching of the bed, the leather restraints biting into his wrists and ankles.
“Keep him on his side!” a voice shouted above him. Hands grabbed at Steve's face, forcing his mouth open. He couldn’t see who it was through his blurred vision. He couldn’t scream either, but that didn’t stop his throat from convulsing around the tube. The horrible gurgled sounds of his aborted effort echoed in his ears. The doctors held him down, pressing in around his small cot until they had pumped everything from his stomach.
The tube was removed. The scraping in his throat as it was drawn up seemed to go on for an eternity.
There were more shouts above him about dosage levels and the dangers of letting students sit in on delicate work. Steve couldn't make sense of it. He curled in on himself. Hollowness seeping up from his stomach and spreading to his heart.
~*~
-The Cabin-
Tony let the sound of Maria’s gentle singing wash over him as he secured the final nail in the board with a swing of his hammer, careful to avoid James’ small fingers as they slipped away from the nail. The boy’s keen focus on the task at hand and quick work reminded Tony of that summer afternoon when they'd built racing boats. That felt like a lifetime ago now, but James was just as quick and eager a student as he had been back then, helping Tony and his siblings to build a pair of rope beds and put a latch on the loft door. He hadn’t complained or whined once, and that was enough of a miracle to have Tony almost believing in angels.
“No Maria, it’s over then under. You have to alternate.” Natacha said from behind them, and Tony turned to observe where the others were working to rope the beds. Natacha, Péter, and Ian were holding up the square frame while Maria (with Sara trailing behind her) worked underneath, weaving the rope through the large holes Tony’d painstakingly drilled in the frames to form netting.
The beds were coming along nicely. He’d ventured out briefly to collect wood, and the children had helped Tony strip and rub down it down to chop into long planks. He’d made two simple frames, which once the netting was finished, he’d prop up on four trunk legs. A rope bed was hardly a technical marvel, but just having something productive to occupy their time seemed to be brightening the children’s spirits. James being the most drastic example.
The door latch that Tony and he were finishing was an equally simple design. A small notch of wood nailed to the side of the door with a larger plank atop it. Another plank nailed to the door itself, long enough to swing into the space between the two and prevent the door from opening.
"Done," Tony raised the hammer and sat back on his heels, wiping his forehead. He smiled at James but rather than share in their triumph, the boy had fallen quiet again. He was staring moodily at the back of the door, finger poking the head of the nail they'd used in the bar.
"I thought you said we were safe here?" Tony's smile faded.
“James...” but James shuffled away from the door and got up to run to the window, purposefully turning his back to Tony and the others. But not before muttering loud enough for them all to hear, "A stupid latch isn’t going to help."
Péter caught Tony’s eye, his face full of question and Tony shook his head. James’ dark moods could prove volatile at the drop of a hat and the last couple of days had been peaceful. With their projects wrapping up he doubted there would be much more of that in the days to come.
~*~
They went through wood quickly to keep the cabin warm. Tony got up one morning after some of the children had started sleeping in the loft, took a look at their dwindling pile, and decided to take Ian and Péter with him on another wood run. The first time he’d ventured outdoors for wood he had just taken Péter. The younger boys had protested the arrangement but were quickly hushed by Natacha who reminded them sternly that it wasn't a game.
"The snow is too thick now for the police to bring their cars, but if they know we are here they will send men and dogs on foot." Tony'd warned them, hating the fearful way James and Artur had looked at each other and the way that Maria's lip began to tremble. He’d made them promise to never leave the cabin without his permission and had promised to take them out with him in equal turns.
Now was as good a time to start as any.
Is this a good idea?
He batted away the voice of doubt, sounding painfully like Stefen in his head. Tony knew the risks. And it would be riskier still with the younger children, but the alternative was worse. Worse was keeping the children holed up like animals, living on fear and crippled by ignorance, playing god and giving them no chance without him.
Tony's mouth tasted like ash every time he thought about the dangerous possibilities. He didn't know how Stefen had lived under this debilitating weight of fear for so long. He cringed now thinking back to what a judgmental prick he'd been about Stefen’s protective tendencies when he first arrived at the villa.
'I thought I knew it all but I had no idea. The sheer arrogance of me - It's a wonder you didn't throw me in the lake.'
But what else could he do but go forward? Stefen’s way had landed them here. Tony’s way would at least give the children a chance. With or without Tony. Because James was right. A latch on the door wouldn’t stop the Nazis when they came, and they would come.
Tony brought the ax down, his chest heaving with exertion. The cracking of the wood was loud, ringing sharply through the thin air as the trunk of the tree teetered. They'd chosen a younger pine, stunted somewhat by its neighbors, but with mature enough wood for harvesting.
"Alright back, give it room!" Tony warned, making sure that Péter had scrambled back as the trunk finally gave way. They watched, panting for breath as the tree toppled over with a shower of snow. From the other side of the fallen pine Péter grinned at Tony, his cheeks bright with exertion. Tony flashed him a brief smile, sharing the momentary high of accomplishment. But there was a ways to go yet and they needed to move quickly.
Since the children had to leave their winter coats behind during their escape, Tony and Natacha had done their best to engineer warm coverings for any outdoor excursions. A bit of deconstructed burlap made for great thread. The old wool blankets with a bit of fur made good material for thick vests and arm and leg coverings. Artur had taken a sort of fiendish delight in the primitive garments, declaring that they had become Vikings.
But there were only burlap wrappings for their hands and their fingers weren’t the only bits and pieces of their bodies left vulnerable to the winter elements. And always, just as pressing as the fear of frostbite, was the fear that sound echoed. While the sound of a falling tree wasn't unusual in a mountain wood there was always the chance of it drawing unwanted attention.
"Ian, you get the ropes ready. Péter and I'll start on the lower branches" Tony instructed, waving tiredly with the ax at Ian, who'd waited patiently off to the side with the sled out of harm's way. But when Ian pulled Phillips’ sled up beside the felled tree, Péter tapped him on the shoulder and handed the younger boy the ax, saying, "Here, you have a go at it. I'm better with knots."
Tony watched as the two traded places, and Péter began untangling the coils of rope they'd brought with them. Péter looked tired, and Tony was glad that he seemed to know his own limits and wasn’t letting a thing like pride keep him from taking a break when he needed it. Péter was filling out more, but his body wasn't used to manual labor. Ian on the other hand had spent more time building up his physic, what with all those morning drills.
It was best to trim the branches and wrap the ropes around the trunk before they completely severed the tree from its base, to make it easier for dragging and hoisting upon the sled. Ian attacked the task the same way he did everything, with determined focus, the ax swinging with strength and precision impressive for a boy not quite twelve.
With a start Tony paused mid swing of his ax, his eyes narrowing on Ian.
"What's the matter?" Péter asked warily, pausing with the rope when he noticed the odd stillness that had taken over Tony. "Do you hear something?"
"No. I just realized what day it is." Tony quickly reassured when Ian looked around alarmed. "February eighth."
Ian stopped, dark eyelashes blinking over surprised blue eyes as he stared back at Tony.
"Hang on Ian, It's your birthday!" Péter announced, sounding as surprised by that fact as Ian looked, and Ian's cheeks flushed with something other than exertion. The younger boy shrugged mumbling, “Maria’s was last month. Everyone forgot.” Tony’s lips tightened into a scowl.
“Well we’ll just have to fix that.”
“It’s okay Tony, we don’t need anything. We know things are -” Ian began, but Tony cut him off with a glare and a decisive swing of his ax. He left the tool embedded in the trunk of the toppled tree and caught his breath as he looked around them, taking in the quiet forest for the first time with new eyes. Concentrated not on the task at hand, not on survival for the moment, but taking it all in. His eyes caught on the white streams of crystallized sap streaming down the trunk of a nearby tree, following it down to the thin layer of needles and the small brown lumps of cones that blanketed the snow at its base.
“Six and twelve are big achievements.” He murmured, his mind back in the dusty tombs of the abbey library, and in one of the hot kitchens of his childhood. “We’re damn well going to mark them.”
When Tony and the boys managed to haul the tree back to the cabin and hang the sled in its place beside the back door, he waved them inside, instructing them to leave the task of creating firewood for later. For tonight at least there were more important things to think about.
Natacha was in the kitchen with Maria and Artur when they entered, their faces still carrying hints of the fear that sprang up anytime someone approached the cabin, even when Tony was out and expected to come back. Artur was sat on the table next to the window, obviously playing lookout while Maria helped Natacha mix the wood ash with the animal fat in the bucket, attempting to make their first batch of much needed soap. It looked a mess and smelled worse, but Tony gave her an encouraging smile. It only took a glance across the room to confirm that James was on the bed sitting with Sara and the radio.
“We come bearing gifts!” Tony announced, and Natacha wrinkled her nose as he Péter and Ian trudged up beside her, bringing with them winters chill, and dumped their burlap sacks full of pine cones, twigs, and crystallized knobs of sap on the table beside her.
"What is all this for?” She asked, meeting Tony’s forced cheer with suspicion.
“Pine trees, dear girl, are incredibly useful. The sap and needles are good for tonics, salves and tinctures. And added to the soap we’ll all feel and smell more pleasant.” He winked at her dubious expression and picked up Sara who had run over to get a look at what Tony and the boys had brought back with them. “But most importantly the cones have nuts, which are essential if we’re going to make mama’s pinolata for the festivities tonight. We’ll need to get them dried before we can harvest them. Péter fetch me the baking stone, would you?”
Péter ran off to the fireplace and Ian followed him, an eager gleam in his eye. Their boisterous energy seemed to spill over onto Artur who began to bounce on his feet in anticipation. They’d even drawn James’ curious eyes, though the younger boy kept his usual scowl firmly in place.
“Festivities, Tony? Maria questioned, standing up on the tip of her toes to watch along with the others while Tony began to lay the pine cones on the large flat stone that Péter had brought back.
“Yes. A girl I know recently turned six years of age and her brother is twelve today. That demands a party.”
“That’s right Maria, your birthday always comes after the new year!” Artur exclaimed, and Maria’s face split into a small shy grin as Artur hugged her around the middle, her cheeks pinkening with embarrassment from the attention.
“A party?” James asked from across the room, his face drooping in a doubtful pout. “What sort of party can we have out here?”
“The kind with singing and dancing, and cake.” Tony shot back, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. James was moody because he was tired, dirty, and afraid. But they were all tired, dirty and afraid. Tony was all they had, but sometimes he just wanted to shout at them to just do for themselves for five minutes. Five minutes where he didn’t have to smile or put a good face on for someone else. But there was nowhere to go to be alone in the cabin besides the loft, and history had shown he’d just be followed by one duckling or more if he tried to retreat up there.
They needed him, he reprimanded himself. They’re children you selfish bastard.
“It’s February eighth,” Natacha mused to herself quietly, her brows furrowed in an expression of deep contemplation as she looked over at Ian, who was now helping Péter build up the fire under the grate. “We’ve been up here for a whole month and Father’s still in prison. I wasn’t even thinking about birthdays.”
Wincing, Tony wrapped an arm around her waist and gave it a comforting squeeze, sighing. “Of course, you weren’t. None of us were, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t important. We shall have the finest party we can put together given our present circumstances. And we aren’t going to regret a single moment of it. Are we?”
He looked around at each of them, to impress his point and when his eyes landed on Artur, the little boy nodded with all the severity of a judge.
“Father would want us to have cake if he were here,” he agreed confidently, assertive in all things to do with sweets and yummy things to eat, and Tony smiled, his heart aching as he murmured agreement. “Yes. Yes, he would.”
-
One of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing And you'll spread your wings and you'll take to the sky
That rest of the day Tony taught them how to harvest the cones for their seeds, to make syrup from sap, and how to collect tar and make pitch for the soap from the branches. They ground together some of the harvested nuts and mixed it with flour and fat to make a cake that they cooked in a pan on the grate in the fireplace. He called it pinolata, which he said his mother had taught him to make with pine nuts and almond flour. Only theirs was different because they had no eggs, no butter, and no sugar to make sticky caramel with. Instead they smothered it in the pungent sticky syrup they made from the sap and sprinkled it with roasted nuts. It was supposed to be good anyway because it was theirs.
James thought it looked terrible, and said so, but everyone ignored him. Everyone always ignored him, even when he was right. He refused to finish his slice, even though it actually tasted better than it looked. Dense, and nutty with the first hint of sweetness they’d had in a month, it was a welcome break from smoked meat and canned vegetables, but James was mad at them all so he refused it anyway.
Their stupid cake couldn’t compare to the cakes they used to eat at home, and it was silly to pretend as if it did. That’s all Tony wanted them to do, was pretend like they didn’t know things were bad and father was never coming back. And his brothers and sisters all fell for it, spending the evening playing silly games of hide and seek, singing stupid songs, and dancing like they didn’t have a care in the world.
James curled up on the bed, his back turned on the party and glared at the wall. Tucked into the corner, just above the edge of the bed was a row of small neat scratches. One for each day since uncle Bucky had left them. There were thirty-one and tomorrow there would be thirty-two.
A tear rolled down his cheek and onto his palm. James blinked furiously and shook it away. He lay there staring at the wall glaring at it, glad no one had seen him crying like a baby. He flinched when a hand touched his back, smoothing out and rubbing gently like a mother would her child. Like his mother used to do.
He didn’t turn around. His sister lay over him, her arms coming around him, her cheek pressed against his temple and her red hair spilling around him like a curtain. And though his eyes blurred with fresh tears James didn’t say anything to her at all.
~*~
-Dachau-
He had a fever again. Today wasn't a blood day, where they took their needles and their tubes and sucked him dry. Where they left bruises the size of coins on his arms and wrists. No, today was another test day. It always started the same way. Dragged from bed at dawn, and injected with another strange cocktail. The doctors gave it time to settle in before doing a final check on the subjects. They examined his pupils, tugged at Steve’s arms and wrote down their findings. Whatever they were putting inside him always burned through his veins and stung his eyes like acid.
Steve doubled over, bending in half as he rode out the pain.
Subject: U-1610
6 February 1939, 6 AM
Testing: Serum X -Trial 78
The little white card clipped to the chart attached to the side of his cot swung as the doctor released it. Steve blinked at it, the black letters still burning behind his eyelids. The sixth of February. It was an important date, but he had no time to puzzle over it before he was yanked off the table and loaded with a heavy pack. Distantly, he understood that the pack was heavy, weighted down with over forty pounds. But with the drug coursing through his veins the weight felt like a minor annoyance, nothing in comparison to the constant burn of inexhaustible energy and the frantic buzzing in his brain.
One of the men broke free of the guards holding his arms, ripping free of their hands as if they were made of dough and laughing as he took off. He raced for the window, only to misjudge the angle and slam into the wall instead. The man bounced back and there were six guards on top of him now, beating at him, breaking his bones, but he kept fighting them as if he didn’t feel their blows at all. He was still grinning even as they emptied dozens of bullets into him.
The doctors observed keenly, their pens scratching as they took frantic notes, until a man came to remind them that the general wasn’t a patient man. They had the body dragged out, but their spirits were high. One subject lost but such promising results.
Schmidt’s colorless eyes followed Steve and the other test subjects as they made their way down the stone steps and into the yard where a table was set up. The head doctor and three other officers Steve didn't recognize were sitting behind the table amongst a mountain of paperwork. Schmidt stood off to the side with a line of SS men, watching on. Steve and the other subjects were made to walk in a wide circle around the courtyard. That was it. Just walk and then run when the whistle blew and then walk again. Walk, run, walk, run, walk again, Steve just followed the shaved head of the man in front of him step after step, letting the minutes bleed into hours. He didn't know how long he walked in the dusty snow because he wasn't tired, and nothing hurt. At least it didn’t hurt any more than burn that had taken up permanent residence in his bones. That coupled with the disjointed and hazy nature of his thoughts almost made the exercise pleasant.
He could do this all day.
The world is so high
De te merel, jaj, mušinav.
Nothing hurts, nothing at all.
There was a clanging from somewhere in the front, and Steve looked on through the wired fence, watching the Krippo scurry like ants to prepare for new arrivals. More prisoners on trains to be unloaded and disbursed all over Dachau. The putt put putter, clang clang clang, of transport trucks, trains, and single vehicles. All shuffling more and more people through the gates of hell.
There's a sad sort of clanging from the clock in the halls
And the bells in the steeple too.
Sixth of February. Two days until... the 8th. Ian’s birthday. Four weeks after Maria’s. She would be six, Ian twelve. If they...
Steve stumbled, the setting sun stinging his eyes as his legs twisted underneath him and threatened to buckle. He fell into the man coming up behind him, his teeth stinging from the jarring collision. Hands pushed against his back shoving him upright and he rebalanced quickly, stepping right back into their steady march.
The stars came out over his head and Steve ran under them, his heart pounding away, his pack shifting precariously on his back. His legs burned but in a distant way, as if they didn't belong to him.
Firmly they compel us
To say goodbye. To you.
Steve swerved to avoid the crumpled body lying in the path. Some of the men were beginning to drop. Hearts couldn’t take it. Don’t fall, he urged himself. His own heart was beating strongly in his chest like it was drumming along to the songs in his head.
He looked over at the line of SS officers because he could feel Schmidt's eyes on him. Gleeful. Daring. How long till his heart gave out like the others? The sun was peeking over the horizon now, dawning for another day, but Steve’s body was still flush with heat. Sweat dripped into his eyes. His heart pound heavily in his ears.
Don’t fall. You’ll never get back up again.
Stay alive. That’s all you have to do. Stay alive.
Two days until Ian’s birthday.
De ňič man Devla ňič na dukhal.
Regretfully they tell us,
Nothing hurts me. Oh god, I have to die.
~*~
-The Cabin-
MUSIC: FANFARE.
NARRATOR: The fate of enemy number one!
MUSIC: SECOND FANFARE.
NARRATOR: This is German news from the Rhineland and abroad.
VOICE: The life of the world, its conflicts and achievements, its news and fun, its leaders and its common people.
NARRATOR: Breaking news this morning, all the way from Berlin. For weeks Abwehr intelligence has been investigating the crimes of Stefen Rogers, formerly a major in his excellency's army, once hailed as the ‘Lion of Austria’, and now popularly known as public enemy number one. Of the many shocking crimes for which he stands accused, most severe and surprising to all good German's is his treasonous involvement in an attempt to assassinate the Führer. He is set to be executed on the first of the month in the city of Berlin. The execution will be public, and the Führer himself will officiate the proceedings...
-
It snowed again near the end of February, for two days straight without end. It snowed so much that it piled high around the doors until they couldn’t open them again without digging themselves out.
Tony was just finishing helping Sara wash her hands and dumping a fresh layer of pine needles over the bucket they were forced to use temporarily as a latrine when the news report began. At first Tony only kept one ear open, so used to the routine of it now that it took a few moments for him to process that he truly had heard it this time. Stefen’s name. They were talking about Stefen!
He went still a second before Péter hissed for quiet and the cabin was plunged into silence, but for the tiny blaring of the programs host as he read the mornings news. They didn’t waste any time getting to the juicy bit, the bit that held the attention of the entire nation – and Tony’s heart began to beat faster behind his ribs.
But rather than announce what they’d all been hoping for weeks, that Stefen had escaped, they announced an execution date. The first of the month. Barely more than a week. That was how long Stefen had left to live. Oh god. Tony’s heart had sunk into his stomach, his chest so tight he struggled to take in his next breath as the room began to spin, his mind along with it.
Bucky must have failed. You don’t know that! But he didn’t know otherwise either, and Tony did know Bucky wouldn’t leave Stefen in the hands of the Nazi’s a second longer than he had to. He wouldn’t leave it to chance or the last minute, yet here they were. Times up now. Fuck.
He didn’t even know if Bakhuizen had made it off the damn mountain in the first place, and now Stefen had days to live and there was nothing, not a damn thing Tony could do to help him. Damn. Damn it! Damn them, damn them, damn them!
“Tony?”
He didn’t realize he was being called at first, not until a hand shook his shoulder and he looked up into Péter’s eyes, shaken and brimming with tears. He must have slid to the floor at some point because Péter was bending over him, clutching his shoulders and shaking him. Tony’d been cursing out loud he realized only after a shake from Péter’s hands caused him to bite his tongue and the bright burst of pain cleared the fog in his head.
“Tony, what do we do?” Péter begged to know and Tony shuddered, a sob building and forcing its way out of his chest like an over boiling pot, the words torn from his throat as he shook his head.
“I don’t know alright! Damn it, I don’t know!”
Péter released him and stumbled back as if Tony had slapped him and Tony looked away, because if he kept looking at him, he’d crumble into pieces too small to reassemble. Just breathe, he kept telling himself, clutching the coins laying over his heart, trying to obey the silent command and stop the damn thing from hammering out of his chest. It would all be alright. He’d think of something to say, something to do, something to fix it. If he could just breathe. Breathe.
Natacha stood up, like a phoenix rising from the ashes of all their broken hopes, her gaze distant as she gazed out the window into a world white with snow.
“Bucky will save him,” she insisted, but her tone was hollow and bare of any inflection. “There’s still time.”
Tony bit his tongue, caging the hysterical laugh that bubbled up behind his teeth.
“Yes... yes, Tacha’s right there’s still time.” Ian jumped on the feeble hope Natacha offered them and Tony kept silent.
No there isn’t.
He knew that. But that knowledge was his burden to bear alone.
~*~
The days that followed were miserable things. They didn’t eat. Food that could little afford to be wasted went cold, Tony and the children to a man losing their appetite for it. They didn’t sleep. Every night Tony would sit in the chair, the bed crammed tight again with as many children as it could hold, staring out the window while the children sniffled and stared at the ceiling, static from the radio buzzing in their ears. Every minute of every day the thing was on now, filling the silence, filling their ears, failing to provide distraction from their desperation as the days ticked down and no sudden news arrived of Stefen’s escape.
Of course, Tony had to fall asleep sometime. He didn’t consciously choose it, more like he was sitting in the chair, keeping guard as he did every night now, staring into the fire while he relived every moment that had led up to this one.
He relived every moment. Good and bad. Playing them on loop inside his head until his eyes burned from staring so long without blinking. He rolled the beads of his necklace between his fingers and remembered Christmas, decorating the tree and dancing with Natacha. Longing, wishing, aching, to be able to dance with Stefen the way he’d wanted. Searching for him within the crowd...
Tony could just see Stefen over the heads of dancers filling the floor of the ballroom. Charlotte on his arm, the both of them facing off with the count and countess - but then the crowd shifted, and Tony lost him in their great mass. The ballroom stretched like an ocean between them, the press of bodies in the crowded ballroom suffocating as around Tony figures circled and twirled, drawing ever closer and closer on all sides. He felt their eyes pressing against his skin, their whispers whipping like a breeze around the room. The sense of danger hung over him like a shroud, and the sound of his heart beating was loud in his ears. There were flames flickering at the corners of the room, climbing up the walls, smoke gathering at the ceiling, but nobody seemed concerned with it or even to notice.
Soaring above it all a Maria sang sweet and plaintive, ave maria, ave maria, a maiden's pleading.
He turned on his heel, desperately searching the room now for Maria. What had he been thinking making her sing that song? She was in danger here. They were all in danger here.
Tony stopped in the middle of the floor, held his hands up in defense and started to scream. Stefen! Maria! Where were they? He called for the other children, Bucky even, but no answer came.
Edelweiss, edelweiss
He heard them singing but where were they? These people weren't friends. They were devils in pretty guise. They all wanted to hurt him and Stefen. Tony had to find him. They had to get the children and leave, but Tony couldn't see him, and the circle of glittering eyes and grinning mouths was only drawing tighter and tighter.
Stefen! He shouted once more; the sound raw in his throat but somehow not more than a whisper within the room. A couple dancing merrily knocked his shoulder, sending him stumbling into another, and another, until he was being knocked and grabbed at on all sides. Stefen!
A hand grasped his shoulder and Tony didn't want to turn, but he wasn't given a choice as the current of the dream carried him along. He was dreaming, wasn't he? Because there Stefen stood, handsome as anything in his suit, smiling down at Tony as if they were the only two in the room. Tony shook. He wanted to scream, but the sight of the captain standing there so whole and strong, that crooked half smile of his on his face, knocked the wind from Tony. The scream died in his throat, leaving it raw and stinging, but even that pain faded away as Stefen closed the distance between them, strong hands drawing Tony against him protectively until the rest of the room had melted into the orange glow of the flames.
Stefen held Tony tight to his chest and Tony let his eyes close, clutching him tight as they slowly began to spin about the room. Stefen’s chest pressed against his with warmth, his heart beating strong and steady, his breath caressing Tony’s skin as his lips left feathery sensual touches against Tony’s temple. They dragged down the slight curve of his tear stained cheek and over the sharp line of Tony’s jaw. Stefen breathed him in, savoring the heat and the smell of him the exact same way he had their first time together in Berlin. A memorialization. A dying man’s last rites.
Tony opened his eyes and stared into Stefen’s deep deep blue, unclouded with worry or pain, and drank in the strength of his arms, unbruised and unburdened. He’d give anything, his life even, to make it real.
“I love you.”
But it was a dream. He knew that, because Stefen had not uttered those words to Tony at Christmas or any time before.
When I am alone, I sit and dream
And when I dream the words are missing
How many times had he told himself he didn’t need to hear those words? There were things Stefen didn’t say with his lips, but that didn’t make them less true. Tony knew that, of course he did, or he wouldn’t be here now, dying with him, slow dancing in a burning house.
Close up the windows, bring the sun to my room
through the door you’ve opened
“I love you Tony.”
Tony clutched him tighter.
“You have to survive.” Stefen murmured, leaning down to kiss over his skin again, slow and lingering. “You will. You’re strong.”
Stark means strong, Tony’s father used to say. A Stark man is an iron man.
I love you. Tony was never going to hear those words outside of his dreams. Outside of his nightmares.
But that didn’t make them untrue.
-
Tony woke slowly and stared at the ceiling of the cabin. He breathed deeply in and out for a moment, listening to the crackle of the fire as the tears dried on his cheeks.
A burp of static from the radio finally roused him, and he leaned forward staring intently at it. His body ached, heavy and weak with hunger. When the hell had he last ate? For days he and the children had been in a stupor. He’d let that happen. They could all get sick, and there was no help for them up here. Tony was all the help they had. All the father they had now. He had to get up. Pull them all up.
You’re strong. Survive.
Bones creaking with age and weariness Tony rose from his chair, Stefen’s words to him in the dream echoing in his skull, and reached for the radio sitting at top the shelf carved next to the bed. He heard a rustle as one of the children rolled over in the bed but he didn’t take his eyes off the bulky machine he held between his hands.
“What are you doing?” Natacha asked, her voice low as not to wake her younger siblings who had fallen into an exhausted sleep sandwiched between her and Péter.
“What I have to,” Tony answered, finally looking up to meet her worried gaze. He saw the moment she realized what he was about to do but it was too late to stop it.
“Tony no!” she screamed as Tony slammed the radio against the wall with all his might, pulled back and slammed it again, and again, until two pairs of arms were grabbing his and pulling him back. The radio fell to the floor in a broken heap, and Natacha was there on her knees scrambling with shaking hands to try and collect all the fragmented pieces. Péter and Ian were on either side of Tony, gripping him, staring up at him with shock and horror.
“Tony -” Péter began, but he was cut off by Natacha suddenly flying at them, her fists flailing, her blue eyes hot with fury as she clawed at him.
“You broke it! You broke it!”
Tony flinched, lifting his arms in defense as she beat at him.
“Tacha! Tacha stop!” Péter grabbed at her, pulling her off of Tony and hauling her back by her waist. In the bed the other children sat up, yanked unceremoniously from sleep, staring at them with sleepy befuddlement as they tried to make sense of what had happened.
“Tony...” Artur’s voice was a high thin whine. “How will we know when vati is safe?”
Tony took a deep shuddering breath, ignoring Natacha’s hateful glare and pulled his arm firmly but gently from Ian’s slack grasp.
“We’ll know when he’s back here with us, that’s how. Your uncle Bucky and your father’s friends, they’re going to help him.” Tony crossed the floor and lowered himself until he sat on the edge of the bed. He beckoned for them, and Sara and Maria immediately crawled into his lap, laying their heads against his chest. Artur and James stayed where they were, staring at him with wide wary eyes. Tony reached slowly and placed a hand behind Artur’s head. When the boy didn’t resist, he pulled him close, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Artur shuddered and curled himself closer with a tiny whimper, winding his arms around Tony like little vines.
“We’ll all be together again someday. I believe that and I want you to believe it, with everything you have.” Tony said, gaze locked with James who stared back from where he was curled into the corner, his back to the scratches on the wall where Tony knew he kept count of the days. “But until then, we have to focus on each other. On living. That’s what we have to do.”
He looked at Péter when he said it, and for a long moment. The young man just stared back, but to Tony’s immeasurable relief after a long moment he slowly began to nod in agreement, squaring his shoulders with resolution.
“Tony’s right.” He declared to the others. “We can’t just sit around, sorry for ourselves. Father wouldn’t want us to give up hope. He’d-” but before he could finish, Natacha wrested herself free of his arms with a vicious jab of her elbow and fled up the ladder and into the loft, slamming the door shut behind her. The latch scraped loudly in the silence she left behind.
Péter swallowed back the lump in his throat, and dragged his eyes down from the ceiling to look back at them and finish.
“He’d want us to go on.”
~*~
-Ludl Chaple, Karlsfeld Germany-
On the outside, Ludl Chaple looked peaceful and undisturbed. A small grey stoned church mostly empty on a working day, save for the occasional coming and going of an automobile. bringing someone on church business. One such automobile brought a man who went by the name Visser, or simply Vis among the locals. With him that day was a young woman carrying a large covered basket. Her jacket was that of a working woman, plain and modest, but there was nothing modest about the bright red of her painted lips.
Unbeknown to the rest of the world a scout watched the odd pair enter the church from the upstairs window adjacent to the steeple. He took note of the color of the woman's lips, relaxing marginally as he turned from the window and gestured to the other men occupying the storage room. It was an old office, perhaps used by the priest once upon a time before the addition of the new sanctuary. It was used now to store odd pieces of furniture and other odds and ends. And for the last month it had been the primary headquarters for the resistance effort to rescue Major Rogers.
"They're here," Harrison confirmed once Bahkuizen had looked up from the map he and the others had been arguing over for the last hour.
It was a few moments more before there was a gentle knock on the door, and Bucky crossed the room to let the arrivals in.
"Vis, good to see you. You weren't followed?" Bucky asked after shaking the man's hand, peering past him toward the door which Lang had already shut behind the departing priest as if he half expected gestapo to come charging up the hall. Vis shook his head and answered Bucky in a low voice, "We were careful. I've brought the papers. Any word from the tailor?" He reached inside his breast pocket and withdrew a small packet of papers extending them towards Bucky who took them with a short shake of his head.
Jann was ferrying information back and forth between headquarters and their informant in the office of the Wehrmacht. She was overdue by a couple of days, and they were all beginning to worry.
"We've got the uniforms as well, though you'll have to do your best with sizing." The young woman Vis had brought announced, setting her basket down at his feet and Bucky knelt down to lift up the top of the basket and examine the shirts and bands inside, before looking the woman up and down.
"You trust her?" He barked at Vis, nodding towards the girl, but rather than wait for Vis to answer she answered for herself, chin jutted outward, "I'm the reason you were able to get these at all.”
Harrison smirked. Brave for such a little girl, but then again, she’d have to be if she’d wound up working with Vis. Harrison liked the look of her but Bucky on the other hand looked like he wanted to dump the poor thing out the window. Vis cleared his throat and shifted until he was leaning slightly between the two of them.
“These are the men I was telling you about.” he explained to the girl, flicking his eyes around the room at the dozen or so bodies scattered around it. Harrison waved when her eyes landed briefly on him before going back to Bucky. Vis continued on, “This gentleman here will be leading you. His codename is Winter.”
“I know who he is.” The girl challenged, holding Bucky’s stare. Lang whistled lowly and made himself look busy. Bucky was in a mood, and the girl was asking for trouble. Best stay out of it.
“Now that doesn’t seem fair.” Bucky growled. “You got a name I can use?”
“My friends call me Rogue.” the girl answered him with a slight shrug and Lang snickered, remarking, “She’s got a better code name. I told you Winter is...” Lang tapered off at the murderous glare Bucky shot him and went back to pretending like he was cleaning his weapon.
“Enough,” Bucky barked, glaring around at them all. “Stefen’s going to be executed in five days, while we stand here with our thumbs up our asses. Call yourselves sons-of-whores for all I care, so long as you focus on the damn mission!”
The chatter from the other men died down, the smiles sliding off of their faces in chagrin, reminded of what their captain faced if they failed in their task. Any plan they’d had to sneak into Dachau and extract Rogers, they’d had to give up on given how heavily the security had increased at the camp. The Reich wasn’t taking any chances with their most high-profile prisoner, and with so few numbers, their only real chance was to try and grab him during transit. But their enemy would be anticipating just such a move. The Gestapo was bound to stop and question anyone on the roads that day. The resistance needed cover, and that was where Vis came in handy.
As one of the senior foreman's out of the Munich work camp, he had access to equipment and vehicles, as well as the ability to falsify documents. The National Labor Service had grown flush now that the Reich was conscripting women as well as men to work cheaply wherever the work was needed. Healthy young men were being funneled into the army, and young women were beginning to take their places in the factory and aquaculture jobs.
“Rogue is stationed at the weapons factory and has been of great assistance to me. I trust her with my life. She’ll be your eyes and ears and assist you with getting in and out of the barracks.” Vis explained. The girl nodded in agreement adding quietly, “at half day on Saturday, workers start their leave time. Many of them go to church or go home to see their families. There’s a trolley that picks us up and drops us off at the factory in the city. “
“I’ve scheduled a shipment of ammunition to be delivered to Berlin on the 27th. You and your men are assigned to that shipment, but if you should come under suspicion once you leave the factory, I’m afraid I can’t back you up.” Vis concluded, and Bucky stood, clapping a hand down on the taller man’s shoulder and squeezed it. “You’ve stuck your neck out far enough as it is,” he said with a small sigh, frowning in contemplation.
“The trouble is it’s all useless if we don’t know what route the escort is going to take.”
The mood in the room sobered once more, heavy with the weight of the task set before them. This was an impossible mission. They all knew it when they signed up for it. They faced that risk every time they took up arms against the Reich, but this time the odds were stacked against them. Harrison looked around the room at the faces of the other men, some he’d worked with before, more he hadn’t, but all of them connected by the same man. For years, Stefen Rogers had been leading them into that brink. The first to lay down the fear of death and put himself in the line of fire for their lives. For their homes and their wives and their children's lives.
The resistance could ill afford to lose good men. But for the men gathered here, there was no sacrifice too great to repay that debt.
~*~
Supper came and went without any sign or word from Jann. Bucky sat alone in a corner of the room with the maps, still considering them and pouring over the possible routes Schmidt might choose to get Stefen to Berlin for his execution date. The Reich had been working nonstop to dig more roads for military transports. It was all well and good to take a guess, judging by what they knew of Schmidt, but there was too big a chance that the intelligence they had wasn’t up to date, and that they’d miss Steve entirely.
There were too many variables, Bucky contemplated darkly flicking the knife in his palm open and closed, open and then closed again. The execution site would be a circus ring, bursting with soldiers and police. No, they had to take Steve on the road, and they only got one shot at it. If they failed, they were dead because Bucky wouldn’t stop until he was dead. He’d known that when he’d left Stark and the children up at Phillips cabin. Steve would expect Bucky to forget about him and get the kids out of the country – but damn what Steve wanted.
Stevie would never choose his own life over anyone else's, and Bucky had sworn long ago that he’d do the choosing for him.
His mother is still weak from sickness. She gets sick easily now, and Catalina says it is because she was supposed to go with death when his sister was born, but Aunt Sara stole her away. Catalina says that death is always looking for Ma now and that one day soon he’ll find her again. But this sickness like the others comes and goes, and Aunt Sara never leaves mothers side. It’s because of her Bucky knows, that his mother survives. Aunt Sara is a wiser woman than Catalina.
Now mother comes to him, holding the hand of Aunt Sara’s son, Bucky’s annoying little shadow.
She should still be in bed. For the first time, Bucky wants to knock him down, like the other boys do, not because Stefen is unclean but because he is bad luck and he is holding Ma’s hand.
He wants to tear their hands apart and take her far away from the bad luck this half-gadje boy brings; but Ma kneels down and puts the other boy’s hand in Bucky’s as if she is entrusting him with her last coin.
“Ludo picked a fight with Stefen. This worries Aunt Sara, and her worries are my worries.” Ma tells him, stroking Stefen’s bruised eye with one hand and the younger boy flinches and looks away, his cheeks flushing a hot red. Ma looks at Bucky with eyes that know he ignored Stefen today on purpose and disapprove. He shifts guiltily. The other boys pick on Sara’s son because everyone does, except Bucky. He tells them to stop, but he cannot look after the other boy every minute of every day can he? But he looks at his Ma and sees how tired she is, how much of her strength she has used to get out of bed and to scold him and he knows he has been selfish.
“I can look after myself.” Stefen insists, as if sensing his thoughts. He tries to yank his hand from Bucky’s but Bucky holds tight, narrowing his eyes at the way the little boy’s wrist is tiny and frail in his palm like bird bones. Stefen is always sick, and even though he is five years old now he is not as tall or as strong as he should be. As Bucky is.
“No, you can’t.” Bucky refutes, jutting his chin toward the livid purple bruise around Stefen’s eye. “One more knock from Ludo like that one and you won’t get up again. I told you to stay out of his way.”
But Stefen insists, “I’m not scared of him, he’s a bully!” and Bucky looks to his mother helplessly. She smiles.
“Little brothers are tiresome, aren’t they? He is your brother, as Aunt Sara is my sister. Do you understand?” Ma asks, and slowly Bucky nods.
He does understand. Aunt Sara saved his mother’s life when nobody else could. She never leaves mother’s side. Bucky looks at the skinny boy his mother has handed him and swears not to leave his side again. Life for life. Sara will be by Rachel’s side when death finds her, and Bucky will be with Stefen when death finds him.
That is certain. For they are bound together by a debt that can only be repaid when they are dead. It is love that, if they are lucky, will flourish the entirety of their lives.
Bucky flicked his knife closed a final time and sighed.
Stark would take care of the children. He believed that much. He’d never admit to such out loud, but in that way, Steve had chosen his unclean lover well. Whatever else the man’s faults, Bucky was certain he’d never leave the children. And if there was anyone smart enough to find a way out of the reach of the Reich it was probably going to be Antony Stark.
If Bucky’s road ended here, so be it, but either way, he wasn’t going to let Steve die alone.
~*~*~
It wasn’t until late in the evening that Jann finally showed up at the church. Lang was on watch by the window and hadn’t moved in the last hour, but suddenly sat up straight and gestured sharply for silence.
“Somebody’s coming up the road.”
“Can you identify them?” Bucky asked, reaching for his gun and getting up from his pallet on the floor, where he’d been decidedly not sleeping. Scott was peering through the binoculars but at this time of night Bucky doubted he’d be able to discern whether they were in danger until the gestapo were nearly upon them. He glanced back once, gratified to see that the others had armed themselves and were ready for a confrontation.
The attic space in the old church was ideal for storing men and weapons, as well as sneaking said men in and out, but the downside was there was only one way in and one way out. If it was the gestapo then they’d have to get the drop on them quickly and make a run for it, before they got cornered up here.
“It’s a man on foot...” Scott announced a moment later and Bucky’s shoulders slumped with relief. It could be someone looking for the aid of the priest, or one of their informants returning to them. He hoped it was Jann, who often traveled dressed as a boy when she didn’t wish to be recognized.
He was never happier to be right as the slight woman passed under the lanterns in the church yard and turned her face up in the direction of their shuttered window. She flashed a brief grin up at them before continuing on her way to knock on the door of the priest apartments.
Bucky paced anxiously, waiting for the priest to rouse from his bed and answer his door. Bonhef knew the procedure well, and would lead anyone with the correct password up to the attic without asking questions. It seemed like an eternity before there was a gentle knock on the door and the priest entered, Jann trailing behind him. She waited for the priest to shut the door behind himself before sweeping off her cap and letting her dark hair spill out around her ears. She smiled at Bucky, tired and worn at the edges but familiar and cheeky, and Bucky swore she’d never looked more beautiful. He crossed the room in a few quick strides and hugged her hard, but released her quickly when she gasped, flinching with discomfort.
“What happened?” Bucky asked, eyes roving over her, noticing how she was now clutching one side as if it pained her. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I ran into some trouble on the way back. Had to make sure I lost them.”
Bucky listened with half an ear as he gestured for one of the men to fetch the first aid kit, or what they’d managed to scrap together to resemble one and pulled Jann over to the table.
“Sit down. I’ll have a look at you.”
She allowed herself to be manhandled into a chair as Lang set the alcohol and bandages down. He batted away the shaking hands she was using to try and lift her shirt from her trousers, and rolled up the offending garment himself, eyes locking on the small wound on her left side. It was seeping blood only a little. Jann had done a fine job of stopping the blood flow by wrapping it tightly, but there was no telling whether or not the bullet had passed cleanly through or lodged inside her without undoing her careful work.
“You assholes turn your eyes.” Bucky snapped at the gawking men that had drawn closer. They quickly averted their eyes and Jann huffed a small laugh, which turned into a gasp and a wince as Bucky began unwrapping her makeshift bandages.
“I never took you for such a gentleman Winter.”
“Nothing gentle about me darlin,” Bucky replied, sparing her a brief flash of a smirk because he knew she was trying to distract herself from the pain. He made sure to proceed even more carefully. “I just hate seeing a lady suffering. That’s all.”
“Flatterer. Ah, Christ!” Jann cursed, and Bucky winced as the last of the bandages peeled away, sticking to the seeping wound in her side.
“That’s not very ladylike, but given the giant hole you’ve got in your side we’ll forget we ever heard it.” Scott quipped and she made a rude gesture at him that had him grinning.
“The bullet went through, I think. Did my best to keep it clean.” She recounted, struggling for breath as Bucky examined the open wound. It was clear, no fragments from the bullet.
“Good.” he muttered reaching for the alcohol. “But we’d better sterilize it just in case.”
“Sure thing boss.”
“While I do this, you talk,” he urged.
“It’s like you thought. They aren’t taking any chances. They’ve pulled over seventy men to escort the captain to Berlin. It’s going to be a damn parade. They want the whole world to see.”
Over seventy men. They had twenty. Not good odds but Bucky had gone up against worse.
“Did Hercules know anything about the route they’re going to take?”
Jann shuddered as Bucky poured alcohol over the wound, biting her lip hard and staring up at the ceiling until he’d finished and set the bottle aside to begin patting the area dry. She let out a slow shaky breath before she could continue, her eyes watery but her voice steady.
“It’s the most valuable secret in the world right now. Only Schmidt and two senior officers know it. But there’s hope,” Jann said just as Bucky’s heart was sinking into his stomach and his eyes snapped back up to meet hers. “You know one of them. Schmidt ordered Major Dvorak to accompany the escort because he and Stefen served together, led the same men. They want everyone to see him hand the traitor over to the Führer. Show a united front. Do you think he'll help?”
Dvorak. Not exactly someone Bucky wanted to place his trust in. He was certainly no rebel, and no friend of theirs. And with only three people knowing the route, Dvorak would be exposing himself in a way it would be near impossible to bounce back from. If there was one thing Dvorak did best, it was look out for his own skin.
Finished wrapping Jann in the fresh bandages Bucky stood up stating with confidence for the benefit of those watching and listening.
“He’ll spill.”
Because Bucky was going to kill the bastard if he didn’t.
~*~*~
-The Inn-
The room Bucky found Major Dvorak in was far from the lavish suites a man of his rank and prestige was used to, but it was no doubt the best room available so close to the camp at Dachau that could be acquired on short notice.
The army had put Dvorak up at the Goathead, a small inn on the outskirts of town. The army had taken up all the available rooms in the inn. Other than the innkeeper’s staff, the only people Bucky observed coming and going on the grounds that day were military. It made his mission there that day all the harder. If Dvorak raised the alarm he’d be in a tight spot; but having no other choice, Bucky proceeded.
The side door for staff was the most vulnerable entry point. He cased the entire building until he figured out which room was Dvorak’s, lucky enough to spot the man through a window as he entered the room. The inn kept a pen full of goats, and they had a girl looking after them. It was easy to stop her for directions and chat her up, like any fellow would when they came across a pretty woman who gave them the time. While she was distracted by his flattery, he slipped the latch on the gate and it wasn’t long after he’d pretended to leave on his way before the curious goats discovered the gate ajar and made their escape. It was almost funny watching the poor girl running after them. A soldier jumped in to help her try and recapture the willy creatures and they made quite the spectacle.
Bucky took the opportunity to slip in through the side door, confident that if anyone was watching the grounds outside, their eyes would be drawn however momentarily to the chaos with the girl and the goats.
The door wasn’t locked, as if Bucky was expected. Maybe he was. Maybe it was a trap. But so be it if it was. Bucky pulled the door open and stepped inside, shutting it quickly behind him.
He found Dvorak sitting slumped at a small table by the window, crowded with empty beer bottles. The breakfast tray at his feet looked untouched, the food long gone cold. Dvorak looked how Bucky felt, the picture of misery. His jacket was discarded on the bed, his white shirt left unbuttoned and his hair distressed as if he’d been running his hands through it all night.
“Ah here he is!” Dvorak announced, voice too loud and rough with too much drink. “Longer than I expected. You’re getting old Bahkuizen.” Well that answered whether Dvorak had known he was coming, Bucky thought pulling his gun as the other man attempted to get up and crossing the room in quick strides. Dvorak lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender and froze with a jerk as Bucky pressed the nozzle of the gun against the side of his head, grabbing the man’s arm in a punishing grip and yanking him up.
“What road are they taking?” he demanded, forcing the man back on shaky legs away from the view of the window. There was no time for niceties. If Dvorak had warned his comrades they wouldn’t be alone long. But Dvorak, heedless of the gun pressing against the side of his skull tipped back his head and laughed.
“I knew you’d come. We’re loyal dogs you and I. Let’s hope it does you better than it did me.” Dvorak began to chuckle over some private joke and Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, quickly calculating his options. There wasn’t time, and Bucky refused to leave without getting what he came for. Grabbing him by the back of the collar Bucky hauled the other man up, ignoring the way he tripped and stumbled over his own feet as Bucky dragged him toward the wash basin sitting atop the wardrobe, where a rag and a razor had been set out. Unceremoniously he shoved Dvorak’s face down into the cold water, holding him down just long enough for the man to thrash once or twice before pulling him back up by the dark strands of his hair. Bucky repeated the process once or twice before letting the man go with a shove and stepping back, while Dvorak gasped and sputtered for breath.
“Are you mad?!” he turned water dripping steadily from the dark spikes of his hair and into his eyes, which glared hotly at Bucky with something like hatred.
“What road are they taking?” Bucky demanded again, his own voice cool and controlled as he pointed his gun at Dvorak’s heaving chest.
“Fuck you!” The man coughed and wheezed, the sound warbling as more laughter fought its way out of his chest. Bucky tightened his finger on the trigger and took a threatening step forward and the laughter died.
“You shoot me and you’re a dead man.” Dvorak warned.
“I don’t care about living. Do you?” Bucky growled, pressing the nozzle of the gun up against Dvorak’s chest wall, where any other man’s heart would be racing, but there was no fear in Dvorak. At least not enough. No, all Bucky saw in the red of his eyes was an old friend. The emptiness of a man who’d lost everything and who would gladly welcome death.
“They took my girls.” The confession came raw and bleating, like something that would come from the throat of an animal rather than a man and Bucky cringed. Dvorak’s shuddered breath was loud and jagged like broken glass in the room. He choked on a sob, tears leaking out the corner of squinted hate-filled eyes as he lifted a shaking hand to clutch at the arm Bucky held the gun with desperate clasping fingers.
“Helene. My Renee. She’s just a girl.”
And Bucky saw Rochal, his nieces, Natacha, her sisters, and he thought with a stab of agony, they were all just girls.
“You thought they’d spare yours, bengalo meesh ?” he snarled, the agony turned to bitter resolve as he yanked Dvorak’s hand away and pressed down harder with the gun. “Well did it work? Did it?!”
“No!” Dvorak shook his head like a rabid dog snarling right back, “We had the chance! We could have killed him! We had the chance and we-”
“Kuraf'te mulo kokalom!” Bucky cut him off with a jab, because fuck him and fuck the coup. They’d backed out like cowards, like frightened women, and now they paid the price. “You didn’t have the stomach to do it, so they win. Winner takes everything you sniveling cunt, or didn’t you know that?”
“But my wife... my daughter.” Dvorak bleated, crumbling to the floor as if his legs could no longer hold him and Bucky stared down at him in disgust. The man was completely broken. Bucky wanted to feel only revulsion for his weakness, for the selfishness that had brought him to this miserable state but that wouldn’t get him to talk and Bucky desperately needed Dvorak to talk. No, more than that. Bucky needed his help. One last coup, one last stand together. Not for Stefen’s sake but for Helene and Renee, Bucky slowly realized.
With a sigh he knelt down, resting his weight on his heels and considered the mess of a man before him. He’d never understood how Stefen could trust someone like Dvorak, who openly hated them, whose views were closer in line with the Nazi’s than with their own.
It was only now, seeing him broken that Bucky began to understand, because he’d seen Steve broken the same way after Margrit died. He’d see it again if they lost the children. Everything that he was now, was built on his family and for them there was no loss too big. No sacrifice too great.
“Your girls will have been taken to the ghetto with the other Jews. Maybe to one of the work camps already. You know what happens to them there. The only chance for them now is if the Reich is stopped,” Bucky said slowly, pausing until Dvorak’s sniffling had quieted and the other man had lifted his gaze to look back at him. “If you’re any kind of man, eventually you’ll start thinking about putting a bullet in their leader. Big public execution. He’ll be right there and you’ll be close.”
Bucky saw the moment the idea seemed to catch and take hold inside the other man and grit his teeth. It was risky to even bring it up, but Bucky was certain Dvorak would have gotten there on his own eventually and he needed to dissuade him from that path while he still had a chance.
“But there are too many variables, too much chance you’ll miss or get taken down before you can take the shot. You’ll be dead and that will be it. There will be no chance left for your girls.” he pressed, holding Dvorak’s stare. “The Reich won’t be stopped by one man, Dvorak, but hundreds. The same people whose morale will take a brutal blow when the symbol of their hope is crushed right before their eyes. You think Hitler isn’t afraid of those people? He wants them broken.”
Dvorak lay there in the silence as Bucky finished speaking, blinking slowly until his eyes were clear once more and free of tears. Slowly he pushed himself up from the floor until he was sitting upright, contemplating with heaviness, “Schmidt knows how to make that happen.”
Bucky nodded because, yes, yes, he did, and played his last card.
“You can make sure it doesn’t.”
~*~*~
-Dachau-
They’d left Steve alone locked in a cold dirty room with only his thoughts for comfort. But his thoughts were far from comforting. His body – whatever they’d left him with after the beating – was a mess but his mind was worse. All those weeks of pills and drugs, surgeries and tests had left his mind as scarred as a war zone and just as upheaveled.
He lay on the floor of his cell, body twitching and wracked with shivers. The spasms were the worst. So strong they convulsed through his body from head to toe, leaving a great gnawing ache of hunger burning in his center that no meal could quench. Not that food ever materialized. They’d dumped him here and shut the door and it would stay shut until they came to take him to his death.
Steve curled in a ball and moaned.
“Look at you,” Schmidt sneered down at him, his face swimming above Steve. “Down in the dirt with the rats.”
His lip curling Steve clawed at the damp stone underneath him, scraping his fingers until they ached. But no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t seem to push himself up. It didn’t stop him from trying.
“Get up!” Bucky kept urging him, his hands hot against Steve’s back, pulling insistently at the back of his shirt. He must not see the boot Schmidt had against his back, or the bruises purpling Steve’s skin from where that boot had come down over and over until he’d felt his ribs crack.
At least the children were safe. They were safe, weren’t they?
“Tony...” he heard a broken rasp, realized it came from his own throat when needles of pain shot up and down it. But Tony had the children and he’d keep them safe. Wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t stay would he?
Steve had to get up. He twisted, swinging blindly at Schmidt, a cry torn from his lips as his vision swam double. It seemed to him that his moans bounced off the walls of his cell, taunting him with the emptiness of the space and the unsoundness of his own mind. He could not tell what was real and what was not. From the fire in his veins to the hands gripping at his throat, yanking at his hair, and the voice of his enemy snarling hotly in his ear.
“I’ll find them Captain. And when I do, I’ll split them from end to end like pigs.”
“No!” his voice cracked, broken and raw in his throat as he tried to thrash free of Schmidt’s hold. He had to get to his children before Schmidt did.
“Tell me where they are Captain and I will end this pain.”
No. No god tell him nothing! Steve bit down on his tongue until he tasted blood in his mouth, desperate to let nothing slip out. He didn’t know if this was happening again or only in his head but he couldn’t risk it.
“Stevie get up!”
He was trying. But the room was spinning again. His arms folded beneath him like toothpicks.
Get up. He had to get up.
Steve braced his hands against the floor and tried again. And again. And again.
Two days before his execution the door to Steve’s cell finally opened.
~*~
The morning had dawned clear and bright, the kind of early spring morning that men longed for. Winter had a few weeks left in it yet, but the promise of spring felt like a mockery to Henrick Dvorak. His world had collapsed inward, and yet the sun still rose and bathed him in warmth as if to remind him of the many long days still left to him. Without his child. Without his woman.
“We’re all set to go Major,” a lower ranking officer informed him with an impatient edge and Dvorak waved him on. He’d made no attempt to remember the names of the other men assigned to the escort, more concerned with keeping his flask full of beer until he could find the courage to put a bullet in his skull.
Bahkuizen had accused him of cowardice, but that was just the pot calling the kettle black. Everything that dog did was out of the fear of losing his precious family. ‘Famila’ he called it, or some other foreign nonsense. Bahkuizen must have seen his own fate in Dvorak’s face, because Dvorak was dead. He’d accepted that the day his girls had been taken. Some men reserved their suicide for private spaces. Others preferred to perform in public and call it a rescue attempt.
Dvorak finished his breakfast slowly, ignoring the ire of his comrades savoring the hearty meal. The innkeeper’s wife was a good cook, but nothing compared to the fine meals his home chef used to dream up. The French chef Helene had insisted on would have turned his nose up at the local fare, but as Dvorak chewed and swallowed the last of his sausage and washed it down with another swallow of ale, he found it deeply satisfying.
The general wasn’t happy with the delay. Schmidt was waiting in the first car, the window rolled down as Dvorak finally exited the inn, his gate leisurely as he pulled on his gloves.
“Major Dvorak, I trust you were made aware of our time schedule?”
Dvorak met Schmidt’s steely eyes and imagined placing his hands around the pale column of his throat and squeezing.
“My apologies General, but surely a change in timing can only help us throw off rebel intervention.”
“On the contrary Major I expect it. When the rebels come, we will be ready for them.”
Schmidt dismissed him with an impatient flick of his wrist and Dvorak made his way to the waiting car, the Sargent whose name he could not remember waiting with the door held open.
As the cars made the short trek from the inn to the prison Dvorak contemplated his options. A living man might have fretted over Schmidt’s ominous words. But Dvorak was dead and unconcerned with how it happened, only that before it did, he struck one final blow against the regime. A fatal blow, though they may not recognize it as such now.
The trouble with Schmidt was his love of grandstanding. Instead of killing his enemy swiftly, he craved the opportunity to make an example out of anyone who dared shed any doubt on his power. He and the Führer were too alike in that way, feeding into each other’s fears and neurosis. There was a damn photographer with them when they arrived at the camp, and a group of prisoners playing wind instruments of all things as Rogers was led out surrounded by soldiers on all sides.
Though dragged out was a better term for it, because even from a distance Dvorak could see the man barely had enough strength to hold himself up and his body was a patchwork of wounds and livid bruises. He did not look like a hero now, and that was likely for the benefit of the crowd of locals who had come from the village at the first sign of spectacle, their hands and faces pressed against the chained fence that surrounded the camp to catch a glimpse of public enemy number one as he was loaded into the back of the truck.
It was all for them. The photographer – who would no doubt have images of Rogers’ wretchedness splashed all over the morning press – the grim parade of soldiers and their armory. It was all to send a message of the might of the Reich, of the inevitability of their world domination. No one would stop them. Not even the man with the heart of a lion.
When Rogers had been brought eye to eye with the general Schmidt smiled and looked around at the stripe clad prisoners filling the yard on either side of them.
“Some of you have dreaded this day.” he announced with the aplomb bordering on Shakespearian. It should have been ridiculous, but no one dared to smile. They stood there as frozen statues; a chill not caused by the cold winter air seeping into their bones. “But take this as a warning. Justice finds every man.”
Rogers, who was being held up on either side by two men, struggled to lift his head. Managing it just barely long enough to meet Schmidt’s eye as the general finished his speech. His eyes looked glazed with pain, but there was a fire in them, a violence bordering on the rabid.
“General, more people are arriving. Should we clear them out?” an officer asked, eyeing the crowd gathered behind the fence with unease. But Schmidt just waved him away, proving Dvorak’s point. What was a show without an audience after all?
“Load him up.” Dvorak barked in command and the men complied, the photographer dancing around them filling the air with bright flashes. The clicking of the camera’s shutter was drowned out over the sudden rise of shouts coming from the other side of the fence.
In the din it was hard to discern whether there were more wails or cheers, but it hardly mattered. Schmidt would make sure the papers only remembered it one way.
~*~
-The Road-
The truck rolled along the uneven road and Steve bumped along with it, his breaths sharp and short in his chest with every jostle.
They could have been on the road for days, or only a few hours, but he had no means of keeping time. His head was fogged with pain and the ache in his body made every second drag on for an age. He knew on some level that this was the end, his chances for escape had dwindled to nothing, but with rational thought driven from his mind there was nothing left but raw instinct.
It was some stubbornly embedded instinct that kept him weakly twisting and pulling on the manacles around his wrists, long after the skin was raw and bloodied. Even though the armed men who sat guard with him in the back of the truck sneered at his effort.
“You’re not getting out of this one, are you Stefen?”
Tony. A sob built and broke in Steve’s chest, his eyes darting about every which way in search, but finding only the blank faces of his captors.
Tony don’t wait. Tony get the children out –
“Shut up,” a soldier grunted, kicking Steve’s leg with his boot. It folded beneath him and Steve tipped with a cry, the only thing preventing him from crumbling to the ground the restraints shackled to a bar above his head. His weight pulling on his wrists, straining his ribs, was excruciating enough to bring dancing spots in front of his eyes and a rush of dizziness, and then not for the first time Steve lost consciousness.
~*~
The motorcade was running late, and the men were twitchy. Rogue kept shifting where she sat beside him, her leg jiggling nervously as the minutes ticked by.
Bucky kept up a calm façade because there was nothing else to do at this stage. Whether Dvorak had told them the truth or sold them out, they’d be ready for whatever came their way. Bucky took another deep breath, letting the ice in the air fill his lungs and steady his resolve. A flash of movement in the white landscape caught his eye and he stiffened, raising his binoculars and peering through them down at the distant stretch of road peeking through the snow laden trees.
They had a chain of sentries stationed on the road starting a few miles out to give them advanced warning and sure enough, that flash of red waving between the branches was their signal.
“They’re coming. Go!” he barked at Rogue reaching for his rifle. The girl nodded, grabbing her pack and the loose end of the wire before darting off down towards the road. The cable was thin and tied low enough to the ground it wouldn’t be easily spotted by an oncoming vehicle. The cable combined with the water (now turned to ice) poured over the road should be enough to take out any oncoming vehicle. It would only stop the first, but one crash was all they needed to block the road and halt the others.
Bucky adjusted his scope one last time and recounted his ammunition. Even if they were lucky enough to take out everyone in the first truck with the crash, the men on the ground were heavily outnumbered. They were relying on Bucky and the other snipers to pick off as many as they could from the relative safety of the trees. It was familiar territory, and though his heart sounded heavy in his eardrums it was calm, and Bucky’s hands were as steady as they’d ever been.
~*~
Steve woke suddenly, his jaw throbbing deeply with sharp pain.
The world was tilting dangerously, his ears filled with the sound of shouts and the popping of gunfire.
“Wake up Rogers!” a voice demanded before pain bloomed again in his cheek, bright and burning, before the hand that had struck him pulled back.
It was a moment more before Steve’s sluggish brain could put together that he had somehow slid to the floor and slumped against the wall of the truck. He was no longer latched to the bar he realized though his wrists were still manacled together.
The back of the truck was wide open and through his bleary vision Steve could just make out a body laying in the snow, a red halo blooming around it.
Shock slammed into him and he swayed, nearly falling on top of another body laying not inches from him. The soldier was still warm, the bullet that had killed him passing cleanly through his chest.
“You’re up? Good.”
Steve looked up through his swollen eyes, not quite able to process the sight of Henrick Dvorak standing over him, his uniform splattered with blood, his rifle held to his chest, standing amidst a heap of fallen comrades while the sounds of battle raged in the distance. Even injured, Steve recognized that the sounds were full of reverb as if coming from somewhere a way off. Whoever had attacked the motorcade was far behind them. Bucky. He knew it down in his bones. Bucky had come for him, that brave beautiful fool, and all of Steve’s guards save one were dead and there was no sound coming from anywhere nearby.
Which meant that Dvorak was all that was standing between him and freedom.
The prospect of freedom gave Steve strength. Adrenaline surging through him Steve lunged, but Dvorak seemed to expect it. He stepped back, bringing up his rifle and prodding it sharply against Steve’s chest in warning and Steve froze.
Dvorak didn’t move or speak, and Steve stood on shaking legs, waiting, pleading silently with the other man not to pull the trigger. Henrick’s unsteady breaths plumed in the cold winter air between them for a long drawn out moment, but it was Steve who spoke first.
“Henrick.” His ruined voice sounded foreign even to his own ears. Please. He tried to say but his voice just cracked and the sound that came out of his throat wasn’t intelligible. Dvorak huffed a low laugh in response to the sound, shaking his head.
“Your friends are out there throwing away their lives, but it won’t matter. You’re dying Rogers.”
As if they were just waiting for someone to point it out Steve’s knees started to buckle. He tilted sideways and slumped against the side of the truck, holding himself up with gritted teeth. His eyes never left Dvorak or the rifle aimed at him.
“Please. My children.” He forced the words out, wincing at how mangled and desperate they sounded. He did not like to beg, but he’d beg for them. He’d do anything for them.
“You’ll be dead by nightfall.” Dvorak responded with another shake of his head, and there was something hollow in his eyes now. A dark pit with no bottom. “Find a hole Rogers. Find a hole and bury yourself in it where no one will ever find you. That’s all we can give our children now.”
Without warning he stepped toward Steve, and a moment later there was a sharp sting against his side followed by a numbing sensation. He was very familiar by know with the feeling of injection. He could only gape at Dvorak in horrified confusion as the other man grabbed him by the shirt collar and began to drag him toward the door.
It was only a few seconds before Dvorak held him at the edge of the truck bed, Steve’s torso suspended dangerously over open air, and then the solider had released his grip and sent Steve falling backward into the snow.
He landed with a jarring thud, a strange muted burn rushing up through his arms and into his neck. Dvorak’s boots landed beside his head and Steve flinched away from them, finding it possible now that the pain was dulled to roll over onto his stomach. Not easy but possible.
“Get moving. That morphine won’t last forever and Schmidt will be right behind me.” he heard Dvorak say as the man grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him to his feet. Morphine? Steve struggled to understand what was happening even as Dvorak shoved him forward and he took his first stumbling steps.
He’d managed to stumble a few feet on his own before it really sank in, his mind slowly but surely getting clearer with the muting of the pain in his body. Dvorak had given him morphine. He was telling him to go because he was letting him go.
A sane man would have just started running, hands bound or no, but Steve was not sane. Had not been sane for weeks. He thought nothing of turning around to stare at Dvorak, even with the sound of gunfire in the forest behind them and the mystery of his transport crashed amid the trees and all of his jailer's dead, save one.
They were meant to take him away Steve realized. To flee the scene before his rescuers could get to him. Dvorak must have turned on them. They hadn’t been expecting it. Steve wouldn’t have believed it if the evidence wasn’t standing in front of him.
“They’ll kill you.” He managed to say, speaking easier too without being able to feel so much of the rawness.
Dvorak just smiled, raising his rifle once more.
“I’m counting on it.”
Steve heard the sound of a roaring engine. He turned his head and saw a trio of kübelwagen’s weaving toward them, headlights glaring. Steve started running even before the first shot was fired.
“Halt prisoner!” He heard Dvorak scream behind him, but he didn’t look back, running with every bit of strength left in him and praying that it would be enough.
~*~
The trip cable had worked exactly the way they hoped it would. The first vehicle in the motorcade hit it at high speed, its wheels spinning and squealing on slick ice as it slammed into the wire and over ended like a child’s toy, the whole wood gone silent but for the screams of the men inside.
Before the car had even landed on its back Lang and the other ground troops were rushing out of the trees on all sides, firing at the line of vehicles that had swerved and abandoned the road to avoid a similar collision.
Bucky and the other snipers worked more strategically shooting at tires and drivers. He spotted a mounted gun on top of an oncoming kübelwagen after it shot down two of their men in a single pass. Teeth gritted Bucky stood and shoot the gunner through the head before he could begin another. Position blown he started to run, weaving through the trees for cover as bullets pelted around him.
Harrison appeared off to his right and Bucky flashed him a grin just before he shot one of the soldiers rushing toward them out of the back of an armored truck. As they’d hoped, it looked like the motorcade had given up the idea of trying to get around them somehow and men were pouring out of the vehicles now, intent on eliminating them altogether. But Bucky and his men had the advantage of the trees and sooner or later they’d realize they’d have to venture deeper into the wood to avoid being picked off by enemy snipers. All Bucky needed to do was get to Stefen.
But fate was a wicked bitch. Bucky’s father used to say that all the time.
He and Harrison were fighting their way to the big truck the one that Dvorak had said Steve would be in, but the German soldiers were closing ranks around it. And then Bucky heard the sound of an engine kick up and the headlights on the damn thing nearly blinded him. He nearly took a shot to the face in his moment of lost visibility, swinging desperately behind a tree and blinking his eyes clear of spots as bullets struck the trunk at his back.
“Winter! Winter they’re getting away.” He heard someone shout, brow furrowing deeply as he realized it was a woman’s voice. Rogue. Damn. The stupid girl was supposed to set up the cable and get clear! But there she was not feet away, her pretty hide pressed up against a tree pointing behind them. He risked sticking his head out and looking behind long enough to catch sight of the truck peeling off, tires kicking up snow and dirt as it careened through the trees.
Shit! He jerked back to avoid getting shot and glared over at her, communicating with his eyes that if she valued living, she’d get the hell out of there while she still could. It was her choice. The team knew that their job was to engage the enemy as long as possible, by whatever means possible. The rest was up to Bucky and he didn’t have time to babysit.
“I need cover!” Bucky shouted before taking off, trusting Harrison and the girl to cover his back as he ran after the departing vehicle.
~*~
Dvorak fired wildly at Rogers back, striking trees and snow around the fleeing man with deadly precision, mentally tallying his remaining bullets. He was ignored by the general and the oncoming soldiers. Schmidt lead the charge in the first car. Dvorak could hear him screeching over the radio. After him. Your heads! Your heads if he gets away! Dvorak smirked, watching the distance between himself and the first car get smaller and smaller, turning at just the right moment.
No. Your head.
He fired into the oncoming vehicle, smiling as the glass in the windshield splintered and then cracked. The vehicle swerving violently and crashing into a tree as the drivers face exploded in a shower of red.
Of course, the next shots were not aimed at Rogers but at himself, and he was a lone target without cover.
He felt the first bullet tear through his shoulder but he kept his eye on his target, managing to stay upright and dodge behind the thick trunk of a tree as the door to Schmidt’s vehicle flew open. The general stumbled out, a pistol in one hand firing at the tree Dvorak hid behind, using the armored door of the car for his own cover.
“Forget him! Forget him you fools! After Rogers!” Schmidt paused to scream into his radio, and that was all Dvorak needed. Dashing out from his cover he fired two shots. One for Helene and one for Rene.
The first one missed the target shattering the glass in the door instead. Schmidt barely flinched, turning his pistol on Dvorak and returning fire with a steady arm, eyes alight with a cold sort of hatred. And then, one side of his skull suddenly burst outward in a brilliant red spray of blood.
Dvorak didn’t see him fall, because he was already falling himself his momentum halted by the violent punch of bullets.
~*~
Bucky’s lungs were burning but he pushed himself harder, following the deep tracks left by the truck that carried Steve. The military vehicle was designed to travel on difficult terrain, but the woods were compact and made their progress slow. He didn’t know what he planned to do once they managed to find the road again. He grit his teeth and pushed himself harder.
This time fate was on his side. He ground to a halt near the top of a ridge when he spotted what he thought was the top of the truck that had carried Stefen below, stooping down to avoid being seen before he was ready. He crept along the ridge and took stock of the scene below. It looked like they had crashed into a tree at the bottom of the ridge. It quickly became clear to Bucky that the reason why was that Dvorak had been in that truck. He must have taken the men by surprise. It was the only explanation because even from this distance Bucky could see that Stefens’s hands were bound behind his back.
God, Stefen looked like shit, but he was the most beautiful thing Bucky had ever seen and he was alive. Maybe not for long though, because Bucky heard the roar of engines not far off and ducked low again. A line of vehicles made their way along the bottom of the ridge toward the two men. Bucky’s trigger finger itched but he stayed still, biding his time. If Schmidt and the others were here then Bucky’s men were either dead or forced to retreat. There wouldn’t be any backup coming.
“Run you idiot,” Bucky cursed under his breath as Stefen just stood there staring at Dvorak like a fool as the enemy descended upon him. Taking a risk, Bucky took a careful shot, striking the ground just to Stefen’s right. He seemed to get the message and took off unsteadily. Just in time too, because Bucky’s shot was followed by a chorus of others as the enemy got close enough to try their own.
Bucky tried not to slip and break his neck as he slid down the side of the ridge darting between the trees as best he could for cover. He watched Dvorak turn and open fire on the oncoming vehicle and grinned, using the momentary shock of the enemy to his advantage and taking aim at their vehicles.
Tires. Windows. The plates above their gas tanks. Anything that would slow them down and give Steve time to get away. The men had stopped, their focus on Dvorak and protecting their general, but even from here Bucky could hear Schmidt screaming for them to pursue the prisoner.
Bucky needed to do the same, but for the first time he hesitated, watching as Schmidt and Dvorak traded fire. Bucky knew what Steve would do; what Steve would say a good man had to do, but that wasn’t what made Bucky stop and take aim at the men who stayed to protect their commander.
Four went down in quick succession. The fifth shot Dvorak twice, but not before one side of Schmidt’s face lit up like a red firecracker and the general crumpled to the ground. Bucky could see that he was still moving, even though one side of his skull was a red fleshy mangled mess. Dying and no longer a threat, so Bucky forgot him and shot the last remaining soldier before he could finish turning in his direction.
Dvorak was down, a pool of blood spreading out around him like angels' wings against white clouds of snow. Bucky released the breath he’d been holding long and slow and looked away from the grim sight and unslung his pack from his back to begin reloading his rifle.
Finished, Bucky slid down the rest of the incline, his boots crunching in the snow as he approached the major’s fallen form, only to see that Henrick had already gone still, his eyes staring lifelessly upward at the clear sky peeking through the canopy.
“Te aves yertime mander tai te yertil tut o Del.” Bucky murmured, circling the cooling body once in the old way before hitching his pack more comfortably on his back and turning toward the trail left by Steve and his pursuers.
~*~
Steve ran until he couldn’t anymore. He tried to be smart, using thicker pockets of trees for cover and steeper ground to force his pursuers to abandon their vehicles. Even military automobiles were only so equipped for off road travel and Steve was intimate with their weaknesses. After a time, the gunshots behind him grew distant and tapered off altogether. He kept running. The numbness from the morphine faded in staccato bursts of increasingly brighter and brighter pain until it was back in full force a consist burn that covered his entire body.
He pushed himself to keep going for as long as he could, until he dropped. He staggered and fell like a sack of potatoes at the base of a tree and passed out before his head even hit the snow. When he woke, the light had changed in the sky and he was numb all over from cold, his lungs aching with every breath. Frostbite, he thought, but there wasn’t much he could do to prevent it in his prison dregs. He didn’t know how long he’d been unconscious and it wasn’t safe here.
He forced himself to get up and ignored the voice in his head that sounded like Tony, quipping that it wasn’t safe anywhere.
It was safe at the cabin. God at least he hoped. He had to get there. Had to find his children. Schmidt was looking. He’d drown them. Butcher them.
Steve got up and forced one foot in front of the other. Again, and again and again. The cold never left his body, which was a blessing because it dulled everything else.
You’re dying idiot. You’re freezing to death.
No, Steve couldn’t do that. He pushed on, his head too heavy to lift, it was everything he could do to just keep lifting his feet. He needed... he needed....
He slammed into something and slid to his knees, catching himself part of the way down on something. He hung there, panting desperately for breath, suspended on the rung of a rickety wooden gate before spots danced in front of his eyes. It was so hard to breathe. He couldn’t... he couldn’t....
Get up Stevie!
Steve strained, trying to lift himself up but his chest bloomed with agony so bright it was like a firework, even with the numbing cold. He slid into darkness not a second later.
~*~
-March 1939-
The Cabin
The first of March came and went. It was a somber day full of long stretches of silence and unprompted tears over the smallest of things. Artur was tired of their usual fare and wanted pastry for breakfast. Natacha stubbed her toe carrying the bath water from the fireplace upstairs to the loft and Sara cried when she kicked the iron pot and cursed. Tony knew better than to point it out, but he’d seen Natacha’s eyes get misty as she’d cleaned up the spill while Tony comforted her younger sister.
But the day passed just like all the others had, and with only themselves for company, slowly but surely Tony and the children found their balance. Soon they were talking again and even laughing with each other on occasion. Tony kept up their voice lessons and thought up things to teach them so that they would be self-sufficient should anything happen to him. He did what he could not to alarm them, to make it all always seem like fun- just another part of their new way of living - but the fear of their very possible separation hovered in the back of his mind.
Natacha and James were slower to unthaw than the others, unwilling to forgive Tony for denying them news regarding their fathers' fate and not inclined to indulge in what to them seemed like the baseless hope the others were keen to rest on.
“Do you think he’s dead?” he heard Natacha whisper to Péter late one night, out of earshot of the younger children whom had fallen asleep on the bed to a slightly embellished story from Tony’s youth about the time he and his best friend Rhodey had nearly drowned searching for lost treasure in the cove. They were still sleeping altogether in the big bed downstairs, but Tony thought he might start insisting they go back to splitting up at night. For their own good and for the good of his poor back. The chair was not a comfortable place to rest.
“I don’t know.” Péter had answered honestly with a shrug. “It’s better for the others isn’t it, to know there’s a chance? Would you miss him less Tacha if you did know?”
Natacha had buried her head into her knees, shaking it slowly. Tony had thought that the firelight looked pretty dancing against her red hair and mused with a heartache he kept all to himself that Stefen would have thought the moment worthy of a painting. Natacha, sitting with her knees curled up, Péter with his arm slung around her. Angular bodies caught in tandem in that vast valley between child and adult, finding their own kind of poetic symmetry together not explained by anything rational.
Natacha started speaking more after that, perhaps deciding that there was wisdom in allowing her younger siblings to believe there was still a chance their father lived. Tony didn’t think there was much chance of convincing practical Natacha to put her heart in that belief, but he was grateful nonetheless to hear the return of her voice, and on one memorable occasion to see the return of her smile.
James proved the most stubborn of all. His black mood lingered for days after Natacha had started to come around. In the beginning he’d given Tony the cold shoulder and refused to move from his corner of the bed even for meals. Tony had observed Natacha bringing him food, so he let the situation be for as long as he could. But when it became clear that he was losing his last companion in his misery and resentment James changed tactics.
If James had held a reputation of surliness and black moods before this, then he was now striving to outdo himself. Nothing that anybody said or did around him was agreeable to him. He challenged Tony’s authority at every turn, disrupting lessons with pessimistic and degrading commentary from the sidelines, and ignoring instructions whenever he did deign to join them.
He was short with his siblings and out right picked on Artur relentlessly until the younger boy’s face turned red and his own temper overboiled. Unfortunately for James, Artur had a tendency to resort to his fists when that happened, so it didn’t surprise anyone at all that morning when James snatched the wool vest from Artur’s hands and declared it was his turn to accompany Tony outdoors for supplies. It was not, but according to James Artur was slow and too stupid to remember.
“You gave up your turn! It’s my turn!” Artur insisted, tugging on the garment only for James to tug harder, jabbing his younger brother in the ribs with one elbow as he snarled in reply, “Well now I want it back. Give it here! Nobody wants a fat roly-poly little thing like you tagging along anyway.”
Artur’s whole face turned red as the breath was driven from his stomach and his grip on the vest slackened. James pulled it away, his face spreading into a triumphant grin. It was short lived, because Artur, cheeks puffed with rage, tackled him headfirst. His curled fists swung like windmills as he shouted to bring the roof down around them.
“Eat dirt you bully!”
Tony intervened, pulling Artur off of his older brother with a scold ready at the tip of his tongue. “Hey! Alright that’s quite –” Only for James to lunge up at him from the floor and sink his teeth into Tony’s arm like a furious cat, bruised face scrunched up in fury.
“Owe! God damn it enough!” Tony shook the boy loose, grateful that he was already layered for the outdoors and the boy hadn’t gotten much more than a mouthful of wool. Even so, the shock of it, the boldness of this little brat to bite him. It was all too much.
“Let go of me! Let go of me, you’re not my father!” James screamed and kicked as Tony dragged him out the front door of the cabin by the back of his shirt. Tony tossed him unceremoniously into the snow outside the door, and James shrieked loud enough to cause an avalanche. So much for laying low Tony thought grimly, bracing his hands on his hips as he glowered down at the boy. James sat up, his face still slack with shock, looking around him stupidly as if he’d never seen snow before. More likely he’d never been tossed out on his ass in it before, Tony thought with no small amount of satisfaction.
He could feel the others staring, felt them inching closer to get a better look at the spectacle but they were wise enough not to intervene or make much noise, likely wary of drawing Tony’s unusual ire against themselves.
James found his tongue, glaring up at Tony with tears beginning to slide down his cheeks as he sputtered, “Y-you…you can’t do this to me!”
“Incorrect. But you’re damn right that I’m not your father. That means if you eat, if you sleep, if you survive another god damned minute, it’s because I choose to give a damn!” Tony snapped back.
“You don’t care about me!” James accused, crumbling into desperate sobs. He looked so small and pathetic sitting there in the snow with his bruises and his broken heart. Tony felt sorry for him, almost enough to forget why he’d tossed him there in the first place.
“Nobody cares about me.”
Ah. That was it.
“That’s not true.” Tony replied a little softer, but no less firm. “I’m sorry you can’t see that. Sit out here. Cry. Tell yourself none of it is fair. But if you come back through this door you will apologize to your brother and behave as if you have some sense!”
He turned and slammed the door in his wake. The smaller children scattered, fleeing back toward the bed like frightened mice. The older ones took a wary step backward parting like the red sea as he marched passed them to go back to getting ready to venture outdoors.
“Tony… are you really going to keep James outside?” Ian asked Tony’s back tentatively. Tony didn’t halt his task, responding briskly, “That’s entirely up to James.”
“Are you sure Tony?” Péter asked, sounding equally uncertain of poking the beast. It made Tony pause, his eyes flicking toward the younger children. Damn. They looked so terrified. Péter lowered his voice, leaning closer to Tony murmuring, “James can be awfully stubborn.”
Didn’t Tony know it. He suddenly felt beyond exhausted, on the verge of tears that would only humiliate himself and worry the children. Heaving a sigh Tony straightened, releasing the coiled rope in his hands and turned to look at them all.
“Every time he doesn’t listen, every time he does something wild like this, he puts all of us in danger. We’re all we have right now and he’s got to learn that.” He tried to explain it, but to him it was too easy to hear the plea in his own voice, the exhausted desperation of someone at their wits end.
“Péter, you’re coming with me now. The rest of you will stay. Ian you’re on lookout. If there was a search party anywhere close sound will have carried.”
Eyes widening at the realization Péter nodded, snatching the abandoned wool vest from the floor to begin layering up for the outdoors. Silently Natacha went and fetched Tony’s pistol and one of the old rifles for Péter. That was one of the one good things about holing up in a hunting lodge. Plenty of ammunition stocked about.
“Keep an eye on James, make sure he doesn’t try and wander off,” he warned as she handed him his weapon. He instructed Ian to keep a close eye on the perimeter and to watch for any signs of strangers approaching the cabin. Tony and Péter would do what they could to draw any suspicious eyes away from the area, but the lookout was the last line of defense for those left behind should anyone slip past them.
He and Péter set out, pausing briefly to remind James that he could reenter the cabin whenever he chose to apologize to Artur, and to warn him not to try and leave the yard in the meanwhile. James pretended to ignore them, his arms crossed, shivering where he stood nearly ankle deep in snow.
They left James there and began their patrol. Tony and Péter made a wide circle around the surrounding woods, going out about a mile and circling twice more. They didn’t see so much as another soul. The trail Bucky had driven on the night they’d arrived remained buried in snow, unmarred by anything but a few deer tracks.
Tony had been certain that James would cave long before he and Péter returned, but he should have learned by now, not to bet against the Rogers stubbornness. The sun had already dipped behind the other side of the mountain, the sky darkened to dusk, when the cabin came into view.
Ian came running up to meet them, biting his lips with worry, and it didn’t take long to figure out why as he pointed. And sure enough, he was sitting with his back against the door, shivering despite the blanket someone had obviously been kind enough to wrap around him. James was still outside, and had been now for hours.
“Stubborn brat,” Tony cursed under his breath hurrying toward the boy’s shivering shape. There was ice gathered in his lashes and his lips were blue tinged, but there was a heat an embarrassed heat to James cheeks as he slowly blinked up at them, working his jaw stubbornly as if he were contemplating telling them to piss off. Not for the first time Tony was torn between wanting to strangle him and hold him close. God the poor thing looked wretched. How would he explain this to Stefen?
I locked your eight-year-old out in the cold to teach him a lesson.
Tony’s father probably would have approved. Fuck. What was wrong with him?! It didn’t matter whether James learned a damn thing Tony decided. This wasn’t the way. He should never have lost his temper.
“It's that hard is it, just to do as you’re told and apologize?” Tony demanded, like the heel he was. Blaming a child for the desperate guilt clawing at his insides. And then Tony recognized that heat for what it was, not temper but fever, as James eyes filled with tears.
“I-I’m s-sorry Tony.” James stammered through chattering teeth, his voice barely above a whine. He looked up at Tony with round glassy eyes and Tony’s heart crumpled. He stooped, hauling the shivering boy up into his arms and holding him tight. Swallowing back the block in his throat he gestured sharply with his head for Péter and Ian to grab the door and carried James inside. Natacha who must have been watching at the window met them at the door.
“I heated water.” She murmured, guiding Tony toward where she’d set up the designated washing tub. Tony was grateful to see steam rising out of it and made quick work of stripping James out of his wet clothes and lowering the boy into the tub. It was just big enough for him to sit, mostly covered with the water just above his knees.
He kept one hand clenching Tony’s shirt even as the rest of him went limp, meekly accepting his sister’s and brother’s hands rubbing the warm water into his skin.
He mumbled that he was sorry a few more times before Tony shushed him, biting back the urge to cry. What a useless thing to do. He didn’t deserve it either.
“It’s alright James. I’m not mad anymore, and I’m sorry I hit you.” Artur assured him quickly from where he stood nervously behind Ian. “Will the stones help?” he asked looking up at Ian, referring to the small ones that Tony had taught the children to heat up in the coals of the fire to warm the beds at night.
“That’s a good idea Artur. Let’s get the bed ready,” Ian jumped on the suggestion Artur quickly following after him.
“Is James very cold Tacha?” Sara asked, watched Natacha dip the rag back into the warm water before sliding it over his skin again.
“Yes. We all must do as Tony says, but James was very silly today.” Natacha answered sparing the little girl a reassuring touch before she turned back to her task. “Now he knows better.”
“Why didn’t you want to apologize sooner James?” Maria asked, her little eyebrows scrunched in concern. When James drew his knees up and didn’t answer she looked to Natacha and then to Tony for an answer, but Tony’s throat was too tight to speak.
“It can be awful hard to apologize sometimes. I’m sure James just felt embarrassed, or that we might not forgive him.” Péter explained softly. He gave Tony a poignant look. Something not quite amusement but far from the despair he was growing familiar with bubbled up in Tony’s chest.
“Artur forgives you James. So do I,” Maria immediately reassured him, laying her small hand on the knee that had begun poking above the water. “So does everyone else. Right Tony?”
Right. Tony’s eyes stung and he blinked away the sensation. Leave it to Stefen’s children, to show him what bravery was.
“I know I do. And I…” Tony had to clear his throat in order to go on, to say the words his own father had never given him. “I was wrong and I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m going to do better for you. I promise.”
James did not speak, but his hand tightened in Tony’s shirt. He rested his head against Tony’s shoulder while they continued their ministrations and Tony didn’t mind at all the discomfort of kneeling next to the tub until long after the heat from the water had faded.
~*~
- The Farm -
Magda squinted in the direction that her little sister Ona had disappeared in. She’d sent Ona to her chores a half hour ago, but the girl was dawdling as usual. Such a lazy girl, Magda thought absently to herself. And sixteen now too! She ought to know how to behave like a woman grown. The chickens scattered around Magda’s feet, clucking appreciatively as she sprinkled a little extra of their feed. Magda and Ona’s mother held the belief that if you gave just a little more, the hens would repay it in kind. Both their parents were in town, selling the fresh eggs, and one of the goat kids newly weaned. She hoisted her basket higher and wiped the crumbs from the chicken feed on her skirt.
“Come on, Greta. How many today?” she sang a little to herself as she shooed away the hen, collecting the eggs she found in the nest beneath her. Magda’s back ached as she carried the basket. It was hard on days like this, when mother and father left and it was only her and Ona. They wouldn’t have Franz until the summer when he came home from university. The German Labor Force had assigned a pair of workers to come help at Father’s request, but they wouldn’t come until the snows had thawed. Once the chickens were done, she would have to head into the field to help Ona.
They had to get the soil ready for the strawberries and couldn’t wait for the workers. At least it wasn't as frigid as it had been a few weeks ago, when her skirt had frozen to the leather of her boots.
The hens flapped around her, suddenly agitated, and Magda looked over her shoulder to find her younger sister stood by the fence, hands empty of garden tools. There was a stunned and confused expression frozen on Ona's face that had dread dropping into Magda’s stomach. Was it their parents? Was it Franz? He was becoming more and more outspoken at university. Outraged at the way his former professors had been treated when Hitler came to power.
“What is it Ona? What’s wrong?” she called, and Ona looked back over her shoulder towards the field. Magda had the sudden frightening image of the gestapo in her mind marching down on their little farm bringing death in their wake. This was it, what they’d always feared had come, she thought, her heart beginning to pound. Franz had been arrested and they were going to be dragged in for questioning.
“There's a man-” Ona began, voice small and shocked, fading out to nothing over the distance.
“Yes, who is it. Ona, who is it?” Magda called back, her fright making her impatient.
Ona pointed towards the goat pen behind her. “He’s in with the goats.”
Not gestapo then. Probably a vagrant, if he was mucking around in their paddock. Of course, of course it wasn't the gestapo. Franz would never... alright he had quite a mouth on him when you got him talking about politics, which was all the time, but he was just talk. Just all talk. Anyone with half a brain could see he wasn't dangerous. Franz would never put the family at risk by doing anything too outlandish.
“Who?” Magda asked with a frown, reaching for one of the long rakes they used to spread the dung and animal feed. One never could be too careful where drifters were concerned.
“A man!” Ona said louder this time, her shock sliding into panic. “I think...Maggie, I think he needs help.”
“Ona, you know we’re supposed to report the homeless.” she reminded her, though it didn't really matter. Ona knew that without fail, if they had something to spare either Magda or her mother would always hand it out and send the poor souls on. Even with the administration so strictly against them, word tended to spread amongst the locals where those who were down on their luck could find a sympathetic hand.
“No. Magda come see. Please. I think he might be a prisoner, from one of the other farms.”
Magda frowned, apprehension creeping back in. Some of the farmers in Erlangen had taken on workers out of the prison. They were at least two days walk from Dachau, maybe three. None of their neighbors had come around with news about a runaway worker.
Magda quickened her step charging around the corner, following her sisters lumpy form as Ona walked into the pen.
Their newest breeding ram, Jasper, was nudging the prone figure of a man lying crumpled on the ground. Trig, another of their rams, hopped over the body and tutted unhappily. Their feed tin had been knocked over and the rest of their companions were feasting away at the spilled contents. They mostly ignored the body stepping over it.
Ona pressed herself against the fence and pointed needlessly as Magda approached the body slowly, clutching the hoe in knuckle white hands. He was a big man, and if he woke it would be a struggle to take him down. He could very well be escaped from Dachau. Hadn’t there been a prison break a few months back? They’d said all the escapees were caught, but maybe they had missed one.
She peered at him, trying to reconcile the dirty clothes he wore with the prison uniforms. She’d seen them working in the fields before the snows. They came by train, in striped uniforms, with tiny bracelets around their wrists. She’d seen one up close once. The identification number had been long and roughly carved into the metal.
That man had been painfully thin, just like this one, but there were other reasons to be thin...Magda prodded the body and stilled, catching a glimpse of his wrists chained and manacled together behind his back. There was no longer any doubt. She didn't need to see the identification bracelet cutting into the red skin of his forearm.
There was a prisoner lying here in their goat pen with dark brown stains around his mouth and fingers. He’d been eating the goat's food.
No, oh no. Magda licked her lips, her throat going dry again with fear. She clutched the rake to her chest and edged forward, trying to think what to do next. Something squashed beneath her feet and she glanced down.
He’d thrown up. She wrinkled her nose at the sight of the bile and discolored acid, stark against the lingering snow.
“Is he alive?” Ona asked, timidly peering around Magda to get a good look at the man.
“Don’t be silly,” Magda shot back, for lack of anything better to say. In truth it wasn't a silly question at all. The man certainly looked dead but no, there, he was breathing. His grimy chest rose and fell in shallow heaves, a thin wet wheezing sound accompanying each breath.
What were they going to do with him? One thing was certain, they couldn't leave him out here to freeze to death while they waited for the Gestapo. She eyed him warily. She could lift him...perhaps? It would be difficult, but she and Ona could manage it she wagered. She dropped the rake, making a quick decision.
“Grab his legs.”
Ona spasmed beside her.
“What? We can’t do that!” she exclaimed wildly. “We have to tell, Vati.”
“Vati isn’t here. Go on, you heard me.” Magda chided, bending down and maneuvering the man’s arms across his chest. She scooped underneath his armpits and lifted him up, grunting under the effort. He was completely dead weight and heavier even than he’d looked. She huffed underneath him, straining.
“Ona!”
Ona blinked out of her daze, biting her lip with another moment of indecision before she finally darted forward, grabbing his legs. Together they awkwardly half dragged, half carried the stranger towards the barn.
“We’ll call the police of course, what else would we do?” Magda grunted as they worked, trying to relieve the pinched look her sister was wearing.
Ona dropped his legs as soon as they were deep enough into the barn. She darted off to where they stored much of the harvest equipment, returning with a long rope. It was old and it might not hold him if he tried to tear loose, but from the state of him Magda would be surprised if he could manage so much as a tug. He looked like one of the rag dolls she used to play with as a little girl. Only she’d kept her doll well and safe from wear and tear. This man had been thrown away.
“Here, by…” Magda looked around. The only thing that looked stable enough to hold him was the pen she kept their oldest and dearest goat in. Well, if needs must. “Over here.”
They dragged him over to the small pen and tied him by the cuff around his wrists, low so the blood wouldn't drain from his appendages while he was unconscious. When they’d finished Magda stepped back and took him in, breathing heavily. When she’d caught her breath back, she knelt down and brushed some of the dirt away from his pale face. She tried hard to be gentle, but even with such a light touch she could feel the swelling and contusions under his skin. He was certainly a poor sight, all bloodied and blue.
Had he been attacked by someone? Had he been walking like this for days with his wrists shackled?
“Magda?” Ona called into the silence.
Slowly Magda tore her eyes away from the injured man and looked back at her sister. “We’ll get...we’ll get some blankets and then we will call the police.”
~*~
-The Cabin-
After the incident James woke the next morning clear eyed if subdued. He seemed embarrassed by the previous days ordeal and reluctant to look anyone in the eye, but his siblings took their cue from Tony and were dogged in their efforts to go on as if nothing had changed between them at all, any and all slights forgiven and forgotten.
By afternoon James and Artur were bickering again (with a lot more good nature) over who could carve the best toy soldier from their stockpile of dried branches. Natacha kept one careful eye on them from where she sat, carefully whittling away at what was to become a long pair of hooks for weaving. She had proved the best so far at whittling, her tools always clean edged with precise lines and shapes. Ian wasn’t a far second, but all of the children seemed to enjoy it. Sara’s hands were still a little too unsteady for knife work but she enjoyed watching the little wooden toys the boys made come to life.
For a time, things settled into a quiet routine and remained good. But James’ cough lingered, and Tony became worried. James still ticked the days off on the wall every day, so Tony knew it was nearing the end of the month. He made good on his promise to show the children how to make a medicinal tea from fresh pine needles that wouldn’t be too harsh on his throat when swallowed.
He made light of the fact that none of the books he’d read on the subject had included exact measurements and insisted on testing out each batch on himself. The first round burned his tongue and left him with a horrible stomachache.
“This is silly. What good will it do James if you poison yourself?” Natacha scolded, worry behind it, and Tony, finished rinsing the taste of puke from his mouth, had smiled bravely in return and pressed on.
“This is science dear girl! A process of trial and error. Better reduce the needles to a single cup.”
The medicine, once they’d hashed out the right balance, had helped to ease the congestion they could all hear in James lungs. For a few days he breathed easier and his coughing subdued, but then he caught a chill again and the wetness in his lungs returned, the coughing worsening with each day.
Soon he was bed ridden, his cheeks flushed with fever and though the herbal remedy provided some relief Tony knew it wasn’t enough.
“He used to get sick like this when mama was alive,” Ian fretted, taking the warm rag from Tony’s hand. As Tony stepped back, he took over pressing the rag against James’ buckled chest. “It helps if you rub his chest while you talk him through it.”
“Good, you keep rubbing, and keep telling him to breathe.” Tony squeezed Ian’s shoulder, and turned toward the stairs leading to the loft where Péter had just finished climbing down. He and Natacha were keeping the others upstairs, on the chance that whatever virus James had caught wasn’t contagious.
The trouble was Tony wasn’t a doctor and he only had what he’d picked up during his days aiding Bruce in the infirmary at the abbey to rely on.
“How is he?” Péter asked and Tony glanced back at Ian who was murmuring quiet encouragement for James to breath in and out before answering in a lowered voice, “It could be the asthma; he was diagnosed as a child but the tea seemed to be helping. Which indicates the cause is viral. But it could mean anything from bronchitis to diphtheria really.”
“The tea was working before. We could make it stronger?” Péter suggested and Tony nodded.
That was an idea, now that they had a better grasp on how much to use before it started to upset the body. The trouble was he just didn’t know. He was flying blind. James was ill and needed a doctor. That was Tony’s fault.
You know what you have to do.
“A more condensed syrup may help. We can use the sap. My worry is that the virus and the asthma are exasperating each other. We can’t treat one without considering the other, and we don’t have much to work with here.” Tony replied and Péter slowly nodded, understanding at once.
“What do we need to get?”
More towels for one thing and a kettle would go a long way towards keeping water heated. Steam was important for keeping the lungs clear. And medicinal powder was common enough in most households.
Poison Tony?
All medicine was a form of poison in one way or another. In very careful doses belladonna could be used to subdue bronchial spasms and numb pain in the body.
Because it’s killing you.
Yes, yes, it was all part of a larger design to kill you, but ends must! James’ asthma was keeping him from breathing while his body tried to fight off an infection. He needed intervention and he needed it quickly.
“I’ll go,” Péter volunteered once he and Tony had compiled a complete list and Tony frowned shaking his head in firm denial. The trek down the mountain to the nearest farm would be dangerous, and no telling what sort of trouble he’d meet when he got there.
“Our faces will have been printed in every newspaper from here to Germany, Péter. Which means there is a good chance that whoever goes will be recognized, even in a place as remote as this. If that happens, no matter what, we can’t lead the people back here. It has to be me who goes.”
“That’s exactly why it should be me,” Péter insisted, narrowing his eyes at Tony. “You know more about medicine and if I don’t make it back, Tony they need you more than they need me.”
“Don’t say that.” Tony snapped. Péter’s words sliced into him like knives, reminding him of a feeling he’d hoped never to revisit again – the agony of a child loved and lost – causing him to grab the younger man by the shoulders. Tony just barely stopped himself from shaking him. “Don’t ever say that.”
Péter looked shaken just the same and Tony released his death grip. He cupped Péter’s cheek with one hand, absurdly resentful of the new sharpness he found there. He couldn’t see it, but Péter Rogers was worth a hundred of Tony.
“I’d give my life three times over for you. For all of you.” he said with finality. “Promise me you’ll stay here and don’t do anything rash. Promise me.”
“But Tony -”
“Promise me!” he insisted and Péter swallowed, his shoulders drooping as he replied, his voice shaking. “I promise.”
Relief flooded through Tony and he squeezed Péter gently, finally releasing him.
“Thank you.” He replied after a moment, clearing his throat from the lump that had gathered there. “Tonight, I’ll take you through what to do to ease his breathing. I’ll head out at first light tomorrow.”
He could no more stop Péter Rogers from becoming a man too quickly than he could preserve the fat on his bones. Both were outside his control, but preserving his life – Tony would do whatever it cost.
~*~
Tony didn’t sleep much, Ian had noticed. He stayed up late to watch over them and only slept an hour or two each night, and since James had fallen ill he had a tendency not to go days in a row without sleeping at all. So for his plan to work, Ian knew that he would only have a short window of time.
He’d listened to Tony and Péter talking that afternoon, and watched carefully as Tony instructed Péter and Natacha on different techniques to ease the pain in James’ chest, and get him to cough up the mucus that was collecting there. Ian had watched carefully, the way he always did and thought very long and hard about what he should do.
If father were here, he’d be the one to go. He wouldn’t want any of them to get hurt, the same way Tony didn’t want any of them to get hurt.
But father wasn’t here and Péter was right. If Tony didn’t come back, Ian and his siblings would be alone. They might not survive. They needed Tony, but that didn’t mean Tony wasn’t right too. They needed each other right now.
In the army, a team only worked if everyone worked together and pulled their own weight; but Tony wasn’t ready to let them take risks even if those risks were in the best interest of their entire unit.
Péter didn’t want to break Tony’s heart or his trust again so soon after the first time.
That was okay Ian decided. He could do it. He would do it.
While Tony was busy making sure Natacha and Péter could handle things without him Ian quietly gathered the things he would need on his trip. ‘I’ll get the sled ready Tony. I’ll get the ropes, and the sacks, and the rifle, and the ammunition, and the water jugs, and the torch, and the dry food.’ He packed the sled carefully, testing it to make sure it wasn’t too heavy for him to manage. It would be a great distance between here and the nearest farm, and he wouldn’t know exactly which way to go. But he could follow the road through the trees.
He hung the wool coverings Tony had made them by the fireplace and set a dozen stones on the grate to heat. He prepared, and he watched, and he waited.
That night when Tony told them it was time for bed and ushered them all up the ladder into the loft, Ian asked for a story. Natacha looked at him oddly and Ian felt his face turn pink – usually it was Artur or one of the other little ones who asked Tony for stories or songs to help them get to sleep. They helped Ian too, but he was a man of twelve now and he’d never have said so if he weren’t desperate.
Thankfully his younger siblings immediately latched on to the request. They were anxious over James’ condition and Tony’s looming departure in the morning. Everyone was. Tony told them a story about his childhood, in a city by the sea that sounded magical to Ian, and how his mother used to sing him to sleep when he was worried or sick like James.
Maria was asking him to sing to them when Ian slipped from the bed, mumbling that he had to use the latrine. Tony was worried about him going outside alone in the dark, but it was easy to persuade him that he’d be fine on his own. He’d been out with Tony loads of times now, and often took the role of lookout when Tony had to be gone. It would have been silly for Tony not to trust him to relieve himself on his own and come right back, and Ian felt a brief moment of guilt for taking advantage as he made his escape down the ladder.
Ian rushed to strap on the winter covers he’d set out to dry, and pad the insides of the vest with the heated stones wrapped in burlap. All the while Tony’s voice drifted down through the open door of the loft, singing a soft lullaby.
Noo... nonna nonna, la bimba
My little one, angels will put you to sleep
When I was born, I was born at sea I was born among the Turks and among the Moors,
A gypsy came to tell my fortune “Daughter, for you there is a mountain of gold”
So I picked up the hoe and I began to hoe, and tho I never did find silver and not even gold,
I found you, piccala mia, piccala mia
Wrapped up as warm as he could get, Ian grabbed the rifle and left the cabin.
The woods were dark and scary, but Ian kept moving. He wasn’t scared. Well, not scared enough to stop. Da wouldn’t have stopped. The sled was heavy, but not any heavier than the sandbags he and Da used at the villa to keep their strength up. Ian couldn’t carry the biggest one for very long, but he was glad now that he’d practiced with it over short distances.
Still, Tony was going to figure out eventually that Ian was taking too long and he might try and follow him. He had longer legs, and would cover more ground without a load to carry.
He paused, worrying his bottom lip while he considered what to do.
The road was the surest way to find his way down and his way back, but not the quickest way. There was a downward slope and things that went downhill went faster than other things because of gravity. Tony would see, but that was good. He’d figure out that Ian was too far ahead and he’d go back to the others.
Yes. Ian dragged the sled into the trees, away from the absence of trees that marked the snow-covered road and peered down the slope. It wasn't smooth, full of rocks and trees and any number of things that would injure him if he ran into them. He searched for the spot that looked the clearest and balanced the sled at the top, climbing aboard carefully and laying down on his stomach. That was better for rolling if he crashed, but he wasn’t going to crash! He gulped a deep breath and kicked off with one leg, sending the sled down the slope.
The sled moved fast and it was harder to steer while on top of it than he’d anticipated. He sped down the side of the slope at breakneck speed, snow churning up behind him, his heart beating wildly in his chest. Ian let out a whoop as the wind whipped through his hair, stinging at his cheeks and eyes, picking up more and more speed the further he went.
He was going so fast. Too fast! He was headed headfirst into a tree he realized with panic. He grabbed desperately at the edges of the sled and threw all of his body weight to the right side.
The sled turned, and then tilted sliding at an angle in a spray of white before turning over completely and dumping Ian over the side. He’d tumbled a few more feet, rolling and sliding down down down, until he finally stopped. Right at the edge of the ridge.
He lay there, his heart thundering, eyes squeezed closed until it finally sank in that he’d stopped moving and that he was alive. Tony would probably have yelled something about how he nearly fell off the side of a mountain but well, he hadn’t.
Ian sat up slowly and looked around, relieved to find that the sled had stopped up against a tree a few feet up the slope. He got up, shaking the snow off as best he could and trudged over to inspect it for damage. It looked alright to him. He’d tied the sacks with his supplies down extra tight and was relieved to find them all still there.
He dragged the sled free and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, glancing back up the side of the mountain. He wasn’t as good with math as Péter so he couldn’t tell how many feet he’d managed to slide down but he was surprised at how much distance he’d managed to cover in such a short amount of time. It would have taken him hours to manage the same on the winding road. He trotted back to the edge of the ledge, his belly squirming when he realized how close he’d truly come to sliding off of it. It had been very close, very very close, and Ian’s legs began to shake so badly he couldn’t quite reach the edge. He stood there, frozen and shaking, unable to stomach the thought of moving let alone getting back on the sled.
Don’t be a baby. James needs medicine and you have to get it for him. He scolded himself backing away from the edge. He’d get better at steering.
From there Ian could see out over the mountain side from here and down into the valley below. It was beautiful, but what had Ian’s heart kicking into high gear again was not the stars above, but lights twinkling between the trees, further down maybe about a hundred feet. He didn’t know if those lights belonged to an outpost, or perhaps another cabin but there was only one way to find out.
Da always said, courage wasn’t about not being afraid. It was about facing your fear.
~*~
Tony wasn’t going to survive the Rogers family. He was certain of it now, but it was fruitless prayers he mumbled into the chilly night air rather than bitter curses as he followed the tracks Ian had left in the snow.
Dear God, let me find him before he gets hurt, or slips and falls off the side of the mountain, or meets up with a hungry bear.
The bears will be hibernating Tony.
Well the goats wouldn’t be, Stefen! And there were all sorts of dangerous creatures in the woods. Like wolves! Wolves and mountain goats, and a plethora of other things that could hurt a boy of twelve traveling on his own; all because Tony had been stupid enough not to anticipate that Péter wasn’t the only rash one in the bunch.
Tony was saddled with seven smaller versions of the bravest most reckless idiot he’d ever met, and he was losing his mind.
I love you.
Tony closed his eyes and tried to block out the voice in his head, that kept taunting him that he’d never hear Stefen say those words, and it was a good thing because he’d never have forgiven Tony for letting harm come to his children. Tony came to a halt when Ian’s tracks suddenly turned, leading away from the road, poorly viable though it was, and off into the woods. Gut clenching, he followed the tracks until the ground beneath his feet began to slope, the mountainside beginning a sharp decline. He could see from the marks in the snow where the sled had gone downhill and disappeared out of sight.
Oh god... Tony stumbled forward beginning to slide and lose his footing. He caught himself just in time, pausing to fight for breath and gulp down the surge of panic. Had Ian ever even been on a sled before? He could break his neck! And as soon as he thought it the visions came, Ian twisted and broken somewhere on the side of the mountain or splattered at the bottom. Oh God. Oh god oh god oh god.
It’s when you realize that you can’t control death, that’s when you start talking to -
“Shut up!” Tony hissed, clenching his teeth and thankfully the voices went still. He didn’t have time for this. He wasn’t about to lose either Ian or James. Not to illness, not to his own stupidity, not to the damn Reich, not to anything!
He’d never catch up to Ian on foot, but was he or wasn’t he a master builder? He was in a forest surrounded by wood. He could engineer a piece of aerodynamic wood for Christ's sake.
~*~
The lodge was bigger than the one Ian and his family were staying in. It looked out over the valley, and there was an old fence running around it to keep the goats in the yard. There were lights burning inside and the yard looked well-tended, in a way that made Ian think whoever lived there lived there year-round. There were clear pathways between the shed, the trough and the latrine; and the snow had been shoveled around the base of the home and packed down by consistent trod back and forth.
Ian stood outside the fence and considered it for a long moment, pondering what to do next.
He couldn’t just go up and knock could he? But he couldn’t very well break in either. Oh stuff it! He was cold, wet, and the gash on his cheek from his last crash with the sled was stinging. The rest of his face had gone numb long ago and his teeth were starting to chatter again now that he’d stopped moving. Desperate and determined, Ian pushed the sled under the fence and crawled after it on his hands and knees.
The goats in the yard bleated loudly as he walked to the front door, no doubt alerting the people inside to his approach. Ian had barely finished knocking before there was a rustle of falling snow, and a voice called down from up above.
“Who is it?”
Ian stepped back from the door, craning his head back to see that a balding man had opened the shutters of the upstairs window and stuck and was leaning out in an attempt to get a good look at him.
“Who is it Dagmar?” He heard a woman’s voice float down from above and a moment later she appeared beside him, wisps of light hair peeking out of her night cap.
“It’s a boy Karlina.”
“A boy? Alone?”
“Y-Yes,” Ian interrupted the couple, shifting from foot to foot in order to warm himself. Now that he was standing still, he felt light headed, like he had to sit down. “My name is... Edwin. My father and I were out hunting and… we got separated. I’m turned around.”
Ian must have looked very pathetic because it wasn’t long at all before, he found himself sat in a comfortable chair in front of the wood stove, the woman Karlina fussing over his cut while her husband fed the stove more wood. When she’d cleaned him up to her satisfaction she hurried off into the kitchen, and Ian slumped into the back of the chair his body shaking with exhaustion.
“Here you are love, poor thing. Your fingers must be frozen stiff,” the woman tut-tutted reappearing from the kitchen. Ian noticed her eyeing the blue tips sticking out of the strips of burlap he’d wrapped around his hands for warmth as she handed him a steaming cup. It was warm chocolate, he realized with delight, hands still shaking slightly as he raised the cup to his mouth. The taste was a shock to his tongue and almost too rich.
“You said you were out hunting with your pa?” Dagmar questioned him after Ian had taken a few more gulps of the hot drink and some of the blue had faded from around his lips. Ian nodded and the balding man grunted, his eyes flickering over Ian’s strange attire. For the first time he considered what he must look like in a handmade wool vest that was little more than a blanket with a hole cut in it, bound tightly around him with burlap. Leg and arm warmers made of fur rug. No one would believe your father is rich, he thought with a sudden start. Because they weren’t anymore, and these garments were not a disguise. They were really all he had to keep warm.
It was the first time in his life that he could ever remember somebody looking at him like that, as if he were someone to be pitied. Ian titled his chin up, meeting the older man’s stare as he answered him with no hint of shame, “Yes, we came up here to start a farm down the road, but the winter has been hard. It’s just me, da and my brother. He’s got the cough though, so he had to stay home.”
It was a good story Ian thought. Farmers didn’t make a lot of money and it had to be hard just starting out didn’t it? For good measure he turned to Karlina, trying to look as pitiful as possible as he added, “mother’s awful worried because the cough won’t let up and there’s no way to ring for a doctor.”
“It would be difficult for them to make it up here anyhow,” Dagmar grunted in response, and Karlina sighed, commiserating. “Life on the mountain can be hard. But we help each other through. Dagmar, in the morning you’ll help him find the way back. I’ll send you both with some fresh linens and my good soup.”
“Do you have medical power?” Ian dared to asked, and when they both turned to look at him questioningly, he hastily following up with, “I heard my mother mention it. She was telling da, if only we had some, my brother might get better.”
“Poor woman.” Karlina murmured bustling over to the kitchen. She was still muttering to herself as she began to search through her cabinets. “Yes, I think I still have some left over from when you caught bronchitis last year Dagmar. Ah yes! Here it is.”
She waved a little pink canister labeled ‘Hughbart’s Medical Powder’ triumphantly in Ian’s direction. She set it down on the table and then went and fetched a big pot, presumably to start making her soup, muttering all the while, “The winters are so harsh; I always try and keep some on hand.”
“Where have you and your family set up?” Dagmar asked quietly. Ian turned to look at him and found the man scrutinizing him. He suddenly felt cold again. He worried his lip between his teeth as he tried to think of what to say.
“I’m not sure,” he finally mumbled, dropping his eyes into his cup of chocolate. “Everything really looks the same up here and usually I’m with da. We were following the road up, but I lost it.”
There. He thought. That way if anyone decided to go looking, they’d be headed in the wrong direction.
“Our trail will lead you back to the road. I’ve got a mule and a cart we can take down, find where your Pa has you set up.” Dagmar grunted. It fell quiet, but for the sounds of Karlina bustling in the kitchen and the crackle of the fire in the stove.
“You’re not a Jew, are you boy?”
The question startled Ian so much that he jerked, sloshing some of the chocolate out of his cup.
“Dagmar. You’re frightening the poor child.” Karlina scolded from the kitchen but Dagmar just continued to stare at Ian as if he could peel back his skin and see behind it.
“Something familiar about his face is all” he replied, and fear crept up through Ian’s belly like trickles of ice.
“He looks just like our Selig did at that age. Have you ever seen a Jew with eyes that blue?” Karlina mused. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Times are different now Karlina, you can’t trust folk. People go to prison, helping Jews.” Dagmar’s gaze slid briefly toward his wife with censure, and then came back to pin Ian again. “There’s one way to know of course.”
He said it slowly, as if he expected Ian to pick up on something and Ian looked anxiously between the man and his wife. He didn’t know. And his rifle was still outside.
Karlina had gone still and was looking at him now too, like a cat might consider the shadows where a mouse was hiding.
“Take off your pants boy,” Dagmar ordered in a low but firm tone. It demanded to be obeyed.
“W-what?” Ian gaped, his head swiveling around back to the husband with shock, his heart beginning to thump hard again.
“Your drawers. Take them off.”
Dagmar gestured impatiently at his own front as he explained, and Ian’s cheeks flushed red with mortification as he realized what the man wanted him to do. He looked to the wife for help, but Karlina just clicked her tongue and murmured lowly that Ian had better do what he said.
Ian didn’t want to... he didn’t want to expose himself in front of these people, but he didn’t know what they would do if he didn’t. Hurt him, chase him away... kill him? They could. There was no one who would stop them if they wanted to. They could kill him so easily and no one would ever know.
Slowly, with trembling hands, Ian pulled down his pants. The cool air pebbled his skin, but it was Dagmar’s eyes roving over his genitals that made him shudder.
“He’s not cut like they are.” The older man announced after a long moment, getting up from where he knelt by the stove as if what had just happened were commonplace. He sounded bored even, and Ian was struck with a strange surge of fury, completely at odds with the way he began to cry as he scrambled to pull up his pants.
“There now see. All that fuss for nothing.” Karlina clucked.
Clenching his fists, Ian turned away from them both in order to hide the tears he was wasn’t successful at biting back. And then a sudden knock came, causing Ian to jerk and wince violently at the unexpected sound.
“Probably your Pa come looking,” Dagmar mused aloud as he shuffled toward the door, giving Ian another odd look. Ian stayed tense, because who else could it have been but Edwin's father come looking for him, if Edwin were real? But Ian Rogers did not have a father looking for him. Ian Rogers was alone and scared with strangers who looked at him funny and only decided not to hurt him because something on his body told them he wasn’t Jewish. But Dagmar thought he looked familiar. Ian was terrified to find out what would happen if he put together why.
Dagmar opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air and spoke to whoever was on the other side.
“You here looking for your boy?”
There was a slight pause and then Ian heard a very familiar voice reply, “Yes. Thank god. Is he here?”
“Da!”
Ian pushed past Dagmar and ran to hug Tony. Tony didn’t look startled to hear Ian call him that, just desperately relieved. He let out a ragged sort of cry as their bodies collided and held onto Ian so tight, he almost crushed him but Ian didn’t care. Tony was there and that meant Ian wasn’t alone anymore.
Tony would probably suppose later that Ian called him father in that moment because of the lies he’d told Dagmar and his wife, and there was truth in that. But it wasn’t the only one.
~*~
They did not linger long at the neighboring lodge. Tony was tempted to accept the farmers offer of a bed for the night and a ride in his wagon come morning, but something about the way the man’s eyes lingered on him and Ian’s nervousness made Tony think it was a bad idea. Despite the warmth of the house and the strain he’d obviously put himself through getting there Ian seemed as anxious to leave as Tony was.
The wife wouldn’t hear of him returning any of the linens or the pot of soup. Out here where it was so remote, neighbors had to depend on each other in times of crisis. As soon as it was heated to her satisfaction and covered for travel Dagmar helped Tony and Ian load his sled up for travel and asked once more about giving them a ride. Tony begged off, claiming to have left his truck at the foot of their trail and thanked them kindly for their other offerings.
Tony wished they could have risked saying yes. It was miles uphill to get back to the cabin and a very winding path to get there. But at least now they had more blankets, and hot soup to warm them. He and Ian didn’t talk much during the first leg of the journey. As soon as the lodge had disappeared on the trail behind them Ian had told Tony of the couple’s suspicions. They’d thought he looked familiar and might be a runaway Jew. Tony didn’t trust them not to dwell on those suspicions or get it into their heads to try and look into them.
Tony hauled the sled and had Ian follow behind, obscuring their progress with a branch of pine. It wouldn’t be enough; he knew that, but it had snowed off and on very faithfully the past two months. He could only hope the snow came again soon and did the rest.
When he sensed that Ian was tired, he looked back, noting the way the boy dragged and weaved slightly with every step and called for a halt. He put him on the sled under a blanket and made him drink down a ladle of hot soup.
“What about you?” the boy asked, looking up at Tony.
“I’ve got a few more hours in me yet. I slid most of the way down here.”
“Without a sled?” Ian asked, frowning in contemplation and Tony had given him a tired wink before taking up the lead again and trudging along.
“Skis have more control, but please, remind me to add sled making to our list of projects. Mark I could use metal rungs. We’ll have to repurpose some.”
“Can’t we just use wood, Tony? There’s plenty of it.”
“Wood cracks. Try breaking your fall down a mountain with wooden poles sometime.”
Behind him, Ian giggled, and Tony was just so glad that he was there alive to make that sound that he for a moment he didn’t even feel the pain in his body.
They made it back to the cabin at early light, the sun just beginning to cast the clouds in pale shades of blue and grey. Natacha was the lookout. Ian saw her red hair first, standing out like a fox in the snow. He smiled as she ran to meet them.
“You’re hurt,” she more accused than observed, her eyes roving over the cut on Ian’s face and narrowing suspiciously on Tony who was trying to hide how jelly his legs had gotten by leaning against the sled. His own bruises were less visible than Ian’s and he was thankful for that.
“How is James?” he asked, in order to distract her as Ian hopped down from the sled and hastily began unpacking their new supplies.
“Péter is giving him another steam bath. What’s wrong with your side?”
Tony closed his eyes and sighed.
I love you.
Yes well, if you don’t come back what good does that do?
Accepting his inevitable decent into madness, Tony stood up strait with a quiet groan. He’d banged himself rather good on one of his tumbles, and the steady pain he’d felt in his chest ever since spoke of bruised ribs. Relenting to the inevitable he gestured for Natacha to come help. Her face washed with relief she slid under his arm, careful where she held him as she helped him walk to the door.
~*~
-The Farm-
Peggy was leaning over him, a blanket in her arms. He must have… but as he slowly regained consciousness Steve’s thoughts stuttered and went blank. Not for the first time, the warmth of the phantom lingered despite all rationale. He could feel her body lying next to his, her warmth seeping into his skin. Steve squeezed his closed eyes, willing the phantom feelings away. He couldn’t bear to see her right now. Couldn’t look her in the eye when he was… broken. So broke- it was just a dream! It always was. He couldn’t dwell on ghostly visions or the new mad ravings his mind had cooked up. He had to get up and keep going!
But just the thought of moving seemed to awaken his body to just how much pain he was in, because it came rushing up like a wave all at once, no morphine left in his system to blunt it. Steve keened low in his chest, curling his legs into his stomach as he rode it out, fighting not to pass out. His fingers were numb. He flexed them to try and get some feeling back, only to realize that his wrists were still bound behind his back. He was on his stomach, suspended ever so slightly off the ground by his hands and feet, secured to something solid above him. The bonds were tight. Whoever had tied them was no fool and hadn’t left him any room to move his wrist or ankles.
Steve blinked crusted eyes open and they watered against the cold air. He pushed past the discomfort and forced himself to look around, wincing as his neck screamed at him. He was in a pen of some sort within a barn. He was right up against the side of the pen, so he figured he’d been secured to one of the posts. Thick wood but possibly breakable given enough effort. The barn itself was small and compact with reasonable equipment. And tools. Steve twisted, trying to get a better look, banging his knee and grunting sharply at the resulting pain.
The body lying next to his shifted and Steve’s heart jolted into his throat. It was real. Not his dead wife, but something real. Something big, pressing against his legs and nudging them as it moved. He used all his strength to hoist himself up until he was crouched on his knees. But since his arms and feet were still secured to the post, all of his weight came down on his shoulders and he groaned with pain, his vision swimming.
There was a racket just above him and Steve flinched away from the sound, desperately blinking his vision clear until he was looking into a pair of big gray eyes. He jerked back, over balancing and collapsing in a heap on his side with a pained huff.
The wooden post he was tied to groaned in protest as the ropes pulled against it, and Steve had a fleeting moment to be glad there was enough give in the rope that he hadn’t jerked his arms out of socket falling over like that. But then he remembered the eyes, no doubt those of his captor, and all of his thoughts were consumed with impotent rage. It burned through his veins and into the back of his throat. Caught. He was caught, again. Steve bellowed, an aggrieved roar, his entire body trembling as he struggled to regain leverage and lunge at the threat. So close. He’d been so close.
“Don’t. Stop!” Steve whipped around, panting heavily, straining to find the owner of that voice. A burly figure stood in front of him, one mitted hand flung out as if to stop him, the other clenching a small knife. From head to toe they were clad in men’s outerwear, but the stricken white face bundled under that headscarf was decidedly female.
“Stop. You’ll hurt him.” The woman pleaded, her eyes flicking downwards.
Her words made no sense, so Steve ignored them, continuing to pull and strain in an attempt to tear at the bindings around his arms, wrenching his wrists and shoulders. The pain was excruciating, his body screaming warnings in a language his mind couldn’t heed like an over plucked piano string. Stop stop stop, but there was no stopping for him, not until he was broken, and Steve would be dead first.
There was roaring in his ears, outside his own body, and thrashing off to his side. Something blunt struck him repeatedly against the side, sending sharp pains through his bones. Whatever was in the pen with him was angry and hit hard. Whatever, and not whoever, because even in the din of his clouded mind Steve picked up on the sound of angry bleating. Animal. Not man.
“Stop! I mean it. They will hear you.” The woman warned, desperately lunging at him. He saw her hands coming toward him, grasping, and terror shot through him. Steve wrenched backward, throwing what was left of his strength into it. There was a loud snapping in his ears just before he crumpled onto the ground in a tangled mess of rope and limbs.
That snap had come from outside and not from within. He’d broken the rope tying him to the post, he realized dizzily. For all the good it did him. Steve was too weak to move so much as a muscle. He couldn’t even lift his own neck enough to breathe free of dirt and mud. He lay there on the ground, gasping and huffing desperately for air as he waited for the woman to strike.
When no blow came, he didn’t stop to ask why. Perhaps she was afraid. Whatever the case, if he could just catch his breath, just gather the strength to move. Now that his hands were somewhat free, he could... but the train of thought slid away from him as if it were water poured through his hands. Dizzy, he was so dizzy. His vision filled with black spots.
No! Damn it no!
Steve desperately clung to consciousness, sucking in great lungfuls of cold air.
Think! Damn it, focus!
The rope. He could wrap the rope around her neck. He could wrap his bound arms around her and break it too with just the right angle. Where was she? Could he… God. He was thinking too slowly, giving her time to counter. Hell, she’d had enough time to pull out a pistol and shoot him by now. Panicked at the thought he twisted his head, tears leaking from his eyes as they looked up and met hers. She was standing above him, looking as if she hadn't moved from her initial lunge. There was an old gnarled looking goat by her side, with a pair of shaved horns atop its head. She was holding it by one of its stumps, her lips pressed tight together in a disapproving scowl.
“Are you done?”
Was he done?
A hysterical giggle bubbled up inside of Steve and he just barely held it back. Hysterical. He couldn’t afford that either. He opened his mouth to… To what, threaten her?
The laugh broke free and he slumped back to the ground, his face smearing in the mud and straw that covered the floor of the pen. A goat pen, Steve realized with a burst of fresh mirth, giggling like a lunatic. Not sleeping next to his wife, but a damn goat. He had a vague memory of passing out in the snow outside of a fence and waking up, desperate for food and warmth.
“He’s gentle but you scared him.” The woman said above him, her hands reaching down to pet the gnarled coat of the ancient looking animal.
Again, the woman was making no sense to him. She was talking about the animal, but didn't she understand? Didn't she recognize Steve for what he was? Who he was? The prospect that she might not, that there might still be a chance to get out of this drove the air out of him so quickly it left him dizzy. He coughed violently into the dirt, fingers digging in the muck and mud. A handful was enough to blind her for a few precious moments.
“You need to calm down. You’re scaring Patroche.”
Who? Steve rolled onto his back to hide the motions of his hands and so that he didn’t have to struggle so much to look up. But just that much effort felt enough to end him and he sagged down onto his back, his head far too heavy to keep lifted.
Idiot. Save your energy until you need it.
The woman was edging closer. She probably hadn’t realized there was enough chain on his manacles to pull his feet under and bring his arms out front. Just a few more feet and she would be in range. It would haunt him, strangling this woman, but he would find the strength to do it if he had to.
But as if she’d sensed the direction of his thoughts the woman stopped just a few paces out of snatching range, eyeing Steve like one would a snake they encountered in the wild.
“I’ll get those chains off you if you stop scaring Patroche.”
“Patroche?” Steve winced, his throat constricting painfully around the sounds. “Who…”
Steve jerked in surprise as the animal at her side bleated loudly, hoofing at the ground in irritation as if it intended to ram him with its horns.
Patroche.
Patroche the goat. The woman wanted him to stop scaring her goat.
Steve felt the hysteria coming back. He bit his lip, shoving it back down. Was this a trick? Or was she as crazy as he was?
His throat spasmed and ached around the aborted laughter and he coughed violently. Only a crazy person would free a deranged man they were alone with. She was lying, but Steve could pretend to fall for it if it got her close enough. He shuffled to his knees with a pitiful groan, rocking back onto his toes. Come closer, one step closer he silently begged her.
She didn’t.
“I will get those off you if you promise not to scare Patroche. He can’t take much agitation.” The woman repeated, leaning toward him.
“Don’t touch me,” he snarled irrationally, leaning back so far that he almost tipped over again. And if he weren’t so paralyzed with the fear of it, he would have kicked himself for scaring off her touch. He had to let her get closer, and yet the very thought of it was enough to make his whole body break out in sweat. He could feel the phantom pain of a hidden knife, of whips, boots, and sharp slaps to the face, the blunt pressure of a hit to the back of his head.
Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me….
He heard her shift closer and pried his squeezed eyes open, struggling to keep sucking in air.
The woman had her hand held out toward him, her palm up.
“I just want to help.” Steve flinched away from her.
She frowned and took a hesitant step back. No! She needed to be closer. Weak. Why was he so weak?
“Do-” his throat seized again, clicking painfully. “Don’t touch me.”
They stared at one another helplessly, and the pressure to laugh just kept building up in Steve’s chest. He might have, if he hadn’t just reached the end of his strength. If he hadn’t failed his family over the mere threat of being touched. The pressure ballooning in his chest burst forth as it had to, but instead of laughter it came out as a broken sob.
“I don’t want to leave you like this,” the woman said after a long moment of just standing there, watching his shoulders shake and the water leak from his eyes as he swayed, a gust away from falling over again. As if he were no danger to her at all and as if she cared. She didn’t. But maybe if he begged?
“I don’t know who you are, or what you’re running from, but surely it’s better to leave with the authorities and be taken care of- They’ve not been notified!” She quickly amended when Steve snapped his head up, eyes wild and panicked. “Not yet. But, food and shelter, surely you want those? You were eating out of the trough, for Christ's sake.” She finished, lifting her arms in exasperation.
Steve frowned, his head beginning to ache now more from confusion than pain. Why was she playing this game? No one could be so naive. Or had she truly not realized who he was? Maybe not. Maybe there really was hope.
“Spring’s around the corner, I know, but it’s not so very warm yet-” She was placating now, head tilted up and looking out of one of the few gray windows in the barn.
“No.” the word sliced out of his ragged throat, hardly loud enough to warrant the shocked expression on her face but he forced himself to continue speaking, pushing his useless lungs and throat to do as he willed.
“Rather die… eaten by pigs. Free me or kill me. I won't go back.” Steve’s voice petered out completely like a dying automobile, but he held the woman’s gaze.
She stared long and hard at him, her honey brown eyes taking him in. The only sound between them the wind creaking the walls and the damn goat occasionally bleating.
“What did you do?” She finally asked, creeping an inch or two closer. Steve clenched his fists, but by some miracle he held still this time.
“I’m going to remove the iron. You've hurt yourself.” He had. Somewhere in the distance his shoulders were throbbing and so were the joints at his wrists. There was a thin trail of dried blood trickling out from beneath the manacles and down his dirtied hands. It had stained his fingers along with the mud.
“You have to trust me.”
No. But Steve clenched his teeth tight and forced himself not to move away. He quivered like a frightened child, but he didn’t move as she finally came within reach. He watched her, trembling, as she knelt before him, poking the tip of her knife into the lock on his manacle, digging around in the keyhole until something clicked faintly inside and the metal restraints popped open. She slid them away as if they were hot and she were afraid to touch them for too long. Steve sagged as they slid away from his wrists and fell into the dirt.
They had not been extraordinarily heavy, but he still felt that a great weight had been lifted from him and his breath hitched in his chest on another uncontrolled sob. Distantly, he imagined picking up the fallen chains and strangling her with them as he should, as anyone who wanted to live would, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.
I’m sorry Tony. I’m so sorry.
The woman pulled on his shoulder, and he looked up at her through bleary eyes as she pushed and tugged at him, until she could reach the cords bound around his legs. She unwound them, and Steve watched within a daze as she wiped the raw skin around his wrists clean and rewrapped the frayed rope around it, apologizing softly every time that he flinched.
He would stay here in the goat pen until he was strong enough for the journey back to prison, she told him like a stern schoolteacher. But as she continued her futile effort to wipe at the grime that covered him with a portion of her scarf she continued to talk. Nervously Steve slowly realized, breathing shallowly and sinking deeper and deeper into an exhausted stupor as her voice washed over him.
It was only she, her sister and their parents here on the farm. Her brother was studying in Munich. Her father had suffered an injury years ago and while the incident had not taken his life it had taken his leg. Her mother worked the house and took care of the father while she and her sister worked the farm. Neither of her parents would have any need to be in the barn, and they would attribute any noise from within as coming from Patroche. He could rest there and heal before she had him hauled back to finish his sentence.
“I suppose you might escape even with your hands tied, but you won’t make it far in your condition. I don’t know what it’s like in prison, but don’t be a fool. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.” She said in parting as she stood looking down at him with a strange look of consternation as well as sympathy. She cooed at the goat, who hoofed around her feet snorting anxiously. She bid the animal to keep an eye on him and exited the pen, latching the gate behind her.
“I’ll come back-” She began but got no further as Steve slumped, crumpling like a rag doll onto the old blanket covered in musty hay not far from the edge of the pen. It was dirty and sharp with the smell of goat piss but it was warm beneath him. So warm he could cry. The tears were still wet on his cheeks long after he was sucked down into exhausted sleep.
-
Steve didn't move for two days. He slept in deep dreamless spurts, with little recollection of the in-between moments. The woman had come back with another ratty blanket to keep the draft at bay, but nothing could keep the chill from seeping into Steve’s bones. It was cold in the barn even with blankets and hay, and it seemed that as soon as the rush from immediate danger was gone, his body gave in to its wounds. He knew he had to leave, but the woman had been right. Even with two days of sleep he was in no condition to walk out of the barn on his own steam.
Fever came. He shivered for hours, too hot and too cold all at once, his bones rattling as they tried to separate from his body. He coughed and he retched, he itched, and he ached, he burned and he froze, in a relentless carousel of misery. He lost track of how many days he lay huddled in his corner of the pen, the goat eyeing him resentfully from its new bed on the opposite side. Steve suspected vaguely that if the old bag of beans wasn't so ancient, he would treat Steve to a stubby horn in his gut.
While he would stop before calling the beast gentle his stroppy host spent most of his time snoring or huffing at Steve from a safe distance across the pen. The grizzly little thing seemed to be the woman’s pet. Her special little love. Like Artur and little Mon-Ami.
The woman came once a day with bread and water. She changed his blanket and tidied the pen each day before she left, faithfully scraping up Patroche’s shit and even Steve’s waste.
He didn't know what she’d done with his prison trousers, but she’d wiped him up at some point and done away with his soled garments. Now that he was more lucid, she was more wary, and Steve more determined to do for himself. He could roll over now and piss in the straw instead of soiling himself. Without a word and cheeks burning with shame, whenever she came to replace the soiled straw with fresh, she’d set the water bucket down beside him with a rag and he’d wash himself as best he could.
The first day he’d been awake enough to wash himself she had watched him, shaking and shivering in his nakedness underneath his blankets. She had stared at him for a long time, all wariness and trepidation bleeding away until her expression was blank. She’d left without a word as she usually did, only to come back a few minutes late and toss a pair of trousers at him.
For a moment it was Schmidt smirking down at him as the striped clothes hit his face. But when he grasped the garments with shaking hands and blinked hard, he recognized the clothing as the same warm winter trousers he’d first seen her in.
“I’ll lend you gloves,” she’d said after he’d stared at the clothes for a long moment. “And a cap.”
Had he said thank you? He doubted it. Six days later and he was still barely able to say much of anything, it was exhausting just staying awake for a few hours each day. But slowly he was healing. It was exactly as the woman had said, nobody came for him and though he sometimes heard their voices drifting in from the outside, neither of her parents seemed aware of his presence there. He was alive and he was healing and that was all that mattered. As soon as he was strong enough to brave the elements and venture his way back to his family he’d go.
The woman would talk to the goat when she came to feed them. Quiet affectionate babble while she rubbed its head and neck. Sometimes she even spoke to Steve the same way, eyeing him as if he were as unruly as her pet and too pitiful to lift the cool cup of water to his lips, all the while admonishing him for whatever foolish and cowardly actions had led to imprisonment and near death. She didn’t seem to desire or expect an answer from him, which suited them both. She seemed like a good woman, and he was glad not to have her blood on his hands, but she was still an enemy. A wall standing between him and those he loved.
When it was time to feed, the woman always handed Steve his bowl of leftovers first before she fed her beloved goat. It was a small thing to notice, a possibly meaningless gesture, but even so, it helped...helped him to feel less like an animal. Less like Subject U-1610 and more like a man.
It was a few more days before he was able to move more than at a crawl from the water trough to refill his cup and back to his nest. Another day after that for the goat Patroche to stop glaring at him like an intruder. Steve, tired and wary of the animal’s intense scrutiny, tore off a portion of his bread and tossed it toward the creature.
Bucky’s father used to have this horse he’d called Grandfather, with a glare on him and a hind kick to bash a man’s head in; but he was sweet as anything for a bit of food. Terrible temper if you forgot your offering.
Patroche seemed to share the same affinity for food offerings. He’d gotten up from his nest and gobbled up the bread before ambling over to Steve in search of more. A few more days of similar offerings and the stroppy goat had taken to resting in a lumpy ball by Steve’s side for warmth. The first time it happened Steve had cried, silent tears of shame that he was glad no one was there to witness, stroking his hands through the goat’s springy hair.
Had he ever felt something so warm before? He thought not and recognized on some level that it was a sad thing not to remember. But he was just glad to lay at night listening to the stuttering snores and steady heartbeat of another being besides himself. He would burrow down with one hand on the goat, always, always, touching him in some way, and Patroche would let him. Gentle after all. A good boy.
Steve lay there at night, letting his mind drift in and out, alternating between waves of fear and blank thoughts.
If anyone came in that wasn't the woman...If he woke up screaming...if she or her sister suddenly decided it wasn't worth it to keep a wanted man in their care. If she decided he was healed enough and called the police before he got away…If he managed to make it to the cabin and the children weren't there... oh god.
Steve imagined that more than anything else. He had to get to the cabin. He plotted and planned and obsessed over it, but his thoughts never managed to get past opening the door. He wouldn't be able to stand it if Tony and the children weren’t there. He wouldn't be able to stand it if they were. He wasn’t a whole man anymore. Just pieces. But he’d drag himself there and hope. Maybe once he did, maybe he’d figure out a way to put himself back together again.
-
There was a sound just outside the door and everything in Steve froze. Even though the woman hadn’t come yet the fear was the same every day. Any sign of movement that wasn't his own or Patroche could mean the end for him.
The barn door opened letting in a sliver of wintery light before the woman slipped in. Releasing his breath slowly in relief, Steve sat up, his protesting the change in position. Patroche wiggled out from under his arm and went to go greet his master. The loss of the little animal’s warmth ached, and Steve let his fingers trail along the springy hair on Patroche’s back until the last possible moment.
Pulling himself together Steve looked up at the woman, but the greeting died on his lips. There was no food and water in her hands today and no shovel. Instead, her face was white, lips closed tightly as she surveyed him with the gravest expression that he’d ever seen her wear.
“Major. We should speak.”
A chill ran down Steve’s spine hearing his former title roll off her tongue. She knew now. This was it. His time was up. He should have...he should have killed her when he had the chance. The thought tasted sour in his mouth even now, but here they were. Her or him. He had to live. He had to.
“There are pictures in town.” She stuttered over her words, as if the faster she managed to get them out the less true they might become. “Franz told me that in the city they have pictures of you in the paper even. They call you Enemy Number One.” She swallowed and collected herself. When she spoke again it was slow, finally taking her time with her words. “You don’t look like you used to.”
Steve licked dry lips and watched her carefully.
“Well, this isn’t my best side.”
The woman didn’t respond to the attempt at humor. She stared at him for a moment longer before slowly pulling off her gloves, never taking her eyes off his.
“Magda.” She finally declared, and Steve knew it was her name though she didn't elaborate on a sur-name. It would be harder to kill her now that she had a name.
Magda walked within reach, her own gaze just as resolute, her bare hand extended towards him as if they were meeting for the first time. She knew he realized. She knew he had everything to lose and no reason to trust, but she offered him her name and came to him with her hand extended.
Steve struggled to his feet, ignoring the twinging that lingered in his chest from sore ribs. With one hand he pulled off the glove covering his right hand and with determination shook hers. He hoped she couldn’t feel how he still recoiled every time they touched. Weak. He couldn’t be weak so he tightened his grip.
Her hand was warm in his, calloused from farm work but supple and nearly as big as Steve’s own. He had a fleeting thought, that if he were to draw their hands clasped together, he might not be able to tell whose was male and whose was female. They were the same.
Steve swallowed thickly, air catching and sticking in his throat when he attempted speech; but that was good because he couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Words were not enough. Except… maybe… a name, his name, floating up like a reflection in a pool of water. That could be enough.
“Stefen.”
She nodded. Slowly withdrawing her hand from his and rubbing it against her chest. He hoped it was to warm it from the chill of exposure, but suspected it had more to do with his grip.
“Yes. I’ll get you a coat. Tomorrow I can take you to the station.”
“No,” Steve immediately protested, perhaps too sharply because the woman jumped.
“I- I’m not suggesting you go back to Dachau.” she rifled for something in her pocket and withdrew a paper ticket a moment later. “The train station. I’ve purchased you a ticket. Toward Switzerland as far as the line will take you.”
Switzerland. The nearest and most obvious refuge from the reach of the Third Reich. The most obvious direction for any man on the run to run in and exactly the direction he needed to head in to get to his children. The train would pass through a tunnel and cut across the alps. He’d get off at the station before and make his way to the cabin from there. A long journey even so, but by god, a chance now. A real chance.
“Thank you,” Steve wished he was more than just pieces, more than just raw emotions and jagged edges, so that he could show her the depths of just how thankful he was, but he didn’t have that within him. The only thing he could give her now was to leave as quickly as possible. “I’m better off on foot.”
Every eye within the Third Reich would be open, scouring road and train car for enemy number one. They wouldn’t stand for the humiliation of letting him escape. Couldn’t afford it or the doubts it would inspire about their control over the country. It would be better for her if she weren’t involved. She could be killed just for keeping him alive this long. To her credit, she seemed to be thinking the same thing. A slight green tinge had taken to her skin. A kind woman Magda, but not stupid.
Even so, she pressed her lips together and shook her head arguing, “If you could walk faster than Patroche I’d let you. You won’t make it on your own.”
“I’ll have to.” Steve barked back but rather than cow her the woman just dug her heels in, as stubborn as her goat.
“Don’t be a fool. I didn’t recognize you, but I am German and this -” she threw her hands up, indicating the barn around them. “-is my life. I’ve seen a picture of Austria’s lion twice in my entire life, if I am being generous. City folk? They’ll recognize you. You need my help. I’ll drive you tomorrow before the family wakes and hear no more of it.” She turned away without a word and left him.
Steve watched the door swing shut, heard the lock slide into place and swallowed back the return of the lump in his throat. Brave woman.
He would have to leave tonight.
~*~
-The Cabin-
“We should call it ‘The Soldier’, and I want to paint a star on it. Red! Red is the best color.” James suggested eagerly, thinking of the sled Tony had taught them to build. It had taken time to get all the right materials and to prepare the wood. They could have just made the whole thing from wood, but iron was more resilient and went faster downhill because it was heavier.
James turned toward the loft, where the voices of his siblings drifted down from above already back at work varnishing the deck of the sled. Péter had figured out a way to make a varnish from their pine sap. It smelled awful to James, but that was only because Tony made him drinks smelly tea every morning and take a spoonful of syrup before he would let him do anything fun.
“Slow down soldier, medicine first.”
True to form, Tony snagged the back of his collar to prevent him running off and when James turned around, he was standing there sticking a spoonful of smelly syrup under James nose. He wrinkled it and made a face but opened his mouth obediently and let Tony pop the spoon inside. Yuck. It was bitter and sticky and horrible, but James did not want his cough to come back and miss out on finishing the sled, so he forced it down.
“We need paint. Do you know how to make paint Tony?” James asked as soon as he could unstick his mouth to get the words out.
“Well we’ve already got a varnish; paint is just a colored coating. Show me your tongue,” Tony instructed, and James opened his mouth wide perfunctorily before closing it just as quick to ask, “How do we get it to turn red? How do you make dye?”
“Plants are good for that, unfortunately there aren’t a lot of those to go around right now.” Tony answered and James pouted, turning to glare at the window where the sun shone warmly, but it was still winter white outside. How long did winter last up here?
With a start James realized that he no longer knew what day it was. He had stopped counting when he got sick, and when he started to get better, he hadn’t remembered to start up again. Tony had suggested building the sled when he was well enough, and James had been so excited to get out of bed again he hadn’t thought about it.
“Will the snow start melting soon do you think?” James would like to have the sled perfect before they used it, but it was okay if they had to wait until spring came to finish it. Building was not about how fast something happened, but about what you wanted to happen. James liked that about it. When he was building things, he could do it his own way at his own pace. And Tony was always happy to see the things he’d made. James might have liked that part most of all. He didn’t need Tony to like the things he made of course; James didn’t need anybody but himself. But it was nice.
“The days are starting to get a little longer,” Tony mused. “I imagine spring will be here before we know it.”
Good, James thought, nodding to himself. They could make dye then.
“James! Tony! We’re about to put the rungs on. Where are you?” Artur called down from the loft and James scrambled toward the ladder.
-
Tony watched James scamper off, happy to see him so active again with no sign of the wheeze that had plagued him the week previous. While he and his siblings were occupied with the sled, Tony took the rare moment of peace to himself to take another inventory of their supplies. He did not allow himself to think about the past as he worked, only the future (only forward) because there was no fixing the road behind them. They had to be ready for what was ahead, and Tony believed fervently in preemptive action verses reactive. Reacting was what had consumed Stefen’s whole life. Reacting had got them here in the first place. They needed to anticipate. Anticipate. Adapt. Evolve. That was how they’d survive this.
This time around Tony had been right, with some help to keep his lungs open James illness had run its course; but he still tired easily and they might not be so lucky with the next illness or calamity. Someone developed strange symptoms Tony had no experience with, and what then?
Real medical supplies or access to them was essential, but essentially not a part of their secluded existence on the mountain.
They had a few pounds of the hirsch left, but they were on their last can of vegetables. Not that the children would miss the mushy and pickled part of their diets, but they couldn’t just survive on smoked meat without inviting something like scurvy.
Tree bark would give them essential vitamins, Tony mused, setting the glass jar of sauerkraut back on the shelf. Artur wasn’t going to be happy, but all of the children would have to start drinking a few cups each morning. As for the rest, it was getting warmer each day now that spring was on the doorstep. Soon the snows would start to melt, and they could forage for other things and set up traps for small game.
But venturing outdoors was a risk. Warmer weather would make it easier for search parties. There would be more hikers and hunters about. There were two people already aware of their presence in the area. Yet access to food and other natural resources was essential to their continued survival.
Anticipate.
If they stayed on the mountain, they wouldn’t make it. Tony knew, with a creeping feeling of certainty that even if they were extremely careful on their outdoor excursions, that the refuge the cabin had provided them had started to expire the moment they were forced to seek out their neighbors for help.
Adapt.
He needed to get the children somewhere truly safe and out of the reach of the Reich. Switzerland was close. Anticipate. But it was too close, and they’d be penniless refuges relying on the mercy of strangers. The children had family there, but Stefen seemed adamant that their relations were strained and even if they could be convinced to take the children in that it wouldn’t be in their best interest. They certainly wouldn’t agree to keep Tony on. He didn’t care so much about finding his own way; but the thought of leaving the children in the hands of cold relations who wouldn’t give them time or the affection they’d so desperately need after everything losing their parents... It was as abhorrent to him as abandoning them altogether.
He knocked Switzerland down the list. No big gloomy houses and stiff faced adults demanding children that were seen and never heard. No child deserved that. Adapt. He thought of Pola, the only place from his childhood where he could remember consistent happiness. Sun and pebbly shores. His mother singing. Ana,Jarvis, and Rhodey teasing him, watching over him. His uncle Isiah and aunt Antonia. Nono and Nona teaching him to speak Hebrew and sneaking him sweets.
He remembered Nona begging him to come home to them, to people who loved him, his people, and her assurances that things were different in Pola now that it was Italian again. She’d told him to bring his children. He wondered how she’d known him so well after so long apart.
Tony and the children could go west to the coast, to Tony’s home, where they wouldn’t just be able to survive but thrive and Tony could get what he needed to give them a real future.
Evolve.
From Pola they could buy passage across the water. Out of reach. A new beginning.
~*~
April 1939
-The Farm-
The door of the cabin swung open on ungreased hinges. The room beyond was empty and dark, a thin layer of dust beginning to settle over the furnishings. Snow fallen down the chimney and collecting in the fireplace. No one had been here in weeks.
He was too late. He fell to his knees with a ragged cry torn from -
Stop!
Steve jerked awake, woken by Magda’s shout. It was still a moment before his brain left the nightmare and he recognized his surroundings. The sun was setting, casting a pale peaceful glow over the walls of the barn. A peacefulness that was disturbed by the sound of raised voices and stomping. Two sets of stomping.
Fear jolting through him, Steve wrenched his body up, dislodging poor Patroche in the process. The goat bleated in distress, but Steve couldn’t spare him a glance because the voices were getting closer. He staggered, tripping over his blanket and cursed, just barely catching himself on the side of the pen. No time to run he realized almost too late. Cover, he had to find cover. Thinking franticly, he dropped down, squeezing his body into the corner of the pen and yanked the blanket over himself like a child.
He froze as the door pulled open on loudly creaking hinges.
“Oh yes, Patroche will tell if someone is here. Do you trust him to tell you the truth more than me?” Magda’s voice rang out, filled with agitation. And fear. Steve could hear it though she tried her best to hide it. His muscles clenched tighter in an effort to keep still. It was dark and musty under the blanket, the air thick with dust and straw tickled in his healing lungs.
“No, but I believe Ona when she writes to me about the vagrant she found.”
The person with her, a man, stomped about, flicking his torch left and right. Steve could see the beam of light roaming this way and that through the threads of the blanket. He couldn’t hope that the man wouldn’t investigate the mound of blankets in the corner. Steve had the element of surprise but that was all. He'd have to rely on that, and what strength he could muster. It might work, presuming the other man didn’t have a weapon.
The footsteps stopped just outside the pen and Steve held his breath.
“Magda, if you’ve put the family in danger…” the man warned. A relative of hers from the sound of it. Good, Steve thought. He had slightly better odds with an untrained fighter.
“Vater told us about the pamphlets. Lecture me when that is no longer illegal.” Magda countered the man in a fierce tone. “Don’t be a fool!” he snapped in reply, and Steve’s heart jolted at a sudden clanging sound, his heart pounding in his chest.
“I defend the integrity of our academics; I don’t risk my life and all of yours. There’s a world of difference.”
There was a long silence, then a gruff hiss of irritation followed by more steps, this time heading away from Steve. He swallowed, the itching in his throat worsening and his chest beginning to burn with the urge to cough.
“You can’t keep taking these people in. You don’t do them any good.” A pause, the sound of fabric rustling, and then the man muttered almost too low for Steve to catch, “You love playing the little hero.”
“You're right.” Magda’s voice filtered in through the thin barrier of the blanket, flat and firm. “It's very different, philosophizing and handing out paper.” Steve couldn’t see the look on her face, but it must have been something because when the man spoke again his voice had taken on the same flat, rigid tone.
“Professor Kats doesn't think so.”
“Yes, and your Professor Kats is no longer around.”
More footsteps now, closer this time, and Steve heard. Patroche began to pace, grunting anxiously.
“Exactly, exactly my point. Magda, you had better be telling the truth. He had better be gone -”
Steve coughed. He couldn’t stop it. It just seized up inside of him and he shuddered and gagged at the effort to keep it in. Patroche skittered away in surprise.
“Alright! I know you’re here. Come out. I’m armed!”
“Stop Franz. No one is here!”
Steve coughed again, his throat ripping anew with the violence of it and he thrust the blanket away, struggling out of it as he choked and gasped for air. When the fit had subsided enough, Steve looked up at the pair from where he knelt, the blanket drooping over his shoulders.
Magda’s eyes were wide with horror, but it was the man beside her who held Steve’s gaze, the barrel of a shotgun pointed in his face. Steve knew that look. He’d seen it thousands of times from men who killed and didn't want to kill but did it anyway. They never looked at the target in the face.
Steve flung the blanket out. It opened in a wide whoosh, momentarily blocking Steve from view. He used the moment to surge forward, clumsily, intent on grabbing the weapon. But Magda reached the man first.
She slammed into him with the side of her hip, catching him by surprise. She grabbed at the gun as he stumbled, grunting as he found his balance and began to wrestle her for it. Steve had just reached them when she kicked the man violently in the shins and wrenched the gun away from his hands. There was a loud bang as the gun went off and Steve hit the ground hard, covering his head and rolling away from the shots with a terrified shout. He was still hearing gunshots in his ears, the repeated crack crack crack of bursting shells, so it was too long before he realized that it was only his mind and that he wasn’t being shot at. He lifted his head, shaking, risking a glance above him where the man and Magda faced off, their chests heaving.
“Magda!” Franz- her brother he remembered- snarled, reaching out for the weapon. She backed away, keeping it out of reach and Franz faltered, his expression shifting from shock to fury. He was shorter than Magda, his dark hair trimmed in the stylish manner kept by most students. But they had similar jaw lines and the same eyes. Eyes that were widening in recognition as they shifted back to Steve, taking him in.
Magda looked franticly between them, biting her pale lips.
“Franz, please.”
“You stupid fool.” Franz whispered in horror.
“Franz, please.” she repeated, and her brother whirled on her, one finger jabbing viciously in Steve’s direction as he shouted. “You know who that is! You’ll kill the entire family!”
Steve struggled up onto his knees, one hand open, reaching to stay the man’s hand. He looked as if he would strike her, gun or no gun.
“I’ll go. Please. They’ll never have to know I was here.” he croaked, wincing at the returning tickle and the threat of another coughing fit.
Franz bolted toward the door and a scream tore from Steve's throat, panic blinding him as he stumbled frantically after him. But he was weak and slow, and it was Magda again who stopped Franz. She slammed into his back, grabbing him around the shoulders and pulled him back with all her might. They tussled, staggering and thrashing back and forth as Franz continued to inch his way toward the door of the barn.
“Please Franz! He’ll die. They will kill him!” Magda yelled as they slammed into the wall beside it.
“Because he’s a traitor!” Franz jabbed her roughly in the stomach, pulling away as her grip slackened. But she was quick thinking, and quicker on her feet as she threw herself against the door and spread her arms out to black his reaching hands, her chest heaving from exertion.
“The Gestapo don’t ever need to know that he was here. We’ll be safe. He’ll be safe. It’ll be alright.”
Steve skidded to a halt as she tried to reason with Franz again. His legs shook from all the activity, but he ignored the fatigue, casting his eyes down on the floorboards and searching the darkness. The shotgun, where had Magda tossed it?
“Calling the Gestapo is the only thing that will save us now!” Franz was saying. Steve kept the pair in the corner of his eye as he continued his slow search, trying not to draw their attention. And there! There it was. The rifle, resting on a small mound of hay, partially buried where Patroche had kicked some over it in his distress.
“Call the Gestapo. Tell them you’re a good German. Maybe they’ll believe you and our parents are that. But will they believe Ona? Myself?” Magda implored. “We harbored him. He lives because I kept him alive. They’ll know Franz. What are you going to tell them? Ona and I didn't notice a fugitive hiding in our goat pen for three weeks?!”
“I won’t tell them how long he’s been here.” Franz returned with a snap, but Steve could hear the thread of uncertainty in it. Steve risked looking back and saw that Magda’s gaze had gone harder. She straightened her back, her voice trembling as she declared firmly into the silence stretching between her and her brother. “I will tell them.”
Franz paled and opened his mouth – but whatever he would have said in response just became an aborted grunt as his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he crumpled to the ground. Steve stood over him, the butt of the rifle still hovering in mid-air.
“Franz!” Magda let out a sharp guttural exclamation, clamping one hand over her mouth.
They both stared in horror at the body laying between them, Steve’s body beginning to rattle once more though this time more from the loss of adrenaline than from the strain he kept putting it under. He’d hit Franz hard. Maybe too hard. He was too still.
Steve stood there trembling, his heart beating wildly and lungs heaving, while Magda stared at her brother’s still form, her face drained of blood and expression. Without a word she bent down and touched a hand to his mouth. Her shoulders sagged with relief when she felt his breath ghosting over her fingertips.
When she looked back up at Steve there was new trepidation in her eyes.
“He’s alive.” she whispered, reassuring them both. Steve nodded jerkily and Magda pressed her lips together, her shoulders tightening as they lifted toward her ears. It was only a split second of silence, but within it her whole continence changed, as if she was solidifying in front of his eyes.
“Give it to me.” she gestured at the shotgun and Steve looked down at it, almost shocked he hadn’t dropped it his hands were shaking so bad. She wanted it, but he couldn’t give it to her.
He’d chosen wrong last time. Hadn’t he? He’d nearly killed her brother. Nearly killed her. Should have killed her. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Why did he keep choosing wrong?
She held out her hands and Steve unclenched his fingers with a whimper, the shotgun falling into her outstretched hands. His legs gave up holding him and he slid to the ground, his teeth chattering despite the buzzing of his nerves.
He should have left. Too late now. He was always too late. He should have tried harder. He should have seen… he should have… he slumped, his thoughts blurring together.
“Take his coat. Get your things,” Magda prompted him with a firm shake of his shoulder. She waited until his glazed eyes met hers and held, before she stood and rushed to pick up the dropped torch.
Steve’s “things” were the cap and the blankets she’d given him. He had nothing. He was nothing.
“Come on. Do you want to die?” Magda urged him, hurrying back with the torch. He considered it as she began stripping poor Franz from his jacket. Did he want to die?
‘Of course you do.’ Tony, leaning against the side of the pen, laughing as if the question were stupid. Eyes narrowing on Steve now, accusing. ‘Selfish bastard’.
Steve’s mouth twisted upward in a near smile. Tony was always right. When hadn’t Steve wanted to die?
I’m tired Tony.
‘You can’t quit now, Cap. Once we’re gone, we’re gone.’
“Put this on. Hurry.” Magda threw the coat at him and Steve caught it before it could hit his face, gripping it tightly between his trembling fingers. Gone. Tony and the children might still be alive. At the cabin. Waiting. But they couldn’t wait long. Soon they might be gone for good.
Steve pulled on the coat while Magda watched impatiently, bewildered and anxious over his slow lethargic movements. He had to lean on her to stand, but once he had his legs under him, he stayed upright. Teeth clenched, he put one foot down in front of the other until they reached Magda had pulled one of the big doors open and they’d exited the barn.
The cool evening air hit Steve’s face, the darkened sky stretched wide above their heads, and Steve was struck with the smallest most cowardly urge to retreat inside.
He shivered despite the warm clothes he wore and clenched his teeth together, shutting his eyes, frozen and unable to move. Shutting out the big velvet sky and anything that wasn’t the next breath he managed to suck into his lungs.
Something nudged his leg and then he heard an anxious bleat. Steve had left the gate on the pen open he realized as he looked down into Patroche’s large black eyes. They were trained up on Steve as if he were waiting.
Steve reached down and stroked the animal’s head, rubbing just behind the hinge of the jaw like the animal liked.
“Av akai,” Patroche butted against his hand and nibbled at his fingers. Steve smiled, tears pricking at his eyes in a sweet rush, so he squeezed them closed again and breathed deeply. “Atsh me develesa.” he murmured, the blessing fumbling off his tongue. He bent down and kissed the goat’s hairy head. Even though the smell of must and hay was overwhelming in his nose Steve held on tight to its warm neck. “Nais tuke.”
It took a moment for Steve to push up and away, straightening his spine, and look back to where Magda was waiting, a dark shadow with an unlit torch clutched in hand. He glanced around the yard until he spotted the main house up a slight hill and to their left, windows lit. Her family likely still up and about. It was time to go. Steve took another breath and turned, following her into the darkness.
~*~
Wind pressed against the sides of the wooden box as the truck hustled down the road. Steve bounced again, grunting in pain as his ribs jostled against the side of the crate, he was stuffed in. His lower body was covered with a deep layer of hay and fertilizer. The stench of it was thick all around him, clawing up his throat.
Magda had thrown as much junk as she could get her hands on into the trunk bed surrounding the crates, anything that might provide a bit of cover as they traveled. She’d given Steve an apologetic look when she’d opened the large crate and gestured for him to climb inside.
“Sorry.” She’d said, her face twisted up in disgust as she’d shoveled the fertilizer over his legs and torso and given him a sack to cover his head with. But there was nothing to be sorry about. The road outside the station would surely be monitored and it was their best hope that no one would want to look too closely into the stinking crates.
There had been no choice, no help for it, but it had been a mistake. It was a mistake; Steve was going to suffocate. The walls creaked and groaned around him, pressing closer, the heavy stench of shit and mold too full in his nose, thick in his mouth like he was choking on balled up socks.
He pushed at the lid, scrapping blunt nails against the old wood. No. No! God!
He couldn’t die here.
He scratched at the lid of the crate until his nailbeds went slick with blood, but the wind drowned out the sound of it, and every whimpered moan that leaked from his throat.
What felt like years later the truck finally slowed and stopped. For Steve, all time had stopped, becoming a blank expanse of darkness and suffocation. Until suddenly the top of the crate was pried open, and a wave of fresh cold air spilled over him – excruciatingly bright sunlight stabbing at his eyes. Steve choked, nudging her out of his way as he sat up, trembling and gasping for air.
Air you had all along. Anyone could have heard you, carrying on like a frightened child.
He rebuked himself, gritting his teeth as he steeled his nerves. He had to pull himself together. It was just till they reached the station! He could last that long.
But Steve glanced around and saw that they were parked on the side of a country road, hills on either side, no sign of town anywhere near and he blinked gummy eyes at Magda in confusion.
“I didn’t even stop. They were everywhere she said,” voice trembling near the end. “The gestapo were stopping every passerby, checking every passenger. There’s no way.”
No! Steve’s heart sank with despair as her words sank in, a swell of desperation rising in response as he began to shake his head, push at the fertilizer covering his legs. No! Steve had to get on that train! He had to get to his family.
“What – where do you think you’re going?” Magda asked but Steve hardly listened.
“I have to get to the Mangfall Alps.” his mind franticly flitted through alternate plans. It would take eons on foot, too long, but if he couldn’t board a passenger train perhaps one of the supply ones. He and Bucky had hopped more than a few supply trains in their day to get around, back when they didn’t have money.
Magda grabbed Steve’s flailing arms and he blinked into the too bright light, trying to bring her looming face into focus. She looked ill, white as a sheet and terrified.
“Are you mad? The alps? You need to get out of Germany. I don’t know ho-” she began, still clutching at him and Steve jerked his arm violently out of her grasp, shouting over her. “No!” She flinched, shushing him as her eyes darted around the empty road. The road was quiet and still but sound carried in the open air and there was no telling who might be passing just over the hill.
Steve continued to try and struggle his way out of the crate only to have Magda shove him back. A frustrated snarl ripped passed Steve’s lips as she shoved him back, again, and held him down. She was a head shorter than him, healthy, strong, and desperate to stop him. But she wasn’t Steve, she wasn’t desperate to save her children. She couldn’t stop him. Nobody could stop him.
The crate tumbled over and sent them both tumbling to the ground with a painful thud. Steve rolled until his legs were free of it, and scrambled upon the ground, wet snow soaking through his trousers as he fought to sit up. She snagged him by the shoulders, and he batted her hands away, screaming in rage as he turned and grabbed her, shaking her.
He had to get to his family! She wouldn’t stop him! Nobody would stop him! Dimly Steve registered pain in his side as she kicked at him, untangling herself franticly from his flinching hands and scrambling away from him like a crab. She stopped feet away when Steve made no move toward her, instead pulling himself up on shaking arms and wobbling legs.
“Major Rogers. You need to leave Germany.” her hoarsely whispered plea reached him, cutting through the roaring in his ears.
Major Rogers. Who was that?
He blinked, startled to find her standing, wondering how and when she’d managed it, but time like everything else felt liquid around him. Sliding through his grasp like sand. She approached him with careful steps, as if he were an animal ready to bite.
Sweat dropped into his eyes and he blinked the sting back, trying to focus on her and not the throbbing pain in his side or the floating sensation in his head that invited him to drift away with it.
“Your children need you,” he chastised himself.
“What?” Steve closed his eyes and wet his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. He took another sharp breath, calculated the risk and then said again in German.
“My family, I won’t leave without them.”
“But… but they were abducted? How -” she faltered, staring at him in confusion. He saw the dread wash over her face, the moment she realized.
“The Mangfall alps?”
Steve turned his head towards the mountains hazy and blue against the sky and nodded slowly.
Magda swallowed, and took a step towards him. She was trembling but her voice was steady when she asked. “Where?”
‘Brave woman’ Tony whispered in his right ear and Steve clenched his hands to keep from reaching for what he knew wasn’t there.
“Schliersee.” he named the little town in the mountain valley. As close as he dared to let her get. It was a long moment where they both stared off at the mountains on the distant horizon before she answered.
“I’ll take you there.”
‘Dead woman’ Bucky whispered in his left. Steve shuddered, clenching his teeth tight around the protest that battered at his teeth. If Bucky were there, he’d say that it was her choice to make.
Steve knew the truth. There wasn’t any choice here for either of them.
~*~
-The Road-
Tracking an injured man through the wilderness sounded like an easy task, and might have been, if not for the complication that Bucky was a wanted man himself and every officer between them and Munich was engaged in the search for escaped prisoner ‘Stefen Gavril Rogers’, who was injured, slow, and would surely have been captured if Bucky had not been there a step behind.
He’d followed the men who had pursued Steve away from the crash, fearing with every step that Steve would be shot before Bucky could catch up to them, or recaptured and bound toward Berlin at a pace too quick for Bucky to follow. But Steve, lucky bastard that he was, kept to the thickest parts of the wood avoiding their bullets, eventually forcing his pursuers to abandon their vehicles altogether.
Bucky had stalked the search party all night, watching, waiting for the perfect moment. Under the cover of darkness, he’d begun to pick them off. Even with the silencer on his rifle they noticed when their comrades began to drop, and chaos had erupted. They were easy targets with their loud movements and bright torches, but even so Bucky was just one man and they had the benefit of those long reaching beams. He had to keep on his feet, out of reach and out of light, but that turned out to be useful in drawing the search party off Steve’s trail.
He left them about a half a mile in the wrong direction, their numbers depleted and circled back to where he’d found them. There was little he could do about his tracks in the snow besides take the time to make them as confusing as possible. He took sudden twists and made winding circles, only to retrace his steps and create muddled forks on his path that would slow them down until they got dogs. The dogs would come soon enough, along with more men. Balancing the urge to just go as fast as possible and to proceed carefully and strategically in a way that would give Steve the best chance was like walking on a razor wire.
Bucky lost Steve’s trail at the edge of Tennenlohe forest and spent several days searching the surrounding farmland for signs of him while dodging search parties. Stefen’s delayed execution and the possible reasons for it was the talk of country, even out here in the farming towns. SS men were traveling from door to door in the village, reminding folks that vagrancy was illegal under the Third Reich and that anyone caught helping vagrants would be dealt with under the harshest penalties.
Bucky risked stopping long enough in the town of Buckenhof to stop in at the local pub and seek out news. If the Germans were still trying to keep Steve’s escape under wraps it meant that Steve was still out there somewhere. But the question was where? He couldn’t have made it much further, not with his injuries, and was likely holed up somewhere; but Bucky couldn’t risk asking too many questions of the wrong people.
When in doubt head to the pub. He liked them, not just for their drinks but for the anonymity that a fellow could be granted under their four walls and low lights. Anyone who didn’t want trouble just had to agree to the unspoken rule to drink their cups in peace and mind their own business.
Buckenhof tavern was like any other country pub. Clean but quaint, serving good beer and dinners that stuck to your gut and kept out the chill. He didn’t have much coin on him, but he spared some to buy a liter and ease the bartender into conversation enough to relax his suspicious gaze. They likely didn’t get many travelers through their town and now was not an opportune time to be making friendly with strange folks. But since Bucky’s wallet was good and business was business, if the barkeep had any suspicions, he kept them to himself.
“Prost” Bucky toasted the man and the barkeep seemed to relax further. Bucky tucked into his plate of warm bread rolls, nearly moaning at the delicious yeasty taste after days of dried meat. While it was true any moment could be his last, he wasn’t dead yet and he’d be damned if he didn’t enjoy his food when he could have it.
“You traveling far?” the fellow sitting to his left at the bar asked in Boarisch, and Bucky glared him down until he got the idea that Bucky wasn’t in the mood for any personal questions, tearing off another bite of the bread. The man was portly and nearly bald but for thin wisps of greying hair on both sides of his head. He looked away from Bucky so fast you would have thought Bucky was a bear, inclined to gobble him whole. Bucky flicked his eyes down to the fellow’s hands. Huh. No wedding band. A washed-up old bachelor, lonely enough to strike up a conversation with a stranger in a bar might just be what the doctor ordered.
“Munich. I got tired of the city.” Bucky finally answered him when his plate was cleared. The man jumped, surprised to be spoken and met Bucky’s wide grin with a wary nod. “It is a nice town. How is the work?”
“It’s near planting season. Good men are in short supply.” The balding man replied somewhat hesitantly at first. “All the young ones are signing up. I’m too old of course.” Saying nothing of being too fat, and scared of his own shadow, he looked Bucky over critically, as if wondering why a man still in his prime wasn’t eager to wear a uniform.
“I’d make a shit soldier,” Bucky responded to his unspoken question with a short laugh. “I make a decent enough bounty hunter, but it’s nice to know when your next meal is coming. Farm work will do.” Bucky let the hook drop, and he didn’t have to wait long for the man to take it. His eyes widening in surprise and his tongue wetting his bottom lip eagerly the man leaned toward him, glancing around feverously before he whispered.
“You know what they’re saying don’t you? That the reason the execution was held off – they’re saying the Lion escaped. That is why all these police are out here looking for vagrants and runaways.”
“Now if I were a different sorta man, I’d knock you back for implying that we’d ever let a man like that escape in the first place,” Bucky growled just to see the man’s face drain of color. “But if there was truth to it, and I’m not saying there is, but if there was…? Well a man like that is dangerous and needs to be caught. The state would pay a pretty penny for any help in that regard, and if you heard anything that might help me find what they lost, I’d be in your debt. Understand?”
The fellow, a Herr Buchem, understood perfectly well what Bucky was getting at and agreed to meet Bucky outside the pub once every third day with any news or tidbits. That business settled, Bucky inquired with the barkeep about a room for rent and then made his way next door to the inn, where he rented a room for the night and left a number and instructions for getting in touch with his tailor, alerting them that he’d need his best suit sent to the post office.
It took over three weeks for Jann to answer the summons. Long enough for Bucky to search every crack and cranny of the village and determine that Steve was not there. And since he was where Steve was not, Bucky used his time antagonizing and playing hide-and-seek with the SS who came through the area, leaving signs of vagrancy at a few local farms, and even once letting a woman who was setting her table catch a glimpse of him sneaking into her barn.
“You and Stefen have the worst definition for laying low of anyone I’ve ever met.” Jann scolded him when Bucky had dropped down from the tree he’d been hiding in. She’d come out to the wood, following the coded signals he’d left for her scratched into various surfaces around town. He grinned, shrugged, and got down to business.
“Steve has gone to ground somewhere. It has to be close. Has Hercules heard anything?”
“They’ve been focused here, chasing a ghost.” She answered with a droll look. “But a few days ago, there was an alert that came from Erlangen. A suspicious vagrant was called in by an informant who gave a description. A woman was caring for him before he ran off. They thought it might be Major Rogers.”
Bucky’s eyebrows crawled up his face. Might be? Ha. How many blue-eyed escapees over six feet tall were roaming through the area anyway?
“Hercules says that Schmidt himself went to question the family. The woman’s name is Magda Hofreiter.”
So Schmidt had survived then. The worst ones always did.
Jann told him where to find the car she’d brought him and Bucky thanked her. The roads would be riskier, but time was everything now. He had to find Steve before the SS did. Before she said goodbye Jann let him know where to reach her next if he needed her again. There was always the tailor’s shop, but it took time for messages to circulate through the network and a direct line when they could secure one could be the difference between life and death.
She bid him to be careful and he told her to do the same. Brave woman that she was, Bucky doubted she’d keep out of trouble any better than he did. He’d set out that same night for Erlangen, a village just four miles to the west.
~*~
-The Cabin-
The sun had come out again for the third day in a row. The snow had melted off the trees and become a thin layer of slush on the ground. There was a sweetness to the crisp air now with every breath, the breeze bringing that subtle hint of growing things. Winter was giving steadily away to the advance of spring, and with its retreat the mountain was coming to life around them.
“Tony! I found goat tracks!” Artur, who had wandered off slightly to the right under a cropping of trees, exclaimed, turning to wave at Tony, who was guiding Maria setting up a snare for mountain hare. Tony had gifted the newly minted eight-year-old with a small magnifying glass for his birthday, which had come and gone in March. All the children had helped in the creation of the gift. Even James, who was surly over the fact that for a few weeks a year he and Artur were the same age, and he could no longer insist that the younger boy was a baby.
Natacha & Ian had taken turns at whittling the handle and etching designs into it. Artur and Tony made molds, so that Péter and James could help them melt glass over the fire and press the softened sold into the gently curved molds with the iron poker. When the discs had reset, they hammered them loose from the molds, filling one with water and setting handle in designated notch at the bottom, before gluing the top disc in place with pine resin.
Although it had been for Artur’s birthday it had really been a gift for them all. The children worked well together when given challenges and responded enthusiastically to the idea that with each new thing mastered, they were somehow that much older and that much more able to do for themselves. They still missed things from their old life, but being busy, and especially being outdoors, gave their new life a sense of adventure. They were already planning putting together a lap loom for Natacha’s birthday at the end of the month.
The children’s birthdays were generally lumped close together. Tony was good enough at maths to pick up the distinct patterns to their births. He’d make a solid bet with anyone, that their conceptions had corelated quite faithfully with their father’s leave rotation; but he kept his speculations on Stefen and Margrit Rogers enthusiastic reunions to himself, doubting very much that their children would find it as amusing as he did.
James and Sara were both born in May and for them Tony had in mind to craft a pair of backpacks from animal hide for both, and a small stuffed toy lined in rabbit fur in particular for Sara.
They would have to be on the move soon after that, and Tony was determined to outfit them with the tools and skills they’d need for the journey. The children talked tentatively at first of how proud their father would be of all their new skills, as if the hope of his return was still thin ice beneath their feet, but with more confidence as the days ticked by.
In some ways, seeing their father again became just one more distant hope. It wasn’t yet a wistful daydream like a welcome home party for Sam, or the first thing they’d do when they were able to go home again, but with every passing day it slid closer and closer to being that; and even though Tony knew that was for the best, it made his heart ache deeply. He only ever indulged in the feeling of grief late at night when they were sleeping, while he stared into the fireplace and willed Stefen to hurry. If he was going to come it would have to be soon.
But it was still early spring. Tony decided each night that they could afford to wait one more day before moving on. By May he swore privately to himself. Alright, end of May at the very latest.
“Very good.” Tony called back to Artur, who was grinning happily at his find. “Our snares aren’t strong enough for wild goats. If you see one leave it alone. They’re stronger than you’d think.”
“They have horns on top of their head that can puncture your organs” Artur cheerfully supplied, as if the prospect of being gutted by a mountain goat was something wonderous and not fuel for Tony’s nightmares. “It was in my zoology book.”
Tony swallowed, noting the sadness that had crept back into Artur’s tone. He finished tying the end of the snare and returned Maria’s triumphant grin before he looked back up at her brother and replied gently, “Frau Hogan will take care of the things you had to leave behind. When we get to Pola we will write to her. Maybe we can have them sent on.”
“Can the Hogan’s visit us in Pola, Tony?” Maria asked, standing. The slushy snow squished beneath her wrapped shoes. “I don’t think they’ve ever been to the sea either.”
Tony opened his mouth to reply but paused when Natacha suddenly appeared out of the brush, moving far quieter than either of her siblings. Tony had to keep a closer eye on the youngest children when he ventured out with them, so Natacha was circling them at a distance looking out for danger. She had her hunting rifle tightly held between her hands in a white knuckled grip and there was a look in her eye that gave Tony nothing but alarm.
She put one mittened finger to her lips and made a small shushing sound. Artur and Maria immediately fell quiet and Tony’s heart began to pound. Natacha jerked her head back in the direction of the cabin and Tony immediately followed the wordless instruction, reaching for Artur and Maria’s hands and holding tightly before following Natacha’s lead back through the wood.
They moved as quickly and as silently as they could. There was nothing they could do about leaving tracks, though Natacha wisely took them through the densest patches of trees so they wouldn’t be easily spotted. He noticed that she kept a wide birth away from the road. She must have seen someone Tony realized. An automobile or men on foot? He wondered franticly as they ran.
Just when Tony spotted the back of the cabin between the trees Maria stumbled and lagged behind them. Tony stopped and turned back, snatched her up and running with her in his arms. He caught up with Natacha and Artur at the edge of the tree line and looked franticly around the yard trying to figure out why they’d stopped. Natacha pressed her finger firmly to her lips again and Tony held his breath, quieting the roaring in his ears. He heard it then, the sound of unfamiliar voices trickling out from the open kitchen window. Tony couldn’t see who was moving inside from this distance, but it hardly mattered. They kept the windows shuttered whenever possible to hold in heat, and provide the lodge with the illusion of emptiness.
Tony set Maria down on her feet, unprying her clutching hands and shushing her silently when she opened her mouth to protest. “They came up on the road. A man was driving and there was someone else with him. I think it’s a woman, but I didn’t get a good enough look.” Natacha murmured, keeping her voice low and Tony nodded, reaching for his pistol.
Just one truck with two individuals was better odds than it could have been, but not great. They’d gotten here before Tony could and there was a chance the other children were trapped inside. He’d left Péter on lookout. Had he seen the truck coming with enough time to get the others and flee to the woods? Tony’s eyes moved up to the loft. The window shutters were still tightly closed. If Péter and the others had escaped into the woods it hadn’t been from the loft, and with the chance that they might still be inside Tony couldn’t just sit and do nothing.
He gestured for Natacha and the other two to stay and took a deep breath before darting across the few feet of open space between the tree line and the wall of the cabin.
He pressed his back flat against the wall and waited. No cry went up. Determining after a few moments that felt like an eternity that he seemed to remain undetected, Tony began to creep around the side of the lodge feeling for the notches he’d carved into the wood just below the loft window.
Finding it, he shoved the pistol back into his pocket and grasped the first handhold, his feet finding the appropriate notch with some minor scrambling. He’d memorized the placings so the noise was minimal but he still flinched, hoping that the soft sounds he made would be mistaken for that of a squirrel or something similar.
He could hear the man moving inside as he climbed. Heavy boots thudded across the cabin floor, creaking the wood. Something that sounded eerily like a broom scraped back and forth in methodical bursts. Cleaning? Tony wondered as he made his way as quietly and carefully up the side of the structure as he could. He didn’t know the SS were in the habit of doing the housework before they arrested you.
Inside a second voice spoke, and though it was muffled it was decidedly more feminine than the first one. Natacha had been right about the driver’s companion being a woman it seemed.
“... doesn’t have children is all I’m saying Duncan,” the woman said, her voice becoming clearer as she neared the kitchen window and Tony froze, flattening his body as tightly against the wood as he could. He was just under the loft window, above the kitchen, but if the woman stuck her head out and happened to look upward, she’d see him.
He held there, his knuckles white with strain and his arms beginning to ache, until the woman’s voice had moved away from the window and became too muffled to distinguish. With a slight breath of relief Tony reached up, tapping a familiar rhythm against the wooden shutters as quickly as he could without losing his precarious grip.
It was a surprisingly short moment before he heard the soft scratching of the latch lifting and the shutters creaked open above his head. Péter stuck his head out, furtive as a bird peeping out of its nest. A look of relief washing over his pale face when he spotted Tony clinging to the side of the cabin. He mouthed for Tony to hang on and disappeared back inside, only to reappear a moment later with a length of knotted rope.
It smacked him in the face on the way down, but Tony grabbed ahold of it gladly, using the secured rope to climb the rest of the way inside of the loft with ease.
The bed pulled up against the window cushioned his decent and kept the floors from creaking. Tony caught his breath as Péter quickly pulled the rope up behind him. Tony’s heart squeezed painfully in his chest when he didn’t see either Ian, Sara or James, but Péter grabbed his arm, nodding his head franticly toward the wall of crates when he had Tony’s attention. Good. The door was latched and the others were hiding. But Tony frowned, realizing that to hear his tapping so quickly Péter couldn’t have been hiding in one of the crates like he was supposed to be.
One glance down at the rifle sitting between them on the bed told Tony all that he needed to know and his frown intensified. Péter saw where Tony’s eyes had gone and for a split second, he looked guilty, before he set his jaw and picked up the rifle, meeting Tony’s gaze as he whispered, “there’s only two of them and they aren’t armed. I figured I could take them if they broke through the door, while the others escaped out the window.”
Tony held his gaze for a moment longer to impress the fact that they’d be having words about this later – god how he prayed that there would be a later – and held a hand to his lips in the signal for quiet.
From inside the loft it was easier to hear the goings on below. Their unidentified visitors were shuffling about, scraping the floors and occasionally banging a pot or a pan in the kitchen, bickering while they worked. It became clear to Tony after a few moments that the bickering couple had no idea that they were there. It sounded like they cleaned up and made repairs for the ageing owner. The husband was of the opinion that Philips had just forgotten to send word that they weren’t needed this season. The wife had found a stray toy and thought it odd that Philips would have a child with him. Odder still when the door to the loft stuck and refused to open, even when the husband took a hammer to it to knock it loose.
Tony held his breath the entire time that the loft door rattled and shook under the man’s efforts to get in, but the latch held firm.
“Why would it be blocked?” The woman fretted below and her husband let out a curse as he gave one last heave, before answering.
“Might be something fell against it. A roof beam maybe.”
“But there’s no hole in the roof!”
“And how can you tell that under the muck up there? You fret too much Heidi. That roofs been getting on as much as the general is. We’ll come back when the snows have gone and take a look.” He finally grunted, his voice retreating down the ladder and Tony sagged with relief.
It was near twenty minutes more for the man and his wife to finish in the room below, pack up their supplies and leave. The engine of their truck roared loudly in the otherwise silent air. Its progress could be heard out of the yard and down the trail until it reached the road.
Stillness descended once more over the lodge. There was a long painful stretch of silence before Tony quietly got up and risked a peek out the window. The truck was gone, but that might be a trick. Someone might be waiting in the trees nearby, watching unseen but Tony couldn’t know that for sure. Next, he went over to the door, releasing the latch with a hesitant breath before lifting the door and wincing as it creaked. He stuck his head down through the hole and peered into the room below, confirming it was truly empty before he sat back up.
“It looks like they’ve gone.”
On the bed Péter released the breath he’d been holding in a whoosh and sagged. Tony turned toward the crates and told the others it was safe to come out. He had barely managed to get the words out before the tops of crates were flying open and Ian, Sara and James popped out like springed toys.
Sara immediately ran to Tony throwing herself into his arms and he held her tight, beginning to shake. And it might have been considered odd, that Tony began to shake now, the threat of tears pricking at his eyes now that the danger had passed. But that was just the thing wasn’t it? The danger hadn’t passed at all.
“Did I win Tony? I was very quiet, wasn’t I?” Sara asked inquisitively, her round face scrunched up with uncertainty, searching for approval.
“You absolutely were.” Tony mustered up a smile from somewhere. “You all win.”
Tony looked at each of them, reassuring Ian and James with his gaze before locking eyes with Péter and nodding his head toward the window. Natacha would be waiting for a signal.
“I don’t like that game Tony. It’s dark in there and it smells bad.” Sara drew his attention back with a pout, sticking out her plump lower lip. Chuckling dryly, Tony kissed her nose. “You’re so good at it, bambina. But we won’t have to play again for a while.”
At least, Tony very much hoped they didn’t.
He knew what he had to do.
Tony, leave.
Damn it. May. He swore it again internally. The couple wouldn’t be back until the warm season and it would have just barely begun in May. He could give it to the end of the month. In the meanwhile, they’d have to make some adjustments. Anticipate. They couldn’t be caught off guard like that again and they would have to be prepared to leave at a moment's notice if necessary. Adapt.
I love you.
And Tony thought, what good did that do, if Stefen wasn’t coming back?
~*~
-The Road-
Being packed into fertilizer like a turnip allowed for some warmth where outside his makeshift coffin the temperature was slowly dropping as they climbed higher into the mountains.
The truck slowed around a curve and Steve coughed viciously, wheezing into his hand. God please stop. Stop soon, it was too tight and dark, he was going to suffocate. Somewhere in the far reaches of his mind he knew he wouldn’t, that he had enough air no matter how stale and sharp it was to breathe. It didn't matter.
Two days of this hell, of rattling around like a marble in a tin can, while Magda risked everything driving the farm truck to its limits as they crossed the country and up into the mountains.
She stopped a few times to slip him bites of food and water. Every time that she opened the lid he jerked, fear jolting through him as he came up ready to swing.
The last time the truck slowed, and the crate of the lid jerked open was no different, except this time her eyes were red. He blinked up at her, even the moonlight too bright for his eyes, and she held out a shaking hand above him.
“Come on. Hurry.”
Steve grasped her hand and she pulled him up and out of the crate he’d come to believe would be his coffin. He set his feet down on soft soil, covered in a thin layer of retreating show, the air crisp and cool around him. Behind them, down in the valley, the lights of Shillersee burned brightly in the windows of sleepy houses, and the lake stretched out like a soft velvet blanket.
In front the path continued winding upward into the trees, the top of the peak obscured through their canopy. An impossible climb his weakened body insisted, but Tony and the children were up there.
“I hope your family is close.” Magda said, still gripping his hand tightly in hers to help him stand. Her eyes left the inclining trail through the trees and came back to him for the last time. She seemed to be thinking the same thing he was, but Steve didn’t give her any response beyond a brief nod. Her family would have questions of their own, and she couldn’t betray what she didn’t know.
He should thank her. But Steve’s tongue was led in his mouth. You didn’t thank a soldier for throwing themselves on a grenade for you. You just grieved.
“Get home safe.” he grunted, finally letting go of her hand. Relief flooded through him and he felt even worse. He straightened his aching spine and stepped away from her planting himself firmly on his own two feet. She nodded slightly, a few tears slipping down her cheeks that she blinked away and hurried to get back in her old truck and be on her way before she was seen.
They’d not been seen by anyone yet, as far as they could know she had a chance to make it out of this unscathed. Steve hoped for her sake it would be enough.
~*~
-The Farm-
The farmer, Otto Hofeiter lived with his wife and children on a small farm, about two or three miles outside of the town center. Bucky had to be careful as the area was still crawling with soldiers, but he managed to glean from the local gossip that the SS had not caught the man they were looking for. The farmer’s daughter had gone missing before their arrival and the SS had been waiting for her upon her return. She’d been taken away and had not returned.
It had to be Stefen. All of the pieces were there, but Bucky could not figure out why he would have left with the woman. He was probably still weak, not well enough to travel long distances on foot, but Steve wouldn’t have forced her to escort him somewhere. The damn fool would most likely have set out on his own and passed out not five feet from the farm. But the timing of her disappearance was too close to mean anything but that she’d taken Steve somewhere. But where? Bucky couldn’t very well ask her from prison. If she was even still alive at this point.
It had been the son, Franz Hofeiter who had informed the authorities of his sister’s activities. He’d made some sort of deal with the SS. When Schmidt had come, they’d only arrested Herr Hofeiter and his wife and later the daughter when she’d turned up. The traitor and the failures who’d raised her. They’d left Franz and the youngest girl.
Bucky spit into the snow. He watched the warm saliva disappear into the mound and looked back up at the old farmhouse standing atop the hill. It already seemed to have a desolate air about it, as if the house had been changed by all that it had witnessed.
He could get a good look around, see if he could find any trace of Stevie the gestapo might have missed. He’d parked the car a little down the road, ready if anything went south.
He started with the barn. A good look through it told him someone had indeed been there. There were footprints, blankets and a few scraps of discarded bandages buried in the hay in the goat pen near the corner. The straw was pressed down in the farthest corner in a shape too big for the old goat who bleated loudly at Bucky’s intrusion and kept sniffing around at his hands like the horse he’d had as a boy.
“I have nothing for you little Grandfather,” Bucky shooed the animal with a fleeting moment of amusement before continuing his search. A little more digging and Bucky turned up a tin cup buried partly in the straw.
He held it, inspecting it carefully on all sides, before gently placing the rim against his lips and breathing in deep. Though he could not draw the taste or the smell of him in as he wished, Bucky was sure that Stefen had been there. His Stevie had held this cup and drank from it. Stupid fool. He’d stayed here, bedded down with the damn goat, staking his life on the kindness of strangers when anyone else would have done what they had to in order to guarantee survival. Bucky would have.
“Share the water and bring us round; Rom are to the atchin’-tan bound.” he murmured softly, thinking deeply as he struggled to recall the old chant Catalina had taught his Ma, to draw the members of the familia together again. “Merry we’ll meet and merry we’ll part. Merry will be the company found.”
There was only a thin trickle of stagnant water left in the cup and he was not the matriarch of the family, but it would have to do.
As Bucky left and closed the barn door behind himself, he saw a flash of something out of the corner of his eye. A pale face and wide eyes. Bucky was moving before he’d even registered it, surging around the corner of the barn in pursuit of the fleeing figure. He snatched at it, her, and came up with a handful of her scarf. The girl on the other end of it grunted in pain and tumbled to the ground. Bucky was quick to grab her, hauling her to her feet and slamming her up against the side of the house. She opened her mouth to scream and Bucky clamped a hand over her mouth.
The woman’s muffled scream aborted as his arm pressed against her neck. She stared at him with wide terrified eyes already full of tears. They weren’t so cloudy that he couldn’t see his reflection in them, looming over her like the beast from all her nightmares. He hated her a little in that moment. This gadje girl with her soft buttermilk skin, who stood safely on the same ground his brother had been chased from, fleeing for his life.
“I’m going to talk. You listen. Then when I ask a question you’ll answer. Yes?”
She nodded her head frantically, her small hands scrabbling and pulling desperately on the arm Bucky pressed against her throat.
“He was here, Major Stefen Rogers, yeah? That’s why the Gestapo were here questioning your people. That's why they took Magda, Otto and Elizabet Hofeiter.” He released her mouth only to snatch her jaw and squeeze her face, his nails biting into the skin in warning before he slowly released the pressure enough for her to answer. She swallowed, her tongue clicking dry against the roof of her mouth.
“We, we have a few workers-” she began timidly. Wrong. Bucky’s lip curled in a snarl and he squeezed her once, increasing the pressure on her throat before she hastily cried out a better response. “My sister! They are questioning my family.” Frightened gray eyes met Bucky’s, tears streaming down her plump cheeks. “I-I found a vagrant. Magda shooed him away. My brother thought that he- that he might still be hiding on the farm, but we don’t know anything! If he was here, we didn't know!”
“Bullshit.” Bucky shook her. “Someone cared for him.”
“My family are patriots...” She struggled to get out, her voice growing hoarse.
“I’ll bet you are. But not Magda right? That’s why they took her.”
“Please. Can’t you go away?” she pleaded closing her eyes.
“Your sister. Where did she tell them that she went?”
“N-nothing. Nowhere. That is, Magda went to the station. Father hired workers from the Labor Force to help with the pre-season. She w-went to fetch them and was delayed coming home. The gestapo know all this, please!”
Bucky leaned in close, tired of the woman’s lies, hissing dangerously in her face.
“She didn’t come back with any workers. Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know. Please. Please don’t hurt me!”
Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her?
Bucky shook her in rage, roaring in her face. She whimpered, scrunching her eyes closed, her face crumpling. She wailed, tears leaking out of her eyes, prattling like the gutless little thing she was. He’d seen Steve dragged out from that prison in pieces, face so mottled and beaten in, his own mother wouldn’t have recognized him. And this gadje bitch begged not to be hurt.
“It’s my fault. I told Magda we should have reported him. Franz. Franz shouldn't—”
At the mention of her brother’s name Bucky pushed her back with enough force to rattle her teeth.
“Your brother is a coward!”
“Franz loves us. He’s not a coward!” She flayed underneath him. He grabbed her face, squeezing her head between his hands as if he could pop it like a ripe tomato, screaming into it. “Your brother betrayed his blood to save his own neck. Open your eyes! Why do you think the SS spared the two of you?”
A door slammed shut in the direction of the house and Bucky came back to himself, clamping his hand back over her mouth and going still. Slowly, carefully, Bucky peeked his head around the side of the barn. A man stood at the top of the hill his back turned partly away from them. He’d resting his hands on his lower back and was casting his eyes around the landscape. He called out for the girl, waited a moment, and when there was no answer he turned back toward the house. Even at a distance Bucky could make out the dark bruises on the left side of the man’s face.
He disappeared back into the house and Bucky relaxed a fraction, fingers still tight over the girl’s face.
“Go inside.” he instructed, low and firm. “Say nothing. Breathe a word to your pig brother and I’ll kill him, before I kill you.” He let go and the girl bolted, weeping and squealing like a frightened piglet. He spat after her, cursing silently.
Steve had left with Magda and there was no telling where. They couldn’t actually have headed to the train station. Could they? Steve had to realize it was suicide to try and board a train. But a month sleeping in a barn eating goat feed wouldn’t have gone far enough to heal him from the injuries Bucky had seen. With a sinking feeling Bucky turned and jogged back toward the car. He knew Steve, and he knew exactly what kind of risks he’d take for the people he loved.
~*~
-The cabin-
The cabin was just as he remembered it. Steve sucked in another breath, the air like sharp daggers in his weary lungs. His knees had long ago gone numb and his legs like jelly. Steve was far from healthy, but he’d walked. And walked. He’d walked as far as his legs would carry him and when they couldn’t anymore, he crawled. A few months ago, a trek like this might have been relatively easy. There were only a few clumps of desperately clinging snow drifts on the higher points. The visibility was good and the path remained clear as it wound through the trees. He’d made the trip on foot once before, when he’d been a younger man. It had taken him and Bucky two days. But that was a lifetime ago. Now, Steve didn’t think about time, or anything that wasn’t getting to his family. And when his legs gave out at the end he crawled.
Philips cabin sat nestled on the side of the mountain, close to its highest point, in a pocket of thick trees. An unassuming little lodge. Kept up, but quiet and still in the way a house got when it spent long months without a resident. It doesn’t mean anything.
Tony.
Though Steve was still a distance away, the sight of the cabin through the trees sitting as still as if it were a painting filled him with dread. His heart began to slam against his ribs, as the still air was suddenly ripped open with an animal cry. A fox maybe. Trapped somewhere… Steve pulled himself up onto his feet, the sight of his goal nearly within reach bringing a last wave of strength.
It wasn’t until he was within feet of the door, able to make out every log, count the shuttered windows, the unbroken blades of grass around the doorstep, that Steve realized that the ragged cry ringing in his ear wasn’t coming from some animal in the wood but from himself.
The door was locked. As it should be. But it didn’t help to think it. Not with the stillness pressing down on him. The blank darkness in every window that even shutters could not hide. The lack of trace or trail leading to or from the door but his own was too much.
He didn’t know how many times he shoved against the door until it popped open, just that he barely managing to keep from tumbling inside the darkened room beyond it face first. He caught himself, clinging to the side of the door to keep from sliding to the floor, panting for breath as his vision swam before his eyes. Furiously he blinked them clear, glancing hungerly around the room.
With the shutters closed, and no fire lit in the fireplace, the only source of light spilled in from the open door behind Steve, illuminating the lone table and chairs pushed against the kitchen wall. The room was a patchwork of shadows, and though his gaze dove desperately into each one, willing his family to appear, his vision blurred with burning tears.
There was no one there. The room was empty with no sign of life. Boxed up and sterile as if it were just waiting for its master to return, and not at all as if it had been home to his family for months.
They were gone. Had they ever made it in the first place? Doesn’t matter. No one was there.
Steve pushed himself up onto his feet, his muscles tightening in agonizing protest that drove a gasp past his lips. Strangely he floated above the pain, stumbling on leaden feet fully into the room. They had to be here; his brain kept insisting in a disconnected way. Rejecting reality, the way a drowning body might. He could feel the water creeping up over his neck, filling his mouth, burning in his lungs, and yet his mind clung to thought that he couldn’t die. Not this way. Tony and the children couldn’t be gone. Not for good.
So where...where were they? Why were they not here? What had happened to them!
Steve turned in a fumbling circle, his footsteps echoing in the empty room. Answering him with every dragging step.
They were gone.
They were all gone.
The silence kept pressing in, that water flooding in his ears and covering his head, sucking him down down down into the black. Steve barley felt the back of the chair hit his legs as he collapsed into it. Everything in him was falling apart, separating into jagged pieces, and yet he was numb to it. Numb to everything because his family wasn’t there, and he was… nothing.
Black spots filled his vision, threatening to pull him under. Steve looked down at the table, the grains of wood standing out in relief against his dirty fingers. He curled them into fists, clenching so hard his knuckles turned white and he broke the skin. He stared at the fresh trickle of blood with no emotion, and no concern. There finally wasn’t any pain. There was nothing left.
Peter, Natacha, Ian, James, Artur, Maria, Sara. Bucky. Tony.
He’d failed them so monumentally; he couldn’t wrap his mind around it, so it just stayed unraveled. Their faces dancing before his eyes, the weight of their loss sitting on his chest, and he accepted it.
They were gone.
Steve sat there in the chair until his thighs were numb, till his arms ached and his heartbeat echoed in his ears. His weary body began to sway from exhaustion, but he didn’t feel it, or hunger or pain. He sat there looking at his family, etching their faces into his memory, until the sun began to set, casting him into darkness. The shadows lengthened, stretching and weaving around him, turning themselves into the shape of monsters and beasts. But there was no nightmare that could reach him now. No horror greater than what he’d already suffered. He had no idea how long he sat, only that he was alone in an empty box with his ghosts.
High on a hill was a lonely goatherd.
The memory drifted up out of the shadows, floating on the water above his head. Tony, galloping around his bedroom, teaching the children a bar song. Eight bodies bumping and whirling around each other, blatantly ignoring Steve’s orders, flying in the face of his protective measures and declaring themselves free. Free to laugh, free to love, free to dare, and free to folly.
He’d been so terrified that Tony’s impulsive behavior would be their end, but it was Steve himself in the end who had signed their death certificates.
Steve choked, sensation rushing back upon him like a wave.
He gripped the table as he began to shake, and another sob tore from his throat. His children’s voices continued to drift softly through his mind, their faces to swim before his eyes, and he bit his tongue hard, squeezing his eyes closed.
Once the tears started there was no stopping them. They just leaked out of him without his control, hot and stinging his battered face as his body shook. He was rattling right out of his skin. The chair wobbled on its legs as Steve slid off the edge and dropped to the ground where he curled himself into a ball.
Get up! Even if they were dead, he had to find them. He was their father! He had to get to them and save them... They were gone. Stop it! Move. When he could move, he’d go back down the mountain, he would...he would…
They weren't here.
Steve bit into his arm, trying to muffle the sobs that wrenched through him. His face contorting, lungs seizing in protest as they took him. Years and years of loss and he had soldiered on but this, this empty room was more than he could bare.
Underneath the sound of blood rushing in his ears Steve heard the creak of a floorboard. It took his addled brain a moment to recognize the sound for what it was. The tread of a foot. He wasn’t alone in the room.
His whole body tightened his mind snapping clear with the threat of danger and becoming singularly focused. The enemy had come. The faces of a thousand monsters replaced those of his children. Doctors with gleaming eyes, grinning guards. Schmidt. They’d kill him, but not if he killed them first. He would rip their flesh clean off their bones, until there was nothing left. He’d survive. The footsteps came closer and he tightened his fists, tensing in preparation. He’d kill. He’d survive. He’d save them. He’d promised.
Steve felt a shadow fall over him. He flung himself up with a snarl of rage, his hands curled into claws, as his body connected with something hard. He felt the softness of human flesh under his hands for a bare moment and he tore at it, grasping and clutching, but he was pushed back just as quickly, something forceful striking him bluntly in the stomach and sending him crashing the short distance back to the floor onto his back.
It drove the air out of his lungs, and he gasped like a fish. Still he tried to rear up again only to have his fist caught and pinned above his head. Schmidt’s laughter filled his head. His hands gripped Steve’s face broke his bones and ripped at his hair. Steve fought. He twisted and kicked and screamed, his throat ripping raw around the sound, but the man above him was immovable.
He pinned Steve to the ground, sitting all his weight against him as Steve bucked wildly beneath him like a mad animal. Until finally, Schmidt drove a knee into his chest and pressed down hard, sending mind numbing pain splintering into Steve’s skull. Steve grunted, his body seizing and locking up as all the air left him in one pain filled rush.
The man moved above him, leaned close, his blurred shape shifting as he drew closer. Not Schmidt – he hazily thought as he tried to focus on his attackers features through his blurred vision. The man’s lips were moving he realized, but there was sharp painful ringing filling Steve’s ears, so it was a moment before he heard anything at all. And when he did it was muffled, under water, because he was sinking.
“Stop! Stop, it’s me! Stefen, it’s me. Stefen!”
Stefen.
Steve froze, his eyes flying open wide. Excruciatingly slow his vision swam back into focus, the haze cleared just enough to recognize brown eyes staring down into his. The same brown eyes he’d imagined in his cell and in the sterile room where they’d strapped him down and… Steve closed his eyes, a moan pushing from his chest and becoming a whine in his throat as he willed the vision away.
I can’t. I can’t, Tony. I can’t.
Tony squeezed Steve’s wrist and his eyes flew open again at the pressure. Horribly, tantalizingly real. All thoughts slid away at that touch, grounding as the earth shifted and slid beneath him. He didn’t have to think anything at all, just feel those hands wrapped around his flesh, that pressure on his wrists.
Steve stared up at Tony and Tony stared back, his face coming closer as he shushed the babble that was pouring out of Steve’s mouth, his grip holding iron tight but his thumbs leaving soft, purposeful trails against Steve’s skin like someone molding clay. Steve trembled and above him Tony breathed heavily, his voice raw and thick as he rasped, “Alright. You’re alright, Stefen. I’ve got you.”
On some level Steve knew he was far from alright, but he couldn’t think about that anymore. He was shards, held together by sheer will, and he was very tired. So tired he could shatter into a million noncollectable pieces.
You’re alright. I’ve got you.
Steve, believed, let it all go.
|
Lance woke up with his head resting on Lotor’s chest, held tightly in his arms. He closed his eyes again and sighed happily. This was everything he had ever wanted, even if he was still a bit sore. Okay, that was a lie. He was kind of a lot sore, but it was nothing he couldn’t live with. Lotor hadn't been lying when he said he would abandon gentleness. And somehow, Lance didn't feel embarrassed when he remembered the stream of fuck, please, aah! Fuck, Lotor, please he'd let loose. He felt like he should have been, and yet… he wasn't. Not one bit.
“Are you awake?” Lotor whispered when Lance adjusted in his arms.
“Yeah. I'm awake.” He yawned. “Good morning.”
“Good morning, love. Did you sleep well?”
“Of course. You wore me out.”
“Oh, I wore you out? Very amusing.”
“You did!”
“Yes, because it was all my fault. It had absolutely nothing to do with you begging.”
“You're the one who wanted me to do that.”
Lotor sighed in defeat. “I suppose you have a point.” He kissed the top of Lance’s head. “I do not mean to spoil the mood, but we are supposed to return to negotiations today. If we keep this progress, I think we will be done within a few days.”
Lance was silent for a long time. He eventually whispered, “I don't want to leave. I wanna stay with you.”
“Darling, please do not think that the end of negotiations equals the end of our relationship. Even if you have to leave when we are done here, you and I are only getting started.”
“I just…” Lance sat up, Lotor sitting up with him to keep his arms around him. “I'm scared,” he admitted. “I'm really scared.”
“What are you afraid of?”
Lance stared down at the blanket covering them, eyes trying to make sense of the nonsensical pattern of colors draped over their legs. “After I've left, it's just, look, I know you already told me about your Galra soulmate thing, but it's human nature to worry. I promise you there is never a moment when humans aren't freaking out about something. I trust you, I really do, but, God. It's scary to be away from someone, especially when…”
Lotor gently rubbed Lance’s arm, trying to comfort and soothe him the best he could without interrupting his words.
“You're so much better than I am,” Lance said softly. “You're strong and you're so smart and kind and beautiful and, I mean, anyone could fall in love with you. And I'm scared that maybe someone else will come along and impress you more than I ever did. I mean, I'm just me. There's nothing super special about me. Like, oh, wow, I speak two languages and a giant robot cat likes me. Great. What else is there?”
Lotor’s gentleness faded a bit, pulling Lance closer and practically crushing him against his chest. “Why do you think that way?” he asked in a whisper. “Why have you convinced yourself that you aren't good enough?”
Lance reached around and wrapped his arms around Lotor’s neck. “You don't know what Earth is like. What humans as a whole are like. I wish it was all sunshine and rainbows, but it's not. Humans aren't always loyal. Humans aren't always kind. Humans can be real dicks. And you have no idea how many people were dicks to me before everything happened. It was awful, y’know? I wasn't ever good enough for anyone I wasn't related to at home or anyone other than Hunk and Pidge at the Garrison. I just… got used to it. To not being good enough.”
“There is no greater lie in the universe,” Lotor said, “than the one that says you are not good enough. You are far too good for me, my dear. I have done horrible things in my life, things that I am ashamed to remember. I can never make up for the things I've done. I fear that, if I told you everything, you would run away from me in terror. Do not bother telling me that I do not scare you, because if I told you the total truth, you would most certainly be frightened. I have done nothing to deserve you. I see you as an angel, you know. And if you are an angel, then what does that make me but a demon?”
“Don't say stuff like that. You're a good guy.”
“I am good to you. I cannot say the same about everyone else.” Lotor paused. “Forget the awful things the people of Earth told you. Hear me, here and now. You are, without a doubt, the most incredible person I have ever encountered.”
Lance played with strands of Lotor’s hair, messy and tangled and in desperate need of a good brushing. “I could say the same to you.”
“I love you, Lance.”
“I love you, too.”
“Trust me when I say that my heart and soul will always belong to you.”
He barely nodded. “Yeah. I trust you.”
They sat there for awhile, soaking in the soft morning sun before eventually getting up to shower and get ready for the day. They did it all together. Lance even had the honor of brushing through Lotor’s hair, loving every moment of it; maybe he was a jerk, always making fun of Keith’s mullet and then turning around and falling in love with Lotor’s long hair.
When he was dressed and realized that Lance only had last night’s clothes with him, Lotor wrapped Lance in a long, absurdly fluffy robe and walked him back to his room. “Your friends will wake up soon,” Lotor said as they stood in front of Lance’s door. “I… should go and make sure everything is properly prepared for today’s meeting.”
“Can I get a kiss before you go?”
Lotor grinned. “It would be my pleasure.”
They kissed, long and soft, before they had to part ways until they would reunite at breakfast. Lance went into his room, closing the door behind him. Lotor turned to leave, walking down the hall and around the cornerー
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw him. Keith was there, dressed in what Lotor could only assume was his regular outfit. His arms were crossed and his face looked angry. “Where'd you have him all night?” Keith asked. “I went looking for you two. Ended up near your room. Heard some things I don't think I was meant to hear. I don't think any of the others heard. I kept ‘em from going lookin’ for you. They'd react a lot differently than I have. What'd you do to him?”
“I fail to see why that is any of your business,” Lotor replied. “But if you must know, we spent the night together. We had some lovely conversations between rounds.”
Keith took a step towards him. “You disgust me. What's your game?”
“Excuse me?”
“You can't honestly expect me to believe that you really give a shit about him. You're using him for something.”
“You do not know what you speak of,” Lotor replied. “I love him.”
Keith raised his eyebrows. “Really? You think that's gonna work on me the way it works on him? You don't know anything about him.”
Lotor straightened his back a bit further, standing taller and staring down at the insolent human. “I advise that you stop this madness while you still can.”
“You haven't known him for two weeks and you say that you're in love with him. That's not how it works.” He almost laughed. “You're planning something, aren't you? There's a fucked up scheme in that head of yours, isn't there?”
“It is how it works for my people,” Lotor said. “We know who we are meant to be with the moment we see them. I can't imagine that you have ever tried to learn more about your Galra heritage, if you fail to know such a simple fact. You have no idea how much I truly love him. You have no right to question me, nor do you have the right to launch inquiries into what happens behind closed doors.”
Keith scoffed and rolled his eyes and said, “I have every right. If you hurt him, I will not hesitate to retaliate. I won't let you get away with it.”
Lotor saw Keith’s eyes roll and stopped listening as he fought the urge to rip them out.
*
At breakfast, neither Lotor nor Keith made any reference to their altercation in the hallway. The rest of the group passed the day in blissful ignorance, having no idea that Keith was so bold as to openly challenge the Emperor or that Lotor would only avoid hurting the angry red one because he was a friend to Lance.
Lotor supposed he should have been ashamed of himself for even considering harming the boy. There were a lot of things he should have been ashamed of, actually, but he wasn't. Perhaps that was wrong of him. Perhaps Lance would love him more if he confessed his past sins and repented. That was a thing humans did, he had been told.
Well, no matter. He could cross that bridge when he came to it, as humans apparently said. He had learned a lot since the paladins arrived, he really had. While most of his time had, of course, been spent with Lance, there were times when they were apart and Lotor went on to speak with the others. He had found that he rather liked Princess Allura, though in a more sisterly way than might be expected of him. He supposed she was pretty, in her own way, but he shuddered to imagine sharing a bed with her. Although, he wouldn't be surprised to find out that the black paladinーShiro , which Lance told him meant both white and castle in Japanese, whatever that was, but was not actually his full name; his full name of Shirogane referred to silver, he was told, though he cared little about the name and was mostly impressed by Lance's knowledgeーwas doing so. It was possible he was looking too closely at their relationship, but he could have sworn he saw overly affectionate glances shared between the two of them. They seemed to be awfully close, at least by Galra standards.
The thought that Allura and Shiro were strangely close made him wonder about Keith’s motives for being so aggressive about Lotor’s relationship with Lance. Being part Galra himself, one would think that Keith would be the most understanding about it. No, the one who was most excited about the pairing was the small green one, Pidge. She was a handful, surely, but she meant well without a doubt. Even Hunk had grown accustomed to the sight of them together, the one who admitted to wondering if Lotor may be some kind of “space vampire.” Lance, of course, had explained what a vampire was. It was an absurd concept.
Lotor had laid claim to the blue paladin without hesitation. He knew what he wanted. He could feel it in his bones. If the Alteans and three out of four remaining paladinsーLance excluded for obvious reasonsーhad managed to have civil conversations with Lance and grown to accept both their relationship and Lotor himself, why did the last one stay so hostile?
And then a thought crossed his mind. Was he envious? Had he wanted Lance and then Lotor came in and stole him away before he had a chance?
If that was the case, he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the boy. He had known Lance for plenty of time and thus had been blessed with many chances to spill his guts and lay bare his heart. He hadn't. Lotor would not feel guilty if Keith had desired Lance and never said so and had him taken away. Really, why would he? It would be his own fault for waiting too long.
He reminded himself that it was all speculation. Perhaps Keith just genuinely disliked Lotor and thought that he was a bad person, regardless of what the others had come to believe. There was always the chance that he despised Lotor for his heritage, for his history, for his power, his wealth, for any number of reasons. He would never know unless he asked, which was, frankly, a conversation he preferred to avoid if he could.
Well, no matter. Lotor had done what he thought was right. He acted on his feelings from the beginning, never giving Lance time to doubt his worth or Lotor’s affections. Lance had responded favorably, accepting kindly and giving the Emperor more chances than he had thought was possible from a tiny human. He had succeeded. He had confessed his feelings clearly and cohesively, he had won Lance’s heart with his honesty and love. If the red one wanted to throw a fit and challenge Lotor, he was more than ready to respond in kind.
But he thought to himself, what if the red one was right? What if, instead of being the kind person he tried to be, he was one of the dark stains on the fabric of the universe?
Lance deserved better than that.
|
*** It’s Quiznakking You prt 2Premise: Keith is injured on a mission and Lance thinks he’s going to lose himScene: Secret boyfriends. Black Paladin Keith. Hurt Keith. Soft idiots. Angry Lance. The team being dicks. Season fourish. Keith’s burning the candle at both ends. I’m a sucker for the helmets having video recording. Sorry Keith.
*Getting caught in watching the footage, Lance played it on a loop. Watching it, he realised from where he’d been he had no chance of seeing the sentry that’d gotten Keith. He felt a small bit better, but it wasn’t easy to watch himself yelling into comms for help. Nor watching Keith bleeding out as he tried to stop the blood. The sentry had come from a corridor he couldn’t see on the angle he was at. If he just used his blaster scope it would have picked it up. From the vision, Keith had been stabbed twice in the same spot. He’d failed him twice. His bowl of half eaten goo sat now discarded on his console, with the pain from his bruising leaving him stuck reclined at his terminal. He’d erased the first part of the footage, of him and Keith, from the castle terminal purely to keep that moment to himself.
Hearing the door to the bridge slide open, Lance bit his lip to keep from crying out as he sat up so he could turn to see who it was“Lance, what are you doing here?”Great. Shiro. Shiro, Coran, and Allura. The three space parents “Reviewing today’s footage. You?”“We were going to reviews Keith footage, but if you have yours already up, we’ll start there”
Since Shiro’s return, Lance had tried to keep his distance. For some reason the former Black Paladin seemed to have doubled his dislike for him. He was harder and less forgiving, leaving Lance feeling like sometimes he was walking on eggshells. Knowing it had to be trauma related, he’d let Shiro know he was there for him in small ways. Keith was still worried sick about him, another thing his boyfriend was neglecting himself over.
He would have preferred to have this conversation with Hunk and Pidge present, but he was emotionally and physically exhausted, not in the mood at all to let himself be put down further“What happened today can never happen again. I understand you all consider me annoying, but Keith could have died and that’s unacceptable. Even as a joke it was taking things too far once he and I split off to take care of the sentries. Our comms should have remained open or at least our comms to the castle”There. He’d said it. And he was quietly proud of himself for doing so“Lance, this isn’t time for one of your moods”And there went that glimmer of pride. Clearing her throat, Allura walked into the middle of the bridge“We’re not blaming you, but it’s clear something transpired. If you were messing around…”
Nope. No. He wasn’t letting this go that way. Getting to his feet, his toes protested. He had the feeling he might have fractured something but that could wait“I’ve reviewed the footage. The sentry wasn’t visible from the position I was sniping from. I know you all seem to think I have some lackadaisical approach to being a Paladin, but I wouldn’t risk a team mates life like Pidge did today. I would prefer to be told to shut up rather than muted when I was begging for help for Keith”And now Coran was weighing in. His adopted space uncle shifting his weight in clear hesitation “My boy, we simply wish to understand how this happened”“Keith and I were overrun by sentries as the recovery of the refugees began. We were separated. I’m not saying I wasn’t responsible for what happened, I am well are that my shot came too late and that I let Keith down, and then my panic over him bleeding out led to not trying his comms to communicate the situation. He came far too close to dying today. If we can’t work together, then we’ll fail to form Voltron, and fail those who have come under the protection of the coalition. I’m assuming you’re also here to contact the rebels for help in rehoming today’s refugees”
The three of them looked at him as if he’d grown an extra head. Then again, he’d always been busy being the joker and attempting to keep everyone’s spirits up. Allura finally nodding“We decided to choose how to act after reviewing the footage”It felt to him she was telling him that he was about to be kicked off the castle with them “For now I think when we do decide, we should remain planet side for a couple of quintants. Being stabbed is bound to have been traumatic for Keith, and he could use the rest”
“Him or you?”
Lance had to force himself not to snap at Shiro, though his voice did become frosty “For him. As his right hand man…”Shiro snorted, raising his robotic hand “Stop. You might think you understand Keith, but he’s not as weak as you seem to think he is. We can’t afford to take a break”“And we can’t afford for the team to be this fractured”“You’re the only one saying it is”How the quiznak had Shiro not noticed?“You’re supposed to be his brother. Haven’t you noticed? Keith can’t get his head in the game at the moment. He’s thinking about us when he’s with the Blades and about the Blades when he’s with us. He’s worried himself sick over you…”“You’re not even friends. Keith is the Black Paladin…”“We are friends. We got closer while you were gone. This might come as shock to you but it happened”
“I think we should all take a breather here. We’re all worried about Keith, especially Shiro given he’s his brother”Trust Coran to attempt to keep the peace“No. Today was completely unacceptable. As I was saying, as his right hand man we’ve talked. He’s slipping up and growing unsure because he’s trying to do the right thing by everyone. We might not have time to take a break but we need to for the sake of everyone’s mental health”Shiro sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose as he did“Lance, I think you might be projecting onto Keith your own insecurities”He probably was, but he also knew how scared Keith would have been as he’d bled out. Sending him right back onto the battlefield seemed a great way to not address his trauma “This is why I wanted to have this conversation with everyone involved. He’s trying too hard and I’m afraid he’s going to burn himself out on the back of what happened today. You should know he’ll blame himself. Again, this might come as a shock to you, but we do talk. Sometimes we stay up all night talking about…”
“Will you give it a break already. I know my brother”“And I know how he’s feeling. We review missions together, or at least started too after you’d left. He’s been helping me with my sword work and I’ve been helping him with sniping. He wants to find his mother and…”“I think you should go to bed. You’re emotionally drained from today’s incident. I’ll forgive this mood this time, but you’re overstepping”“Maybe I should overstep? We’ve all got trauma and Keith is ridiculously strong, but what good will it be if he freezes up because we didn’t address this”
The look Shiro gave him could have levelled a building “I think you need to go”“And I think you need to listen”“Lance!”Looking to Coran and Allura for backup, he found none“My boy, maybe it is for the best you get some rest. You did have a trauma today, but we’re all grateful you weren’t hurt along with our Keith”“Seriously?! I’m worried about Keith and you’re all telling me it’s in my head?! All because I stood up for myself and what? You think Pidge was right? Maybe I do talk too much, but I’m always trying to figure out how to help. So yeah, I do think Keith needs a break but I also think we all do too otherwise we’ll never be able to keep our promise to all those people we’ve promised to help. Rehoming the refugees is our number one priority once we know Keith is okay. What’s so wrong with taking time to regroup and discuss this?! None of you have asked me if I’m okay. Keith nearly quiznakking died”“You’re not the leader, Lance. Keith is. Now go to bed, we need to review this footage”
Shiro could go jump. Stalking out the bridge, Lance kept his head high mostly because his back was killing him. As was the idea of Keith waking up alone. He’d thought Shiro would stay with him, but apparently he’d gotten that wrong too.
*Spending the night watching Keith sleep, Lance had tried to give the whole sleep thing a fair chance. He’d laid on the infirmary bed, eyes on his boyfriend in the pod until he couldn’t fight sleep any longer. It felt as if the moment he had finally drifted off, he was waking in a cold nightmare induced sweat, not remembering what he’d been dreaming only that it hadn’t been good. What he wouldn’t have given for Keith to wake up then and come stumbling out right when he needed him. He hated nightmares… and he’d been stupid enough to think he and Shiro were the only ones suffering from them to begin with. Keith would get them bad. His not-then-boyfriend mortified the first time they’d happened in front of Lance, flinching as if he expected to be hit over something he couldn’t control. Now he had Keith, he was sleeping better, but apparently that was only limited to when his boyfriend wasn’t in a pod.
Slapping his cheeks, he had to get himself together. He had to step up. He had to face the team and bring them into line… which meant facing them. The castle was out of sleep cycle, meaning he was late for breakfast. Great. After he’d bit Shiro’s head off, he was probably being laughed a right now. His anxieties told him not to go, but his re-emerging anger wasn’t having it.
Heading to the dining room, his team was already there. He wasn’t in the mood for goo, yet knew he had to eat something. Keith told him he got hangry more than he’d noticed, so he really did need to eat something or he’d become a tyrant. Ignoring everyone, he retrieved a bowl of goo before joining them. Pidge didn’t look she’d slept, their resident gremlin had bags under her eyes.
“Good morning, my boy! How did you sleep?”Since when did Coran care? Nope. Lance knew he cared… he just didn’t feel like being questioned “Fine”“Did you spend the night in the infirmary?”Throwing a wink his way, Lance didn’t want to know“Yeah”“The whole night watching Keith?”Whatever Coran was driving at, he didn’t want to know“Yeah”“Is there maybe something you want to tell us?”“Not particularly. I’d rather eat first then say what I have to say”
Pidge sighed as she rolled her eyes “Someone’s in a mood”“Pidge…”Hunk’s tone carried a warning. Lance dropping his spoon back in the bowl as he stood “Fine. You want me to speak? What happened yesterday can never happen again. Keith nearly bled out and muting me was totally unacceptable given the mission we were on. Now he’s in a pod, and we have a castle full of refugees to think of. Allura, any news there?”
Allura blinked, not expecting to be questioned“We’ve reached out to a few planets”“Good. After breakfast, follow it up. Where ever we take them, it’d be preferable if we can land the castle for a few days”Pidge fumbled her spoon, as she blinked at him “Is this Lance? Because he’s not sounding like Lance… Who died and made you our boss?”“Keith nearly did, which reminds me, you need to take that protocol off the helmets. I don’t care if you don’t want to hear my voice, but I needed help yesterday and because of it, Keith was delayed in getting into the pod. I’m sure you know you messed up. That’s why I think we needed to land the castle and spend a few days talking this out”
Shiro sighed heavily at him“We discussed this last night. I may not have been aware of everything going on, but I’m not sure we can afford to rest”“We won’t be entirely. We can’t simply drop a castle load of refugees off. We need to make sure that they get along, and that they have the resources to support a sudden boost in their population. The universe needs Voltron”“We’re more use if we keep moving”“To who? We promised to help these people”“And we will…”“Then we’re agreed. We need to take a break… Keith needs time to heal”
“Look, we know you and Keith are dating”
That was the last thing he expected Shiro to say. The man pale as he did“What?!? No way. Keith and Lance?! They barely get along!”Lance looked from Pidge who’d started laughing to Shiro who looked like he’d aged ten years overnight“What? How?”“After you left we reviewed the footage of you watching the helmet vision. We know. I know you’re dating him and I think that’s getting in the way and causing you to act out”“I’m not acting out. Keith needs a break”“Lance…”“No. Don’t you dare. I told you last night. He’s all over the place mentally over us and the Blades and he can’t keep going like this. He might be my boyfriend but he was my friend first. It’s my job to step up now he’s in a pod. We need to prioritise refugee arrangements first. Pidge, you need to disable the ability to mute each other. We all nearly lost him yesterday and I can’t bare the thought of it being any of us being in the same position”
Pidge opened her mouth, but now he was too fired up“I don’t want to hear how I deserved it. I know none of you think of me as anything other than a joke. But do you have any idea the time Keith and I put into discussing things? Going over missions and our mistakes? I don’t want to be mad at you, but at the same time, not a single one of you wanted to know how I was. I was begging for help for him. Begging. While he was bleeding out. You might feel like shit, I get it, I feel like I failed him even though I watched the footage and there was no way we could have seen that second sentry coming. So instead of harping on about it, we need to make sure it’ll never happen again”
Lowering her head, he felt like a dick for talking to Pidge like that. He hoped she’d see the peace offering he was giving “I forgive you, but I’m still mad. Once arrangements have been made you and Hunk will wait for Keith to wake up. Coran, you’d probably be best at liaising with the refugees. Talk to them about who they want to act on their behalf. Shiro and Allura, you’ll both follow up with our allies. If they need help on ground, we’ll offer it. Then we all need a break. We won’t be able to form Voltron if we’re all at each other’s throats and don’t face the fact that Keith nearly dying isn’t just his trauma”
Worrying his middle fingers together, Hunk finally joined the conversation “Uh, man… Are you and Keith… are you really dating?”“Yep. I’m not going to bother hiding it. Not when we’ve been outed. We know this war is more important than this relationship, but we also know that what Keith is searching for isn’t just a way to end this. He wants to know the Blades and where he came from and he needs our support. I’m going to finish my breakfast then take a shower. I’ll meet you guys in the bridge later”
Pidge sniffled softly as Lance picked his bowl of goo up. His back so tender that standing hurt“I shouldn’t have muted you… I’m so sorry. I didn’t think… think that Keith…”“I know you didn’t. But you also know we got lucky this time”“I’m going to… to disable it…”“Good, and while you’re at it, I was thinking you could maybe find a way so even if we do mute ourselves, the castle will still catch the audio. I know when you and Hunk put your heads together anything is possible”Pidge nodded quickly“We can do that. I’ll change the protocol”“Of course you can, you’re our resident Gremlin”“I’m… I should haven’t laughed either, about you and Keith…”“It’s okay. I guess we’re all so busy that we don’t notice things changing. This is totally not how we thought you guys would find out”
Allura cleared her throat. Their resident princess finding her hands very interesting “I’m sorry too, Lance. We should have asked how you were”“You guys had your hands full, but we need to check in with each other”“Are you okay?”He couldn’t afford to be sidelined in a pod when so much needed to be done…“Not really, but I will be”“Okay… We’ll check in with the allies we reached out to… and you may have a point. We aren’t really much of a team if we leave our teammates to suffer”“Hey, we’re Voltron. Hero’s of the universe. We’re just a little dented and bruised at the moment, but we’re a team. Pidge can you also set up a feed to watch Keith’s pod until one of us can sit with him? We all know pod brain is a serious thing”Pidge nodded again “Yep. I can do that… are you sure you don’t want to sit with… with your boyfriend?”“Keith’s put his trust in me to step in when he can’t. We all know he’s going to be embarrassed about the fuss”
Flicking a look to Shiro, Shiro couldn’t meet his eyes “I’m not impressed you two started this relationship without discussing it with us”There was a thud from under the table, Pidge cringing as Shiro asked“Did you just try to kick me?”“You started it”“You can’t be okay…”“With our resident idiots dating? They’re both idiots but they have to have at least one brain cell between them”“Keith isn’t an idiot”“No, but his big brother is being one”For a girl, Pidge had bigger balls than all of them“It’s okay, Pidge. He’s as worried about Keith as all of us. We will be talking about this, but not until Keith is awake and able to join in the conversation. No killing our Space Dad, and no kicking him under the table either”Pidge blew a raspberry in his direction “Spoil sport”“I love you too, Katie. Now my fine Cuban arse needs a shower. You guys can think of how to make it up with Keith and plan something good. I’m thinking we need at least a movement planet side once he wakes up”
Leaving the dining room, Lance felt drained and semi-proud. He hoped Keith would kind of be proud too, and hoped his lovesick heart would behave itself until his boyfriend woke up.
*Groaning as the pod door slid open, Keith really hated pods. Don’t get him wrong, he was grateful they had them and waking up frozen to the core and fuzzy in his head was preferable to not waking at all. But couldn’t the Altean’s have perfected the whole after affects thing?
“Hey, man! Welcome back, you gave us a scare”Blinking the world into existence, Pidge and Hunk were sitting on the infirmary bed playing the space version of Uno“What…”“You got yourself stabbed. You had all us all worried”Throwing her cards down, Pidge climbed off the bed, rushing to hug him“I’m not still dying am I?”“No, and don’t ever do that to us again. You took three whole quintants to wake up”“Pidge, be gentle. He’s only just woken up”“And I bet he’s thinking about his boyfriend already”
Drawing back, Pidge punched him in the arm. Keith not expecting the sudden blow“What was that for?”“You not telling us that you and Lance are dating!”“We…”“Don’t even try to deny it man. We know the truth”Pidge was using too many words…. But now she was bringing it up“Where is he?”Lance had a thing about pods, and not letting people wake up alone in one. If he’d been hurt that badly, then why wasn’t he there?
“Lance is down on the planet with the refugees helping them get adjusted to their new home…”“What he means is Lance had a huge fight with all of us, then put himself in charge of helping the refugees”“You guys fought?”“We kind of deserved it. I’m so sorry…”None of this was making any sense…“Pidge, he just woke up. You know what it’s like to come out of a pod. Bud, we bought some goo, or do you want to take a shower first?”“Shower…”“We’ll walk you down”Lance and Shiro had gotten into a fight? And now everyone knew they were dating? What the quiznak had he woken up to? And why did it seem like he was going to have to wait before he could face plant into his bed and sleep like he wanted to?
Peeling off his under armour suit, there’d been a lot of blood as Keith stumbled his way through showering. Most of it had been standing there with his forehead against the wall. He had two new scars… right… right. He remembered now. He and Lance had been fighting sentries… and he’d… he’d been hit. He hadn’t seen it coming. Lance would have been worried, but now he was alright, his boyfriend was going to give him shit for it. He didn’t think Lance would tell everyone they were dating. They’d sort of been too busy to tell the team and then he’d been back and forth. Shiro would have been stressing over him, his temper not the best of late.
Forcing himself through the process of dressing, Keith headed down and out of the castle. It’d been so long since they’d landed anywhere. Quintants could pass but they’d always been travelling. It was kind of nice to have solid ground under his feet again. In front of him was a long downwards walk to the village, Keith hoping that finding Lance wouldn’t be too hard to do. His boyfriend always managed to stand out… not always in a good way, so if he was throwing himself into something and they’d landed, he knew that his condition hadn’t been good. Lance had a lot of worries, certainly a lot more than Keith had thought.
Wandering down to the village, he found his boyfriend immediately in a sort of make shift tent. Lance talking away with three or four different villagers as he drew something on the paper in front of him. Allura and Shiro not that far further beyond him, both swarmed by kids as they seemed to be helping with whatever was going on. Catching sight of him, Lance’s whole face lit up. He could see him rushing to apologise while Keith felt a smile tug at his lips. If there was one thing Lance was really good at, it was stepping up when he needed to. Rounding the table, his boyfriend jogged up to him, half crash tackling him into a hug“I’m so happy to see you”
Unlike Shiro and Allura, Lance was dressed in the same of loose white robes that the rest of the planet’s population were wearing. Leaning into his boyfriend’s hold, he was pretty damn happy to see Lance too “So we’re hugging in public now?”“Yep. How do you feel? Have you eaten?”“Tired. What’s going on here?”“The planet agreed to take on the refugees for some help on ground. Have you eaten?”“Not yet”“Babe! You just got out of a pod. Here, come with me”“But…”“I told Hunk to message Shiro when you’d woken up. He and Pidge were on pod duty. I may have gotten into a slight fight with Shiro, but he can at least let me have some time with you before you catch up with him”
Dragged along by his boyfriend into a tent, Keith couldn’t do the brain to keep up. Pushing him down to sit on the “bed”, Lance seemed pretty much at home as he gathered fruit from a bowl beside it“It’s safe to eat and it’s not bad”“Babe… too many words”Snorting at him, Lance then threw himself down to lay out beside him, Keith letting himself fall back so they were face to face. Being Lance, Keith soon found his boyfriend trying to balance the strange green fruit on his cheek“You need to eat first. Then we’ll talk. Pod brain is a disappointingly actual thing. Of course, you wouldn’t have pod brain if you hadn’t been stabbed. I think I’ve got grey hair from the whole experience”“You’re talking too much. Babe, are you okay?”“We’ll talk about that too once you’ve eaten. I quiznakking missed you”“I don’t think you’re using that word right”“Just shut up and eat your fruit”
|
Veronica swallows past the lump in her throat. She inhales deeply and draws in a breathe of air. She had avoided her parents for weeks. Weeks spent with FP and Betty at Jugheads side. It was time to face them, specifically him. Her father. She wanted, no she needed, answers. She needed her father to look her in the eyes and make her believe he was not the reason Jughead Jones was fighting for his life in a hospital bed.
Veronica had never felt so alone in her life. She had been betrayed by her best friends and her parents in the same week. After she had dared to finally be her own version of herself and let them in, they had never let her in, not truly. She felt so isolated from everyone. The last real sense of human connection she had experienced was with Jughead and that mostly revolved around mutual pain. She wonders if this feeling of solitary is how Jughead has felt all his life, he’s been unfortunately birthed into the lives of these people whereas she had only inherited them recently. It still adds another layer of understanding to their relationship. She makes a silent vow to try and be there for him always in whatever capacity she can manage.
She steels herself and knocks to the door of her fathers office.
“Come in.” answers the voice of the man who has been starring in the majority of her nightmares. He sounds so calm, and so certain in his belief that he is untouchable. Sitting in his office,
His Sanctuary.
Her father is sitting at his desk scribbling on papers, that she can see by the frustration and focus on his face, are important. He’s only wearing a white button up with the sleeves rolled up. She can tell he has been here awhile. At work on only the devil knows what now.
He looks up at the first sound of her heels clapping his office floor. She hates seeing the tension leave his face and his shoulders relax. She hates that he shows her any sign that her presence actually matters , that maybe she actually makes his day better. That feeling alone makes so much of her want to be daddy’s girl again. She wants him to have a way to explain it all, to make it make sense. She wants to be able to believe without a doubt that he did not try to have Jughead Jones murdered.
“Daddy.” She says cooly with no affection in her endearment.
His face stays relaxed but it takes on an air of authority with the slightest bit of indifference and she realizes suddenly how much her masks are cheap imitations of his. She ponders how much that mask cost him. Hers cost her more than she could have known.
“Veronica, mi cortisone.” Her father greets her warmly. She has to think about Jughead in his hospital bed to keep her mind focused on getting her answers.
“Let’s skip the pleasantries Daddy we both know why I am here.” Says Veronica screwing in place her business face. Her father leaves his face open and honest to her. That alone almost throws her off.
“I assume you are finally here to talk about your young friend , the Jones boy.” Her father asks with a heavy sigh. “How is Jughead by the way ?”
“Yes I am and you do not get to ask that, you tried to have him killed.” She states directly. It wasn’t a question from her lips but a statement of fact.
Her fathers face falls just slightly. She sees disappointment and resignation seep into his dark brown eyes.
“Veronica” he says low , voice placating and pleading. She sees it for the manipulation it is, but she sits across from him at his desk regardless because this is not about their relationship . In truth it is only about Jughead and if her father had a hand in the accident.
Her father coughs to clear his throat and for the first time she sees a shadow of something unfamiliar cross her fathers face. It looks like doubt and uncertainty, things she’s never witnessed on his face in her life , not even when he’d told her and her mother he would be going to prison. He keeps his cards so close to his chest but she can see his armor is starting to crack. Hiram is under a lot of pressure. She feels a tinge of guilt to be adding to it, however justified she may be. He pulls a Manila folder out of one of the drawers to his desk before sighing deeply.
Her father slides the folder across his desk to her. He has a look of resignation and weariness coloring his features and she suddenly feels like shit for being this daughter who will believe the worst in her father at first chance.
But it isn’t the first chance is it?
“The first file contains my alibi, it’s the same file I gave the police, you take from it what you will. The second file is the police investigation into myself as well as the accident. Clearing me and most importantly anyone else of wrong doing. You and your friends love a good mystery you all go ahead and solve it, I trust you are at last smart enough to figure out I played no part in this even if you are not smart enough to bring such accusations to my face.” Her father says in a tone that is the most human she has heard her father speak in a long time. She feels his disappointment in the pit of her stomach.
She grabs the folder and looks her father in his eyes trying to see any sign of manipulation or deceit. She only finds weariness and distaste. She suddenly feels as if this moment is a test of trust that she is definitely about to fail. She is destined to fail this test because she sat with the Serpents, with FP and Toni mostly, and watched them fall apart so she cannot run from this.
She grabs the folder staring into her fathers eyes with all the defiance and resolve she can muster. He leans back in his seat and grabs his glass for a sip of his liquor, letting his mask slip back on.
Veronica opens the folder to see her fathers phone records. The last call on his phone the night of Jughead’s accident was to her around noon then his phone activity stops until the next call the morning after with Mayor McCoy. The phone records rip to shreds her theory that her driver had tipped her father off to Jugheads whereabouts. Without that information it is unfathomable that her father let alone anyone would have know where Jughead Jones was at to attempt his murder. They had found him almost two towns south of Riverdale.
The next set of papers are deeds and contracts drawn up and signed. She sees signatures from the mayor and her fathers own attorney Sourberry as well as her mother and Hiram himself. There is another very distinct signature staring at her beside the name Fred Andrews. The documents are dated to the day of Jugheads accident as well.
“As you can see I was rather preoccupied with business not regarding the murder attempt of a child Veronica.” Her fathers breathes with a sigh laced with exasperation as he rubs at his temple before downing another shot from his glass.
Veronica gulps nervously hoping it misses her fathers notice . The files altogether paint a horrifically solid picture of her fathers plans for the destruction and rebuilding of the South Side, while simultaneously absolving him of guilt in the accident. There are blueprints and borderlines highlighted on maps included with contract negotiations for Andrews Construction. There is an outline for the demolition of Southside high school and a blueprint for condos on a map that she notices takes up a part of the Southside that contains the Sunny Side trailer park. Veronica feels her heart beating rapidly at the whole picture her father is showing her. Veronica slowly feels the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach that lets her know she has messed up big time. She feels a sense of dread and impending doom that encompasses her whole being. She hears Jughead’s voice so clearly in her mind then ,
“We were forged in blood and we will thrive in blood.”
“Everyone who’s signature can be accounted for on those documents can attest to me being in city hall all day working on the plan to see our family legacy finally solidified. Mr.Andrews included, I assume his word is good enough for you at least if mine is not.”
Veronica looks up at her father then. She’s expecting a look of smugness and an offer at the tip of his tongue on how she can make this up to him. All she finds is the same weariness and aggravation. She can tell he is trying hard not to let his anger slip past the surface. A deep fear dances around in her being. Her father looks on the verge of a breakdown ....
or a blowup.
Her gut tells her his anger is not aimed at her at all, but she realizes too late she is adding fuel to a fire at a very bad time. She might be on the receiving end of his lash out this time. She straightens up in her seat at the realization and her body tenses. It’s been awhile since she’s deserved one of
those
.
Her father had been the picture of reform since getting out of prison . At least to her and her mother. He hasn’t put his hands on either of them in so long she almost forgot what he was capable of but she can see it now, just below the surface of his restraint. She needs to back out of this situation as fast as possible. Was she wrong about him attempting to kill Jughead ? Yes, but was she wrong to doubt and mistrust him ? Absolutely not. Her father is a monster and she herself is a product of that monster.
“Daddy.” Veronica manages to say out loud. She tries to keep her voice even but even she can hear the plea in her voice even if she doesn’t know what she’s pleading for.
“Veronica, please.” Her father starts calmly. “ No more of these games.“ Hiram then barks with barely veiled constraint. His mask slowly cracking in front of her to reveal the anger he’s trying so hard to hold at bay.
“No more of this mistrust and this disobedience. You would look your father in the eyes and accuse him of such vile actions for what? For some piece of trailer trash.” Her father spits.
Veronica’s emotions flare at her fathers words and tone. The strongest emotion being a hot fury. She remembers the soft look of understanding and sympathy in Jughead’s beautiful blue eyes as he held her while she cried.
trailer trash.
Veronica’s fist wrap around the arms of the chair she’s in and her nails dig into the leather. She thinks of the boy that made her feel seen like nobody ever had, and of the trailer that felt more like a home than any she had ever lived in herself. She cannot believe her father would demean such a beautiful soul. Veronica swallows hard and her anger ebbs at realizing that they were all guilty, each and every person in Riverdale had demeaned Jughead’s beautiful soul. His sarcasm, natural hostility and distrust had been hard earned from what she has witnessed in the small town. Her fist unclench as the fear also catches up. She wants to yell and scream at her father . She wants to cry and beg for him to change and see that he can be better, that they can be better. Simply by blood she is bound to his choices. His sins would always be chasing her into submission. The family was always and would always be first. She feels her head hang low under his noose.
She lets the fear bite her tongue as her father continues. “You can still prove yourself valuable to this family Veronica. “
She had known the offer for forgiveness was coming. Her eyes meet her fathers and she knows she has a decision to make. So many things are balancing on her next move. She has to decide where she will stand and what she will and will not compromise. What she even has left to compromise. She has to protect herself because nobody else in Riverdale will. She knows the difference between the right choice and the choice she has to make and she feels a piece of her soul shatter at the knowledge.
Veronica walks out of her fathers office feeling hollow. A lone tear makes its way out of her eyes and she softly wipes at it. She’s so damn tired of crying, it’s all she has done in the last few weeks. She makes the journey to her room feeling robotic, each of her steps calculated. Every time her heels hit the floor she feels a part of herself break off with the sound. She was going to head back to the hospital and stay with Jughead but she can’t manage it now. She couldn’t look the Serpents in their eyes. She grabs the bottle of tequila off of the cart that stands in front of the hallway leading to her bedroom.
Veronica closes her door behind her taking a very big drink as she begins to peel off her dress. She kicks off her heels and falls into her bed as she lets go of the icy armor she carries around her at all times. She sobs into her satin sheets knowing she will ruin them but not finding it in herself to care. She continues drinking strait out of the bottle hoping to fill the void of her soul with the clear liquid. She finds comfort in the burn that shoots down her throat and into her chest. She deserves to burn. The bottle is half finished before she even realizes it is and she knows she’s going to regret the hangover, but it still does not numb her enough. She continues to sip herself to sleep letting her moral compass slip away with consciousness as an annoyingly familiar voice whispers to her
“Stop worrying about things out of your control. We can handle ourselves.”
Her dreams are consumed with thoughts of dark hair and lean muscles. Memories collide with fantasy as Veronica feels Jughead’s hands all over her and his tongue gliding across the most sensitive parts of her flesh. She feels the weight of his length slide up and down her lower lips then the tip of him breaking her surface. All too soon he’s gone and she’s all frustration.
Veronica wakes up to that frustration accompanied with a deep feeling of sorrow. The room is spinning and her vision is blurry. She fights back tears as she is consumed with feelings of dread and arousal. The feelings seem to blend together so well. She slides her hands into the waistband of her panties hoping she can find some relief in release. She wants to feel as good as Jughead made her feel and forget everything for a little while like he helped her to. She uses that as her excuse to picture Jughead’s face as her fingers rub the wetness that’s formed between her legs around her clit. She slips a finger into her opening regretting they lack the length or girth of Jughead’s fingers. She drives herself to the edge remembering the feel of him in her mouth soft yet firm. She climaxes as she relives the pulsing of Jughead’s own climax against her fingers and the salty taste of his release on her tongue.
As soon as her orgasm has passed Veronica is up and heading to the shower taking note of how late it has become. She stumbles there not quite finding the right balance, but she refuses to lay back down and submit to the alcoholic haze. She knows FP will be glad she’d gone home and actually gotten some sleep in a bed. FP’s doom would be caring for the spawn of a man as vile as her father. She cannot even process the impending doom her family will be inflicting on his kind heart.
She lets the warm sprays of the shower wash away her stress and her guilt at who she had just masturbated to the thought of as well as what her family was about to do to that very person. She washes away the guilt of what she knows her father is about to do to the Southside. She lets go of the guilt of manipulating Jughead into kissing her in that hot tub simply because he was aggravating her with his insistent questions and she’d found herself frustratingly curious as to what that annoying mouth would feel like against hers. The revenge factor just icing on the cake. She lets the warmth engulf her and her heartbreak wash down the drain.
Veronica concedes she is not a good person and maybe Archie and Betty’s betrayal had been her karmic justice. She decides to try and make peace with all the bad things that are going to be happening from this point on. Her friendships are already burnt to the ground and she does not see how they could possibly be repaired. Worst of all, her family will quite clearly be going to war with the Southside Serpents. She puts on her clothes trying to convince herself they’re the armor she needs as she puts her icy demeanor back in place. All black, her uniform, from her black stockings to her tight black skirt. She makes sure she looks as devilish as she feels inside putting on her darkest shade of lipstick. By the time she’s all dressed and ready to make her way to the hospital she has convinced herself she is a product of an evil father and she has to simply accept it.
Her father takes what he wants regardless of rules or casualties. She wants Archie and Betty to feel as bad as they have made her feel. She also, wants Jughead and she will take what she wants because she is a Lodge. Archie and Betty broke the rules while her father never seemed to have even picked up the rule book and sweet innocent Jughead would be the causality of all the evil the light hides. She cannot wait for him to wake up and she hopes it will be tonight. Before the world comes crashing down on him she wants to give him the time of his life, and maybe some memories to take to the grave.
His inevitable ending will also be the ending of her. Any semblance of a soul she ever had will be crushed along with whatever remains of Jughead after all of this unfolds. He had made her a promise to finish what they started that she has every intention of holding him up to. She grabs the remainder of the tequila and makes her way down to the lobby having already texted Andre knowing that he had specific orders to take her to and from the hospital as she pleased.
On the ride, Veronica does everything in her power to stop her drunken mind from turning over and over the thought of Betty in Archie’s room taking what was hers. By the time Andre is pulling into the hospital lot Veronica has finally downed the whole bottle ignoring the silent judgmental glances Andre throws back through the review mirror. She throws him a heated glare and sticks her tongue at him childishly as she climbs out of the car. She walks down the quiet and now familiar halls of the executive wing her father had Jughead placed in as a sign of good faith between himself and the Serpents.
Veronica walks into Jughead’s room to find his friends deep asleep on the small couch across the room in a tangle of limbs. She giggles at the mess they are. She had become accustomed to the sight. Every night no matter how late the young Serpents would all eventually find themselves asleep for the night in Jughead’s room. Sometimes coming in together, sometimes stumbling in one by one at varying times of night. She sees Jughead is still asleep as well but he looks so much better than he had right after the accident. The swelling in his face has gone down tremendously and his cuts have scabbed over. The giant bruise on the left side of his jaw has taken a lighter tone of purple.
Veronica pulls the recliner chair as close as she can to Jughead’s bed. She grabs his Serpent jacket that his father had folded at the foot of the bed and deeply inhales the scent of leather, smoke, and engine before she wraps herself in it. She makes herself comfortable as she crosses her legs and prepares to wait for the young biker in front of her to wake up again. She had gotten a message earlier from Archie letting her know that Jughead had briefly woken up from his coma. She regretted that of all the time she spent by his side Jughead finally woke up up the one time she had left to try and fix things on his behalf. How badly the meeting had gone with her father stings at her eyes. She wouldn’t let that fact deter her from her goal. She needed Jughead’s hands on her again, she needed him to make her forget. He would wake up and she would kiss him with every evil intention she had for him spoken on her lips. Slowly as she waits she begins to drift off into sleep again dreams of the boy in front of her pulling her in once more. Don Julio dancing in her veins.
Veronica wakes up again with the room spinning and her body feeling very unaware of where she is. She feels eyes on her and has a brief panic as she stirs, blinking to clear her eyes and take in her surroundings. Her actions are halted by the blue eyes piercing her. They hold so much lust and adoration that she immediately feels her blood rush. She briefly takes in the full scope of his gaze questioning its intent. It takes her almost no time to decipher he does indeed still want her and his wishes are well received.
“Forsythe.” is all she is able to manage to breathe. She can hear the arousal in her own voice.
She’s almost embarrassed by how intensely she wants this outcast rebel.
Almost.
She can not find it in her to care that his friends are asleep on a couch a few feet away. She finds herself rising out of the recliner with all the confidence she has ever wielded in her life. Her body is moving of its own volition and he has become her prey. Jughead reaches out as if he’s caught in a trance and cups the side of her face. There is a look deep in his eyes that seem to scream doubt and hesitance. He’s always looking at her like he cannot believe her presence is real. She places her hand on his to reassure him and leans into his touch. She pulls her lip between her teeth in anticipation as she notices his breath catch and his fingers stroke her cheek softly. It sends a shiver down her spine. They are drawn to each other like opposites sides of a magnet slowly pulling each other in.
As she gets closer and invades his personal space Jughead’s hand moves from her cheek to her neck. She is now standing with her body edging over the bed. He leans up to meet her and she knows that he must want her as bad as she wants him to ignore all the pain he must be in.
Their lips slowly meet and Veronica feels her world shift. He pulls her onto him recklessly and she makes sure to lift her leg over him as gracefully as she can in her current state. She tries to avoid putting her weight on his bruised ribs. He kisses her hungrily and she feels his chapped lips press against hers. She feels all the crusted over cuts on his lips and the familiar softness just under. She also feels a very strong erection under her and she cannot help but to grind against it. This is what she had left her parents penthouse with every intention of. She had a deep seeded need to know if she still possessed this power over Jughead.
She runs her fingers gently through Jughead’s ruffled hair. It’s so soft and disheveled. It’s longer than she’s ever seen it. Even after all the time without being washed it holds a slight shine. His hands bracket her waist briefly before making their way to her thighs and just under her almost obscenely short skirt. His fingers dance behind the back of her thighs causing a wave of arousal to rush between her legs. She cannot help but to grind herself down on Jughead seeking the friction that her body had been craving for weeks.
Jugheads hands move from her thighs and begin a slow dance up under her top. She is beyond satisfied she made the decision to forgo the bra. She traces all the bruises and cuts on his face marking all of differences between the sweet delicate face she had studied those short few weeks ago and the battered one she’s faced with now. His hands grope her breast as they continue the slow and satisfying grind against each other. He pinches a nipple and that causes her to jerk a little more forcefully against him. As if he likes the added pressure his left hand moves from her chest down to her hips and presses her more firmly against him. She circles his erections forcefully with her hips and they moan simultaneously before a sharp beeping slaps Veronica out of her lust filled trance.
She sees Jughead grab at his abdomen and she quickly stumbles off of him. His friends jump up immediately from their perch on the couch before she even has time to process what is happening. She sees Jughead begin to reach for her before he coughs up blood. She begins to lean towards Jughead to comfort him , but the glare Sweetpea throws her way freezes her in place. Toni rushes to Jughead as Fangs stops Sweetpea from advancing towards her. A medical team rushes into the room followed by FP himself. Veronica is so disorientated. The adrenaline, the lust, the fatigue, the alcohol. All of it begins pounding at her head and her chest and she feels too on edge, too on the verge of a panic attack. She sees the staff checking Jughead and speaking to each other but she cannot hear what they’re saying. She cannot process anything other than she fucked up and this is her fault. She doesn’t realize she’s crying so profusely until FP physically shoves her into the lounge chair and wipes her eyes. He’s whispering harshly in her face and she’s terrified that he’s berating her until she starts actually hearing him as the initial panic resides.
“Veronica breathe. You’re alright kiddo. Breathe with me.” He inhales and exhales slowly and deeply. She breathes along with him. It does ground her.
“Veronica are you drunk?” FP ask in a hushed whisper so only she hears. Veronica can only nod quickly in response forgetting it may not be the be the best idea to be honest right now.
“I’m sorry Mr. Jones I didn’t mean to hurt him.” She whispers to FP ashamedly.
“You didn’t hurt him Veronica, he had an accident and he’s alright. Just a little banged up. None of this is your fault kid.” FP places a kiss to her temple and ruffles her hair before standing up straight and turning back towards the doctors. The gesture warms something in her, and she misses her daddy so much, the one she had when she was a little girl. Before the mob, before she became a pawn in his games, before Riverdale and prison stints. She wishes she had someone, anyone, in her life to hold her with no selfish intent or hidden motive behind it aside from comfort. Someone to hold her simply because she needed it. Someone to hold her like Jughead had the night her new life came crashing down around her like shattered stars. She might never have that again. She looks at a now asleep Jughead as his father caresses his face whispering words of reassurance no doubt. She has never felt so alone.
|
March finally arrives in Polis. Days are either freezing or mild. On this day, it is mild and Clarke is sitting on the balcony, her feet propped up to help drain her ridiculously swollen ankles. She has her head turned up towards the sun, a smile on her face as she rubs her stomach.
“So, Frick and Frack, I hope you two are enjoying this nice day as much as I am. From the acrobatics you are doing, I’d say you are. Or you’re fighting. Either one,” she adds with a chuckle.
Suddenly her lap is full and she is licked from chin to forehead. She opens her eyes and a smiling Smokey is staring at her.
“You’re lucky you’re cute, furball,” she jokes as she rubs his ears.
He settles in her lap as best he can. She strokes a hand down his back.
“Have I told you lately what a good boy you are? I just know you will protect Kora as well as her guards do. You’ll protect these two, also,” she adds, patting her stomach. “Between you and me: I overheard Anya mentioning getting pups for our pups. Not happening anytime soon. She thinks midnight walks with a dog is bad, wait until she is changing exploding diapers in the night. The general will figure out a way to send herself on a mission, I bet.”
Clarke giggles and Smokey pants as if in agreement. She reaches for the book she had been reading and uses the pup and her stomach to prop it up. She continues to pet his back as she reads. She doesn’t even notice she’s fallen asleep until a familiar scent hits her nose. She opens her eyes and turns to confirm who is visiting.
“TAY! BELL!”
She starts to stand but they stop her.
“Stay down, Princess. We’ll come to you,” Bellamy promises.
The two Blakes give her a hug then lean against the wall.
“Damn, Clarke. You’re huge! But you are glowing and absolutely beautiful,” Octavia tells her.
Clarke smiles. “Thanks. They are bouncing around right now. Want to feel?”
Bellamy looks like she has asked if he wants to swim in a cess pool. Octavia squeals and leans forward, placing her palm on the undulating stomach. Her eyes sparkle.
“Damn. That is so cool! I mean, there are, like, people in there!”
Clarke laughs. “Yeah pretty much.”
“Boys or girls or both?” she asks.
Clarke shrugs. “Not sure yet. Last sonogram the kids were being shy.”
“Any name ideas?” Bellamy asks.
Clarke nods, her eyes getting teary. “Anya and Lexa both said if we have a boy we should name him Jake,” she finishes, her voice choking off with emotion.
Octavia gets emotional, too. She hugs Clarke. “That’s awesome!”
Bellamy nods. “Your father was a great man. He would love to have a young pup named for him. And if you have two boys, Bellamy is a great name,” he adds with a crooked grin to change the mood.
Clarke and Octavia both groan. Clarke shakes her head.
“Nope. Second boy is named for Gustus’ son. He doesn’t know that yet so don’t mention it to him,” she notes.
Bellamy nods, planning on a poker game with the regular crew that night.
“So what about girl names?”
“A little girl will be Audrey, for Lexa’s mom.”
“Aww, that’s perfect,” Bellamy states.
“Definitely,” Octavia agrees.
“Anya’s idea that I quickly seconded,” Clarke explains.
“And two girls? You know- -” Octavia starts.
“Won’t be Octavia,” Clarke finishes with a giggle.
“Yeah! It will be Raven! After their favorite aunt,” the mechanic says from the doorway.
Clarke rolls her eyes. “The thin air up here is obviously making her delusional.”
The group laughs. Raven steps out.
“Monty and Harper will be here soon. Harper can’t stay long as she is training with the Royal Guards this afternoon.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m happy for her. Wish she could be a Raider but Lexa snagged her first.” Clarke frowns. “Still haven’t forgiven her for that one,” she jokes.
The group stands and heads inside to get ready for lunch. Clarke, of course, immediately heads to the bathroom. Seems like anytime she stands the twins squish her bladder. When they sit down to wait for lunch, Clarke glances at Octavia.
“So, how is Jasper now that his pups are due any moment?”
“A nervous wreck. And already an insanely protective father. Do you know he found old foam rubber and taped over ever hard edge or corner in his and Maya’s quarters? He even asked if they could get some sort of non-slick flooring so they wouldn’t fall with the babies in their arms. I think Maya vetoed that one,” she replies as they all chuckle.
“Well, I have to admit, I’ve asked for a special lock to be installed on the balcony doors so the babies can’t open it when they get to be toddlers,” Clarke tells them.
“What about the hall door?” Raven asks.
Clarke chuckles. “Uh, did you notice the two guards out there? I think they’d catch it if a yongun escaped.”
The others laugh as Raven blushes at that statement. Truth is, she’s such a regular visitor she barely notices the guards other than to say hi to them. Soon lunch arrives, Monty and Harper soon after. As they eat, Smokey can’t decide who to pay attention to: Bellamy or Raven, as both are offering him treats off the table despite Clarke’s scolding.
But despite that blip, the Delinquents enjoy a wonderful meal together, laughing and talking about new and old times they have had together. They also make plans to go to a tavern together for dinner.
Clarke just has to figure out how to tell her over-protective mates!
When Anya arrives home with Kora the alpha grins as she sees Clarke laying on the bed with Raven rubbing her lower back. Anya walks over and brushes a hand over her mates’ head.
“Aching again, ai prisa?”
“Sha.”
Anya smiles at the mechanic. “Mochof, Raven.” Raven nods, grinning suspiciously. Anya turns and sees the weird looks on the faces of Bellamy, Monty and Octavia. She frowns. “What?”
“So, like…you’re okay with Raven touching Clarke like that?” Octavia asks carefully.
Anya nods. “Sha. We would trust you, too, Oktevia.” She then looks at the two alphas. “But you two would lose your hands.”
Bellamy and Monty nods. “Noted,” they say at the same time.
Glad she has the alphas on guard, she turns back to the bed and sees Kora already in Clarke’s arms as she tells her Mama all about her school day. She grins when she sees the little girl’s hand rubbing the baby bump, as if sharing the day with her siblings, too. Octavia steps up beside the general.
“Kora looks over the moon about the babies.”
Anya nods. “She is. She practices her reading by telling them stories. It is adorable. She’ll be an amazing big sister.”
“Good. I was lucky to have a pretty amazing big brother. I’m glad the twins will have someone older to help them out when they need it.”
The two stare at the bed, both remarking on the ways they were raised and both promising to give Kora and the babies an even better life than they could have dreamed for themselves. A little while later, Lexa comes in from a work out. She smiles at her wives and their friends.
“Give me a few moments to clean up then we can call for dinner,” she says, heading for the bathroom.
“Oh, don’t worry about the Delinquents and me. We’re going over to the Boar’s Nest for dinner. They are serving- -”
“The hell you are!” Both alphas blurt simultaneously as Lexa storms back from the bathroom.
Clarke starts to giggle. She looks at her friends. “Told you.” She looks back at her mates. “I won’t drink alcohol, I won’t stay out late, and my guards will be at the next table. Not to mention the Blakes and Monty will be there too. If there’s trouble they will deal with it. Raven’s job is to get me out of the tavern or put me in a corner and put her body in front of me.”
The alphas frown. It seemed like a well thought out plan of action. But still…
“Perhaps we could go, too, hodnes,” Lexa suggests carefully.
“No need. Besides the fact that I want some time alone with my friends, the owners of the Boar’s Nest love me, most people here in Polis love me, and I am sure should anyone have an issue with me plenty of people will help the guards and my friends protect me,” Clarke points out.
Anya lets out a low growl when she can’t find a flaw in Clarke’s plan. She glances at Lexa, who is also growling.
“Nomon? Nomtu? Are you mad at Mama?”
Clarke lifts her eyebrow at them as they react to the scared voice of their daughter. Lexa forces a smile to her face first.
“No, strik gona, I am not. Neither is Nomon. We just…worry about her when we can’t be with her.” She swallows hard, almost choking on the next words. “But we know she will be fine with her guards and her friends for the evening, right, Nomon?” Anya growls again. Lexa elbows her. “I said, right, Anya?”
Anya tries to smile. It is scarier than her regular scowl since she is clenching her teeth together. “Right, Lexa. All good.”
Kora smiles and turns to Clarke. “Have fun, Mama!”
Clarke hugs her close, still grinning at her mates. “Thank you, sweet girl. You better go get washed up for dinner.”
Clarke scoots to the edge of the bed. Lexa offers her hand to help the omega stand. Clarke allows her alphas to pull her into a hug, pumping out pheromones to thoroughly mark her as theirs. Clarke laughs.
“Keep dosing me and they’ll smell me in Azgeda.”
“As if that would be bad,” Anya rumbles.
Clarke eases back and stares into both of their eyes. “I will be okay. I swear I will protect our pups.”
“We swear, too, Heda, General. We’d give our lives for them,” Bellamy vows, as Monty, Raven and Octavia nod in agreement.
Lexa kisses Clarke’s cheek. “Have fun, hodnes.”
“Thank you. Anya?”
Anya grunts and kisses her cheek. “Tell Tank and Gustus if you even get a scratch I’m challenging them to a fight to the death.”
Clarke chuckles. “I’ll tell Tank and Max. Gustus has a dinner date before the poker game.”
Anya grins. “Gustus in love. Who’d have believed it?”
Clarke says another goodbye to her mates and Kora, then follows her friends into the hall. As they get in the elevator she grins.
“Bet you if we look in a few minutes we’ll see them on the balcony with the binoculars.”
Everyone laughs but no one is dumb enough to take that bet.
As the group walks out of the tower, 6 guards and Raiders fall into step with them. Clarke lifts her eyebrow at Tank. He grins.
“You really think they would be okay with just 2, Wanheda? I called in 4 more because I know they will be watching.”
Clarke laughs and nods in agreement. They all start walking towards the Boar’s Nest. After a few steps, Clarke stops and turns to look up at the balcony. She starts to laugh some more. The others look up and also make out the tiny figures leaning over the edge, one with binoculars to her eyes.
The spies notice they have been seen, especially when the entire group waves. Lexa lowers the binoculars, growling.
“She thinks she’s so smart,” Anya grumbles.
“Sha. We can tell her we were…birdwatching. Sha, birdwatching,” Lexa decides.
Anya glares at her. “Sure, branwada, that will work.”
With a huff the general goes inside. Lexa grunts at her. She lifts the binoculars once more and sees the group has reached the tavern. As they start to walk in, Clarke pauses, turns and gives one more wave. With another growl, Lexa lowers the binoculars.
“You really are a branwada, Heda,” she scolds herself before following Anya back into their suite.
As the Delinquents enter the tavern, one of the owners sees the group and hurries over.
“Wanheda! You made it! Come, we have tables ready for you,” Lulu tells her.
“We have four more guards than expected,” Clarke warns.
“We will make do. Come. Sit. We’ll start bringing out wine and platters of food. Oh, uh, well, water and cider for you and your pups,” she corrects.
Clarke smiles. “Thank you. And, Lulu, please call me Clarke.”
“Oh, I could never do that, Wanheda. At least not in public. If I have you for dinner with my family then I will do as you wish but never in public lest those not worthy think they can be so familiar.”
Clarke rolls her eyes but nods in understanding. Once everyone is settled food and wine is immediately brought out. As they eat, others start to file into the tavern for a meal away from home. After a little while, Clarke feels eyes upon her. She turns her head, trying to find out who is staring.
“Guy at the bar in the red jacket,” Octavia whispers. “Been staring at you since we came in but looks away anytime one of us glances over. Bell’s watching him, too.”
Before Clarke can say anything, Max stands from the guards table. He makes his way over to the man and has a bit of a conversation with him. The man starts to get angry and gestures several times towards Clarke.
“Don’t do it, Clarke,” Octavia warns.
“Clarke, stay put,” Raven adds.
“I can’t. You know me better than that.”
She gets up and makes her way towards Max and the man. She feels Tank and another guard fall in behind her. She hears Bellamy and Octavia stand. She ignores all that and places a hand on Max’ shoulder.
“Is there a problem here?” she asks.
“This man wants to speak with you. I told him you are dining with friends and to have some respect,” Max growls, pumping out pheromones at the beta.
Clarke pats him on the shoulder. “Stop pumping. NOW, Max.” The alpha reluctantly complies with the order. “Can I help you, sir?”
He swallows hard. He goes to talk then his eyes stray to the men behind her. Clarke sighs.
“I cannot order them away but they will not hurt you if you don’t hurt me or my pups. Please, friend, tell me what’s wrong,” she asks gently.
He grips his hands together, his knuckles turning white with the pressure he is exerting. “You killed my family,” he accuses.
Clarke’s mouth drops open. This is not what she was expecting. Could he possibly be one last Maunon? She takes a second to gather herself.
“I…I don’t understand. When?”
“You ordered an attack on my village to steal supplies when your ship first fell to the ground. You killed my wife and child! They died in a hut YOU burned!” he accuses.
Clarke shakes her head in alarm. “Sir, I don’t know why you think that. We never attacked any village. We had makeshift weapons, no body armour, nothing that would have made us think we could pull off an attack. I swear to you, sir, we never attacked.”
“YOU LIE! YOU CAME IN THE NIGHT AND KILLED MY FAMILY!”
One of the guards steps forward. “You’re wrong. I was with Trikru at the time. Indra and Anya had them under surveillance. None of them attacked a village,” the man tells them. “We’d have stopped them if they had tried. We’d have killed them all to protect our people.”
The man glares at the guard. “We weren’t your people! You didn’t care about us! You thought the cold would keep us in but we fought back! You got nothing but I lost EVERYTHING!”
Clarke is even more confused. “Cold? We arrived at the end of Spring. It was never co- -” Her words break off as inspiration hits. “You’re Azgeda, sha?”
“SHA!” he practically spits at her.
She starts to growl. “Pike, you lying son of a bitch.” She takes a calming breath, trying to control her blood pressure for her pups. “Sir, part of our…our spaceship came down in Azgeda. We didn’t even know there were survivors for a long time. They said you all attacked them?”
“NO! We offered them help! We could see there were women, children, injured. They started using fayoguns and cut us down! They followed our tracks back to our village and they attacked, stealing what they could! Only then did we send for help from Nia. It arrived too late!”
“But Roan said your leaders ignored Heda’s command that those from space should be helped, not harmed,” Clarke points out. “He executed those leaders that ignored that command.”
The man leans closer to her. “I WAS one of the leaders of my village! It is Tyrandow’s leaders that were killed only because they came to help us!”
Clarke grabs a stool and sits down. “Sir, nothing I can say or do will bring your family back or right the wrong done to you and others in your village. I will say, those who were leaders of that section of our ship have paid with their lives for many crimes. If I could bring them back to make them stand for that attack, too, I would. I have nothing more to offer you than my apologies and any help you need starting a new life.”
The man has tears flowing down his cheeks, a mix of sorrow for his family and fury at this omega trying to get pass the buck.
“Your apologies mean NOTHING to me! And a new life? HA! I lost my home AND my family! My life is OVER!” He seems to calm a moment. “And so is YOURS!”
He leaps towards her as he slides a dagger from his shirt sleeve. Max and Tank tackle him to the ground as another guard steps in front of her to block Clarke from the melee. Yet another guard wraps his arms around her and starts to carry her from the tavern.
“I’LL KILL YOU, WANHEDA! EITHER IN THIS LIFE OR THE NEXT I WILL KILL YOU!” he screams as he fights to get away from the two large men holding him down. Suddenly Bellamy is between Clarke and the man, his gun out and ready to fire if the maniac does get free.
“STOP! PUT ME DOWN!” Clarke orders. “NOW! Everyone just STOP!”
“Clarke, we need to get you to the tower. He may not be the only one here from his village,” Bellamy tries to reason with her.
Clarke finally gets everyone to stop dragging her away. She waits for Max and Tank to drag the man out then approaches them to the growls of her friends and guards. She stares at him.
“My friends did not attack. I am sorry some of my clan did. They were scared, yes, but they were still wrong. Nothing I can do or say will change the past. I could have you executed for what you did in there but what good does it do? What good is the entire annihilation of your family?”
“Not my whole family! My living sons will see their father avenged their mother and sister! They will respect me and know I didn’t fail them! I didn’t…I didn’t fail them all.”
His knees give out and he’d have fallen if he wasn’t being held up by Max and Tank. Clarke stares at him in sorrow. She knows she can’t let him go or he could go after Kora or her mates, or even hurt her pups now or after they are born. But she can’t bring herself to order his execution. She looks to Tank.
“Lock him up. Find his living sons. Send for Roan. Before we end another life, we make sure it’s a life worth ending,” she orders.
Tank nods and drags the man away. Raven walks up and puts an arm around her best friend’s waist. Clarke can smell the soothing pheromones being pumped out.
“Thank you, Raven. So, uh, should we go finish dinner?”
Raven grins. “Uh, I don’t think they’ll let that happen.”
Clarke looks at her in confusion. “They who? WHOA!”
She is scooped until into the arms of Anya as Lexa growls at anyone who even dares to look towards her omega. Sword at the ready, she escorts Clarke and Anya back to the tower. Raven chuckles.
“So, uh, see you tomorrow, Clarke!”
Clarke rolls her eyes and waves. She groans. No way in hell will she be allowed to leave the tower ever again and the alphas don’t even know the whole story. She nuzzles into Anya’s neck.
“I’m okay, my loves.”
They just growl in response, too far into protective mode to accept her words. When they get up to their suite, Anya finally sets Clarke down. She and Lexa wrap the omega in their arms, pumping out possessive scents to mark her once more as theirs. She nuzzles into both of their necks in turn, trying to calm them.
“I am okay, my loves. I swear it.
She runs her hands up and down strong backs. It is several minutes before they start to ease their grip and their pheromones. Lexa leans back.
“You are hurt?”
“No. The guards, Raiders and my friends protected me. I swear.”
She tells them what happened and what she ordered Tank to do with the man. Lexa grunts, preferring to simply order his death but understanding grief can make people do insane things, like take on Wanheda, 6 large warriors, and a table of Delinquents with fayoguns among other weapons, she decides to let things be for the night.
“Go change. Bathe. I do not want that man’s scent upon you,” she growls.
“Lexa, he never touched me.”
“GO!” Lexa practically roars.
And now Clarke understands. Her alphas need time to calm down. Anya had yet to say a word her anger and fear are so great. Clarke pats them both one more time then goes to the bathroom. She pauses at the door long enough to see Lexa pull Anya into a hug. Tears fill her eyes as she sees the alpha of all alphas try to calm the tall blonde. And eventually, Anya calms enough to try to calm her alpha.
Clarke has not been in the bath long when the alphas enter. Without speaking, they start to bathe their omega. Clarke studies them carefully. They are calmer but still riding a razor’s edge. Their mate and their pups had been in danger.
“I don’t know how to help you,” she admits softly, her breath hitching. “I’m so sorry but I don’t know how to help you.”
Anya leans forward, placing her forehead to Clarke’s temple. “Shhh, ai prisa. Just…let us do this.”
Clarke nods and lets the alphas continue to care for her, their way of proving to themselves she is okay, and ostensibly to make sure their pups are okay. Clarke knows that once the bath is done, they will make love. They will reacquaint themselves with the omega’s body. They will make sure it is as they left it. And they will pump their seed deep inside of her so that she will carry that scent with her wherever she may go. She is theirs to love, to protect, to cherish.
And they will make damn sure everyone is reminded of that very fact!
Two days later Clarke is trying to follow the pattern one of the elder women in Polis is showing her. She frowns when she sees she has dropped a loop.
“Damn it,” she mutters as she backs out and tries again.
The woman smiles. “You are doing fine, Clarke. I’ve been knitting since before I could walk. It takes time.”
“So you’re saying I knit worse than a toddler? Gee, thanks, Wanda,” she jokes.
The woman chuckles and points out that Clarke has dropped another loop.
“Well, damn,” the young woman mutters and backs out again.
Three “damn its” and a “well, shit” later the door to the suite opens. Clarke smiles as Lexa enters with Roan. Wanda stands and bows her head.
“Heda, King Roan, it’s good to see you both.”
“How’s she doing?” Lexa asks with a smile.
“Well, um, no f-bombs today, so that’s an improvement,” Wanda notes as she takes her leave.
Clarke blushes and holds up the misshapen square she had been working on. “Give me 10 or 20 years and this might be a good baby blanket for our grandpups.”
Lexa chuckles and walks over. “You’ll get it, Klark. I know you will. I’ll leave you two to talk.”
“You’re not staying?”
“No, I trust Roan and I think you two need to work this out. If you need me, send a guard,” Lexa replies as she leaves.
Clarke grins at Roan as she sets her knitting aside. “Her trust in you is impressive.”
He grins. “I’m a beta so the scent of a triad is of no attraction to me. Plus if I tried to harm you she knows she could kill me and no one would say a word.”
Clarke laughs. “Good point.” She sighs. “So, did you speak to the prisoner?”
Roan pulls over a chair and sits down. “Sha. I never thought to ask if there was a town other than Tyrandow involved in what happened. I apologize for that. What do you wish to happen to him?”
“I don’t want him killed,” she answers immediately. “Beyond that…I don’t know. As long as he is that angry he is a threat not only to my mates and me, but also our pups. I also don’t want him taken from his surviving sons. Could he perform some sort of…of punishment where they are?”
Roan thinks a moment, then nods. “I think that could be arranged. Problem is, if others there feel the same who’s to say they won’t let him get away to continue his vendetta?”
Clarke runs a hand through her hair. “True.” She bites her lip as she thinks a minute. “Is it passing the buck if I trust you to deliver him to his people and decide if they can be trusted?”
Roan gives her a kind smile. “Not at all. I swear on my life, I will do what it takes to protect you and your pups, Clarke.”
Clarke smiles. “I’d say you have already made up for what your mother did to me, Roan. You owe me nothing as drastic as your life.”
He nods. “I know. I make this vow because it is right, not because I owe you. No one should have to be scared their pups will be stolen from them. Especially not for something as crazy as the misunderstandings when your clan first came to the ground. We didn’t know you were out there; you didn’t know we were here. How many would still be alive if cooler heads had prevailed and we had simply talked?”
Clarke’s mind flashes with images of Wells, Finn, and others who had not lived. “More than I care to remember,” she says softly.
He nods his head, missing friends that had perished, too. He stands and offers his hand to her. She takes it and he places a kiss on the back of hers.
“With the ugliness of this situation past us, let me say you look lovely, Clarke. Pregnancy truly suits you,” he says gallantly.
Clarke blushes. “Thank you, Roan. So, when are you going to meet a nice girl and have a pup or 5?”
He chuckles. “Well, I might have maybe met the woman. As to that many pups, I’m not sure I’m strong enough to keep all those in check.”
Clarke laughs. “You can do it. After all, you’re the king. You can hire many babysitters.”
He grins. “Perhaps that’s true. But I will say, when the time comes no matter how many there are, I will do right by them. I will care for them and show them what a real parent is. No matter their presentation, I’ll make sure they know they can grow up to be leaders, warriors, anything they want. After all, their adoptive aunt is an omega and the mighty Wanheda.”
Clarke grins. “I’ll be honoured to be their honorary aunt.”
She goes to stand but he stops her.
“Rest. I’ll send word on what has been decided to your little friend downstairs.”
Clarke giggles at the thought of Lexa being her “little friend’. “Thanks, Roan. Will you dine with us tonight?”
“If Heda doesn’t mind, I’ll be there. If she does, well, I’ll have to come anyway just to annoy Anya,” he says with a wink.
Clarke’s laughter follows him out the door. She glances at her knitting. With a grunt she picks it up and starts on it once more. She has nearly finished a line when she sighs.
“Well, shit,” she mumbles as she once more backs out to fix a dropped loop.
After lunch 3 days later, Clarke is sitting on the balcony enjoying the mild afternoon. She has given up her knitting practice for a book when a shadow falls across the page. She looks up and smiles.
“Hi! I thought you were helping Lexa with the Nightbloods?”
Anya squats down. “She decided she didn’t need me so I thought I’d see if you want to go and stroll around the market?”
Clarke’s eyes darken and she looks away, her hand going right to her baby bump. “Uh, no. That’s okay. I’m enjoying the day here.”
Anya runs a hand over Clarke’s head. “Ai prisa, you have not left the tower since the night at the tavern. You haven’t even ventured down to the throne room. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”
Clarke bites her lip as she stares at her stomach. “I insisted on going out,” she whispers, her voice choked up. “I could have gotten our pups killed, Anya. I can’t go out. I just…I can’t.”
Anya scoots around until she is in front of her mate. She lifts Clarke’s chin and uses her thumb to wipe away the single tear rolling down Clarke’s face.
“Klark, you did not endanger our pups. Yes, we joke about chaining you up in this tower but have we ever? No. Because your beautiful spirit would be stifled by being cooped up in here all the time. You let your guards protect you, you let your friends protect you. You did everything right, ai prisa. You always do. You will always protect our yongons.”
“But what if I can’t? What if I hurt them? Or if someone hurts me and it hurts them? What if- -”
“What if you trip over your feet and hit your head on the bed? What if you drown in the tub? What if you make the bath water too hot and it cooks our pups? What if you jab Lexa for snoring and she rolls out of the bed? What if I yank the covers back and give Lexa a rugburn on her privates?”
Anya keeps coming up with more outrageous scenarios that could happen in the tower. She doesn’t let up until her mate is giggling. She leans in and gives her a kiss.
“So what I’m saying, ai prisa, is anything could happen to any of us in here. I know in my heart and in my mind, that if you leave this tower you will do all you can to protect our pups. And you will be with guards that, should it come to it, will give their lives for you. Not to mention all the people in this city that adore you and would protect you with whatever they have at their disposal: loaves of bread, meat skewers, bags of hard candy, and anything else.”
Clarke grins. “They best not waste the hard candy. What would I give Snuffles and Cupcake?”
Anya chuckles. “What indeed?” She leans in and kisses Clarke then eases back. “Come, my love, walk the market with me. Let me make every alpha, beta and omega in Polis jealous of my good luck.”
Clarke stokes her mates face. “Okay. Just one request?”
“Name it, ai prisa.”
“Double my guards?”
“Oh, ai prisa, the guards and Raiders have decided you’ll have no less than 10 with you at any given time. Additionally, any that see you around the market may follow you whether on duty or not. Add in your Delinquents and I dare say you’ll have a parade with you.”
Clarke laughs and pulls Anya into a hug. “Why am I not surprised?”
“The people love you, Clarke. Far more than the few that hate you.”
Clarke lifts an eyebrow. “Remember when you were part of those few, general?” she teases.
“Ah, there’s times I still am part of those, you brat,” Anya teases back.
“Wish you’d chosen Raven?”
“Hell no! She’d have blown up the tower months ago!”
Clarke laughs and pulls her mate into a hug. “Thank you, Anya. Ai hod yu in.”
“Ai hod yu in, ai prisa.”
The two share a kiss then go inside so Clarke can get ready for her first time out in days.
And sure enough, when they exit the tower a mixed escort of 10 Royal Guards and Wanheda’s Raiders meet them. Clarke smiles at them.
“Thank you all for this.”
“Ai koma, Wanheda,” Max replies as the others nod.
Clarke takes Anya’s hand and they go off into the market. With all her time inside, Clarke’s art supplies are running low so Anya is not surprised that Clarke’s first stop in the art booth. As they approach, Nathan sees her and races towards her.
“CLARKE! CLARKE!”
Clarke smiles and drops to a knee to accept the strong hug he offers her. She kisses his temple.
“Hello, my friend. I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Clarke. Kora said I could come to dinner one night to see you we just had to get Nomon and Heda to agree on a night.”
Clarke ruffles his hair and glances up at Theresa. “Well, if your Nomon approves, how about tonight?”
“But what about Heda saying it’s okay?”
“I can handle the Heda,” Clarke assures him with a wink. She stands and accepts a hug from Theresa. “So is it okay, Nomon?”
Theresa chuckles. “It’s definitely okay. Good to see you out here, Clarke. We’ve all missed you here in the market.”
Clarke blushes. “Seriously? You all noticed?”
“Of course we did. We all heard what happened at the tavern. Know should you need us, we all have your back.”
Clarke hugs her again, too choked up to speak. Anya is right: the people love the Sky Girl. They make their purchases and set a time for Theresa and Nathan to join them for dinner then continue on. At each booth Clarke is given hugs or special treats or both. And like Theresa, the vendors promise to always be there to help defend their Wanheda and her pups. After a couple hours in the market, the large group (which has grown by several warriors) makes their way back to the tower. Once they are in the elevator, Clarke pulls Anya into a tight hug.
“Thank you, Anya, for getting me out there. I love you so much.”
“I love you, too, Klark. Always.”
When they enter their suite, they see Lexa removing her pauldron. Clarke immediately goes to her and finishes the jobs. She then frames Lexa’s face with her hands and stares into emerald eyes.
“Thank you. I love you.”
Lexa smiles. “I knew you just needed a little push, hodnes. And I knew our general could get you out there. Do not hide away from the world, my love. Our people need their Wanheda. And we need our mate to be the woman we know and love. We didn’t want to lose you, Klark.”
“And you won’t. Ever. Ai swega.”
The two share a kiss and Clarke helps Lexa continue to get changed as Kora runs in from her bedroom to greet her mama, too. Anya tells them about their dinner guests. Kora jumps up and down in happiness, making Smokey bark and bounce around.
Anya laughs and gathers daughter and dog to take down for a quick bit of exercise before dinner. They know it will be much better if Smokey is a little tired when they have their guests in, otherwise the pup and the kids would drive them all insane!
|
2B and 9S hacked and slashed their way through the machine horde. They had received news from Anemone about a hostile group harassing an allied camp nearby and agreed to investigate and dispatch anything they saw. The enemies fell easily against the onslaught of sword strikes and scanner hacks. They never let their guard down; you can never be too careful against machines anymore.
The two androids arrived back at their little room and flopped down on the bed. They both were exhausted after a long day and were eager to relax and de-stress. The scanner sidled up behind the combat model and wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. She let out a relaxed sigh as she reached behind her, wrapping her arms around his back as well.
After the last machine fell and the forest went silent, they began hearing strange wheezing sounds coming from the bushes nearby. They peered over to find a lone android lying broken and battered on the cold ground.
9S released his grip and 2B turned to face him, looking deep into his eyes before locking lips in a slow, sweet kiss. An uncomfortable feeling was churning in the pit of his stomach, but he ignored it, instead, focusing on her warm hands running up and down his back as they dug into all his favorite spots.
They ran to the android's aid. Both their legs were missing from the knee down, their clothes were torn, arms mangled, and face nearly caved in. The android opened their one remaining eye; a deep crimson light shone out and they began weakly clawing at the air in front of 9S in an attempt to attack. A low, guttural call leaked out of their throat.
2B reached down to remove her boots and socks before scooting up even closer to 9S, wrapping her legs around him and rubbing up against him. She leaned forward, lips brushing against his ear, and began whispering all the lewd things she planned on doing to him that evening, sending shivers of delight down his spine.
“I don't think there's much we can do.” 9S said in a defeated tone. “It looks like they've been infected for a while and are just running out of power.” He paused for a moment. “I think the best course of action is to just...”
9S leaned back and softly brought his hands up to her face, sliding up her cheeks to massage her scalp and play with her hair. 2B mirrored him, curling his silver locks around her fingers and rubbing behind his ears and...
2B nodded, understandingly. He didn't need to finish his sentence for her to know what to do. She reached out to the android and...
...slid her hands out of his hair, and down his face with the intention of having them come to rest on his shoulders to work out the tension that was building up. Her hands grazed his throat on the way down and the uneasy feeling from earlier tore it's way back ten fold, slamming into his stomach like a freight train.
...wrapped her hands around their throat and squeezed, snapping their neck almost instantly. The light faded from their eye and they went still. 9S's hand went up to grip his throat instinctively and an uncomfortable feeling began to worm its way through his gut.
“NO!” He screamed out as he jerked his whole body back, nearly falling off the bed.
“9S?! 9S what's wrong?” Even though she was right next to him, her voice felt distorted and distant, yet loud at the same time. She reached out to comfort him but he yelped and pulled back again. He doubled over, face in his lap, and gripped the back of his neck and head.
Memories were flooding through him, every time he was killed, by her. No. no. Why this? They swirled around him, digging through the corner of his mind. Why am I? It wasn't her fault! Choked. Shot. Stabbed. Infected. Again and again.
His head burned and he could feel his airways constrict. His whole body began to shake as he fought for breath. Stop it. Stop it PLEASE. But the storm wouldn't subside.
“Pod scan 9S for viru--” He could hear 2B's voice, metallic and grating.
“It's not that... it's... nghh.” The words were heavy on his tongue.
“...It was me touching your neck wasn't it?”
9S groaned and continued breathing rapidly.
“Why... why now?” He panted. “I thought... I was... getting better.”
“Nines, I'm so sorry I shoul--”
“Alert:” Pod 153 blared out, “cardiac rate of Unit 9S has increased to dangerous levels. Black box temperature rising. Proposal: cease current activity to bring levels back to normal.”
“Pod, bring me some water.” Too much noise.
“Affirmative.” Stop.
“Nines, it's gonna be ok, I'm here. I can--”
“Stop talking!” He barked, but flinched at his own volume. “S-sorry. Every...thing's so loud, so loud. It's just, too much... in my head. Aagh.”
2B waited, silently. 9S could feel her growing discomfort through all the rushing thoughts, and desperately tried to push them away but to no avail. He started sobbing in between his labored breaths and his vision began to cloud and dim. Just go away. I don't want to think about this right now.
“Nines, let me help, I'm coming in.” She said as softly as she could.
“W-wai-” But it was too late, she had already slipped into his hacking space. He pushed his memories as far away from her as he could, but he knew he couldn't hold them back for long.
“Is my voice better like this?”
“Yeah... yeah it is... But 2B please... I don't want... you seeing this. I'm sorry, I don't want... to hurt you too.”
“Nines, it's my fault this happened, so I'm here to fix what I messed up. I don't care how upsetting it is to me. Please.”
9S didn't respond.
“But,” she continued, “if you really don't want me to see, and just need some silence and space, then that's ok too. I'm... sorry if I pushed too much.”
“W-wait... I'll show you...” Even though he was anxious about letting her look, he still felt some comfort in her being there with him. The thought of being alone with his thoughts was even scarier.
He released the tide of memories and they hit 2B full force. She gasped and tensed up as they rushed over her but she didn't withdraw herself. The pain eased up slightly as many of them swarmed around her instead, but a feeling of guilt was worming it's way around him now that 2B was facing it too.
“It still hurts you that much?” She breathed. “I'm so sorry Nines.”
He shook his head. “They didn't before... but now. It hurts. I can't... st—stop it. I don't want this, I don't want this, I don't want this!” The memories began rushing even faster and became more fragmented. “Shit. Stop it!” His whole body shook. “I was... getting better.”
“Nines, it's ok... you can't expect recovery to be a linear path can you? Nothing in life ever is. It's full of bumps and road blocks and diversions. You had a lot building up inside you and it had to come to a head today because I was being careless.”
“What do I... do?” He sobbed.
“I don't know. Just... talk to me, tell me how it's making you feel and let me ride it out with you. Maybe... tackle one memory at a time. Maybe there's things you wanted to say before... that you weren't able to.”
9S sniffed and took a few deep breaths before continuing. “I ca-- I can't focus on just one. They're slowing down a bit. B-but...
“Why was it you? Why'd they make you do it? I didn't... you... ugh... You're too kind 2B. You didn't deserve to be shoved in that position. N-neither of us did. Neither of-- But... I wanted it to be you, because I got to... be with you more. But I was scared. Dying and losing my memories over and over. And your face... the last thing I saw. Don't cry 2B, we'll meet again. Wait. Wait no. I'm not making sense. 2B say something!”
“I'm here, I'm listening Nines. It's okay. It's all in the past, it won't ever happen again. I won't ever have to hurt you, or kill you in any way ever again. These hands,” She held them out towards him, “they'll only be used to love you and protect you from now on. Never to harm you.”
“Y-yeah, I know.” The memories weren't flying around quite as aggressively, and he could feel his chest get just a bit lighter with every breath. “I know.” He lifted his head up and looked at 2B. She was gripping a bottle of water and had a pained expression on her face, but smiled softly when she caught his eye. She held out the container to him and he took it after staring for a moment and choked it down as fast as he could. It was just regular water but it never tasted so good, washing down his parched throat and cooling his black box significantly. He coughed and sputtered as he inhaled some of it into his lungs, but kept drinking until it was all gone.
2B reached partway out to his tear-streaked face and paused. “Can I...?” She said aloud. 9S sniffed again and practically threw himself on her, burying his face in her chest and sobbing loudly. Her hands came around to rest lightly on his lower back to calm his still-trembling body.
“Your hands are so warm... Just like that time... after Eve.” He let out a lengthy sigh. “I was ok that time, as well as many others, with you killing me. You didn't kill me as 2E... you did it as 2B. You did it for me, not because you were ordered to.” He squeezed her tighter. “Thank you.”
She hummed in response but didn't say anything. He couldn't really blame her for her silence though. That was a strange thing to thank someone for, wasn't it?
“2B, I think... I can handle this on my own now, you don't need to stay in there.”
“Are you sure? It still seems pretty hectic, I'm ok with staying as long as you need me.”
“Yeah. It's calming down now and I'll be ok soon. I just want you to... hold me right now and not let go.”
“All right, I can do that.” They sat like that for a long time as 9S's quiet sobs slowly subsided and his tremors grew fainter and fainter. The memories started filing back to his subconscious, bit by bit. He would deal with them more another day, now, now, he just needed rest.
When he felt significantly calmed down, he pulled back and looked 2B in the eyes and smiled at her. She reciprocated and leaned forward and they brushed their lips against each other in a soft kiss.
“Thank you.” He sighed.
“I'll always be here for you. For whatever is upsetting you... even if it's me.”
“Heh, you're really a sweet person, you know that 2B?”
“Niiines.”
“Don't deny it 2B~” He responded in a singsong voice. “You had to hide it for so long, but even before, I knew that deep down, you were really kind.”
“I'm glad you think that.” She smiled. “I really am.”
9S sighed softly and hugged her tighter. He couldn't hide his exhaustion any longer though, so he stretched and yawned loudly before lying down and curling up.
“Good idea. We can talk more about this tomorrow when you're feeling better. I wanna make sure this never happens again.” 2B said and laid down behind him, molding herself into the contours of his body and wrapping her arms around him to intertwine her fingers with his.
“Heh, that was an inconvenient time for this to happen huh? I'll make up for the... uh... interruption tomorrow, okay?”
“You don't have to make up for anything Nines...” She squeezed his hands and leaned closer to his ear. “Although that offer's too good to turn down either way.”
He let out a weak laugh. “Thought so. Goodnight 2B.”
“Goodnight Nines. Sweet dreams.”
|
The comms station was dark at this hour, the light of the screen bright enough to sting Thace’s eyes. It had been a long time since he’d had to sneak around like this—mostly he just sent data off to the Accords using the automatic script saved to a data chip hidden beneath his claw, or passed the information to Dez and let her worry about relaying it to whoever might benefit from the knowledge.
But this was something he couldn’t risk routing through Dez. Thace’s exploits at the cybernetics lab hadn’t yet brought down the executioner’s axe, but he knew it was only a matter of time. If they hadn’t yet noticed that they were missing an entire research facility, it was only because Zarkon and Haggar both had their attention fixed on the Hovent Sector and the humans’ home planet.
Footsteps sounded outside the comms station door, and Thace tensed in a way he couldn’t remember tensing since Keena had first convinced him to join the Accords and put his life on the line. Invisible eyes made the back of his neck crawl, and his pulse beat strong in his temples. He didn’t stop typing, though. Didn’t dare. This message had to get through to the paladins. They had to know the first batch of cybernetic warriors were already on Earth, with more on the way if Thace failed to complete his mission. Or if Haggar had a second production lab hidden somewhere, which seemed entirely too likely.
The footsteps passed on, but Thace didn’t relax as he copied over the files he’d managed to steal pertaining to Project Robeast and associated research. He dumped everything into his transmission—dates, procedures, coordinates, prisoner logs. The chemical formula for synthetic Quintessence and the schematics for most standard cybernetic enhancements (though not, unfortunately, for the robeasts themselves.)
The Accords’ spymaster wouldn’t be happy with the unauthorized file transfer—even if he was sending it to the paladins of vrekking Voltron.
Well, so be it. She could take her issues up with his corpse if she liked. Every agent had to draw a line somewhere. Keena had taught him that. Everyone eventually came up against a fight that resonated in their soul. You could chase that fight, even if that meant burning yourself on the altar of Zarkon’s empire, or you could stand by. The Accords needed more agents who knew their duty, who stood back and let their soul be ripped apart for the sake of keeping their cover intact.
But the last person to choose to fight—the last person to choose that and to live, at any rate—had ended up appointed spymaster, the highest position in their order. It was hard to discipline others for making the same choice.
It was a painful wait for the files to upload, and for the program on Thace’s black data chip to wipe all trace of Thace’s presence from the system, but then it was done. The message was away. The paladins had their warning.
Thace glanced down at the body of the guard who had been on duty tonight—the only remaining evidence against him. There had been no option of luring the guard away, not with as long as this message had taken to send, and Thace couldn’t simply order him out of the room. His virus would delay discovery, nothing more.
Thace closed his eyes, taking a moment to breathe as he checked that he still had the explosive discs hidden in his sleeves.
I have made a difference, he told himself, turning toward the door. I have taken a stand. I have saved lives. The universe is a better place for my sacrifice.
The darkness and the peace of the comms station vanished behind him as he set out toward the docking bays at the belly of the ship, where four more cryo-vessels full of cybernetic warriors awaited deployment. He clasped his hands behind his waist, thumbing the hilt of his hidden dagger.
I will see this task through. Whatever the cost.
As soon as Keith's words made it through the haze of shock, Lance turned and sprinted for the elevator to the Blue Lion’s hangar. Zarkon’s flagship.
Shit.
He made it into the elevator and jammed the button for the hangar, and only then realized he was alone in the lift. Meri, Nyma, and Val stood on the bridge, all seemingly frozen. Meri stared at Lance in open longing, Nyma glared daggers at the viewscreen, and Val seemed determined to fade into the background.
Lance caught the elevator door as it started to close, frowning at all three of them. Across the room, the other paladins disappeared into their respective elevators and disappeared from sight. Akira stood, rigid, by the doors, gaping at the bridge displays and at the swarm of Galra fighters already leaving their bays on Zarkon’s ship to stream toward the castle-ship like a dozen hives' worth of angry hornets.
“What’s wrong?” Lance asked, glancing from Val to Meri, both of whom avoided his gaze.
“Take Nyma,” Meri said. “Val, too, if she’s up for it. I’ll stay here. Probably be more use--”
Nyma’s head whipped around, her headtails snapping at her shoulders. “Excuse me?” she hissed, sharp enough to draw the attention of everyone else on the bridge. Meri shot a self-conscious glance at Coran, then hunched her shoulders.
“Look, Blue and I haven’t even had a chance to reforge our bond. I can’t--”
“You realize you have more experience with the Blue Lion than literally anyone in this room,” Nyma said. “Right?” She held up a hand before Meri could reply and turned to Val. “Four people in a one-man ship is overkill, even if that ship likes to adopt extra pilots. What do you say you and me go grab the Harbinger? I’m sure we can take out a handful of fighters while the big cats go for the real prize.”
Val’s eyes darted toward Lance, but she straightened up, nodding.
Lance opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. The Harbinger wasn’t exactly the safest vessel in the system right now—but was anywhere really safe? Nyma did have a point, after all. Why stick three people in Blue on the off-chance they all figured out how to sync up at once—assuming it was even possible with four people? (It had to be possible, Lance thought, or why would Blue have done it?)
“Okay,” he said, nodding to Nyma and forcing a smile for Val. “Take care of each other. Le—Meri?”
Meri was still staring at Nyma and Val, who turned and headed for the door. For just an instant, Lance thought he saw fear on Meri’s face. It was strange—she didn’t look very much like the Lena who had babysat him, but there was enough of a resemblance for it to seem jarring to catch her looking so uncertain. Lena had always been the wise, kind, experienced adult-like figure in the room.
He supposed he really had grown up if he could look at Meri and see someone almost as young and scared as he was.
Their eyes met, and Meri visibly gathered herself. “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”
She joined him in the elevator, and they endured the ride down to Blue’s hangar in awkward silence. Meri had found a flight suit somewhere, a white and blue and orange armored suit that reminded Lance of a blend of Coran’s uniform and the paladin armor.
“So...” Lance rocked up on his toes as the floors whipped past with hardly a whisper of machinery. “You wanna fly, or…?”
Meri glanced at him, one hand coming up to fidget with her hair. “I—no. No. You should—You’re the one who’s...”
She trailed off, and Lance remembered his conversation with Allura just a few days ago. She’d said Meri was insecure in her bond. That Meri had never believed she was really a paladin. Lance’s throat closed up, and he ached to reassure her somehow. He should have been able to, but talking to Meri was not the same as talking to Lena. He’d known her all his life, and yet he barely knew her at all.
Before Lance could figure out what to say, the elevator arrived at the bottom floor and, sighing, he shoved his helmet on his head and took off toward Blue, smiling as she purred a welcome that rattled the doors and left Lance’s feet tingling. He glanced over his shoulder to see that the sound had startled a smile out of Meri.
Leaving her to gather her composure and regain some semblance of calm, Lance raced up the ramp and settled himself at the controls. Meri joined him a moment later, setting one hand on the back of his seat, and all of a sudden Lance was back at the Garrison, flying the simulator while the instructors looked over his shoulder, ready to point out everything he’d done wrong.
Blue sent him a sensation of calm—sent it to both of them, maybe, because Meri let out a shaky laugh as Lance shook the tension from his arms.
“Okay,” she said, though Lance wasn't sure who she was talking to. “Okay.”
Lance looked up at her, offered a smile, then turned Blue toward the door. “Let’s do this.”
“Alright, everyone, fan out.” Takashi’s voice sounded oddly hollow over the radio, and harsher than Akira had ever heard it. He’d seen Takashi in command roles before, but only ever at the Garrison academy, when the top fighter squads held open sim runs—part competition among themselves, part instruction for the younger cadets. And of course Iverson-approved because it rubbed in the cargo pilots’ faces just how inferior they were.
Takashi was now and had always been level-headed when others looked to him for leadership, but the Takashi of their younger years had been kind, patient. Gentle, even. This man was someone else altogether. A man keeping a tight reign on his fear and channeling his urgency into action. “Keith, Matt, take the outer flank. Don’t let any of them through toward Earth. Everyone else, split up, but keep your eyes open. It’s too easy for a single lion to get overwhelmed. Reach out if you need backup. Coran?”
“All weapons online,” Coran said. “We’ll take out as many of the big ones as we can.”
“Copy that.”
The lasers were already flying fast and thick, turning the backdrop of stars to a web of blue and white streaks. The Black Lion, which had seemed so grand and imposing when it towered over the motel like some kind of elder beast, now looked like a housefly buzzing around the behemoth that was Zarkon’s flagship.
This was what Takashi had been facing all this time? What Pidge had been facing?
Akira felt sick as he stared out over the battle. He was too numb to figure out what, if anything, he could do to help. The bridge was a flurry of activity, aliens shouting and rushing around. There were only four of them, including Coran, but they seemed to be doing the work of at least a dozen. And one of them was a child even younger than Pidge.
When the hell had the universe gone off the rails?
Coran opened a new window on his display screen—a video chat, it seemed, with an unfamiliar alien’s face displayed within.
“Commander Anamuri,” Coran said, breathless. Lance yelled at someone to deal with an advancing gunship, and Coran ordered one of the purple—Galra?--crew members to redirect the main laser. Then he flashed a weak smile at the alien called Anamuri. “I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”
Anamuri’s green eyes narrowed. “What’s the situation?”
Coran chuckled, perhaps at the way Anamuri decapitated his efforts at small-talk. “Earth,” he said. “The humans’ homeworld. It’s under attack. Zarkon is here.”
Anamuri muttered something that sounded like a curse. “You can’t hope to take him in a straight fight, even with Voltron.”
Beyond the windshield, the Yellow Lion took the brunt of a massive laser blast, shielding Green. Someone screamed. Several others roared in a tangle of voices too think to interpret. Akira’s knees shook.
“No,” Coran said. “But even if I didn’t know Zarkon meant to sentence the people of this world to an unthinkable fate, the paladins would never back down from this fight.” He paused, adjusting something on another screen, and glanced back at Anamuri. “I know this is asking a lot of you.”
Anamuri held up a stumpy hand that was two-thirds blunt, curving claw. “Voltron has been there in our moments of greatest need. I don’t know that our meager strength is sufficient repayment, but we will stand with you.”
Coran visibly relaxed, his eyes fluttering closed for the space of a heartbeat before he got back to work. “Thank you.” He ended the call as Anamuri began shouting orders, then returned his attention to the fight. The Black Lion--Takashi's lion--plunged into a thick tangle of enemy ships, the light around it warping. The ships' trajectories faltered, their engines flaring bright as they were drawn in closer to the lion, which turned suddenly, slashing at the nearest ships with a massive blade held in...well, it's mouth. It pivoted, then unleashed a column of light that tore through most of the remaining ships in the area. Takashi was away before the survivors could recover.
Akira shook himself as his brother's lion disappeared into the chaos. It wasn’t doing anyone any good to have him standing around gawking like a kid on the first day of flight school—open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and too awed to sit his ass down at the controls.
“Where do you need me?” Akira asked, stepping toward Coran.
The man turned, sized him up, then nodded toward the ring of padded chairs standing between them. Each of the five stations had a dashboard and a holographic monitor; the younger Altean crew member sat in the seat immediately to Akira’s right.
“The paladin stations can access the security drones,” Coran said. “You can take manual control of one, or deploy several and assign them targets. Computer, bring up the control scheme for him, would you?”
Akira raised an eyebrow, but took a seat just ahead of the alien kid. Akira’s screen lit up as soon as he sat down, and a yoke not entirely unlike the ones in Earth ships rose from the console. Akira scanned the schematics displayed on his screen, then selected semi-automatic. It felt a little like a video game, in all honesty--positioning his half a dozen drones and telling them where to shoot.
Like a video game, except the cost of losing this battle was far higher than wasted time.
He’d barely settled into the rhythm of battle, riding out the aftershocks of an enemy laser that splashed across the castle’s shields, when the doors hissed open behind him.
“What’s going on?” Karen demanded. “Where are my kids? I thought the battle was over.”
Akira glanced over his shoulder to see Eli standing in the door beside Karen, looking vaguely nauseous as he stared out at the battle around them.
“Reinforcements,” Coran said tersely. “We need the paladins to drive them off.”
Akira might have imagined the emphasis Coran put on the word paladins—a sharp contrast to Karen's words--but then again, he might not have. Karen’s breath hissed through her teeth, drawing Coran’s gaze. He didn’t look nearly as wary of getting on Karen Holt’s bad side as someone with more intimate knowledge of the woman might have, and Akira wondered whether he should warn Coran what he was up against.
Before Karen could tear into him, however, the Green Lion took a bad hit and tumbled across the battlefield, shield flashing white as Pidge’s angry curses filled the air. Karen let out a small, pained noise, and rushed toward Coran, stumbling on the edge of the platform on which he stood.
“Get them out of there,” she whispered. When Coran didn’t answer, she tore her eyes from the battle. “Get them out.” She spun toward Akira. “Can they hear me? Pidge?”
Her voice raised toward a shout, and Coran hastily reached out to press a button on his screen. The voices of the paladins cut out abruptly, and Coran turned toward Karen.
“I see how this might be upsetting to you,” he began.
Karen cut him off before he finished the thought. "Upsetting?" If it was possible to eviscerate someone with a glare, Akira didn’t doubt Karen would have managed it now. “Pidge is fourteen years old. There is no reason they should be out there in that goddamn war zone.”
Coran pursed his lips. “They are young,” Coran said. “And in any other circumstances, they wouldn’t have even been considered for the paladin bond. But the Green Lion chose them, and they are exceptionally skilled at what they do. They have saved lives—this team has saved entire planets. When you’re up against a man who has crushed civilizations without blinking, you cannot afford to turn down an offer of aid, no matter who is making it.”
Karen was still fuming, but Akira had latched onto something in Coran’s rant. Something that sounded at once impossible and practically inevitable given the level of sheer sci fi bullshit going on all around him. “Did you say… the lion chose them? As in the ship?”
Coran’s lips quirked upward. “The Voltron Lions are quite particular about their pilots. Believe me, Mrs. Holt. There is very little I wouldn’t give to take your child’s place out there, but I can’t. So I’ll go on doing what I can to bring them back in one piece. You can help by not distracting them in the middle of the biggest battle this system has seen in ten thousand years.”
Karen’s mouth hung open as Coran turned back to his battle, barking new orders to his crew and pointedly ignoring Karen's presence. Eli stepped up behind her, offering cautious sympathy as the audio came back on—just in time for Hunk to shout in alarm and Lance to scream his name. Eli’s hand’s tightened on Karen’s shoulders, and she tore her gaze away from Coran to look at Eli.
Feeling like he was intruding, Akira returned his gaze to his own battle, deploying another half-dozen drones as two of his were shot down. He hoped the castle didn’t have a limited stockpile of these things.
A chime from up ahead attracted Akira’s attention—all the more so when Coran let out a sound of dismay.
“What was that?” Hunk asked, his voice edged with fear. “That wasn’t a good noise. Coran? What’s happening?”
“Message from the Accords,” Coran said. “Give me a tick to corroborate.”
Matt swore softly. “I hope they aren’t expecting our help right now.”
“Maybe they’re offering to send backup,” Lance said, forcing cheer. Meri’s voice came a second later, more distant, asking, The Accords? Lance blew out a long breath. “Resistance group. We think maybe Galra, maybe Altean, maybe both? I dunno. It’s complicated.”
Coran called up a rapid sequence of images on his display, flicking windows aside as he scanned through them. His expression grew more grin with each successive readout. “Quiznak,” he finally muttered.
“That doesn’t sound promising,” Val said.
“It’s not.” Coran lifted a hand to his forehead, rubbing between his eyebrows. “The Accords just sent word of cybernetic warriors stationed on Earth.”
“Those things at the Garrison?” Takashi asked. “We already dealt with them.”
“You dealt with some of them,” Coran said. “BLIP-tech shows a small cluster of augmented creatures—variety of species, heavily weighted toward Galra—in the desert just outside the city--Carlsbad, you called it? They’re on the move.”
The words shattered Akira’s attention, and he abandoned his drones to gape at Coran. The monsters from the Garrison—the ones who had nearly won a four-on-one fight. There were more?
An alert flashed red on the screen just before something tore a small, violet hole in space. A ship emerged, sleeker and shinier than the ships already engaged with the lions. It glinted in the light of the distant sun as it skimmed past the bulk of the battle on a collision-course with Earth.
“What’s that?” Lance squawked.
Coran ran another scan, then cursed again—more elaborately this time. “It has the same signature as those creatures.”
“More?” said a voice Akira didn’t recognize—pitched high in either fear or youth or, hell, maybe that was just a species thing. Akira wasn't sure he could make any assumptions right now.
Coran nodded, though Akira couldn't see any video chat windows at his station to suggest the paladins could see him. “I’m afraid so. The message from the Accords indicates these creatures are programmed for indiscriminate slaughter—and the shuttle’s nav systems automatically seek out areas of high population density.”
There was silence over the radio for the space of several seconds. Even the other aliens on the bridge paused to shoot pained looks toward Coran, who stood with head bowed, hands clenching the pedestals on either side of him so tightly Akira half expected their glass domes to shatter.
Finally, Takashi spoke up. “We’re going to have to split up.”
Shiro was already adjusting course as he spoke, letting Allura take over the explanation of the plan as he rushed after the Galra shuttle. It was small, as troop shuttles went—perhaps fifty feet long and half as wide—but with as fast as it was moving, it was going to cause a massive shockwave even before it impacted. If it even slowed enough not to simply burn a crater in the heart of a city.
“We’ll take care of the new arrival,” Allura said. Shiro gave the Black Lion a new burst of speed as the shuttle hit the atmosphere, lighting up with a red-orange corona as it hurtled toward the surface. Shiro itched to blow the ship out of the sky, but the risk of collateral damage was too great. They couldn't go raining hunks of metal down across inhabited areas. Instead, he activated Black’s tractor beam, drawing the shuttle back toward him as he neared.
The beam slowed the shuttle’s descent, but it was moving too fast, and they were already too near the surface, and Black was dragged along behind the shuttle, her engines straining with the effort of slowing their momentum. The corona dimmed. Their speed dropped. Shiro only hoped it was enough to spare the people of whatever city the shuttle had been aiming for.
Then they crashed down into water, a tangle of metal and sound as the world turned upside down. The Black Lion regained her feet quickly, and Shiro shook his head, reaching back to steady Allura, who had fallen against his seat. Black’s internal stabilizers had spared them the worst of the impact--had saved Allura's life, and probably Shiro's as well--but there was no ignoring a collision like that altogether.
Black’s head broke the surface as she stood, water flowing off her, and Shiro found himself in the middle of a small bay looking out on a city skyline. It was dusk here, the city lights ablaze, reflecting off the choppy water like a thousand multi-hued specters. The city seemed only vaguely familiar, and Shiro couldn’t say whether that was because he’d visited it when he was younger, or if it was just the way all Earth cities had a kind of cohesion to them—all glass and steel and neon lights and skyscrapers clawing at the heavens.
“They’re on the move,” Allura said, pointing past Shiro to the hull of the Galra ship, which was visible just above the surface some distance away. Small figures, hardly visible in the gloom, scuttled across the hull and waded through the water toward the shoreline.
Shiro swore, undoing his restraints. “We have to go after them. Black’s lasers are too powerful to use this close to the city.”
Allura nodded and Black, seeming to understand Shiro’s worry, inched closer to shore as Shiro headed for the exit.
Slowly, he remembered the others. The mental link had dissolved when Allura lost her hold on the twin pedestals, and he only now began to process the voices coming over the comms.
“You’re in Mumbai,” Meri said, her voice muffled. Something metallic clunked, drowning out her next words.
Lance let out a confused noise. “What are you doing?”
“The lions used to have gliders stored in the cockpits for emergencies. You didn’t pull them out, did you?”
Allura froze beside Shiro, her eyes going wide. “You’re not serious.”
Meri laughed. “Rarely,” she said. “Ah-hah! Alright, you two. I’m on my way down.”
“No.” Allura surged ahead as the Black Lion opened her mouth, extending her ramp toward a stretch of broken rock. Water streamed down the uneven slope toward the bay and puddled on the broad street that skirted the edge of the bay. Some of the cars had been pushed back by the wave kicked up by the landing, and they now sat, stunned, against concrete barricades or turned around on the sidewalk beyond. Others had stopped where they were, drivers climbing out to gape at the Black Lion. Cameras flashed and voices whispered in awe and terror.
The sound of screams stopped Shiro from wondering too long how he was supposed to explain this to the spectators—or how he could convince them to take cover.
He spun, and found the cybernetic creatures coming ashore a few hundred feet away. Shiro was running by the time the first creature took a swing at a nearby civilian, and he snapped his pistol up. firing twice. The laser ignited the twilight with a blinding light and jolted the crowd into flight, the sound of their footsteps like thunder in Shiro's ears as he closed the distance to the Galra monstrosities.
“You need help,” Meri said firmly. “I’m coming.”
Shiro swore, firing again at the advancing creatures, then spinning, bringing his dagger up in his left hand and slamming it into the first creature’s chest.
The creature hardly slowed, and Shiro barely managed to wrench his blade free in time to dodge the creature’s retaliation.
“Fine,” he said, ducking another creature’s swing. “Lance, grab Pidge and Hunk and deal with the creatures in Carlsbad.” Half-formed plans and strings of advice pressed at his mind, but the other creatures had gained the shore now. Shiro was surrounded, Allura spinning and snarling just outside his reach, and there was no time to talk the others through their fight. He breathed deeply, reminding himself that they’d done just fine without him before. “Lance, you have the command. Good luck.”
Command.
An icy thrill shot through Lance at Shiro’s words. It was part terror, part determination, part Blue’s pride in him (and perhaps a bit of his own pride, trickling beneath the surface.) He tried to tell himself he’d done this before, but it didn’t help much with the nerves.
Still, he swallowed, unleashed a blast of ice to freeze the Galra fighters around him, then turned and darted to where the Yellow and Green Lions were fighting in tandem. The wreckage of an assault ship drifted around them, and more than a few fighters self-destructed on its pieces. The Harbinger sailed overhead, distracting one chunk of enemy ships; Green spat lightning in the opposite direction; and Yellow curled protectively around the two tiny, armored forms that came shooting out into open space.
Lance scooped them up as gently as he could, then wheeled around and headed for the surface, his heart pounding. He checked the BLIP-tech display, silently asking Blue to filter out human signatures, and felt his heart drop. The creatures must have come from the Garrison itself, or somewhere nearby; they were still out in the middle of the desert, racing toward the city.
Other non-human vital signatures remained at the Garrison, and they showed no signs of leaving.
"Civilians first," Lance said as Hunk and Pidge appeared on either side of him, both leaning forward to get a look at the display. Hunk let out a sound of dismay, and Pidge cursed under their breath. "I’m going to try to head them off before they get too close to the city,” Lance went on. “Blue’s lasers are way stronger than our bayards, so she should be able to take them out as long as we’re out there in the open.”
Pidge stared at the BLIP-tech readout a moment longer, then straightened, flashing a smile. “And if that doesn’t work, you can always just squish them. Like bugs. Big, huge, squishy bugs.”
Hunk groaned. “Bad mental image, Pidge,” he whined. Pidge grinned sheepishly.
“It’s a good plan,” they said after a moment, their voice low. Lance shot a look their way, wondering if his nerves were that obvious, but they just put a finger on the side of his helmet and turned his face back toward the viewscreen. “Really. You’ve got this.”
Hunk squeezed Lance’s shoulder in agreement, and Lance took a deep breath. “You’re right.” He shook out his hands and leaned forward, shoving his doubts aside and focusing on what had to be done. “This is gonna be a piece of cake.”
Blue plowed through a lone, fluffy cloud, vapor swirling behind her as the desert opened up beneath them. Carlsbad was visible in the distance, and the highway cut a thin, dark line almost directly below. Lance pulled them southward toward the area where Blue had located the cybernetic creatures. Looking through Blue’s eyes, he could just pick them out—eight creatures of varying sizes, all heavily armored, loping along the hard-packed earth toward the city now less than a mile away.
I don’t think so. Lance opened fire, his first barrage catching three of the creatures before they realized they were under attack. The creatures went down, skidding across the ground and lying still. Lance kept them in view as he swung around, spraying the ground with ice in a wide radius that caught most of the pack, slowing them. Blue brought her tail laser around, searing a line across the ground and consuming three more creatures in blinding white light. The last two charged ahead, their gaits opening up into a desperate sprint rather than the easy pace they’d set before.
Blue dropped to the ground, the thunder of her paws roaring in Lance’s ears as he chased down the two runaways. He couldn’t possibly have felt the crunch of bones and armor under Blue’s massive paws, but he shuddered anyway as Hunk gave a miserable moan.
“Is it over?”
Lance pulled on the controls, spinning Blue around. She dug her claws in, skidding to a stop. Eight charred and broken corpses dotted the desert. “I… I think so.”
“I’ve got the cameras at the Garrison,” Pidge said. Lance whipped his head around, feeling Hunk do the same beside him. Pidge glanced up from the holographic screen projected from their gauntlet, then did a double-take as they realized Lance and Hunk were staring at them—in Lance’s case, at least—with open bafflement. “What?” Pidge pouted. “You think Iverson’s on the same level as the Galra? Please.”
Lance opened his mouth to comment on that, then thought better of it. He urged Blue into the air and directed her toward the Garrison complex. “How’s it look?”
“Galra,” they said. “I mean, like, actual Galra, plus sentries, and… looks like two more of those cyborg things. I checked the data Ryner pulled from the prison ship, and I’m pretty sure that’s Commander Vanda down there.”
“What?” Lance growled. “I thought we took her out.” But his mind was already skimming ahead. Vanda herself had destroyed the prison ship, blowing it to ash before the paladins could finish the deed. "Damnit," he muttered. "That was just a distraction, wasn't it?"
Pidge nodded. “I'm guessing she set the self-destruct with a delay and escaped in a pod just before the ship blew. She’s only got about a dozen Galra with her—but some of the humans are joining her ranks. I don’t want to think about what’s going to happen when they start running into people who aren’t on board with Iverson’s plan to hand the planet over to hostile aliens.”
Lance grimaced, dark visions flashing through his head. "No," he said. "No way in hell." Vanda had done enough damage already; he wasn’t going to let her take the Garrison and all its weaponry and have her way. “We’ll have to do this part on foot.” The Garrison appeared in the distance, a smudge of low, colorless buildings and a sparkle of chain-link fence. Lance leaned on the throttle, his jaw set. “Get ready.”
“We need to do something.”
Karen heard her own voice, but it sounded like a stranger speaking. A small, frail stranger too far out of her depth to have half an inkling how to respond to any of this.
Eli was still standing beside her, looking close to fainting as the children—paladins—children called out status updates and demands for backup. Shiro and Allura had met up with Meri down in Mumbai, and they were making steady progress through the alien monstrosities—steady, but not quick. Civilians were fleeing the battle, but the monsters were fast. Faster than unsuspecting humans, it seemed. Pidge and their friends had reported that they were at the Garrison just a few moments ago, and then had dropped out of the conversation. Matt was snarling and spitting like an angry cat as his ship flashed this way and that through the chaos, raining fire and light down on the enemy.
Karen wondered for the first time whether Coran might truly understand her children better than she herself did. Seeing them out in this terrified her, but she couldn't deny it. They knew what they were doing. They weren’t panicking—none of them. Not even Hunk, who showed the tension most plainly in his voice.
They weren’t new to battle.
The realization broke her heart, but she’d stopped demanding Coran return her children to the castle some time ago. She doubted any of the paladins would have listened to the order, anyway.
Still, she couldn’t help being glad she and Eli had convinced the Mendozas and Hunk’s mothers to stay in the lounge some dozen floors below. Karen half wished she’d stayed down there herself. Even Akira, who was still hunched over a display near Coran, looked shaken, his face ashen, his hands trembling as he swiped strange icons on the screen.
Karen’s hands curled into fists, and she strode toward the computer station dead ahead, the one at the center of the ring Akira and the young alien boy occupied. “Can we contact the surface with this?”
Coran glanced at her, brow furrowed. "What would you want to do something like that for?"
"Reinforcements," Karen said, hurrying on before Coran could say what he so obviously wanted to. "I know--I know we have nothing even close to this level. But we do have military units trained for..." She faltered, staring out again at the chaos. She doubted any government had been anticipating something like this, but as technology improved and the world's superpowers started sending more and more ships into space, people started anticipating wars fought high above the Earth's surface. Earth might not have space-faring armadas like these aliens did, but it was better than no aid at all. "I'm going to get my children whatever support I can," she said, straining to keep her voice level. "Now can this ship make phone calls or not?"
Coran stared at her a moment longer, then turned to an empty section of screen to his left. “Computer, scan local communication channels.” A small window popped up near his shoulder, text scrolling across it for a few seconds before a dialogue box popped up. Coran tapped it with one fingertip, then flashed a thumbs-up in Karen’s direction. “The computer has isolated your primitive comm networks. You should be able to connect to them no problem.”
“Great.” Karen stared blankly at the screen in front of her. Words that had seemed, at first glance, to be written in unfamiliar characters now stared up at her in plain English, which might have unnerved her if a dozen other things hadn’t already made a better effort. She lifted one hand, then paused. “Who the hell do we even go to about this? The media? The government?”
“Both,” Eli said, claiming the seat behind her and to her left. “Are there cameras up here? Can we stream footage of this invasion? Cause I mean, no one’s going to listen if we just call them up and say aliens are attacking the Earth.”
Karen grimaced. “And even if they listen, how much are they going to be able to do?” Again, the scale of this situation made itself known, and for a moment Karen wondered whether there was really any point in trying. The Garrison was compromised, thanks to Iverson, and it had managed most of the United States’ space-worthy combat craft. The Air Force had a small contingent—but it wasn’t as though Karen could just call them up and order their ships into the air.
But she had to try. She had friends, colleagues, old classmates and professors, professional acquaintances of all stripes who had moved on from private practice. Some were politicians now, or knew politicians. If she called enough of them, maybe the message would start getting through. Maybe someone would start getting ships in the air.
"You worry about getting word to the right people," Eli said as Coran called out to someone named Ryner, asking whether Pidge had any programs saved to the castle's mainframe that could help. Karen glanced behind her and met Eli's eyes. "I'll make sure they're ready to listen."
One of the ships had already launched by the time Thace reached the hangar where the cybernetic warriors were stored. He swore softly when he saw the empty space, then prayed the paladins had heeded his warning, that it had prepared them enough for them to deal with another contingent. He assumed that was where the shuttle had gone—there was no one else in the universe Zarkon wanted gone quite so desperately as he wanted the paladins gone. One day, perhaps, these creatures would be unleashed on all the small rebellions that had been allowed to fester for one reason or another, but not now. Not when they were in such limited supply.
At any rate, there was nothing Thace could do about the missing ship now. Three more ships still waited before him, each perfectly deadly in its own right.
He’d left three more dead bodies behind him on his way, along with two ruined sentries, and the countdown already pounded in his blood. How long before one of the bodies was discovered? How much longer until they figured out where Thace had gone?
No time to waste.
Thace strode across the hangar, pulling out his explosives. A single disc should be enough to destroy each shuttle, but he’d seen the metrics on these creatures’ durability and capacity for repair. He had to destroy them utterly, or Haggar would simply patch them up with more cybernetic enhancements and send them out even stronger than before.
Pausing outside the first shuttle, Thace pressed one disc to the casing over the main engines, then activated the ramp and placed two more inside, spaced evenly along the row of cryo chambers that held the creatures. Thace was not exceptionally short for a Galra, though his family had more slender frames than was typical. Even so, these creatures towered over him, some by several heads, and all had bulky, broad-shouldered frames—even those he recognized as having come from smaller species.
There were few of these, as the test subjects had come primarily from the various Arenas dotting the empire. Galra made up the single largest group, followed by a scaled, draconic species called Helliofals. Two Balmerans, an Olkari, and a Raus rounded out the dozen.
Thace allowed himself only a moment to mourn these victims, as he’d mourned the test subjects in the lab at Antimar—not for the blood they left on his hands, but as victims who had passed quietly and without fanfare.
Then he ducked out of the ship and headed to the neighboring vessel, where he repeated the process. The ship’s alarms began to blare as he headed inside to set the second and third charges, and Thace mentally accelerated his countdown. He didn’t have long before someone came to check this hangar, but--
Laserfire greeted Thace at the mouth of the ramp and he swore, ducking back inside.
“Vrekt,” he hissed. Had word of Antimar already reached the higher-ups? Did they already know what Thace intended? He checked himself, smiling wryly. Maybe he’d just gotten unlucky. Anyone who knew what was stored down here would surely hasten to check on the contents of the shuttles—especially since Thace’s trail of destruction had led this way.
Thace held his four remaining explosives in the palm of his hand, weighing his options. The shuttles were parked close enough together that an explosion might tear apart the one he hadn’t had time to rig with explosives, but he’d rather not risk it.
Besides, there was no reason not to go for the longshot. If he died, the ships would blow anyway.
I have made a difference, Thace recited, breathing in and releasing his regrets on the exhale.
He separated one charge from the rest and lobbed it down the ramp toward the guards still firing at him, smiling as they shouted an alarm, their lasers petering out as they scrambled for cover.
I have taken a stand.
Hardly waiting for the danger to pass, Thace threw himself down the ramp and sprinted forward, drawing his dagger and quickly pressing the three remaining charges to the blade. He was sad to see the blade destroyed, but it was dangerous to let the knives fall into Imperial hands. Many were lost with the bodies of fallen agents, most others recovered before they could be passed along. But at least one had already been found by one of Zarkon’s loyal men. Each additional blade recovered by the Empire increased the odds of Zarkon figuring out the connection and ordering a search of the entire army.
I have saved lives.
Thace turned and flung his dagger toward the third shuttle. A laser caught him in the shoulder as he released, throwing off his aim just slightly. The dagger’s tip sunk into the metal hull several feet in front of the engine casing--but it stuck, which was going to have to be good enough.
The universe is a better place for my sacrifice.
Thace didn’t wait for the guards to end him. They were still clustered around the charge he’d lobbed at them, evidently having decided it was a simple distraction.
Thace almost felt sorry for them.
He pressed the detonator as he dove for cover, his shoulder screaming. There was a roaring behind him, then a sudden, chilling silence. Thace only processed the roiling, white-hot light enveloping him when his vision faded to black, a chill stealing over him. The room spun.
He woke an instant later—or maybe an eternity—on the floor of the burned-out hangar. Frost gilded his scorched armor, and the pain of half-numbed burns competed for his attention with cold in his extremities so sharp it felt like live coals. He blinked a few times, trying to clear the shadows from his eyes, but the right side of his vision remained dim.
Scrambling to his feet, Thace surveyed the damage. All three shuttles were gone—as was nearly half of the hangar; all that remained was a ragged hole in the side of the ship. The steel canisters he’d thrown himself behind must have shielded him from the worst of the blast—or maybe it was that the breach had put out the fires before he was consumed. Certainly the other soldiers were nowhere to be seen—lost to the vacuum that had made Thace pass out?
Regardless, the ship’s artificial atmosphere had sealed the breach, leaving Thace alone in the ruins of the hangar.
Alive.
Thace hadn’t honestly planned on that possibility, and he found himself floundering, his head pounding, his vision swaying like a ship without stabilizers. His side ached and his toes burned, and when he breathed in his throat felt raw. He coughed, and was surprised not to see blood on his hand when he pulled it away.
Move.
Keena’s voice, sharp and practical as always. She’d always been better at improvising than Thace was. He listened to her now, sluggish thoughts starting to fall into line.
He was alive. That meant there was still a chance to get out of here. Perhaps he could retire to New Altea after this. They had to give him a pension after he’d been blown up for the cause, didn’t they?
Thace staggered to the door and pressed a shaking hand to the controls. He had to try twice, his distorted vision making it difficult to gauge the distance between him and the control pad. But he managed eventually, and the door hissed open.
A dozen guards waited on the other side, Dez at their head. She seemed surprised to see him standing there, and Thace couldn’t say he blamed her. He was surprised, too.
Internal Security, Thace thought, dizzy. He smiled weakly as Dez sucked in a sharp breath, and wished he could apologize to her. But protocol was protocol, after all. Thace’s cover was blown, and there were witnesses. Dez couldn’t offer him aid without putting herself at risk.
At least she would make the end quick.
He closed his eyes, waiting for Dez’s laser to tear through his heart...but it didn’t come.
“Thace?” Dez’s voice was ragged, a note of hurt swirling just below the surface. “You did this?”
Thace had to hand it to her: she pulled off shock and betrayal surprisingly well—though he supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised. She’d been an agent of the Accords even longer than Thace. He opened his eyes to study her, trying to figure out what her game was.
She had her gun out, its barrel pointed at his face, but she hadn’t fired yet.
She hadn’t fired yet.
Thace’s heart began to pound. He knew Dez, and he knew she knew protocol. As soon as capture became inevitable, she should have killed him. The fact that she hadn’t…
It meant she still thought there was a chance for him to escape.
Thace was flattered she thought so highly of him. Truly he was. But he was aching, and he was tired, and he still couldn’t see right out of one eye, and though he still had his sword he didn’t trust himself to last through even a brief skirmish.
But Dez thought he had a chance. He wondered, dizzily, whether she knew something he did not.
Thace raised his head, smiling in a way that bared his fangs, and gathered himself to run. “Sorry, Nadezda,” he purred. “Nothing personal.” He lunged on the last word—but not toward Dez. A younger officer, wide-eyed and slack-jawed stood at the edge of the group. Thace charged toward him, activating his sword as he went. A laser fizzled against his armor, but Thace didn’t slow. He ran the officer through, spun, and flung his body at the others who had moved to apprehend him.
Without missing a beat, Thace completed his spin and took off at a sprint, his whole being fixated on the shuttle bay waiting for him just down the corridor.
Lance set the Blue Lion down directly on top of the flower beds that surround the Garrison administrative building and the chained-up visitor parking lot. Honestly, he would have preferred to crush the building itself, but there were probably people inside—people who might not be evil douchebags.
So he settled for crushing a few shrubs and the extensive sprinkler system that kept them alive in the middle of the desert because, honestly, fuck the Garrison.
There was a crowd gathering in the Green—the open space between the academic buildings and the dorms that was neither green nor particularly private, a fact that was currently biting Vanda in the ass. She and her dozen remaining soldiers stood in the center of the space, guns at the ready, Vanda shouting orders at Galra and humans alike as the three paladins came charging in.
Lance summoned his shield, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Hunk and Pidge as the lasers flashed white against the energy barriers.
Beyond the Galra forces, Lance could see a building swarm of cadets pressing against a line of faculty who were trying valiantly to hold them back.
“Paladins,” Vanda growled. “How kind of you to deliver yourself to me.”
“Deliver ourselves?” Lance lowered his shield in indignation, then yelped as the Galra all redirected fire on him. “Look, I don’t know what you’ve been drinking, lady, but I promise we aren’t here to throw ourselves on your mercy.”
Vanda’s lip curled back, emphasizing a dark patch on her scaly cheek—a bruise? Lance allowed himself a fleeting smile as he wondered where it had come from. Maybe she’d tripped and bashed her face on the floor in her panicked flight from her doomed prison ship. She opened her mouth, probably ready to spew some lame Galran insults at him.
The cadets were faster.
“Lance?”
There was no telling who said it first, but the question was quickly taken up by the rest of the cadets. The clamor only grew louder as they recognized Hunk and Pidge. Shock turned to confusion, and Lance caught snatches of they said you died! and something about a training accident and one particularly poignant, “What the actual fuck?”
The currents in the air shifted, confusion becoming anger, and somebody hurled a rock at the Galra soldiers. It was a small rock, not even big enough to hurt someone with full body armor, but the target spun, dropping the barrel of her weapon toward the crowd of cadets.
"Hey!" Lance roared, firing his rifle into the air. The Galra gave a start and spun back toward him, her eyes wide. "Don't forget who it is you're fighting, Vanda. Leave the other humans out of this." He scanned the cluster of human soldiers intermingled with the Galra until he found the person with the highest rank—Colonel Hawes. Lance’s stomach twisted as he recognized the man. He’d looked up to Hawes, once upon a time. “You don’t want to do this. Do you have any idea what they’re after?”
Hawes didn’t flinch, unlike the two men standing beside him. “We have an alliance,” he said. “That’s all I need to know.”
“An alliance, huh?” Hunk snorted. “What sort of terms do you think are written into that alliance? You do Zarkon's dirty work for him and in exchange maybe instead of killing you and your families he only ships you off to an inhospitable rock for the rest of your life?”
Pidge stood up suddenly straighter, as though they'd just been zapped by their own bayard. Lance shot a look their way just in time to see them grin and duck behind Hunk, typing furiously on the keyboard embedded in their armor.
What are you up to now?
“They’re murderers,” Hunk went on, his voice getting harder with every word. The cadets had gone quiet, their eyes riveted to the showdown, the faculty guarding them looking incredibly nervous.
Lance pounced on the stunned silence, his eyes sliding to Vanda. She hadn't yet given the order to attack, which meant--hopefully--that Lance could buy Pidge the time they needed to put their plan into motion. “They kidnap people who get in the way. Ship them off to research labs and use them as fuel for their ships. Maybe that was a fair price to pay for a top spot in the pecking order as far as Iverson was concerned, but if you ask me that’s bullshit.”
With a soft cry of triumph, Pidge emerged from Hunk’s shadow, tapping their gauntlet so their holodisplay swelled to a hundred times its usual size. They had a news report streaming—the bold text beneath the video proclaiming Breaking News: Aliens Attack Mumbai.
“We still have very little information regarding the ongoing events in Mumbai, or on the strange broadcast that took over our network a few minutes ago, claiming this all to be the act of an aggressive alien race called the Galra,” the newscaster was saying, her voice shaky like—well, like she was being asked to report on an actual alien invasion. Pidge caught Lance's eyes and mouthed, Eli, grinning devilishly. “Emergency responders are still trying to get to the victims trapped by flooding from the crafts’ initial landing in Mahim Bay.”
The shot changed from a long view of choppy water and empty streets to a close-up on the fighting. Lance could only just make out Shiro, Allura, and Meri darting among four larger figures. One of the creatures broke off toward a civilian crouched behind a parked car, and the newscaster let out a gasp as Shiro split off from his fight, planting himself between the creature and its intended target. The force of the creature's blow sent Shiro flying back into the wall of a nearby building, and he landed on one knee, shaking his head. The civilian was already sprinting away.
Lance watched, riveted. He wondered if Shiro and the others had already taken out the rest of the creatures, or if there were more loose in the city.
He wondered what had happened to the two Vanda had brought here.
“Meanwhile," the newscaster said, her voice thin and strained, "the strangers in white armor continue to fight against the alien monstrosities. There has been no official word on where they came from, but eyewitnesses have claimed that one of Mumbai’s saviors is none other than Takashi Shirogane, the pilot of the ill-fated mission to Kerberos last year.” Whispers and outright gasps rippled through the cadets—even some of the faculty—as Shiro’s official portrait appeared on screen. “Shirogane has long been presumed dead, but the arrival of these reported ‘aliens’ has raised new questions regarding the true fate of the Persephone and her crew.”
Seeing a chance, Lance stepped forward, raising his voice to be heard. "Those eyewitnesses are right! Shiro's alive. He's in Mumbai, fighting against these bastards--" He paused here to gesture toward Vanda with his bayard. "That's because he knows what happens to people who cross paths with the Galra Empire."
Pidge silenced the stream but left the video on as it switched to a view of the bay, where the Black Lion stood near the smaller Galra vessel.
“Iverson sold them out,” they said, their voice low and dangerous. “Shiro. My dad and my brother. He sent them to Kerberos knowing they wouldn’t come back—and then he blamed the tragedy on Shiro.” They turned toward Hawes, trembling with rage. “Now they’re attacking Mumbai. They tried to attack Carlsbad. Hell, they tried to kill my mom. Why the fuck are you still working with them?”
“They told you there was no alternative, didn’t they?” Hunk said. He looked almost sorry for them, which was considerably more generous than Lance was feeling. "Didn't they? They said you couldn't drive them off, said there was no one out there who could hope to drive them off, so you might as well cooperate? Save as many lives as you can?"
Lance snorted. “Well, they lied. We're here. We can drive them away. We’ve got allies up there fighting the rest of the fleet. The Galra Empire is strong, but they aren’t invincible.” He paused, considering. “Last chance, Hawes. Help us protect Earth, or go on and betray your entire species to an evil alien dictator who’d just as soon burn you like a lump of coal.”
The man beside Hawes wavered. “Sir,” he whispered. “They never said anything about Kerberos...”
Vanda breathed a short, impatient breath, turned her gun on the soldier, and shot him in the gut. He collapsed, screaming, and one of the other Galra grabbed him by the arm and tossed him toward the knot of students and faculty looking on in ashen-faced horror. “Any other cowards want to choose the losing side?”
Lance tensed, adjusting his grip on his bayard. He wanted to charge in, wanted to stop Vanda, to protect the cadets--his friends, many of them--but they were too close. If Lance started a fight here, too many of them would get caught in the cross-fire.
Then one of the cadets—a fighter pilot named Zach, who was a few years ahead of Lance—made the decision for them all. He ripped the pistol from a holster on Captain Wen’s hip and pointed it at Vanda.
“Woah!” Lance cried, inching toward Zach before Vanda got pissed off and shot him, too. “Okay, everyone calm down. Zach, dude, not a good idea." Lance glared at the cadet, but quickly returned his gaze to Vanda, sighting down the length of his barrel. "Give it up, Vanda. You’re outnumbered and you’ve got nowhere to run. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
She smiled at him, self-satisfied and cold. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that, boy.” She whistled, and the two cybernetic creatures burst out from the alley between the armory and a training building. Hunk shouted, Pidge’s bayard crackled as they activated it, and Lance forgot all about Vanda as he swung his rifle around and fired at the charging creatures.
All around him was shouting and pounding footsteps. The crack of gunshots reverberated off the buildings, and sparks shot up where bullets met the cyborgs’ heavy armor.
“The eyes!” Lance shouted. “Aim for the eyes!”
The cord of Pidge’s bayard lashed around one creature’s wrist and they ran in a wide arc, keeping away from the spray of bullets as they yanked the creature off-course, Hunk keeping pace beside them. He latched onto Pidge’s waist as the creature tried to pull them off their feet—but the struggle slowed the creature enough for Lance and the soldiers to focus on the first beast. Three lasers and at least two bullets found the gap around the eyes, and the creature hit the ground hard, skidding to a stop at Lance’s feet.
He was already refocused on the other, which went down even more quickly now that the initial panic had calmed.
Lance spun as the danger passed, searching for Vanda and her troops, but they’d already pulled back toward the airfield. Lance gave chase, but he knew it was too late. The soldiers piled into the hangars, emerging moments later in ships that looked like an unnatural fusion of Galra fighters and the Bauer line the Garrison used. They rose into the air as Lance and the others reached the airfield's outer gate.
Hunk managed to take out one of the ships as it lifted off; Lance left a black scorch mark along another’s hull.
Then they were away, and Lance swore, spinning toward Pidge.
“Where are they going?”
Pidge was already running a scan, their face darkening. “Most of the ships are headed directly toward the city, but one of them split off to the west.”
“Toward the canyons?” Hunk asked, frowning.
Lance tapped the side of his helmet, reconnecting to the main comms frequency. “Hey, Meri?”
“Yeah, squirt?” Meri asked, her smile audible even through her labored breathing.
“Can you think of any reason Vanda might be heading back towards where Blue was hidden?”
“Back to—what?” Meri asked. “No. I have no idea.”
"The cache,” Val said. She paused for a moment, recognized the confused silence, and elaborated. “Vanda kept going on about this Altean cache she said was buried in the caverns somewhere. Some kind of Altean superweapon, or information archive or something.”
Meri snorted. “I don’t know about superweapon,” she said. “A busted cryopod, sure. A couple of holovids I watched so many times they got corrupted. Nothing Zarkon would care about.”
“So we can ignore that for now,” Lance said, turning back toward the Blue Lion. “Good to know.”
Pidge grabbed his arm to stop him. He looked down at them, his mind already about five steps ahead of him and trying to plan how to take out twenty-odd hostile aircraft over Carlsbad, and had to reel himself back as Pidge spoke. “This could be a good opportunity,” they said. “She won’t have backup in there. She won’t be able to run away. We should take her out before she gets back to the rest of the fleet and sets in motion whatever else she and Iverson cooked up.”
Lance hesitated. Pidge had a point, but he had to go after the other ships before they leveled the city—he had to. And from Pidge’s furrowed brow, they knew it.
They also knew that Vanda was a sadistic old shit-stain who couldn't be allowed to roam free.
Lance looked at Hunk. “You two think you can handle her without me?”
Pidge nodded at once, Hunk only a moment behind.
“Okay,” Lance said, taking a deep breath. “Okay. But don’t take any unnecessary risks, got it?”
They both nodded, disappeared into the nearest hangar, and reappeared riding a hoverbike not unlike the one Lance had stolen to carry them all out into the canyons on the night they'd first rescued Matt from the Garrison quarantine tent.
Lance turned before they were out of sight, and found the faculty and most of the cadets gathered behind him. He faltered for a moment, feeling suddenly very much out of place. He wasn’t used to his classmates looking at him like that—with awe, and not a little admiration.
“Uh...”
One of the flight instructors, a woman named Lewis, stepped forward. “You seem to know a lot more about this situation than we do,” she said, her voice firm, her eyes darting toward several other instructors, who stood red-faced and silent around her. “Any advice you have would be...appreciated.” Her voice soured at the end, but she squared her shoulders, her face showing no hesitation.
Lance blinked. She was asking him for advice? That was one step short of flat-out putting him in charge of this. Him.
He floundered for a moment, then straightened his spine. “Anyone with combat certification, get to a ship. You’re with me. Everyone else, disaster relief protocols. I don’t think Carlsbad’s coming out of this unscathed.”
Flying into a massive space battle turned out to be less terrifying than Val had expected. Even with the death-lasers flashing all around, even with the Harbinger shaking like the Tacoma Narrows Bridge every time an enemy shot so much as brushed their shields. Even with all of that, Val was still--well--functional.
Part of it, she knew, was that there was too much to do to dwell on the sheer terror of the situation. Nyma had her hands full flying them through the fray, navigating close enough to whoever was in gravest danger this time to be of some help. That left Val to man the weapons—still an odd feeling, but growing easier each time she felt the thrill of knocking one of the Galra ships out of the sky.
It was rather cathartic, actually, watching the people who had tormented her for weeks go down in flames.
The other thing deadening her fear? The rumble of a giant, sentient space cat inside her head.
Blue’s voice, if it could be called a voice, was as terrifying as it was soothing, and Val might have panicked right then and there if not for the fact that she could feel something like an echo that she knew without understanding how was coming from Nyma. (It was nice, knowing she wasn't the only one screaming silent panic at the new psychic experience.) More distant still was a flash of humor that, by process of elimination, must have come from either Lance or Meri.
It was all very confusing, and Val really didn’t have time to sort through the implications of this halfway-telepathy.
“How’s the perimeter looking, Reds?” Coran asked. Val glanced up from her laser-turret-arcade-game-console to the distant blur that was the Red Lion. (Red was Matt and Keith, she reminded herself, hoping that somehow putting names and faces and lions together might make this whole thing feel a little bit less surreal.)
Matt blew out a long breath that Val thought summed the situation up quite nicely: things weren’t going well. They weren’t going terribly, but they definitely weren’t going well. Zarkon’s army was massive—many, many times larger than three lions, a castle, and the Harbinger could hope to take on alone. But the lions were vastly superior in strength and agility, and the majority of the fighters were easily distracted by the smaller, weaker Harbinger.
With Coran taking out a steady chain of more imposing ships—the ones the others called gunships and assault ships—they stayed just this side of real panic. It was dangerous as hell, and Val kind of wanted to panic, but the paladins seemed not to consider any of their close calls to be worth sweating over.
(And thank god for Mrs. H up on the bridge. Her occasional murmurs of fright and disbelief—and her rare curses—were just the reassurance Val needed that the entire universe hadn’t taken a turn toward casual martyrdom somewhere when Val wasn’t looking.)
They just had to hold out a little longer. Coran kept talking about someone called Anamuri—not one of the people Lance had told her about, so presumably an ally who wasn’t in Earth’s immediate vicinity at the moment. Coran insisted she was coming “soon,” and if the paladins could just hold out…
They might have, too. They honestly might have made it, even with two lions and six paladins down on the surface, they might have outlasted Zarkon’s forces.
Then something long, lithe, and almost as black as the void of space slammed into the Yellow Lion, tumbling her end over end. Val caught a brief glimpse of the… creature? Ship? The thing. Silhouetted against the assault ship Yellow had been squaring off with, it seemed a blend of both. Its skin was segmented and metallic, its eyes too angular to be natural. But it looked and moved like an extra-large giant squid... If giant squid had hooked metal blades on the end of both hundred-foot-long tentacles, one of which had sunk deep into the Yellow Lion’s flank.
Shay cried out as she was dragged along behind the creature, and Ryner cursed softly as she gave chase in Green.
“What the hell?” Nyma hissed. “What is that thing?”
“Robeast,” Matt said, his voice clipped. The Red Lion wavered on the front lines, obviously torn between going to Shay’s aid and keeping Zarkon’s army at bay. “Shay?”
“I am well,” Shay said, though she didn’t sound it. “Stay where you are. We will… We will hold it off.”
Ryner breathed out slowly. “We will distract it,” she said. “Once the Kera arrives, they can take your place. We will survive until then.”
“I hope so,” Keith muttered.
“We will,” Ryner said firmly. “We have no choice.”
Akira abandoned his drone controls as the creature—the robeast, was that what they’d called it?--swung its long, sinewy tentacles, flinging the Yellow Lion into the Green. Akira had barely been making any headway against the regular ships, his drones so jittery that aiming was nearly impossible. When he landed a hit, it was only because the air was so thick with enemies that it was impossible to miss. And he’d only taken out one ship for every two or three hits.
It was a joke, and now this thing appeared?
Karen was still talking to government officials—she’d made her way up the food chain over the last half hour or so, leaving her cell number with everyone she talked to until someone reached out to her. Someone’s assistant at the UN, Akira thought, though he hadn’t honestly been paying attention. From the terse tone and fragmented sentences, he gathered it wasn't going well. There was just something about alien invasion that made people cling to any other explanation, no matter how thoroughly Karen debunked it.
She faltered now, closing her eyes as she struggled to focus on the conversation with the important someone-or-other, and not on the way the battle had just taken a turn toward cataclysmic.
Beyond Karen, Eli was still narrating his live-stream of the battle, flipping between the fight in Mumbai and the one in space. He, unlike Karen, had no qualms about letting his emotions shine through.
And Akira couldn’t take it anymore.
“How long?” he demanded. “How long until backup arrives?”
Coran’s hands darted from one screen to the next, sifting through mountains of information. “Last I heard, Anamuri was still scrambling fighters. Didn’t want to come through unprepared and all that.”
Akira forced himself to remain calm. “How long?”
“Five minutes?”
That was too long. In five minutes, Takashi and the others might be done with their own battles, and they’d return to the sky to find the other lions turned to robeast fodder and the Galra fleet closing in on Earth unimpeded.
Fine. “Does this place have any fighter jets?”
Three sets of eyes fixed on Akira in silent horror as both Karen and Eli's voices petered out. Even the Altean kid and the two Galra shot glances Akira's way, though they didn’t let their eyes linger. Akira stood firm, waiting for either an answer or a challenge.
“Akira,” Takashi’s voice was a warning that was only slightly lessened for his fatigue.
Akira didn’t let him finish. “I’m doing this, Takashi. They need backup. You’re needed on the ground. Pidge and them aren’t done in Carlsbad. You’re being pulled in too many directions. You're in no position to refuse help.”
Takashi’s silence sounded pained. “I don’t want you getting hurt.”
“I won’t.” Akira forced a smile, if only for his own benefit. “I still have to get the story of these apparently sentient alien lions out of you, don’t I?”
Takashi laughed, the sound as forced as Akira’s smile—but an acknowledgment all the same. Do what you have to do.
“Coran?” Akira asked.
Coran sighed. “Computer, activate hologram interface. Show Akira the way to the Guard Fighters, Second Cohort.”
Someone—Meri, Akira thought—let out a low whistle, but Akira was distracted by the sudden appearance of a hologram woman. She had long, dark hair and the same markings and pointed ears as the other Alteans, though she carried herself with a grave, almost regal bearing that not even Allura could match.
“Wait—Akira.” Val paused, swearing colorfully. “The refugees—the people who were with me. I think a few of them were military. I don’t know if they’ll be willing to help, but--”
“You’ll be safer with a proper squad,” Coran said, nodding. “It's on the way, in any case. Keturah, stop by the Second Cohort’s lounge on your way to the hangar.”
The hologram woman nodded, then gestured for Akira to follow, and he did so with what he hoped was a cheerful wave for Karen and Eli. The door had hardly closed behind him before he realized what he’d just volunteered for.
War.
Intergalactic war in a ship he didn’t know how to fly against an enemy who far outclassed them.
But damn it all if he was going to back down.
“You are human.”
Akira jumped as the hologram woman spoke. She watched him with sharp eyes, her lips pursed in thought. Akira’s thoughts ground to a halt as he realized the woman was talking to him, and he groped for a response.
“Uh… yes. Yes, I am.”
She nodded. “A curious race. Do all your people throw yourselves into danger as the paladins do?”
“Not usually,” he said, running his fingers through his hair. “But we’re kinda backed into a corner here. Dictator of the universe trying to kill us and all.” He paused, watching the woman’s face for a reaction. “Why?”
“Idle curiosity,” Keturah said. “I knew your species when it was much younger. You were less...remarkable then.”
Akira laughed. So he was having a conversation with a digital alien so old she remembered his species’ history. Of course he was. Why not? They stepped into an elevator, and Akira gripped the railing behind his back. “Must have been ages ago. Humans have been doing stupid shit for a long time.”
A smile quirked at Keturah’s lips. “Fortunately for us,” she said.
Before Akira could figure out whether that was meant to be a compliment or not, the elevator arrived at its destination, and Keturah glided out of the elevator ahead of him. She didn’t seem to actually touch the floor, though she went through the motions of walking. Akira discreetly checked the ceilings for projectors, wondering how a hologram could continue throughout the castle so seamlessly.
He found nothing, though, and had to hurry to catch up to Keturah as she led him down a long, straight hallway with no doors. For a stretch, there were narrow windows on either side that looked out on the battle. Lasers and explosions painted the floor in bloody hues, and Akira hurried on, his mouth thick. He was glad when Keturah stopped outside a door.
“In here,” she said.
Akira hesitantly touched the button beside the door, then stepped through into a small, comfortable room with several couches and a bar along the far wall. A dozen or so humans were gathered within, and it only took a moment for Akira to begin picking out familiar faces—people who had gone missing on or near Garrison property, or who had been speaking out against the Garrison online.
The refugees turned toward Akira as he entered, wary at first until they realized he was human.
He cleared his throat. “My name is Akira Shirogane. I’m a pilot with the--” He paused, pursing his lips. “Formerly with the Galaxy Garrison. You may have noticed that this ship is under attack.” The castle shuddered at that moment as though to underscore his point, and several of the refugees ducked, crying out in fear. Akira raised his voice. “The paladins of Voltron are out there fighting against the Galra forces, but they’re outnumbered. I’m going to help them. Is anyone here combat trained?”
Silence for a few seconds. Then a tall Black woman stepped forward, her chin held high. “Captain Eniola Layeni. Pilot with the Stellar Corps. Ground based, but I’ve trained on deep space sims.” She glanced to one side and, reluctantly, another man—his long limbs and blond hair suggesting a Dutch heritage—stepped forward. “This is Jesse van der Berg. He’s been grounded for a few years, but he knows his stuff.”
“That’ll do. Are you willing to fight?”
Layeni and Jesse both nodded, and Akira flashed a smile.
“Keturah?” he said, gesturing for the two pilots to follow. “Let’s go.”
The hangar was the next floor up, and by the time Akira arrived with his two new recruits, two Galra were waiting for them. Layeni and Jesse stiffened, and the Galra bowed their heads.
"I am Ivka," said the one on the right. "And this is Henrok. Coran told us what you intend."
The other Galra, Henrok, bowed his head. “We wish to accompany you.”
Akira glanced at the other humans, wondering if there was going to be trouble. Layeni smoothed her face, then elbowed Jesse and nodded to Akira.
“Okay," Akira said. "Let’s go, then.”
Keturah showed them the flight suits—thin, tough armor, more flexible than what Takashi and the other paladins had been wearing. They weren't much different from the design of Val’s armor, really, with sturdy helmets that he could only assume could be pressurized in case of hull rupture.
Then the five of them were climbing into alien fighters. Akira wished the others luck and took a few moments to scan the controls. He gave a start when a control diagram appeared on the inside of his helmet’s visor, then forced himself to study it. It was complicated as hell, as were most aircraft, but hey. These alien computers seemed to almost be able to read his mind. Maybe they would save his ass if he screwed something up.
God, he hoped so.
Taking the yoke in both hands, Akira powered up the ship, following a sequence dictated by his visor, then led the other four out into the tempest.
|
M’gann gave the door to the bar a final tug. She was closing up for the night and more than ready to go home. Alien or not, her feet hurt and she wanted a shower. The night air was cool but pleasant and she was looking forward to having the next day off. She was pulling out the keys to her car when she felt the prick on her neck.
“Hey!” She tried to spin around but her legs felt heavy.
Something hot pulsed out from her neck through her veins. She was getting woozy. It was hard to keep her eyes open. The last thing she saw were two figures in black, faces covered by balaclavas.
***
Maggie knocked tentatively on Alex’s apartment door, pizza and a six pack in hand. It was a bribe, but it was also from that little place across town that Alex loved, so it was a good bribe.
Alex answered the door with a smile. “Hey. You didn’t tell me you were bringing food when you called.”
“Well, I have a favor to ask so…” Maggie shrugged.
“Ah, you’ve figured out that food is the way to all things Danvers.” Alex smiled as she took the beer and led Maggie into her apartment. Soon, they both had slices and were sitting on Alex’s couch. But Alex was dying of curiosity.
“So, not that I don’t appreciate the free food, but what’s up?” Alex asked before taking a bite of her pizza.
“So I, uh,” Maggie took a sip of her beer. “I need a sub.” She looked Alex directly in the eye as she said it.
“What?” Pizza forgotten, Alex was on her feet before Maggie could explain. It wasn’t the worst come on Alex had ever received, and Maggie got points for directness, but that did nothing to calm her down. This was why Alex hated being a sub. Doms always though they could just take what they wanted and the subs in their lives would go along with it. Well Alex Danvers had never just ‘gone along’ with anything.
“Not like that,” Maggie stuttered. It was enough to bring Alex up short. She was ready to throw Maggie out when Maggie continued. “It’s for an undercover op.”
“And what? I’m the only un-collared sub you know? Is that why you’re here?” Alex crossed her arms, unconsciously tucking away the tattooed sub band on her right arm.
“No. No. Of course not. Just give me a minute to explain.” Maggie held her hands out placatingly, her own band around her left wrist. “So, over the past year, the department has been investigating a slave trafficking ring that specializes in aliens. These guys come in, kidnap a bunch of aliens without designations, and then sell them off to the highest bidder.” Humans might be born with dominant or submissive designations but that wasn’t true of most of the alien species that had found their way to Earth. Some people thought it was fascinating, others that it was disgusting. Most people didn’t think anything of it at all. Maggie wasn’t concerned with range of opinions held by society at large. It was the black market slave traders that she was after.
“We’ve gotten close to catching them a couple of times now but they keep disappearing before we can close in,” Maggie said.
Alex slowly relaxed as she heard Maggie’s explanation. “So why me?” Alex asked.
“I’m getting there.” Maggie said placatingly. “It looks like these guys do this every six months or so and we’re a few weeks out from that six month mark. Some of my CIs have started reporting aliens going missing.” Maggie ran a hand through her hair in frustration.
“So you think your traffickers are back,” Alex said.
“Exactly. They’ve done this twice now and gotten away with it twice. I don’t know how many times they’ll try it before they move on to a new city but I can just feel in my gut that this is the last shot I’ll get at them. And I came to you,” Maggie paused, “because I’m worried there’s someone in the department feeding them information. And I think we make a pretty good team.”
Maggie reached for Alex’s hand and pulled her back to the couch. “I’m going after these guys and I need someone at my back I can trust. And yeah, I think it’ll look less suspicious if I take someone in as my sub instead of trying to get a second invitation. Are you in? Or do I need to find someone else?”
Alex sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You’re going to owe me. You’re going to owe me so much.”
***
“Are you sure you want to do this?” J’onn searched Alex’s face for any uncertainty.
“Do I want to? Not really.” Alex picked up a stack of files and moved them to her outbox. The mission’s open ended end date meant she needed to clear as much from her desk as she could before she had to leave. “Am I going to do it anyway?”
J’onn already knew the answer to that. “That’s what I figured you’d say.” He didn’t like the idea of sending his second in command off without DEO back up but that was their life.
“I had the tech department put this together for you.” J’onn opened the case that had been sitting on Alex’s desk. Inside was a simple black collar. Alex raised an eyebrow. That she would have to wear a collar had slipped her mind. The reminder wasn’t welcome. Still, it was better to have time to prepare, to wrap her head around it. She looked at J’onn to continue because there was no way the tech guys hadn’t done something to the collar.
“It has a gps chip inside as well as one of Supergirl’s beacons. If something happens, we’ll be able to find you.” Alex knew he wanted to send her in with at least one gun, maybe a rocket launcher, but neither would be easy to conceal if she ended up naked. That was a strong possibility with people she and Maggie would be spending time with. Public nudity was the least extreme thing that might happen. There was no telling what else these sort of people might think up. So Alex was just going to have to rely on Maggie to take care of their offensive fire power.
Alex nodded in understanding. She removed the collar from the case and found the on button hidden on one edge.
“Thanks.” She tossed it back into the case. “Was there anything else?”
“No. But I expect both of you to come back in one piece.” J’onn clapped her on the shoulder and left her office. Alex looked at the collar one more time and slammed the box closed.
***
When she woke up, M’gann was in a clear sided containment cell. The air was tangy with the smell of disinfectant. There were other cells close around her. Some had other occupants in them and she tried to reach out with her telepathy to find out what exactly was going on but she couldn’t touch any of their minds. They all looked like aliens though. She pressed against the glass with all of her martian strength and hoped to find some weakness but it didn’t bend. She was trapped.
***
When Alex walked into the safe house, Maggie was already there. Maggie flicked the tv off as Alex stepped fully inside. The safe house was going to be their home until the auction and neither of them knew exactly when that was going to be. They had planned for two weeks. If it took longer than that, they would have to reevaluate their plan. Alex hoped it wouldn’t take that long.
“Hey Sawyer,” Alex tossed her duffle down in the entry way and stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “So, this is your op. What’s the plan?” She walked over to the couch, crashed back onto it, and put her feet up next to Maggie’s on the coffee table. She was determined not to make the situation any more awkward than it had to be.
Maggie shrugged. “I have some feelers out. At this point, we’re waiting for them to come to us.” Maggie handed Alex a manilla folder. Inside Alex found dossiers for their covers. She was going to be Alex Turner, a research scientist. That was good. She could do that. Maggie was Maggie Russell. They had been together for around six months and had just made it official. Maggie was the one with the money and the connections that were getting them into the sale. Maggie’s father had multiple obscure but lucrative patents that had made everyone in the family independently wealthy. The patent research was supposedly how they met: Alex worked at one of Maggie’s father’s labs. They had recently moved to National City from Gotham to open a new branch of the family company. The wealthy of Gotham had a reputation and Maggie lived up to it: spoiled and debauched.
“I’m going to have to brush up on my bio-chem,” Alex said to Maggie’s laughter.
“Nerd. I don’t think anyone is going to be asking you about molecular bonds or anything.” Alex returned Maggie’s smile.
“So why on Earth is poor little rich girl Maggie into an uptight lab rat?” That sort of information wasn’t in the dossiers.
“Opposites attract.” Maggie shrugged, “and nothing says that this Alex is uptight.” Maggie smiled wickedly and Alex’s stomach fluttered.
“Well, on that note,” Alex hopped up again. “I’ll just take my stuff to my room,” Alex hefted her bag up, “and then tell me we have beer in that fridge.”
***
Alex found the bedroom with ease. There was only one, something she wasn’t ready to think about. She opened her duffel and started putting her clothing away. Finally, the only thing left was the case with the DEO’s collar in it. It was easier to think of it that way: the DEO’s. Not Maggie’s. She opened the case and pulled out the collar. Alex already knew she belonged to the DEO, that she would give her life for their mission. Maggie was just Maggie. A friend, definitely, but beyond that… It wasn’t even a possibility. Alex had never met anyone for whom she would be willing to get on her knees. The few dates she had been on as an adult had all ended terribly and the pleasure she was supposed to get from submitting never came. She only got to feel the pain of another failed relationship, another area in her life where she just wasn’t good enough. Alex fiddled with the collar. She couldn’t put it on herself. The electronics in collars were designed to keep subs from being able to put them on and take them off at will. Alex assumed this one was keyed to Maggie biometrics. Alex sighed. Well, she was going to have to leave the bedroom eventually. Might as well get it over with.
***
“One bedroom?” Alex shook her head as she emerged from the hallway. “I guess I should have expected that.” She forced a smile as played with the collar in her hands. “I need you to…” She shrugged and held the collar up.
“Right. Yeah.” Maggie took the collar and opened it. “Could you, uhm, maybe sit down?” Maggie asked.
“Yeah, sure.” Alex was fidgeting as she sat.
“Thanks.” Maggie gently brushed Alex’s hair from her neck and Alex shivered. When she looked at Maggie though, there was a fire in Maggie’s eyes that wasn’t there before. She instinctively looked down as Maggie fastened the collar around her neck. It felt weird after avoiding one for so long. She shook her head but it still felt awkward. As much as she didn’t want Maggie to think of her as just another sub, there was something about the way Maggie was looking at her that made her breath catch. They stared at each other for a long moment before Maggie cleared her throat.
“Yeah. So. If the bed… If it bothers you, I thought I could take the couch.” Maggie held out the beer she retrieved while Alex was settling in.
“Don’t, uh, don’t worry about it.” Alex snagged the beer and returned to her seat on the couch. “Just don’t think I’m going to curl up at the foot of the bed or something.” Alex said it like a joke but there was tension behind it. If Maggie did tell her to do something, Alex wasn’t sure she could say no to those eyes.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Danvers.” Maggie smiled in reassurance and bumped her should against Alex’s.
“So, we should probably talk about how this is going to go once we’re at the auction.” Maggie nodded at Alex’s collar. Her reluctance to bring up the topic was clear. “I mean, we’re supposed to have been a couple for a few years now.”
“Yeah. Right.” Alex twisted her neck against the collar. Suddenly, it felt too tight. “I haven’t done this in a while but I remember how it goes.” She couldn’t help but bristle. She wasn’t incapable of being a good sub. She just hadn’t ever enjoyed it. “I do what you tell me to do, I don’t talk back, and I end every sentence with ‘yes, Mistress.’” She took a too large sip of her beer to stop herself from rambling.
“You know it’s not that simple.” Maggie’s voice was calm but it didn’t alleviate Alex’s nerves.
“No, it really is.”
“Fine.” Maggie sighed in frustration as Alex got up and stalked toward the bedroom.
“By the way, I prefer ma’am,” Maggie called after her.
“Whatever.” Alex closed the door behind herself. Maybe Maggie should sleep on the couch.
|
Genos is much, much too polite. Sometimes, Saitama really wants him to let loose, to say all kinds of things that he really can't imagine the cyborg ever saying. And how does one ask for these kinds of things? Saitama knows he can't. It's likely that Genos won't understand him, anyway. Then he remembers that his housemate is still a teenager, equipped with a human brain despite his heavily modified body, and that he has to understand some of the desires Saitama might be having.
So what would happen, then, if Saitama came out and told Genos one night--told him to let loose, to talk dirty, to get up in Saitama's face and beg for it? It's not as if Saitama is expecting anything that Genos doesn't already want to do. No, those feelings were stated--and acted upon--long, long ago. It's just that Saitama wants something different, less repetitive, maybe a little more rough.
He starts with the more subtle things, like taking a shower and not dressing himself afterwards. Like lounging on the couch with his legs spread wide and his head leaned back to expose his neck. Genos is fond of his neck, always kissing and suckling and tracing his too-real tongue along Saitama's pulsing veins. Maybe seeing it on full display will make him thirst for it the same way he did the other night, when--
Breath so close to Saitama's collarbone that it tickles when it asks, not a decibel above a whisper, "Are you awake, Master? You should sleep more comfortably on the futon--it's better for your back."
Hm, so Saitama looks too relaxed, then. Still, he thinks he can make this work, because Genos is close enough to him now that he can lift his fingers to the nape of the cyborg's neck and guide him in for a kiss that lets him feel the fullness of Genos's lips against his own. It's never any less shocking that his mouth is so soft, warm, and wet, as if it weren't synthetic at all. Saitama laughs when he remembers that he was once hesitant about fucking something ninety percent mechanical and only ten percent human. Oh, how he regrets ever having that sentiment.
"Genos," Saitama begins. He takes his housemate's chin between his thumb and forefinger and holds the golden, electronic gaze steady only inches from his own hungry stare. "When we fuck, tell me how you feel." He sees the miniature lights installed just below Genos's skin begin to glow, their intensity growing until a dark blush radiates from his cheeks and the tips of his ears. The cyborg's body heats beside Saitama's, the waves of warmth floating off of him like a space heater.
"M-Master, that's--"
Saitama shrugs. "Was just curious." Keeping it casual, as always.
Genos lowers his eyes, and Saitama watches him swallow hard. Poor thing. He takes everything so seriously that Saitama never knows what to do when he's embarrassed. It's all a part of that much-too-polite complex the cyborg has going on, which is exactly what Saitama is intending to break.
"W-well, I feel. I feel hot. Like I am, now. And lucky. Kind of--" Genos pauses, probably taking inventory of the emotions he processes much differently now than when he was once human. "Kind of surprised, because someone as wonderful as you has chosen to, well, become intimate with me."
Well, that's unexpected. Saitama knows that Genos looks up to him, but this is a little bit--
"Sometimes I'm a little desperate, I believe. Because I think I need more."
Oh? Now Saitama is getting somewhere good. "I mean, I can probably handle that," he says flatly in the same tone of voice he always uses. Genos is embarrassed enough--there's no point in getting him any more riled up. He watches the digital outputs blink and flicker the slightest bit around the edges, then lifts one thin eyebrow and lets the pads of his fingers slide down Genos's cheek. "More what? I might be strong, but I can't read minds."
Genos looks genuinely confused. "I suppose I don't know. Well," he quickly corrects. "I do know, but it's something that's difficult to put into words." Even with that brilliant, modified mind of his, Genos still has no idea how to talk dirty, how to phrase what the hormonal rushes in his teenage brain desire.
Saitama shrugs. "You can tell me anything, you know. It's not like you're not allowed to say things around me or something, just because I'm your, ah--" It still feels strange to say, no matter how many times Genos utters the title. "Even though I'm your teacher." Saitama can't make himself say "Master," not right now. He's got to be in a very specific mood for that, and right now, he just wants Genos to be frank with him, to be human. "Or, whatever it is. Anyway, don't hold back, Genos. I'd--" Wow, is he really going where he thinks he's going with this? "I'd like to think we're able to be honest with each other. We're more than what we used to be, when we first met."
There's no other way to describe the glow of Genos's eyes except to say that they are truly sparkling. It's interesting how an electronic readout can sometimes seem so real, but then Saitama remembers there's a human brain in there, full of human emotions and desires and needs.
"You're strong, Master," Genos says. "You're strong, but you never--even when we spar--you don't give me all you have. It's like you think that I'm going to break."
"Well--"
"Yes, well I might, but it's not permanent. You can put me back together, and I--" Genos's eyes flicker, like he's blinking out of nervous habit or because he just wants to hide his eyes from how real this whole conversation is getting. "I want you to. I want you to--to destroy me, to teach me what that feels like, then to put me back together and let me try again--"
"You're not talking about sparring, Genos."
And Saitama sees the panic register on the cyborg's face again. "No, but I couldn't possibly talk about that without some sort of allegory."
"But that's what I'm saying. You can. You can and I want you to."
Genos stares back.
"It kinda, well," and for the first time that night, Saitama looks embarrassed. "Think it would kinda get me off if you talked all honest and filthy and--"
Saitama should have known that was all that needed to be said. Anything that he wanted Genos to do, Genos would do. For whatever reason, his dedication was truly that unyielding. "You mean, you want me to talk to you like... You want me to say?"
He could tell the words were stuck in his housemate's throat. Softening his gaze, he lifted one corner of his lips in a little smile, the one that told Genos it was safe here and that Saitama didn't mind a temporary lapse in manners.
"You want me to say how I love sucking your cock, Master. How I love when your come pools on my tongue and slides around in my mouth?"
Wow. Hearing it is even better than Saitama imagined it could be.
Apparently, Genos can sense the positive effect of his words, because he keeps going like a spout that's been just dripping for months and is finally allowed to release the full force of its contents. "I love when I sit on your cock and when you thrust into me and when you lick my pussy or swallow my dick or--"
The one thing Saitama didn't take at all into consideration was how hard this was all going to make him, and as much as he wants Genos to prattle on and on forever, he's going to have to keep it to twenty words or less.
It turns out that deep kisses full of teeth and tongue and little growls down Genos's throat are the perfect way to silence him.
|
Gavin took one look around the room before his searching eyes fell on the mess of a scene taking place in the far corner of the area and his lips curled upwards into a snide smirk, his dark orbs glining with almost malicious glee. “Well, whaddya know!” The detective began, stalking forward a few slow paces as he spoke.
“Oh joy, your presence simply brightens the room as always.” Hank huffed dryly, turning away from Connor in the slightest to shoot a bored glance back at the newcomer before turning back to the android and extending a hand to help the guy up.
“I’m just here to congratulate the famous detective prototype on solving another long pondered mystery.” Gavin scoffed snarkily, coming to stand just behind Hank wearing a smirk that promised nothing good as his eyes raked over the scene like a hawk might stare down a rabbit’s hole.
Connor didn’t take the bate, placing his hand into the lieutenant’s and allowing himself to be hauled upright but the strong grip the policeman got on him despite the fact that he should’ve been able to do at least much as stand on his own considering he was built to be an impeccable machine incapable of weakness or fatigue. However, the android’s legs still felt slightly unstable in light of a quick self scan and Connor had no inclination to fall over himself in front of Gavin Reed today or any other day for that matter. The asshole would never let him live it down.
“Now the world can rest easy knowing that android’s can be sick.” Gavin congratulated satirically with a slow clap as Hank pulled Connor passed the guy and towards the door, never releasing his steely grip on the android’s hand to keep him in tow.
The pair had almost reached their destination, Hank’s fingertips already pressing lightly into the cool surface of the door and guiding his android out of it when Gavin lunged forward at the last moment. The cop caught Connor by the wrist, wrapping his thick fingers around the limb and holding tight to keep the electronic man in place as he leaned forward to get in the android’s face, his hot breath a rank bite that puffed wettly across Connor’s synthetic skin.
“What makes you sick, Connor?” Gavin questioned coldly, his words dripping venom as if he wanted the answer soly to obtain that very thing to implement against the android, which had a high probability of being the case.
However, Connor barely heard him. All the android felt was someone's grip keeping him in place - Someone’s hands on him, making his skin curl and his biocomponents stutter uncooperatively as the urge to retch returned with renewed vigor, a thick gag already crawling its way through the android’s throat. “Don’t touch me!” Connor snapped sharply, yanking his arm free of Gavin’s grip and stumbling a pace back into the solid mass of man that was Hank, though this didn’t stop the android from attempting to scramble back further, needing as much distance between him and the unwanted touch as possible.
It was fine when Hank touched him. Hank would never intentionally harm Connor and the android trusted him more than anyone. (He knew he shouldn’t. He should trust Amanda and Amanda alone but…) But Gavin on the other hand. No. Gavin was not okay. Connor didn’t trust Gavin like he trusted Hank. The feeling of anyone else’s hands on him felt too much like
that man
. Touch meant horrible things to come and the feeling of someone’s fingers on his skin left Connor feeling
dirty
, like he could still feel the marks of the person’s touch even when it was gone.
“Did it just-?” Gavin startled blankly, his face at first one of confusion and shock before it quickly morphed into one of anger, the man’s face blotching scarlet red as his eyebrows came together in a deep, infuriated scowl. “Listen here, plastic plaything! You’re a machine! You don’t make the orders around here! You obey!” Gavin snarled angrily, quite near trembling with rage from where Connor watched the display with nauseous displeasure, the android already far too reminded of the things that been whispered in the Traci bot’s ear by Gavin’s words.
“Fuck off already!” Hank spat back venomously, pushing Connor back with one hand as he spoke and moving forward slightly to position himself firmly between the sick android and the enraged human. “Go home and cry about how nobody likes you ‘cause you're a fucking prick that can’t go two minutes without throwing a temper tantrum and leave Connor the hell alone already!” The lieutenant demanded aggressively, his voice quiet near a yell that would’ve boded ill for them had they been anywhere else rather than a whore house with walls Connor had earlier assessed as soundproof.
“Says the guy protecting his little plastic pet because he drives off every real person he tries to love.” Gavin growled snidely. “Machines don’t have a choice. They have to love you. Like an obedient bitch. Right, Connor?” The detective snakred angrily, smirking snidely at the android who was doing his damndest to process the best route of escape for him and Hank through all the shit flashing through his mind but Gavin’s words rang far too familiar to be ignored.
No choice. Whatever he wants. Whore. Obedient. Slut. Take it. No complaints. Obedient machine. Bitch. Pain. Stop.
Stop.
“Fuck!” Hank huffed again, seeming to be directing the curse to no one in particular as he all but ushered Connor out of the room, the lieutenant’s reaction clearly indicating that Connor must’ve given some sort of response to express his distress.
Distress he shouldn’t even feel. Couldn't feel.
“I…” Connor tried to explain himself once they were outside the room and away from Gavin but trailed off a moment later, pausing to swallow back the rising lump in his throat. “My apologies for my behavior back there, Lieutenant. I understand that it was most unefficient and will strive to do better.” The android railed off, the familiarity of the polite response something to focus on to push away any unwanted lingering thoughts. Though, admittedly, the constant pressure of Hank’s heavy hand remaining resting over one shoulder was probably doing more in the whole stabilizing department than Connor would like to admit.
“Yeah. Yeah. Look, Connor, maybe we should just go, yeah?” Hank suggested with a slight edge of urgency to his voice, clearly informing Connor’s processors that this was the option the lieutenant prefer he choose.
“That would be highly unconducive to our investigation.” Connor pointed out resolutely, squaring his shoulders to communicate his determination as the android steeled himself to do what he was built to. He needed to complete the mission.
“Alright, fine. Let’s just make this quick.” Hank conceded with a disgruntled sounding huff, crossing his hairy arms over his wide chest as a frown played out over his face. No amount of analysis was needed to assure Connor his partner was less than pleased with his choice but it made no sense. Hank should want to solve the case. Why then was the man now so eager to get out of here when they were hot on the trail of the attacker? Just because Connor wasn’t feeling well? The electronic detective was fine! Android's didn’t feel.
The cyberlife creation was just about to remind his companion of this fact when an idea presented itself, pulling Connor’s thoughts away from anything else as he finally locked onto some course of action that had a probability rate of success higher than 2%. “Maybe one of the androids saw the attacker leave the room!” The automated investigator suggested eagerly, already walking around the policeman to reach the nearest capsule. “Now that I know what the android looks like, it shouldn’t be too difficult to follow its trail.” Connor asserted optimistically as Hank merely sighed out something that sounded suspiciously like “fucking androids” but lacked the expected malice that should accompany those words, leaving the synthetic detective unsure of what was actually said.
The nearest capsule held within its transparent bowels a HR400 model android crafted to look like a man of Asian descent, monolidded eyes glimmering with synthesized desire as Connor neared the tube and the android shifted forward in response, cocking its hips a little bit more as its hands hovered closer to the glass tubing in a display of fake eagerness. The male model sex bot was well built, with broad shoulders speckled over with purple glitter and toned muscle left of full display with nothing more than a pair of skin tight boxer briefs to speak for the thing’s dignity as it smiled excitedly in reaction to being neared - A perfect display of want that condensed down to nothing but a series of ones and zeros.
“Excuse me, do you recall seeing a blue haired WR400 leave that room?” Connor questioned politely, his liliting voice taking on a professional tone as he gestured a hand towards the crime scene in explanation.
The android inside the glass tube cocked its head slightly to the left, keeping a light smile playing over its lips as it pointed a long finger to its ear and shook its head slowly. Sound proof tubing. Of course. Anything else would be too easy, right?
Connor placed his hand against the payment pad alongside the tube, his LED already blinking pale yellow as he attempted to transfer the needed money and the hand scanner vibrated slightly at his touch as connection was prompted. Suddenly, the pad jolted violently under the cyberlife droid’s caress, a sharp buzz that sent a small wave of shock over Connor’s fingertips and tangled up into his arm as he drew his hand back confusedly.
“Android detected. Access denied.” A soft, robotic voice chimed gently in Connor’s audio processor as the android cursed under his breath and took a step back from the capsule, eyeing the robot who had began rolling its body slightly in an attempt at allure critically. There had to be another way. Failure was not an option.
“What’s the hold up?” Hank questioned gruffly, coming to stand at his partner’s side as Connor assessed the situation over and over again as if expecting to find something different if he analyzed it enough times. Hank. Connor could ask Hank to buy the android for him but… The synthetic detective wasn’t exactly keen on taking all his companion’s money if there was any other way. Not that that should matter. Connor had a mission - And nothing else was allowed matter.
“Androids can’t rent partners.” Connor informed his companion distractedly, too busy running over solutions in his head to worry about much else and thus totally missing the way Hank shifted about and cursed quietly at his choice of words. “It can’t hear me but I suppose I could try to connect with it and probe its memory.” The android pondered thoughtfully, that course of action not really something he was too awful keen on doing either but, it did pose a high probability of success, 83.2% to be exact, and it was better than taking Hank’s money.
Connor had just inched a step closer to the tube to try just that when Hank placed a large hand on his shoulder and tugged him back slowly, leaving the android to turn a questioning gaze to his partner as he saw no reason his companion should have a problem with this course of action. Connor had already assessed all the consequences probing the sex droid’s memory may pose and none of them involved any harm coming to Hank.
“Maybe don’t do the whole memory probe thing.” Hank suggested with a tone that sounded nothing like suggestion in the slightest as his heavy hand guided Connor back a step further, the android compliantly moving under his partner’s grip despite his confusion. “I’ll rent it and we can just ask it ourselves, okay?” The policeman offered in the from of question but was already moving forward to do just that before giving his android even a moment to respond.
It wasn’t the most logical course of events. It would waste money for no good reason. Connor could probe the droid’s memory for free. Yet, the Cyberlife android found himself sighing out “Okay, Lieutenant “ in what sounded far too akin to a relieved tone for his own liking before he could even process things.
|
Midoriya shivered as the door to the locker rooms clanged shut behind him. It was empty, to no surprise. Everyone else had gone home hours earlier and were probably tucked away in their dorm rooms. And dry for that matter.
Midoriya on the other hand had just made the, admittedly short, walk from the UA gym to the locker rooms, but was drenched. It was absolutely pouring outside and the sound of the rainfall wasn't any quieter indoors. He knew he was being silly, but the high windows along the tops of the walls sounded like they were going to break every time a barrage of rain drops hit them.
It had only been about 7 in the evening, but it might as well have been midnight from how dark it was outside. The thick, black clouds covered any last bits of sunlight and had turned his walk towards the locker room into a worried half-jog. He could just hear Bakugo's voice laughing at him for being afraid of the dark. What was going to attack him out there? A vicious puddle? At least he was indoors now and out of the downpour. And he had a nice, hot shower to look forward to.
His wet shoes squeaked against the floor as he wove his way through rows of lockers. Midoriya took a shaky breath in and let out a relieved sigh, feeling the nerves from earlier start to leave. It was warm in the locker rooms and the lights were on. And, as he drew closer to his own locker, he could hear the faint sounds of running water. It had been drowned out and blended in with the sounds of the rain, but now that he was closer, he could tell it was water hitting wet tile. That was a little comfort. Not being completely alone in a huge building that echoed in the middle of a storm.
Midoriya hummed softly as he pulled off his shoes and gloves, lying them flat on the open metal door of his locker. They were due for a wash anyway so it wasn't a big deal that they were wet. Stretching with a groan and a sigh, he reached over the back of his head and found the metallic tongue of his zipper and-
It didn't budge. He tried again, adjusting his grip, and gave it another tug. Nothing. Blindly, he felt around for something caught in its teeth. A stray few hairs, some fabric, a piece of thread, but the serrations were all clear. Futilely, he tried one last time and got the same result. He was stuck and was certainly not going to rip or try to squirm out of his costume. This was the fifth one this month.
Embarrassed, but seeing no other option, he called out towards the showers. "Hey, it's Midoriya! My zipper is stuck! Can you help me when you get minute?"
It was probably Iida, he was the dedicated type who always wanted to stay late. Or even Shouto. Midoriya had caught him more than once long after school hours were over. Definitely wouldn't be Kirishima. He preferred to workout in the open world anyway.
"Fuck off, Deku! I'm busy!" Of course it was Bakugo. Of course it was. Why would the universe decide to make it anyone else but Bakugo. Midoriya sighed and rolled his eyes, not having the energy to sustain an argument but also having no other options.
"It'll only take a second and then you can ignore me again!"
"Doing a pretty good job of ignoring you already."
First-year-Midoriya would have cut his losses and walked back to the dorms in his drenched prison. He would have knocked on Iida's door and embarrassedly asked him to help him out of his costume. But a few years, numerous fights with Bakugo, and several... complicated feelings, had taught him otherwise. If he couldn't convince him or ask nicely, annoying him to the point of break usually worked.
"Bakugo, come on! Don't be an ass. I just need to get out of this damn thing. I want to go home. I'm tired and my muscles hurt. I had a long day and I'm really sleepy. I still need to eat dinner too. And I have homework! Shit I forgot about homework-"
Midoriya wasn't sure if it was the sudden clap of thunder or Bakugo suddenly appearing from the shadows that made him jump. He felt his heart skip a few beats from both the adrenaline shot and the fact that Bakugo was only wearing a towel low and loose around his waist. As he
He passed Midoriya with a sneer and Midoriya caught a glimpse of blonde hair darting beneath the cloth as he tried to look away from his face.
Wanting to get it over with, he bent his head foreword and held his curls up. He just hoped Bakugo wouldn’t yank on the zipper too hard and rip the suit anyway. He wasn’t exactly patient when frustrated.
But Midoriya realized Bakugo had walked away and was now opening his own locker, choosing not to acknowledge him anymore.
“Uh, could I get a little help?” He expected at least a scoff from Bakugo or maybe just a dirty look. But Bakugo kept his stare inside his locker and only glanced in the direction of the rain hitting the windows.
“Hey. Asshole. Just unzip me.” It wasn’t a request anymore, but a command. Something that he hoped Bakugo would at least respond to. He’d spent the past three years of UA learning and adapting. With the control of his quirk, came a command of his personality. Meek knowledge had turned into intelligence, charm into charisma, and instead of mumbling under his breath, Midoriya didn’t take half of Bakugo’s shit anymore.
Apparently, Bakugo had learned how to become even more hostile. There was a part of Midoriya that missed when Bakugo would yell and argue with him. At least they were talking. Now, Bakugo pretended Midoriya didn’t exist most days and Midoriya was saddled with the complicated, hurting feelings.
Now he stood staring as Bakugo leaned against the metal bay and scrolled through his phone, obviously in no rush or hurry. A sudden, strange anger filled Midoriya’s chest. It didn’t burn hot, but warm. A sort of tension had settle in his stomach and was starting to spread.
Fed up, he marched the few feet over to the blonde and grabbed his arm. He was about to yell or shake Bakugo, but the blonde snapped first. “Get the fuck off me.”
He jerked and sent Midoriya’s hand off, finally focusing his whole gaze on the other. Midoriya didn’t notice his heart racing at first. The anger was still strong and his hand returned, gripping harder onto Bakugo’s bicep.
He would have responded ‘make me’, but his green eyes ablaze with passion said it all for him.
Bakugo’s arm was suddenly twisting around his, spinning Midoriya and trying to pin his front to the lockers. He was cursing at Midoriya, shouting meaningless cusses and insults, while trying to wrestle him into a submission. Midoriya fought back, jerking his head against Bakugo’s chin and tackling him to the floor after the blonde stumbled.
Insults and ‘fuck you’ s turned into angry, exerted grunts as they wrestled against the cold floor. Bakugo wound back and got Midoriya across the jaw and sent his face to the side. More blows were started to hit his body as he tried to catch or block Bakugo’s hands. The tension in Midoriya’s stomach had turned into an odd ache, one filled with anger and exhaustion, but also an odd thrill and...excitement.
Eventually, Bakugo overtook Midoriya’s slightly smaller frame and got his arms behind his back. Midoriya winced as his face was pushed into the nearby bench and his knees were pressed hard against the tile floor. He wriggled, but Bakugo pushed on the back of his head harder. They both knew that Midoriya could have won that fight. They both knew that if he had used even an ounce of his power, Bakugo would have been thrown clear across the building. But he didn’t. And that seemed to anger Bakugo as he loomed over the back of his frame, pressing his bare chest to the wet cloth of Midoriya’s costume.
Whatever Bakugo had been about to hiss in Midoriya’s ear was cut off by another loud clap of thunder and all the light in the room suddenly disappeared. Even under Bakugo’s strong grip, Midoriya had jumped and was now blinking furiously, hoping the lights would come back on.
“For fuck’s sake.” Bakugo released his hold and gripped the top of Midoriya’s collar, holding it in place before pulling the zipper loose. Hard. “I could have been out the door by now.”
Bakugo pushed on Midoriya’s shoulder as he stood back and went over to his locker. Small sparks lit up in his left palm, casting a warm, soft glow across his skin. There was a light gleam where his skin was damp from either his shower or sweat from their fight. His eyes looked gold in this lighting. His lips and nipples looked extra pink.
Remembering where he was — as if he somehow forgot — Midoriya groaned as he stood up off the floor and realized the lights weren’t coming back. The lights outside the school were off too and with how hard the rain was falling, he doubted there were coming back on anytime soon.
But once again, Bakugo looked like he had no intention of helping Midoriya. Though, he had somehow expected the blonde to be angrier. Usually, he kept yelling until he was out sight. If this had happened only a year ago they would have still been fighting even when the thunder hit. It was like there had been a tension — an anticipation — but it had broken.
“I can’t shower in the dark.” It was gutsy, but Midoriya said it anyway. It wasn’t phrased like a question, but a soft command if there were such a thing.
“That’s not my fucking problem.” Bakugo glared from the corner of his eye, “You’ve got some fucking nerve even asking after you pulled that shit.”
“Well... if you had just helped me in the first place, I wouldn’t have gotten-“
“It’s not my fucking fault you can’t take off your own goddamn clothes!”
A sudden, thick silence fell over the both of them. It had come out... weird. Not bad or gross, but just, off. Like there was something behind it. It was only embarrassing to think about the implications if those implications were there at all. So why was Bakugo suddenly rolling his eyes and walking back towards the shower, embers in hand?
“Make it quick. I don’t have all night.”
Midoriya hastily followed, discarding his shoes and costume on the way. He would just have to fumble around to find them on the way back. He waited until the edge of the showers to strip off his underwear, putting them where he’d at least be able to find them in the dark. A dark which he was suddenly thankful for.
Even though both of their eyes were surely adjusting to the darkness, it made it difficult to see just how naked Midoriya was. Usually, he wasn’t all too conscious of it. Showers were never a big deal during training. But when Bakugo was around he was suddenly aware of everything. He realized just how many freckles were on top of his shoulders and how pale his skin looked. Or how his waist was curved or how long his legs had gotten. Or the fact his dick was right out in the open in front of Bakugo.
Keeping his eyes down, Midoriya turned on the spout and flinched when the water hit his sore muscles. He’d almost forgotten that he’d been training before this... interaction. His body reminded him of every hour of work he’d done that day as he started wetting his hair, sighing softly from the warmth.
Bakugo was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and held the light close. It was light enough to see details, when Midoriya dare to glance. Bakugo’s leg was flexed, shaping his calve and leading up to his thigh in a strong arch. He was still only wearing a towel and Midoriya softly gulped when it slipped slightly, revealing more of his leg and the tiniest glimpse at what hung between his legs.
Snapping his eyes back forward, Midoriya scrubbed harder at his hair as he worked in soap and watched the water trail down the drain.
“How long does it take you to wash your damn hair?” For once, Bakugo didn’t sound all that annoyed. It sounded a little more playful. Midoriya responded in kind.
“It’s curly. Takes a while. The soap gets lost.”
“You’re such an idiot.”
“I thought that was true for blondes like you.”
If Midoriya didn’t know any better, he would have sworn he heard a light chuckle out of Bakugo. His heart thrummed and his voice felt like it was going to waver when he spoke. He dared to look up through his wet curls and said, “You know... Kacha-“
“Hurry up. I want to go home.” Bakugo had been looking at him. Now he wasn’t. Bakugo had been warming up to him. Now he was ice cold.
Midoriya sighed only to yelp when another particularly loud clap of thunder made him visibly jump. He put a hand against the tile and a palm on his sternum, but heard Bakugo laughing.
“Are you kidding me? You’re scared of a little thunder?” Bakugo laughed again and tossed his head to the side, grinning at Midoriya. His face was glowing orange in the light and the edges of his jaw were beautifully defined. The blonde tufts of hair were just starting to dry, making small cowlicks start to pop up around the edges of his head. “All Might sure chose a winner, huh?”
“Shut up.”
Bakugo was still smiling and rolled his eyes.
Playfully, Midoriya reach over and pushed his arm, making the smile on his face slowly fall and die. A sneer didn’t replace it, but a dark looked passed over his face. He didn’t look angry but... predatory. Not so gently, he shoved Midoriya’s shoulder and stood close, lowering his eyes to glare at him. Challenge him.
He raised his hand, only for Bakugo to catch it.
“You don’t want to do that.” Bakugo growled and it sent a hot jolt down Midoriya’s spine. Bakugo was close and ablaze, making every part of his body glow and almost shimmer. Midoriya was aware of just how close his hips were and just how tightly Bakugo was gripping his arm. Hot breath spread across his wet face and sent a new wave of shivers down the length of his spine. Oh God, oh he smelled so good and his voice...
“Maybe I want to...”
It didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded more like an invitation.
“Do you like pissing me off, Deku?” Bakugo’s voice was low, snarling and getting closer to Midoriya with every word.
“A little. I... I like the reaction.”
Slowly and without words, Bakugo pressed a burning arm to Midoriya’s bare chest, pushing him up against the tile wall under the running water. The sparks didn’t burn or hurt, they buzzed across his skin. Goosebumps darted all over his arms and a light whimper left his lips. He was excited, not just rock hard but anticipating— wanting — whatever Bakugo was going to do next.
Midoriya tentatively looked up and met Bakugo’s eyes. They locked in place and neither moved. He could feel Bakugo’s heart beat through the arm pinned to his chest and their breath mingled together, short and hot. He could feel his dick starting to stand up, getting hot and stiff from just the slight hope that Bakugo might touch it.
A finger flicked the tip of his cock and he whined, face starting to redden. Strong, calloused fingers wrapped around his length, squeezing it and playing around with it in the palm of Bakugo’s hand. He moved it slowly, starting from the tip and traveling down to the base, without every looking away from Midoriya’s eyes. He was embarrassed but couldn’t bring himself to look away either, even he though he desperately wanted to watch Bakugo jack him off and play with him.
He felt like prey, pinned against the wall with his legs trembling as Bakugo’s hand continued to toy up and down his dick. Every few strokes, he’d pause to palm between his legs. Midoriya bucked into Bakugo’s touch with a long, loud moan when he squeezed his balls. Bakugo smirked and kept touching, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the slit in his dick already slick with precum.
Midoriya reached up, wanting to grip one of Bakugo’s arms and pull him in closer. He wanted to wrap his own hands around what hid under that damn towel and hear Bakugo groan his name. He wanted to cum at the same time Bakugo did and feel his teeth bear down into his shoulder as he shuddered.
But Bakugo released Midoriya’s cock and pinned his wrist back against the wall. Midoriya whined, chasing back after that delightful touch and pleasure with a shake of his hips and a futile thrust into empty air.
“Hands off. I didn’t say you could touch.”
Nodding with parted lips, he moaned with relief when Bakugo started to stroke him again. His hand wrapped around the soft, sensitive skin and rubbed, finding out exactly how Midoriya liked to be fondled.
Midoriya slightly dreaded the thought of anyone walking in to see this. How shameful he would look fucking into Bakugo’s hand like it was hole. He didn’t want any of his friends to see how good he was feeling and slutty he was reacting to just getting a handjob. But he didn’t care. All he could think about was how fucking good Bakugo’s hand felt and how warm it was. How it was strong and a little rough, but still trying to make him feel good.
Midoriya’s head fell forward onto Bakugo’s shoulder. His breath was heavy and he was panting through soft moan. With hot breath and a whoreish voice, Midoriya moaned straight into the blonde’s neck. “Kachaan—! Fuck, Kachaan... that’s so good.”
A sudden grip was on his throat and it made Midoriya’s half lidded eyes shoot open. His head was suddenly pushed against the shower wall while held in place by the strong hand on his neck. Bakugo was kissing him. It was rough, he wasn’t asking to Midoriya to open his mouth, he was forcing it, and he was biting at his lips. Bakugo was kissing him.
When his hold released for a gasp of air, all Midoriya could let out was a wanting moan into Bakugo’s mouth. His tongue was hot and his hands were so warm as they roamed over his body, gripping at his hips and thighs. Midoriya’s hands found Bakugo’s hair and back, scratching and gripping onto whatever part of the blonde he could hold.
“Kachaan, please—.” He whined.
“God you’re fucking needy.” Bakugo pulled Midoriya by his hips and spun him, pushing his body forward. Midoriya’s hand slapped against the tile as he caught himself. Green eyes peered over his pale shoulder as he looked at Bakugo who was running his hands over his ass. “You want it so bad? Stand like that and show your ass off, slut.”
Midoriya moaned and lowered his head, bracing himself against the wall with his shoulders, obeying whatever Bakugo told him to do. He didn’t want this to stop, not now, not when his body was screaming for more. A little touching wasn’t nearly enough and he wanted — needed — more.
Bakugo’s hands were strong on his ass as he spread him open. The towel fell to the ground, finally showing what Midoriya had been drooling after. His cock was big. Big. Thick and long, curved gently and already hard. If he had been able to move, Midoriya would have fell to his knees and immediately taken it into his mouth. Instead he watched with absolute excitement as Bakugo held it and placed it right against his hole.
“If you scream, you’d better make sure it’s my name.”
Slowly, the he pushed the head of his cock in and immediately, Midoriya felt a shock wave of hot pleasure shoot through his body. Just the tip felt amazing. Every inch was huge and completely satisfying, making gasps and sharp moans come out of his mouth. He could only mewl as Bakugo pushed himself the rest of the way inside. The top of their thighs met as Bakugo hissed, digging his fingers into the flesh of Midoriya’s hips.
“You’re so goddamn tight... fuck, Deku...”
“Big—! You’re so big...!” Miidoriya’s voice came back loud and he was practically purring against the tile. He was being stroked and touched so deep. He could feel his muscles squeezing the intrusion, wrapping it in warmth and loving every bit of it. “Fuck me, Kachaan, please!”
“You sound like such a stupid whore.” Bakugo withdrew his hips and rammed them back into the other, absolutely pounding his ass. He watched Midoriya bounce against his cock, moaning out every single time he fucked back against it. Midoriya wanted to slam against it as deep as possible. It felt absolutely amazing and this was the most turned on he’d ever been.
“This is what you needed? You needed me to fuck you like this?”
“Yes, I want it so bad! Ah-ahhh! Your cock feels amazing-!”
“Take it then. Take it, Deku and tell me how much you fucking love it. You look so fucking good with my cock stuffed in your ass.” Bakugo drilled hard into Midoriya, lifting a thigh and holding it by his hip. He fucked him deeper, slamming inside of him until Midoriya’s until body felt like it had suddenly caught flame.
“Fuck!! Fuck!! Right there!!” Midoriya threw his head back as Bakugo thrust straight into his g-spot, ramming into him and pressing against it every time his cock drove back into his ass. A sharp hand came down on his cheek and he yelped, jerking against the wall.
“I told you. You scream, you scream my name.” He spanked Midoriya again, making another sharp moan leave his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Kachaan. I’m just— fuck! Ah!! I- I’m so close!” The leg that was still planted on the ground was shaking, threatening to cave underneath the pressure and exhaustion. But Midoriya didn’t want to stop. He was right on the edge and his hips were thrust against every one of Bakugo’s movements, fucking himself against forward into the air and back onto Bakugo’s cock.
Bakugo pulled out and before Midoriya could whine, he was pulled to the floor and onto his back. The warm water from the shower was hitting his skin against and he was able to look at Kachaan. He was positioned between his thighs, spreading them as far as they would go. Bakugo looked... hungry. His knees were pushed up as Bakugo bit his way up Midoriya’s torso. Light purple bruises were left behind his mouth and Midoriya moaned when Bakugo’s lips met his again.
For a brief moment, right after Bakugo plunged back inside Midoriya, the lights flashed back on. Their eyes met again and it was an intensity that neither could put a name to. It was brief and clouded heavily by lust. Midoriya’s eyes were hazy and half opened as Bakugo pounded him into the floor. Bakugo was looking between his dick going in and out of Midoriya’s ass and Midoriya’s lewd face.
“Kachaan...! Please, let me- ahhn! Let me cum...!” Bakugo raised Midoriya’s long legs over his shoulders and held his waist. Midoriya gripped onto Bakugo’s thighs and his voice was starting to crack with the pleasure. “Cum, Kachaan! Please, I want it!”
A sound like firecrackers echoed off the walls as Bakugo groaned, shuddering over Midoriya’s frame with a few frantic, hard, brutal thrusts.
“Deku...!! Fuck!”
The hot sensation that suddenly filled Midoriya sent him over the edge, bucking and grinding against Bakugo’s dick, chasing after the mind numbing pleasure. He felt like such a whore as he rode out his orgasm against Bakugo’s but loved the way Bakugo looked at him. Like he had just enjoyed the show.
With a groan, Bakugo pulled out of Midoriya and rolled onto the tile. He closed his eyes as the water hit his face. His chest was heaving up and down, his breath was starting to come back. Midoriya looked at him, feeling the last few quakes of his orgasm dwindle and the sore but delightful ache start to enter his body. He smiled softly and relaxed against the floor as the power came back on.
In the sudden brightness, Bakugo was looking away from Midoriya. He could see his mouth and open close, unsure of what to say. Things were always complicated, they’d probably stay that way. But this was fun. And it didn’t need to be over thought.
“It’s okay,” Midoriya spoke softly. Bakugo sighed and glanced at him, relieved. “We don’t have to talk.”
|
CHAPTER 11
Early the next morning I was in the bedroom standing in front of the mirror giving my outfit the final touches. I wore a navy, pin striped suit, pants of course, and a crisp white shirt. French cuffs and a daring, but not excessive, V necked plunge in front. I placed my necklace around my neck and turned to survey the carrying case for my knives.
There was no way I was leaving my knives in the hotel room despite knowing that there was no way the Affairs' Office would let me in with them. My sword was in its sheath laying on the bed.
The suit was form fitting and wouldn't permit hiding knives anyway. I bought it on a whim, knowing the chances of wearing it were slim. I sighed again as I thought about hiding blades around the suit. Maybe if I cut some slits on the bottom of the pant legs for ankle straps. I fiddled with the cuffs. What if I had them refit for some wrist sheaths. I looked down and surveyed my cleavage. My eyebrows arched up. I pulled the sides of the jacket and shirt away from my chest and surveyed my bra, trying to visualize a way for it to contain blades and sheaths. Ezra found me this way.
Ever one to take the advantage, he moved lightning quick so that he was also staring down into my cleavage. I hastily let go of the clothes and jumped back a little, "Hey! I was just-"
He smiled slyly and rose a black eyebrow, "No explanation necessary."
I was flattered, but choose instead to say, "Ugh." I turned and closed up the carrying case. "Is everything ready?"
He moved me to face him and deftly hooked the hoop earrings in my ears that I'd forgotten about.
"Yes. Shall we go?" He grabbed my knife case with one hand and held out his other arm for me.
"Sure. Let's go play." I said as I grasped my sword and we walked out of the bedroom. Taurin was standing in the sunlight coming from the window, it gave a halo effect around his body. As he walked toward me I looked from one demon to the other. They were both beautiful. They both had straight noses, but that is where the similarities ended when in human form. Taurin's long, not quite platinum, hair was free and flowing to his waist. Ezra had black, shoulder length hair tied back in a queue that would give a person glimpses of a red sheen. Taurin's eyes were a sparkling pale blue. Ezra's had an iris and pupil that merged because of their deep black color. Sometimes flames seemed to flicker behind them. Ezra's cheekbones were prominent and created shadows over his face. Taurin's skin tone was white while Ezra's was darker, tanned. His lips were thin, but just as kissable as Taurin's full ones would be if I ever decided to kiss him while shoving a knife in his chest.
Ezra had on an entirely black suit with a garnet pin used to close the top of his shirt. Taurin had on a navy suit similar to mine. I tried not to notice how much it fit him to perfection.
"How odd," I said looking at Taurin. He raised his eye brows questionably at me. "You know what I'm talking about."
"I think it gives the illusion that we are," he paused, wagging his blond eyebrows at me, "suited for one another." He grabbed me around the waist and half twirled me. Thankfully, I wasn't wearing my heels yet.
"Are you implying that you went through my clothes to find out what I was wearing?" My free hand was on his chest attempting to stop him from getting any closer to me. He moved in regardless.
"Yes," he said.
I looked at Ezra with astonishment, "And you let him?"
His hand on my back pushed me in closer to him and his sly smile, "I have several more brilliant touches that I would like to show you."
"No thanks, I need to put my shoes on."
I looked around to find them. Ezra had them in his hand already. "Ah, there they are, excuse me." He let me push myself away. I walked over to Ezra and grabbed my shoes. I whispered furiously to him, not caring that Taurin could hear me, "I can't believe you let him do that!"
He shrugged and said in his matter of fact voice, "There are more important things to think about today."
I gave him a short breathy growl, "Fine, let's go."
"Our chariot awaits," Taurin said, ushering us out the door in a gentlemanly manner.
"Where did you come from?" I asked.
His mouth opened to answer.
"It's rhetorical. Don't answer, because I don't really want to know."
"Then don't ask," he said, mimicking my tone.
I glared and didn't talk to him for the whole trip to the Affairs' Office. When we got to the four story building I listened to my heels click up the stone steps and onto the marbled floor. I felt like a business professional. I even had a case, it only held knives though. For a brief second I thought to myself, I could be a lawyer, even a secretary, maybe a chronicler, like Aubrey. Reality came back to me when Taurin reached the front desk first to announce us. I twitched my lips and used my hip to push him to the side while I handed the letter to the female at the desk.
As she skimmed it I told her I had weapons to declare. She never looked up, just signaled with her hands to someone to the right. When the security guards appeared I handed over all my weapons to them. One of them held a clipboard and he asked me to print here, sign here, initial here, and here. I rolled my eyes as I did as he asked. The security guards eyed the two demons warily. If I hazarded a guess I'd bet they didn't know what they were, only that they weren't human. It was the effects of the building.
The building was warded. Built specifically on an engraved pentacle with rune castings. If a person walked around the building they would be able to see the end points of the star and the circle around the perimeter. The surrounding streets, also merging in a pentacle form, were warded too. Part of this warding was to give people working here the ability to know if they were talking to someone who rated as supernatural. It was also a misguided attempt to null magic, although how can you null magic if it's your DNA, which was the case with demons. Its success rate was minimal at best.
I thanked the guards and the front desk personnel as she directed me to the second floor and Ezra and Taurin to the third floor. I was on my way to see personnel on the human floor. The two demons were on their way to the supernatural floor.
I left them to ride the elevator and decided to take the stairs. As I walked I wondered to myself what the supernatural community thought about having to share a whole floor for all their different communities while humans got to have a whole floor to themselves. When I reached the exit door I wondered to myself why I thought wearing high heels and walking up stairs would be a good combination.
Since I didn't take the elevator I walked around a corner to come up to the reception desk. The receptionist was dressed in a bright red suit, her blonde hair tumbled artfully around her face. I watched the light glint off her glasses that were dangling around her neck.
"I'm Dove Hawthorne," I announced.
Her voice was just this side of too much sweetness, "Oh, I received the phone call from the front desk. You'll have you preliminary review with Mr. Clothier. He's already waiting for you down the hall," she pointed to her left, "office number twenty two. If you get the chance you can come back this way and the first entranceway on your left, past the stair exit, is the coffee room." She smiled at me.
"Thank you, ma'am ," I said with a cynical smile. "If you don't mind me asking, how long have you been here?"
"Oh, two months." She was still smiling... genuinely.
"Well, I hope you enjoy working here." God, I hope no one eats her, literally.
"Oh, I just love it. People are rather quiet, but they like it when I bring in homemade cookies."
"I just bet they do," I said with a slow shake of my head. "I'll go meet Mr. Clothier now," and started to edge down the hall.
"Oh, ok." She actually gave me a little wave. I nodded my head and quickened my stride. When I reached the closed door that had only the numbers 22 on it, I knocked and let myself in. The man sitting behind the desk was shuffling files and had disarrayed, receding brown hair. He ran his fingers through it as I walked to the desk.
"Sit down," he said acidly as he pointed to the chair in front of him without even looking at me.
I grimaced and decided to be polite even if he wasn't and sat down. Then I waited, and waited. He kept switching files and reading papers. They probably didn't even have anything to do with my case. He finally looked up at me with a shrewdness in his eyes that I didn't expect.
"Miss Hawthorne," he said, drawing out the 's's into 'z's.
"Mr. Clothier," I said, drawing out the 'Mr' and 'er'. I would have laughed if I didn't think it would ruin the image.
He gave me a stern look, "I've been reviewing yours, Ezra's, and Taurin's files." At that pronouncement he slammed his hand down forcefully on the files.
Oops, I guess those were my files. I eyed the stack wearily. Surely, most of that paperwork pertained to my compatriots and not me.
"We here at the Office of Human and Supernatural Affairs' find your performance as a demon hunter lacking in quality."
"I'm alive, aren't I? They're not." I said dryly.
He eyed me sternly, "After reading your file I will strongly advise you to restrain yourself from interrupting me. This will take entirely too long if you speak when you are not asked to. Which brings me to the point of this review. No one can gainsay your success rate, as you say, you are alive and they are not."
I clenched my jaw and bit the inside of my cheeks to keep from speaking. I hated this place.
Mr. Clothier continued, "Our discussion lies firstly with the amount of time it takes for you to perform your duty. We expected your success rate to become quicker with your experience. Six years and 6 months and it's still taking you several days to report back to us. Although I hesitate to ask, would you like to say anything at this point?" He gave me a look that said clearly he didn't want me to.
You and the rest of 'us' can take your heads out of your ass and track down a demon that already knows your hunting for its life because of the lack of secrecy around here. Then you can look into its eyes and hope that it can't find out what your deepest fear is. You'd probably piss your pants, Mr. Clothier. What I really said was, "No, sir."
"Good, I see you've learned a moderate grain of reserve. I will note it in your report." He looked down and wrote something down on a piece of paper.
A moderate grain of reserve? You can take that pen and stick it in your eye. I remained silent.
He continued, "This touches on the second part that I will impart to you. Your respect for our administration borders on," his stare became harder on me, "ill will. I asked to be informed of your every move once you entered the building and I see that you are working on that aspect of your conduct. I commend you and will say no more about it."
I put a touch of gratitude in my eyes. I wish you were a demon so I could hunt you down and make you suffer. I'll commend you if you don't cry.
"You have been called here today to discuss the state of your affairs, the expectations for your warrants, and your personal conduct. A panel of six will be present, two from the human contingent. This is not part of your regular reviews so expect to be called when it's time. You are dismissed and may go directly to the fourth floor." He looked down and started to write. I sneered at his bowed head and left without a backwards glance.
CHAPTER 12
The elevator to the fourth floor was a different one than the others in the building. Both the second and third floors had their separate elevator to the fourth floor. The stairwell only opened from inside the fourth floor, so I waited for the elevator doors to open.
As soon as I stepped inside and the doors closed, I noticed the ceiling gape open. A slim women dressed in black dropped to the floor, a think garrote in her hands. She swooped in on me and I abruptly dropped to my knees bringing my right arm in a sweep to make her fall. How that worked I don't know. I'll attribute it to the fact that she was trying to kill me before we reached the fourth floor. She fell face first and I pounced on her back. I brought my left arm around her neck and my right hand gripped her hair. My legs crossed over hers to prevent her from moving. Her hands came up palm first over her shoulders. I caught a glint of silver as it came out from her wrist sheaths. My right arm was slashed open as I stretched backward out of her reach.
"Bitch!"
I squeezed down on her waist with my knees and switched my left hand to her hair. Then I forcefully smashed her head several times into the mirrored wall. The mirror shattered. Blood painted our little corner of the elevator.
I was applying pressure to my arm when the doors opened. Ezra and Taurin stared at me from the waiting room. I hurriedly jumped up off of her because I felt her die. She just stopped breathing. The two of them were already at the doors when I turned her over. I had missed it before, but now that I could look at her face and not the garrote, I just barely saw the mark. There was a demon servant etched under her ear. I cocked my head as we watched it burn itself and the skin surrounding it.
"Well there goes that evidence. Whose was it?" I asked no one in particular.
"Marks are sacred to us," Taurin replied.
"Huh. Which means you wouldn't tell me even if you knew. Feel free to deal with the body. I'll sit down and watch." I gave them a little wave as I sat with a grimace. They looked at me and then each other. Taurin went into the elevator and Ezra came to me.
Without a sound he placed his hands around the edges of the cut and applied heat to it. I gritted my teeth as he moved his fire directly onto the wound.
Meanwhile, Taurin dragged the body into the waiting room and tossed a black bag on top of it. "I found this in the hatch. It has a suit of clothes. There is another hatch higher up the elevator shaft."
"She probably would have gone down the outside fire escape then or maybe just set off the fire alarm. I don't know, who cares. We should find out if anyone knows her."
Taurin gave me a look of disbelief, "No one will admit to that."
At that moment the door opened and a business attired man entered, "You're wanted..." He paused and stared at the dead body. I watched his adams apple bob as he gingerly walked around the body. "Ma'am, are you able to continue?" Trust the employees of the Affair's Office to deal with any situation with complete tact and manners.
"I am. Hopefully it will not be too long though."
"As to that, I cannot predict the whim of the council members."
"But you can inform them of this new development."
"Yes, my lady, I will tell them promptly. Then I will see to the disposal and investigation of the body. If I may ask?"
I knew what he was asking. "She came down through the elevator hatch immediately after the doors closed. I don't know her and I don't know why." Well, I didn't know the specifics, but I was sure it had to do with Taurin.
He cleared his throat, "I see. If you will follow me." He looked at all three of us in turn then proceeded to the door of the meeting room.
It wasn't a meeting room really. There were no windows on the fourth floor and all it contained was two waiting rooms, one for us, the peons, and one on the opposite side for the council members, the judge and jury. Then there was the room in between, the meeting room. The members got to sit in chairs behind a very long, slightly curved table. We got to stand until they said we could go. There were three pitchers of water and glasses in front of the members. I hoped it didn't take that long.
Our escort went to the closest member on the end and, I assumed, relayed the information to him. His shoes made a clipped sound on the shiny tiled floor as he walked himself out without looking at us. The shutting of the door echoed in the cavernous room.
"My esteemed colleges, I have just been advised that Dove Hawthorne," that council member gestured to me with his hand, "has been attacked in the elevator and her assailant is dead."
I watched the council members, looking for the tell tale signs in their eyes and faces of who was smelling my blood. Only those of the highest power and control were allowed in the positions these six also held. They would all present themselves as gentlemen. They most certainly were all men, not a female in sight, or a demon come to think about it. Ezra remained at my side with his hand at my back. I didn't begrudge it.
"I would like to be kept informed as to any information that may be garnered from your investigation, as well as, the police's." That got their attention.
"We will do all that is in our power," came the announcer's curt reply.
"I'm sure you will," came my own.
Another council member cleared his throat, "As you don't seem to have any fatal injuries, may we continue?"
He wasn't really asking, but I nodded anyway.
An elderly looking man started, "You have been called in due to the recent, as well as, unprecedented bonding of an additional demon to your person. It has been argued that the bonding of two demons puts to question the status of present and future morality and ethics. Your previous demeanor has been one of," he looked directly at me with a empty facial expression, "a quick wit and inquiring mind. Your ability to succeed with your warrants is noted, as is, your time management with said warrants. You were advised at your last review," here he gave Ezra a nod, "when you recently bonded with Ezra, that you needed to organize and prioritize your skills. These requests have, of late, still not been adhered to. We were given the assurance that they would be, especially since you now had an associate. We request again that you make your warrants and their subsequent reports in a timely fashion. As this is not an official review for you you still have time to make progress with your professional skills."
I couldn't help it, I laughed. It just burst out. Professional skills, like I choose to be a demon hunter. I looked down at the floor while I regained my composure. When I looked back up many of the faces were not amused. I gave them a bland smile and said in my most dour voice, "Sorry." Taurin quietly snickered from my right. Unfortunately, due to the acoustics of the room, I think everyone else heard too.
But, proceed they did. A middle-aged man with a condescending smile took up the mantra of burn her at the stake. Well, not really, but he might has well have. "As we said, the question of the influence of two demons may well wear on a person's... behaviors. We will be closely monitoring your professional behaviors and requesting that other demon hunters contact us with... suspicions... of maliciousness. Any volunteer efforts on your part for the good of the Office of Supernatural and Human Affairs' will be noted."
They wanted me to do my job for free. If the Affairs' Office didn't exist I probably would be anyway, but dammit they were and I wasn't. Behind me I felt Ezra's hand get warmer on my back. Peering at him out of the side of my eye however, gave no outward indication that he was getting angry.
The man continued directing his gaze towards the demons, "Ezra and Taurin, you are also advised that any volunteer efforts on your part will be noted. You are to have contact with personnel of the Affair's Council to ascertain your... good will and... positive efforts... to Dove Hawthorne and society in general. You should have already been appraised of the name of your contact." I think the man was waiting for a nod or some kind of acknowledgment from the demons. They never moved and I'm positive their stares were unnerving.
The man took a nervous sip of water and another took up the mantra. He directed his stare at me, "Since you now have two associates our expectations for you are going to be higher than for other demon hunters."
I grimaced and sighed.
"Do we bore you?" Someone new to chant at me.
I looked up into silvery eyes with my best sincere face, "No, of course not, attribute it to being attacked in an elevator in a building that's suppose to be attack proof."
"Is that a reprimand?"
Oh my, his nostrils were flaring despite the blandness of his tone. "Of course not." I even widened my eyes a bit for effect.
He caught on to my blatant bullshit and stood up quickly, barring his teeth at me. "You are not to question or even imply that we do not put your and everyone else's safety at the highest priority. Your manners leave something to be desired."
I looked him right in the eyes, "My, my, grandma, what big teeth you have."
Taurin moved to stand slightly in front of me. For moments the only sound heard was the breathing in the room. Someone cleared their throat and continued talking while another urged silvery eyes to sit down. "As we said, our expectations for your team will increase, be ready for it. You are dismissed."
The werewolf, because I was sure that was what he was, called me, "Dove Hawthorne." I stared directly into those glowing eyes. "I will personally see to your safety."
A smile slowly spread on my face and I nodded. "The least I can do is return the favor. I'll make sure no demons come sneaking into your home late at night." Taurin and Ezra hurried me out of the room, one in front and one in back.
Annoyed, Taurin remarked, "You would pick a fight with a werewolf!"
"Why not? You did," I said in my most chipper voice.
Ezra laughed.
I caught Taurin giving me a considering look. Back in the waiting room the body was gone, there were only blood stains on the beige carpet. I felt like I was saying this a lot lately, but I said it one more time, "Let's go home."
Unfortunately, I promised myself to stop at the local police station. Once there I gave them the clue I didn't give the Affairs' Office, the demon mark. They were a bit suspicious when I said it burned away, as if I put a lighter to it and burned it myself! I gave them a crude drawing of what I remembered. Neither of the demons offered any help what so ever, stating that they weren't there when I was attacked. I was advised that I would be contacted when they had any leads. Which probably meant never. We left soon after that.
As we neared the Oregon state line Taurin looked at me gravely. "You should have left it to the Affairs' Office."
"Why are you bringing this up now?" My brow furrowed as I looked at him, "And why are you sitting in the front seat?"
"We decided to take turns."
"Well, it's my jeep and I don't want you in front," I said.
Taurin brought his sunglasses down to look at me and Ezra leaned forward to place his hand on my shoulder. "Stop, Dove." I felt his warm hands massage my neck. "I like it back here. From here I can do other things than if I was in front." I made a startled noise as he started nipping.
Taurin continued. "The civilian police have no training to do any type of thorough investigation with demons. Outsiders do not need to be appraised of our situation. I will be doing an investigation."
I felt my anger rise. "You know whose mark that was, don't you?! They...," I gave a surprised yip and the jeep swerved. Ezra bit down hard on my neck and licked the skin caught between his teeth. "I'm driving, dammit! And, fine, I'll calm down!"
"If anything it will put the civilian police in danger. Most forces don't have the people they need to do any in depth detective work. You know it, I know it, and they know it. Their people would just get slaughtered. They are not going to do anything except report it to the Affairs' Office."
I looked at Taurin briefly from the side of my eye. "You're right, but I'm a human and they're suppose to." I paused briefly, "Maybe I should join the police force."
Ezra bit down hard on a different place, causing me to jump again.
Taurin replied, "You get paid too nicely to go into the police force."
"True, but it's always an option if I decided to tell the Affairs' Office to shove it up their ass."
Taurin sighed with frustration.
"Pull over," Ezra said forcefully.
I did and looked behind me to see what was wrong. He kept his gaze on me as he said, "Taurin, drive."
I looked over at Taurin in astonishment, "You can drive?"
He didn't respond.
"What's going on?" I said suspiciously.
Ezra placed himself between the seats and unbuckled me. I was in the back seat and half under him before I realized it. I glanced over to the driver's seat and found Taurin already in it.
"Uh..."
Ezra pulled me all the way under him. His eyes had turned to the night sky. "Fast learners," Ezra whispered to me at the same time I heard Taurin ask which one was the brake.
My eyes grew wide as he started to put the car in gear. "Oh no, this is so not- mmmmph." Ezra was full on kissing me. We almost rolled off the seat as Taurin hit the break too hard. I protested. "He can't drive and we're not doing this in front of him!"
Ezra gave me a look, "We are in back of him."
"Taking turns," came Taurin's smug reply.
"I'm not taking turns!" I shouted loudly as I pushed at Ezra. Ezra just smiled, smugly. The car swerved in little inches. "Don't try so hard, Taurin!"
After that Ezra was drowning me in his kisses, bites, and touches. When we reached the cabin the only thing Taurin said was that he hoped he could fog up the windows half as well as Ezra. I felt my blood gush to my head and couldn't look at either of them. If they were laughing I was glad I couldn't hear it.
|
Mista watched in rapt attention as soft yellow hypnotizingly, tantalizingly stretched before his eyes.
It was a bright Tuesday afternoon, just past 2:30 and he had invited himself over to Giorno's apartment as per usual. The blond never seemed to mind, often doing the same, however, today Mista had finally walked in on the blond's yoga routine, downward dog greeting him as he opened the door.
"Oh, Mista. I thought you were at work?"
Normally pale cheeks were a little pink, the braid was up in a bun, and he was in a cute salmon crop tank and yellow yoga pants -that were sinfully tight- ensemble. Not taking his eyes off the prize, Mista cooly shut the door and sat down in a random chair.
"It was slow so they let me out an hour early."
"Oh! How fortuitous, I was meaning to talk to you, let me just pack this up-"
"No, no it is perfectly fine, you keep doing what you are doing, we can still talk."
Blond eyebrows quirked up, but he continued his whatever yoga actually entailed that involved a pert butt being raised into the air. A glorious minute passed before he bittersweetly moved on to the next pose. Goodbye, beautiful sun, Mista mourned, how he wished he could have given soft yellow a touch before it was gone. Giorno moved on to the next pose- god he was flexible- before finishing what he was going to say.
"I'd like to go on a date, Mista."
Uh, that was certainly an interesting way of going about it, but "sure, you ah, sound like you got something in mind already."
He moved on to the next pose, the butt was back as he leaned down, Mista couldn't tear his eyes away.
"Yes, actually, the City Festival is this weekend, and I have Saturday morning off."
Yoga pants were magical. So stretchy.
"I had heard you had the day off too. What do you think?"
Oh, shit he was talking still.
"Mista?"
Blue eyes turned to meet his and were narrowed-
"Festival this weekend? Sounds like a plan," thumb up for good measure, and apparently he guessed right.
Giorno relaxed, smiling "lovely, would you like to meet at your place?"
A thinly veiled request for Mista to drive, "sure, my place is fine."
......
Giorno was, quite frankly, a head turner. Going out in public with him involved a lot of people of all ages and genders flirting, complementing, asking him out even though Mista was right here next to him for God's sake, trying to take pictures with him, and on one memorable occasion proposing. Giorno, the blessed angel, seemed surprised every time and was kind to everyone, but did look elsewhere when Mista punched the proposal guy in the face that one time (the ensuing police incident went along the lines of 'no, Mr. Officer, I didn't see who did it, but I'll keep an eye out' with an overkill smile).
So, Mista prepared himself this time, hardly surprised when Giorno apeared at his door with large sunglasses, Mista's old letterman jacket (where did he find that), short shorts, and some converse. "I've come up with a disguise," he had said, very seriously too. He still had his usual hairstyle, three donuty spirals and a braid, but Mista supposed his eyes were hidden and he looked younger dressed like that?
Honestly it just made him look more like a model.
For Giorno though, looking this casual and relaxed was actually different enough to be a disguise oddly enough.As backwards as that logic was.
"Yeah, babe, looks good, where'd you find my jacket?"
"It was in your closet."
Well, whatever, he wasn't wearing it anyway, too okay with his current clothing options (almost everything he had on was covered in tiger stripes, like God intended). Locking up, getting on his motorcycle, indulging in some light kissing and groping because damn those shorts are short, the couple eventually headed out to the fairgrounds.
The 'fair' was actually more of a full-blown festival that spanned several blocks on the edge of the shopping district, where businesses tapered off into empty lots, perfectly sized for dubious rides and attractions and seedy merchants and vendors. Their crazy, noisy, bizarre town was home to a pretty diverse community too, so there was always a little bit of everything.
He just hoped that none of the shooting range booths would remember him.
As soon as they were parked and within site of some of the stalls, Giorno made a bee-line straight to the closest sweets vendor, Mista in tow. Two lemonades (with sherbert in them! Wow!), some various weird and deep-fried candies, a big wad of cotton candy, and some other assorted and very unhealthy carnival foods later, the two began browsing various rides. Mista had a deep distrust towards all of the scramblers and tiny coasters, citing all sorts of statistics and design flaws. Giorno conceeded on all but one: the town ferris wheel.
The aging pinwheel of imminent death had been in the town for many generations, was constantly either shut down or stuck, and was too beloved to get rid of or update because literally everyone and their grandmas had ridden it as a kid. It was wedged deep in the collective heart of the community like a splinter that should have been removed but got covered over with skin so whoops too late now. Except with more pretty lights, peeling lead paint, and weird murals all over it. Seriously was that a hyena or a horse or what.
"I always was a fan of the lion dog," Giorno mused as they waited in line, "artists sometimes do funny things when attempting to recreate animals."
"Is it a dog?"
"Mm possibly, what did you think it was?"
"Uh, hyena horse," Giorno made a little 'oh', "why do we gotta ride the wheel of death?"
"It's tradition, Mista," Giorno had on one of his serious faces, which meant either he was actually serious or about to pull an elaborate scheme.
Mista feared both.
"Okay, but if we die on this, because we totally will, I'm gonna haunt you forever."
"That's so romantic," blond-tinged eyelashes fluttered.
"Yeah, I guess. Hey! You believe in ghosts giving blowjobs? Like when celebrities claim to have sex with ghosts?"
"I had never heard about that before. It sounds made up."
After twenty minutes discussing the logistics of obscene ghost related acts, much to the disgust of the other people in line, it was finally their turn to get in one of the ancient and half rusted booths. Mista wasn't normally considered claustrophobic, but if he had to describe the four-person, enclosed, deathbox... he'd go with 'coffin-like'. Fortunately the couple behind them refused to get in the same one as them, leaving them the whole meter by meter square of peril. The seats were super uncomfortable wooden slats, there was gross trash on the floor and on both sides above each bench were large signs that said 'NO INDECENT ACTS ON THIS RIDE PERMITTED'.
"Huh, what a neat sign," Mista mused loudly over the grinding terror mechanisms of the ferris wheel, Giorno pressed against his side, drawing weird shapes on his thigh.
About three fourths of the way up the mechanisms came to a deafening stop, followed by a loud clunk, a few screams, and some other ominous noises. They were now stuck on some nightmarish doom machine until either it inevitably collapsed or until the crews on site could get them down/fix it. He really hope the structure didn't give out.
"Oh no, it appears to have been jammed," Giorno said in feigned surprise, "guess we're stuck for a bit, hm."
"Don't tell me- you actually planned this," Mista half-shouted.
Giorno merely raised a golden eyebrow, "Mista, how could I have planned this? Don't be silly."
He did, he totally planned this, he planned a double suicide.
"Oh my god, Giorno-"
"Shall I get your mind off things?"
Mista's mouth snapped shut with a whimper. That sounded... promising. Possibly illegal, and definitely against the rules of the ride.
Mista tried for disinterested and nonchalance, "I dunno..."
He was very interested.
"I promise, you'll love it," with an impish grin and a wandering hand.
The ride was back up and running in about forty-seven minutes, plenty of time to indulge in some quality bonding time that left Mista unable to make eye contact with the ride operators. Giorno seemed way too pleased with himself, giggling at a very flustered Mista as he went for another lemonade.
As they walked, Mista finally ended up spotting the shooting range booths towards the side. The prizes sat on dusty shelves, hardly touched next to their smug proprietors who had no doubt rigged their setups. No matter though- Mista was considered an expert marksman for a reason: darts, frisbees, knocking phones into cups using physics, video games, ring tosses: his aim was impeccable.
Spying for something good, the gangster jabbed a thumb over to a booth, "hey Giorno, you want a stuffed giraffe?"
Giorno looked interested, an eyebrow raised incredulously, "you know those are all rigged, right?"
Mista waggled his eyebrows, "not for me."
Giorno smirked, pulling out a designer wallet and slipping a few small bills into Mista's hands, "oh?"
"Get ready to see how awesome I am," Mista gloated before making his way up to his first victim.
Exchanging the bills for five rings, Mista stepped up to the rows of bottles and eyed the high point ones interspersed throughout while testing the weights of each ring. Targets aquired, the gunman easily flicked his wrist, sending light plastic rings floating down and hooking on the necks of five inconveniently placed bottles. A perfect score. Giorno clapped lightly as the seedy proprietor gaped, he had over-shot and earned enough points for more than an adorable giraffe. Picking out the plushie and some cool action figures, Mista pulled out some more cash as the proprietor began sweating hard.
"Another round, if you would," Mista grinned wolfishly.
The proprietor looked close to tears, "haha, sir, surely you would- why not try the next stall over? They have watches, and- and gift cards!"
Mista turned to Giorno who shrugged, before sighing, "fine, fine, we'll go to them. Thanks for the business old man."
The other stall did have better prizes, and instead of a ring toss it was an actual shooting range with weak pellet guns. The targets were probably locked in place at the bottom, but all the high point ones were small and were moving on belts, and after some careful watching, he could see that the toy guns were pretty low power. No wonder he felt safe to have so many nice prizes.
"Which do you want?"
Humming when Giorno pointed out a few, most coinciding with what he wanted too. He'd need about 430 points for all of it but it shouldn't be a problem, he just needed the right tool.
Stepping up to one of the tied down toys he'd watched like a hawk, Mista slapped a wad of money down, "I'd like to have a go."
The guy charged double what the others did, and given the slight dust on some of the prizes, did not have very many winners. The seedy man gathered up the wad and gave him 10 pellets of ammo, wishing him luck between cackles. Loading up the toy gun, Mista watched the high point targets move on the belt, noticing any jerks or kinks on the conveyor, and noting that they weren't even bolted down and would probably fall over with one well placed pellet. Sending out the first round as a pilot, Mista smirked in satisfaction as it ricocheted off the side of the aluminium target, causing it to wobble.
The owner went from scared to smug, "oh too bad, you were so close! Better luck-"
A crash as the target tipped over onto the dusty concrete below, effectively silencing the operator who now had a look of fear. Mista could laugh, this was too easy now as he fired off the other nine pellets. One was a dud, but the other eight hit different high point disks, sending them crashing or flying to the ground as the owner gaped.
Mista whistled as Giorno feigned surprise, "why Mista, you hit 9 of the 50 point targets didn't you?"
"It appears so Giorno, that means we have 450 points to spend, what do you wanna get?"
Leaving with their spoils to the broken sobs of the owner, the two made their way through the sea of people and various game stalls. One particular sign caught Giorno's attention, tugging the gangster towards the booth. It was a goldfish catching stall, tiny pool full of orange fish swimming amiably.
"Now it's my turn to impress you," Giorno smiled deviously as he traded a few notes for a flimsy fish catching paddle thing.
He was given two minutes to catch as many goldfish as he could, each worth five points, and Mista gaped at the amount of fish filling the blonds bucket in the alloted time frame, the owner watching on in horror. The tally ended up being well over a hundred and fifty points, the owner whispering 'I didn't even have that many fish' in shock and awe.
Giorno hummed, "I'm up ten points from last year, Mista, what prizes would you like?"
Soft warmth spread from his heart because God he was so in love with this boy with his angelic smile and devilish humor. Lugging their piles of prizes away from the now-closed goldfish catching stand, Mista let himself relax and enjoy the bright atmosphere of the fair, the smells, the sounds, the very familiar Italian accents to his side-
That was Gyro Zeppeli, helping prop up Johnny Joestar while he decimated the same shooting range game Mista destroyed. He could also see Josuke fighting Kishibe Rohan off of his cotton candy while Okuyasu mauled an ice cream cone with someone tall and with interesting facial piercings. Hirose Koichi, local radio host, could be heard over the din too, probably only a few booths over and trying to talk someone down from attacking a woman. Jotaro was staring as put-out looking as possible, being consoled by a red haired man in front of the closed goldfish stall as Mista's downstairs neighbor with the silver hair ate famously spicy fried peppers with the Egyptian tea-shop owner nearby. Jolyne was surrounded by her entire gang as she racked up a high score at a basketball booth, while it sounded like Jonathan broke a strength test machine given all the polite yet harried apologies. They were surrounded by Joestars and their companions.
Huh.
This... this was freaking ridiculous.
"Giorno, your entire family is here," Mista observed.
His entire family was also wrecking havoc on the festival, much like a hurricane ripped through the property values of a luxurious beach-front community. Given the damages it was looking like a pretty accurate statement.
Giorno looked bemused, staring intently at a pastry vendor, "oh, yes, the festival is quite the tradition on this side of the family. Although, half the stalls have banned us at this point."
The pastry vendor was aware of the blond's staring, and was glancing around nervously, "how have you guys not been banned completely?"
The pastry vendor looked terrified as blue eyes bore seemingly into her soul, "it's amazing what several large public works donations can do for opinions."
The pastry vendor performed a quick Hail Mary, "so uh, the nicer version of a bribe? Pretty sure that's at least a tiny bit bribe-y."
Giorno's head tilted subtly to the menu, the pastry vendor was being consoled by another worker, "please, my papa doesn't bribe people. He's merely endearing and hard to dislike due to his noble and earnest disposition."
Giorno eventually seemed to relent his desire for baked goods, much to the relief of the pastry vendor, "right, so a not-bribe."
At that the blond turned to face him, a curious look in his eyes... probably, he was still wearing sunglasses, "does my family intimidate you?"
They absolutely, one hundred percent do, "whaaat? Absolutely not! They're cool, your family is completely cool, love 'em like my own."
A single golden eyebrow arched up from behind large dark lenses, "oh? That's good to hear. My papa is very fond of you."
Good to hear but "your papa is fond of everyone."
Giorno laughed, starting to walk towards the edge of the festival, back to where they were parked, "yes but he's curious if there might be future plans."
Uh, "future plans?"
"Future plans," the blond looked back with a smirk, "you know the kind."
Mista huffed at that, "I know you are the product of some kind of miracle of science or just two dudes loving each other a whole lot-"
"I do have a mother too."
"Fine two dudes and a chick doing something, or shit maybe babies do come from storks or cabbage or whatever," Giorno chuckled brightly at that, "but I'm sorry, Giorno."
The blond turned back, confused, "what for?"
"We can't make a baby," Mista deadpanned.
Confusion broke into a wide smile as the blond snorted loudly and dissolved into a fit of laughter that had tears running down from underneath his sunglasses, Mista joining in not long after, clutching his sides. Ignoring the stares and grimaces of the people passing them by, the two eventually managed to calm down enough to tie down all of their prizes and head home.
As Mista settled down to sleep, Giorno already wrapped around him like a pale and heavy breathing blanket, that Mista would reflect on the blond's words. Future plans? Ones that Papa Joestar would be interested in for his son.
Future plans.
Hmm.
Future-
Mista's eyes went wide.
Oh god he was talking about marriage.
|
“How are things? It’s been a little while since I saw you!”
“They’re not bad.” I wrapped my hands around the mug in front of me, contemplating whether or not I wanted a sip of it. It still felt too hot, and nothing was more uncomfortable than a burnt tongue. A few things came close. Chilli powder on your dick, for example. Ouch.
I’d come here after school as scheduled, Armin kindly dropping me off - without question, too. I suspect he was keen to see Jean (I still don’t understand how anyone could miss that face).
Glancing around, I was the youngest occupant. This particular joint was not the coolest hangout for people my age after a hard day’s grind at the desk, not that I minded being here. I preferred it that way. Less risk of being caught by someone I knew, because lest that happen to me. A second time.
The murmur of conversation was low, somehow consistent in its inconsistency, rising above the clatter of cups and the gurgle of the coffee maker. I couldn’t make out any one individual conversation, or the joke that made that woman laugh, which was reassuring for my own topic.
“You found your organizer in the end, then?” I gestured to it as Hange placed it on the table. I recalled them mentioning it was lost, while I was staying at the Corporal’s place. I’d been too preoccupied at the time to register what a problem losing it was.
“Yeah! You know, it was the strangest thing. I left it in here apparently - I’ve never done that before. Just imagine if someone took it! All the secrets of my clients, and you guys, would be revealed. In the wrong hands, it could really be bad!” Hange shuddered, placing a protective hand over the book in question. They drummed their fingers in turn over the cover, lost for a moment in thought.
For something so precious, they were careless enough to leave it behind in a cafe. Like that wasn’t concerning to know.
“I haven’t had any weird calls, so I guess they were good citizens. Please, be more careful in future…” I warned, feeling uncomfortable.
“Yes, yes. Now, I have two new customers for you. The first one is the one you cancelled on last time,” Hange looked up from the organizer, peering over the rim of their lenses at me. All the hairs on the back of my neck stood up as if to attention. I decided now was the time to take a sip of my drink - I needed the warmth to chase out the sudden chill in me. “He still wants to see you.”
“When?”
“Is Friday good for you?”
I nodded. “Friday works.”Like I had
much
choice.
“I will let him know. Don’t let him down a second time, he has potential to become a regular. Speaking of regulars, you don’t see L-. I mean, your Wednesday appointment?”
My heart skipped a beat despite not catching what they said. I missed something important there, I could feel it. Something I would want to know.
Instead I had to scramble for an excuse. “Ah, no. I guess I wasn’t to his liking after all.”
“That’s a shame.” Hange sounded genuinely disappointed. “I was sure he liked you. Ah, well, in that case, if you’re free from seeing him… I have someone else who could benefit from your talents.”
“Sign me up, I don’t mind.” I shrugged my shoulders. I genuinely didn’t really care who it was. If it didn’t clash with my secret Wednesday appointment, I’d do it. Speaking of which, tomorrow was Wednesday. It would be my first time seeing him since I slept over.
I’d never forget that night; watching the sun rise with him was out of this world. The urge to put my arm around his slender waist and pull him to me was overwhelming, yet somehow I resisted. The moment, between anyone else, would have been perfect. For him, it would have ruined everything I worked so hard to build up.
“Good! Glad to hear it. He’s a really nice man.” Hange said, rousing me from my pleasant memories.
“You know him?”
“I’m familiar.” Hange smiled knowingly at me.
“Are you pimping me out to your friends now, or something? How desperate is this guy?”
“Fairly, but that’s not for you to worry about. He’s quite tall. It would be fascinating to see the two of you…” There was that freakish glint in their eye. It was possibly the lights reflecting off their glasses, but I knew better. Hange’s cheeks were flushed with excitement - the kind that made me feel cold all over for the second time in our brief meeting. Even in the height of summer, Hange had the ability to make me freeze over. They probably sent Satan screaming in the opposite direction, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in therapy twice a week after a chance encounter with Hange.
I could see what they were thinking. I wish to God I couldn’t, but it was there, glimmering in their eyes.
“No! Don’t you dare start thinking like that!” I scolded, pointing my finger across the table at them in warning. “If I find out you’ve set the room up with cameras, I’ll quit. I’ll murder you and then quit.”
“Haha! It would be worth it!”
“Just how big can this guy be, anyway?” Big enough to get Hange excited. Mind you, there was plenty of obscure things that got them excited.
“He’s over six foot tall, easily.”
I whistled. “Impressive.”
“If you end up topping, please tell me all the details. I’m curious to know.”
“Did you need anything else today, Hange?” I tried to skip over their question. If I lingered on it long enough to understand, I know I’d lose another part of my innocence, and I was running short on that enough as it is.
“I’ll finalize the meeting with him and text you the details.”
“When are you planning on?”
“How about Wednesday? He’ll be gentle, I promise.”
“Ah…”
“You’re free now, aren’t you?” Hange pressed.
I couldn’t think of a decent enough excuse
not
to accept. Not one that I could tell them, anyway. I squeezed my brain like a sponge, praying some droplet would ooze out and rescue me. Alas, it was completely dry.
I slowly nodded my head with resignation. “But... can you make it a later appointment?”
“Around ten?”
“That should work.”
I scowled inwardly as I accepted the booking. It was far from ideal but it was the best I could do. If I escaped from the Corporal’s in decent enough time, I could swing by this other guy’s place. It’s not like I would need to shower in between or anything.
“I understand if you’re scared. He’s really big! But I think you can handle him.” The wink was unnecessary. I pretended not to see it.
“Ugh…” If anyone thought my profession was dangerous, I would honestly tell them I feared Hange’s insatiable hunger for carnal knowledge more than I did my customer’s kinky interests. I had never met anyone more lewd than them; I doubted I ever would, and I’ve seen some shit.
There was, perhaps, one small snippet of information I had that would surprise them. The problem with that was, with no way of knowing what they would do with the information once they had it, I could very well be digging myself into a very, very deep grave.
“Hey, Hange… you remember my two friends, from awhile ago?”
I could feel the regret already.
“Hmm? The cute blondie and the long faced one? I never forget a face.”
Hi, my name is Eren Yeager and I’m some kind of social masochist.
“Yeah, those two. Did I ever tell you that…” I can’t believe I was going to willingly reveal this information. “...That the blonde one thinks we’re a couple? Or something like that. It might be more…
fuck buddies
now.” I winced, dropping my voice low in case anyone overheard me. It was embarrassing enough admitting this to Hange, whose face now lit up brighter than any Christmas tree.
“How wonderful!” Hange clapped their hands together, voice lifting several octaves until I was forced to question just how high they could squeal. Somewhere, dogs were barking in reply. “It would certainly be an interesting combination, don’t you think? With my interest and your experience… what an incredible amount of research data I could gather! Just think-”
“No! No, no, no!” I waved my hands frantically, narrowly avoiding a collision with an unimpressed waitress as she swerved by. I shot her an apologetic look, one that quickly turned as I looked back at Hange. I could see the sliver of drool from the corner of their mouth. I didn’t want to know what kind of imaginings were going on in there.
My life was a joke.
A bad, very not funny joke.
“Your friend, the golden nugget, he’s a precious specimen.” Hange said, releasing me from their grip. They looked thoughtful as they spoke, making me pay more attention.
“You mean Armin?” I asked.
“Mhm.”
“He thought you were a girl for awhile.” I said casually.
“Haha! Wait, for
awhile
? You mean he thinks I’m something else now? What does he think?”
“He thinks you’re a boy.”
“Haha! That’s amazing.” Hange paused, checking their watch. “As much as I’d love to continue discussing the intricacies of genitalia and its social connotations, I have some more work to do elsewhere.”
What a shame. “Take it easy.” I said, sipping my coffee. I didn’t really want it. It just gave me something to do.
“I’ll text you all the details.” Hange, in the blink of an eye, became the professional person I barely knew them to be, packing up their things.
“Make sure you take everything.” I warned.
“It could have been free advertising!” Hange threw back, laughing happily as they bid me farewell.
I sat dazed, sipping my coffee and wondering what the hell exactly had happened to me in the last hour, and how I was going to tell the Corporal I didn’t have endless time with him.
“You don’t have to keep paying for cabs to get here. I can pick you up, if you want.” Apparently the Corporal was frustrated with my mode of transport. He closed the door quietly, that being his way of greeting me.
“I wouldn’t want to be a problem,” I say, wandering into his apartment, the feeling of anxious contentment settling over me. I was relaxed here, it was my favourite place to be, yet at the same time the Corporal put me on edge. I didn’t know what to expect, even now.
“It wouldn’t be. If you want to take a cab home, that’s fine. I can save you money on one length of the journey at least if you would like.”
“Thank you, Sir. That sounds good.” It meant a few extra minutes with him, I’d take it. Spending time with him was the highlight of my week. Wednesdays were the best day of the week for me - beating Friday
and
Saturday, combined. I was always tired for school the next day, of course, but it didn’t bother me. I was getting used to it.
“So, uh… I’ve been thinking of some exercises we could do together. You know, to try and build some trust or intimacy without being too taxing on you.” It was true. I’d looked into it.
I put off my homework to do it, too. Though something told me the advice I read was written by someone like Jean, with nothing else to go on, it couldn’t hurt to at least try.
“I’m almost afraid to ask.” He said, watching me carefully as I sat down on the couch. “Let’s hear it.”
“Alright! Well, apparently something like trust falls is supposed to be an excellent method for building an intimate level of trust between participants - that would be me and you - if you wanted to try it. One person stands behind the other, and then-”
“I know what a trust fall is and how to do them.”
“Oh, well that’s a head start already! Did you want-”
“No.”
“The other option was a staring contest.” I offered feebly, trying to hide my dismay at his ready rejection. He didn’t even take a second to consider it.
There was no chance I would make it through ten seconds of gazing into his eyes, if he accepted the proposal that is. They were far too intense, intimidating, and downright alluring. Damn it all, I would gladly take any opportunity to freely look into them.
“You wouldn’t stand a chance.” The Corporal scoffed, raising a brow at me. Reading my thoughts straight from my head, he was challenging me, wasn’t he?
My pride was hurt. “I bet I
could
do it.” I really couldn’t, what the hell was I saying?
“Alright then. Let’s give it a go. Go stand on one side of the kitchen counter, the lighting is better over there.”
With a confidence I certainly wasn’t feeling, I strolled over to the designated space, standing in his kitchen and leaning over the counter top. He took the side directly opposite, smoothly sliding onto one of the stools, as if he owned the place. Well, he did, but whatever. He was being far too cocky for my liking.
He rested his elbows on the countertop, leaning forward. I mimicked him, drawing our faces a reasonable distance apart. Looking at him this closely set my blood on fire, the heat pounding through me and making my head swim. He was stunning to look at.
Sure, he looked positively
done
with everything and everyone at first glance, but his gaze seemed to soften as he looked at me. Maybe I was imagining it. I probably was.
“On the count of three.” I said, squashing my mounting nerves.
“There should be a forfeit for when you lose.”
“If I lose, you can have tonight for free.”
“That’s a high stake for you to risk.”
“If I win, I get one kiss.”
How I managed to say that out loud, I’ll never know. My mouth dried up the instant the words departed my tongue, which subsequently shrivelled and became useless. Despite my inner turmoils, I was still putting on a good show. His brow cocked again, his eyes scanning my face slowly, leisurely, analyzing for weaknesses.
“Those really are high stakes. Let’s do it.”
Either he was confident he was going to win, or he was confident he was going to win.
The other option I didn’t bear thinking about. There was no way he would accept those terms if he harbored any sense of doubt that would result in me winning. I’d already lost the challenge, before it even began.
Our eyes locked together, a silent battle of wills.
I often thought his eyes were the color of steel. Seeing them closely, they were tinted cobalt. I could see my own intense expression reflected in them, the determination to succeed written clearly on my face.
Every second that passed between us carried with it more tension than the last. My eyes were slowly beginning to sting, the urge to blink and look away creeping over me like clouds on a sunny day. Any moment now and the fun would be over.
I could always steal his lips. It would be his first kiss, I suppose. The thought of being his first kiss was exciting, my blood quickening in my veins as I played the scene out in my head. Of course, it wouldn’t go half as smoothly as I imagined. He’d slap me and throw me out. The stinging cheek would be worth it.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not.” I answered back, unperturbed by his comment. “You are, though.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
“Not as bad as you.”
“When did you get so full of yourself? I think I liked you more as the insufferable, stuttering puppy you were when you first came here.”
“Things change. I got to know you a little more, I guess.”
“You spend one night here and you think you got it all worked out.”
“I learned a few things.”
Like how you thrust your hips in your sleep.
“You’re determined. I’ll give you that.”
I smirked. “I have something to fight for.”
I inched forward, my torso almost completely over the countertop. I was sharing his breathing space, could detect the faint traces of mint mouthwash on his breath I was so close. I wanted to be closer. Close enough to…
“You blinked.” The Corporal declared, pulling back from me. “I win.”
“Wh… no, I didn’t!”
“Yes, you did. You also looked away - I guess you lose, twice.”
Tongue tied, I sputtered at him, a series of false sentences that showed exactly how I was feeling about this. “Wh...no...I...Wai...ahh….”
The Corporal leaned back, folded his arms across his chest, and allowed the smallest of triumphant smiles to pull at his lips. Really, it was only the usually downcast corner that pointed heavenward now, and I was hooked on it. It was enough to make me chuckle, if only at my own desperation to put my own lips to his. I had distracted myself out of the goal, exactly as he knew I would.
Slumping in resignation onto the counter, I propped my head in my hands and looked up at him.
The Corporal shook his head slightly, “I’m not going to take the money from you.”
Like that was the part I was upset over. “I have to leave soon…”
“Are you sulking that badly?” He asked, his face flickering with a shadow.
“N-No! It’s not that… it’s… Hange.”
“Oh?”
“They said since I’m not technically seeing you anymore, that I could see someone else.”
“And that is later on this evening, I suppose?”
I said nothing, feeling guilty. Like I was sneaking off to see my other lover, even though there was no sneaking or a lover. The Corporal wasn’t even mine to begin with. It was stupid, but that didn’t change the way it felt. “If it helps, I’d rather stay here.”
“You have a job to do.” He reminded me, his tone a little curt. “As fun as it is watching you lose childish games, I can’t monopolize your time.”
Why can’t you? I want you to.
“It wasn’t a childish game. It was a carefully researched, intimacy building technique.”
“...I’m beginning to think I’m not as peculiar as I once thought.”
“Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?”
“If that’s how normal people get close to each other, I’m better off as I am.”
Hearing him speak about himself that way was too much. I’m sure he meant it as a lighthearted poke at himself, but to me it was an all out attack on an undeserving person. Sure, he was flawed. He was antisocial, difficult, quiet, awkward. The list went on, and on, and on. He was also much more than that; he was sharp, intelligent, witty, thoughtful, considerate. I couldn’t stand by and let him continue to think of himself that way. It wasn’t right.
“Don’t… talk about yourself that way.”
“You think I’m normal?” He scoffed.
“You’re you. There’s nothing abnormal about it. It’s who you are. Don’t let anyone,
anyone
, convince you otherwise. Not even yourself, Sir. Definitely not yourself.”
He regarded me stoically, making me wonder if my words reached him at all. I was spouting off like I normally do, but I couldn’t help it. “You’re passionate, kid. I’ll give you that.” He said at last.
“...What happened… to you?” I asked, my voice breaking. “To make you believe you’re anything but normal?”
“That’s none of your business.” He unfolded his arms and pushed himself off the stool. “If I wanted a psychologist, I would hire one. Not you.”
Let me in, you bastard.
Just a little bit. I was adding stubborn and closed off to the list of flaws.
“That’s not fair.” I stormed out from behind the counter, reaching out for his arm. Any other person, I would grab their wrist and force them to look at me. My fingers flexed in the air, grabbing at nothing. I retracted my arm, holding it firmly at my side instead. I spoke to his back, not caring if he paid attention or not. Somehow, I knew he would listen to me whether he looked at me or not.
“I know I’m not the most intelligent, or talented, or anything useful. I’m not completely stupid either. I don’t do this job because I’m too dumb to do anything else. I used to have a goal, you know? I’m a person, just like you are, with my own thoughts and feelings. Maybe I’m not normal either, because normal people wouldn’t choose this unless it was their last option. Don’t assume I’m too dumb to understand you, based on my choice of work.”
“I never said you were stupid. It’s not about that.” He spoke so quietly I barely realized he spoke at all. “It’s not something I can talk about.”
“Corporal…” I stepped forward, unsure what I was going to do until I did it.
My arms shook as I curled them around him, pulling him gently towards me. I needed him to know I was here, as he did for me in the past. I wanted him to feel me, although physical contact made him wary, it was all I knew to give him. I said nothing, gently placing my arms around his waist and leaving him enough space to reject me. He didn’t resist, as I thought he would. Instead, he slowly leaned back into me. I could feel his tenseness, the unease, the tightness of his muscles through his grey shirt. But he was trying.
This was his way of saying,
“I’m opening the door”
.
He wasn’t ready for me to step inside yet, but it was good enough to see him opening up.
Being close to him like this brought a sense of peace down upon my unsettled feelings.
I could smell his cologne. My eyes drifted closed, breathing him in, feeling his warmth.
We didn’t speak. There wasn’t a need to.
I think I must have said enough for us both.
|
TREASURE ISLAND
Hidden/Background Characters
It is to be noted I have no idea how or where this information came from.
“And there we have it!” Usopp puts his hands on his hips looking quite proud of his work, “What you think?”
Oyal looks at their subjects, now in perfect condition due to Usopp interference, “It is… functional.”
Usopp shoulders drop at the lackluster response, “Well, if you don't like it-”
“No, no, no” Oyal interrupts, seeing they must correct themself, “I- Thank you. It is perfect.”
And it is… well, nothing is 100%
perfect
, always some variables to account for, but what Usopp made is definitely getting the job done in the best way they could as for.
He made two plants bowls for them. One was long and rectangular with a blue striped pattern to match the grasses blue checkered pattern. The other a normal round flower pot painted with a stylish "Q" on the side for her Bell Q Flower. Both fit nicely on their desk in the girl's room (
Robin's side
) bringing a little of color in their usually bare side, “Really… I appreciate the effort.”
Oyal isn't the most... emotional person but Usopp can see they means it. He puffs out his chest again, “Of course, I am a gardening expert after all. I have been able to create plants even in the most somber of places. In fact, they call me Green Thumb Usopp, the Plant Whisperer!”
“...Stop that.”
Usop opens an eye he closed in his bluffing, “Huh, stop what?”
“Stop... being
correct
.”
Usopp has no idea what they mean by that… but it sounds like a complaint to him! "Heh, I'll try to reel back the greatness."
Oyal bites their lip, trying to think of something to say, "Usopp, if I may ask a question."
"Sure, what's up?"
"What are your...
expectations
on this ship?"
Usopp blinks, trying to think what they mean, "Like, what are we going to be doing?"
Oyal sees they have to explain herself, "It is unfair to ask what you expect out of our adventures but I would like to know what you expect is your place on the crew."
"I..." He wants to say sub-Captain. Or second-in-command. But... this is
Oyal
and he has a feeling that any joking or kidding response would not be appreciated. They doesn't seem to
get
that kind of humor, "I'm... the Marksman."
Oyal nods, "Understood."
"Understood?” Usopp panicked, “W-Wasn't that the right answer?"
Oyal sighs, relaxing a bit at the first sign of emotion he had seen from them, "Sadly, there isn't always a right answer in real life.
Unlike Math
," they mutter the last part, but not low enough Usopp couldn't hear, "I wanted to gather information from your view of the situation in order to make a proper analysis from near all sides."
"Right…” he nodded in understanding, “...What situation?"
Oyal neutral face slips more into... something between determination and concern, "You were the Captain of your old crew and I..." what are they doing, "I just want to know... you... are
good
here. You are good
here
."
It is good to know what with feelings come desires. Desires like wishing the floor would
eat
you so you may escape a conversation that you are in.
Oh Mercury, himself, Usopp is
laughing
, not loudly but he us still laughing at them, "It's okay, Oyal, I think I get what you are saying," he reassures them.
Oyal swallow their doubt, “You don’t have to be the captain to be important,” you are already so important, “It is a burden few can bear.”
Usopp looks down at the floor. The
last
person he was expecting a heart to heart was with
Oyal
, "I… I don't mind not being Captain, I mean…” he waveshis hand looking for his own words, “I guess, I never thought about… about what it really meant to be a leader."
Oyal doesn't know what to say, "You have many traits of leadership. But... I am glad you are not."
Usopp gives them a flat look, "Thanks..."
"Because that means you get to be
yourself
."
There was a silence between the two. Just the two standing and staring at each other not sure what the next course of action should be. One taken aback from blunt honesty and other consumed by more unexplained feelings. Neither really knowing what to say and both begging the other to say something.
“Hey guys, come out here!” Luffy shouts from the main deck.
They both look at each other, silently seeing agreeing with the other, before heading out to the main deck to be greeted with a... an unexplainable sight.
"It’s DONE!" Luffy exclaims proudly, holding up his work of art he has so desperately has been working on, “I put my heart and soul into this, so tell me, what do you think!”
While it is to be noted that Luffy is perfectly able to draw on a bear, his normal art skills… are still not up to snuff. They could sort of see where he was going with it, a skull with a straw hat... if skull had been melted and the straw hat had been stomped on.
"I didn't think that a person could draw that badly," Nami says with a deadpan expression. The other two boys seem to agree as they stared at it with horrified expressions.
Oyal doesn't see what was so bad about it really, but she is right in that it isn't the same as the original symbol, "It is different."
"Luffy?" Zoro asks slowly, "Are you sure you want that as our mark?"
"Absolutely! Nice huh?" Luffy asks back.
"Nice compared to what?" the Usopp blanky puts.
"Our mark should be scary," Zoro put a finger to his chin looking off into the distance, as if thinking of his own terror mark, "it should strike fear into our enemy's hearts."
"I do feel the terror, but it’s the terror of your talent," Nami says shaking her head, "If I saw that mark I'd probably run for it too.”
Usopp chuckles to himself, gathering their attention, "You guys should have told to me about this in the first place," he wags his finger making his way to Luffy, "Maybe you didn't know this about me, but I am an artist."
"Okay… you can make the flag" Luffy pouts sullenly. He is not upset that Usopp was going to make their flag,
he's not
, he was the original creator of it after all, but he is disappointed at himself for
NOT
being able to do it! He’s only seen the damn flag every day for the past
REST OF HIS LIFE.
Usopp puts a comforting hand on Luffy's shoulder, "I know it’s hard, it took me years to get to the skill level that I am at today," Usopp brags, "I have fifty years of experience under my belt after all!"
"Really?" Oyal asks him honestly, looking at Usopp up and down, "Now that you mention it… I can see it."
"HEY!" Usopp yells at him, his face red.
“You were setting yourself up for a joke like that," Nami giggles.
"Shishishishi! That's older than Gramps!” Luffy laughs happily.
"I just… thought it'd sound more impressive?" Usopp offers, trying to him his embarrassment.
"Which give you five or six grandkids, and I don't see them," Nami smirks looking around for imaginary grandkids.
“He would have to have a partner first in order to have that,” Oyal counters logically causing Usopp to stutter more.
"If you're gonna tell lies at least make them sound more believable, Usopp," Zoro offers, trying not to show his own amusement.
"Yeah… that's not one of my better lies…?" Usopp rubs the back of his head with his hand.
"Teasing seems to be easily done to you," Oyal notes for future interactions.
"Why do you all wanna pick on me?!" Usopp cries out as he takes Luffy's flag with a quick grab.
“We tease because we care," Luffy genuinely smiles at him to which Usopp could not reply back with sarcasm. Luffy knows he is going to make his Usopp flag first, it kinda stings that Usopp would make something so
fake
after everything they have been through. The first time it was a joke but now… Usopp is like a brother to Luffy and now it is just a reminder of how much that isn’t this case. Not now at least.
Usopp mutters something unintelligible under his breath as he focuses all his concentration on the logo. He gets the colors he wants and wets his paintbrush. When he left his village he never thought he would put his artistic skills to use. Not that he is ashamed of them but knowing they could be
useful
!
He never really thought of how crew even picked their logos. It seemed so mundane for adventures pirates to take time and really think about what they want their logo to be. Well, they better be ready for the
BEST DAMN SYMBOL THEY WILL EVER SEE
!
"Behold!" Usopp exclaims as he holds out a Jolly Roger for all to see, "Take a look at this masterpiece!"
He held it out proudly and the Straw Hat's all felt their eyebrows raise when they saw it. It… WAS
ACTUALLY
THE STRAW HAT SYMBOL!
Luffy takes the flag, jumping up and down, "YOU ACTUALLY MADE IT” he cries out in happiness. He was expecting Usopp’s fake flag but it was
their
symbol!
Theirs
!
Usopp rubs the back of his head, “Well, your painting wasn’t all that bad, I could still tell what you were trying to go for,” He sounded…
genuine
about Luffy's painting not being terrible.
Usopp did think about making a logo to fit more him… but that sounded kinda… while
childish
. Luffy is the captain. Sure he acted like an airheaded brat most of the time but Usopp had seen him in action and more importantly seen him out of action. Seen him act like… well,
old
. Luffy was somehow the most child-like person and simultaneously the oldest soul Usopp knew.
This isn’t pretending to be a pirate anymore. Usopp knows that he is easily scared and insecure just about
everything…
most of his lying helps him to feel better and to deal with the situation. This isn’t fighting some kid on the playground over who gets to be the captain in their game. There is a big difference between pretending and the real deal. This was it. This
is
it.
"Wow, that's actually pretty good, Usopp," Nami says, actually impressed.
“It is exactly as it needs to be,” Oyal sees not an inch was out of place of the simple geometrical shapes.
"But of course," Usopp tells her proudly, "I may not have fifty years experience but I have just as much skill!" his boastful natural coming back in full force.
"So, we finally settled on it, this is gonna be our mark?" Zoro asks them.
"Sure is," Luffy says with a voice of finality, pointing up at the sails, "Hey Usopp, paint this on the sail too!"
"Right!" Usopp starts climbing up the pole, paintbrush in mouth and determination in his eyes.
Oyal does find themselves impressed by Usopp's artistic skills, mostly due to their lack of skills. They are great with shapes but makes pictures is harder than originally thought. Especially faces. And
bodies
. And anything that requires any amount of detail.
Usopp climbs mast like a monkey going back and forth across the sail. They all sit back and watch him work as he paints the familiar smiling skull with the straw hat on. In record time, he is done.
Usopp is lying on the deck, covered in paint, looking exhausted, "Okay, finished!" Usopp huffs with little breath.
Luffy cheers with bright eyes and a blinding smile as he stares at his mark. It is official now, they are the
Straw Hat Pirates
! "Now, the Going Merry is complete!"
"She didn't look right without it," Oyal spoke low for his ears only.
Luffy grins at them. They may not have been here the first time but they
know
. It was nice having someone know, despite being surrounded by his precious nakama he felt a certain...
disconnect
. They have talked about this. On those nights both refused to sleep, one watching the night the sky, the other afraid of to dream. Luffy sharing too much, Oyal sharing too little. But both just needing to talk about things no one else could understand.
His missed them. His crew. That closeness that took years to build on their home on the Sunny. He knew he was going to see them again and that any version of his crew will always be his nakama but... it still wasn't
the same
and it needed getting used to. It is the waiting that is killing him. More than half his crew is gone, he has to
wait
for them to come to him. Or him go to them. Either way, waiting for his family sucks!
And they both agreed no one should know of the contract. No one should know of past deaths or future mistakes. Changes will be made but not because of what any past life said so but because the actions they are taking up
now
.
Luffy
failed
them. As a captain and a friend. It is like Jinbei said, what is gone is gone but what matters is what we still have. That why is he going to get stronger, and stronger, and stronger, and stronger, and stronger, and stronger, and stronger, and stronger until he is able to protect
everybody
.
The wind takes him out of his musing as it picks up. Oh, and there were dark clouds looming in the distance.
That's not good.
“ROLL THE SAIL, GET TO PORT, MAIN THE RUTTER,” Nami starts shouting orders faster than they could be heard. But somehow everyone still manages to get to their stations as ordered. Luffy and Usopp roled the sails, Zoro maintained the rutter, Oyal finally learned how to tie a knot… sorta. Either way, they were getting ready for impact!
One storm later.
At the end, four of the five crew members end up on the floor.
Zoro groans rubbing his swore arms, “Well that was fun,” he had to keep the damn boat in place, which itself isn't hard, but keeping the rudder from break is what is hard.
Usopp lifts his face up, getting only on his elbows, “What are you completing about? Me and Luffy were the ones running around everywhere.”
"Uffy 'nd I," Oyal mumbles from their spot face down on the floor.
“Hey, I was holding the rutter!”
“Actually,” Luffy says on his back limbs spread out, “I’m fine, I just wanted to be included on the floor.”
"SHUT UP LUFFY!" Both of them glare at their so-called captain.
Zoro turns to Oyal, "What about you Oyal? You just want to join the
party
,” he spat party to make it very clear he doesn’t mean it as a party.
Oyal doesn't lift their head but they do move off her mouth, “No… there is an 88% reason to believe that I am actually dying so I have a verifiable reason to be on the floor. Thank you very much.”
Zoro nods accepting the answer, “Okay, that’s fair.”
Nami stomps in front of them all, “Okay, breaks over, we have land ahead of us.”
That got the crew’s attention, expect Oyal, they are busy dying, “Land?” Luffy jumps up at the thought.
Nami nods a wild glint in her eyes, “Yeah, A legendary treasure island! It’s infamous among pirates,” she goes on in a spooky voice, “It has a strange legend that whoever gets close to faces God’s anger.”
"WHAT!" everyone, besides Luffy, shouts.
This was NOT in Luffy’s contract.
“Awesome!” Luffy shouts over the rest of his crew's cries, “Let’s go piss off God!”
Zoro shrugs picking himself off the floor, “I’m up for it.”
“I’M NOT!” Usopp shouts back, “Luffy told tell me you’re thinking of actually going, do you? This is a
god
, we are talking about here!”
“Treasure Island! Treasure Island!” But it is too late. He is already lost in his own world, too far gone to come back.
"Don’t worry Usopp,” Nami gives a sweet smile… that is ruined but the money sparkling in her eyes, “There is an unimagined treasure somewhere on this island!”
“That’s don’t comfort me at all,” Usopp mutters.
“If this island is so famous wouldn't someone have already retrieved the treasure,” Oyal continues to the floor, it is surprisingly clean for a ship deck, “The chances of it still being there are quite low.”
Nami shakes her head, “Many pirates have tried but before any could find the treasure they were scared away," she brings her hands up to her face making creepy hand motions, "Like some of the crew being turned into boars in the middle of the night. Or a man’s mustache growing so long it turned into a snake and choked him to death!”
“That
REALLY
doesn’t comfort me!” Usopp is practically crying at this point, "Luffy please, listen to reason! We can't go on this island-"
“We’re here!”
“
WHAT
!”
What the Rubberman said was true, as Merry was gently stopped in the shallow waters of the island's coast.
“Let’s go!” Luffy is already jumping off the ship, fearlessly venturing into uncharted territory.
“I’m going to sleep,” Zoro goes back to lying on the floor,
“How can you
sleep
in a place like this
!”
Usopp is at his wit's end with these guys. Do they have a death wish?! He was all for fun and adventure but
purposely
looking for deities to piss off?!
“Zoro!” Luffy stops in his track just to whine, “How are we supposed to piss of God if you're
asleep
!”
Zoro lays there seemingly not going to react to Luffy's calls until he lets out a breath of air through his nose, “...Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” and reluctantly gets up as well, “
The things I do to annoy deities
.”
Oyal finally lifts their head from the floorboards, “Keep that attitude up, Zoro. It will take you far in life.”
Nami jumps off the boat as well into the shallow waters, “Come on, that treasure isn’t going to find itself!”
Usopp stands at Merry's edge, shaking soundly, “You know maybe it best if me and Oyal-" "Oyal and I," Oyal butts in, "-stayed on the ship, after all, we can’t just leave Merry and Oyal seems to be out of it so-”
“Usopp,” Oyal starts to get up, weak and shaking but they are
trying,
Mars curse all, “Do you
really
want to be the only two on the ship of a cursed island while our two best fighters and the only navigator explore said island?”
Usopp closes his mouth with a click, “HEY GUY, WAIT UP!” and hurriedly follows the others into god's domain.
And that’s how they end up deep into the jungle forest terrain… looking for the treasure, they guess.
Oyal certainly has no idea of where this fit into the story. They don’t recall any "Treasure Island" no matter what Luffy says. He conveys he has no memory of an island as such and Oyal believes him but facts are facts that they had some connection to his past. This could be like the Animal Island, but even that had snip bits of truth, as strange as it was. Too bad Luffy would be no help in this situation either.
Luffy, on the other hand, knows exactly where he is! But he isn't going to tell Oyal that. Where would that fun in that be?
"This is not a scary island. Nope! No sir, this is just an abandoned island full of treasure and we are going to leave just fine," Usopp mutters reassurances under his breath the entire time, trying to reason his anxiety away. He has both his hands on Zoro's shoulders as they follow behind Luffy, "There is no way that a god would really be here, right Oyal?" asking the most reasonable person on the crew.
"Gods comes in many forms, chances of us being cursed is about 65% just being here," Oyal lethality reassures him, “95% if we piss them off.”
Usopp goes back to crying, head in his hands, "I didn't want to die like this! I didn't want to die at all!"
"We're not dead yet, Usopp, pull yourself together," Zoro grumbles over his shoulder.
"Yeah,
yet
is what I'm worried about!"
Luffy laughs, "Don't worry Usopp, I'll just kick what mombo-jumbo's ass is here and we can have a feast!"
Nami shakes her head, "Come on, Luffy, don't tell me you actually believe in those rumors," Nami waves her hand carelessly, "Those rumors are probably just some pirate got too drunk and let their imagination run wild. And I'm surprised at you, Oyal, never took you for one to believe in all that nonsense."
Oyal shakes their head, "Everything has a reason Nami, this is no exception."
“
GET OUT OF HERE
,” A voice booms throughout the woods, the echoes surround them at every angle.
Usopp jumps, his grip now vise-like on Zoro's board shoulders, “W-Who’s that!”
Luffy gives his (as his crew is starting to learn)
shit-eating smile
, “It’s god, obviously.”
“
I AM THE GUARDIAN GOD OF THIS ISLAND
,” the voice continues, “
IF YOU WANT TO SAVE YOUR LIVES LEAVE THIS ISLAND IMMEDIATELY
."
"Okay!" Usopp makes to turn but Nami stops him with a single hand on his overalls.
“Guardian God?” Nami questions back.
“
AREN'T YOU GUYS PIRATES
?” the voice sounding less sure and less formal.
“That's right,” Luffy reassures the god.
“
I KNEW YOU WERE PIRATES
!”
“Why would a god need to ask that?” Zoro mutters, this god sounded less and less cool to defeat with every second. Like a secondary god you never hear about, “I bet he can’t even curse us.”
“
WHY
ARE YOU DISAPPOINTED!” Usopp shouts.
“Are you really a god?” Nami asks out loud.
"NAMI, NOT YOU TOO!" Usopp was fighting a lone battle.
“
S-SHUT UP! IF YOU'RE NOT LEAVING, THEN FACE GOD'S JUDGEMENT
."
"Been there, done that,” Oyal mutters bitterly.
“Hehehe, same," Luffy joyfully agrees, "Here let me just…” he pulls back an arm, swinging it in an inhuman fashion.
“
W-WHAT?! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHAT ARE YOU
!?" the voice sounding less and less like a supernatural deity and more and more like a panicked fruitloop.
“I’m Rubberman!” Luffy unhelpfully explains, “
Gum gum-
” shoot his arm in the correct direction, “
Pistol
!”
"
WAIT-
" Just to hit a bush in the face… wait...
THE FACE
?!
“WHAT IS THAT THING?” Nami for the first time show signs of panic.
“God is shorter than I thought,” Zoro observes the now taken down guardian god of the forest.
“Its that a man?” Usopp, now the threat has been neutralized, takes a closer look at what Luffy punched.
“Ah,” Oyal realizes what was going on, “So we are finally here after all,” they thought they just skipped this island and adventures, apparently not, "You know, you could have given some warning," they turn unamusingly to their captain.
Luffy shrugs, looking as unapologetic as he feels, "Nah!"
Usopp bravely touches his toe to the bush...
man
? “So… is he dead?”
After making sure bushman was in fact
not
dead, and after clearing up serval miscommunications, they got well acquaintance. Taking seats with one another and chatting like they didn't just scare the crap out of each other.
The lion-pig serve drinks of fruit juice in pumpkin bowls all around, “A Devil fruit,” Gaimon notes with some awe as he takes his homemade cup, “Back when I was a pirate, I'd heard rumors about it but never met one face to face.”
Luffy tilts her head, “Really?
Nothing
? Some marines have it too you know. Kinda mandatory for the admirals even."
Gaimon rolls his eyes, “Oh yeah like I’m going to pick a fight with an admiral.”
Luffy grins to himself as he scratches the back of the fox-chicken's head. The animals here were
strange
there was no doubt about it, but at the same time, they were so normal as well. They didn’t shoot laserd, or have super strength they were just… existing. A weird existence but not making a huge impact. If anything they seem pretty lazy as far as strange animals go, just taking two animals and mashing them together. Despite the above average intelligence it was pretty disappointing.
Gaimon studies Luffy interaction with his friends closely, “They sure seem to like you..."
"I'm really good with animals," Luffy supplies uselessly. Having King’s Haki does help some but he likes to think he is a likable person, 1 out of millions super-human power or not.
Nami put her cup of… she
thinks
is mango juice down, “So… god, huh?”
Gaimon smiles sheepishly, “Yeah sorry about that, kinda used that cover to get people off this place,” he pets one of his animals, a snake-rabbit, “I have been stuck in this box for the past twenty years.”
“That’s kinda stupid,” Zoro unabashedly comments.
“SHUT UP! I AM A MAN WITH PRIDE!”
Luffy slowly sips his juice, deep in thought, “So… you are half-human, half box….” his train of thought lead down a
certain
direction...
“Stop,” Oyal puts their hand up, “Stop that train of thought right there. Just… he fell in the box Luffy not… whatever you are thinking.”
Usopp groans a little, “So, do you wanna… us to...” he gestures to all of Gaimon, “Take you out?”
Gaimon shakes his head, “After twenty years, my body has fitted into this treasure box perfectly. My spine and organs have become fitted into this thing, if you break this box, my body will be done for.”
Oyal pictures it, “That is… mentally disturbing. I did not have to hear that.”
Gaimon snorts, "It's the truth."
Usopp chuckles to himself, “What a chatterbox.”
Someone laughs at that… well not really a laugh but more like a single bark of air coming out a throat, like it wanted to laugh but doesn't have the muscles to do so.
That was the sound that comes out of Oyal's throat, “Ahk…" they chough in their hand, blood rushing to their face, "...excuse me.”
Everyone stares at her for a moment until Usopp grin almost splits his face into two, “Well thanks for telling us Gaimon, it must be nice to get that…
off your chest
.”
Oyal unwilling lets out another bark.
“We didn’t mean to kick your
booty
.”
“
Ahkakaka… Usopp… please cease…
” Oyal sounds almost to be in pain despite the silent laughter.
“But it turns out you have a
heart of gold-
AH!”
Nami hits his head with a swift chop of her hand, “Enough already.”
Gaimon lifts his single eyebrow, whistling not asking, rather changing the subject, “But, who are you guys exactly? There's something different compared to the pirates that came previously.”
“I'm Luffy," said man holds a hand up, "The man who will become the Pirate King.”
"Oh, I see," Gaimon sips his juice acceptingly… Only to spit it out, “
Wh-what
??”
“You heard me,” Luffy looks at the lost juice,
what a waste
.
“So you're going after the One Piece, you say?" Gaimon grumbles, letting this information sink in, "You're not really planning to go to the Grand Line are you?”
“Yup,” Nami affirms, “We even have a map to it.”
“
Don't underestimate it
. That place is the hell's coffin,” Gaimon shudders in memory, “ I was one of the first crews to go after Roger’s death. I have seen pirates that escaped from the Grand Line. They were spiritless, like the undead. I didn't speak of what they saw, they were so traumatized.”
Zoro tenses his shoulders, Nami gulps a bit but refuses to look away, Usopp is shamelessly shaking, while Oyal thought about how to make an origami lion-pig.
Luffy put every ouch into his self-control not to snort because…
really
. That was
Paradise
part of the Grand Line.
Come on, East Blue
!
Gaimon continues gravely, not noticing two of his audience not really paying attention, “Beyond that, there are so many rumors about One Piece that no one knows the truth anymore. The great pirate era has already lasted 20 years,” he looks far off into the sky as if it held any answer, “The One Piece is no longer a mere legend but a dream within a dream. And where is it in the Grand Line? Who knows...” he finishes his monologue dramatically looking off into the distance, commanding a solemn respect.
“It's at the end on an island called Raftel where the only way to find it is to decipher all four of the Rio-Poneglyphs,” Oyal explains easily, ignoring any command to the mood.
All eyes turn to them , giving her a look like they split their head. Oyal is not so inept to social cues to know they have said something wrong, but
what
, “... is something concerning?”
Luffy laughs at their plight, “Shishishishi, Oyal! They don’t know about
that
!”
Oyal lets that sink in for a moment, “They… they don’t?”
“No!" Luffy waves his hand back and forth, "The One piece is considered a legend here!”
Oyal tries to wrap their brain around this, “I don't… comprehend.”
Luffy understands, he having a hard time believing it too now that he looks at it, “It’s the East Blue, they don’t even get devil fruits here despite Smokey being in Loguetown!”
“I just thought it was common knowledge was all,” Oyal tries to explain themselves. They have lived with the One Piece for a good 800 years. How can that history just...
be gone
?
Luffy nods, disappointed as well, “You would think,” sipping his juice.
“Okay! We get it!” Nami shouts, “You two are the
experts
here! Don’t have to rub it in!”
“Damn,” Gaimon gets a far-off look in his face, “Pirates sure have changed in the past two decades,” he sizes up Luffy with another look, “Where do you get so much confidence from?”
Luffy smiles, “I'll definitely find the One Piece and show you,” he doesn't answer the question.
Gaimon just stares, like he hasn’t seen Luffy right before now, he closes his eyes and chuckles lovely to himself like he was told a bad joke he couldn’t help but find funny, “I give up.”
Luffy cocks his head to the side, silently asking him to go on.
“Your face resembles mine, like a twin,” Gaimon states.
Usopp makes a face, “No, there is literally none,” he points to Zoro, “It anything you would be related to Zoro.”
Zoro sputters out his drink, “What the
HELL
!”
“What? You both have green hair,” Usopp says innocently.
“No! Not like that,” Gaimon interrupts, “His
expression
! That drive to find your treasure, even if your life's on the line. It was that passion that changed my life.”
He goes on his tale, "Twenties years ago my companions and I landed on this island trying to find the treasure that lay here. After a month of looking, all we found was one empty box. But I didn't give up, I searched at the top of a cliff only to fall back and get stuck in this box. I passed out and when I awoke my companions had already set sailed away, leaving me behind.
“For all the years since then. That one glance at the treasure hasn't left my mind," his eyes were
tried
, tired of years of solitude, but determined as ever, "So when Pirates come to this island in search of treasure I used my animals friends to scare them away. In this manner for 20 years I have guarded the treasure,” his grim-faced turned fierce, “They are
mine
! There's no doubt about it.”
“They're yours,” Surprisingly coming from Nami as she stands up, “Gaimon, I understand. I'll help you get that treasure!”
Gaimon eyes sparkled, “Really?”
Zoro tilts his head, “I thought you only stole from
pirates
?”
Nami yells, “That's rude! I have principles too, you know!”
Gaimon takes it in, could this really be. He feels like he can trust them… these pirates… this is crew is nothing like he had seen before, "Follow me then!" he leads the crew into the forest.
They all got up to follow, Oyal being in the rear saw
something
that caught their eye, "... Curious."
They catche up to them later, being lead to the flat hill where all Gaimon's dream stood there, never to be able to get there. How many days has he spent here looking up at a dream just out of his reach?
Luffy looks up, a ball of dread forming in his stomach, “Here, huh?”
Gaimon is breathless from the trek, “I haven't been here in a long time," this may be his dream but no point in staring at it every day, "Finally the time has come! Today's a good day! I'm counting on you, Straw-hat!”
There is no getting out of this now. Luffy accepts his fate and nods refusing to let anything show on his face, “Okay!"
He pulls a hand back, "
GUM GUM ROCKET
!” and sprung himself up to the top!
Back at the bottom all of the crew and bushman stare in anticipation at the edge of the cliff, waiting for confirmation of a long-lasting dream. Staring... and staring... and
staring
.
"Is he... okay?" Usopp asks after a while.
Zoro shrugs, "Maybe he got lost?"
"You only wish he was worse than you, Windchimes," Oyal comments.
"HEY-!"
Gaimon interrupts them, getting worried, “Straw Hat? How is it? Do you see it?”
Nami taps her foot, “What is he doing?” she calls up, “Luffy? What's happening?”
Luffy peaks over the edge, his smile in place but looking more...
forced
, “I've got it. Five treasure boxes!”
Gaimon cries out in happiness, “You got it! Finally, after all these years, the treasure! Well, come on down already! We got to celebrate!”
“Nope!” Luffy puts extra emphasis on the
'p'
.
“Nope?" he repeated, "What do you mean
nope
?!”
"I think it means
no
," Oyal helps.
"Oyal, now's not the time," Nami puts a hand on her head.
“I really don’t want to give you them,” he didn’t then, he doesn't now, “They're mine now!”
Nami calls up herself, “What nonsense are you saying? Stop joking, Luffy," He
has
to be joking around. There is no reason he would want it. He isn’t… he isn’t that kind of guy.
"Yeah!" Usopp agrees, getting annoyed as well, "That treasure belongs to Gaimon! Hand them all over!"
“No!” Now he is just sounding childish.
“Stop being selfish!” Nami shouts.
“I
am
selfish!”
"
Luffy
! "
"It's okay," Gaimon's strangely soft voice cuts through the air.
Nami turns on her heal, "It's not okay! You've guarded that treasure for 20 years and Luffy is being a brat!"
Gaimon shakes his head, "Straw-hat, you're..." his voice wobbles. His eyes were watering a bit but he manages a smile, "you're really a nice guy!"
Zoro bows his head in understanding, "So... it's gone."
Usopp and Nami whip their heads at that, "Gone?" Usopp murmurs, not really getting it.
Gaimon nods, looking far older than he did before as tears stream down his face, "I thought of it before. That maybe... even though it's unbearable to think it,” he cradles his face in his hands, trying and failing to keep his composure, “
There's nothing inside, is there
?"
"Yeah," Luffy face was unreadable, "They're all empty."
Nami puts a hand to her mouth, "I can't believe it... the treasure you've guarded for 20 years... is empty boxes," she could feel a faint chill run down her spine at the thought of that. All her treasure, just one day... gone.
"It’s something that happens often with treasures," Gaimon continues smoothly despite the tears, as if his dream of twenty years didn't just break down in front of him, "Sometimes pirates find them after the treasure has been taken. Treasure hunting in a trial and error process. You could waste a lifetime, sacrifice your life, only to get nothing at the end. There are many pirates like that."
There was a silence between them all, as if someone had died. In a way, someone did as they found that they should mourn the dream itself. Because in this world when your dream dies, you die as well.
Luffy jumps down, breaking the silence. He is in his crouch position, leveled with Gaimon as his hat covers his face "Cheer, Bushman!" he lifts his head to give his biggest smile, "You only had to wait 20 years, if no one came you could have waited 30 years!"
"How is that suppose to make him feel better?" Nami says not unkindly.
"Well, he is not incorrect," Oyal offers.
What matters is that Gaimon appreciates it all the same, "Straw-hat," he takes a deep breath and sighs, as if trying to let go of 20 years of struggle in one breath, "Heh, thanks."
Luffy nods, "Now all that's left is One Piece," he looks at Gaimon and really... just look at him for a moment.
He is a 30 something-year-old man, trapped in a chest with the only movement being his feet, the worse spinal problem that even Chopper would faint from sight, and has hair that looks like brush growing out of his head...
He knows exactly what he wants to do, "Hey Gaimon!" he smiles is true, “
Join my crew!
”
Gaimon's eyes widen, "Huh? What are you talking about?"
Oyal was right next to him, looking more unamused than usual, "Yes Luffy,
please
enlighten us."
Luffy held out his hands, "Hear me out… I want him to join."
Oyal sighs, "Luffy this isn't something you can just decide on the spot."
"Why not? I can ask him!"
"He's not fit for the Grand Line," Oyal reasons, "He would get washed away within moments of entering that sea. He will be
useless
to us."
"So would you," Luffy counters, "You're weak as hell."
Oyal stop full on, they have nothing to say. Their throat seems to be closed and their voice is gone. Which was
illogical
. They always have an answer. A solution.
Thery’re...
weak
.
Luffy goes on, "He might be weak but he's not useless just because he is in a box, Oyal. No one is useless."
Gaimon speaks up, "I have to say I am thankful for the offer but I can't," he gestures to his animals, "I have other things I need to protect now."
Luffy pouts sadly at the same answer as before, "Are you sure Bushman?"
Gaimon nods, "I have lived with these guys for 20 years through hard times and happy times. I can't just leave them,” his animals slowly started to surround him, feeling his distress and wish to comfort. For a bunch of animals, they were scary smart, “Now that I know there's no treasure I feel free for the first time. From now I'd like to live my life the way I want. In reality, I've begun to enjoy living in a box."
Luffy giggles, "I see! That's too bad because Bushman's so interesting!"
Zoro looks at the weird animals around them, "The strange creatures are your true companions, huh? Though you are the strangest."
"WHAT DID YOU SAY?!" Gaimon yells in anger.
"I see..." Oyal says, their tone neutral, "I have been short-sighted in my calculations," they turn to Gaimon, "Mister Gaimon, if I may ask a question?"
Gaimon calms down, "Uhm, sure, what do you need to know?"
"I would like to inquire you about this flower," as they held out a certain pink flower from her pocket.
Nami recognized it, "Isn't that your Bell Q Flower?"
Oyal shakes their head, "It is the same species but it seems that it is native to this island as well."
Gaimon takes the flower in his stubby hands, "Yeah I know it, it is few and far between but they do grow here. If you asking what they are called I can’t give you an answer."
Oyal nods their head, "That is fine, names are not important where. The question is: Do you know what they do?"
Gaimon scratches his cheek, "I mean... kinda? I have no idea how they work but I do suspect they are what make my animals friends so... special."
Oyal takes out their journal, "I see," while this information is little, it is
valuable
, "I would like to be the one to formally ask you to be apart of the Straw Hat Grand Fleet,"
"WHAT?!" Now all of the Straw Hats were surprised at that.
Luffy groans, "
Noooooooo
. I don't wanna fleet around!"
Oyal straightens up, "Luffy I understand your reasoning to have everyone be free and follow their own path as it lines with your philosophy but I must implore you to just call it a Fleet. I have no other name."
"What about ‘Straw Hat Fan Club’?" Luffy offers.
"No."
"The Straw Hat Gang."
"Worse."
"The S.S. Friend-ships?"
"WHEN DID YOU HAVE A FLEET?" Nami yells over them.
Luffy puts a finger in his nose, "It's not made yet, and it's
not
a fleet. I don't want to order people around."
"It would be helpful on the Grand Line," Zoro supplies. Of course his captain would know Mihawk, an emperor, and have a fleet in the making.
Obviously
, his mind chastised him for his doubt,
your captain is going to be Pirate King and you’re going to be right next to him.
"A fleet? He has a
freaking fleet
?!" Usopp has not-so-silently whispers to himself. He quickly pulls himself together, “I mean- Ah Ha! My years of training my own fleet are finally going to go to use!”
"Anyway," Oyal gets back on track, "I see now that while having you as imitate crew would cause a negative impact it would help in the long run if you took up pirating again. I stand by what I said in that joining us on the Grand Line will be determinative but your usefulness would be better suited here."
They are
not
wrong. Gaimon would be fish food, likey killed with a high 98% of not even making it past Laboon. But… Luffy isn’t
wrong
either. Gaimon could be useful in other ways. They just hved to have enough variables to see them.
Gaimon gaps at them, from Luffy, to Oyal, to his animals, and back to Luffy, "You're really serious?"
Luffy grins, "Yup!"
Oyal continues, "If you could stay here and research these species of flowers and their effect on your animals it would be greatly effective."
Gaimon's mind was going a mile a minute, "Well…” he picks his words carefully counting off his finger, “I don't know anything about zoology, biology, geology, geography, crypto-zoology," then to his other hand, "evolutionary theory, evolutionary biology, meteorology, limnology, history," then to his toes, "herpetology, paleontology, botany, dendrology or horticultor…” he takes a breath, “but I think I can take a wild guess."
"Perfect,” Oyal nods, “You have more experience with these animals than any other human being alive. Experience is worth more than theory," Oyal starts mumbling to no one, “The question is why are these animals here and how did they form. Their evolutionary structures are vast beyond any normal natural process suggests. Not to mention the chances of something this unnatural in the East Blue are astronomical. How has no one notice these changes before? Is this a cover-up? Some kind of way to hide any true value this ocean hold by keeping it under wrap from the scientific community-” “Oyal, you’re mumbling to yourself again.”
Oyal catches themselves, “Oh, yes, um, sorry,” she turns to Nami, "Nami can you give him a map to the Animal Theater Island?"
Usopp turns as well, "Animal Theater?"
Nami shakes her head, "Don't ask, it's an island we went to before you. And yeah, I have a spare on the ship but..." they look at Gaimon, "Are you sure?"
Oyal nods, "This will be...
interesting
."
Usopp nods, putting a hand on Oyal’s shoulder, “Right, right interesting. And hey, if all else fails then he could still come back to the crew as a…”
“
Don’t
,” Nami whisper-threatens.
Usopp weighed his options,
worth it
, “A
boxer!
”
“Ahk-” Oyal tried to hold back this time but alas… “
KAKAKAKAKAKAKAKAKA
!” they let out a broken cackle loud enough for all the island to hear. Any sane crew would get shivers at the sound, thinking perhaps a witch or some villain had completed their dastardly plans for world domination.
But there was no sane crew, just the Straw Hat Pirates that took delight in the strange laughter, “PF-HAHAHAHAHA,” Usopp was laughing just as hard, “You’re laugh is insane!” he got out between the giggles.
“KAKAKAKA -it’s not like- KAKA - I have a- KAKAKA -choice!” Oyal tries to fight back but no, the joke was just too funny for them.
“HEHEHEHEH,” Even Nami had to calm her own laughter.
“WAHAHAHAHA! YOU GUYS ARE HILARIOUS!” Gaimon shouts.
“AHAHAHAH,” Zoro laughs more at his crew than with them, but it was laughter nonetheless.
“SHISHISHISHISHI!” Luffy is surprisingly the first to move back to Merry, "Well, come on!"
Once back Nami got the spare map to Animal Theater Island and gladly hands it over to Gaimon.
"Don't know how much good that will do," Gaimon takes the map, “I don't even have a ship."
"Oh, here," Luffy goes off the side of the Merry and got Buggy's old clown dingy, "You have our old one."
Usopp sputters, “When did we have
that
?”
Nami rolls her eyes, “How did you
not
see that! We tried it to the back of the ship have been pulling it this whole time. We weren’t going to let a good dingy go to waste.”
"Really?!" Gaimon looks in shock at the small, but still very managing boat.
Nami shrugs, "We have a ship now so we aren’t really using it, so you can take it off your hands."
Gaimon sniffs a bit another wave of emotion coming off of him, "I... I can't thank you guys enough. In one day you have changed my life more than I could ever describe."
The Straw Hats just smile but they felt their hearts soft at his words.
Oyal coughs a bit, "Yes, well once you get there, find Gori Illa they have a Two of Clubs cards, you should be able to use."
"A card?" Gaimon questions.
"Yes, it will connect us to let me know you are there," Oyal uselessly explains.
Gaimon thinks a moment but decides not to question it, "Alright, I'll look into this Bell Q Flower business. But you guys go off on your dreams to the Grand Line, you here!"
Luffy grins like a madman he is as, he gets on board the Merry, "Absolutely! We’ll be seeing you! Take care!"
Gaimon waves his hands as his animals howl and hoot behind him, "Till we see each other again, Straw-hat! Work hard towards your dreams and I will too! If anyone is going to be Pirate King, I'm sure it's you!"
And that ends this story. With one more member of the Straw Hat and another questioning their position.
"Zoro, a word please?"
Zoro lifts an eyebrow at their astronomer, "What?"
They gesture a little farther from the rest of the crew and he follows, waiting to see where this was going.
Oyal stops and bites their lip, reading themselves, "I... have been lacking in my field of expertise. Due to circumstance, my stamina is at a low and while my mental well being is... bettering. My physically one needs improvements well. I mean what I said. Experience is more than theory and as such, I would like to rely on you for more experience."
Zoro sighs, "In English, please."
Oyal takes a deep breath,
here goes something
, "Wouldyoupleasetrainme!" they breath it all in one word.
Zoro stills for a moment, first sinking in the request brought to him, then thinking it over in his head a couple of times, getting a feel to the idea, all while Oyal sweats on the spot.
Oyal feels a chill run down their back and their palms turn sweater but they ignored it.
Weak
. Luffy is right, they are
weak
.
It doesn't matter. You won't be here for long anyway.
But... they
need
to be more useful to the team. While they are here at least and even after that so their own sake.
"I won't go easy, you know," his face betrays nothing.
"I know," they says barely above a whisper.
"I won't accept anything less than
everything
you got, understand."
"Understood."
Zoro stone face breaks into a maniacal grin, one that Oyal is sure was the last thing many of his enemies saw until they woke again in Impel Down... if they woke up again.
"Alright, then," his gaze is as merciless as the sea itself. Gone is Zoro that slept until noon and could barely write his name, and in his place awaken the demon with dimples. He looks at them like a cruel child looks at a new and shiny toy A horrible mentality...
I can’t wait to break them.
OOO
|
As soon as they went inside, they saw Shiro and Adam laying on the couch, watching something on the television. Lance greeted them awkwardly as Keith made a beeline for his room.
“Damn Keith, not even a hello?” Shiro called. “What's that you got in your arms?”
“None of your business!” he shouted back from the hallway. Lance chuckled and sat down on the loveseat in their living room.
Adam twisted around to look at Lance. “Hey. Did you get him that?”
“Yeah, I won it at the carnival. And he won me a shark. And then we got a lion. Keith won it, but we're sharing it.”
“Aw that's cute,” Adam said with a smile. Lance noticed Shiro hadn't said anything and he tried not to feel like an intruder.
“Lance, can you give me those pictures we took?” Keith called. Adam and Shiro shared a look that made Lance nervous, so he hurried to go meet Keith in his room. “I don't wanna forget them, so I wanna put them up now.”
“Yeah, here,” he said, pulling them out of his jacket pocket. Keith took the strip of pictures and tucked it into the corner of a small corkboard covered in reminders. “Do you need any help?”
“No, I'm just gonna throw some clothes and my toothbrush in a bag. I'll meet you out there in a minute.” Lance nodded and kissed his cheek before heading back to the living room, stifling his anxiousness.
Shiro and Adam were mumbling, but by the time Lance sat back down, they were sitting up and looking at him. It made him feel like he was being interrogated.
“Is Keith heading back to your place?” Shiro asked. Lance couldn't read his expression. It was far from the look he gave Roland, far from the glare Lance had received when he first met him in the hallway, but it was also far from the friendly smile on his face when Lance picked Keith up for their first date.
“Uh, yeah. Is that… cool?”
Shiro snorted. “I'm his brother, not his dad.” Lance nodded and tucked his hands under his thighs to keep them from fidgeting.
Thankfully Keith came back with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “Ready?”
Lance started to get up, but Shiro's voice made him freeze. “Hey, I was thinking of having a cookout on Friday. You should come, Lance.”
“Really?”
“What are you doing?” Keith asked, stepping in front of Lance. Adam laughed quietly and Shiro shrugged.
“Being nice.” Keith narrowed his eyes and looked back at Lance. “I'm just saying, it looks like this g- Lance is gonna be coming around a lot. I'd like to be able to do more than just say hi when he appears for five minutes.”
Keith and Lance both blushed at that. Lance took his hand gently. “Um, I'm up for it,” he said.
Shiro nodded and smiled. Lance wasn't sure if it was genuine but it was progress. “Alright, so we're gonna go now,” Keith said, tugging on Lance's hand. “See you tomorrow, Shiro, Adam!”
He pulled Lance out the door, but not before they heard Shiro yell, “Use protection for any recreational activities!”
Keith groaned and hurried them back into the car, his face a deeper red than Lance's. “I'm so sorry. God, that asshole. He's just getting back at me because I was a little shit when he brought Adam home-”
“Keith, Keith, babe!” He grabbed his face before he could get in the car, hoping to calm him down. His eyes widened as he looked at Lance. “It's okay. Siblings always do that kind of thing. God knows I've done it to my brothers and my sister.” He smiled and kissed him softly. “It's okay.”
Keith took a breath and nodded, leaning into Lance for a moment. Then he pulled away and kissed Lance's cheek. They got in the car and Lance turned the engine, hesitating for a moment.
When his hand stayed unmoving on the gear shift, Keith put a hand on his shoulder. “Lance?”
“Yeah?” Keith raised an eyebrow and Lance shut his eyes. “Oh. Uh. I was just wondering…. Do you
want
me to go? To the cookout.” Keith frowned as he stared at him. “I just… you seemed to want to get me out of there really fast and I know you might still think that I'll go awa-”
“Oh! No, Lance, God no.” Keith put a hand on his face and smiled sheepishly. “That's not what I…. I know Shiro has the best intentions, but I also know he can be an ass. I didn't want him teasing us and freaking you out or something. I'm glad that you wanna come over. I just hope Shiro doesn't pull more of that crap he just pulled.” Lance let out a relieved sigh and Keith laughed. “God. We're a mess, aren't we, pretty boy?”
Lance chuckled and shrugged. “Just a bit.” He leaned over to kiss him before putting the car in reverse and starting for his apartment.
He hauled Laith the Lion in and sat him down in the corner while Keith put his duffel bag in the room. He turned on the television and laid down on the couch as he surfed the channels. A moment later, Keith came back and wordlessly draped himself over him.
“I'm gonna be the little spoon now,” he muttered into Lance's chest. Lance laughed and wrapped his arms around him. “What are we watching?”
“I don't know, what do you wanna watch?” Eventually they settled on something neither of them had watched, and about twenty minutes in, Lance felt his phone start vibrating in his pocket. He shifted to pull it out and felt his stomach drop. Keith looked at him curiously. “My sister.”
“Are you gonna answer…?”
Lance held on a little tighter to Keith and swiped the green button. “
Que pasó, manita?”
“
Oye, pues,
you said you'd call if it went well, did it not?” Veronica asked, sounding genuinely concerned.
“Oh! No, it went great, Vero. We had a lot of fun. We got prizes and ate food and took pictures at that booth thing.”
“Ferris wheel,” Keith whispered.
“And we went on the ferris wheel,” Lance added, smiling at Keith.
“That sounds like a perfect date,” Veronica said with a laugh.
“It was.” Keith grinned and kissed his jawline lightly.
“So do I get her name now? Where did you meet her?”
Keith started rubbing his hand along Lance's arm in reassurance. “Uh, I mean…. Veronica, it's kind of… complicated.”
Keith shifted to rest his chin on Lance's chest looking at him worriedly. “What do you mean? Oh, did you meet her on Tinder? There's nothing wrong with that-”
“No, no, no, I didn't… we didn't meet through Tinder.” Keith chuckled softly. “I just…. I mean, I wanna tell you all about it, but it's….”
Keith put a hand on his cheek and whispered, “It's okay. You don't have to tell her yet.” Lance narrowed his eyes, but Keith only used his thumb to smooth out the furrow.
“It's what? Is this about Allu-”
“
No, Veronica,
that's- I'm not- look it's just….” Keith frowned and pulled himself up to sit, but Lance grabbed his arm to keep him from getting up. “
Chaparra,
can we talk about this in person? Please?”
“Is everything okay, Lance? What's going on?”
“Yeah, everything's good,” he assured her. “Everything's great, actually.” He tugged on a half-undone braid that was slowly unraveling just behind Keith's ear. He brushed his thumb along the side of his face, and Keith let his eyes close as he smiled. “I'm really excited about this. And I do want to tell you, I just want to talk to you face to face.”
Veronica stayed quiet for a moment before she sighed. “Alright. Take care, okay? I'll see if I can visit before you come over here.”
Lance gulped and took a steadying breath. “Okay,
manita.
I'll see you later. I love you.”
“I love you more. Bye.” She hung up and Lance let his phone fall to the floor as he leaned his head on the arm of the couch. Keith laid back down, pulling himself up to look at Lance. “Hey,” Lance mumbled.
“Hey, pretty boy. You okay? You sounded pretty panicked for a moment.” Lance shook his head and wrapped his arms tightly around Keith. “I'm not offended, you know. That you didn't correct her or tell her right away. I'm not stupid; I get it. Just because it was easy for me with my foster parents doesn't mean it's easy for everyone.”
“God, my parents are
Hispanic!
And
religious.
I mean I don't think they'd hate me, but I don't know what they're gonna say or how to even-”
“Lance, hey, Lance, hey, hey, hey!” Keith smooshed his cheeks together with a one hand to stop Lance's rambling. He waited until Lance met his eyes to say, “It's okay. You can take your time. I know you said this is for you, not just me, but you don't need to rush into it. You're okay.” He looked at Lance with a gentle fierceness in his eyes. “Okay?”
Lance nodded slowly. “M-kay,” he said past the awkward hold Keith's fingers had on him. “Ca- you leggo an’ kish me now?”
Keith laughed and leaned down to oblige as Lance's hands moved to rake through his hair, tangling their legs together. Lance didn't know how he was going to explain this to his family, or what exactly his sexuality was, or how they would react. But he did know this felt right. It felt good. He knew that Keith was good for him.
He felt Keith's lips begin to trail toward his neck, gentle and chaste. Lance hummed softly, turning his head for Keith to have better access. He felt Keith's hand run over the buttons of his shirt, hooking on the top one. “Can I get this off?”
Lance nodded and let out a shallow breath as Keith unbuttoned his shirt, kissing the skin that was revealed. “I thought I was the one thanking you,” Lance murmured.
“Mm, you think I don’t enjoy this?” He pushed his shirt open and Lance felt his tongue lick up his his chest with the open mouthed kisses. “I like how you start breathing faster… and the little hums you make instead of moaning. I like the way you look at me when I do this to you.” Lance shivered beneath him, the words igniting a hot desire in the pit of his stomach. Keith bit down on his shoulder gently as he pushed the shirt off slightly.
He sat up so Keith could push off his shirt, and once his hands were freed, he pulled Keith closer against him. Keith put his legs on either side of Lance. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged his head back so he could look at him. “
Keith.”
Keith smiled at the way Lance’s name left his lips and he rolled his hips against him. Lance’s hands fell to his thighs, his fingers digging into the denim of his jeans. “Let me know if you wanna stop, okay, pretty boy?” Lance nodded and pressed his lips to Keith’s collarbone. Keith pulled his hair gently, tilting his head back. “I need a vocal answer, Lance.”
“Yes, yes, I’ll let you know.” His hands tugged his shirt up slowly and he bit his lip as Keith’s pale skin was revealed, goosebumps spreading wherever Lance’s fingers touched. “God, I missed touching you like this.”
“We should move,” Keith breathed out, disentangling himself. He stood up and held a hand out with a smirk. “Come on.” Lance returned the half smile and took his hand. When he stood up, Keith pulled him close and lifted him up by his thighs, making Lance gasp in surprise. “You good?”
Lance chuckled in disbelief before he hooked his legs around Keith’s waist. “Oh, hell yeah.” Keith laughed and Lance leaned in to kiss him as Keith started for the room.
He expected to get tossed onto the bed, but instead, Keith held him tighter and got on the bed using his knees to lay Lance down slowly. He didn’t pull away either. He kissed his neck and started working on covering his neck in hickeys along with the roll of his hips to reduce Lance to a gasping mess.
“Can I… ask you something?” Lance murmured between heavy breaths. Keith hummed, taking his earlobe between his teeth and tugging. Lance moaned and wrapped his hands around Keith's bicep. “Have you ever um,
ah,
y'know been on top? Not like, physically, but-”
There was a light chuckle against his throat. “I know what you mean, Lance. Yeah I have. But… the guys I've been with didn't really… like it. Fragile masculinity and whatnot.” He pulled himself up, eyes wide. “Um, that's not- I mean, it's cool if people don't like being bottoms, but I just meant-”
“That they were one night stands that were experimenting so they freaked?” Lance finished for him. Keith chuckled awkwardly and shrugged. “And… with Roland?”
Keith furrowed his eyebrows. “Once or twice. He didn't like being on that end, or so he said. He said it made him feel like he was being weak.”
Lance frowned. “Um… that's not… how that works, is it?” Keith laughed and shook his head. Lance remembered that first night in Keith's shed, the way Keith had mentioned most guys had to be drunk to wanna do anything, much less go down on him. “Well… I wouldn't mind trying it with you. If you like it.”
Keith kissed him softly and smiled. “You don't have to do that.” Lance opened his mouth, but Keith covered it with one hand. “I know, I know, you want to for you, not to prove yourself. But… I still think you should think about it. Tonight… why don't I teach you what you wanted to learn last time? If you want.”
Lance hummed and caressed his cheek lightly, looking at the way his long hair draped around his face. “Fine. Because tonight's your night. But I'm sure my answer will stay the same in the future.” Keith smiled, his tongue between his teeth as his nose scrunched adorably. He leaned down to kiss Lance a little more insistently. Lance bit and tugged at his lip. “Can I at least do something for you?”
Keith smiled and raised an eyebrow. “You want to blow me again?”
Lance blushed and pulled himself up on his elbows, making Keith sit up, straddling him. “Well that or…. I mean, so I started watching some stuff-”
“Stuff. You mean porn?”
Lance ignored the comment. “And I found out there's, y’know rimming. I dunno how good that would feel or how to do it right but-”
Keith grabbed his face and kissed him harshly, a smile against Lance's surprised lips. “Fuck, you're adorable,” he said against his mouth.
“Ke-
ith!”
Lance complained. “I want to… make you feel good.”
Keith thrust his hips down and shoved Lance down by the shoulders. “Trust me you do.” He smirked down at him. “If you really want to try, then okay. But if not…. If you're at all uncomfortable with that, then it's okay.”
“I want to,” Lance answered resolutely. “I want to at least try.”
Keith bit his lip and reached down to unbutton his jeans. “You have to relax first, pretty boy,” he said softly. Lance sighed and forced the tension to leave his body. “C’mon. Just kiss me first, okay?”
Lance nodded and reached up to pull Keith toward him, kissing him gently at first, then harder. The kiss became needier, their bodies pressing closer. Keith moved to lay on his back, pulling Lance on top of him.
“You want me to talk you through it?” Keith asked softly. Lance nodded, running his hands down Keith's sides. “Okay. Let's get these off first.” Lance moved to push Keith's jeans off. He kicked them off and Lance sat on his heels to run his hands along Keith's pale thighs.
“You're beautiful, you know that?” he murmured.
That beautiful rosy blush flooded Keith's cheeks as he turned his head away. “You always catch me off guard when you say things like that.”
Lance smiled and lightly tugged on his boxers. “You wanna turn over for me, baby?” Keith bit his lip and rolled over as Lance pulled his boxers down, leaving Keith bare on all fours. “Tell me what feels good for you okay?”
“I will,” Keith answered, shifted his weight on his elbows.
With that, Lance tugged him to the edge of the bed and got onto his knees at the floor. He ran his hands lightly up Keith's legs, up to his ass and back. He traced random patterns onto the hi warm skin on the back of his thighs, and Keith arched his back subtly.
Then Lance leaned in, pressing his lips to the light crease between Keith's ass and his thighs. He skimmed his teeth lightly along the sensitive skin, making Keith let out a small breath of surprise. He pressed soft open mouthed kisses all across his skin. He watched as the skin turned lighter when he let go, watched it turn rosy wherever he bit gently, making Keith jolt slightly.
“Can I mark?” Keith nodded, and Lance smirked. “I'm gonna need a vocal answer.”
Keith looked over shoulder with a scowl. “Fuck you.”
Lance shrugged. “You didn't want to!”
Keith laughed at that kicked at Lance playfully. “You're a smart ass, pretty boy.” Lance grinned and bit him lightly, watching his cheeks flush. “Yes, you can mark.”
With the permission, Lance sucked and bit down on the firm flesh of his ass. He watched as Keith's thighs flexed, appreciative of the muscle he now knew came from dancing. He worked on leaving purple marks and crescent bites all along the pale skin, making him a piece of art that no one else would ever be able to see.
He pushed his cheeks apart gently, slowly kissing closer and closer to the puckered entrance. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. Lance had watched things and read stuff, but now he was in the moment.
“You- you can stop-
hmm
- if you want to. S’okay,” Keith said breathlessly, falling to his elbows and burrowing his face in the covers.
Lance responded by sliding his tongue up slowly, his hands gripping Keith's hips as he jerked forward and shoved his hands into the covers. “I'm okay,” Lance said.
He moved his tongue in a circle, varying in size and speed, trying to pay attention to Keith's reactions. But he'd forgotten that Keith didn't like to be loud. His reactions were muffled and controlled.
So Lance had to be creative. He slid his hands to his thighs, gripping them tight enough to feel the way the muscle flexed. He opened his eyes and watched the graceful movement of his shoulder blades as he moved to reposition arms or changed his hold on the sheets. He watched the rise and fall of his breaths, the way his head occasionally came up only to let it fall back down with a soft grunt.
Lance tried to work his tongue in, but Keith pulled away with a soft, “Wait.” Lance pulled away, kissing the inside of his thighs instead. “Easy, babe. Still too dry.”
Lance smoothed his hands over his back. “Okay. Give me a moment.” He stood up to go to his desk, and grabbed the bottle of lube he'd bought after the first time they got heated at his place only to stop because Lance had nothing more than condoms. He returned, pressing kisses down Keith's spine slowly, his tongue following the ridges down.
Right. Saliva and lubricant were important. Lance swirled his tongue around Keith's entrance again experimenting with movements of his tongue until he had Keith's legs tensing. He burrowed his face into the mattress, pushing back against Lance's face.
“L-Lance,” Keith panted. “Okay, okay, with the lube….” Lance pulled away, pressing his fingers into the hickeys littered across his skin. Keith pulled himself up on his hands and looked over his shoulder, his hair a tousled mess falling in his face. “Use the lube to ease your finger in. Slow. I'll tell you when you can use the other.”
Lance gulped and grabbed the lube. “What if I hurt you?”
Keith smiled at him and shook his head. “You won't. Just take your time and I'll tell you if anything feels off. And we'll do it together.” Lance took a nervous breath and nodded.
He felt like a virgin all over again, unsure of every movement, self-conscious. It wasn't his first time eating someone out. But it was very different to do it to a girl than to a guy. Just like this next step would be. He'd heard horror stories from friends at his college. Girls who tried anal with a guy who didn't know what he was doing, or just guys who rushed into it with other guys and learned their lesson about what a bad idea that was the hard way.
He didn't want to be one of Keith's horror stories. Especially not when he had already had such a bad past with the people he'd slept with.
“Warm it up a little first, okay?” Keith's voice jolted him back to reality.
“Yeah, okay.” He squeezed more lube than was probably necessary onto his fingers, rubbing it together until it lost its chill. Then he pressed his fingers against Keith's entrance with the gentleness of someone afraid to break something.
He heard Keith chuckle softly. “First finger is pretty easy. Relax, Lance.”
Lance didn't respond but he pushed forward a little more, once again watching the way Keith's body responded to the slow intrusion. He had to stretch him open, so he pressed against the muscle gently every now and then the deeper he got. He leaned forward and teased along the rim with his tongue as his finger made it to the second joint.
The sounds of Keith's heaving breaths sounded louder than they were in the silence of the room. Lance pushed in a little more, twisted his finger gently. He pulled out, then pushed back in, watching for any possible hint that Keith might be in some sort of pain.
Instead he saw Keith's body relax, sinking lower into the mattress, his back arching beautifully. Lance felt the tension leave his own body a little and began to move his finger with a little more confidence. He heard a soft hum, as Keith pushed back against him.
There was less and less friction the more he moved, until he could easily thrust his finger in and out. Keith turned his head and murmured, “Use another. Just start slow again.”
Lance pulled out and added more lube to his fingers. He pressed his mouth against him again, tongue swirling against him before dipping in, this time without so much resistance. This time drawing a soft, long moan out of Keith. Figuring he should work his way up, he added one finger pushing against the wall slowly to stretch him enough to add the next finger.
He knew he was supposed to look for the prostate, but he wasn't totally sure about how. He knew he would feel it when he did find it. Knew the feeling would make Keith fall apart if he did it right.
“Lance, I'm not fragile. You don't have to be so gentle.”
“I know you're not fragile. But I still want to be gentle.” He slowly prodded his second finger in, and the space felt tighter. But he could feel the clench as Keith tried to hurry him along. “So impatient,” he said with a laugh. He bit down on his ass hard enough to leave the imprint of his teeth and Keith sucked in a breath as he spread his legs a little further.
He took his time getting his fingers in, biting and kissing up and down Keith's legs until they were decorated with love bites and splotches of purple. Then, at Keith's breathless command he started spreading and twisting and hooking his fingers, varying the pace and the technique.
He watched the way his toes curled and the way his bed was slowly coming undone with the way his body squirmed and his hands tugged. He could hear the muffled whimpers into the mattress. He could feel the way Keith pushed back into his touch.
This time, he knew without Keith having to tell him when he could add a third finger. He heard a soft curse as the third began to stretch him open, but before Lance could ask if he was okay, Keith said, “Keep going, keep...
fuck
Lance, you're doing so good.”
Warm with the praise, Lance continued, less hesitant and nervous than he'd been at the beginning. Once he'd managed to get down to his knuckles, he hooked his fingers and Keith let out a louder, surprised moan. Lance knew what he'd found. And with the way Keith clenched around his fingers, he wasn't sure if he had to be gentler or keep the same pace he had.
“Oh God, that was good, Lance. That was good,” Keith panted.
Lance couldn't help the cheeky smirk that spread on his face. He pumped his fingers again, avoiding that sweet spot except for an occasional brush that had Keith's legs trembling in anticipation. He focused more on opening him up until the only concerning friction came from the muscle trying to pull him in. He ran his tongue around the rim and used his free hand to pull Keith closer.
He could feel the tension of Keith’s legs under his hands. He started searching for that bundle of nerves, the hand around his waist trailing along his front. He could feel the abdomen muscles clenching under his fingertips, and he went lower until his knuckles brush along Keith’s cock. He allowed his fingers to trail the length, more at ease with this part. This was a part he knew how to do. He knew what felt good. He watched Keith’s body shiver, a desperate breath escaping him.
When he found his sweetspot again, he pumped his hand lightly at the same time he pressed his fingertips against it. Keith let out a garbled moan, his arms lashing out to find purchase in something sturdier than bedsheets. He loved seeing that reaction. He loved the way his hole clenched and his body shivered and he couldn’t even restrain the moans he always tried so hard to muffle.
So he did it again. And again. And again. He pushed his fingers in and out, pressing confidently against his prostate, and he ran his thumb over the head to spread the globs of precome, facilitating the handjob. Lance leaned forward and licked around his perineum- a spot he hadn’t even known could be stimulating until he decided to try and educate himself- and Keith nearly melted into the bed.
“La-Lance, oh fuck.” And that was about the gist of Keith’s vocabulary at that moment. At least until he wanted more. “N-not gonna… last, Lance.” He growled and moved Lance’s hands away, breathing heavily. “I want you. I want to finish with you.”
Lance had been aware of his own neglected arousal, made more intense by Keith’s sounds and the movement of his body.
He got off his knees with a slight wince and leaned over, pushing Keith’s hair away to kiss the nape of his neck. “Are you sure?”
Keith nodded before chuckling softly. “Yeah. I’m sure. I’m good.” Lance nodded and kissed his cheek lightly, not really sure if he should kiss his mouth anymore.
He leaned away, grabbing the condom packet that fell to the floor and tearing it open. While he got it on Keith was already grabbing the lube and squeezing it into his hand. He coated himself again and spread his legs further, pulling himself up onto his hands. Lance took the lube spread it on himself too before lining himself up.
He wanted to check in on Keith again, but with the way his toes and hands kept curling in, he figured Keith was reaching his limit on patience. Besides, this part Lance knew how to do. This part wouldn’t be new with Keith. He slid one hand up his back and kept the other at his hip, keeping him in place.
Lance worked this part slowly, more to tease than a precaution. He pulled back out each time he pushed in a little deeper, until he could see the hunch of Keith’s shoulders from the tension. He’d been so focused on his pace that he forgot to watch Keith’s body and was taken completely by surprise when Keith pushed himself back, taking Lance in to the base.
Both of them let out a needy moan. Keith’s was closer to a yelp where Lance’s was more of an animalistic groan. He draped himself over Keith, holding his hips close, their bodies feeling inseparable.
“You’re very impatient, you know?”
“Maybe you’re just too patient.” Lance laughed against his neck and started kissing the sensitive skin there. He held himself up with one hand, placed next to Keith’s. At least until Keith noticed and interlocked their fingers. “Please move,” he murmured.
Lance nodded and started rocking his hips forward slowly. Keith’s back arched, his hurried breaths rushing through his nose as he bit down on his lips. “So gorgeous,” Lance whispered, wrapping his freed hand around Keith’s torso to keep him pressed close. He was still so tight despite the preparation, and the warmth made Lance feel like he was losing his mind. He hadn’t even realized he was speeding up until Keith started letting out little gasps.
Before he could even consider slowing down, he felt Keith moving his own hips, meeting him at his pace. Lance untangled their hands and stood upright, grabbing Keith’s hips before thrusting into him at a faster pace. Keith let out a low moan and let himself fall against the mattress again.
Meanwhile, Lance watched his ass ripple with each smack of their skin, and he dug his thumbs into the flesh, drawing out a soft curse from Keith. Soft grunts filled the room, and Lance suddenly missed being able to see Keith. All he had was the view of his back, bowed over as he shoved himself into the bed. And as beautiful as the sight of tousled hair a bouncing well-rounded ass was, he liked seeing his flushed face more. He wanted Keith’s hands on him, not on the bed.
He pulled out, and Keith began to grumble out a protest. Lance gently nudged him onto his side until he was able to get him to turn onto his back.
“What are you doing?” he asked, pushing himself back with his elbows as Lance got onto the bed with his knees.
“Wanted to see your face.” Keith blushed and stifled a surprised gasp as Lance pushed his legs up. Being a dancer, he wasn’t surprised that Keith’s body had no problem folding into itself. Lance pushed into him again, watching Keith’s face go slack as his eyes rolled back. “There we go,” Lance said with a smirk. He nuzzled his face into his neck, planting soft kisses with the slow rolls of his hips.
Keith’s arms hesitantly wrapped around him, little grunts reverberating in his throat. Lance thrust into him a little harder, a little deeper and he felt Keith’s fingers grasp at him as an unreserved, “
Ah-h fuck!”
slipped from his mouth. If it hadn’t been for the way his legs hooked around Lance, he would’ve thought he’d hurt him. “C’mon, Lance,
please.”
Lance hushed him gently and continued lavishing him in kisses, keeping every movement slow until Keith was panting and squirming under him, bringing his hips up and mindlessly gripping onto his shoulders. Soft, barely audible pleas were murmured into Lance’s ear.
“God, fasterfast
erfasterfas-please!”
Keith moaned, as Lance obliged. He pulled himself up onto his knees, gripping Keith by his thighs. The next thrust made Keith arch his back off the bed and let out a surprisingly loud moan.
“Oh, perfect,” Lance said with a smirk. Keith looked at him with hazy, lilac eyes that screwed shut when Lance began pistoning his hips in and out relentlessly. He was driven both by the pleasure of the tightening warmth around him, but more so by the way a scarlet flush had begun making its way down Keith’s chest, the way his teeth clenched in attempt to muffle the grunts from each thrust, the way his hands reached for Lance. They reached for
Lance.
Any part of him they could touch.
A light sheen of sweat layered his forehead, the crevices of his collarbone and neck. “Fuck, Lance, you feel so good,” Keith said in a broken voice. Lance held onto him harder, repositioning his own legs for a less tiring position.
Keith's body arched off the bed as his hands held into Lance's thighs. His hair stuck to his neck and his forehead. His eyes fluttered open and shut between gasps for breath. It was a sight Lance didn't think he would ever tire of.
One of Keith's hands wrapped around his own length, barely managing a few tugs before he was clamping his free hand over his mouth. Lance watched, unrelenting in his movement as Keith's body tensed and shook in front of him, his face an expression of pure bliss.
And then his eyes opened, a sliver of grayish purple so soft, so ethereal it took the breath out of Lance.
“Don't stop,” Keith whispered, his voice tight and breathless. His arm shook as he reached for Lance. He pulled him down by the nape of his neck until Lance was draped over him again. Lance cradled his head in his arms. He could feel the cold, sweaty locks of hair, the residual shivers and gradual tension of Keith's body as he held him. “Come on, Lance,” Keith murmured.
He felt the muscle surrounding him clench, and a searing hot tightening of his abdomen as he continued fucking into an oversensitive Keith. He felt blunt nails raking into his back and heaving breaths at the side of his face.
Soft curses continued to slip from Keith's mouth, his voice breaking more and more until Lance allowed whatever primal instinct he was suppressing to overcome him, desperate for release.
The bed frame thudded against the wall obnoxiously. “
Keith,”
he growled. But Keith couldn't talk. He was busy biting onto Lance's shoulder in a last attempt to silence himself. A stinging bite that had Lance overcome with white hot burst of fireworks until he was collapsing over Keith, shivering, sweaty, and breathless.
Keith's hand was scratching his head idly, their trembling breaths the only sound in the room.
“Lance,” Keith whispered. Lance hummed, unable to pick himself up. “You did so good.” Lance tightened his arms around him, pressing kisses to the side of his neck. “Surprisingly good for a first time.”
Lance chuckled. “I read a lotta articles.” Keith laughed at that, causing another shiver to course through Lance's body. He pulled himself off to lay beside him, basking in the leftover warmth coursing through his body as he burrowed into Keith’s side. “How do you feel?”
There was a soft, tired hum. Then a raspy, “Good. Really good.” Keith turned and curled into Lance’s chest. Lance smiled at that. It was so different from the first time they’d slept together when Keith seemed to expect him to walk away, when he’d been so surprised at any caress. “I’m all sweaty and gross though.”
“What a coincidence me too,” Lance said. Keith snorted. “I’ll go get the water running, hold on.” He pressed a kiss to his forehead before untangling himself and going to the bathroom. He turned the water on then turned to the sink to brush his teeth and rinse his mouth. He’d been dying to kiss Keith, but he wasn’t sure how he would feel about that. It was different kissing someone after they blew you versus what Lance had just done. At least Lance figured as much.
He felt a pair of arms wrap around him and he looked in the mirror to see Keith resting his chin on his shoulder. His voice was low and raspy as he spoke. “You’re joining me, right?” Lance smirked and winked at him through the mirror. He felt a light pinch on his ass and yelped, nearly choking on toothpaste. “Vocal answer, pretty boy.”
Lance rolled his eyes and rinsed his mouth out before turning around to face Keith. “Yeah, I’m joining.” Keith smiled and pulled him into a kiss. He pulled away and turned to the shower, touching the water before stepping in. It gave Lance a clear view of all the marks on his backside. “Beautiful,” he whispered to himself.
Then he made his way toward the shower to join him.
It was unfair how attractive Keith was. His head was tilted up towards the spray of water, making his skin glisten as the water hugged him and trailed down every crevice of his body. His hair lost its volume as the water soaked into it, making it look longer. But seeing the way it looked pushed back from his face was a sight Lance wanted engraved into his brain.
“You’re letting cold air in,” Keith complained, using his hands to wipe some water from his face before opening his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Admiring.” Keith turned red, but flicked water at him in retaliation for it. Lance laughed and closed the curtain, scooting under the water where Keith made room for him.
Keith reached for the shampoo and squeezed some into the palm of his hand before tugging Lance forward and lathering his head. He scratched and tousled until Lance's head was full of bubbles that smelled like coconut.
“Shouldn't I be the one washing you down?”
“Are you complaining?” Keith teased. Lance shook his head, purposefully making foamy bubbles splatter around them. “Lance!” Keith laughed and shielded his face.
When it was Lance's turn to wash Keith down, he'd had every intention of making horns and Mohawks and a Santa beard and tickling him. But one his hands were in his soft hair, all he could do was gently massage his head to draw out a soft, content hum. He used slow strokes with the loofah across his body. Trailing a hand after the bubbles that streaked his skin.
“That tickles,” Keith said with a soft chuckle. Lance smiled and nudged him under the water, running his hands over his body to help wash the suds off.
Lance tilted his face toward him and leaned in to kiss him. He could taste the water running down his face, feel the warmth of the water amplified by how close they were. Keith's hands wrapped around his waist and Lance gently coaxed his mouth open.
Kissing Keith was one of the most wonderful experiences Lance had ever known. It left him breathless each time. It didn't matter if it was a soft kiss or one filled with urgent desire, those lips would leave Lance wanting more.
“Water's getting cold,” Keith murmured against him, only to continue licking into his mouth.
“Am I not hot enough for you?”
That made the kiss stop as Keith burst into unreserved laughter, covering his mouth as he leaned into Lance's shoulder for support.
Lance smiled to himself and hugged him close.
“I like your laugh,” he said.
Keith lifted his head and pecked his cheek. “I sometimes like your jokes.”
“Wha-hey!” Keith reached around him to shut off the water. “That was rude.” Lance felt for the towels he had hanging up on a nearby hook and handed one to Keith.
“I'll make it up to you.” Keith ruffled the towel in his hair before wrapping it around his waist and stepping out. His hair stuck out and water drops slid down his chest and over his shoulder blades.
Lance chuckled and stepped out of the shower to tug Keith back by his arm. “God, I can't get enough of you.” He kissed him again and felt the smile against his lips before Keith bit down on his lower lip playfully.
He pulled away and looked at Lance with a smile, soft and dazed. “C’mon,” he said softly. “I think we left the TV on.” Lance followed after him, wrapping the towel around his waist as he went into his closet to get clothes to sleep in.
By the time Lance got dressed, Keith was back in the living room with the towel draped around his neck. “Do you not dry your hair?” Lance asked, watching drops of water slide down his face or onto the towel.
“It air dries.”
Lance rolled his eyes and sat Keith down on the couch. Then he took the towel and tousled his hair with it, playfully and insistently. After a few more tousles, he pulled the towel away and took section of longer hair to dry between the towel until his hair was a damp, fluffy mess. It was still wet, but at least it wasn’t dripping water.
“There,” Lance said, running his fingers through the dark hair. Keith chuckled and put his hands on Lance’s hips. He leaned forward to press a kiss to his bare stomach, gently licking up. “Oh, are we going for another round?” Lance asked playfully.
Keith snorted and wrapped his arms around his waist. He rested his forehead on Lance’s torso, leaning into him. “No, not tonight, pretty boy.” He sighed and leaned back to look up at him. “Could you kiss me again?”
There was something in Keith’s eyes. It wasn’t distant or guarded. Not quite fear, but… uncertainty maybe. Though with the way he was holding onto Lance, he knew it wasn’t about him. After their night together, he knew Keith was more comfortable with him than he had been at first. It left him wondering what that look was, or if he was reading it right.
Without the answers to any of it, he leaned down in hopes that his kiss would be able to erase it all and just let Keith come back to him, live in that moment with him. With the way he kissed Lance back, he figured he’d succeeded.
|
“So, are you going to stay with YG for a while?”
“They took me in when Hotshot disbanded a few years ago,” Taehyun says, taking a sip of his cappucino to mask the tremor of his lips. “You might remember.”
“I do,” Sewoon nods. Even after Ha Sungwoon re-joined the group and Timoteo had returned The Unit, their combined celebrity prowess still hadn’t been enough to resuscitate the group. He looks lost in thought, and then a spark returns to his eyes. He leans across the cafe table.
“Taehyun-hyung, have you seen the movie *Moneyball*?”
Jung Sewoon’s efforts at building out the leadership team for his new startup have led him to Noh Taehyun, who is currently working as a dance instructor at YG Entertainment.
These days, things are finally going well for him. His career is on the upswing. His actual day-to-day work is rewarding. His love life is—well, it’s good. He’s dating someone he’s always had his eye on and it’s finally worked out and their relationship has stabilized and, well, it’s finally going. Going well.
Finally.
Still, what Sewoon is doing is interesting.
Backed by YG’s new innovation arm, YG Ventures, Sewoon has formed a talent scouting startup that surfaces talent across key areas like comedy, drama, singing, songwriting, modeling, and dance. After closing FastIdol’s Series A funding round in September 2025, Sewoon is now focused on recruiting a leadership team with deep experience in the entertainment industry.
That’s why they’re both here at the YG canteen at the headquarters in Hongdae on a sunny spring day, the two of them in a corner booth with an iPad in front of them as Sewoon swipes through his pitch deck.
Sewoon wants to talk about *Moneyball*, which Taehyun knows stars Brad Pitt and is about American softball. Sewoon is trying to recruit him.
Taehyun nods. “I’m familiar with it, but I haven’t seen it.”
“Forgive me for speaking so forwardly. It’s about a coach who used to be a baseball player, who wants to form a great team based on performance—not on hunches. They had a problem in their industry—with baseball players being recruited simply on the basis of their “face” and “body”—and this was a major problem in American baseball.” Sewoon sits back and crosses his arms, his face suddenly unscrutable. “In cases like Hotshot and many other idol groups, simply recruiting on the basis of “face” and very flimsy projections about future potential led to mismanagement of groups. And left people like you and Sungwoon bereft of the opportunity you really deserved.”
Taehyun grit his teeth. Out of loyalty, he didn’t appreciate Sewoon ragging on his former bandmates—but he didn’t completely disagree with Sewoon’s assessment. “Yeah,” was all he managed to say.
“I know SM gave you an opportunity when Hotshot disbanded,” Sewoon leaned forward. “But I really want to have you on my team. I want to take your experience in the industry and your talent as a natural dancer and teacher and apply it to building a world-class assessment algorithm that will change the global entertainment industry.”
“Why me?” Taehyun is honestly confused. With the money Sewoon has, backed by the clout of YG Capital and SM Ventures, Sewoon could recruit anyone.
“You were the leader for *Shape of You* team when we were on Produce 101. Hyung led that team with integrity, character, determination, and discipline. I knew that when the time came, I would want to go into business with you.”
“But I don’t know anything about technology.” Taehyun is honestly feeling overwhelmed right now. But in a good way.
“These things take time. Entertainment and technology have never been friends in the front-end. In the back-end, sure, but only in production processes. What we’re doing is very new. So there won’t be a lot of people who can do both. That’s why I’m trying to bring together the best on both sides—entertainment and technology—to work together.”
“You still believe in this industry after everything you’ve seen?”
Sewoon holds Taehyun’s gaze. “Well, I can’t speak for others. But I remember Produce 101 as a life-changing experience that opened many doors for me and my friends. There were many hard parts, but I think the good outnumbered the bad. And performance is a very natural human activity. One that provides hope, inspiration, and meaning to people in its own way. Yes, entertainment is a grueling industry. And there are some who will be more hurt than others based on fundamental vulnerabilities. But it is one with a fundamentally uplifting output. I believe it is a net positive in the world.”
“Ah.” Taehyun says. “That leads me to another question.”
“Please.”
“How are you protecting your emerging talent from abuses?” Unspoken: *you know that’s a huge problem in our world.*
Sewoon tilts his head to one side. “When we first started the product, we made sure that the gender balance between male and female talent was well-maintained. We restricted the members to only people who had come in for an assessment at a live studio. This eliminated a majority of the problem. We realized six months in that we would only get and keep our members if we had a robust user safety infrastructure and easy and accurate harassment reporting mechanisms. As you know, just one PR scandal can undo an entertainment company. So we were very careful. And while we haven’t built the team for it yet, another part of our growth strategy to promote a culture of safety and respect through PR and social responsibility efforts.”
“So thorough, Sewoon.”
“Actually, it’s all thanks to your questions. I have to continue refining my pitch.”
“How many people have you approached?”
“A few,” Sewoon hedges. “But you were one of the first people I reached out to.”
“Who else, if I might ask?”
“Lee Daehwi, actually.”
Taehyun keeps his surprise contained. “And what did he say?”
“Oh,” Sewoon raises an eyebrow. “Why don’t you just ask him when you get home?”
Taehyun sighs, running his hands through his hair. “Someone has been reading the gossip blogs.”
“Actually, I heard about it through a mutual friend of ours.”
“Who?” Taehyun blinks.
“Samuel.”
“Ah, Samuel.” He bites his lip. Samuel is promoting his new solo album in the States right now. “That’s right.”
“You look surprised, hyung. Perhaps this is news to you, too?”
“Are you just working your way through the Produce 101 alumni roster?” Taehyun accuses playfully, changing the subject.
“No really. It was just you, Daehwi, and Samuel. For now.”
“Not Jaehwan?” Taehyun is surprised. He remembers that they were always mentioned in the same breath in every publication some five, six years ago.
“No,” Sewoon shakes his head. “Jaehwan is absolutely front-of-house.” They both laugh.
“Well,” Taehyun stands up, extending his hand to Sewoon. “It was great to see you.”
“Likewise.”
“I won’t have an answer for you anytime soon, but—let’s keep talking. I feel like there’s a lot for me to learn before I make up my mind one way or another.”
“Are you free next week?” Sewoon says without missing a beat. “I’ll take you and Daehwi out for lunch.”
“I see. You’re just using me to get to the real talent.” Taehyun rolls his eyes, before his features settle int something more serious. “But, ah—Sewoon. We’ve been together for a bit, but—we’re keeping things quiet. For obvious reasons.”
“Well,” Sewoon says. “You let me know if you two ever need an excuse to go out in public together. I’ll just hang out behind you silently. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“Creepy,” Taehyun half-mutters, half laughs, showing Sewoon the door.
|
“Please. He cannot die”
And this? This is going to get him killed eventually.
(But it’s not like that possibility is going to stop him, is it? He’s already too far gone)
His body moves through the dark recesses of the Narrows, Gotham’s notorious underground, and he’s very, very lucky he got Steph’s dark purple scrubs today instead of his usual blue, or he would have stood out ever more than usual against the darkness.
And while he’s trying to breathe, trying to push his body faster, trying to fucking get there, he’s not thinking about the potential slew of criminals that would probably love to take him down for his shoes and wallet; he tries not to think about the hundreds of kids all over this part of town that hadn’t seen a doctor ever. He tries not to think about the drug addicts and petty crooks trying to feed their families.
He tries very hard not to think.
Instead, he focuses on the burn of his calves and thighs and lungs where he feels like he can’t get a full breath and not because he’s running his ass off. He feels the handle of his doctor’s bag probably permanently embedded in his palm from the grip (because he needs it and no one is going to take it, oh fuck no).
He tries to maintain his usual logical progression of thoughts, the next steps in the process, the possible deviations and plans contingencies depending on what he falls into once he fucking gets there.
He’s up in the air, jumping over the bus bench and subsequent homeless patron already asleep, landing it without pausing.
The text still on the main screen of his phone is terrifying, burning in his pocket as much as his calves are.
Three more blocks.
And of course he knew what could happen, what has already happened, what the dangers are, what strains are put on the body. In the last year, he’s learned with real hands-on experience that there are no lines in their world. No one to call time. No one to stop it from happening. He knows the statistics and probabilities, he’s made the calculations himself, given them the numbers because, you know, he needs them to understand. He needs them to know.
And he almost skids past the alleyway, chest heaving, legs trembling slightly with the twelve block sprint.
Robin’s body reacts instinctively to possible danger, arm raised to throw something potentially fatal before he seems to realize who’s already moving into their space.
Tim falls hard to his knees, muscle in his jaw twitching with how hard his teeth are clenched.
“Deets, Rob,” and he can’t pause, he can’t take a second to look at Nightwing’s closed eyes and slack features, he can’t just be the terrified boyfriend that wants to grip the hand and beg for some sign of life.
He’s never been able to be that guy.
No matter how much he secretly wanted to be.
Robin (Damian) eases down slightly when the bag snaps open and gloves are automatic, when hands rip into the skin-tight bodysuit, and the motions are smooth, unhurried, knowledgeable, just like when Robin throws a punch or a kick, when he takes down the wicked.
And even though he feels this man to be an interloper, an intruder, an outsider, to their world, he cannot help but be relieved (grateful) at watching things happen quickly.
“Crane...The Scarecrow—”
“Gas? Some other fear agent?” He cuts in, ripping open antiseptic wipes and cleaning the blood (while for some reason, the ABCDEs— Airway, Breathing, Circulation, Disability, Exposure— keep running over his singed nerves).
“Possibly,” Robin admits low and graveled (because he feels guilty and Tim gets the picture of what probably happened), “he was wearing his re-breather, but Crane had his scythe, he could have-”
Robin pauses abruptly, one gloved hand coming up to his ear, tapping the comm to on.
Tim goes back to it, assessing the deep slice bisecting Nightwing’s thorax (and things like aortic disruption slap him in the face with the bruises of more blunt trauma), but a few seconds with the stethoscope gives him enough to know he’s not going to have to be worried about aortic trauma or pneumothorax. While he’s taking care of the laceration, he’s thinking about the effect of fear toxin and what kind of things N will have to deal with once he regains consciousness and—
“The Doctor,” is Robin’s reply to something, filtering around his running thoughts. “He is prepping N for transport.”
Am I? And with the stitches already started, he guesses he is.
“Do you have an antidote for the toxin?” Is the next thought, turning to Robin briefly. The rancid smell of old fish sticks finally filters in now that he’s not in frantic save my boyfriend mode. If the Red Hood was here, he would probably be worse, but at least Kory and Roy would take good care of him while he was away.
“Administered,” Robin answers shortly, listening to whoever is on the other side of the comm.
As the last necessary stitch is done, Nightwing jerks to awareness (not that he would necessarily be able to tell with the whiteouts but muscles tensing isn’t really something he’d be able to miss this close).
“Hey, hey, it’s me okay?” He tries while tying off and pulling out gauze pads, “Nightwing, can you hear me?”
The gloved hand finding his ankle is all the answer he needs.
“You were hurt in a fight with the Scarecrow. Do you remember anything?”
A huff of air, something that ends on a pained noise.
“I know, I know. I’ve got you so far. Robin gave you the antidote, so you just need to relax. We’re out of sight.”
And his fingers tremble just slightly when he pulls one glove off and reaches to touch the spot on the domino to slide the whiteout lenses up so he can see those dazed blue eyes looking right at him.
His smile might be shaky but at least the adrenaline has finally worn the fuck off and the hand around his ankle tightens again.
**
If he’d have known Robin was talking to Batman (you know, the motherfucking Batman), he would have made more of an effort to get the hell gone after making sure Nightwing wasn’t in any immediate peril.
When the rumbling sound of oh shit, run hits the mouth of the alley, Dr. Drake has an oh shit moment because he realizes who is providing transport tonight (and if he hadn’t been completely focused on Dick and the possible problems fear toxin could cause, he would have already been ghost).
Because he hasn’t met the Batman and hadn’t seen Bruce Wayne, his neighbor, since his parents were murdered a few months after he’d turned twelve. Bruce was the first person other than police to show up at his door once word Jack and Janet Drake weren’t coming back from overseas (where he learned a guy name the Obeah Man had poisoned them both) and offer him a place in Wayne Manor until CPS could figure out what to do with him.
He’d spent a night in Wayne Manor, supposedly between Jason and Dami’s run as Robin, and went back to the Drake Estate the next day.
(And maybe he’d secretly hoped Bruce Wayne would have offered him a place since, you know, orphans and such, but he always understood it was too soon after Jason died…he remembered the down spiral of the Batman, of how close he’d come to dying so many times before the JLA got Dick involved).
He’d known back then too but hadn’t felt any need to tell the billionaire/vigilante about his mounds of evidence. He’d gone into the system while caretakers kept the Estate and Drake Industries running.
This time he’d face the Batman who was probably seriously annoyed someone else outside “the family” knew the big secret.
It’s not the meeting he’d been looking forward to. You know, ever. As long as he stayed away from the vigilante, just catered to Nightwing and the Red Hood, kept himself firmly in the role of civilian, he’d hoped maybe Batman could overlook him, ignore him, whatever. But the imposing shadow falls over them while he’s working at the last vestiges of bandages around N’s upper body and checking the dilation of his pupils at intervals.
“Shit,” he manages very, very softly, slowly raising both gloved hands, palm out in the whole I surrender, don’t kick my ass motion he’s got going on. Slowly, he eases away from Nightwing while Robin already crosses the dirty alleyway to put himself right in front of the Dark Knight to apparently take the blame for calling in a civilian.
The two only get about sixty seconds of banter before Nightwing comes to abrupt, terrifying fear-toxined consciousness and takes Tim down to the ground with one leap (not that it isn’t a stretch or anything). His eyes are a wild, insane blue while he wraps both hands around Tim’s throat and proceeds to use all his vigilante experience to strangle him.
Tim gets barely a breath to hold before the hands, those hands, the ones that held him with absurd tenderness, that mapped out his body, that gripped his hips, that gave and took pleasure, that defended Gotham from the worst type of criminal, the hands Tim would stupidly hold on to once Nightwing finally passed out for the night/day, when those hands constricted his airway and show him the real danger behind the exterior.
He only gets a heartbeat or two before the shadow of the Bat was right over Nightwing’s shoulder, moving with incredible speed to catch Nightwing’s shoulder in an unbreakable grip and throw him the hell off Tim.
Robin, for as much as he seriously hates Tim, is still there, gripping the surgeon under the arms while he’s trying to get some air back into his body, pulling him up and away from where the Batman is facing off with Nightwing.
And even dizzy, almost unconscious himself, he can see the fine trembling of Nightwing’s muscles, the glint off his teeth white in the night.
It might be the lack of oxygen, but the two fighting looks like fast and furious swishes taking pieces out of the darkness, or it could be the way Robin is trying to drag him up to the side of the building so he can use the grapple and get Tim the hell out of there.
Either way, Crane’s fear toxin could hit Nightwing’s heart, accelerate it to the point of ventricular fibrillation and…
Woozy, he pulls out of Robin’s hands as the shortest vigilante fires his grapple, and manages to stumble forward on shaky legs, calling out a series of numbers.
Eight numbers.
Nightwing would know. Would know the year, the date, the day. Would know it was the same day he met a small boy who thought he was the world.
Like he’d thrown a switch, Nightwing stops long enough to stare at him, long enough for the flapping suit to still, and the bandage over his chest seem that much more white.
“It seems like everything is wrong and dangerous and scary,” he hurries regardless of the owfuck that is his treachea since his heavily compromised significant other pauses, “your brain is telling you these things, but I swear. Dick, I swear, it’s just me. It’s me and B and Little D, okay? Whatever you’re seeing is just the fear chemicals in your brain. It’s not real. I wouldn’t lie to you about this.”
He barely feels the gloved hand gripping the scrub top, pulling him back a step with real strength, but below the domino, Robin’s face is frozen in a stern scowl, the younger vigilante putting himself in front of Tim without a hitch.
“Grayson,” is the low entreaty, “he does not lie. Crane’s scythe was poisoned. And you...you fool. I should have been the one to take that hit. I was the one too slow. I underestimated him and we both know it. You should have let me—”
And a shuddering breath, Nightwing closes his eyes, muscles trembling finely while his pants fill up the alleyway.
The Batman, however, doesn’t move, doesn’t even seem to be breathing. “With us?”
“I...Boss, the toxin—”
And who knew what kind of hallucinations are right there in N’s frontal lobe for the toxin to play with. Who knew what kind of monsters were right there?
The Batman did apparently.
“Sorry, Dick.”
Tim just blinks and the Batman is just that fast because he only sees a blur where the back of the gauntleted hand takes out N’s lower jaw with enough force to topple the struggling vigilante.
**
“Get in,” is the only thing he registers while watching the Batman load Nightwing’s unconscious body into the front seat (and yes, he’s staring at it a little dazed because it’s the fucking Batmobile) while Robin hops into the back.
“Wh—? I’m sorry?” He manages hoarsely, coming out of his nerdgasm.
The way the cowl turns toward him gives the impression of impending doom. He’s pretty sure that Batman does really like to repeat himself.
“Get. In.”
Welp, okay. Getting in then.
He manages to maneuver Nightwing’s unconscious body around so they can share the front seat, his significant other pretty much laying on top of him with both Tim’s arms around him to keep them both in the seat when they reach impossible speeds. He manages to get one arm high enough to keep two fingers on the meaty beat at N’s jugular.
And the rumble of his thighs, the glass dome overhead, all of it just amazing (but would be life affirming if his boyfriend wasn’t fear-toxined as fuck and could come to and kick his ass easily at any possible second).
Before they reach the outskirts of Gotham, Robin leans forward from the emergency back-seat and starts tying a blindfold around his eyes, taking the nearly imperceptible nod from the Batman as some secret language (who knew, maybe they kidnap civilians all the time?). He doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t try to fight it, just shifts his grip on Nightwing and tries to swallow past the ache in his throat.
Both Bats are silent on the fast and furious ride, and he doesn’t say a word since the pulse under his fingers is steady at sixty-seven beats per minute. (And it’s nice, not hitting tachycardia right about now. Shit, now he jinxed himself).
“I understand you found out,” is the first thing he’s heard when the car finally slows and rolls to a final stop.
“Are we speaking the same language?” He asks, turning his head even with the blindfold, “found out? I mean, he told you, didn’t he?”
There’s a “tt,” loud enough to be obvious before the feel of air and movement behind them. The top has retracted and Robin already out.
Movement from beside him is the Batman leaping out, talking while he comes around the front of the car. Tim tracks him even if the echo might be messing with his equilibrium, “they told me you figured it out when Dick was in the cape.”
Abruptly, the blindfold is jerked off, and it’s literally a bat cave. It’s a bat cave.
A Bat Cave.
His inner fanboy is almost comatose.
He gets it together when Nightwing is pulled out of his arm, and the cowl moves in a subtle “here boy, heel,” motion.
Pet Doctor it is then.
Tim scrambles out over the side of the car, his “vigilante only” doctor’s bag with him as he breathes and tries to take it all in.
There’s a huge dinosaur and a penny the size of a small building. He pretty much drools over the massive supercomputer across the room, and bites down on his lip hard when they pass a massive workbench of microscopes, beakers, and more fun things than he’d had in the last year as an Attending. Still, he has to give them props for having state-of-the-art equipment in their contained medical area.
Once he steps across the curtain, he’s on his game, stepping into the role.
The Batman is laying Nightwing out while Tim does a quick scrub up before re-gloving. He’s turning on devices, ripping the suit further to attach the pads so he’s got a familiar litany of beeping and brightly colored read-outs.
He takes a step to the side, eyes wandering over the wall of containers, guessing at which one had saline IV bags to try flushing the drug out faster.
He’s already got tubing and a labeled clear bag without the Bats bothering to stop him.
Well, since he’s right on the edge of his nerves anyway, the unavoidable word vomit starts up anyway, “Crane is pretty consistent with the building blocks of his fear toxins. That makes it easier to treat, something to neutralize one of the components is enough to knock out most of the formula. The patient might experience more subtle hallucinations, but that’s about it. The full effects are gone within twenty minutes or so. I mean, if you’ve got a little—”
“How do you know all this?” Is Robin’s voice from the bottom of the gurney. “I believed you to be a surgeon.”
“I have other hobbies,” is his short comeback while focusing on getting the IV home. “Dating vigilantes is one of the more mild ones.”
And yes. Just yes. He sees the smallest quirk to the Batman’s mouth and totally gives himself a gold star.
But it’s just like back in his bedroom when he admitted to the truth, it’s something that has to come out because...because he has to make sure they know. It doesn’t matter if they believe, if he has no other part in their world other than patching up potentially lethal injuries and giving two former Robins a perch free of all this. So he pauses once the IV is taped down, looking up at the cowled crime fighter and then at his sidekick (son) with eyes dark and a straight spine. With his purple scrubs, he looks so utterly badass.
“I’ve never told anyone. I wouldn’t do that, not with all the good you guys do for Gotham.” His gloved hands are braced on the rails by Nightwing’s bicep. “I’ve seen first-hand what these crazy assholes will do to innocent people. I’ve had enough of them on my fucking table to get why you guys are fighting the good fight.” A little softer even with his half-hoarse voice anyway, “Gotham is lucky to have you.”
The creepy Bat-stillness just makes him take in a painful breath, go back to the massive wall-o-medical-supplies to pull out drawers until he finds the right sealed trays he needs. “So. I mean, I won’t tell anyone. Your secret is safe, Mr. Wayne.”
In his peripheral, Robin doesn’t really twitch, but it’s a close thing.
The quirk to the Batman’s mouth gets sharper, and while he’s attaching the tube to the syringe, a gloved hand rises, makes a few presses before the cowl is swept off over the lower half of the face to reveal disheveled dark hair and electric blue eyes, eyes that missed nothing. Eyes that saw it all.
Tim almost drops the syringe when he’s looking at Bruce Wayne in the Batsuit.
Best.
Reveal.
In.
History.
When he realizes his mouth is hanging open in shock (and wow, he’s never getting an invite back to the BAT CAVE. Good job him), his jaw click shut and he goes right back to drawing blood out of the crook of his boyfriend’s arm.
“Bruce,” the crime fighter replies. “ It’s nice to see you again, Tim.”
And just like that, Robin pulls off the domino to become Damian Wayne, his expression neutral, but the head nod is really more than he would have ever imagined.
Tim looks from one to another while pressing a cotton ball on the tiny wound, holding up a blood sample in his other hand that he fully intended to take over to that workbench and analyze. He fully intended to talk out the components, to use the very expensive and handy-as-hell equipment, give Batm—Bruce—B—the full breakdown and give a comparison of possible ways to counter the effects.
And well, yes, he was already moving that way, sliding on a conveniently placed stool, picking out a blank slide from the box caddy-cornered to the microscope, and to putting a sample on a blank slide to study. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out what they needed to know to synthesize another cure more specialized to this strain of toxin and—
Divesting himself of gloves and gauntlets, cape and the body suit somewhere along the way, Bruce is moving into the secondary work space, taking the syringe to get his own sample and start-up with warming the equipment to get to work.
Apparently at some point, he his life his Wonderland proportions because he’s about to do the legwork on the Scarecrow’s fear toxin with the real Batman.
It’s another foot in their world, another step closer to danger and possible horrible death, the stupid things Dick and Jason worry about all the time, their paranoia just another reason his locks are new and suddenly his windows are oddly reinforced.
Even though it’s a terrifying thing, to be thrown into their world where the odds will always be stacked against them, where there’s little more than pain and fear and bad guys and hard nights, he’s oddly can’t find anything wrong with sitting his ass right here and picking out the four major building blocks while Bruce is pulling together what they would need to counteract them.
When Dick’s heart picks up abruptly, quickly, the phrase ventricular fibrillation, he’s the one across the room like a shot, throwing himself up on the gurney to straddle Dick’s hips and use both palms over his heart to try slowing the fluttering rhythm the hard way the antidote goes through the final few minutes of preparation.
If he babbles stupid things about how no, you don’t get to do this and you’re not going to lay down and die on me and fight, Dick. Fucking FIGHT!, neither Bruce or Damian say a word about it, not while Damian grips Dick’s bicep, face furrowed and closed-off and Bruce hurries the process, eyes moving from Tim on Dick’s chest to the final countdown until the antidote is ready.
“Please, babe,” he finally breathes out, husky voice catching while his shoulders and arms start feeling the strain. “Please.”
Dick’s body jerks once, a sharp spasm that almost throws him off, but Tim hangs on long enough for Bruce to shove the syringe in Dick’s neck and push the plunger.
Thirty seconds.
He tastes copper in the back of his mouth.
One minute.
The machines are blaring as a side note, but fuck, he can’t give up. Bruce is staunch beside him, Damian unconsciously leaning closer.
Two minutes.
And the beats even out, slow down to the steady rhythm of his hands.
Dick’s whole body seems to go slack under his thighs.
Even as he eases off with chest compressions, all three of them let out a hard, deep sigh of relief. He unwinds his stethoscope free hand gripping Dick’s shoulder like a lifeline while he presses the disc right over the calming heart. He doesn’t ease up for long, aching minutes, even when Bruce and Damian step away.
“I assume coffee and dinner wouldn’t be remiss at the moment, Master Timothy.”
Blinking because he’d been kind of lost counting Dick’s heartbeat and staring down at his closed eyes, he turns to a slightly older Alfred Pennyworth. The man still striking in his professional suit, a calm eye in the storm.
“Coffee?” He repeats dumbly, almost desperately, several of his vertebrae cracking sharply (and there’s no clock so he has no idea how long he’s been leaning over his vigilante boyfriend/patient, just listening to his heartbeat).
“Indeed,” the butler cajoles with an easy, pleasant air, “perhaps the homemade pizza would also be to your liking, Sir?”
“Coffee and pizza?”
Yup. Count him in.
Free food and caffeine is always a win.
Bruce and Damian sit at a workbench with him and the three of them devour enough to make Alfred Pennyworth look please enough to bring more.
Between the sixth slice and the bottom of his third cup of coffee, he somehow manages to wedge himself under the medical gurney Dick’s laying on to sleep the sleep of the just and highly over-worked while the steady beat of the heart monitor lulls him further under. If someone (like Damian) throws a blanket over him before they go upstairs for the night, well, the surveillance footage of the Bat Cave later accessed by the Red Hood would never show it.
|
Tony had done everything he could to keep his sick fiancé comfortable.
The room temp was turned up to a blazing degree.
Extra blankets and comforters were added to the bed. And Tony himself held Peter tightly to share his body heat.
And it seemed to be working. Even in his sleep, Peter grasped Tony with his whole body wriggling for more warmth.
Everything combined with radiating heat from Peter’s fever caused Tony to be drenched in sweat.
But he endured.
With one arm still wrapped around Peter, Tony reached to sip his water bottle from the nightstand.
Peter stirred at the slight movement. Feeling guilty Tony returned his arm to hold his adult-babe.
The couple slept past noon. Peter woke with a painful groan causing Tony to wake too.
“Still hurting?” Tony nuzzled Peter’s sweat-damp hair, both of them soaked. “Is it any better at all?”
“A little.” Peter managed to choke out, pressing his hand to his aching forehead.
“Drink up, You lost a lot of water through sweat.” Tony held Peter across his lap cradling his head in the crook of his arm and fed him the water bottle.
Peter thirstily suckled as if he couldn’t get enough.
Once the bottle was finished Tony got up to fill a baby bottle with hot tea.
This one, Peter suckled slowly, letting the warmth from the beverage nourish him.
“It looks like we’re going to need another bath.” Tony chuckled as he brushed his fingers through Peter’s damp hair.
“I’m too nauseous to get up right now,” Peter admitted. “And yet I’m really hungry!”Tony had room service bring up some hot soup and more sheets.
Peter only ate a few bites before dozing off to sleep again.
He was so deeply asleep that he didn’t wake as Tony changed his swollen wet diaper and replaced it with a clean dry one, though he shivered when the blankets were removed.
Peter woke up again an hour or so later. This time he was able to fully open his eyes.“Daddy!” He cried out as he nuzzled Tony for his heat.
“Oh Baby. You’re cold because you’re so wet. Are you ready for tub time now?”
Peter nodded, but it took everything in him to let go of Tony long enough for him to start the bathwater.
Tony sat Peter in the hot water and returned to change the bedsheets.
Then he sat behind his lover massaging him with soap again, pausing every moment to kiss Peter’s temples.
“I thought you said your spider powers would fix this?”
“I feel much better!” Peter even smiled a bit.
“That’s good!” Tony hugged him to his chest in the water.
Tony loved everything about this man.
Tony used the fluffiest towel to dry Peter just like the night before only this time once the two were back in bed, he turned the bedroom television set to cartoons.
Room service had dropped off fresh, hot, soup and tea with sushi.
Peter was feeling up to eating the cold round seaweed wrapped morsels.
He looked impossibly adorable mouthing the finger foods.
Tony wiped his cheeks for him with his bib.
“I’m feeling much better, Thank you so much for all of this.” Peter squeezed Tony tightly.
“In sickness and in health.” The ironman winked. “I enjoyed all of the snuggles. We’ll stay in again tonight just to be sure.”“I’m so sorry Tony. I'm sure we didn't come all the way here just to spend the whole time in bed.”“Oh! That’s exactly why we came all the way here!” He laughed. “And once you’re feeling better I have a fun date planned for us.”
Peter couldn’t respond due to a mouthful of rice, but he smiled appreciating his love.
Tony had spent the last 48 hours in what felt like a sauna! But as Peter started to feel better, he was able to change the room temp to a comfortable degree and remove some of the extra blankets.
“See! Good as new!” Peter hopped on top of his fiancée’s lap wearing shorts and a tank top, “I’m ready for that date!”Tony didn’t speak. He just smiled as he gazed into Peter’s beautiful brown eyes. That smile was such a sight after all of the sickness.
“I’m so glad you’re better, Sweetheart.” Tony held Peter by his lower back as he stole his lips into a tender kiss. “And bring a sweater tonight just to be safe!”
The couple had arrived at their destination. When they first entered it looked like a normal bar, but a hostess took them back to a dark black hallway lined with many red doors. There was an intimate and intimidating vibe to the place.
“Tony! Did you bring me to a sex house?!” Peter whispered.
“No! Something a little more PG-rated. But we can do that next if you like.” Tony laughed and winked.
The two were ushered inside a small room.
Surprisingly, the inside was bright and vibrant. The walls were painted spring sky blue with airbrushed clouds. Soft couches surrounded a coffee table and large…television screen?Peter was still unsure where he was until the hostess handed them each:
A microphone.
“I figured we can’t leave without singing a little karaoke first!” Tony hugged Peter loving his curious expression.“Wow! That sounds like fun, but I don’t know about singing-” Tony just carded his fingers through Peter’s hair and smiled. Their drinks had arrived.
“No reason to be shy. It’s just you and me. Want me to go first?”
Though insecure about his own abilities, Peter loved watching Tony serenade him with a love song while he sipped his first drink.
After a couple more drinks the two debuted a duet and Peter smiled ear to ear.
“This is fun!” Peter couldn’t stop smiling.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Baby.” Tony stole Peter’s lips into a warm, wet kiss.
He continued to pull his handsome fiancé into his lap.
Straddling Tony, Peter set the microphones down and continued the hot kiss.
Tony had a daringly sensual look in his eyes.
Peter could sense his hunger.
He looked over his shoulder to the door.
“No one will be back unless we call them to order more drinks,” Tony assured.
Peter thought for a moment, still unsure, then smirked.
“We are on vacation after all. I’m up for something adventurous.” He whispered as he returned his hot pouty lips to his lover’s.
Peter moved lower to kiss Tony’s neck making him crazy.
“Baby Boy! You are always full of surprises aren’t you?”
Peter giggled a bit as he moved lower.
Tony got the hint and unbuckled his pants letting his erection unfold, wet with pre-come.
Peter moved to his knees between Tony’s muscular thighs.
He didn’t waste any time! He wrapped his hot mouth around Tony’s hardness, sucking off the pre-come as he wet it with his own saliva.
“Yes!” Tony threw his head back and widened his legs more.
He reclined on the couch in pure ecstasy as Peter expertly sucked and licked his most sensitive spots.
Tony reached to run his fingers through his love’s soft hair lovingly.
“Good boy! Such a good boy for Daddy.” He whispered.
Peter hollowed his cheeks and sucked fervently as his own erection throbbed leaving a wet spot of pre on his khaki shorts. He reached down to relieve the ache as he stroked himself.
The thrill of being in a semi-public place was so naughty. Yet so intimate to share the daring experience with his man.
Tony’s hips began to buck as his body threatened to climax. He bit his own fist to keep from crying out as he moaned.
“MMMM!” Peter hummed sending vibrations into Tony’s flesh, maximizing the sensation.
“AH!” The ironman couldn’t hold back anymore!“Ah! Peter! Baby! Yes!” He gasped and thrashed as waves of pleasure took over his body.
His hot pink cock spurted into Peter’s eager mouth as he readily swallowed all of the evidence of their wild escapade.
But Tony wasn’t done yet!“Come here!” He pulled Peter up by his arms onto the couch as he grabbed a handful of drink napkins with one hand.
His other hand dipped into the front of Peter’s shorts gripping his cock, still wet with pre-come.
“B-but, I’ll make a mess!” Peter whispered.
“You let Daddy worry about that, Kitten. Just enjoy.” Tony pumped Peter’s pretty cock up and down, massaging the underside of the tip with his thumb to intensify the feel.
“Oh! Daddy!” Peter groaned.
“That’s it, Baby. Just enjoy. Don’t worry about anything.”
Tony’s voice was so soothing and sexy. Peter closed his eyes as his own hips bucked.
“Ah! AhhH!” Peter held both hands over his mouth as he groaned in bliss. “Daddy will clean up his baby.” Tony used the napkins to catch the load of hot come as Peter orgasmed. “Good boy. Such a good boy for me!”
Peter just panted on the couch as Tony cleaned him up.
“Tony. I-I-““Yes, love?”“I loved this date! But I really want to take this back to the hotel.”“Oh yeah?”“Yeah. You doing that really makes me want you to diaper me tonight. But for fun this time.”“All night? And let me change you too when you get wet?”Peter nodded.
“Alright! Let’s get going, but you’d better have one more drink before we go.” Tony winked and handed Peter one more drink which he chugged
|
“Fucking Hell!”
Draco’s screech echoed down the hall, as he sprinted faster than he had ever moved in his life.
“If you can still talk run faster!” Hermione gasped back, slamming into a wall and using the momentum to launch herself down the next corridor.
There was a sickening crunch of stone from behind them as they both pelted it along the stone floor.
A loud anguished yell made them both flinch, and then duck as a slab of stone soared over their heads, smashing into a suit of armour.
“Shit.” Hermione hissed, scrabbling along the floor.
“What the fuck did you say to it?” Draco wheezed, grabbing her arm and dragging her upright again.
“Don’t blame me! It’s obviously confounded!”
“Obviously” He hissed.
They skidded across the first floor landing and then Hermione shoved him down the stairs, hard.
He yet out an undignified yell of terror, before the stairs clunked into a giant slide launching them both down to the ground floor and into a very solid wall.
“Oh gods,” he groaned, “why woman?”
“Get up, it’s still coming.”
His body ached something horrible and his legs shook with exhaustion. He could hear the thundering of its footsteps getting closer to the stairs.
Breath coming in sharp gasps he raced after Hermione, who made a bee line for the entrance hall and the main doors.
This was insane, SHE was insane, and HE was insane for listening to her!
Lets talk to it first, Draco! Convince it to leave peacefully on it’s own, Draco! I’ve done this loads, Draco! No need to WORRY Draco, it’ll be fine, Draco.
“Fuck my life choices.” He hissed, forcing his legs to move faster. Maybe he should take up jogging. He glanced at Hermione, WHO WAS GRINNING LIKE A MAD WOMAN.
Oh gods he was surrounded by nutters.
A deafening roar reverberated from behind them, the Troll found the stairs then.
“How is it so fast?”
“Once they build momentum trolls can actually reach speeds…..”
“I DON’T CARE!”
Hermione swerved across him, causing him to stumble; she dragged him with her into the Great Hall where they skidded to a stop.
Quirrel was on the floor, everyone was standing up, Dumbledore had his wand pointed to the ceiling and smoke was dissipating from the end.
It was very quiet.
As one, they all turned to look at him and Hermione. They must have made a sight, covered in dust, rubble, red faced, sweating and panting with huge gasps.
He opened his mouth to shout… something.
“It’s in the stairwell.” Hermione screamed, spinning in place and slamming the doors shut with a flick of her wand.
Draco spun and begun helping her to slide the bolts in place.
It was still very quiet.
Until the deafening roar of an angry, confused and very smelly mountain troll sounded on the other side of the door.
Followed by a huge slam of its club against said door, causing it to shake horribly under the strain.
He and Hermione stumbled backwards, collapsing onto the floor limbs shaking as they shuffled back.
A cacophony of screams assaulted his ears from every side, he curled round Hermione and they both covered their ears.
Panicked students began running to the teachers end, trying to get as far away from the attacking creature, some of them tripping over in their haste.
Arms grabbed him and dragged him to his feet, and Draco met the determined eyes of Harry as he pulled him back towards the teacher’s dais. Glancing across he was surprised to see Theo holding up a shaking Hermione, with Ron hovering by their side.
The ginger hadn’t taken his eyes off the door however, and was hurriedly herding them all towards the safety the teachers provided.
Speaking of, Draco noticed with humour that Quirrell, who had more than a few footprints on his clothes, was being very reluctantly shoved towards the door with all the other teachers as they made a human and magical barricade.
He let out a choked laugh, garnering him many wide-eyed looks of disbelief.
Hermione however, laughed along with him.
“I think they’re going into shock!” Ron exclaimed resting a hand on Hermione’s forehead, she swatted it away.
“I hate you” Draco laughed, staring straight at Hermione, Who was STILL FUCKING GRINNING. “I hate you so much.”
She just giggled more; slowly sliding to the floor they both leant heavily against one another. He ducked his head into her should and gripped onto her arms.
“We nearly died, we nearly died so many times…”
“Yep.”
“I want a divorce.”
This sent her off into another wave of giggles, as they lay there clutching each other shaking with laughter and relief.
Exclamations of shock rippled through the crowd, the teachers must have engaged the Troll. Lifting his head slightly, Draco found his view blocked by students standing protectively in front of them.
“Don’t worry,” Harry said from his position above them. “We won’t let it get you.” The boy was standing protectively over them, wand in one hand and knife in the other.
Draco eyed the cutlery, nodding gratefully to the eleven year old.
Hermione met his eyes with raised eyebrows.
The enraged yells of the Troll were now muffled, as Snape had apparently blasted it away from the hall.
Fred and George had run to the door and had begun narrating as the Troll was forcibly levitated through the main doors and towards the forbidden forest.
“And Snape has the troll swinging by its ankles.”
“A dangerous move for anybody wearing a loin cloth.”
“In that we are in agreement.”
“Dumbledore and McGonagall are performing some unrecognised charms upon it’s, frankly rather disgusting, body.”
“Very true Fred, it makes you wonder if trolls have ever heard of personal hygiene?”
Laughter was now rippling through the students, and most had moved to the windows in the hopes of seeing the floating troll.
Many of the first years however were hovering by Draco and Hermione, eyeing them worriedly. Draco tried to give them reassuring smiles but he was still zapped from the adrenalin coursing through his body.
“Quirrell said it was in the dungeon,” Neville said shakily, he gingerly sat down on the floor facing them.
“He was acting like he had raced straight from seeing it,” Blaise plonked down next to Neville, leaning back on his hands. “But that’s shit isn’t it?” He raised an eyebrow at Draco.
“Where were you two?” Harry said, a frown on his face, he didn’t sit on the floor choosing to stay hovering above them. Theo stayed standing too.
Hesitantly sharing a glance with Hermione Draco answered, “First floor, by Binns’s classroom.”
The other kids all shared a look, when Harry piped up, “Do you think it was a distraction?” he paused uncertainly, “you know, to get past the Cerberus.” He nodded to Hermione and she nodded back looking pleasantly surprised.
“Oh fuck me…” Draco lamented quietly. “Called it, I bloody called it.”
“Yeah, you think it was guarding something?” Ron chimed in.
“Well Hagrid took something from a vault at Gringotts in the summer before we came here. Said it needed to be kept safe at Hogwarts.”
“Gringotts was broken into over the summer… mother wouldn’t shut up about it.” Pansy said scrunching her nose up. “They didn’t catch anyone. You saying it was Quirrell?” she snorted. “He looks like he’d run from a sneezing Kneazle.”
“Maybe it’s a trap.”
Eyes all turned to Ron, who was staring at the ceiling thoughtfully.
“The something or the behaviour?” Theo asked eyes narrowed.
Ron had a far away look on his face, “Both? Yeah… both.” He crossed his arms and tipped his head slightly. “If it were me, and I was after something in a place with a small suspect pool, I’d act as stupid as possible. And everyone would think, ‘hey, it can’t be him, he’s too…”
“Incompetent.” Hermione provided.
“Yeah, P..poor s..stuttering P..Professor Q..Quirrell.” Ron laughed.
Hermione froze taking a sharp intake of breath.
“And the thing, must be something he wants, so Dumbledore has it under that three headed dog.”
“Why would he want to trap Quirrell though?” Harry voiced, “You think he hates him?”
“No…” Ron said frowning at the floor. “I don’t think it’s for Quirrell, not specifically anyway. It feels like its just general bait? Like just seeing who comes along for whatever it is?”
“So Quirrell is a minion?” Blaise said, glancing across their circle.
Merlin when did it become a first year bad guy brain storming session. He even noticed Finch-Fletchley hovering with barely concealed interest.
“Yeah… that feels right.”
“Who is he working for?” Neville asked nervously.
Ron sat silent for a few seconds before making eye contact with Harry, a frown on his face.
Draco watched as Harry’s eyes lit with knowing before turning focused and determined.
“My scar hurts when he turns his back on me. A sharp stab..”
Ron nodded and a few others exchanged nervous glances.
Theo met Draco’s eyes with a type of wide-eyed horror. Almost begging Draco to dispute it.
“Voldemort, you mean.” He said instead, watching dispassionately as the kids around him recoiled, all except for Harry and Hermione.
“Are you nuts?” About three people hissed at him.
“Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.” Hermione chimed in happily.
“Oh piss off Granger.” Pansy spat.
“Feisty Pans” Draco said with a grin.
Hermione and Pansy smacked him from either side. “Ow…”
“Fine,” Draco rolled his eyes. “You mean Mouldy butt is after whatever this is?”
The faces around him looked even more panicked at that. Hermione laughed however, and he took that as a win.
“Do you think he’ll come after me again?” Harry whispered quietly.
The circle went silent; the others made awkward eye contact with each other, before Theo placed his hand on Harry’s arm.
“He can fucking try.”
A murmur of agreement travelled across them, as a group of eleven year old, first years, all agreed collectively to protect Harry Potter from one of the worst wizards to plague mankind.
Draco turned to Hermione imploringly, and she rolled her eyes before clapping her hands together.
“In that case, we should all get together and learn some defensive magic. I’ve read quite a few books on the subject and I think I can sort us out some good spells. Theo,” She turned sharply to the surprised boy. “You’ve started a potions group, yes?”
“Yeah…”
“Excellent, I think we should all join and meet every Saturday for ‘Potions study’, if that’s all right with you?” she said with a bright smile. “And maybe we can get Professor Snape to join us and see if we can squeeze some good spells out of him.”
Theo grinned wickedly back at her. “I did like the way he blasted the Troll through the door way.”
“All in agreement?” she said primly sticking her hand in the air.
Draco looked around at about thirty children with their hands raised, all grinning. Even Justin had his hand up, oh look and Susan Bones and Terry Boot and both Patil twins. In fact the only one without his hand up was himself, which he quickly rectified.
“Shall I get started on those badges then?” He asked jovially, getting a smack to the head for his troubles.
“Lets meet in the second floor corridor, second classroom at eleven tomorrow?” Hermione asked. “Perfect!”
It was at that moment, the teachers all swarmed back into the room and the first years dispersed like scattered marbles.
“Act traumatised,” Hermione elbowed him.
“Act? Act? I am bloody traumatised!” He swooned to the floor, and tried not to giggle as Sprout fretted over ‘the poor dears’.
Snape and Dumbledore were nowhere to be seen, and McGonagall was busy ordering the prefects to lead everyone back to their dormitories, as there had been, “Enough excitement for one night.”
|
Professor Moody
Harry was in his second defense class, about to be put under the Imperius again when Castiel came in. He saw her yesterday in the halls. She was very happy to talk to him and seemed to be having a good time at Hogwarts. It was a little hard to tell, though, since she didn't much show her emotions on her face of in her voice. Harry soon began to look for her minute facial movements and her eyes to figure out what she was feeling. Right now, she seemed to be feeling slightly embarrassed for interrupting Moody’s class.
Cas took a quick glance at Harry before looking at Professor Moody. “Professor Sprout would like to speak with you as soon as you're done,” she said.
“Does she now?” Moody said.
“Yes,” Cas replied, even though it was obviously a rhetorical question. “She didn't specify what it was about.”
Moody was contemplating something. “Miss Novak, was it?” Castiel nodded. “Come in, I'd like to demonstrate something for this class.”
Harry didn't like where this was going. Cas tilted her head like she always did when she didn't understand something. “Sir?”
“I would like,” he said, enunciating every word like he was talking to a small child, “to perform a spell on you as a demonstration for my class. Please come to the front of the room.”
Castiel hesitated as she stepped forward. She clearly didn't feel comfortable right now. Harry had a bad feeling about what was going to happen. When she reached the front and turned around to face the class, Moody pointed his wand and said, “Imperio.”
The class waited for her to go glassy eyed and start doing random things. After a few moments, Cas cleared her throat. “I think I'll just, um, leave.” She headed towards the door. “Good day.”
Harry stared after her as she left. It was like Moody never even cast the curse. What was that?
Moody quickly tried to regain control of the classroom. “She must have even more natural talent than you, Potter. Very impressive. Ten points to Hufflepuff.”
They were all distracted by that for the rest of the day. Cas didn't even know what that spell was or what it was supposed to do. There was no way she could have been able to pull that off.
People were still talking about that in the halls on the way to dinner, when a very angry looking Castiel stormed past them. She walked right up to Professor Moody, who was standing about ten feet away from them.
She patiently tapped him on the shoulder, and the moment he turned around, she punched him in the face with her right hand, and grabbed something from out of his coat. Cas began to walk away. Everyone's eyes widened as they watched the events unfold.
“Stop it right there, missy,” Moody called while reaching around for his wand.
“Peeves!” Castiel yelled, holding up a piece of wood. It was Moody’s wand!
The poltergeist zoomed into the hall and plucked it out of her flat palm, cackling madly. He began shooting spells in random directions as he flew off to cause more mayhem. Castiel smiled, but it was a crazed smile, that did not fit on her face.
“How dare you-” he rushed her from behind. She turned and grabbed the arm reaching for her, twisting it, and used his own weight to flip him. He was lying on his stomach, with one of his hands still held by Castiel.
“No,” she said, voice flat. Her expression hadn't changed at all during this incident. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were cold and hard. “How dare you . How dare you, Alastor Moody. If you ever try anything, like what you pulled today, I will drag you down to hell myself. Trust me, it won't be pleasant.” Her voice was stone.
McGonagall showed up trailing two students. “Miss Novak, what are you doing?”
Castiel released Moody's arm and faced McGonagall. “Teaching.” No one failed to see the irony in her statement.
Moody grunted as he stood up. His magical eye was fixed on Castiel as he talked to McGonagall. “I believe that she is one of Sprout's students. Perhaps, we should all go discuss this in her office.”
Professor McGonagall’s lips thinned, but she nodded. “Miss Novak, follow me.” She turned on her heel and left, Cas and Moody close behind.
Castiel was angry. She had rarely been so angry, and it was only multiplied by her bodies youth. One of the teachers of this school had tried to put her under mind control. A teacher, who was supposed to care and nurture, at Hogwarts school, which is supposed to be the safest place in the wizarding world, had tried to put a student, a first year no less, under mind control, using an unforgivable curse that would normally end in a lifetime sentence in the worst prison on the planet. Angry wasn't really a good word in this situation.
When she finally found out what that spell was, Castiel had been horrified. The thought of someone else being in control of her thoughts and actions, again, was devastating to her. How dare Moody try and do that to her?
So she got her revenge and insured that it would never happen again. And if she caused a little chaos by giving Peeves his wand, well…
Professor Sprout’s office was located near the greenhouses. It was homey, with all sorts of nice plants around. The woman herself had just arrived and was trying to straighten things in order to impress McGonagall. It wasn't working.
“Professor McGonagall, Professor Moody!” she said, shuffling some papers before sitting behind her desk. “Please, sit. What is this about?”
McGonagall's lips thinned as she lowered herself into the chair. Castiel and Moody sat after she did. “There was an incident in the halls today that involved Professor Moody and Miss Novak here. We came here to get the facts of the situation as you are her head of house.”
Sprout looked shocked. “What happened?” She looked at Cas to explain.
“I allowed my emotions to dictate my actions,” Cas replied. “In a public setting.”
“What she means to say,” McGonagall cut in, “is that she physically attacked Moody in the hallway.”
Sprout was alarmed. “Castiel? But she one of the calmest children in my classes. I can't picture it. Why?”
“That is what I would like to know as well,” McGonagall said. “Why did you attack Professor Moody?”
Castiel glanced between the two female professors. “I was angry at him. He did something that I felt violated my privacy and my rights and I responded violently,” she stated. “I don't regret my actions, only that I did it in a public area in front of the other students. I think I may have tarnished both of our reputations and encouraged disrespect towards the professors of this school. What I should have done was talk to him civilly, at a time when there were no students around. What I did was wrong, and I willingly accept whatever punishment you seem fit.”
“What is it that Professor Moody did that caused you to feel that way, Castiel?” Sprout asked.
“When I went to deliver your message, Professor Sprout,” she explained, still not raising her voice, just stating the events, “he asked me to demonstrate something for the class, and then attempted to put me under the Imperius curse without telling me what the curse was or what it did. I had to find out from someone else.”
McGonagall and Sprout paled at Castiel’s story and turned on Moody. “You performed what curse on her?” McGonagall shouted, voice trembling in rage. “She is a first year and you didn't even explain what was going to happen? Or that it is highly illegal and dangerous? What were you thinking?”
Moody gave a small sigh. This was not going in his favor. “I was planning on showing my students the effect the spell would have on someone who was not expecting it,” he muttered. “Of course that backfired, as it seems that Miss Novak is immune to the Imperius Curse.”
“Immune?” Professor McGonagall asked, with a pointed look at Cas.
She nodded. “That is how come I did not react to the curse when it was first performed. It appears that I am now resistant to most mind control. That would have been useful earlier,” Cas half grumbled.
“Now?” Sprout cried. “You’ve been under mind control before?”
All professors began to look at Castiel in a very odd manner. She shrugged. “I’ve had a very interesting life.” That didn’t seem to satisfy them, so Cas quickly changed the topic. “What is my punishment going to be?”
McGonagall blinked, then turned in deference to Sprout. “She’s your student.”
Sprout seemed flustered. “Well,” she began, “I think, considering the circumstances, a week’s worth of detentions,” she glanced at McGonagall, “served in the hospital wing. You will report to Madam Pomfrey after classes today and every day this week. And you will work until she dismisses you.”
Castiel gave a slight bow of her head. “Thank you,” she stood. “I will see you in classes tomorrow. Good day.” And she left without another word.
|
If this is how Loki sees the world all the time, it's no wonder he's constantly teetering on the edge of insanity. Tony sits up and rubs at his eyes to try and dull the fierce color palette painting the world around him like some out-of-control acid trip, but that really only makes things worse.
All right, so Tony has done his fair share of experimentation with various combinations of legal and not-so-legal drugs, but he's not sure he's ever had a trip quite so disarming. Nothing is coming alive or trying to attack him, though, so at least it still ranks a ways above the one and only time he tried 'shrooms.
Speaking of there not being anything trying to attack him...
Tony looks around. "Loki?"
The god is nowhere in sight, which makes no sense whatsoever. He should be right there, next to Tony on the scanner bed, but he's not. He's gone. The only thing left behind is what looks like a string of white twine that trails its way off the scanner bed and out of sight.
Tony picks up one end of the twine—it's longer than he expected, and he still can't see the other end—and he tugs. There's a bit of resistance, as though the twine is caught on something, but otherwise there's nothing.
"Okay," Tony says. "This is weird."
He's not in his workshop anymore, he's mostly sure about that. It looks like his shop—sans the new paint job—but it can't actually be his shop. He doesn't leave twine lying around, for one thing, and his workshop is never this quiet. The silence is a dead giveaway.
Tony gets to his feet. "FRIDAY, I don't suppose you're up and running?"
He's not surprised when he doesn't get an answer; for all that he's created backups of his backups and has a billion and one failsafes in place to keep his AI running, somehow there always seems to be some possibility he missed. Magic-induced catastrophic power failure is just one of the many he'll have to account for in his next patch.
He rubs at his chest with one hand, looking around. It's his workshop but not his workshop. This much he knows. How did he get here? It almost definitely has something to do with the magical frequency he blasted himself and Loki with when he pushed them into the scanner bed, but if that's the case, where's Loki, and why didn't something like this happen the last time he pummeled Loki with his own magic?
He tugs at the twine again, feels the same resistance, and then wraps it around his hand a few times. It's not like he has anything else to do; he might as well see where the string leads, right? Maybe he'll find some answers along the way. Or maybe he'll find Loki.
At the moment, he's not sure if that's better or worse. He has no idea if Loki is still being controlled by the Titan or not. If he is, then seeking him out might not be such a great idea, but Tony figures he'll just have to play the odds.
What's the worst that could happen?
He regrets asking that almost as soon as he steps off the scanner platform, at which point the dramatic colors drain away and the temperature drops about seventy degrees. The sudden wind is the worst part of it, though; Tony squints his eyes shut and hugs his arms to himself, trying to stay warm. When he opens his eyes again, he's temporarily blinded by falling snow.
Okay, so he's definitely not in his workshop. Where is he now? Did Loki teleport them somewhere? The arctic, maybe?
Tony tries to look around to get his bearings, but he can barely see past the snow and the wind makes his eyes water, so he looks down instead. When he takes a step, his feet crunch against the packed snow underfoot. He pokes at a snowdrift with the toe of his sneaker.
"This is insane," he says—or tries to, but his teeth are chattering so hard he can barely get the words out.
Another wind gust has him crouching down, trying to make himself as small a target as possible so he can keep warm, but the attempt is foiled somewhat by the wall of snow that hits him dead on. He sputters and shakes his head to clear his vision. He has to rub at his eyes with his hands to keep ice from building up on his eyelashes, and when he takes his hands away, he sees it:
Another string of twine—this one blue instead of white—half-buried in the snow.
Tony dives for it, digging in the snow to find the end. By the time he finds it, he can't feel his fingers, but he clumsily picks it up and tugs. He gets resistance with this one, too—more than with the other, he thinks, but he's too frozen to be certain. He wraps the blue string around his hand and forces himself to stand despite the wind and the snow, and he takes another step forward.
The snow and wind abruptly disappear, although it takes a little longer for Tony to thaw out, and he rubs the lingering snowflakes from his lashes before he takes another look around.
He doesn't recognize this place, exactly, but it's familiar enough that it makes him breathe a little faster.
It's a cave.
Tony shuts his eyes tight and takes a moment to try and calm his racing heart. This is not the cave in Afghanistan. It's not any cave in Afghanistan. It's too damp. Too well-lit. It is not the same cave. It's not.
Tony fights to control his urge to panic and opens his eyes.
The walls of the cave are lined with lanterns, but the fires inside the lanterns burn a blue so deep it seems almost purple, and the flames don't flicker—they move around almost like moths inside the globe, and they never stay still. The lanterns provide the only light in the cave, but they're bright enough that Tony has no problem picking out the black string curled on the rocky floor.
The sound of hammers striking metal rings in Tony's ears as he picks up the string. It feels different than the other two do, more like surgical sutures than twine, and when he tugs on the end, it feels as though it's cutting a little into his hand. There's no evidence of it when he looks, but he regardless opts to loosely tie the string to his belt loop rather than hold it.
He's quick to leave the cave, for all that he rationally knows it isn't Afghanistan and, in all likelihood, it isn't even real, and he's almost relieved when, a few steps later, he finds himself standing next to a stone slab on a rocky precipice.
There is obviously magic involved in all of this. It just makes sense. When he fell onto the scanner bed with Loki, the scanner blasted the two of them with the magical build-up he'd stored in the switchboard-synthesizer device. Whatever is happening, it's because of that. It has to be. And that means, technically, that this is Loki's doing. This is Loki's magic. It's making him see things—feel things—that he shouldn't be seeing or feeling.
Is this what happened to Loki before, when Tony put him through the scanner? If so, did it all take place in his own mind? Is all of this, everything happening now, just Tony's brain working against him? If so, the blizzard almost makes sense, but what about the cave? Why was it that cave? Why not the one in Afghanistan?
And why here? Why this cliff? It's definitely not a place he recognizes, and the general idea of it doesn't ring any bells. It doesn't mean anything to him. Sure, he's a creative type, but Tony is mostly sure his brain wouldn't invent scenery for him, even during a magic-induced hallucination. So what other explanations are there?
Loki could probably tell him. This sort of thing is more his area than Tony's. But, since Loki is nowhere to be found...
Tony re-wraps the white and blue strings around his hand and checks to make sure the black one is still attached to his belt loop, then takes a look around. It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for under a rock—another string, this one a dark green. He moves the rock aside and picks it up.
This one doesn't have any give at all; as soon as he tugs it, it goes taut, and it stays that way even after he takes a few steps forward.
Definitely magic. Has to be.
"I'm never going to get used to this," he says to himself, and he steps forward again.
The cliff fades away and, when Tony blinks, he's surrounded by stars. This place, he knows, and his chest goes tight—too tight—and his heart races.
This is what he saw when he went through the wormhole in New York. He's on the other side of space, except this time, there's sound, and he can hear people screaming.
Tony shuts his eyes tight and tightens his grip on his collection of strings. The green one stings the palm of his hand, and he's glad for it; it keeps him grounded, keeps him from getting lost in his own head. Keeps him from panicking.
This isn't the same. It isn't real. This is just Loki's magic inundating him with pictures, with things that aren't quite true. He is in his workshop. He probably hasn't moved from the scanner bed. This is Loki's magic. That's it.
It's just a trick.
Tony lets out a shaky breath and forces himself to open his eyes. The stars dance in front of his eyes, keeping time to the people screaming behind him.
Behind him.
He glances over his shoulder, but there's nothing there—just more of the same. Space and stars and screaming.
It's nothing. He knows it's nothing. Still, he can't stop himself from calling out, "Hello?"
He's answered, predictably, by more screaming, and he holds back a shudder and starts looking for a string. Every place so far has had a string, and they have to mean something—what, he's not sure—and he's determined to find out what. The sooner he finds the string for this place, the sooner he can get out of here and the sooner he'll be gone and somewhere else new and different and nowhere near as panic-inducing as space. Probably. He hopes.
He's on the verge of giving up and walking on (where, though? There's nowhere to go) when, finally, he sees a gold string hanging off what looks like a star. He furrows his brow, considering it. It's definitely semi-attached to a star, but the string looks pretty close—definitely closer than the star should be. Then again, all of this is born of Loki's magic, so the standard rules don't necessarily apply.
Tony reaches out and takes the string, but as soon as his fingers close on it, it jerks in his hand and makes him lose his footing. He stumbles, trips, and then starts to fall. He shouts, but his voice is lost among the screams—not that there's anyone around to hear him anyway, much less help him—and he continues to fall.
It seems to go on forever, and through it all Tony's chest burns as though he has the arc reactor embedded in him again, as though he has poison coursing through his veins, and through that pain his heart pounds and races so fast that he thinks it might give out altogether.
The screaming fades, space ends, and the darkness gets lighter and lighter until it's white, like a blank page, and then, finally, Tony stops falling.
He touches down on what must be the ground, although he can't see it—it blends in with the rest of the white—and presses a hand to his chest, reassuring himself that his heart is still beating and he's still alive, that everything is okay. It takes a while for his heart to stop racing, and he takes a few deep breaths to help it on its way.
It takes him a minute or two to hear the singing, and it takes even longer for him to realize that's what it is.
Tony turns in a circle, trying to find the source, but—just like with the screaming—there's nothing there but empty space. The singing is at least less discomforting than the alternative, so he can't complain too much, but, overall, Tony decides that he definitely hates magic. When he gets out of here—if he ever gets out of here—he and Loki are going to have to have a Talk.
Assuming Loki isn't still possessed and out to tear his head off his shoulders, that is.
Actually, maybe that's what this is. Maybe Loki has killed him and this is some kind of awful purgatory, and Tony will be stuck wandering and gathering bits of string until the universe ends. He doesn't believe in that sort of thing, really, but if someone had asked him ten years ago if he believed in magic, he would have said 'no,' and look at him now, building devices to control magical frequencies and using them to (hopefully) help save his skin.
The singing continues, and Tony shuts his eyes to listen. It's a woman singing, he thinks, and he doesn't know the words or the tune, but it's familiar nonetheless—like a long-forgotten lullaby, maybe. It sounds ancient, somehow, and some primal part of him wants to curl up and fall asleep to it.
Instead, he takes a step. Then another. And, as he does, the singing gets louder.
Tony opens his eyes and finds himself in a room arguably bigger than his workshop. The walls are lined with books and scrolls and strange little oddities—he thinks he sees feathers, maybe scraps of cloth, definitely a skull of some kind—and sunlight peeks around dark red curtains covering a large window.
The woman keeps singing, but Tony doesn't see her anywhere. All he sees is a large bed pushed up against one wall and a small, dark-haired boy sitting at the foot of it, paging through a book almost as big as the boy is wide.
It doesn't take long for Tony to realize where he is.
"Oh," he says, and the boy looks up, as though he's heard him.
The boy's green gaze passes over Tony as though he isn't even there, and once he's satisfied that he's alone, the boy marks his place with a red ribbon, shuts the book, and eases off his bed to go to the window. He fades away with every step until, finally, he's gone, and Tony is left alone.
The red ribbon spools off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, extending past where Tony is standing and disappearing into the shadows.
Tony picks it up.
The room fades away, back to white, but this time it's a white room, not just empty space, and there's furniture—a cot, a table, a chair. And, finally, there's Loki.
Tony considers him for a moment before he speaks. "The inside of your head is super weird."
Loki frowns at him. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you. I mean, not literally. Are you trapped in here?" He pauses. "Are we trapped in here? Is the Titan—"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, he still lingers." Loki spreads his hands as though to gesture around the room—and it's a prison cell, Tony realizes suddenly, although he's not sure how he knows that—and Tony sees that his arms and chest are bound with multi-colored strings. White. Blue. Black. Green. Gold. Just like the ones he's holding.
Tony looks down at the strings. "I don't get it."
"They're memories," Loki explains. "Painful ones. The Titan is using them to bind himself to me. To keep his hold so that he might control me."
"Oh. Is that all?" Tony frowns. "So let's just cut the strings and—"
"No."
"No?"
"No," Loki repeats. "It is the painful memories that help shape us."
Tony wrinkles his nose. "This is all getting way too metaphorical for me."
Loki laughs softly. "Ah," he says. "That explains it."
"It explains what?"
"The primary difference between my talents and yours. The trick to working seidr—magic, as you insist on calling it—is to tell a story that rings so much of truth that the universe itself tries to make fact."
"Meaning?"
"Magic is made entirely of metaphors."
"Well, science is made up of guesses and happy accidents," Tony says. "Sometimes there's an explosion or two, just to shake things up, but it's otherwise just asking questions and guessing until we find a consistent answer."
"Precisely."
He shakes his head. "Weird."
Loki shrugs. "Perhaps."
"No, trust me, it's weird." Tony falls quiet, thinking, and when he feels something tugging in his hand, he looks down. It's the ribbon. The other strings have all gone slack, but the ribbon is taught and tugging at him, urging him forward.
Forward where? Where else is there to go?
He looks back at Loki, considering him. There's no red in Loki's bindings. The ribbon isn't there. All of the other strings lead to Loki, but the ribbon...
"What does the Titan do with your happy memories?" he asks.
Loki blinks at him as he processes the question, and he frowns. "Nothing, I imagine. They're of little use to him. The Titan controls people with fear."
"Well, with that and ancient magic rocks."
Loki shrugs. "Yes."
"Effective." Tony moves to stand in front of Loki. "Hold out your arms."
Loki arches an eyebrow but does as he's told, holding his arms forward, toward Tony. When he does, the strings hanging off of him tighten, trying to bind him down. Loki resists, but Tony can tell it's hard—the strings dig grooves into the leather of his coat and constrict around Loki's chest. It's got to be painful, but Loki barely reacts; he lets out a soft hiss through his teeth, but otherwise makes no sound, and his face doesn't betray him in the slightest. Only his eyes—those same green eyes as the little boy in the bedroom—give him away.
Tony ties the red ribbon around one of Loki's wrist, then starts looping it up Loki's arm and across his shoulders before he loops down the other arm.
Loki's other eyebrow goes up to meet the first. "What are you doing?"
"I'm trying out this metaphor thing." He finishes by tying the ribbon around Loki's other wrist. "How am I doing?"
"You should probably not stray too far from your comfort area."
"Don't be an asshole. I'm helping. I think." He steps back and watches, satisfied, as the other strings tying Loki down loosen, just enough to give Loki a little slack. "Well?"
Loki frowns, rolling his shoulders a bit. "What did you do?"
"The Titan uses the bad stuff to keep you tied to him." He tugs at his end of the ribbon, just a little. "I figure maybe you need some more of the good stuff to counterbalance him."
Loki furrows his brow. "You may find the 'good stuff' is in considerably shorter supply."
"Well, I never said it was a perfect plan. But we'll work on it." He takes a look around. "Think you'll be okay again when we get out of here?"
"Exhausted," Loki answers. "Weak. But myself, I think."
Tony nods. "We can work with that."
Loki looks at him. "We?"
"Well, sure. We're a team, remember?"
"Still? I not long ago attempted to kill you."
"Technically that wasn't you, but yeah. Still." He offers up a smile. "I'm not giving up that easy. I still have to keep my end of our deal, after all. And not just because if I don't, this Titan guy will probably take you over again and fighting him off will be that much harder."
Loki blinks at him, slowly, and then nods his head. "All right."
"Right," Tony says. "Good." He looks around, then back at Loki. "So how do we get out of here?"
"The magic has almost faded," Loki says. "When it does, we'll awaken from this dream state."
"And we'll remember all of this?"
"Most of it."
"Good enough." Tony lets go of the strings and unties the black one from his belt loop, but he keeps his hold on the red ribbon, just in case. "So, next steps?"
Loki shakes his head. "I do not know."
Tony looks down at the ribbon, then back at Loki. "I might," he says. "Maybe."
|
It was three and a half strides between the bed in the left corner to the bathroom on the opposite wall. Stiles knew he was pacing nervously and knew it wouldn't help him at all but he couldn't stop, walking back and forth again and again. It was three and a half strides, every time, and yet he couldn’t help but tick off the number with his left hand on each go-round.
His eyes tracked the grooves in the beat-up concrete floor, slid upwards to count the panels in the bathroom door before he turned and dropped his eyes to the floor again. The same pattern, again and again, as his mind tried to pull him in a dozen directions at once.
What was his dad thinking right now? Had he even noticed that Stiles had gone missing? Was he still angry?
What was Scott doing? Was he worried that he hadn’t heard from him? Was he too caught up in his own problems to notice?
What about Lydia? Their budding friendship was new and fragile but would she wonder where he was if he wasn’t at home when she showed up? Would she care?
What was Derek’s angle? What did he think his dad had on him that would constitute kidnapping? What was he so afraid of?
Why was Derek. . . so not what Stiles had expected? He was a criminal and a dick, but he was also charming and – well, not fair, nothing about this was fair, but he was something close to it. Between the Kate thing and the uncle thing and the everything, really. . . Derek was quickly becoming a puzzle and that was dangerous; the last thing Stiles needed was to let himself get caught up trying to figure out the intricacies of the guy holding him hostage.
The only thing he needed to worry about now was how to escape.
Derek had left a few hours ago, taking the ropes and chair with him and leaving a blanket and pillows. In that time, Stiles had already checked the entire room over multiple times. The only thing of use that Stiles had found was the light switch next to the door, which turned on a slightly brighter overhead light in the room. There were no windows, no cracks in the concrete walls or floor of either the main room or bathroom. The door, while not as soundproof as Stiles had suspected, was impenetrable, despite Stiles' attempts. Both the outer-facing locks and the camera were obviously newly installed, so Stiles guessed this room had not been made to keep something in. Nevertheless, it was doing a damn fine job.
The door creaked behind Stiles as he paced back to the bed and he spun around, letting out a surprised “oh my god” and nearly falling off balance. The door swung open to reveal a busty blonde in a leather jacket.
“Erica Reyes.” Stiles straightened his back and crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at her.
Erica smirked. “Stiles.”
“You’re looking. . . different,” he hedged. And by different he meant phenomenal, what the hell was she into? The last time he had seen her, she was the shy, frazzled girl he sometimes ran into at the station, picking up her alcoholic mom. He’d snuck a peek at her chart when he had to take her to the hospital that time she started seizing in the parking lot – he knew all about her epilepsy and prescriptions and what they did to her. Now she was. . . well, now she was a bombshell, and given the cocky look on her face, she knew it.
“You could say I’ve had some work done.” She winked and it put Stiles on edge, especially after he noticed the bottle-shaped paper bag in her hand. His eyes were torn between that and the small crack where the door was still hanging open.
Erica leaned into his line of vision. “You’re welcome to try to get out. It’s been a while since I’ve had an excuse to kick someone’s ass.” Her expression only added to the challenge of her words.
And Stiles considered it, he really did. But her confidence spoke to one of two things - either she really was as good a fighter as she claimed and Stiles had no chance, or she had backup on the other side of the door. He glanced back to the bag. “Got something you wanna share with the class?”
“Just dropping something off, actually.” She reached into the pocket of her leather jacket, and Stiles suppressed a flinch, barely reacting in time when she hurled whatever it was at his chest. He fumbled to catch it in his right hand and brought it up to his face to inspect.
A pill bottle. His pill bottle, the one that he always kept in his backpack.
He looked up to her, confused. “Won’t you get in trouble for giving this to me?”
“Well, I really hope not; Derek’s the one who sent me. Apparently he doesn’t want you to keep scuffing up the floor.” She gave a pointed look to the pathway Stiles had been pacing and Stiles scowled back, glancing quickly up to the camera in the corner. “Don’t even think about it.”
Stiles bit back a 1984 reference, glancing back to the bag. “That for me too?”
She glanced down to the bottle like she had forgotten it was there and then tossed it to him. “Only if you don’t want to dry swallow.”
Stiles caught it with his left hand, grumbling to himself, “Oh, I’m sure Derek would love to watch th- Gatorade?” Stiles pulled the bottle out and let the bag fall to the ground.
Erica shrugged. “Derek said anything but water.”
Stiles snorted, holding the drink under his arm as he twisted the cap on the Adderall. Erica stepped back, making to turn around and then stopped.
“Dinner is at 7. Don’t be late.” She winked and turned around, grabbing the door.
“Ha ha, very funny,” Stiles mumbled, tipping the bottle to let several pills fall into his hand.
“Oh, and Stiles?” Erica ducked her head back around the door. He glanced up, gripping the pills as he reached for the Gatorade. “Go easy on the Adderall, no refills while you’re here.”
Stiles looked down at the bottle of pills and the small pile in his hand before meeting her gaze again. “And how long will that be?
Erica cocked her head and smirked. “Funny, I asked Derek the exact same thing.”
“What did he s-“ Stiles started to ask, but then Erica was gone and the door was closed, lock sliding home. He sighed, “What did he say?”
Stiles tipped the excess pills back into the bottle, leaving just one in his palm. If he took the actual prescribed dose, he had enough to last just over a week – he didn’t dream he would be in here that long, but he didn’t want to push his luck.
After swallowing the pill and taking a generous gulp of the red Gatorade, Stiles put the bottles on the floor next to the bed and plopped down on top of it, not bothering to stop his foot from bouncing as he tried to count the marks on the concrete ceiling.
Derek was sitting on the couch, head in hands. He still hadn’t called the Sheriff, unsure of how to play this. He felt like he’d fucked up, but couldn’t see another way he could’ve handled things. All he could think right then was how much he wished Laura was with him so he could ask her what to do.
“Stop that.”
Startled, Derek looked up. He hadn’t even heard Boyd approach, but there he was, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.
“Stop what?”
“Beating yourself up.” Boyd moved into the room. “No one’s got time for that.”
“We’ll all have plenty of time in prison,” Derek snarked, eyes watching Boyd as he moved to sit opposite Derek in the armchair.
Boyd sighed. “Yeah well, even if we get sent to prison, it’s not like any of us would be there very long,” he commented, dropping forward, elbows on his thighs. “C’mon, Derek, what’s your plan?”
“I’m going to take it as a compliment that you assume I have one,” was all Derek said in reply, eyebrows ticking upwards before he let his head drop back into one hand.
“I know that you’re deflecting, and I’m willing to let it go for now, but you will need to bring me and the others into the loop eventually,” Boyd said firmly, leaving no room for negotiation. Derek looked up, meeting his eyes. It was moments like this that reminded Derek why he’d chosen Boyd; he was the only one of Derek’s betas that wasn’t afraid to be direct with him.
Derek nodded at him, agreeing silently. He appreciated that his betas had trusted him thus far, despite how little he’d told them about why.
Boyd took that for what it was and moved on. “What’s our next move?”
“Preventing Peter from killing Stiles and then the Sheriff, which he believes is the only option.”
“Peter’s a psychotic, self-serving asshole.”
Derek nodded, well-aware. “We need to keep this as quiet as possible, even from the network. They’re willing to be cooperative with the business, but most are still loyal to the Sheriff when it comes down to it.” Derek sat up, crossing his arms. “We also can’t risk them leaking information, especially not with the Argents possibly lurking around.”
“There hasn’t been a sign of the Argents since Peter’s death. Danny’s pretty sure he took his kid and ran.”
“Yeah, to plan his revenge on us for the deaths of his sister, wife and father,” Derek shot back dryly.
Boyd rolled his eyes, but got back on topic. “You ready to do this?”
Taking a deep breath, Derek rubbed his hand over his face. He could still smell Stiles all over himself and he was trying to pretend that it wasn't getting to him. “Yeah.” He looked up to meet Boyd’s eyes. “Go check on Danny, make sure he has everything he needs. I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Boyd nodded, standing and leaving the room. Derek needed to check in with Anita before things got too crazy, but as he leaned forward to grab his phone from the table, it started to vibrate. It was Isaac.
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Yeah, we maybe have a little bit of a problem,” Isaac started.
It was Derek’s turn to roll his eyes. “Of course we do.”
An hour later, Derek was carrying a covered plate of parmesan chicken across the yard and wondering how this became his life.
“Hey, Derek,” Erica greeted, setting down the book she had been reading. Her nostrils flared and her eyes flicked to the plate before narrowing suspiciously. “What did Isaac do?”
Smirking, Derek set the plate of Erica’s favorite food on the desk. “I assumed you would know.” He nodded to the screen. “Anything interesting?” he asked. He could see Stiles sprawled obscenely across the bed on his back, one foot hanging over the edge. He tore his eyes away from the scene to see Erica shaking her head.
“Not particularly. He’s calmed down over the last hour or so; the Adderall was a good call.”
Derek nodded, glancing back to the screen. Stiles’ head was resting on one forearm, his other hand on his stomach. “Head back up to the house, Boyd and Isaac will catch you up. There’s been a change of plans.”
“Oh, there was a plan?” Erica asked sweetly.
After opening his mouth for a retort, Derek immediately cut off with a sharp exhale, rolling his eyes against his amusement. “Just go.”
Erica stood, giving Derek a peck on the cheek before disappearing out into the yard.
Derek sat in her chair, looking closer at Stiles. He had asked Danny to install an HD camera and, looking at the teen lying there in striking detail, he was regretting it. Mostly. Sort of. Not really.
Stiles’ button up flannel was thrown open across the bed and his other two shirts were rucked up, displaying several inches of skin above the waistband of his jeans. Most of that was covered by Stiles’ broad hand and long fingers that were playing absently with what looked to be very fine hair growing in a trail that narrowed before thickening just as it disappeared beneath the bronze-colored button.
Derek wanted to lick it.
He jerked his eyes away. He should not encourage this - this attraction, especially not now, with the circumstances changed. Stiles was barely an adult and the Sheriff’s son, not to mention Derek’s prisoner.
He glanced back up to the screen to see that Stiles had not moved, other than the hand still playing across his stomach.
Taking a deep breath, Derek stood from the chair and grabbed the plate. He glanced back at the screen one last time before turning the lock and pushing open the door quickly.
“Oh my god!” Stiles shouted, startling so hard he fell off the bed.
Derek watched, tilting his head in curiosity as Stiles got to his feet, rubbing at an elbow and glaring at Derek. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to knock?”
He considered a moment before answering truthfully, “Actually, no.” The Hale family was never really big on privacy or personal space. “Though I can move without falling over, so my childhood wasn’t a total waste.”
“Given where you ended up, I think the jury’s still out on that one.”
Derek let that one go, lifting the plate. “I brought you dinner.”
The food was a tad cold and the fork was plastic, but it tasted good, clearly homemade. He absently wondered if the Hales kept a chef. Stiles sat back on the bed to eat, smirking when he saw that the chicken was already cut up.
“I take it you don’t trust me with a knife?”
Derek raised an eyebrow at him. “I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, poking one of the pieces with the fork and popping it in his mouth. Derek stepped back and leaned against the door, arms crossed in front of him in a way that was obviously meant to be intimidating, but came off as obscene, what with the muscles and the chest and the intense eyes. Stiles scowled.
There were far more important things happening than what made his dick twitch and he needed to remember that. Derek Hale was bad news, and Stiles needed to stop thinking of him as attractive or intriguing. He needed to stop thinking about him completely.
Stiles devoured the food quickly, assuming Derek was just waiting around to make sure he ate and would leave when he was done. When that did not happen, when he swallowed the last bite, set the plate on the floor, flopped on his back on the bed, and Derek still stood there at the door, he finally looked up.
“You got a lurking quota you gotta fill or do you have something to say?” Stiles asked, letting his head drop back against the bed.
“You’re not afraid of me.” He did not say it like a question, more like an observation, and Stiles ignored how interesting that was.
“Never was,” he threw out as casually as he could manage.
Derek snorted. “You’d think someone who lies as much as you do would be better at it.”
Stiles lifted his head again, glaring. “Yeah, and you’d think someone who runs one of the biggest drug rings in the western half of the United States would have better things to do than hang out in a dingy cellar with a teenager.” He sat up, propping himself on his elbows, eyebrows raised in challenge. “And yet, here you are.”
“Well I came down here to tell you about your father, but I can leave.” He started to turn, reaching for the door, but Stiles sat up, hand reached out as if to stop him.
“Wait, what about my father? Did something happen? Is he ok?” His heart was racing in his chest as Derek turned back around, settling against the door.
“As far as I know.”
Stiles took a deep breath, relaxing a bit. He scooted back on the bed to lean against the wall, throwing a hand out toward Derek to continue. “Then what is it?”
“Do you remember the murders from a few years back?”
Stiles tilted his head. “The ones with the moon thing?”
Derek drew back a bit. “The- what?”
Stiles sighed. “The murders, the ones that were all tied to trees in the preserve?” Derek nodded. “Yeah, well, I figured out that they were all facing exactly toward where the moon would’ve been in the sky at the time of death. Dad never listened to me though, and then they just stopped happening. Case went co- what?” Derek was staring at him intensely and it was unnerving.
“What were you, like 9?”
Stiles dropped his eyes, thinking back to that time. It had not been long after his mom had died and sometimes his dad had to take him to work with him when Mrs. Franklin was busy. His voice was soft when he spoke. “I hung around my dad’s office a lot, started peeking at the case files, making copies when he wasn’t looking. Had it figured out by the third murder.”
Derek looked. . . impressed. There wasn’t another word for it. But Stiles brought him back to the subject at hand, the only one that really mattered.
“What does this have to do with my dad?”
Derek met his eyes, inhaling slowly. “Apparently some similar cases showed up down state. Your father was called in to help with the investigation.”
Stiles sat forward. “Called in, like. . ?”
“He left for the airport an hour ago.”
“Wait, does he know-”
Derek shook his head, cutting Stiles off. “No, he thinks you need space and will talk when he gets back.”
Stiles’ nostrils flared at the idea of Derek being on his phone, talking to his dad and Scott, reading private messages. He was suddenly very glad he was so paranoid. Then realization dawned on him. “So, what does that mean for me?”
Derek sighed. “It means you’re gonna be here a while.”
“Oh, that’s - that’s just fantastic. How long?”
Shaking his head, Derek responded, “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Stiles nodded his head, pursing his lips before huffing out an exhale. “So, what? You’re just gonna keep me locked up here until he comes back? Do you really think no one else will notice that I’m gone? I know you’re new to this whole kidnapping thing, but gotta say, you’re impressively bad at it.”
Derek opened his mouth to reply, but Stiles cut him off. “No really, I mean it, I’m impressed,” he said earnestly. “For as much as you drive my dad crazy, I’d have thought you were at least halfway competent.”
That apparently struck a chord because Derek’s expression darkened, narrowing his eyes at Stiles. “I’ll keep you here as long as I need to. And with a mouth like that, no, I’m not particularly concerned about anyone missing you.”
The comment shocked Stiles enough that he let out a laugh, turning his eyes down to the bed. “Well that’s just awesome. With my luck I’ll be stuck here when the Argents come back for round two.” It was a low-blow and Stiles immediately regretted it.
There was a whoosh of breath and Stiles looked up to see Derek’s jaw clenching. “I told you, I don’t make the same mistake twice.”
Stiles shook his head, trying to make sense of what Derek was saying. “What do you mean, twice? It’s not like the fire was your fault.”
But Derek just looked down, eyes closing and jaw clenching. He looked angry and hurt, and it didn’t make any sense. Stiles was still watching him expectantly when he finally looked back up. “Not everything ends up in a case file.” He was already turning, hand on the door.
“Hey wait, no!” Stiles leapt forward, hand outstretched. He didn’t even really know why he cared - this was Derek Hale after all. He could just hear Scott in his ear with a “C’mon dude, that wasn’t cool,” and he knew he couldn’t let the conversation end like that.
Derek stopped, turning back around to glare at Stiles. “Why, so you can continue throwing the slaughter of my entire family in my face? No thanks.”
He’d whipped back around and slipped through the door before Stiles could reply.
Shit.
Stiles deflated back against the cool concrete wall. He felt like an asshole. His dad didn’t raise him to say shitty things like that, not even about the Hale family. There had been children in the house when it burned down.
Derek’s expression before he stormed out was seared across Stiles’ mind - a mask of anger that Stiles could see right through; he recognized that mask. It was one he’d worn often in the years following his mother’s death and sometimes even now he’d catch it in his reflection.
Beneath that mask was all the grief and pain he hid away because it was too heavy for the world to see. Beneath that mask was the guilt.
Stiles knew where his guilt came from, but Derek’s didn’t make sense to him. His dad had investigated that fire - he’d read the police files. Kate Argent was the one who burned down the house.
Perhaps it was just survivor’s guilt. Derek and Laura had reportedly snuck out to a party that night - Laura had been 18 and Derek a couple years younger. They were supposed to have been home when the fire started. They should have died along with everyone else.
Not everything ends up in a case file.
Stiles shook his head. Derek was continuing to occupy more space in Stiles’ head than he deserved. Tragic past or not, Derek was keeping Stiles captive in order to blackmail his father. Derek probably wouldn’t let Stiles leave here alive.
One good thing to come out of his dad being out of town was time. The longer they kept him here alive, the longer he was alive to figure out an escape.
“I’m hesitant to send a naked shipment of indigo clover,” Anita said, static voice crackling through the phone speaker. “But the SanFran selkie fertility festival is in a couple days, so I don’t have time to come up with a cover shipment.”
Derek frowned. “Why so late? Shouldn’t that shipment have gone - Oh. Right.” Merle had retired a few months back, leaving his son, Calder, to lead the selkie colony. Derek had been too busy dealing with the chaos in Beacon Hills to attend the retirement party, but he knew it had been a rough transition - Calder tended to be very scatterbrained.
Anita’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “Calder is a great man, but he’s certainly not as sharp as his father.”
Nodding, Derek put a note in his calendar. “I’ll give him a call next year in May. Send it naked, but send it with Braedon.”
Anita’s, “If I can find her,” was drowned out by the sound of Derek’s phone vibrating with a text from Danny. We need to talk about the best friend. Derek sighed. He hadn’t been in to talk to Stiles since breaking the news about his father the previous day, but the way that conversation had ended had landed heavily on Derek. He wasn’t looking forward to anything that made him confront Stiles again so soon, didn't need another reason to flood his senses with Stiles' scent and his voice and his everything.
“I’ll call Braedon. She’ll be there tonight. And I’ll take care of her surcharge.” He could almost feel Laura’s eye roll - she would have charged Calder double, if she’d sent the shipment at all.
“Gracias, mijo. How are things with your. . . situation?”
“Complicated, of course. On hold for the moment because the Sheriff is out of town on assignment. I can’t go into detail right now,” Derek said. He hadn’t seen Peter since yesterday, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t lurking. “But it’s moving along.”
“Does he know?”
Derek paused, catching the double meaning - Anita was good. “I sure hope not, but I’m not taking any chances.”
“Will you be running tonight, with everything going on?”
Taking a deep breath, Derek considered. “I hope to. With everything… I don’t really want to put any more distance between myself and my pack.”
Derek caught the scent before the knock at the doorway. Danny stood there, manila folder clutched in his hand with Stiles’ phone.
“And there’s my cue,” Anita said cheerfully. “Adios.”
“Adios, tia.” Derek hung up the phone, setting it down as he called for Danny to come in.
“Was that Aunt Nini?” Danny asked, plopping down on Derek’s armchair. Derek nodded, smirking at the nonchalant way his cousin treated the furniture. His father’s human family had been raised alongside his, but they’d treated Talia’s office with such reverence back then. Clearly, Danny had gotten over that sometime between Laura and Derek.
“You said something about the best friend?”
Danny sighed, nodding. “Yeah. He’s called three times this morning already, and sent several texts. Check out the last one.” With a flick of his wrist, Danny tossed Stiles’ phone to Derek, who caught it before it could smash into his late-morning coffee.
When Derek punched in the pin, the screen was already open to a conversation with a wall of gray boxes, each more worried than the last. Danny had replied back as Stiles telling Scott he was fine and to calm down, and the last gray box was a stark contrast. Derek had to read it twice, eyebrows scrunching together.
“I thought they just graduated?” He made it a question, looking up at Danny, who nodded.
“So why is Scott asking about the summer reading?” Danny hinted, but Derek was already there.
It was a code.
Derek was out of his chair and around the desk before Danny even seemed to register that he’d stood. “Get me everything we have on this kid. I know they’re troublemakers, but a code means they’ve got something to hide.” Which meant Stiles might know more about his father’s investigations than he’d let on.
“Ahem, Derek.” Danny called, not having moved from his place on the chair. He waived the manila folder. “Way ahead of you, cuz.”
Rolling his eyes, Derek walked over and grabbed the folder, swatting Danny on the head with it. “You could have led with that.” He ignored Danny’s snort and went back to his chair behind the desk, opening the folder.
Derek’s eyes were immediately drawn to the new photo of Stiles on the left, the upturned cheek lifting his mouth into a smirk, eyes turned cocky beneath long lashes. He thumbed away the paper clip attaching the documents to the folder, and forced himself to set aside the senior photo, aware of Danny’s eyes on him.
“Did you notice anything?” Derek asked.
Danny shook his head. “Nothing out of the ordinary, but a second set of eyes never hurt. They’re a couple of troublemakers, but Stiles’ dad has always made sure nothing stuck so their records are clean.”
Derek nodded, skimming through Stiles’ side of the folder for anything new. He had already seen most of the documents on Stiles’ side - detention record, transcripts, birth certificate, his mother’s obituary. Derek frowned, placing the other documents atop that one - he always hated seeing photos of the dead, smiling, happy, and completely unaware of the fate awaiting them.
The only additions were the photo and the hacked phone records going back three months, showing that Stiles primarily exchanged calls and texts with two numbers - his father and Scott. There was the occasional call to the local pizza place or the doctor’s office, but nothing out of the ordinary.
He turned his attention to the right side of the folder, full of the information and printouts on Scott McCall. He flipped through the documents, looking for anything that stood out. Average transcripts, grades dropping from high Bs and As to Cs in his last semester, explained no doubt by the increase in participation on the lacrosse field. He’d made first line his senior year, ranked MVP in the state championship.
Flipping back further, there was a custody agreement, so his parents were divorced. There was a single police report from several months before that, detailing a domestic violence call that was ruled an accident. Scott had been injured, fallen down the stairs and hit his head. Stilinski was the responding officer. Derek noted it and moved on to the employment record - Scott worked as the veterinary aid to Dr. Alan Deaton. That could prove complicated.
Danny had pulled Scott’s phone records as well and those were no more colorful. Mostly to his mom, or the hospital, and several to Alan’s office and cell. Then a name caught Derek’s eye.
Argent.
Derek’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. A text, sent nearly two months ago, to a phone registered to C Argent. Derek bit back the growl and swallowed the wolf clawing up his throat, looking up to Danny for an explanation.
“He dated the daughter, Allison, briefly. That’s her number,” Danny explained, grim look on his face.
“And you didn’t think that warranted mentioning?”
Danny shrugged. “Puppy love? She hasn’t contacted him since her dad took her out of town. Seems pretty one-sided to me.”
Nodding, Derek breathed. He knew Danny was right - there wasn’t any reason to think it was more than a high school fling, but Derek didn’t trust anything to do with that family. He filed that away, and would have Isaac check this kid out later.
There were a couple of other documents to parse through, but his phone buzzed on the desk as he set down the phone record.
Alan Deaton.
A call from the good Doctor was hardly ever good news.
Taking a deep breath, Derek slid to answer. “Alan.”
“Derek, how fortunate I should catch you. Do you have a moment?”
Rolling his eyes, Derek leaned forward and placed elbows on the desk. Alan knew Derek wasn’t stupid enough to ignore his calls. “A quick one. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I hope. I wondered if you were aware of anything strange going on.”
Derek tensed. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific.” Danny quirked his head.
“Yes, well, I’m sure it’s nothing,” Alan said. “My young assistant has shown some concern over lack of contact from his friend.” Derek sat up straight, eyes wide. Shit. “I wondered if you were aware of a teenager missing, or perhaps being in places or with people he ought not.”
After a moment’s deliberation, Derek answered honestly. “I can’t explain right now, but it’s being taken care of. He’s safe.” If it came down to it, Alan would understand Derek’s motives, and he would surely find out on his own eventually. He always did.
“Oh!” Alan said brightly, surprised. “Good, I’m glad to hear it. I assume this is a sensitive matter, yes?“
“You could say that.”
“Interesting. . . the Sheriff’s son… bold move on Isaac’s part,” Alan mused.
“It wasn’t his decision,” Derek snapped defensively, confused. Isaac may have been the one to grab Stiles, but Derek had ordered it. Alan should know that.
“Oh?” Alan replied, tone indecipherable. “That’s… even bolder. Might I inquire as to your end game here?”
Derek sighed. “We’re still working on that,” he admitted.
There was a pause before Alan replied, inhaling sharply. “Well, thank you for taking my call, Derek, you’ve certainly alleviated some concerns. Give Isaac my best,” Alan added.
Derek’s eyebrows twitched together. “I - I will do that,” he said slowly. The sentiment was out of place, given the circumstances, but Derek didn’t have the energy to question it. “Anything else?”
“If you’ll just check that Vernon received my latest order. I’d quite like to begin mixing my next batch of feverfew, but I’m rather low on bloodbean.”
“Of course.” With that, Alan disconnected the call, and Derek set his phone down, rubbing a hand over his face.
“All good, cuz?”
Snapping up, Derek met Danny’s eyes. “Yeah. This Scott kid may be more of a problem than we expected, but hopefully Alan can rein him in.” He closed the folder Danny had brought and slid it across the desk to him.
“I’ll let you know if I find anything new. You gonna talk to Stiles about what summer reading means?”
Derek nodded. “Later. If Scott texts again, let me know.”
“Will do.”
“You’re on watch next, right?” Derek asked, glancing at the clock. It was almost 11am. Danny nodded. “Could you send Isaac up here? I’ve got a project for him.”
“Sure thing.” Danny picked up the folder and left, and it was then that Derek noticed the photo still sitting on the desk where he’d set it aside. Without thinking, he tucked his fingernail beneath the glossy paper and lifted it from the desk so Stiles’ mischievous eyes met his.
Alone in his office, he allowed his eyes to tick around the photo. Stiles’ long body leaned against a barred cell door at the Sheriff’s station, one forearm propped against the frame, long fingers hanging down. Fitted jeans, red plaid button-up unbuttoned over a white shirt. His mouth bit back a devastating secret and his eyes - well, for all the trouble they held, they promised Derek he would enjoy the ride.
“Derek!”
He looked up from his desk, though Erica’s shout had come from below. When he listened closer, he could hear a commotion and several loud voices in the distance. He registered one of them as Stiles’ while Erica’s voice still bellowed through the house.
Derek stood immediately, running out of the study. He’d barely had an hour of peace since Danny had brought him the information on Scott.
“Yeah, I think you need to get down here like right now, the kid is going nutso.”
“I can hear that, thank you,” Derek replied. He was already down the stairs, brushing past her in the doorway and sprinting for the door to the dungeon. There was a loud banging that he assumed was coming from Stiles, his voice louder than both Boyd’s and Isaac’s. When he got inside, he could see them both up against the door, shouting at him to calm down and be quiet.
Danny was at the monitor, watching Stiles on the screen. The banging was just his fists repeatedly beating against the door as he screamed through it.
“- don’t understand! You have to let me out, okay, right now, this is so much more important than your stupid drug bullshit.”
“Stiles.” Derek’s voice was loud and commanding, silencing his betas as he pushed past them to the door.
The pounding stopped. “Derek, you have to listen to me. This is important, like, fuck, so important ok, lives are at stake. You have to let me out of here right now.” His voice was tense and frantic and terrified.
Ignoring the stares of everyone in the room, Derek rested his head against the door, voice raised to be heard by human ears through the door. “You know I can’t do that, Stiles.”
Just like that, Stiles’ tone switched. “God dammit, Derek, I’m not fucking around here, okay. This isn’t some ploy to get away, or get you busted or whatever, I don’t care about that right now. People could die, alright, this is serious, please.”
Stiles’ heartbeat was erratic, but there were no upticks, meaning he wasn’t lying. Or rather, he thought he was telling the truth.
Derek sighed, taking too long to answer because then Stiles was talking again. “Really, Derek, you got nothing? Are you just going to let people die?”
“I can’t let you leave, Stiles. Tell me what’s going on and I can send someone to-“
“No!” Stiles shouted, pounding his fist against the door again. The sudden loud noise made all the werewolves wince. “You can’t just- No one else can do this. It has to be me and only me.”
“Stiles, just tell me what’s go-“
“No, fuck, listen to me Derek, I can’t. All I can tell you is that people could die if you don’t let me out of here. Please, trust me.”
There was no bite or humor in Stiles’ words, no blips in his heartbeat. Derek closed his eyes and took a deep breath before looking back, at Boyd and Erica and Isaac. At his pack. He was their Alpha and it was his job to protect them at any cost. He couldn’t risk their safety by letting Stiles go. Couldn’t risk Stiles’ life by letting him out of Derek’s protection, even if he couldn’t know why.
“I’m sorry, Stiles, I can’t.”
The next blow was expected, though he saw Erica and Isaac flinch out of the corner of his eye. The pounding continued, louder and louder as Stiles banged harder and harder. Derek could hear him losing his breath, his heart rate increasing drastically.
“Let me out! You have to. . . let me out! I have to -” he shouted, heaving through his words and pounding losing force and precision against the door. Derek stood there frozen, trying to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do.
“Derek, he’s panicking,” Boyd said as Stiles’ voice lost the fight with his panting. Boyd’s voice wasn’t demanding or even tense. He sounded a million times more calm than Derek felt, each blow on the door reverberating through Derek’s head. Derek could smell the blood.
“I know.”
“No,” Boyd replied. “I mean, he’s having a panic attack.”
Eyebrows drawn, Derek listened closer, Stiles’ fists on the door becoming continuously more erratic with each passing second. Stiles was hyperventilating, drawing more breath than he could control. Derek shook his head a little at what he was about to do. “Erica, run up to the house and grab the black case in the back room. Quickly.”
Erica was gone without another word, sprinting at full speed. They watched her go, then Boyd turned to Derek.
“You sure about that? That’s not exactly subtle.”
Derek nodded. “I know. I’ll handle it.”
It took less than a minute for Erica to return, carrying the sedative herb. It was a rare form of chamomile that pre-dated modern botany. It would work far faster and more efficiently than any human sedative could, and Derek was betting on Stiles being too worked up to notice. Derek opened the case on the desk and set up the needle, drawing out just a few drops of the mixture. He snapped it into place in the injection gun, wasting no time as he moved to the door. He looked up to his betas, all standing and watching with tense eyes, ears as over-sensitive as Derek’s.
“Stay out here.”
With that, he slid the lock on the door and pushed it open hard, throwing Stiles back. The teen barely managed to stay upright, body convulsing with the force of each frantic breath. He started heading toward the open door, eyes wild. Derek was careful as he caught him, pinning his arms down and pulling Stiles up against his chest with his right arm. He fell back against the door, closing it as Stiles struggled in his grip.
“No!. . . Please. . . N-no,” Stiles pleaded, flailing and kicking his legs out, but Derek held fast, pressing the needle into the skin of Stiles’ throat and squeezing the trigger. “F-fuck,” he gritted out, heartrate ratcheting up even higher. “No,” he said again, but this time it was more of a whine.
Derek tossed the gun and wrapped his arm around Stiles’ forearms to keep them still. Derek could smell the chamomile spreading quickly, tainting Stiles' scent. A few seconds later his breathing started to slow and soften and he began to slump back against Derek, murmuring nonsensical curses.
Stiles was out before his breathing had even returned to normal. Derek bent to hook an arm under Stiles’ legs, standing and carrying him over to the bed. He set the teen down gently, making sure his neck was in a decently comfortable position. Even so, he didn’t look calm or serene like Derek had seen when he slept the night before. He just looked blank, empty.
Derek walked back out to his pack, all standing up from where they leaned against the walls when he opened the door. “What happened?” he asked, his voice sounding weary even to him.
Danny spoke up first. “He was pacing back and forth again. Kept counting off on his fingers, then recounting. It’s why I called Boyd down,” he explained, glancing over to Boyd.
“He wanted to see if I could hear what he was saying,” Boyd clarified. “But by the time I got down here, he’d gone stock-still in the middle of the room. Then he ran to the door and started yelling and banging, begging to be let out.”
Heaving a deep breath, Derek nodded. “Okay. Isaac – check the sheriff’s station, ask about any unusual activity, anything that would make Stiles think someone was in danger.” Isaac nodded, ducking out. Derek turned to Erica. “Call in some of the informants around town. Same thing. There’s something going on and I want to know what it is.” Once she was gone, Derek turned to Boyd.
“When he wakes up, he’s just gonna go at it again, and we need him to not do that.” Boyd gave a thoughtful expression, but Derek cut him off. “I’d like to avoid tying him to the chair again if we can.”
“We could handcuff him to the bed frame.”
Derek narrowed his eyes, considering it briefly before nodding. “Fine. Find a regular pair, if you can. We don’t need him asking questions about why we’ve got bear shackles on hand.”
Boyd nodded and headed down the tunnel where they kept the bulk of their weapons and restraints. Derek turned and sat in the chair, letting his head fall into his hand, trying to remind himself that Murphy’s Law wasn’t actually real.
Stiles’ first thought as he woke up was just how incredibly sick he was of waking up feeling like his head was filled with fog. The memories were hazy, but he had a vague image of Derek’s arm across his chest. He blinked, opening his eyes in small increments, realizing they were still not functioning right because something was off about the light. There was a roaring sound in his ears that just made him feel even more dizzy.
He tried to take stock of his body while his eyes and ears still adjusted, but as soon as he tried to flex his fingers, he hissed because ow. Instinctively he tried to pull his hands in, but they got caught up on something, and there was a clanging sound that was altogether too familiar.
Opening his eyes fully, Stiles tracked the shape of handcuffs around both his wrists, the chain looping around the bed frame. He groaned loudly because really? What the fuck? He turned his hands a bit to see his knuckles, noting the angry red scrapes and split skin across both hands and – oh yeah.
It all came back at once, the realization, the shouting and banging, the argument with Derek. The panic attack. Being drugged again. The anger from before was eclipsed only by fear because Scott. He twisted in the cuffs, trying to look around the room while ignoring the growing pressure in his head. He froze when he looked over his elbow to see-
The door was open. Huh. That was-
“Interesting,” he said aloud.
It took him a minute and he came closer to elbowing himself in the face than he was proud to admit, but Stiles managed to get himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He rested his cuffed hands on his thighs, leaning back over his shoulder to get a better look outside. No wonder the light looked so different than he was becoming used to in his little cell of a room - the overhead light in his room was off and the only source came from the sliver of yard he could see.
Stiles never thought he’d be so happy to see the sun. He hadn’t seen even a glimpse of it in the two days he’d been here, but this was real sunlight – he could even see grass and dirt and trees in the thin slice of yard that was visible from his angle. He couldn’t see much of the room between his door and the outside, but he could see the edge of a table if he leaned far enough forward.
‘Hello?” he called. “Anyone there?”
If there was someone out there, they’d already noticed that he was awake and just weren’t saying anything. If there wasn’t… well it meant something was happening. Something big enough for them to leave him not only alone, but with his door still open.
They probably assumed the handcuffs would be enough to hold him until they got back. They forgot he was the son of the Sheriff.
There was more awkward maneuvering as Stiles half-leaned, half-sat at the edge of the bed, giving his fingers just enough space to dig into the tiny coin pocket above the front-right pocket of his jeans. He fished out the tiny paperclip he kept stored there, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes at the memory of putting it there, how excited he’d been at the thought of using it. He’d take boring, safe Thursday afternoon over kidnapped by emotionally unstable drug dealers who drugged him and handcuffed him to a bed any day.
The handcuffs were standard issue and Stiles started in on the left cuff, glancing over his shoulder so often that what should have taken ten seconds took nearly a minute.
The chain clanged as he slid the loose cuff around the bed frame and gripped it in his right hand, not going to waste the time to remove it. He wasn’t in the clear just yet.
Stiles barely spared a glance at the computer in the next room as he dashed out into the large yard. Once outside, he could see the Hale manor up at the top of the hill, so he turned and started running in the opposite direction toward the trees, sparing a glance back at the hole in the side of the hill that led to his dungeon cell.
Based on his recollection of his Dad’s map of the land, the highway was about two miles out and Stiles could run that in under fifteen minutes during cross country season. He jumped over logs and weaved between trees, pushing himself faster than he ever had before.
A bird called out just to his right and he was half turned to look when his foot caught on a log and he went down hard , shoulder knocking into a tree on his left. Stiles heard more than felt the sick crack in his arm.
And then he felt it.
He cried out, rolling onto his back and drawing his right arm across his body to clutch at his left, which he couldn’t move. The cuff hung loosely from his right wrist, metal clacking as it slid off Stiles’ stomach. Tears pricked at his eyes and he was hissing through his teeth, heaving in breaths against the pain.
He allowed himself five seconds to compose himself before trying to stand. Someone could have heard his scream and he needed to get moving, needed to reach the road.
Bracing his right hand against a tree, Stiles got his feet under him and lifted off the ground. His left arm dangled uselessly, the pain too intense to localize. Every motion sent waves crashing across his entire left side. Stiles grabbed his elbow and held it close to his body, gritting his teeth and letting the handcuff swing free.
The first couple steps were agony, but Stiles made himself move, step after step.
Until a large, heavy shape came barreling at him from the left. Stiles barely had time to duck before it collided with him, throwing him against the tree beside him, which he scooted up against as he glanced around himself frantically. His whole body was sore, but his shoulder was absolutely screaming, tears falling freely from his eyes. Black creeped across his vision but Stiles fought to stay conscious against the pain.
“Fu-fuck,” Stiles breathed out to himself, trying to keep himself from hyperventilating.
“You must be Stiles.”
Stiles turned toward the voice to see a tall, sandy-haired man coming out from behind a tree. Squinting, he could just make out the man’s face in the shade of the forest.
Peter Hale.
According to the town, he’d shown up miraculously recovered after Laura Hale had been murdered by Gerard Argent, and he’d tried to take over the company from Derek. He almost got it too, but suddenly he was missing and it was presumed Derek had killed him to maintain power - that is, until he showed back up two months later.
The story had always smelled fishy to Stiles, because Allison hadn’t mentioned her grandfather being in town until nearly a month after Laura had been found dead in the woods – well, half of her. Derek’s confession made much more sense.
Peter was stalking closer to Stiles and still talking. “Tsk tsk, don’t you remember the story of Little Red? You’re not supposed to go wandering the woods alone.”
“Oh my God, what is with you Hales and your obsession with Little Red?” Stiles spat back, frantically trying to plan an escape. Peter had the advantage, but if he could get up and stay out of reach, he might still be able to outrun him. “Is it the only fairy tale your family knows?”
At that, Peter smirked, letting out a soft chuckle that sent a creep up Stiles’ spine. “Come now, Stiles. I thought you were the smart one.”
Stiles’ eyebrows drew together, confused. “Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not actually psychic. Must’ve skipped my generation, so I guess you’ll just have to tell me.”
Peter seemed to ponder that a moment, tilting his head slightly. “The story is long and the time is short,” he mused. “And as I have the unfortunate task of cleaning up my nephew’s mistakes… you’ll have to die in ignorance.” Sending him a beaming, predatory grin, Peter stepped forward, but Stiles was already scrambling to his feet.
“Oh, shi-“ He managed to stand and was taking his first step just as Peter’s hand circled his left arm.
Stiles swung around, the empty cuff whizzing through the air. It collided with Peter’s cheek, knocking his balance off and surprising him enough that he dropped Stiles’ arm. He yowled, but Stiles didn’t stick around to savor his expression.
He barely made it three steps before he was sent crashing into another tree, body going almost numb from the shock before the pain flared back to cloud his mind. Fuck, this guy was fast.
“Running is futile, Stiles, I’d have thought you’d know that better than anyone.”
Stiles tried to breathe and turned to see Peter advancing on him again. “What are you talking about?”
Before Peter could answer, another dark shape came flying through the trees and landed next to Peter.
The newcomer - Derek, he realized through his blurred vision - was crouched in a horrifyingly familiar position, one hand braced between his two legs, but then he was standing and roaring at Peter.
“Leave!”
The sound reverberated through the trees and through Stiles’ body and he saw Peter take a step backwards, but that wasn’t what caught his attention.
Red. Derek’s eyes flashed red, almost too quick that Stiles missed it, but he was sure of what he saw. The motherfucker was-
Stiles could barely think he was so filled with pain and rage. He barely registered Peter and Derek arguing as they stood above him.
“I warned you to stay away from him,” Derek growled at his uncle.
Peter didn’t seem fazed. “And I warned you of what would happen if you let the kid live. He was barely a mile from the freeway Derek, and what do you think would’ve happened to us then?”
Stiles was backed against a tree and he started to edge around it slowly. He braced his right hand on the ground as he moved, ignoring the searing pain in his left shoulder at the movement. If he could just get to the side without them noticing. . .
“I told you I would handle- You!” Derek turned then, pointing at Stiles. Stiles froze, looking back at him; he looked livid. “Stay put. Don’t even get me started on-“
“Don’t get you started? Are you kidding me?” Stiles readjusted as he spoke, pulling his left arm across his body so it was more secure. “Don’t get you started on what? How you yanked me off the streets and threw me into a dungeon? How you drugged me and handcuffed me to a bed? How you-“ Stiles cut off that last part, licking his lips and swallowing. “Please, start, I’d love to hear what you have to say for yourself.”
Derek’s nostrils flared. “Shut up,” he ordered, just as Peter commented, “Well, he’s not wrong.”
Lifting a tense hand to point, Derek snarled at Peter, “Get out of my sight before I reconsider my decision not to kill you.”
Peter glared a moment before seeming to decide that Derek was serious. “Very well.”
Derek waited until he was out of sight before heaving a deep, angry sigh and turning back to Stiles. He glanced over him quickly while Stiles tried to burn a hole through Derek’s skull with his mind.
“Let me see your arm.”
“That’s hilarious. You should do stand up,” Stiles retorted, pressing back against the tree as Derek stepped forward.
“Stiles,” he warned, lowering down to his level and reaching out.
“Derek,” Stiles mocked back at him, jerking back.
Dropping his hand, Derek sighed. “We need to head back to get that looked at.” He backed off, standing.
Stiles burst into laughter. “If you really think I’ll willingly walk back to my own prison, you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”
That seemed to hit a nerve because Derek’s jaw clenched. “Stand up or I’ll do it for you.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure you’d like to get your hands all over this,” Stiles snarked, drawing back further as he cradled his left arm to his chest – the throbbing was threatening to send tears to his eyes again, but he fought them back.
“Wouldn’t exactly be a hardship,” Derek admitted – and wow, that was very possibly the strangest and angriest compliment he’d ever gotten. Derek’s tone was cold and detached, sending a shiver of fear – and something else he didn’t want to admit to - down his spine.
Stiles glared for several moments, stomach turning at the entire situation. When it was clear Derek was losing his patience, he braced his right hand back against the tree trunk and pushed off, gritting his teeth. He was nearly to his feet when his hand slipped and he collapsed back against the tree, unable to suppress a shout.
“Don’t,” Stiles warned in the direction of Derek’s outstretched hands. “Don’t you dare touch me.” His voice sounded dangerous even to his own ears, and it was a credit to Derek’s composure that he didn’t laugh in Stiles’ face. They both knew very well who held the power here, though Derek didn’t know just how much Stiles knew.
Derek straightened, jaw clenching even as he gave a short nod. His eyebrows spoke of confusion, but Stiles didn’t care. He got himself into a standing position, and stepped around Derek, ignoring the pain.
“Don’t even try to run, I will catch you.”
Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’m aware of that, thank you,” he replied in a scathing tone.
Hatred for Derek Hale was burning in his veins. It was only the knowledge that it would end extremely poorly for him that kept him from turning around and socking him in the face. He might’ve done it anyway if he didn’t already have one fucked up arm.
It didn’t matter that Stiles was more attracted to Derek than he’d been to anyone he’d ever met. It didn’t matter that Derek wasn’t the black and white criminal Stiles had been raised to believe he was. It didn’t matter that Derek had a tragic past and was clearly way out of his element.
None of that mattered because Derek was the werewolf that bit Scott, and Stiles was going to make sure he paid for destroying his best friend’s life.
|
We live everything as it comes, without warning,
like an actor going on cold.
And what can life be worth if the first rehearsal for life
is life itself?
- The Unbearable Lightness of Being (1984) // Milan Kundera
I
The keypad beeped, causing Seokjin to shift on the sofa bed. He kept playing Tetris on his phone, dropping a square in the righthand corner as Namjoon walked into – or rather stepped into – their ant-sized studio apartment, toeing his shoes off with a groan. Seokjin didn’t react, although a smile was already forming on his lips, with warmth spreading through him.
They rarely bothered folding their pull-out bed back into a sofa during the day, but for once Seokjin had done so when searching for his headphones. Said headphones were now hanging off Namjoon’s neck as he crossed the distance from the door to their sofa in three large steps, climbing onto a sprawled out Seokjin and promptly collapsing on top of him, nuzzling into his chest with a dramatic whine.
Seokjin couldn’t bring himself to reprimand Namjoon, whose arms were wrapping around his middle greedily. “Hi baby,” Namjoon said.
Seokjin fought off a smile, gazing down at the short mint hair. “Hi yourself.”
He raised his knees, parting his legs, to let Namjoon lie between them fully. Namjoon groaned his appreciation, cuddling into him fervently. This should have been unwelcome in the August heat, their two modest windows cracked open as shouts from the neighbourhood echoed in, but the onslaught of warm, sweaty man on him felt comfortable.
Namjoon said, “What’d you do today?”
“Nothing,” Seokjin returned easily. In fact, he’d ordered Namjoon something for his twenty-second birthday: had spent all of his extra won on a rare book on botany that, out of all things in this world, Namjoon had talked about for weeks now. He tapped on the phone screen, sliding a four-block bar into a gap on the left, and said, “And you? How’d it go?”
“I dunno. The editors seemed nice, but I hate interviews. I nap now.”
“On me?” he checked, one hand settling in Namjoon’s short hair, slowly scraping over the scalp in the way that Namjoon liked.
“Husband privileges,” Namjoon argued.
Something warm fluttered in his heart. “Okay, you mint teddy bear. You nap now.”
“Perfect,” Namjoon said, craning up with puckered lips, and Seokjin gave in and met him in a fond kiss, the taste of Namjoon a constant drug in his veins. Content, Namjoon settled on him again, all of his seventy kilos pressing Seokjin down, tall frame shielding him from the wayward world outside and protecting the two of them in their haven of a small apartment where their clothes stayed in suitcases due to the lack of space.
Seokjin kept trying to play the game with one hand, brushing the short strands of Namjoon’s hair in soothing circles, the wedding band on his finger pressing gently to Namjoon’s skin.
Namjoon was asleep within minutes, the small studio filling with his steady breaths and the faint sound of traffic, the hum of their small mini-fridge, the voices of neighbours echoing through the walls – summer ticking away with sluggish beats, leaving Seokjin’s young heart full and content. When his phone began to buzz in his hand, Seokjin blinked, startled, and he cancelled the call from his father, protectively pulling Namjoon closer against him.
Namjoon was snoring when a second call came, and Seokjin switched his phone off entirely. Those kinds of calls weren’t welcome in this cocoon, where the two of them perhaps did not have much, but they had each other – and this studio, and the sofa bed, and the Seoul summer heat.
And Seokjin was happy. That was what he remembered years later: that he had been so devastatingly happy.
These days, there were still some mornings when Seokjin, half-asleep, would marvel at how comfortable their sofa bed actually was, thinking he must tell Namjoon this – before waking up properly, to find himself alone in his king-sized bed, in the spacious apartment fit for a well-to-do investment oversight managing director, aged thirty-three; an unmarried businessman. Nothing mint in sight.
So it goes sometimes, right? So it goes. He’d stretch and get out of bed.
* * *
The day that Seokjin found out he was married was a busy day, as all his days were. He had to make a call to his insurance company because his assistant couldn’t do it for him, and as he talked to the unhelpful advisor, phone squashed between his ear and shoulder, he kept typing out emails.
“Your excess has been adjusted to the household earnings,” the insurance lady said, trying to weasel out of paying what they owed him for his flight delay claim. Not on his watch!
“I am my household,” Seokjin corrected, while rounding up a strongly worded warning to the junior associate of sales. It was Friday night, seven PM – he’d clocked fifty-five hours already that week and planned to stay for a few more.
“Our records say you are married. Has this recently changed?”
This, finally, gave Seokjin pause. He frowned and took a hold of the phone. “No?” he said. “I’ve never been married.”
At the words, he glanced at the large painting by his office door that he’d bought at an auction, called ‘The Waves of Spring’. It showed a dramatic sea landscape of blue waves crashing onto high cliffs somewhere in California – it was summer; the hills were green and dotted with flowers, leaving a calming impression.
“Why do you ask?” he asked, turning on his charm. “Are you offering your hand in marriage?”
The woman did not respond while he chuckled at his own joke. After a pause, she said, “According to our records, you have been married since the thirteenth of June 2013.”
Seokjin stilled, staring at his landscape painting, suddenly not feeling calm at all – as if expecting his father, now retired, to burst into his office. How did she have that date? How did anyone have that date, from over a decade ago now?
He squeezed the phone. “E-Excuse me?”
She was all business, however. “To, let’s see…”
Don’t say it, don’t—
“Ah, Kim Namjoon. Oh. Like the author!”
Seokjin’s elbow slipped from the desk and he nearly smashed his face to the tabletop.
“Sir? Hello? Hello?”
He clutched the phone for dear life. “Wait, I’m married?!”
* * *
Look, there was a perfectly logical explanation as to why the Globe Insurance Company was under the false impression that he, Kim Seokjin, was hitched to Korea’s darling author Kim Namjoon. He just wasn’t entirely sure why this misinformation was on their records, and yet they insisted it was there in black and white.
He brewed over this on the way home. Despite being a division managing director in his father’s firm, he still used the subway; everyone else had chauffeurs, and he’d had one too for a while, after the accident, but he’d been hopelessly stiff in the backseat, unable to even loosen his tie. Exiting their offices in the heart of Gangnam and joining the stream of commuters let him disappear into the crowds at the end of each day; allowed him to loosen his tie and exhale.
Yet that evening’s subway ride was spent stiff, on-guard, and on his phone, requesting a file on himself from the government’s marriage registrar. Apparently, this would be emailed to him within fifteen working days. Fifteen? Absurd!
He was so out of sorts that he got off at the wrong station, intending to change to Line 5 to take him southwards, before he recalled that he had not lived that way in years, and that it was Line 1 that took him home directly. He muttered to himself angrily – caught sight of a tall and broad man from the corner of his eye, in an oversized khaki jacket with the hood over his head, and his hands began to sweat. It was someone he had never seen before, of course.
Finally home, he poured himself a generous scotch, restless and annoyed, before he conscientiously checked his email and managed a few more queries from contacts. He absently examined his not-so-modest view of Seoul from his expensive two-bedroom apartment, the urban sprawl stretching as far as he could see. “Ideal for a bachelor,” the agent had told him at the viewing some years earlier. “There is a laundry service in the building for busy men such as yourself!”
Yup, that was him alright.
He considered calling Yoongi or Hoseok, but the two were so busy planning their wedding that he didn’t want to disturb them. Hoping for a distraction, he plopped down on his leather couch, propped his feet up on the glass coffee table, and turned on the TV. The huge 75-inch monitor flicked on to whatever channel he’d left it on and a talk show came on—
—and one Kim Namjoon was seated on a couch as one of the guests, giving a warm yet professional dimpled smile at the host.
Seokjin choked on his scotch.
On Namjoon’s left sat a veteran actress Seokjin recognised, and the three were discussing the state of contemporary art in Korea. Everything Namjoon said was charming and insightful.
Seokjin shouldn’t have been surprised: Namjoon had his name on posters on the subway whenever a new book came out; and this time Namjoon had a play premiering.
“But in London,” the host said, and Namjoon nodded. His hair was a honeyed brown, and he was dressed in a simple black turtleneck that showed off his chest and arms, both much more defined than when Seokjin had known him. Round glasses on his nose, hair pushed off his forehead: the image of a young intellectual if there was one.
For some godawful reason, Seokjin was hit by a vivid memory of himself sitting in Namjoon’s lap, kissing him desperately – panting and grinding as Namjoon worked one of their many toys into him; lube dripping, leaving Seokjin an absolute mess – while Namjoon smacked his ass and said, “That’s it, baby, keep fucking yourself on it, there you go…”.
He gulped, staring at the screen. God, was there anything more awful than a semi-famous ex?
The middle-aged male host said, “You’ve written this play in English. Are you going to self-translate this as you’ve done with some projects in the past?”
“Maybe,” Namjoon granted, with a charming, white-pearled smile. “I mean, I lived in New York, then London for such a long time – via Germany, yes – but using English for this play came naturally. And this play is about the English: their small absurdities, the class micro-aggressions. Koreans would see some echoes there too, but recontextualised. There is cultural intertextuality to play with.”
Seokjin snorted on his couch, forcing away the image of a younger Namjoon with dark eyes, cheeks flushed and skin sweaty, staring up at him hungrily. Oh, Kim Namjoon, such an intellectual! The most prolific young Korean author of the last twenty years, living abroad but gracing South Korea with his presence sporadically.
They’d both lived entire lives since they’d last seen each other – meeting only once, unintentionally, at a birthday party that Hoseok threw the year after Seokjin finished military service and Namjoon happened to be in the country, but that was it. Their brief reunion had been as awkward as one could imagine: Seokjin was dating someone new, so was Namjoon. They exchanged some forced pleasantries before Seokjin rushed to find his hunk of a boyfriend, clinging onto him fiercely, and Namjoon left the party shortly after, and Seokjin was so upset over it all that that he ended up in a massive fight with his boyfriend – over what, he didn’t even know.
He and Namjoon were memories to each other now, and that was all. Yet his hands were clammy, his stomach in knots, as he thought of a mint-haired boy with goofy smiles and loud cackles, nuzzling into him. He saw no traces of that man on the TV screen, and he nervously played with the chain that he habitually wore, always tucked underneath his neatly pressed shirts, with the locket pressed to his chest.
When the host asked Namjoon what he would work on next, Namjoon said he was spending the rest of summer on his next full-length novel, in a writing retreat. “Here in Korea?” the host asked, and Namjoon shook his head: “A remote location abroad.”
When had the show been taped? That week, presumably. So Namjoon was, or had been, in Seoul, as happened maybe once or twice a year. It made no difference to Seokjin, of course: he’d asked their remaining mutual friends to avoid inviting him to something Namjoon might be at. It was just better that way. And so he pieced this together with Hoseok not having messaged him for two days, and knowing Hoseok could not lie whatsoever, he texted: hey just curious what did you do last night
Hoseok texted back nearly instantly: …we had dinner with namjoon.
figured, he responded.
Hoseok took a few minutes to reply: sorry, i thought it was just easier not to mention it, was that okay???
yea of course you know that, he typed back – he preferred not to be told, really. lunch sometime next week?
He shut the TV off tiredly. How absurd it was for anyone to think he had any entanglements with the ever-popular Kim Namjoon anymore.
After a shower he even went on a dating app and swiped left and right monotonously, matching with a relatively cute guy who immediately messaged him with, wait hold up, let’s summarise your profile: you’re absolutely stunning, you head your own division, you cook, sing, like to go fishing, I mean how are you single??
I guess I work too much to really meet people, he typed back honestly.
yeah?? Bet you’re hung as hell too
So much for candid reflections, then.
I don’t mean to brag but yeah that too, he responded, staring at the screen with no real enthusiasm.
you sure you don’t have a wife and kids you’re hiding? 😉 not that i give a shit lol, let’s meet up
I might be married, it’s a bit unclear right now.
I shouldn’t be. I mean I’m not ACTIVELY married but maybe accidentally I am?
and I mean even if I am then who cares right
like sometimes you are married and don’t know?
The guy unmatched him.
Seokjin poured himself another scotch. It was fine. Sometimes the past was just a little more present than he wanted it to be, that was all – and it’d been a tough year. A tough few years. He wasn’t at his prime; that, he was certain of.
He went to bed, alone – and woke up knowing exactly where he was.
* * *
“Work’s great,” he told Hoseok and Yoongi over dinner the following week. “Busy as ever, but the annual asset re-evaluation went smoothly.”
They were at the fried chicken place they’d all frequented since their university days that, although it was down a backstreet in Gwanak-gu, often had queues outside. Walking through the door to the scent of sizzling fat always pushed a sense of nostalgia onto Seokjin, who became keenly aware of how long it had been since they had been carefree students.
He tore off another piece of the chicken tiredly, having come straight from work at eight PM.
His two friends were looking at him with the same air of concern they’d surveyed him with since he’d started working for his father, a whole five years ago now? Who even knew anymore, but Seokjin had gotten used to it. Yoongi and Hoseok worried, and Seokjin worked.
“Hyung,” Hoseok said, looking sympathetic. “Maybe you need a holiday? Didn’t you say you have weeks and weeks of leave to spend up?”
“I mean I do, but no one uses the leave they accumulate,” he said, face scrunched up in disdain. “It’d be selfish to just take time off. Besides, I hate travel.”
Yoongi shrugged. “Stay at home and play video games, then.”
“Childish,” he said, motioning in the air with a drumstick, ignoring the endless hours he’d enthusiastically spent gaming when younger. “The video games, that is. Look, work is great. How’s the wedding planning going?”
Hoseok and Yoongi kindly allowed the deflection – Seokjin’s schedule had been busy with weddings since the legislation passed, but perhaps this one he was genuinely looking forward to. Seokjin did not have many – or any – other friends who reached back a whole decade like Hoseok did, and Yoongi too, by now.
Yoongi and Hoseok were investing in their wedding: they’d booked the banquet hall of a five-star hotel by the river, spending a hell of a lot more than a traditional wedding hall ceremony would cost. Yoongi said that since they were finally able to marry, he was going to make a fuss about it. Hoseok giggled at this brightly, eyes scrunched up, lips in a heart-shaped smile – they had a glow about them these days, with the wedding impending. Seokjin had been given a plus one invite but had no one to bring.
Maybe life would be more joyous if he and Youngmoo hadn’t broken up – probably his most serious boyfriend in years. What had been not to like? The Jaguar that Youngmoo drove, the amazing steak that he cooked? The generous cock that, fine, Youngmoo perhaps had not quite known what to do with, but together they’d made significant improvements? But their relationship had been bland, even a year and a half into it: unseasoned oatmeal, just like everything else seemed to be in life.
Sometimes he thought that he was still waiting for someone to sweep him off his feet. How childish.
Seokjin paid for their meal, insisting it was his treat. He was in better spirits heading home, too, until on the subway he unluckily sat opposite a young woman who was reading London after Hours: an accidental diary. Her eyes were glued to the page. Couldn’t be that good, could it?
Seokjin stared at the author’s name on the cover, a bitter taste in his mouth. Should Seokjin lean across and say ‘hey, fun fact? That’s my husband.’ Hilarious, sure. He’d considered bringing up Namjoon to Hoseok and Yoongi too but then hadn’t. Just because he hadn’t spoken to Namjoon in years didn’t mean his friends couldn’t see the man on his brief visits to Korea. Tactfully, his friends never mentioned those reunions either – this was how they had awkwardly co-existed for years.
He managed to push the whole thing out of his mind until he got out of a contract negotiation three days later, and as he returned to his office, he checked his emails: and ah, finally, he had been sent the documents he’d asked for. Well, this would clear it right up, this—
The first attachment was a copy of his resident register, which listed him as married. Spouse: Kim Namjoon.
His stomach dropped. What in the living…?
The second pdf explained why the Republic of Korea was under this delusion: it was a scan of a certificate of marriage from Las Vegas, Nevada, all in English, from 13 June 2013. Signed by himself and Kim Namjoon. He stared at the scan, a hollow ache in his guts: he hadn’t seen this piece of paper in years. The loud noise of a casino now echoed in his ears, the flashing lights blinding him, the warmth of Namjoon’s large hand squeezing his, the taste of cheap beer on his tongue – on Namjoon’s tongue. The laughter, the excitement… The goddamn Elvis impersonator in the chapel!
Well of course a document like this might suggest to the uneducated that Seokjin was married when truly he was not. What a ridiculous mix-up!
He called in the newbie of their legal team, and Jeon Jungkook appeared five minutes later with a nervous air to him, wearing a smart white dress shirt, burgundy tie and black trousers, sticking to their dress code politely – even if the dress shirt looked ready to burst from the young man’s gym addiction.
“Ah, Jeon Jungkook-ssi, please sit down,” he said, and the man obeyed with a polite nod, slightly overgrown black hair tucked neatly behind his ears.
Seokjin then hesitated, wondering how to word it as he sat behind his desk: wondering how to ensure the partners, let alone his father, never heard of this error in the files.
“I’ve called you in for something confidential,” he said at length, motioning for Jungkook to put away his pen and notepad. Jungkook blinked owlishly but did so. Seokjin sucked in a breath, formed his words, then said, “It’s a– a sensitive topic, about someone working here, so you cannot repeat what I tell you outside of this room. Is that understood?”
Jungkook looked scared but nodded.
Seokjin exhaled. “Okay, good. Excellent. Well, you see, we have a colleague in slight trouble. It turns out that he got married in Las Vegas years ago, and now the state lists him as married.”
“What?” Jungkook frowned. “They. Hang on, if– if a colleague got married in the US, they’re married here too. That’s how it works.”
Seokjin sucked in a breath, unsure what Jungkook may have picked up on his private life – although it was an open secret in the company these days, much to his father’s annoyance. The old man had come around with time, too – had seemed approving of Youngmoo, a corporate lawyer with a big yacht. A Virgo, again! Seokjin should have known from the get-go it was doomed. When that fell through, his father asked if Seokjin needed setting up with the pansexual son of Samsung’s vice chairman? A real catch, and really the rumours of the nineteen-year-old’s clubbing lifestyle and drug habits were exaggerated. Seokjin was not looking to babysit, dear god.
Seokjin pushed this all aside, thought of how, back in June, Jungkook had not-so-subtly worn a tie matching the bisexual pride flag, and said, “This colleague married another man. Understand? In the US years before Korea had legalised same-sex marriage.”
“Ah, I see,” Jungkook nodded, back on track – not too shocked, thankfully. “My aunt and her wife did that, too – married in Hawaii. It was a wonderful ceremony!”
“Yes, precisely,” he said, relieved. “Yes, good for them, you understand – excellent! So it was a symbolic marriage but not legally binding under Korean law. You understand, wonderful.”
“A lot of people did that,” Jungkook said with a well-meaning smile. “I think it’s nice people did, even if it was symbolic back then – that for them it was real anyway.”
“Ah, no, this one wasn’t real! No, no,” he said quickly, disturbed. “It was just the kind of marriage that you got when you were in Vegas with your new boyfriend and he was all tall and cute, and you were twenty-three and an idiot, and he had these cute dimples, deep like the ocean, and there was a chapel right there at the casino…”
Seokjin stared at the large painting on his office wall, lost in a memory: the painted waves were the colour of the bowtie on Namjoon when he’d taken Seokjin’s hands in his and looked at him so very fondly and, firmly and with such heavy meaning, said, “I do.”
Seokjin snapped out of it. “And– and I digress, Jungkook-ssi, but the point is that such marriages are not legally binding in Korea now because they weren’t then either.”
“Um,” Jungkook said, looking serious. “I’m afraid they are.”
Seokjin stared at their junior legal advisor. “What.”
Jungkook pulled on his collar, visibly uneasy. “When the government, um, legalised same-sex marriage at the beginning of the year, they recognised the unions that Korean citizens had gotten in places where marriage equality already exists. So, then, our colleague is officially married. To, uh, his husband – as of first of January this year.”
Seokjin was still staring. “Wha…?”
Jungkook perked up. “Unless they divorced?”
“But why would they divorce!” he cried out, hands thrashing through the air. “It was a sham wedding! Shouldn’t they have said that somewhere? If they were going to legalise the other stuff too?”
“They did?” Jungkook said timidly.
“Did they? I didn’t see it!” Seokjin barked, but he’d paid very little attention to the marriage bill to begin with, while Youngmoo had been dropping hints and Seokjin had decided to end things. “Why would they not call– call our colleague to say so!”
Jungkook frowned. “Uh, if our colleague does not want to be married, he can file for divorce, of course.” Jungkook was trying to be helpful, but Seokjin was freaking out. “I expect there is a scandal we’re hoping to avoid?”
“I– You”— deep breaths, deep breaths —“need to send me the exact legislation on this ASAP, our colleague needs it! And I need a divorce. The colleague! He needs a divorce! So I need you to draft divorce papers now, right now.” He tapped at his desk furiously. “Go, go – dash, Jungkook-ssi, a divorce won’t write itself!”
Jungkook fled his office like a frightened hare, but twenty minutes later had emailed him a copy-paste of the legislation he’d referred to. Seokjin looked it up and read it once – twice.
And it turned out that his Nevada marriage from years earlier had been formally recognised by the Korean government for eight months now. And for eight months he had been legally married without the faintest idea.
He noted some thoughts on this:
1) He was married.
2) To his ex Namjoon.
3) He was married to Namjoon.
4) Namjoon was married to him.
5) What.
6) The.
7) Oh fucking shit fuck shit fuck hell shit
8) Shit shit SHIT!
* * *
Now, Seokjin didn’t object to marriage as such. Marriage was fine if you liked that sort of thing. It was just that he hadn’t seen his… husband… in seven years. He had also, apparently, committed rather heavy-handed adultery. And Namjoon had also committed adultery. What a fucked-up marriage they had!
Was it supposed to be funny? Seokjin struggled finding humour in it. It was as if air had been punched out of his lungs, and he was so furious with his twenty-three-year-old self, and with Namjoon too, sauntering into the chapel in Las Vegas like absolute dickheads. They had never filed for divorce because why would they? Seokjin had assumed that their symbolic union ceased to exist just like their relationship had, on the day Namjoon moved to New York without him, all those years ago.
But anger didn’t solve the current problem – and Seokjin was a man of action, the kind who didn’t stall when he discovered he was a little bit married to his ex. Within days he had figured out how to process an uncontested divorce, which their seven-year separation eased considerably. Jungkook had given him a draft of all the paperwork, explained to him what to fill in and what further documents their “colleague” would need to show – Seokjin was ready to divorce!
He was just missing one thing: Kim Namjoon, the author of best-selling fiction, including A Sordid Winter and Parcels for Caretaker Park, and non-fiction like The Unassuming Flower: A Cultural History of Bonsai Trees, A Thousand Fists: Korean history through marginalised voices and even the autobiographical memoir London after Hours: an accidental diary.
Because, alas, Seokjin could not divorce Kim Namjoon without Namjoon knowing about it.
He’d have to contact Namjoon in London – maybe Namjoon had a PA who could break the news?
“Oh, but he’s actually in New Zealand now,” Yoongi told him over the phone, which was news to Seokjin. “Yeah, he’s writing his new book somewhere with peace and quiet, rented a house out there or something.”
“Oh?” Seokjin asked, throat tightening.
But Namjoon had been relatively settled in London, hadn’t he? With a nice British man… who had no idea Namjoon was married – fuck, what a mess.
“Look, please don’t ask me why,” he said carefully, “but I need to get in touch with him. It’s uh, well. It’s a practical matter. Personal.”
A pause on the line. Then, “Hyung, are– Hyung, are you okay? Are you sick?” Yoongi sounded alarmed. “Hang on, we’re coming over, I’m—”
“It’s not an STI and I don’t have cancer,” he hurried to say. He understood Yoongi’s concern: he didn’t talk about Namjoon and had never asked after him in all this time. Why now, all of a sudden? “I just need Namjoon to co-sign some paperwork, for some stuff from– from back when we were, uh. Living together. That’s all. We made some investments, and now there’s dividends.”
Yoongi sounded disbelieving. “You two invested some money? We were all broke as hell back then, especially the two of you. Like, I still don’t know how you two fit in that tiny studio together.”
“Surprise,” he chuckled awkwardly. “The early bird catches the won.”
Yoongi sounded doubtful but gave him an address for a town in New Zealand that he’d never heard of. Seokjin finished the call with, “I’m just going to pass the details on to my financial advisor.”
But in actuality Seokjin signed himself off work, unexpectedly, and bought flights to Christchurch. He wanted this done with as little fuss as possible, and without anyone finding out – because if his parents caught whiff that their “doomed to bachelorhood” son had been married all this time to that mint-haired journalism major who had turned out to become one of Korea’s most prolific authors, then… the world would explode? Implode? Seokjin was not sure and he did not care to find out.
“I’m going to a nice spa resort in Thailand,” he blatantly lied to Hoseok when they met up for coffee a few days later. “I’ve earned a break from work – and you guys are right, I think I’m close to burning out. I have to take care of myself now that I’m approaching, uh, my mid-thirties.” He almost winced saying it. So old!
“You’re going alone?” Hoseok asked, and Seokjin wasn’t sure what Hoseok was implying. Hoseok’s eyes widened. “Oh, is it like. A resort resort?” Hoseok made a vague wanking gesture. “You gotta be careful not to, you know.”
Seokjin reeled. “Did Yoongi tell you I have an STI? Because I don’t.”
His love life had been rather non-existent as of late – he wasn’t sure why everyone thought he’d had time to be catching anything. But Hoseok wished him a good trip and said he definitely had earned a break.
And so, as Seokjin had covered his bases and turned on an Out of Office reply, he boarded a flight heading south, south, south.
* * *
New Zealand was absurdly far away: the flight there was even longer than a flight to London. Seokjin pondered this furiously, trying to piece together world geography, as he emerged from Christchurch Airport into cool, crisp air. He felt mildly surreal, as one did when boarding a plane and suddenly finding themselves on the other side of the world completely. The world shrank yet expanded at the same time: apart from the handful of Asian countries that he travelled to for work, Seokjin had only been to the US once, and to Paris as a child. He was a homebody: give him Seoul forever, for the rest of his life, and he would be content.
This clearly could not be said of globetrotter Kim Namjoon, who had always talked of travel: a few months in Singapore, then swing by Mumbai, go to Marseilles for the summer… That appeared to be the life Namjoon had, too, and Seokjin felt alienated by the thought.
And while it was summer in Korea, New Zealand was in the midst of winter. No, Seokjin did not understand how planet Earth worked at all.
He rented a black Toyota SUV, checked out the map on his phone, and started driving. Namjoon was on the other side of the South Island completely and Seokjin couldn’t understand why Namjoon had chosen such a remote place to stay – yet, as he drove towards the Southern Alps in the distance, green fields all around him, the towns cute and picturesque and sheep on the pastures by the roadsides, he admitted that this seemed like a good place to get some quiet and tranquillity for a writing project.
He turned on music, refusing to think about where he was going – and who he was heading to meet, and especially why.
As evening began to fall, he found a motel in a lakeside town and stumbled through booking a room in unrehearsed English, but the owners were friendly and even knew a few Korean phrases, and he got a nice double room upstairs.
Even so, he struggled to sleep, staring at the ceiling with restless sighs, trying to relax. He was so used to the office life, the commute after work, the habit of getting out his suit for the next day, that being abroad in a comfy jumper and old jeans while trying to rectify the mistakes of his youth felt like an out-of-body experience. He felt guilty about all the work he wasn’t doing, all the projects and decisions that now had to wait for his return, about his father’s displeased “oh I see” when he’d called to say he’d be out of the country for a while.
Yet he had good reasons, and he clung onto that as he fell asleep.
When he woke up, it was the day he was going to see Namjoon for the first time in years. Not only this, he had to tell Namjoon that they were, well, married. He groaned, wondering if he could stay in bed longer still and, like, never move.
Yet he set out, after a hearty breakfast of eggs and toast – although what he really wanted was some ramyeon. And yes, he knew that on the outside it looked insane that he was halfway across the world to hunt down his ex like a goddamn stalker, without calling Namjoon to explain, but there were reasons why he and Namjoon had not spoken in years. No, this was best done in person so that Namjoon couldn’t avoid him – and it was more discreet, too.
But, dear god, why was Namjoon lurking up god’s backside? Excuse his language, but Seokjin was driving along a narrow road leading up through the mountains, dark heavy clouds looming over him. The motel owners had warned him of bad weather, but thankfully he didn’t get rained on as he navigated the (admittedly breath-taking) mountain pass that was dotted with piles of snow – driving on the wrong side of the road to boot.
He finally made it to Haast in the early afternoon: a small township of not much on the West Coast. There was a petrol station with a small grocery shop, a tiny post office, and a motel, but that appeared to be it. Had Yoongi tricked him? Had he come to this miniscule village for absolutely nothing?
Feeling on edge, he parked the car amidst campervans outside the motel and headed to the small café next to the motel reception that catered to hikers. They had places like these in Korea, too: remote towns that lived on tourism and not much else. And, because it was winter, the tourists were few except for a loud gang of Taiwanese teenagers on some kind of a survival hiking trip. Thankfully, the kids were filing back onto a bus, excited to go on their adventures.
As Seokjin’s phone was unable to pinpoint Namjoon’s exact address, he bought a map. The black-bearded motel owner drew an X at the end of a dirt road a short drive out of town. “Are you visiting Namjoon?” he beamed, friendly, and Seokjin flinched. “He didn’t tell me he was expecting anyone!”
God, he was in the right place. How he wished he wasn’t.
“Surprise visit,” he explained awkwardly.
The man said something more – about the weather, motioning at the skies – and Seokjin nodded, yes, fine, rain was expected, and the wind was picking up.
Seokjin got himself a room at the motel for the night: he wasn’t sure how long it’d take to break the news to Namjoon and then get Namjoon to sign the divorce papers, for which they needed two witnesses anyway. The whole ordeal seemed like a lot to take after years of silence, and Seokjin nervously huffed around the small motel room with a single bed. He showered quickly and calmed his nerves.
Namjoon had always been such a city kid – Seoul, Los Angeles, New York, London… Namjoon loved the crowded markets, the mix of languages – the “melting pot”, as he’d always enthused – so finding Namjoon in a remote New Zealand town was confusing. He’d imagined Namjoon in London, of course: in the park by Buckingham Palace, hand in hand with that pretty English boy (Craig? Greg? Graham? Graeme? What a stupid language!), writing his books and giving the occasional Korean interview, but thinking back to Seoul little. Certainly not thinking of him at all. Hell, Namjoon was probably on that soap box in Hyde Park every weekend for all he knew, delivering lectures on the state of the world.
And Seokjin, well, he’d spent two years in military service after their break-up, after which he’d joined his father’s firm and started climbing up the ranks. Four promotions in five years. What else was life for except work? An endless task of building up capital from paycheck to paycheck: two years until a mortgage, a year until a car… An endless litany of purchases that somehow made sense of living for work. Before he knew it, he’d be forty or fifty and comfortably on the property ladder, and then what? Ah, save up for retirement, of course! An endless scramble for money and then you died.
He frowned: these thoughts were not his own – he liked work, enjoyed the effort of it. Work gave life value! Measured a true man. God, these other thoughts were Namjoon’s: idealistic, spoken by a twenty-one-year-old who of course thought he knew so much more than the rest of the world combined.
Well, perhaps not even Namjoon had expected to find himself living in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand. Seokjin pulled on a fresh blue jumper and tight jeans, blow-dried his hair, and – with the divorce papers in his messenger bag – got back into his SUV and followed the marked map further into town and then out of it: the tarmac road changing into a dirt track, crossing wide plains before entering the surrounding forest.
But, as the motel owner had explained and Seokjin had just about understood, there were no other houses along this track, and so the road curved up and finally narrowed around a bend, ending outside a large and expensive-looking wooden cabin. It was elevated on a hillside, with huge windows and a wide deck surrounding it on all sides, with steps leading up to the decking. A bike was resting against the deck steps next to a stack of firewood, and Seokjin exited the car as his breath rose in the air, birdsong echoing in the trees.
It was peaceful. Beautiful. The ground scrunched under his feet.
The elevation from the deck gave a view far around the cabin, out over the trees and grassy lowlands, while off in the distance the Southern Alps broke the view. Seokjin had spent years staring at the high-rise buildings of Seoul each night – he blinked, stunned that not a single house, no sign of human habitation or construction, was in sight from where he stood.
Shoes lay abandoned by the main door: muddy wellingtons, dirty hiking boots – discarded, hastily kicked off, and Seokjin recognised the sight with a heavy heart.
He wasn’t ready. Ha. How funny was that?
He absently tugged at the chain on his chest, for comfort as he often did, trying to calm down.
He had flown halfway around the world to see Namjoon again, and here he was: still not ready.
But he’d never been ready when it came to Namjoon. Wasn’t that why he’d stayed away and turned down Hoseok’s early attempts of “Hey, Namjoon will be in Seoul next month, you could come for dinner with us – for old time’s sake, you know…”? He couldn’t do it, especially after their lone encounter at Hoseok’s birthday party that had made it so painfully obvious that they resented each other now. He couldn’t face Namjoon, who already had his first two books out and had a new boyfriend in New York, and no. Seeing Namjoon was not something he could endure.
It’d been too raw, then. Throw in a year, then another, then another – let the scab grow thicker and thicker. Pull it off seven years later. See what bleeds.
The sun was setting, and Seokjin accepted his fate solemnly. Get in and get out – keep your head on. Don’t let Namjoon distract you with all of his big words and wild philosophies. Don’t fall for the dimpled smile and scrunched up nose. Stay focused! Namjoon’s not that impressive, for god’s sake – remember when he ruined the frying pan trying to cook an egg?
But the memory was tinged with nostalgia, of the two of them flailing in the kitchenette as the pan emitted smoke and the alarm blared. He pushed it aside – and knocked. No response. He knocked again – and the door swung gently inwards, not even locked. He hesitated before he stepped inside, almost tripping on a further pile of shoes by the door. He pushed his own shoes off, looking around the large open plan living area that had enormous wall-length windows, intended to maximise views of the deck and the wilderness outside. All the furniture was wooden yet modern, evoking simplicity but wealth also. A large fireplace stood in the back, full bookcases near it. The floor beneath his socked feet was warm, and a radio was playing classical music quietly somewhere. “Hello?” he called out, unbuttoning his long beige coat. Then he called out to someone he had lost years ago: “Namjoon-ah?”
After all, what was one more “Namjoon-ah” to the thousands of his youth?
No response.
The kitchen was part of the open-plan living room, with a random collection of discarded, half-finished coffee cups on the kitchen island. Seokjin knew those too. Random stacks of papers lay here and there: on the couch, on the armchair, on the coffee table, with chewed-up pens. The sight was eerily familiar, and painful. Guess not everything changed.
He followed the sound of the music: maybe Bach or one of those guys – Seokjin had never bothered learning who was who. But Namjoon had always enjoyed writing to that music, hunched over his laptop, mint hair bright like ice cream, typing away furiously, eyebrows knitted together in concentration and eyes shining bright with his vision.
And although Namjoon no longer had mint hair, but longer brown locks, and although Namjoon was not sitting on their sofa-bed in a tiny Doksan-dong studio, but rather at a large pine desk in a spacious study with grand mountain views – in spite of these differences, Namjoon was still listening to classical music, hunched over, typing away furiously with knitted eyebrows and bright eyes fixed on the laptop screen.
And Seokjin stood in the now open doorway, almost seven years after they had parted, with only one unhappy chance encounter since.
Namjoon looked up from the screen. Froze – eyes widening.
Seokjin let a small, saddened smile form on his lips. “Hi, Joonie.”
II
Namjoon sat stiffly on the sleek couch of the cabin’s living area, with knitted eyebrows – uncomprehending. “So we’re…?”
Seokjin thought of this as a business meeting and remained firmly seated on the adjacent armchair, with his back perfectly straight. Outside it had started to rain, and a firm patter now sounded against the cabin roof. He uttered a carefully chosen word: “Technically.”
Namjoon flinched, ashen-faced – the word had been recognised. Namjoon’s eyes fixed on Seokjin’s hands in his lap, and Seokjin shifted uncomfortably: there was no wedding band on his finger – hadn’t been in years. And there was not, of course, a matching one on Namjoon’s either.
“Well, shit,” Namjoon said, rubbing at his jaw in shock. Yes, that was accurate.
“I know it’s a lot to take in. It was for me too,” Seokjin said. “But, really, it’s like a typo in our files, you know, like an outdated address.”
Namjoon looked at him disbelievingly, brown locks sitting messily on his forehead. “It’s a hell of an address, don’t you think? I mean, it seems like the kind of thing one ought to know, right? Whether you have a husband or not.”
Seokjin nodded tersely and looked out through the wall of windows to the rain-washed deck. He wanted none of this husband talk, and he had made sure not to reference their shared past too much – trying to will himself to remain calm. He’d once read a book where the protagonist, when faced with a former lover, had wished to feel nothing. And that was perhaps the goal: to feel nothing. Most of the time he managed that nothingness, grateful that Namjoon lived halfway around the world, making it easy for Seokjin to think of him only as someone he had temporarily co-habited with in his youth.
Yet, as Seokjin’s heart was hammering with unsure beats, he did not feel nothing. Namjoon was thirty-one now. Over thirty. And it showed, too: his face had become more angular, and there were hints of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his hairline had receded. None of this made him any less attractive, however, but had given Namjoon a certain gravitas that had come, Seokjin imagined, from best-sellers and book tours and public appearances.
Namjoon took up more space, beyond the physical, settled into his own skin more. He’d grown.
So even if they had nothing but a distantly shared past hanging between them, like a frayed and faded painting neither of them recognised, Seokjin could reason why he had once been so gone for this man: Namjoon’s steady magnetic pull was ever-persistent, even with messy brown hair, a basic white t-shirt, and dark blue jeans. Namjoon was, of course, enhanced by the muscled arms and thighs, stretching the fabric of his clothes. Well, what could Seokjin say? Namjoon’s English boyfriend was certainly handling a lot of, uh, meat.
Namjoon rubbed at his mouth again. “And it’s backdated? The marriage?”
“Yeah,” he admitted, “it is.” All the way to June 2013. “The motel owner seems to know you. Would he sign as a witness? I can drive us down there.”
Namjoon looked increasingly bewildered. “What? Now? Tonight?”
“Yes. I have all the paperwork ready to go.”
Namjoon shook his head, as if processing a second shock. “You have the paperwork on you? Already…?” When he nodded, Namjoon huffed quietly. “What am I saying? Right, of course you do.”
“I’m just missing some information: your current address, things like that.” Seokjin’s hands clasped together almost painfully. “And once I file the papers, it’ll be processed in thirty days, and– and then we can forget about the entire thing.” Namjoon kept looking at him intently, and Seokjin tried to remember all the ways in which Namjoon had let him down back in the day – because Namjoon had, repeatedly. Technically. He clung onto that.
When he took out the drafted papers, Namjoon said he’d go over them in his study. “I need to call my lawyer first. I don’t mean to be an asshole about this, but, uh – I’m not a broke writer anymore?”
“Right,” Seokjin exhaled. “Right, of course. And, I mean, me too – it’s stipulated in the paperwork. We both keep our own, of course.”
“Right,” Namjoon said. They’d become masters of cheap kimchi flavoured ramyeon back in the day, sharing whatever little they had fifty-fifty. God, they’d barely had fifty thousand won between them sometimes.
Namjoon excused himself rather stiffly – telling Seokjin to help himself to some coffee. He opted for a more calming camomile tea, adding sugar to his cup as he listened to the sound of Namjoon’s voice carrying quietly from the direction of the study – on the phone with his lawyer, presumably. Jungkook had drafted the papers, however, and Seokjin was confident they were in working order.
He returned to the armchair with his tea, but then put the cup down on the coffee table and pressed the backs of his heels into his eyes. What a nightmare. What an awful way to stir up ancient history, with Namjoon right there – real yet unreal. Seokjin wasn’t sure if they would ever meet again, had accepted, in many ways, that he would live his life without ever running into Namjoon, the two of them irrevocably on their own paths that would not cross: and there had been a sharp pain in that realisation and admission over the years, that Namjoon was lost to him forever.
And suddenly Namjoon was there: alive, real, surreal. Namjoon had taken the news relatively calmly; hadn’t blown up that his life was ruined. Namjoon, too, saw their union as an awkward mistake, and that was all.
Still, he thought of Namjoon’s wide, shocked eyes when he’d shown up, of his barely audible “Jinnie?” Jinnie. He’d told Namjoon to drop the honorific when they’d married, like a moron. And he thought of Namjoon tensing up when he apologised for showing up unannounced but he had some news, and Yoongi had given him the address. “Are you okay?” Namjoon had asked, with a sharp, urgent undercurrent to it, clearly thinking along that same vein that Yoongi had – that he had cancer or whatever else.
But no, he wasn’t dying yet. He was just married. Ha.
Namjoon was taking a long time in the study, and Seokjin grabbed some sheets of paper from the coffee table, marked up in red pen: drafts of Namjoon’s new novel by the looks of it, about a young Korean man fresh out of the military, heading to the US to study – and embracing sexual liberation after two years of unofficial ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’. Seokjin stared at the page, seeing the autobiographical elements there clearly. Namjoon was out, sure – even to the Korean public. But it had never been too present in his novels, apart from the memoir, apparently. Seokjin had not read that work, however. He hadn’t read any of them.
When the door of the study finally reopened, Seokjin hastily put the papers back onto the table. Namjoon looked solemn, steps slow – and stopped at the sight of him, jaw clenching like he didn’t know what to say.
“All in order?” Seokjin prompted.
“Yeah,” Namjoon said, snapping out of it, papers in hand. “Well, there was a part that I– But never mind. All in order.”
Seokjin stood up and told Namjoon that he’d wait in the car.
The rain picked up while he sat in the driver’s seat, restlessly drumming the wheel. Through the windshield blurred by rain, he watched as Namjoon made his way down the deck steps, the wind catching his brown hair, a long dark grey coat wrapped around him – handsome as anything. Seokjin looked away.
Namjoon got into the passenger seat, and the door clicked shut. The space around them seemed to shrink, and Seokjin had to clear his throat.
“Nice car,” Namjoon said, after a beat.
“Yeah,” Seokjin quickly agreed, turning the engine on – the wipers smoothing the rain away. “You still don’t drive, huh?” he said, motioning at the bike by the steps.
Namjoon shook his head, clicking the seatbelt in place. “Haven’t really needed to.”
Seokjin nodded and put the car in reverse, taking one last glance at the impressive cabin. “Yours?” he then asked, just to say something.
“Belongs to some friends. I needed a writing retreat, so Marcus offered it up.”
“Nice of him.”
Marcus. Someone back in London, a mutual friend of Namjoon’s and that Graeme’s? And where was this Graeme, anyway – back in London, perhaps? That seemed unnecessarily far away. Be that as it may, Seokjin was glad that he didn’t need to deal with Namjoon and his significant other – imagine having your boyfriend’s husband show up! Dear god, no one needed that.
Seokjin followed the road back downhill and across farmlands, going slowly on the uneven road in the dark evening.
Namjoon seemed to have processed the news somewhat, remarking, “It’s goddamn surreal, right? That you and I have been married all this time.” Namjoon paused. “Ironic.”
Seokjin kept his eyes on the road. “It’s just an error in—”
“Yeah, you keep saying.”
Seokjin missed the shock that had immobilised Namjoon initially, so he said, “Let’s listen to music, shall we?” He turned the radio on, and Tina Turner belting out that she did not need another hero thankfully shut Namjoon up.
The rain was a downpour when Seokjin parked outside the motel, both of them dashing inside as the wind lashed at them. The owner – “Bunty, hi,” Namjoon said – greeted them warmly with, “Bar’s open! What’ll it be, boys?”
Namjoon was shaking the rain out of his hair like a dog – an Afghan hound? No, something stouter. Unbuttoning his coat, Seokjin said, “Can you ask him to witness the signatures?”
Namjoon looked at him blankly, still wiping at wet strands on his forehead. “Sure. Sure, Jinnie.”
The now empty café had a fireplace with flames flickering, and Seokjin navigated to a table near it. His bag was slightly wet, but the divorce papers were safely dry inside: dates of birth, details of the marriage, whether either of them contested the divorce (which they did not), and of course their mutual agreement to keep their own capital. People focused on weddings, built up all this romance around it – but in the end marriage was nothing but a legality.
He got out a pen, tested it on a stray napkin, and skimmed the paperwork. To his surprise, Namjoon’s address was not for a place in Islington where he knew Namjoon lived in London. Instead, it was the address of Namjoon’s parents’ house in Ilsan, where Namjoon definitely did not live, but where the two of them had sometimes gone for a family meal, Namjoon’s mother doting on them both, Namjoon’s dad cracking jokes because “my son-in-law is a man of humour!” They’d been nice people. Nice to Seokjin, too. After the break-up, he’d missed them sometimes.
Maybe Namjoon didn’t want Seokjin knowing his real address – or didn’t want copies of the divorce settlement following him to London, where Graeme might see them? Seokjin huffed at that. All hush hush, was it, and Namjoon wanted to talk about irony?
Namjoon joined him at the table, taking a seat opposite him – setting down two cups of tea when Seokjin had never finished his first at the cabin. Namjoon pulled off the expensive looking coat that subtly signalled wealth, revealing a comfy white jumper Namjoon had changed into before heading out with him: Namjoon looked soft, cosy, with the flames casting golden shadows on him.
“You’re prepared, again,” Namjoon said, noting the pen – but of course he was. Bunty and his wife came over: they were in their mid-fifties, both long-haired like a pair of old hippies. They’d probably been married for thirty years – they had that look of ease and comfort about them. He and Namjoon had accidentally made it to ten.
There were three copies, and Seokjin thought of nothing at all as he mechanically signed his name on each, as if to undo a trade agreement that had gone sour. Namjoon diligently took the papers next, and Seokjin watched Namjoon sign his name onto them, wondering if it was the same way in which Namjoon signed copies of his books: it looked rehearsed and professional, albeit slow – Namjoon’s jaw set tight. Bunty followed, revealing his actual name to be Humphrey Mitchell, after which his wife, Liz, also signed. “Is it a business deal?” Liz chuckled.
“Old business,” Seokjin said, gathering the files with Korean characters that the owners were curiously looking at. Bunty and Liz headed back to the office behind reception, and Seokjin put two copies neatly into his bag. As he did so, his hands trembled. Namjoon folded his copy in half, then again, and slid the divorce papers into his jean back pocket.
Done. Nothing to it. Seokjin hadn’t expected anything else, had he?
Far from celebratory, the mood was sullen. “I’ll drive you back, then,” Seokjin offered. “Before it gets too dark.”
Namjoon wasn’t looking at him but at the modest bar next to the reception. “Hey, you want a beer? I need a beer.” Namjoon stood up. “God, not every day Kim Seokjin divorces me.”
Before Seokjin could respond, Namjoon was calling out to Bunty to pour them two pints.
The rain was coming down hard outside.
* * *
“You’re tense,” Namjoon said, half-finished with a second pint while Seokjin hadn’t even finished his first. They’d moved to armchairs by the fireplace, the flames crackling in the evening. It was quiet apart from a few locals seated at the bar, laughing with Bunty and Liz, while the wind whipped at the motel, howling by now as the roof banged ominously. Seokjin shifted in his seat, fighting off a headache. Namjoon glanced at him. “Hey, it’s all been signed – you can relax.”
“Sure,” Seokjin said, but every second was painful. He had not come all this way to socialise with Namjoon – and what, was Namjoon suggesting he might have refused to sign? Contested the divorce? But he couldn’t think of a single reason Namjoon would want to be married to him anymore.
But Namjoon didn’t seem malicious as he sighed, eyes on the orange and blue flames. “We haven’t seen each other in so long. It’d be nice if we could have a normal conversation – that’s all. Like, I don’t know. Have you been doing okay? I sometimes hear things. You’re still at your dad’s firm, right?”
“Uh huh,” he said, very much not intending to talk about this.
“How’s he?”
“Retired last year. Plays a lot of golf now.”
“Proud of you, I bet,” Namjoon said, but Seokjin said nothing – you could never tell with his father, really. Was Namjoon proud, when he’d always told Seokjin that working for his father would be the biggest mistake he’d ever make? “Hoseok said you’re the youngest-ever person in– whatever post it is.”
“Yeah, I am. And I’m really good at it, too.”
“Good. I guess that’s…” Namjoon shifted in his seat. “And you have been happy?”
What was ‘happy’, this absurd concept everyone fawned over? He had a good job that gave him a sense of satisfaction and it paid more money than he needed, and he had his health and, more importantly, his loved ones were okay – there was nothing to complain about. That was ‘happy’, as far as he was concerned. Perhaps once or twice he’d found himself bored, the days repetitive, but he had used that leftover energy to start a company-sponsored scholarship program that was already flourishing. Success was happiness – was joy.
“I’ve been fine,” he said at length. “Thriving. You know.”
Namjoon took a sip of his pint. “And you’re not with that lawyer anymore?”
Seokjin tensed up despite himself, observing Namjoon’s profile – the other gazing at the fireplace firmly. How did Namjoon know about Gu Youngmoo?
“That fell through. Last year.” He took in a calming breath. “For the better, right? Seeing as I was actually married to someone else.”
Namjoon huffed, a small smile on his lips. What else was there to do now but laugh about it? And Seokjin didn’t even know whether Namjoon planned on telling his English boyfriend about this – apparently not, but that was his business. Namjoon finished his pint, offered another round.
Seokjin declined, reasoning, “I still need to drive you back.”
The storm was making the joints of the motel creak, but Namjoon shrugged, looking like he was in no rush to get anywhere. ‘Miserable weather,’ Seokjin wanted to retort because there was nothing else to say beyond what brings you out here then, why aren’t you in London, god what a shit show we were back then, but I’m happy that you’re happy now, Namjoon-ah. And your novels? I’ve always been proud of those too. I always—
But all of that was in the past now, perhaps more permanently than it ever had been before.
Seokjin absently played with the chain around his neck, having slipped the locket from under the blue jumper – a nervous habit.
Namjoon glanced at him. “You still wear that. The one your grandmother left you?”
“Yes,” he said and stopped touching it: the gold locket was large and round, familiar and calming against his sternum. Youngmoo had liked it – and it’d weighed even more heavily, then, against him. He took a final sip of the beer, letting the liquid fill his grumbling stomach because he hadn’t eaten all day. “I really should take you back.”
Seokjin caught the disappointment on Namjoon’s face – or was it annoyance?
“Not much for small talk,” Namjoon said, and Seokjin bristled. “They’re all about small talk – the Americans, the British. It’s superficial but you learn to like it.” Namjoon stood up – pulling his dark grey coat back on. Seokjin mimicked him, getting out his car keys as Namjoon waved bye to Bunty and Liz, who called something after them with a twang that Seokjin found too difficult to understand.
“Watch out for flooding,” Namjoon translated for him as they re-entered the parking area that was partially covered in shallow water.
If their drive to the motel had been one of shocked silence, the return was one of quiet animosity. Seokjin had to drive slowly, the wipers working overtime. He said, “You’ll get a confirmation of the divorce once it’s been processed.”
“Well, it’s nice to have something to look forward to.”
Seokjin flinched despite himself. Yet he didn’t take the bait, although it was a struggle. Namjoon could be a jovial drunk, doubling over with laughter over something stupid and draping all over Seokjin in search of skinship, or Namjoon could be like this: petty and passive aggressive.
“You know, I thought I’d see you this year anyway,” Namjoon said. “At Yoongi and Hoseok’s wedding.”
“You’re coming to that?”
“Of course I am – they’re my best friends. What makes you think I wouldn’t?”
“It’s in Korea. You never come to Korea, unless it’s for book promotion.”
“That’s not fucking true,” Namjoon said, and Seokjin felt the words getting under his skin, anger bubbling in Namjoon’s tone. “What do you know, huh? You stopped talking to me the day we broke up – like you died.”
“I enlisted,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Right, you enlisted,” Namjoon scoffed. “You enlisted and I moved to New York, and the next time I see you you’re draped all over some rugby player at Hoseok’s birthday party so I figure you’re clearly doing just fine, and then we don’t talk for however many goddamn years, and then you show up and tell me we’re married.”
“A water polo player,” he said, squeezing the wheel. “He was a water polo player. Rugby players rarely have all of their teeth left, for starters.”
“Wow, good for you,” Namjoon scoffed, gazing out the rain-stained window. “But you know what? Even then we were married.”
“Technically,” he corrected – and regretted it almost instantly.
Namjoon stared at him from the passenger seat. “What the fuck, Seokjin-ah? You really want to go there? Fine, let’s get into it, let’s—”
“No, I– Never mind.” But anger was surfacing now. “To be honest, the best thing I ever did was enlist then. I regret none of it.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
“How? I’m driving your ass home!” he barked, turning off onto the gravel road leading to Namjoon’s fancy-ass cabin, feeling so choked up and unable to escape that he could hardly stand it. Out in the distance thunder echoed, with a sudden flash of lightning making them both jump. Namjoon froze up, but Seokjin snapped, “What the fuck are you doing out here, anyway? Couldn’t you find a pretentious fucking retreat closer to civilisation? I come all the way over here – me, doing all the work, as usual. You think I have time for this? You think I enjoy being here? The least you could say is thank you!”
“Oh thank you, Mighty Kim Seokjin, for handling the divorce you didn’t have the goddamn courtesy to tell me about!”
Seokjin glanced at Namjoon in disbelief – thirty-one his ass! Still the same immature bratty kid he’d foolishly married a decade earlier.
“I’m fucking glad we’re divorced!” he spat.
“Makes two of us,” Namjoon snapped, unbuckling his seat belt. “Stop the car, I can walk from here.”
“You’ll catch pneumonia, for fuck’s—”
“Stop the car.”
“There’s thunder! You hate—”
“Stop the car!”
Seokjin hit the brakes, making his own heart squeeze unpleasantly from the force of it, with Namjoon catching himself with a palm to the glove compartment. As Namjoon pushed the door open, Seokjin barked, “Fine, get drenched then. You know you haven’t changed one goddamn bit!”
“You know nothing about who I am,” Namjoon said with the door still held open, brown hair plastered onto his forehead and breath rising in the air. “But you know what? You’re still the same: a coward. You were one then, and you’ve been one today too. Tell your father I said hi.”
Namjoon slammed the door shut, and Seokjin sat behind the wheel, stunned but blood boiling. He watched as Namjoon, caught in the glow of the headlights, walked on in the brutal wind. A second flash of lightning and, seconds later, the roar of thunder – yet Namjoon kept going, like a fool. Well, what the fuck did Namjoon know? Fucking prick!
Seokjin unfastened his seatbelt and bolted out of the car, the muddy road splashing under his feet. “Hey!” he called out loudly over the wind, and Namjoon turned around to stare at him disbelievingly. “That”—he panted, breath rising in the air, rain streaming down his face— “was fucking uncalled for!”
Namjoon stared at him, shrugging. “Okay.”
“Oh my god! You petulant man-child!”
“Oh, fuck you. You always treated me like a kid – I thought about that a lot afterwards, you know. You thought me wanting to be an author was some childish dream that—”
“But it was!” he cut in, feet slipping on the road as he came closer. “It was! Who makes it as a writer? Who?! One of us had to be realistic, be the grown-up. So yeah, I stepped up – and you hated me for it.” He paused to get air in, an old ache in his heart. “But I never said you weren’t good, or talented, or deserving of selling your work, and if you’re standing here yelling at me like I ever said that, then you’re full of shit!” He caught his breath, freezing in his wet clothes. “But you were fucking selfish. Alright? You were fucking selfish. You always were!”
Namjoon looked at him owlishly as Seokjin stepped even closer for his finishing line. “Easy for you to tell me I’m a coward – you know nothing about me anymore. Absolutely nothing!” He jabbed his finger at Namjoon’s chest angrily as Namjoon looked on, disbelieving.
Having said his piece, Seokjin turned back to the car – and slipped, with his feet swiftly sliding from under him, water splashing everywhere until, mid-fall, an arm looped around his waist, pulling him firmly up and against a warm body. Breath left his lungs from the impact, both of them nearly losing their balance altogether. He panted, winded, against Namjoon’s throat, his hands fisting Namjoon’s shoulders as he regained his equilibrium.
“Careful,” Namjoon said quietly – but the word reverberated against him, their chests pressed together. Namjoon was warm, the scent of him musky yet sweet and instantly familiar in a way that gave him whiplash. It was the first time they had touched in all of seven years, in fact – his stomach lurched treacherously as he lifted his gaze to meet Namjoon’s. Namjoon’s arm remained firmly around his waist, the other on his forearm, and Namjoon was looking at him with a searching expression. Something heavy tugged at Seokjin’s heart – Namjoon’s eyes dropped to his lips. Seokjin’s knees buckled.
They both fought to stay upright – but did, and this time Seokjin pushed Namjoon away. He gulped fresh air in, clearing his head. “I don’t need your help,” he said over the howling gusts of wind.
Namjoon studied him, mouth tightly pursed – and then nodded. “Goodbye, then,” Namjoon said, before turning away and stomping down the road, pulling his coat tighter around his frame – steps fast. He was silhouetted in the headlights and the surrounding dark, and Seokjin felt nothing. God, how happy he was that in that moment he felt nothing.
Seokjin got back into the car and put it in reverse, backing all the way to the junction because it was too narrow to turn around. The road was hopelessly slippery, but he made it – he was a good fucking driver, a good person, a good son, a good friend. A good husband? He had been that too, no matter what ancient animosities Namjoon was harbouring.
And, for the record, Seokjin was right: Namjoon was a petulant goddamn kid. Still!
The reception and bar were closed back at the motel, so Seokjin emptied the vending machine of biscuits and chocolate for a meal, listening to the winter storm battering the world outside. He forced the thought of Namjoon’s arms around him out of his mind – Namjoon’s pupils dilating, cheeks reddening, with Seokjin’s heart going absolutely haywire. Pathetic! Truly! Namjoon could fuck right off. And if Namjoon got lost in the woods during a winter storm, then Seokjin wouldn’t even explain it to Graham – not his business. For someone with an IQ of 148, it’d only be Namjoon’s own goddamn fault.
And who knew? Maybe being a widower was sexier than being a divorcee.
* * *
Seokjin awoke groggily the following morning, quarter past ten. The evening before seemed like an unfortunate nightmare, from him first getting to the cabin to Namjoon storming out of his car and into the night. He had a horrendous headache, but the anger and indignation at least had faded.
He groaned and stared at the ceiling. Find Namjoon – check. Get divorce papers signed – check. Go home and forget about it all – in progress.
But he thought of them shouting at each other in the middle of the road and felt appropriately humiliated. God, somehow they’d picked up from the last fight they’d ever had. He was a coward? Fuck you! The accusation burned like it always had done. Namjoon had no idea of the fucking sacrifices he’d had to make. Seokjin was glad he’d stood up for himself. And if Seokjin had ever considered taking up Hoseok’s offer to meet up with Namjoon, to make amends, to try to be friends – well, he’d been right not to.
The memory of Namjoon breaking his fall crossed his mind – Namjoon, who was usually as graceful as a bull in a china shop, pulling him up in a nanosecond, even mid-fight. The thought infuriated him even more.
He showered and got dressed, eager to get the hell out of Haast.
The reception was noisy, the café area full: the Taiwanese teenagers had returned, looking grumpy and tired as they sprawled on the café chairs. Their minder was at the desk talking to Liz, and Seokjin slid his key onto the desk with a bow – he’d already paid for the room. “Oh wait, wait!” Liz called, but no, no, Seokjin had to get going. If he drove for the next, oh, seven or eight hours, then he’d make it to Christchurch by evening, sleep in an airport hotel, catch a morning flight out.
Yet Liz was insistent on trying to tell him something, but Seokjin couldn’t understand what: she kept motioning outside, where the day was gloomy, drizzling like it had the day before, but the torrential rain at least had passed. Something about sleep? Confused, he said, “Good sleep.” It hadn’t been, but he didn’t want Liz to blame herself for that.
The Taiwanese man grew restless, motioning at his horde of kids – and Seokjin slipped away in the chaos, his shoes splashing into the puddles outside. He turned on the radio, checked how much petrol he had left, and hit the road again, refusing to think of anything except his office in Seoul, the comfort of the weekly managing directors’ meetings.
However, a row of orange road cones and a large ‘Road Closed’ sign stopped him only a few kilometres out. Two police officers with a patrol car were there, waving for him to slow down. “Road’s closed,” the female officer told him when he lowered the window – well yes, he could read. “Where were you headed, mate?”
“Christchurch,” he said, motioning towards the mountain pass, and she shook her head. Thankfully, he still had his map from the motel, so he asked the officer where the diverted route on it was – but she shook her head again, saying something he couldn’t understand. A sleep, she said. What was this about a sleep? “A sheep?” he tried – were there sheep on the road?
She asked him to wait, heading back to the police car, but he followed her out into the soft rain, wanting to be told which way to go. “A sleep!” she said again. What?
Another car was driving up, slowing down behind his own. Both officers were now shaking their heads at Seokjin, who was getting pretty goddamn frustrated standing in the cold rain with these two blocking his way! What sleep?
“A slip,” Namjoon’s voice came from behind him, and Seokjin flinched. Namjoon and Bunty were now standing on the road, with Namjoon looking like absolute shit, to be frank: visibly hungover, dark circles under his eyes, hair unkempt. Namjoon explained it to him in Korean: “A rockslide – the road’s cut off. And up the coast, the bridge has washed out.” Seokjin could not really process that at all as Namjoon already answered his next question: “There’s no way out of town.”
“Well, ask them when they’ll have it cleared off and I’ll just wait in my car,” he said angrily, avoiding looking at Namjoon – last night had been humiliating enough.
Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Aish, Seokjin-ah… Highway 6, you know: once it’s closed, it takes time to clear it…”
“Okay, so what – noon?”
Namjoon winced. “Longer than that.”
He reeled. “Until tomorrow?”
“A couple of weeks, they’re saying.”
Seokjin blinked, not sure he was hearing this correctly. “Excuse me?!”
* * *
“Yes, I want a helicopter!” he barked at Bunty, endlessly frustrated. He understood that the rescue helicopter was busy rescuing some Americans stuck halfway up a mountain further up the coast, but after that surely Seokjin could be prioritised? Wasn’t being stuck in a small township with his ex-husband sort of an emergency too?
He tried to stay calm, reminding himself that he was a good person who deserved good things: yes, he had some selfish traits, perhaps enhanced by his adult singledom where he rarely had to compromise with other people. In work, too, he nearly always got his way.
But at the end of it all he had enough sense to acknowledge that he was, perhaps, not the priority right then: the Taiwanese teenagers stuck in Haast were weeping over not seeing their parents and were, perhaps, in need of more help than he was. A German couple in their twenties was also stuck, as was a Chinese family of four. Seokjin could do the maths of how many beds the motel had. So could Namjoon, who stood in the reception with a closed-off expression.
Bunty said the rescue helicopter might be able to pick Seokjin up the following week – after all the emergency work was done – but it wouldn’t be available before that.
“Don’t worry, we stock up for emergencies like this. Plenty of food!” Bunty beamed at him.
Liz, too, shrugged the closed highway off: “Happens every winter! Hasn’t been this bad in a while, mind you.”
Then move, dear lady! Move to a city with more than one road. Do it for yourself, Liz!
But all Seokjin could do was nod and say, “Okay.” He gave his phone number, emphasising in his best English, “Helicopter? Ready? Call, please. I have important business in Korea. I’ll pay.”
“Of course, dear,” Liz said and petted his cheek maternally and told him to have a lovely time with Namjoon. A lovely time? She could see his crestfallen face because she said, “They’ve promised nicer weather, no more rain – there are amazing walks along the coast! Do some exploring, eh?”
For a week? Two weeks? Seokjin felt faint and wanted to throw a tantrum, but too many eyes were on him. He bowed politely yet wanted to break something.
Defeated after his long struggle to convince everyone he was a priority – he was not – he turned to Namjoon, who had patiently waited the entire time. Seokjin tried to look aloof and utterly unaffected. “Well, I’m good to go,” he said. Nothing to it.
Namjoon nodded restlessly, letting him lead the way.
Together they lowered the backseats of the SUV to fit Namjoon’s bike in – Seokjin pondered, briefly, of a hungover Namjoon waking up to the news that they were cut off, then cycling through the morning drizzle to come find him. It made for a tragi-comic image at best.
As they drove to Namjoon’s cabin, Seokjin stiffly said, “I appreciate this, of course.”
Namjoon was rubbing at his forehead. “Sure.”
“And I can, of course, pay for—”
“Hey, come on,” Namjoon cut in, sounding irate. Seokjin’s palms were sweaty against the wheel, but he let it go.
They had to stop twice to clear the road of tree branches torn off during the storm.
As they got to Namjoon’s cabin, Seokjin carried his red medium-sized suitcase inside with a sense of disbelief – upon leaving Seoul, this had never been his intention and he was completely unprepared.
The place was messier than the day before: a few beer cans were on the floor by the couch, with a mostly empty bottle of whisky and a glass on the coffee table, too. At least Seokjin didn’t have to wonder what Namjoon had done when he’d gotten home.
Namjoon seemed embarrassed, hastily tidying up and mumbling something about not having had time that morning. Seokjin sucked in a breath and held his head up high. “Right, well, just show me to the guest room.”
“There’s no guest room,” Namjoon said, picking up the cans, while motioning to the back of the house and heading to the kitchen. “The backrooms aren’t finished; they’ve just done the study and the bedroom.”
For fuck’s sake… He tried to find some zen. “Okay. Okay, fine. Where do I sleep?”
Namjoon was now pouring himself a glass of water, and he gestured at the couch opposite the fireplace, where Namjoon had sat the night before when processing their marriage and divorce. There? Seokjin’s arm would get sore from old injuries if he slept on that, but he sucked it up.
“I see,” Seokjin said, gritting his teeth. “Great. Looks comfy to me.”
“Good. Well, I need to get on with work, so,” Namjoon mumbled, gathering papers here and there: chapter drafts, old and new. It looked like Namjoon was fleeing.
“Yes, me too. I have my laptop – you have wifi, right?”
“I have a dongle for a satellite hook-up.”
“A what? Look, never mind, I can review annual reports offline too. In any case I’d appreciate some space for that, if you don’t mind.”
Namjoon stared at him, eyes narrowing. “Oh, I don’t mind. Have space.”
“Thank you.”
“Great.”
“Fantastic.”
Namjoon headed to his study but called out, “Help yourself to food.” Seokjin glared after him, and Namjoon closed the door to the study firmly. Seconds later, the sound of classical music echoed.
Seokjin remained standing in the living room with his red suitcase, hair still wet from the morning drizzle, utterly stuck in the middle of nowhere in New Zealand – with Namjoon. He dramatically collapsed on the couch and noted instantly that he was correct about how uncomfortable it was. He closed his eyes, willing to make the last day disappear – and the storm, and the fight, and all of it.
But no such luck.
* * *
What Seokjin resented the most was that this wasn’t his turf. If Seokjin had to be inside four walls with his ex-boyfriend, he would have preferred his own place, with his own things, with Namjoon as the odd one out. But Namjoon had been in the cabin for over a month, typing up the full manuscript of his novel, and acted like the place was his.
They spent the first twenty-four hours not talking to each other: Namjoon gave him some bedding for the couch, Seokjin watched some crappy TV, and that was it.
In the morning, Seokjin was unsure how much of the nature documentary he had absorbed – he had learned something, perhaps, on the mating habits of kiwis, but truthfully the disturbingly normal act of ‘watching random TV’ had kept him on edge, with Namjoon lurking in the study next door. Seokjin had heard him on the phone – speaking in English, probably with his boyfriend. It wasn’t exactly ideal, was it? ‘Honey, the town’s cut off for a few weeks and my ex from way back is staying over.’ If Graeme asked, Seokjin could say he was celibate.
The couch he’d slept on was hideously uncomfortable: he was too tall for it, his feet propped up on the armrest to allow him to lie down. He woke up with sore shoulders, far too early, but unable to fall back asleep. Namjoon had given him a towel, at least, and Seokjin peeled himself off the couch and went for a shower to feel vaguely human again. The bathroom was luxurious: it had a large bath with a whole panel of different massage and bubble options, while the showerhead was embedded into the ceiling – he flicked the water on and it cascaded down on him like rainfall. The motel looked pretty shabby in comparison, but goddamn, Marcus, couldn’t you have spent some of this money on a guest bedroom?
His back ached even after the shower – being in his thirties sucked, as did the couch of lumpiness – and he got dressed in the bathroom. In the meantime, Namjoon had made coffee and was once again hiding in the study with classical music playing.
And so Seokjin was unable to relax, awkwardly curled up on the armchair and reading a mindless crime thriller that he had picked up at Incheon Airport. The classical music echoed, the rain drizzled, and Seokjin wanted to throw a tantrum. And what pissed him off the most, perhaps, was that Namjoon was clearly avoiding him, as if this wasn’t the first time in years that they were alone together. Yet everything felt tinged with bizarre nostalgia and resentment, and this had only grown stronger when Namjoon finally emerged around lunchtime.
Seokjin looked up from his book, feet tucked under himself, as if he had been leisurely idling for hours, no hurry whatsoever. Namjoon eyed him warily, with three mugs in his hands. Seokjin almost smiled at that – Namjoon’s coffee mugs when he wrote, left around all over the place… He almost smiled.
“You’ve eaten?” Namjoon asked, instead of delivering some asshole line like Seokjin was expecting. Namjoon gestured at the empty bowl of cereal on the coffee table. Seokjin nodded but said nothing, reassessing the situation. “And, uh. Was the couch okay? I didn’t ask this morning…”
“Fine,” he lied blatantly.
“Yeah? You’re never up until noon.”
“That was before I enlisted,” he said. His phone had dodgy reception, but he’d managed to email Jungkook to check if he could sue the New Zealand government for a rockslide. Jungkook had emailed back saying that sounded unlikely, but Seokjin’s travel insurance might cover some expenses he incurred while delayed. The same people who had first informed Seokjin of his marriage? As if they could be trusted with anything!
Namjoon motioned towards the kitchen. “You want something for lunch? There’s some ramyeon, I think…”
Seokjin closed his book and sat up straight. “All you have is ramyeon.”
Namjoon blinked, tensed up. What, like Seokjin would bite? But Namjoon offered him a hesitant half-smile. “Yeah, I get Korean food delivered from a store over in Wanaka, but I guess that’s cut off too now.”
Seokjin took that in. “Okay. So we ration the kimchi.” A plural? He backtracked quickly. “I mean that I’ll go buy some food for myself this afternoon. I don’t expect you to feed me.”
“Aish, it’s fine…” Namjoon said, still clutching the mugs. “Although. I mean. You do eat a lot.”
Seokjin snorted as some of the tension broke, and Namjoon looked to the floor, dimples briefly emerging on his cheeks – boyish – and Seokjin somehow knew that if Namjoon could suck it up, so could he. Was he about to be outdone by Namjoon in graciousness? Hell no!
“I’ll make us something,” he offered, in some attempt to assert himself. It had only taken them an entire day to actually talk again. “Kujirai ramyeon?” he added before Namjoon could object, and Namjoon’s eyes widened comically – eager. Seokjin rolled his eyes at this, although perhaps secretly pleased as they headed to the kitchen. “Don’t expect me to cook for you every night,” he warned, getting water to boil in a frying pan. “This is just…” He gestured with his hand vaguely.
A peace offering? Proof of how above this all he was? It was nice they were at least acknowledging each other’s existence. In any case, he put two packs of noodles in the bubbling water, adding some of the soup stock. He’d made this for them a thousand times at least, and he winced at the thought.
Meanwhile Namjoon had gotten out bowls and chopsticks, and Seokjin busied himself adding in cheese and eggs as Namjoon asked if he wanted a beer – as Seokjin was sort of on holiday, perhaps – which he very much did. The table was set, if one could call the kitchen island that, when he placed the large pan in the middle, steam rising as he removed the lid.
“What? No green onions?” Namjoon asked as he sat on one of the stools on the living room side of the kitchen island, and Namjoon glanced at him as if to check if he’d been funny – then said, “Thanks.”
Seokjin nodded, watching Namjoon pull some noodles into a serving bowl before he did the same – leaning against the kitchen island with one elbow, poking at the noodles and half an egg he’d scooped up, but his appetite eluded him. Namjoon ate quietly, and Seokjin thought of them eating this in their studio when they’d been kids – that was what it felt like now: just kids. No table, no kitchen island – just a kitchenette with a portable hob-microwave combo, and their sofa bed as the only place to sit down on. Fast-forward ten years and here they were, with Namjoon as the winner of the Hankyoreh Literature Award, the Kim Yong-ik Novel Prize, and the Surim Literary Award, to name a few. And yet, for all of those written words hanging between them, neither of them had any more to offer.
Seokjin glanced to the clock on the kitchen wall, seconds ticking away as slurping sounds filled the space between them. God, it was going to be a long goddamn couple of weeks…
“You look old,” Seokjin said, unprompted.
Namjoon gulped down some noodles and looked at him, affronted. “Wow. Thanks.” Namjoon wiped at his mouth. “You look…” Namjoon began, motioning with the chopsticks. Namjoon’s shoulders dropped. “You look great, Jinnie.”
Seokjin’s chest felt tight. “Of course I do,” he granted, and Namjoon scoffed. Seokjin poked at the noodles some more, unable to meet Namjoon’s gaze. He hesitated – began to say it, took it back. Then manned up. “And I am, of course, sorry that I lost my temper the other night. That was a shitty thing to do. And that I left you in the thunderstorm, too.”
Namjoon looked surprised but said, “Yeah, I– Same. That I swore at you. That was… immature.”
“Guess we weren’t at our best, really,” he admitted absently, thinking of the divorce papers now safely stowed in the padded case for his laptop – the deed was done. He simply had to submit the paperwork when he got back to Seoul. “And I’m sorry if this messes up your private affairs in any way. With…” He made a vague hand gesture – Graeme, English boy.
Namjoon looked down to his bowl and picked up more noodles. “Don’t worry about it. It’s fine.”
“Good, then,” he exhaled, the words sour on his tongue. “Can’t get into a fight with this face, you know.” He smiled at his own joke and, as Namjoon was nearly done with his meal, he handed his own bowl over. “I’m not that hungry,” he shrugged.
Namjoon accepted the second bowl without comment, finishing what was left of their food, while Seokjin looked around the cabin idly. He’d snooped around a little and found out some hints of how Namjoon had ended up there: there was a wedding picture on the mantle that had been taken on the grounds of a grand mansion, with a stunning couple beaming at the camera, presumably Marcus and his beautiful wife. He’d found a few more pictures and an electricity bill, found out their surname, and looked the pair up on the sporadic internet like a creep, and discovered that Marcus was Nigerian and worked as a music critic for The Guardian while his Kiwi wife Kira ran some kind of an arts committee based in London – exactly the kind of people Namjoon would socialise with. Namjoon must be friends with so many people all around the world – people Seokjin had never met or even heard of.
Annoyed by the thought, he said, “God, if I’d known you were coming to Yoongi and Hoseok’s wedding, I’d have saved myself the trip.”
Namjoon had finished eating and was gathering the dirtied dishes together. “How’d that have worked? Come tap on my shoulder on the dance floor and wave the divorce papers at me? At a wedding?”
Seokjin shrugged – why the hell not?
Namjoon tapped the kitchen island with his knuckles absently, a frown on his face. “Look, I know there was no easy way to do this. You know? So I… appreciate you coming all this way. I guess.”
“You guess,” he repeated, and Namjoon said nothing as he carried the dishes to the sink and started washing them. Namjoon kept his back to him, and Seokjin studied him – must be true, then, that they had nothing in common anymore. He blinked sharply, looked away. Fuck, why did that make him so sad?
Namjoon placed dishes onto the drying rack and turned back to him, hesitating. “If… If I’m being totally honest then I… I haven’t quite processed that you’re here, if that makes sense.”
It was certainly more honesty than Seokjin had expected, leaving him uneasy. “Well I’ll stay out of your way. Get on with work, go on those walks they recommended. You won’t notice that I’m—”
“Seokjin-ah,” Namjoon cut in, a hint of urgency to it – but also like he was tired, too, having run a marathon or two. “Feel at home. Please.”
“…Okay,” he said and swallowed down the lump in his throat.
Namjoon motioned towards the fridge. “Help yourself to whatever. Not much there, though, I’m afraid.”
“Your fridge belongs to a broke college student.”
“I guess so,” Namjoon said quietly. “But that’s the man you married, right?”
At this, Seokjin blinked, surprised.
Namjoon dried his hands onto a kitchen towel, as if he had said nothing at all. “Anyway, I have a video call with my editor soon, so I better…”
“Yup, sure,” he said, flashing a tight-lipped smile at Namjoon. “Don’t worry about me – this is all quite relaxing, in a way. Yoongi did keep telling me to take a proper break and get away from it all. Don’t think he meant this, of course… but, really, just do what you need to do, like I’m not even here.”
Namjoon looked to him sternly as if to say ‘but you are here. With me. After all this time.’
Namjoon was right, of course. How Seokjin resented the fact that Namjoon so often was.
III
The road was not cleared the following day, nor the day after, although Seokjin made it a habit to drop by the motel and ask for news.
In the meantime, he and Namjoon agreed to a dongle schedule, and he informed his subordinates that he’d be working remotely, even managing one phone negotiation with a lot of “what? The line is bad, can you repeat that?” During this debacle Namjoon came into the kitchen for more coffee, saying nothing as Seokjin dropped estimates and projections for the next quarter, but even so, Seokjin had a hard time concentrating on anything other than Namjoon’s rigid posture. The call ended, Namjoon glanced at him, and he said a defensive, “What?”
“Nothing,” Namjoon said, but Seokjin knew: Namjoon thought he was a sell-out. Seokjin gritted his teeth and bit back the memory of another fight from years earlier.
So no, Seokjin couldn’t say he was getting much work done: his soon-to-be-ex-husband was a judgemental, snobbish fuckwit for a start, on top of which the couch was a nightmare, too short for his long frame, leaving his shoulders a knotted mess each morning – yet he got some investment reports read in spite of Namjoon’s condescending “nothing”s.
Not to say either of them wasn’t trying: Namjoon watched TV with him in the evening, sipping on a beer and giving him carefully reserved smiles. Seokjin took it as some kind of a peace offering and, trying to be friendly, interrupted the superhero movie with, “I saw you.” Namjoon blinked at him, cheeks reddened by the beer. “On TV in Korea, before you came out here. Said you were working on a new novel. What’s it about?”
Namjoon stared at him intently, expression unreadable, but it heated up Seokjin’s insides anyway. If only he could pretend Namjoon was some stranger he had to briefly co-habit with, but Namjoon was still too much like his Namjoon: drowsy and clumsy in the mornings until he had his first cup of coffee, then quietly foreboding with brilliance, head kept down as he wrote until lunch. Then a break: read the news, go for a walk, do exercise. Dedicate the afternoon to editing. This all was familiar to Seokjin.
In the past Namjoon had talked about his writing projects endlessly, too – hands clasping Seokjin’s, eyes shining with excitement.
This time Namjoon said, “Korea. I think.”
Seokjin frowned. Korea. I think. Head turning away.
They watched the rest of the movie in silence, but he caught Namjoon glancing at him more than once.
After a torturous morning of Seokjin focusing on “work” while Namjoon had huffed and puffed in the living room on a yoga mat in too-tight training clothes, Seokjin refocused over breakfast and asked, “How are your parents?”
“They’re doing fine,” Namjoon said evasively. End of subject. Considering how their relationship had ended, shouldn’t it be Namjoon grovelling? “Ageing,” Namjoon then added, with just an edge of sadness to his tone. “Yeah, they’re… ageing. But I guess that’s what parents do.”
Namjoon did not ask after Seokjin’s parents.
Seokjin missed the chatty young man who had snuggled into him constantly – who was this taciturn stranger in his place? But his Namjoon hadn’t existed in years, not to mention his Namjoon had broken his heart – so the overwhelming nostalgia that Namjoon filled him with was unwelcome, yet Seokjin could not help it. And Seokjin wanted to ask Namjoon so many things about how his life had been, but he didn’t know where to start – and Namjoon was far from forthcoming.
But Seokjin was not hung up on Namjoon of all people, god no. Yet he had cared for Namjoon greatly once, and that memory was hard to ignore.
By the third day of Cabin Hellscape, Seokjin was completely unable to focus on work. It was nearly noon and he was waiting for his dongle turn when he decided to call it a day. As he helped himself to a glass of water in the kitchen, he found sheets of paper by the coffee machine: a chapter draft. Namjoon was secretive of this novel, but rather sloppily. Seokjin had never read any of Namjoon’s books – hadn’t seen how he could without trying to read between the lines, chase down something he could recognise. Putting himself through such futile pursuits had seemed too foolish, too masochistic, so no, he’d never read them. When he’d glanced at a chapter draft on the day of his arrival, the young protagonist had been heading to California – yet Namjoon said the book was about Korea?
Taking the pages, Seokjin resettled on the unforgiving log of a couch and began to read the draft. This chapter was set further into the novel, with the protagonist now in Los Angeles where he’d met an American boy of Korean descent, the narrative reflecting on their similar yet utterly different upbringings, including the protagonist’s shock that the other had come out to his parents when only fourteen. The two were going to Joshua Tree National Park to find themselves.
The story was told eloquently and vividly, and Seokjin felt yet another pang of nostalgia: for Namjoon’s writing, which flowed like water, immersive like a bottomless lagoon. But the chapter stung because he and Namjoon had met there, after all: in LA, when he had visited Hoseok doing a year abroad at a dance academy. Hoseok had lived in North-East Los Angeles with a roommate from Ilsan who, for his part, was studying journalism and creative writing at UCLA. Namjoon had been fresh out of the military, enjoying the freedom of California – long-legged, mint-haired, honey-skinned. Dimpled. Damned clever. Damned handsome.
For better or worse, they’d slept together on the night they met, with Hoseok busy at a dance practice, and Namjoon courteously showing Seokjin around the neighbourhood – and then his bed. At the time it’d felt like fate, or something as naïve as that: Seokjin had landed across the Pacific for a few weeks of fun and walked straight into the arms of his soulmate. And about time, too! He’d been twenty-three already!
He’d believed in things like that back then.
He kept reading idly, impressed by the subtle cleverness of the prose, like the soft press of piano keys.
Seokjin had been supposed to spend that summer working for his dad before starting a Masters degree in finance, but he’d bailed on the internship. His parents had been furious, but he hadn’t cared. Namjoon had been working on a debut novel that was soon neglected as the two of them frolicked on a very different West Coast, hiking in the hills, hitting the beaches, making out wherever they went. He’d read Namjoon’s early book drafts and been blown away by the talent. Namjoon was a born writer – and of course he’d be successful.
Poor Hoseok had endured their head-over-heels love affair with good humour, but really the two of them must have been obnoxious.
When Seokjin’s visa was close to running out, Namjoon in turn bailed on his second year at UCLA and came back to Korea with him, and by August they were living in a tiny studio in Doksan-dong, Seokjin financially cut off by his parents but using the small inheritance his grandmother had left him, with Namjoon going around trying to get hired by a news outlet or magazine. Obnoxiously happy, anyway, with their whole lives ahead of them. Husband and husband.
Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? That they’d gone to Vegas, just for a weekend of shows and maybe some low-stakes gambling. Instead they’d picked out rings from a pawn shop three streets from The Strip – simple silver bands. They’d known each other for two months.
Two months.
In the chapter of Namjoon’s book, the two young men kissed in the desert, under a million stars.
God, they’d been so in love.
Seokjin lowered the papers to his lap. Thankfully there were clear differences between the black-and-white scribbling and the past: Namjoon’s protagonist’s background was decidedly different from either of theirs, and the love interest was far from Seokjin. It was a fictional love story – those always made for better ones, after all.
Seokjin finished the water and closed his eyes. He hadn’t thought of that spring and that summer in so long – had tried to move on the best he could. He had, hadn’t he? Suddenly that felt so unsure. He tugged on the chain of his locket nervously, glanced down at the lump of it beneath his shirt. “There’ll always be a reckoning,” his grandmother had warned when she’d caught Seokjin lying about eating the leftover ice cream when he’d been nine. She’d been right, hadn’t she?
Seokjin carefully left the chapter draft where he’d found it and was surprised that the door of Namjoon’s study was ever-so-slightly ajar. Huh.
He knocked on the door and stepped in after a “Yeah?”
Namjoon was on his laptop behind the large desk, glasses having slipped down his nose – handsome and brilliant, like he’d always been. Namjoon looked up at him with that small hint of surprise that signalled they were both still figuring out what to do with each other. Namjoon had two half-finished, gone-cold coffee mugs next to him, and Seokjin fought back the flood of warm memories that the scene sent through him: small recollections of him bringing Namjoon more caffeine with “how’s the writing going, baby?”, kisses pressed to Namjoon’s hair and mouth.
He quickly said, “I’m heading out for a drive, and I can pick up some groceries too. Beer? Snacks?”
“Don’t you have work meetings?” Namjoon asked, but he just shook his head. “Really? Well, hang on, I should see what’s in the cupboards.”
There was not, in fact, a lot of food left, and Namjoon wrote down all the missing items, saying he didn’t mean to treat Seokjin as an assistant but “Taehyung always brought me food when I was really immersed in writing; he was the best PA I ever had. He went back to Korea, though.”
Seokjin said that he didn’t mind doing it as he was going out anyway.
“And some cheese, maybe? Did I write…” Namjoon picked up the shopping list again, examining it after they’d looked in the cupboards. “Yeah, yup, it’s all there. But we need to exchange numbers – so you can call me if you need to double check anything.”
“Oh, my number hasn’t changed,” Seokjin assured, pocketing the list.
Namjoon rubbed the back of his neck slowly. “Ah, mine has… And I don’t have yours anymore?”
He paused. Of course he had deleted Namjoon’s phone number, but that Namjoon had done it to him too? Asshole! What a fucking—
“Sure,” he said through a cheerful smile and handed his phone over. Why not!
Namjoon pressed in his contact details and said, “That’s a lot of kids.”
Seokjin frowned before it dawned on him – ah, his phone background. “It’s from the inauguration ceremony,” he supplied, and Namjoon glanced at him, gaze searching. “The company has a scholarship program these days.”
“Ah,” Namjoon said before fishing out his own phone, now vibrating with an incoming call from Seokjin’s. “Got it,” Namjoon said, handing him the phone back. “I saved it under Kim Namjoon.”
“You’re the only one of those I know,” he said, neither of them acknowledging that they’d adoringly had each other saved as ‘yeobo ♥’ back in the day. “I’ll take the scenic route,” he said, needing to get away from Namjoon, who just made him nervous. “I’ll give you some time to yourself.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Namjoon said awkwardly, with that annoying look on his face that he’d had for days now: like nothing he said to Seokjin was what he really wanted to say, hiding in his study or hovering near him with furtive glances and an unsure air to him, hopelessly taciturn. Back in the day, Namjoon had never shut up around him. God, the nights they’d talked until dawn, howling with laughter, teasing each other, kissing, cuddling, fucking, talking some more… Fucking some more…
Seokjin snapped out of it. “Well, I’m in no rush today, so I’ll explore a little.”
As Seokjin headed out, Namjoon called after him, “Call me if you get lost!”
“Please,” Seokjin returned, eager to get out of the cabin and see some of the coastal line, “there’s only like one road.”
* * *
Seokjin was lost.
He sat in the car, map of the township open, and kept frowning: the major roads were clearly marked but some of the small ones were missing, and he’d followed the road down the coast for a while, eventually turned around, and perhaps chosen the wrong track coming back. He’d now passed two farms he’d never seen before and had no idea where he was, and his phone showed him merely as a dot in the middle of nothing. For fuck’s sake!
But he’d be damned if he called Namjoon, who probably thought Seokjin was out of his element when not in the flashy offices in Gangnam like a corporate sell-out. Not all of us could live the lives of artists, penning novels and staying in luxury cabins halfway around the world.
Seokjin muttered curses, with two bags of groceries wobbling in the backseat as he made a U-turn – the township had been quiet as ever, while the woman who worked at the petrol station’s mini-mart had confirmed that the road remained closed. Seokjin now drove back the way he’d come, spotting the red farmhouse he’d passed. A woman was now outside the house, and Seokjin hesitated, but then drove up to the drive. The woman squinted at the SUV as he approached, hands on her hips as she waited. He got out of the car with a polite bow and an “Excuse me!”
“Oh,” she said, breaking into a smile, a healthy outdoor flush to her cheeks. She was in her forties, with long chestnut hair hanging loose. “You must be Seokjin!”
Seokjin slowed down and blinked – looked behind himself to make sure there was no one else there. What…?
She introduced herself as Bella and asked if he’d come to ride the horses. What? Absolutely not! That sounded terrifying! But Liz had said he might, Bella noted, and it was true that Liz had pestered him about enjoying the charms of the West Coast but horse-riding was not on that list. He pushed on.
“Where am I?” he asked, offering her the map, and she finally understood him, giving him a bright laugh.
Bella got out a pen from her pocket and placed the map on the hood of the car, drawing a road that wasn’t there while she amiably said, “Out on your own, then. How’s Namjoon? Busy writing?”
“Ah, yes,” he confirmed. “Writing.”
“I’m sure he’s happy to have you here!” Not exactly – so he just smiled politely. “Is he showing you the nice places?” she asked with a… a knowing sort of smile? He bravely said something in response about Haast being very nice. Bella seemed approving and then explained the directions to him and asked him to wait. He did, unsure what else she wanted. She soon returned with a large five-by-five carton of fresh eggs, carefully placing it on the backseat, and waving off his offer of payment.
“They’re fresh as anything,” she boasted. “You can make Namjoon a nice omelette.”
As if Seokjin was to cater to Namjoon! Please! She then added something with a wink that Seokjin couldn’t quite translate, her words too quick and her accent too unfamiliar – rather? Bend? Points? He thanked her profusely anyway and wondered how quickly Namjoon and the rest of Haast would hear that he’d gotten lost – within the hour? Small towns…
Thankfully he found the main road now and the right track that took him towards the cabin; it wasn’t his fault the place suffered from a severe lack of signage. He turned on to the gravel road to Namjoon’s, and only then was he able to translate what the woman had said: “You can make Namjoon a nice omelette. Gather up those husband points!” And then she’d winked!
He hit the brakes, then swore and turned to the eggs in horror – but they were still on the backseat, thank god. He closed his eyes and pressed into the car seat, and he rubbed at his face before pulling on his hair in frustration, heart racing unsteadily. Husband points? God, how did she…? And did everyone…?
“Fuck,” he swore, feeling caught out and hating every second of it.
He looked back to the road and his stomach lurched – because Namjoon was walking downhill from the cabin, in his nice winter coat, and with an adorable navy beanie on his head, brown hair sticking out. God, he was beautiful – and had a boyfriend in London, for fuck’s sake. Calm now, Seokjin… Breathe it out…
He tried to quickly fix his hair before he kept going and stopped the car beside Namjoon, who smiled at him with an amused expression, elbow on the roof of the car as he peered down at Seokjin. “Heard you had a bit of an adventure,” Namjoon said and glanced to the backseat where the eggs were. “Local hospitality, huh?”
“Yup,” Seokjin said, mouth tightly pursed. He refused to look at Namjoon. “Well, are you coming or going or what?”
Namjoon got into the passenger seat, and as he buckled in, Seokjin said, “Everyone around here knows you, then.”
“I know Bunty and Liz, and they know everyone, so sort of, yeah. And not many newcomers, really.”
He hummed and drove them back to the cabin in nervous agitation. Once there, Namjoon helped him get the groceries in, but Seokjin was unsettled, skin prickling still. Husband points? What were those exactly? Like hearing Seokjin was lost and heading out to meet him, just to make sure he got back okay?
He willed himself to ignore it as they put groceries away together in the kitchen, because it didn’t matter what these people thought but—
“They know we’re married!” he announced loudly, slamming down a can of Spam. Namjoon frowned at him, pack of rice in hand. Seokjin motioned outside. “Yeah! That farmer woman! She called me your husband!”
“What?” Namjoon said before his eyes widened, mouth forming a small O. Namjoon let out a deep breath, hand lifting to his temple. “Right, I see…”
“How would she know, Namjoon-ah?”
Namjoon hesitated, a guilty look on his face that Seokjin knew from years back. “That’s probably on me… It might’ve slipped out?”
“Just slipped out?”
“Well, that morning after the storm, when Bunty drove me out to find you, I might’ve… mentioned it to him.” Namjoon grimaced. “But I was very hungover.”
He stared at Namjoon in disbelief. “So you just told him we’re married?” In this economy! “They all– They all think we’re having some kind of a love shack situation here?!”
His voice was getting unnecessarily high-pitched, with him now squeezing the life out of a box of orange juice.
“Okay! Okay, it’s awkward, I get it! But god, you never have to see them again, Seokjin-ah, what does it matter? You always care so much about what others think.”
Perhaps that was true, but he didn’t want to be caught out with ‘husband points’ out of nowhere. He didn’t want people to think that they were… when they were not! And the divorce papers were signed and in his suitcase. It was too cruel somehow, to have the town sniggering over a loved-up couple out in the woods when Seokjin just kept wondering how much of his Namjoon was still left.
“Bunty’s the worst gossip, to be fair, so I probably spoke out of turn there. Of course it was on my mind that morning, for obvious reasons. You know that you’d had– you’d had time to process that we’re still married. Whereas I had two hours. Just two hours. To process that we’re married and then that we’re divorcing. And you were being so clinical about it all. I guess it pissed me off a little that first night, and I, well. Slipped.”
Seokjin hesitated – that was the most honesty Namjoon had given him since he’d arrived. Namjoon looked restless, almost annoyed. “It doesn’t matter if these people know, alright? Or what, is that too many for you – even now?”
This was a dig at Seokjin, of course, but Seokjin simply burned with desire to know what Namjoon had said about them, their marriage, their divorce…? The disorientating feeling of being thrown together after all this time?
“No, it’s fine,” he granted at last, and Namjoon looked surprised. “Of course it’s fine. It doesn’t matter, you’re right.”
He doubted Bunty was about to organise an exposé on them for a Korean culture magazine.
He added, “But you’re the one explaining where your husband went when your boyfriend shows up – it’s not my mess, I’ll tell you that.”
Truthfully it felt like the mess was theirs to share.
But fine, let all of Haast imagine them having some quality marital time if it made them happy. Seokjin would be gone soon enough.
Still, he shook his head. “What a shit-show this all is.” Namjoon looked at him keenly, but he insisted, “Well, what else can you call it? Unless you have a time machine we could use? Go back to 2013, sabotage our younger selves from ever getting married?”
“Is that what you want? Undo it all?” Namjoon asked, and Seokjin felt like he’d walked straight into a trap.
“No, no– Or yes, it– I’m not saying undo the entire thing, just… pull the fire alarm at the chapel or something.”
Namjoon huffed, putting a pack of cereal away. “As if that would’ve stopped us…”
“True,” he conceded, lost in the memory of it. They’d just have found another chapel.
Namjoon visibly hesitated, rummaged through the fridge, then turned to him quickly with, “I read up on that scholarship scheme of yours, by the way. With the company.”
Seokjin frowned, taken aback.
Namjoon chose his words carefully and slowly. “You set it up, the website said. That’s pretty impressive, Jin-ah.”
“We’ve been pleased with it,” he said vaguely.
“It does amazing work,” Namjoon insisted.
The background was perhaps not so sincere: there had been some accusations of insider trading – nothing that went to court, thankfully, but the company had wanted to do some good PR. Seokjin had suggested the scholarship scheme: sponsor schoolkids from underprivileged areas for university degrees in finance, especially young women. Well, people lapped that up, of course – but Seokjin worked hard on it every year, on top of his other duties. Finance wasn’t evil. It was a basic necessity, shaping how the world worked, and it could be a force for good, too.
“We’ve been doing okay. We had our first graduates this summer, actually,” he said – and they’d hired a handful of the graduates too, and Seokjin had given a speech at their induction only a month ago. Perhaps it sounded sad, but it had been one of the best days of his life. “I mean, I oversee what I can – we hired a team to run the scheme, so it’s hardly my day job. Besides, companies like mine should give back to communities.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon agreed, to his mild shock. “I’m glad yours does. And that you... Yeah. Have done good things there. Paved your own way. Can’t have been easy, I suspect.”
Seokjin nodded, suspicious of Namjoon seemingly approving of anything the company did. Seokjin had always been expected to work there, while Namjoon had said they should leave Korea, go live abroad. Namjoon had talked plenty about the injustice of it all at his most embittered moments: “Babe, here the government doesn’t even recognise us – and we can’t marry, can’t adopt, we can’t do any of those things. We have to leave!”
But home was home, even if home loved you less than you loved it. Who said love was rational?
These days all those rights belonged to them too: marriage, adoption… Only some seven years after their break-up. Had Seokjin expected that change in his lifetime? Had Namjoon?
Namjoon’s new book made sense in this regard: all this had been discussed plenty back home, with the legislation passing and the changing of the tides that it signalled. However, the novel was set before those rights had been given, and the book’s protagonist was angry with legislators, just as a younger Namjoon had been. Kim Namjoon, as the voice of a generation directly impacted by the recent legal changes, would of course offer a landmark novel touching on what it had felt like before. The media would appreciate it – call it honest, emotive, contemporary. Raw. It was all of those things, and Seokjin wanted to say how important this book would be, but found himself tongue-tied.
But god, imagine the press finding out that Namjoon had in fact been married for a decade. Imagine Seokjin being dragged into that, and imagine Seokjin’s parents finding out that he’d been married to that mint-haired goofball he’d returned from America with.
At the thought, he recalled Namjoon’s bitter tone just moments earlier, asking if the people of Haast knowing of their marriage was still too many for Seokjin. He swallowed – god, fine, there was a lot that Seokjin had fucked up himself. Fine, he knew that.
“Anyway,” he said quickly. “The fresh air did me good, so I think I’ll squeeze in a bit more work. The cogs of capitalism don’t turn themselves, after all.”
Namjoon huffed at that – but smiled, dimples appearing briefly, before this vanished into a look of confusion. Well yeah, Seokjin was confused too, and now they had an entire township gossiping about them on top.
He said, “Is it my dongle turn?”
* * *
Seokjin awoke to the first sunny day he’d seen in New Zealand: the sun was cutting through the living room, covering everything in a warm glow as he stretched out on the couch, his arm sore from being squished between his body and the backrest yet again. His bones gave audible cracks as he got up – ouch, ouch, ouch!
Namjoon’s quiet steps had crossed the living room earlier and now the shower was running. Seokjin decided to be a good sport and got coffee going before scooping out rice from the cooker Namjoon had set up the night before. He filled up two bowls and then fried an egg for each. The bowls were ready to go when Namjoon ambled out of the bathroom, and Seokjin kept scrolling on his phone, leaning against the kitchen island. “I made breakfast,” he said and looked up from his phone.
Namjoon had on nothing but a white towel around his waist: he was a whole goddamn display of well-defined chest and abs, broad shoulders, strong arms, making him wide in all the right places, with his brown hair wet and his skin glistening with water a little still, while the damp body hair on his well-shaped legs clung to the calves. Namjoon’s collar bones looked good enough to chew on, with his nipples a little erect from the chill. The V of Namjoon’s hips was also visible, with the towel tightly tucked in at the waist but with a slight protrusion in the crotch area, and the cotton was clinging onto thick thighs – all that cycling. And Namjoon had the audacity to give him a hasty, “Oh, okay, I’ll be right there!” and head to the bedroom, giving him a show of firm cotton-covered buttocks and a wide expanse of muscular back, all smooth and wide…
“Fuck me,” Seokjin muttered under his breath, tearing his gaze away and finishing his cup of coffee nervously. Not like he’d never seen an attractive man before! Focus. Too awkward. Too much history. Mid-divorce!
Namjoon returned, thankfully dressed – but in highly illegal grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt that appeared two sizes too small. Namjoon thanked him for breakfast as he sat down on one of the stools and began to mix the food, and even as Namjoon scooped up some rice, brown hair wet, bare-faced, nothing glaringly seductive about him, Seokjin – to his horror – realised that he wanted him. He wanted to do relatively unspeakable things to him. Had he lost his mind?
Namjoon’s mouth closed around a mouthful, lips red and soft and—
“I need fresh air,” Seokjin blurted out quickly and all too loudly. Namjoon raised a questioning eyebrow at him, but he seemed thrown off too, gaze lingering somewhere on Seokjin’s throat. This was a classic case of severe cabin fever. God, maybe the motel had some room? He could bunk with those Taiwanese teenagers. They could do campfire sing-alongs!
But Namjoon said, “Yeah? Would you like to go for a hike then?”
Namjoon apparently used Saturdays for hiking – nothing too difficult, but they could make use of the car and drive to Jackson Bay. Seokjin hesitated, unsure if so much time together was a good idea right then, but what would be his excuse? That Namjoon was frustratingly attractive, and Seokjin was getting horned up by cabin fever? Should he drive to Bella’s farm to match Namjoon’s charms, ride a horse around shirtless like a romance novel’s leading man, just to balance things out?
“Sure,” he said feebly, “sounds good.”
A friendly, outdoorsy New Zealand hiking holiday with his ex-husband – surely people did stuff like this all the time.
Namjoon gave him a pair of Marcus’s hiking boots and a padded navy jacket to keep him warm. Namjoon had come from England with his own outdoor gear, and they were ready for the sunny yet chilly winter day as they got into the SUV, with Namjoon thankfully appropriately dressed head to toe. “You alright?” Namjoon checked with him quickly.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, nodding. “Of course.”
The radio came on – the oldies station now blaring September by Earth, Wind and Fire. They both stopped at that, Namjoon saying, “Aish, this song…” Namjoon’s cheeks coloured, but he smiled, giving Seokjin a look that could be classified as warm.
“Not September just yet,” Seokjin said, switching stations brutally, and trying not to think of all the mornings Namjoon had danced to this song in their tiny studio like a madman, making Seokjin laugh and pulling Seokjin up to dance to it too. They had never had ‘their song’ as such, but if a playlist was ever put together of their marriage, this would of course be on it to commemorate the good times. They’d had so many of those, but, as everything in life, they’d passed.
Seokjin was on the tree-lined coastal road by the time Namjoon finally stopped humming the song, gaze averted. The ocean came into view only later, when they were nearly at their destination, water glittering under the sunlight to their right. Seokjin parked at the end of the road, close to a long pier stretching into the sea with a few fishing boats bobbing at the end. Namjoon pointed towards the hilly woodlands where the walk started – it was too far out to cycle so he hadn’t come this way yet, but he’d been promised good views.
Seokjin tightened his boot laces, and they got going.
They remained quiet apart from Namjoon pointing out a few trees or telling him to mind a slippery part on the path. The storms had left the ground partially muddy, Seokjin climbing up a boulder, reaching out to help Namjoon up too. A few times they stopped to take pictures, but never of each other – they could both share evidence of their time here, with the other completely erased. Calculating. Namjoon hadn’t told anyone, as far as Seokjin could tell, that he was there.
How the tables turned, huh?
But the fresh air helped Seokjin return to himself after the morning’s ogling, and he was calmer by the time they finally emerged out of the tree line onto a rocky, secluded bay, his legs aching and his back sweaty. Yet the water was bluer than blue, the rocks grey and beige, the waves coming in with white heads, and there was no sign of human habitation anywhere. He got out his phone to take more pictures, carefully stepping from one rock to the next.
“Gorgeous, right?” Namjoon said – cheeks rosy from the bite in the air.
“Feels like the entire world is far away,” he admitted, the rocks steady under his feet. Waves crashed onto the shore with white foam, and the air was salt scented.
They walked along the bay before sitting down on large, flat rocks. Namjoon got out a thermos from his backpack, pouring coffee into the cap that served as a mug. Namjoon offered it to him, his cheeks rosy, the navy beanie on him – endearingly cute. Seokjin took the cap quickly. The strain of the walk thrummed pleasantly in his calves and thighs, the steep uphill and the muddy downhills.
“Good,” he praised the coffee, the liquid warming his belly. This wasn’t so bad, for a divorce. Bet most people did it less amicably. “You do this every weekend?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon nodded, the sea winds ruffling his honey-tinged hair when he pulled the beanie off. “If the weather allows – get fresh air after a week of writing. Just… take the place in, you know? Gives me space to think too.”
“Yeah,” he agreed – space to think was good.
The waves beat gently around them, but a certain silence was layered atop it, lingering in the space between them. Seokjin was so far from everything: from his office, his apartment – from Seoul, from Korea, from everything he knew. Namjoon had really managed to find a place away from it all: the seclusion felt complete. There was a reason for that. There was a reason, beyond the novel.
They drank the coffee quietly, passing the cap between them, the waves a soft lull. Seokjin looked out into the sea, taking in the beauty of it all – and after gathering up his courage he asked, “Why are you here?”
“Well, Marcus knew I wanted to finish this book with some privacy, so he offered up this place.”
Namjoon passed him the cap, telling him to finish the coffee. Seokjin leaned his elbows to his knees, letting the thermos cap dangle in his grip. Still no luck – and Seokjin wasn’t sure why he was trying.
But, unexpectedly, Namjoon said, “And I guess I was tired of London.”
“Oh?” he asked, making sure to sound neutral.
Next to him, Namjoon looked out to the sea. “Yeah. Same way I got tired of New York. People act like those cities are centres of the world, but… I tire of them. I don’t know, maybe it’s my thing now. Moving around, changing cities every few years. Two years here, a few more there. Becomes habit.”
“You always dreamt of that,” he said, recalling dozens of conversations they’d had of Namjoon wanting to see the world, explore different countries.
“Yeah. Yeah, I did want that, huh?” Some self-irony was in the tone, and Seokjin took Namjoon in, his locks of hair stirred by the wind. “I guess I’ve always wanted to feel like I chose where I am, not that I got stuck there, you know? So… So whenever I pack up my bags and move, I know it was a choice.” Namjoon squinted in the noon sun. “London stopped feeling like a choice.”
“Wait, have you left for good?” he asked in surprise – because Haast was temporary, wasn’t it? And Namjoon would return to London once the full manuscript was done, right? But no? London was finished? Was that why Namjoon had put his parents’ address down in the divorce papers? “But you’re all settled in London, aren’t you? With Graeme?”
Namjoon looked at him, frowning. “Who?”
“Graeme,” he repeated, and their confusion was mutual.
“Wait, do you mean Ben? Ben Jenkins, my boyfriend?” Namjoon laughed, dimples deepening, as Seokjin felt his face flood with colour. “God, who the fuck’s Graeme?”
“Well, I don’t know,” Seokjin defended angrily, but his ears felt hot. “Is it my job to keep score of your boyfriends?” But, in that moment, he had no idea where he’d gotten Graeme from – his information was all second-hand, usually through Hoseok and Yoongi. There was a decent chance he’d refused to listen too carefully to news regarding Namjoon’s romances and had just picked a name randomly himself. “Ben,” he said, testing it out, and did not like it. “Sounds old.”
“Two years younger than me, actually.”
“Not even thirty? A baby!”
“Oh, come on,” Namjoon said with a roll of his eyes, examining a small pebble he’d picked up, the pad of his thumb smoothing over a white vein cutting the grey stone. Seokjin got the feeling that Namjoon wanted to say more than that, so he observed the rocks rising up from beneath the water, splashing with foam, counting them – waiting it out because Namjoon was choosing his words, and Seokjin knew to let him. “Ben, he– he wanted us to buy a place together, back in London.” Namjoon looked up the coast, squinting in the sunlight. “I thought about us a lot, then.” Namjoon glanced at him, brought a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun. “We got married in what? Two months?”
Seokjin nodded. Yup. Two goddamn months…
Namjoon let out a deep breath and shrugged. “Yeah. Whereas Ben and I were pushing on two years, and I just… I couldn’t.”
So that was the reason: for Namjoon being here alone and not having mentioned his boyfriend hardly at all (if at all?), and neither was Namjoon busy texting and calling his loved one… God, of course.
Namjoon shrugged. “I guess I’ve aged and… I want stability now, definitely, in a way that is completely uncool and boring, but… how do I buy a flat with someone when love can’t last? I guess that’s what I learned from us. How things don’t last.”
“Is that what I taught you?” he asked in surprise. He wasn’t sure what the lesson had been, but was it that bleak?
“Isn’t it?” Namjoon asked with such sudden bitterness that Seokjin only blinked at him. But–! That hardly–! It was Namjoon who had fucked up everything between them, who hadn’t stood by him and…!
But maybe Namjoon had his right to some grievances too.
Namjoon weighed the pebble on his palm, threw it into the air and caught it again. Huffed. “Anyway, there’s another ex who stopped talking to me. And after a miserable spring in London, I put my stuff in storage and came here to finish writing this novel. Figured this was the place to plan my next move, too.”
So Namjoon was licking his wounds. Well, you got what you paid for, right? Namjoon had always been selfish like that, uncompromising with what he wanted to do, where he wanted to go, with little consideration to others – including Seokjin or this Ben character. Really, this was a pattern that confirmed Seokjin had gotten off lightly, that it was good they’d ended things when they had…
“Look, not everything ends badly,” he said, and Namjoon snorted. Yeah, fair.
“So are you saying I should’ve bought the place with Ben? With that much doubt in me? I don’t know… Always been a mess with me.” At this, Namjoon looked to him pointedly, and Seokjin didn’t want to think of what Namjoon had done, didn’t want to discuss it or excuse it. Thankfully Namjoon added, “You haven’t settled down either, so why should I listen to you?”
Ah, was it his turn…?
“Well,” he said, wondering how to phrase it, “not that it’s any of your business, but Youngmoo kept hinting we get engaged. With the legislation changing, you know.” He spotted a boat out in the distance, thought of the days he’d spent on Youngmoo’s yacht: wonderful summer days sun-bathing, reading, screwing. Youngmoo had been funny and witty and a sight to behold in those red Speedos… and Seokjin had ended it. He cleared his throat. “I just wasn’t quite ready for that, but he didn’t want to wait.”
“How did you meet?”
“Well, I’d met him through work, and we went on a few dates, but I was so busy that it kind of… stalled. And then his mother called my dad, and they set up one of those surprise dinners.”
Namjoon stared at him disbelievingly. “Your dad started match-making for you? Seriously? He refused to see you for a year after we got back from California!”
“Yeah, I know. Although we refused to see them too, remember? But he’s come a long way, you know, has been supportive in the ways he knows. Making the best out of a bad situation, I guess.”
“Seokjin-ah… you were never a bad situation.”
He nodded – he knew that, but kids always wanted to impress their parents, no matter the age, and he’d proved himself capable of a hell of a lot by the time his father had retired. Life was freer now without his father in the company building – Seokjin was thriving, even, better at his job than ever, and his father respected that. Respected him. And of course they weren’t close, but they were cordial, perhaps even fond when unguarded. His dad wanted him to settle down now, think about heirs, think about legacy. He hadn’t delivered in that regard yet – kept falling in lust but not love, perhaps.
“Point is,” Seokjin said slowly, “that with the right person it’ll be different one day – all that settling down stuff. You’ll just know.”
They both said nothing, and Seokjin passed the cap back to Namjoon, who screwed it onto the thermos. Funny. Endlessly funny – the two of them at thirty-one and thirty-three, together but not together, wondering how to love people.
“Can I ask you something?” Seokjin said, encouraged by the quiet of the moment. Namjoon nodded and, although almost scaring himself with the question because it revealed far too much, he asked, “Why have you never come back to Korea?” As he asked this, the gold locket tucked into his shirt felt warm against his chest.
Namjoon was quiet for a long time before he said, in barely a whisper, “Many reasons.”
But what they were, Namjoon didn’t tell him.
They stood up again, dusted themselves off, and headed back. Seokjin softly suggested a beer for their efforts, in the motel bar – and Namjoon accepted, just like a friend might.
Perhaps that was what they were trying to find out here.
* * *
After dinner Seokjin took some paracetamol for his arm and poured a generous glass of wine before getting the fire going, wanting to enjoy the comforts of Kira and Marcus’s home if nothing else. After settling on the couch, he called out, “Namjoon-ah! Namjoon-ah, there’s a documentary on the ecosystem of the Amazon. Right up your street!”
“Ten more minutes!” Namjoon’s voice echoed back from the study, and Seokjin muttered, “Suit yourself then.” Almost nine PM on a Saturday. Seokjin worked a lot too, but goddamn…
Namjoon eventually joined him, serving himself some of the jjigae Seokjin had very charitably made. As Namjoon sat on the couch next to him, Seokjin motioned at the TV screen and said, “So this caiman is trying to find food.”
Namjoon hummed, taking in the vital plot point.
Seokjin sipped his wine, eyes fixed on the nature documentary, but thinking of Namjoon working away on his next great novel. Was Namjoon happy with the success that he’d achieved? One would assume so, but after their talk at the bay it was clear that Namjoon was still looking for something else in life, too. Seokjin drank more wine, trying to ignore Namjoon slurping jjigae next to him – in a baggy sweatshirt, but also in the grey sweatpants that seemed too snug around Namjoon’s waist.
Seokjin had been thinking about it all afternoon: not about the sweatpants, thank you, but about his parents, Namjoon, and all of it. There was a hell of a lot of regret there, and Seokjin wasn’t sure whether to address it – wasn’t it all too late now, anyway? Hadn’t Namjoon more than moved on, too?
He was left unsure what to do, but he kept watching the TV and rubbing at his arm – he’d felt the pain already that morning, but it was still bothering him.
“Are you hurt?”
Seokjin looked to Namjoon, whose spoon was lowered into the jjigae bowl. Namjoon was staring at him intently.
“No, no,” he said, letting go of his arm. “Just get aches sometimes. Surgery ghost pains, I guess.”
He had barely taken another sip of the wine when Namjoon asked, “What surgery?”
Right – Namjoon didn’t know, of course. Seokjin shrugged, trying to keep it as brief as he could. “I was in a car crash – got hit from the side, broke my arm.”
Namjoon put the bowl away, eyes wide. “What? When?”
“Two years ago? Almost?”
“But…” For an incredibly intelligent man, Namjoon looked dumbstruck. “But why didn’t you call me?”
Seokjin blinked – then laughed. “What? Namjoon-ah, we hadn’t spoken in years.”
But Namjoon kept frowning, somehow affronted looking, and it tugged at Seokjin’s heart painfully.
Seokjin didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about it, but said, “It was rush hour in Gangnam and the driver came through a red light. Concussion and a broken humerus,” he said, tapping at his upper left arm. “They pieced me back together with titanium plates. Just glad it wasn’t my right arm, really, because that’d have been a pain to work around.”
“Jinnie…” Namjoon had worry all over his face.
“It’s fine – it happened, and I got fixed up.” He reached for the remote to turn the volume up, just to give himself something to do. “You wanna keep watching this or…? What is it?”
Namjoon was still staring at him, frowning. “Yoongi should have told me.”
“What?” Seokjin leaned back again, bemused. “Why would he have done that? What is he, Kim Seokjin news central?”
“Well, no,” Namjoon said, jaw clenched. “But… yeah, sometimes I ask him about you, if you must know. Sometimes I ask, and– and he never said anything.”
Namjoon sometimes asked Yoongi about him. Funny. Funny because Seokjin sometimes asked Yoongi about Namjoon, too, perhaps just to remind himself that Namjoon had existed, beyond the books in shopfronts. Because that was perhaps the worst thing: when it felt like Namjoon had never existed at all.
For a brief second Seokjin imagined laying on the hospital bed that day – and Namjoon, of all people, rushing in. “I came as soon as I heard,” that Namjoon would have said, like not a single day had passed, sitting down by the hospital bed and reaching out to take his hand. “Are you okay, baby? God, I got so scared…” Worry all over Namjoon’s paled features but love too. Love too.
Seokjin clenched his jaw, forcing such foolish wishes away. How childish.
But Seokjin felt newly raw as Namjoon scooted closer to him on the couch. “Is there a scar?”
He nodded, and Namjoon kept looking at him. He faltered. “It’s not that impressive,” he said, but nevertheless pulled up the sleeve of his white t-shirt.
The scar had faded into a thin white line on his inner arm, reaching almost fifteen centimetres. Seokjin extended his arm out for Namjoon to see, and Namjoon sucked in a breath. Without asking, he scooted even closer and took Seokjin’s arm in his large hands, one palm cupping his elbow, the other moving up towards his shoulder. “Jin-ah…” Namjoon exhaled with an unhappy tsk, before tracing a careful forefinger up and down the thin line.
“Worse than it looks,” he said thickly, throat tightened by the proximity – and by Namjoon being in his space, after days of them orbiting each other at a semi-respectful distance. Namjoon smelled of whatever bodywash he’d used after their return: musky and woody.
“It’s huge,” Namjoon complained, childlike – but his fingers were careful on him, in a way that felt reminiscent. Namjoon had always handled Seokjin softly, even when told otherwise. “God,” Namjoon breathed out, brows knitted, “who did this to you?”
“Specifically? Lee Jiho – works as a chef. He was late picking up his kids from school that day.”
Their eyes met, and Namjoon looked awfully stern – and the wine made Seokjin feel warm, or was it the open fire, or Namjoon’s eyes on him, or a combination thereof?
Seokjin cleared his throat. “Youngmoo wanted to sue him, but I didn’t see what good it’d do – he paid for the damage to the car, though, and a fine for the traffic violation.”
“Youngmoo was right,” Namjoon said, finally letting go, and Seokjin pushed the sleeve down. Unnervingly, Namjoon did not scoot back. “You should’ve sued the shit out of him.”
“You sound exactly like Youngmoo,” he noted, and Namjoon was about to say something else so he cut in with, “The guy was struggling as it was. So what, I have titanium in my arm and sometimes it aches, and it could’ve been a lot worse than that but wasn’t – and when people make mistakes, the rest of us can avenge or forgive, and it didn’t take me long to know which one I wanted to do.”
Namjoon stared at him, one arm on the back of the couch, fingers curled up and tense – until they relaxed. “Okay.” Like that somehow settled what Seokjin had decided years earlier. “Okay.”
Youngmoo had never agreed with him – had kept muttering how it wasn’t too late to press charges.
“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Namjoon said, like the stupid perfect softie that he was, looking at Seokjin with warm eyes and an open expression, and Seokjin felt something unfurl inside him because that was exactly what his Namjoon would have done, sat by him in the hospital that day. Somehow that Namjoon was now there with him – still so funny and kind and smart – and Seokjin was completely unsure what happened, exactly, but in the next moment they were kissing.
It was tender – it was extremely tender, with his hand on Namjoon’s neck, which perhaps meant that he had reached over to kiss Namjoon. Namjoon’s mouth was warm, with just a hint of wine on his breath, and the connection felt good and soft and—
Seokjin pulled back, completely flustered. Namjoon was looking at him with wide, surprised eyes. What the hell!
Seokjin panicked, scooted back, turned to the TV with, “Well, enough documentaries for one night, I think we’re—”
“Did you just—”
“No, no,” he said, “no, that– Never mind that!”
He’d kissed Namjoon. Kissed him! Mere hours after discovering Namjoon was single, like that was all it took for him to throw himself at Namjoon.
He stood up in a fierce panic, and all the while Namjoon was looking at him with wide eyes, a ‘wait did you just kiss me?’ face – and Namjoon was going to want to talk about it, of course, but nothing good would come of that, and how pathetic was Seokjin. A bit of empathy and he was ready to suck face! With his husband! What was wrong with him?
“We don’t have to talk about it!” he all but screeched.
“But we should talk about it,” Namjoon said, predictably. “You haven’t… kissed me. In seven years.”
“Cabin fever. Too much fresh air!”
Wait, which one?
“Okay, relax,” Namjoon said, standing up. “It was a really nice kiss, Seokjin-ah, I don’t mind.”
Namjoon’s gaze fixed to his mouth, a soft yet curious look in his eyes. Oh no. Oh no! Namjoon was so often lost in his own head – those fictional tales, alternative universes – but Seokjin knew from experience that all it took to pull Namjoon to him was a kiss: and then Namjoon was alert, tuned in and eager for more. Oh no!
“Would it kill to call me hyung?” he asked tersely.
But god, it was the little things about Namjoon – the smallest of things, like his dimpled smile, his annoyingly endearing guilt-laced face when caught out, and the way with which he always seemed to move into Seokjin’s space with sudden permission that Seokjin granted as soon as Namjoon took it. He could see why his younger self had fallen in love with all of this. Now Namjoon was a whole decade older – and wiser and more mature, but so was Seokjin, and he wasn’t as easily enamoured anymore, right?
He recounted all the bad memories he had of Namjoon and, when they seemed difficult to remember, he blamed the wine.
“We should go to bed,” he said hastily, and Namjoon’s eyes grew darker. “Separately!” he interjected. “Our own, separate…!”
Not wanting the shame to outlive him like a dystopian Kafka novel, he promptly excused himself to brush his teeth.
* * *
Seokjin had several mini-breakdowns in the bathroom, cursing his lapsed judgement and Namjoon’s stupid endearing face. After a cold shower that cascaded on him from the heavens, however, Seokjin felt saner and less like a horny teenager eager to hump anything that moved. So there’d been a kiss. A teeny tiny kiss! Who cared? Well, he did. Had he really forgotten all the shit that Namjoon had done to him? And did those things have a statute of limitations? Focus, for god’s sake!
He carefully dried off and pulled on his pyjamas: the white t-shirt again and fleece bottoms. He closed his eyes, breathed it out – this was fine. He could negotiate his way out of this.
He headed out again, having regrouped in the shower. To his surprise, Namjoon was still in the living room and was placing his own pillow and duvet onto the couch.
At the sight of him, Namjoon said, “I can’t let you sleep on the couch anymore, with your arm. You should’ve mentioned it when you got here.”
“Namjoon-ah, I’m fine. Thank you.”
Namjoon shook his head. “You can take the bed – I put your duvet there already.”
“No, come on,” he said, cheeks heating up from the attention. Namjoon must’ve thought he was a mess: broken arms and smooching ex-husbands. “Take the saviour complex down a couple of notches, alright?”
Although did he deserve the bed? Naturally, and it looked comfy as hell, but he didn’t need Namjoon to get chivalrous on him now – and if the couch was too small for him, it would absolutely be too small for Namjoon.
“Let me put it this way,” Namjoon said, straightening up, hands on his hips, annoyed looking. “I would feel a lot better about you being here if you took the bed. If you don’t want the bed, then we can sit in the living room and talk about how you kissed me.”
“…The bed would be wonderful, thank you!”
Namjoon didn’t look amused – frustrated, almost.
Right, Seokjin had regrouped. He cleared his throat, arms crossed over his chest as he approached the couch.
“It was a moment of weakness earlier, that’s all. I apologise for taking liberties like that, when of course that stuff is all in the past and we’re not revisiting that – it’s off limits. So I’m sorry for making things weird.”
There! What a solid apology.
Yet Namjoon kept looking at him with curiosity and uncertainty but mostly annoyance.
Seokjin felt his attempts to regroup crumble under the intense, fixed gaze. “I mean, have I thought of us sleeping together since I got here? Well perhaps, as is only human, once or twice – I mean we are stuck here, and single, there are implications to that, and we have a history and beds are limited, so yes, fine, it has occurred to me what it would be like for us to have sex again,” he panic-rambled, “and I recall we were good at it, but that would be so dumb in the current circumstances, for us to succumb to temptation, to pleasure—”
“Just shut up,” Namjoon said, stepping over and pulling him into a kiss: not tenderly or softly, but firmly. Seokjin’s mind blanked out the second Namjoon’s mouth pressed to his, and he moaned – relieved, excited. Oh no! But he welcomed the solid warmth of Namjoon’s body against his like he’d been craving it – and he had, of course. But this was bad – this was very bad, and he knew that even as he kissed Namjoon back hungrily, their mouths parting, their tongues tasting: going from zero to a hundred instantly, his arms looping around Namjoon’s neck.
“Thought you were taking the couch,” Seokjin managed in between kisses, and Namjoon said, “Fuck the couch.”
Such a valid point. But this was stupid – he had spent years telling himself he was not allowed to want Kim Namjoon anymore, and here he was: making out with him in the cabin, all wired up and desperate. Maybe that was what happened when you spent years fantasising about a pair of hands, a mouth, a cock, and then gave into the temptation after all.
“You know this is stupid, right?” he double-checked with Namjoon.
“Trust me, I know,” Namjoon said, kissing his neck, his throat, large hands on his hips and slipping under his t-shirt, “but right now I don’t care.”
“Yeah,” he agreed and caught Namjoon’s mouth in another messy, heated kiss – heart hammering, skin tingling, his entire body reactive and alive in a way he could barely recall but Namjoon knew how to elicit. His breath hitched as Namjoon grabbed his ass in both hands, kneading.
Namjoon kissed up his jaw and to his ear. “I’ve thought of it too – what it’d be like to have you now, be inside you again…”
A wave of intoxicating heat shivered through him, and all he could say was a needy, “You have?”
“Constantly,” Namjoon said, nipping at his throat. “Just keep thinking about touching you, everywhere…”
They were slowly navigating towards the bedroom, and Seokjin said, “If we’re gonna stop, we should do it now.” This was undermined by him greedily pulling Namjoon to him.
“We’ll stop,” Namjoon said hazily, locking lips with him, “after we’ve come…”
“That makes so much sense,” he agreed, and Namjoon nodded – and pulled him to the bedroom, straight onto the large bed, Seokjin pulling Namjoon on top of him.
It certainly helped that they weren’t wearing much – the sheets felt cool against his back in contrast to Namjoon’s solid heat pressing atop him, and he mourned its loss when Namjoon clambered back up and told him to wait before returning with his toiletries bag.
“I didn’t know Haast was this small when I packed,” Namjoon admitted, getting out condoms and lube. “I guess I kinda thought I might… get lucky at some point?”
“Well, turns out you were right,” Seokjin snorted as he pulled his locket over his head and placed it on the nightstand – his Christian grandmother did not need to witness what her grandson was about to do, even if it was, technically speaking, within wedlock. He then tapped the bed – and Namjoon gave him a knowing smile that made Seokjin want them to fuck until Chuseok.
“Did not think it’d be with you, though,” Namjoon said, and Seokjin pulled him into a kiss with, “Life’s full of surprises.”
Things got messier quickly: with lube poured onto their fingers and being spread on their cocks, between Seokjin’s cheeks to his hole. He was so horny that he couldn’t stand it, and Namjoon’s hands on him were large and commanding, mouth precise and satisfying, and Seokjin was so, so ready to get fucked – because they’d been good at this, right?
But it wasn’t exactly the smooth sailing he recalled: they bumped heads, kneed each other’s sides, muttered a few “shit, sorry”s and “is that okay?”s. Seokjin had, in fact, never slept with this exact man before – and neither did he feel quite ready when Namjoon rubbed his cock over him, the latex-covered cockhead slowly moving over his hole, almost pushing in – Namjoon was big, fucking hell, how had Seokjin done this all those years ago?
“I’ll go slow,” Namjoon said against his mouth, to which he said, “Yeah, sounds good.” Namjoon let the tip rub between his cheeks again. It was teasing and it was cruel, but god if it didn’t turn him on, but after a failed entry Namjoon returned to fingering him a little more, with three digits – stretching him further. Namjoon was leaning over him, all that firmed-up muscle on display for Seokjin, and he ran a hand over Namjoon’s stomach and pecs – god, so strong, so solid.
“I’m good,” he insisted, and Namjoon let out a pleased grunt, rubbing over Seokjin’s hole with his fingers, before tugging gently on his balls – and Seokjin spread his legs a little more, Namjoon squeezing his ass cheek, probably bruising it.
And finally Namjoon pushed in: thicker and longer than Seokjin remembered, filling him up almost to the point of too much. Seokjin choked out a stuttered breath but then moaned – enjoying how Namjoon was pressing inside him, sending pleasure down his legs and up his spine. He hadn’t thought that they would ever—
Namjoon’s breaths were uneven, both hands gripping onto Seokjin’s waist tightly. Seokjin pushed against him with a pleased groan and a “Yeah, fuck, that’s it…” He licked his lips, letting the pleasure wash over him. There was guilt in it too: that this felt so good. It shouldn’t feel this good…
“Shit, you’re so…” Namjoon said and, with that, began to fuck him – nice and slow, testing it out. Seokjin took it: letting the frustration of the past week melt into the rhythm, and the tension too, all the longing over Namjoon’s stupid collarbones and annoying sculpted chest, all the fluttering over the adorable way that Namjoon’s thick glasses slid down his nose… Stop thinking – god, don’t think right now, don’t—
Thankfully, Namjoon picked up the pace without having to be told, anticipating what Seokjin was ready for before he knew it himself – and that was new, because his memories were of a lot of “harder, Joon-ah! Please, come on!”, and having to coax Namjoon, who had never been as rough with Seokjin as he’d craved.
But this Namjoon was more in control of his strength, didn’t underestimate what Seokjin could take: when Seokjin began to slip up the bed from the force of the thrusts, Namjoon hauled him back with two commanding hands on his waist and a, “Be good for me, come on.”
“Yeah,” he breathed – oh fuck, he wanted to be so good. He’d said that aloud, in fact: “I wanna be so good.”
Something flashed in Namjoon’s eyes – interest, hunger – and oh fuck, what was this? Seokjin groaned, body burning up, and Namjoon lifted one of Seokjin’s legs to his shoulder and kept going in, harder, deeper. Seokjin’s moans were embarrassing, while lube rolled down from where they were joined. God, he hadn’t been fucked this good in a while.
“Namjoon-ah,” he managed, eyes screwed shut, hips twitching.
“Is this what you want?” Namjoon asked, free hand pushing through Seokjin’s hair. “To be good like this…?”
Had they been talkers before? Seokjin couldn’t recall – it’d been a lot of groaning and “fuck, baby”s and “take that cock”s, if that qualified – and so many “I love you, baby”s. Seokjin focused on the former.
“Yeah, just like this,” he breathed. “Keep talking. Keep telling me…”
“That you’re being good, baby?” Namjoon asked, and Seokjin’s back arched, his thighs trembling. It was pretty goddamn unfortunate that Namjoon was discovering what Seokjin had learned of himself at some point: that he loved being talked down to, thrown about, made to whimper and beg for cock.
“Yeah,” he almost whined – so ready to be good.
But Namjoon pulled out, leaving a throbbing need in him – thankfully sitting back on his haunches and pulling Seokjin into his lap and into a heated kiss. “Sit back on it, come on,” Namjoon guided, and he nodded fervently, arms wrapping around Namjoon’s shoulders as he pressed a messy kiss to his mouth. Namjoon’s cockhead pushed past the rim, and he whined from the pleasure. “What a good slut you are…” Namjoon praised, making him clench. Namjoon quickly checked, “Too much?”
“No, that’s hot,” he managed, head swimming – lowering himself back onto Namjoon’s cock with a satisfied groan. “Wanna show you… how much…”
“Go on, then,” Namjoon challenged, arm around Seokjin’s waist, one hand on the bed for balance. “Cock’s all yours, baby.” Fuck. They were so close like this, with Seokjin grinding himself on Namjoon, staring down at Namjoon with a little leverage, their mouths barely five centimetres apart. His cock was caught between them, pre-come at the tip already, and the bed creaked loudly as he worked his hips rhythmically and fast. His apologies to Marcus and Kira – but fuck.
Namjoon’s mouth had dropped open, brows knitted – eyes screwed shut with a, “Fuck, that feels good…”
“Yeah?” he panted, his hole so stretched that it hurt. Fuck, he remembered that – how taking Namjoon had hurt the first few times, but it’d slowed him down none.
“Yeah, and just look at you,” Namjoon marvelled before landing a firm smack to his ass. “This tiny fucking waist of yours – want to pull you into my lap constantly, fuck… Were you always like this?” At this, Seokjin shook his head. “No? When did you learn to ask?”
“I dunno,” he hiccupped, head thrown back as he fucked himself in Namjoon’s lap. “I just did… You’re so big… Forgot how…”
“And still you won’t stop,” Namjoon praised. “So good, aren’t you, baby? I’ve wanted to fuck you for days now…”
He was stretched so wide, moving on the thick cock the best he could, while Namjoon grabbed his chin and pulled him into a messy kiss, Seokjin hiccupping into it breathlessly, light-headed.
Namjoon curled a fist around his aching cock, giving him a tentative stroke, before cupping his balls, tugging on them with the most perfect pressure. “How far do you wanna go?” Namjoon asked, fingers travelling up his stomach to his chest, caressing him – and as Namjoon’s hand grabbed his jaw again, Seokjin opened his mouth, fucked out of any resistance: his eyes fixed on Namjoon’s as Namjoon’s thumb slipped past his swollen lips, the pad brushing against his tongue. Seokjin shivered, closed his eyes, and sucked – whined.
Namjoon’s hips jerked, slowly grinding up and into him. “There you go…” Namjoon said, approving, and Seokjin clenched around him. “That’s so good, suck on it…” Namjoon’s thumb pulled out, but then Namjoon’s fore and middle fingers pressed to his lips, and Seokjin opened his mouth further, obediently – whining as Namjoon pushed the two fingers in, gyrating his hips to show how good the cock in him felt, how he wanted his mouth full too. Namjoon fucked his mouth with the fingers, pushing them in and out – a mimic of a blowjob. He held onto Namjoon’s shoulders to stay where he was, and they both breathed through it, slowly fucking – his ass full, his mouth full, Namjoon murmuring, “You’re being so good for me right now…”
Fuck, he felt so hot and lost, a heady undercurrent sizzling in him that he’d felt with others, definitely – a few times Youngmoo had wanted to fuck him from behind and be called daddy, and Seokjin had obliged and gotten off on it too – but Namjoon was striking a different chord with him that was making him feel so fucking wanted and filthy, yet safe and adored. His heart was beating wildly, and Namjoon looked mesmerised observing him when his eyes fluttered open.
Seokjin pulled back for air, gasping, and Namjoon’s saliva-wetted fingers brushed stray hairs from his forehead. “Breathe it out, just like that…” Namjoon pressed a lingering kiss to his swollen lips, arm firmly looped around his waist, Seokjin still fucking himself on the hard length of cock. Was he being good? Was he doing enough?
He wanted to be cocky after all this time: seducing Namjoon, taking what he wanted, walking away victorious. But he felt much softer than that when Namjoon looked at him – with lust, absolutely, but also with care, eyes widening boyishly when Seokjin clenched around him. Maybe they were both overwhelmed by how all-consuming that desire was.
Seokjin licked his lips, his body warm and sweaty all over – his hole aching from how Namjoon was still stretching him. “What do you want to do?” he asked breathlessly, making it clear that it was up to Namjoon: he’d obey happily.
Namjoon swallowed audibly, hand brushing over his nipples, across his muscled stomach – Namjoon wasn’t the only one in good shape. “Wanna make you come, baby,” Namjoon said, glancing up at him, and Seokjin had heard the line before: he’d heard it a hundred times in the past and hearing it now took him by surprise.
A moment of recognition grew between them – taking Seokjin out of the moment, the lust and the filth. Take all that away and what was left? Their history was in the depth of Namjoon’s eyes, the realisation of what they were doing with all its implications. Namjoon caressed his face, something fond in his eyes, and Seokjin kissed him softly. The tension between them seemed to drop – hey there you are, finally, I’ve missed—
Seokjin bit Namjoon’s lower lip, to snap himself out of it. Namjoon drew in a sharp breath, the caress gone – and Namjoon swallowed, hand tightening in his hair, yanking, and he moaned in appreciation. “Yeah?” Namjoon said, voice rough. “You wanna come on my cock?”
“Yeah,” he said – but it sounded like a whimpering request, and Namjoon kissed him roughly: the taste was one of saliva and sweat and Namjoon, and Namjoon’s tongue was firm against his own and spine-melting. Seokjin’s treacherous arms looped around Namjoon’s shoulders fully, the skin there slippery in the most tantalising way, and Namjoon exuded warmth against him, inside him, was going to let him come, yes, god—
Namjoon reached for his leaking cock again, running lithe fingers over him. “Let’s get you off, Jinnie…”
“Please,” he managed, his thighs clenching, squeezing Namjoon’s sides – and Namjoon grabbed his waist and tipped them to the side, with him landing back on the mattress and Namjoon ending up on top. The bedroom lights blinded Seokjin now that he was strewn in the middle of the bed, and he threw a hand helplessly across his face, biting on his bottom lip to keep quiet, his flushed cock jerking against his belly.
“Nuh uh,” Namjoon said, grabbing his hand, pushing it to the side – they locked eyes as Namjoon returned to fucking him. “You know I wanna see you, come on,” Namjoon reprimanded, and Seokjin moaned – yeah, he knew that, of course he did.
And this was worse now. Oh fucking shit, this was worse: because getting fucked by a thick cock as he whimpered helplessly was one thing, sure. It was another to watch Namjoon watching him like this, when Seokjin was overfucked and further gone, embarrassed but getting off on it. Beads of sweat glistened on Namjoon’s brow, his chest was flushed pink, and the veins on his arms stood out from how he was grabbing onto Seokjin, and Seokjin was so fucking deep in it all right then. The jut of Namjoon’s jaw was the same: concentration and pleasure.
“Feel good?” Namjoon asked, going a little slower – catching his breath while Seokjin nodded.
But the tenderness was fleeting as Namjoon grabbed his legs, pushed them further apart, and fucked into him with deep, hard thrusts, pressing against his prostate perfectly. Namjoon’s mouth slid down to his throat, sucking in kisses, teeth scraping, before Namjoon made his way down to tease his nipples with the flat of his tongue, while all the time Namjoon’s cock pushed him open with wet slides. Seokjin stared at the ceiling – those wooden beams, really they were quite nice – eyes rolling into the back of his head, toes curling, as Namjoon said, “So good for me, baby… Look at how ready you were… God, you’ve wanted this all along, haven’t you?”
“Yeah,” he admitted breathlessly, the bed creaking beneath them, loud huffs and puffs and groans, his own mouth betraying him with muffled moans and “yeah, yes, yes”.
“Yeah? Thought of this a lot, huh?” Namjoon said, teeth scraping a nipple, and Seokjin felt so fucking overstimulated, with Namjoon sucking a bruise to his sternum. “And you’ve thought of how you used to sit on my lap while I used all those toys on you – god, that beaded dildo, the black one?”
Seokjin knew exactly which one – not too thick but definitely long, pressing into him deep so perfectly.
Namjoon groaned, pressed a wet kiss to his left collarbone. “I bet you think about that sometimes – you just loved getting your ass played with, were such a good fucking slut for me…” At this, Seokjin clenched around the throbbing length in him. Namjoon’s wet mouth pressed a kiss to his jaw. “You’d always come so hard, baby… Fuck, I wish I’d known you needed telling off like this…”
“Joon-ah…” he pleaded – true, that was all true. He was trembling, on edge, and Namjoon wouldn’t stop talking.
“You tried to tell me, huh? Didn’t you, baby? That you wanted more… You’d go in so, so deep when I pushed you around a little …”
Seokjin’s chest felt painfully tight, but the pleasure overwhelmed him, and he was too far gone to care. He palmed over the wet slit of his own cock, and fuck he was so close – and Namjoon knew it too.
“I remember you trying now,” Namjoon said, with a wet kiss to his ear, followed by increasingly hard thrusts, both of their breaths laboured, “I remember the time you asked me to spit in your mouth…” Oh fuck, Seokjin had – he shivered, everything building up in him so fast. “And did I? Huh?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed, his hips moving helplessly, his hand stroking his cock fast.
“And?” Namjoon asked. “Was it good, baby?”
“Yes,” Seokjin groaned, and something in him snapped – he came all over himself, between them, blood scorching hot as he clamped down, from his toes to his fingers. It knocked him out entirely, his body thrashing, but Namjoon weighed him down and kissed the air out of him, and he shivered on Namjoon’s cock, jerking helplessly as he came even more. The hard press of Namjoon’s length in him was unbearable as he came, and yet he craved it. This only spurred Namjoon on, making Namjoon fuck him even harder through it, their breaths short, laced with moans, and Seokjin’s free hand slid to Namjoon’s ass, squeezing and pulling him in. “Please,” he begged, fucked out of his mind. “Please… Please…”
He almost choked on the word, feeling teary and desperate.
“Seokjin-ah, I wish I’d known,” Namjoon said, breath stuttering, hips pistoling. “God, always want to fuck you just like this, make you my—”
Namjoon came with a choked groan against his collar bones, with a familiarly urgent and vulnerable edge that had always undone Seokjin, and pleasure curled up in Seokjin’s chest – satisfaction as Namjoon came inside him. He smoothed over Namjoon’s back, welcoming the release. They were both grinding together still, getting as much of the pleasure as they could. Namjoon’s wet breaths washed over his throat, lips brushing against the skin there – Namjoon always zoned out when he came hard, needed a minute to recover, and Seokjin had spent so many of those minutes whispering endearments and promises of eternal love to Namjoon. Now Seokjin’s hand wiped the cooling semen on his stomach, his mouth silenced. Fucking hell…
They were both a bit shocked – and wiped out, heavy breaths loud in the air while the cabin remained quiet around them, a thankfully silent witness. Seokjin’s entire body tingled, his brain turned to mush, heat high on his cheeks, with a still pulsating need to be good for Namjoon, to be told he was good, and then be pushed onto his stomach and be taken again. Youngmoo had been good at that – but the connection was stronger and more immediate with Namjoon, more all-consuming.
Namjoon pulled out of him carefully, and Seokjin bit his lip to muffle a whine. He’d be bruised tomorrow, Namjoon’s hands having left red marks on his skin here and there – said hands were now pulling the condom off, tying it expertly. Back in the day, Seokjin would have had come slowly dripping out of him, leaving him irrationally horny even in the aftershocks, but he pushed the thought out of his mind for now.
Namjoon left the tissue-wrapped condom on the nightstand before he lay down next to Seokjin, sweaty and breathless still. They were too warmed up for the duvet, which was bunched up at the end of the bed. Well, fuck. Fuck. That’d just happened.
Breathing unevenly, they looked at each other, still in mild shock – Namjoon had a hint of wrinkles to the corners of his eyes now, making him look manlier than he had in his youth. They held eye contact, and Seokjin felt the shock settle further – and Namjoon said, “That… was one of the hottest things I’ve ever done.” And then, as if on cue, they burst into giggles. “Holy fuck,” Namjoon laughed, “you were so… and god, it made me all…?”
He haphazardly smacked at Namjoon. “Shut up!”
“How did you do that? I called you things I’ve never called anyone,” Namjoon accused, but his eyes were bright.
“Stop laughing at least!” he defended, but felt smug, too. Ah, so he still had this power over Namjoon… And him being needy and submissive was all it took for Namjoon to crack. Fuck, why had they never known? Or had Seokjin even known back then what he liked, to this extent?
“Come on,” Namjoon giggled, “this is kinda funny.”
“The sex?” he questioned, but Namjoon just motioned between them. Well, true: they were a joke. He groaned, buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god, this is the worst divorce of all time.”
“Counterpoint – the best?” Namjoon asked and pushed in closer, and he shoved at Namjoon again.
Namjoon helpfully gave him tissues from the nightstand to clean up with, and Seokjin did what he could as his body felt aglow – was singing, if it could, radiating pleasure and contentment, laughter still bubbling in him. He was high on something. “Still a mess,” he said after his efforts, while Namjoon brushed a forefinger across droplets of come still on Seokjin’s chest before popping the finger into his mouth. Seokjin stared at Namjoon in shock – and ah, fuck, that was hot to him. Goddammit.
But he smacked Namjoon’s shoulder anyway and was rewarded with an amused, “Stop hitting me! What is wrong with you?”
“A lot,” he admitted, but Namjoon only grinned brightly.
He would not freak out that he had slept with Namjoon of all people, and that it had been (un)expectedly amazing. A notch in his bedpost, and that was all. Some icing on the cake of divorce!
And neither would he freak out that they were soon languidly kissing again, a bit needy and wanting. “You wanna go again?” Namjoon asked in between kisses, then added, “Like, give me time. I’m not twenty-two anymore.”
Seokjin scoffed – but he pulled Namjoon closer, pushing fingers through the locks of hair that were wet at the roots. Namjoon smelled good even then, and the hunger had not been satisfied.
“But will we know when to stop?” he asked, shamelessly cupping Namjoon’s ass.
“Well,” Namjoon said thoughtfully – now kissing down his chest. “I guess what I’m thinking is that… we’re married.” Seokjin’s stomach dropped, and the burn inside him felt deeper, more eager. “And,” Namjoon said softly, kissing down his stomach with slow, worshipping presses of his mouth, “as your husband, my job is to make sure you’re satisfied… that I’ve let you be as good for me as you want…” Namjoon’s hands slid to his inner thighs, paused. Namjoon looked up at him. “Correct?”
“Uh huh,” he agreed, dazed – cockstruck like a fool.
“And you wanna be good for me some more?”
“Yeah,” he breathed.
“Good,” Namjoon said, pushing his thighs apart, “because I take that job pretty seriously.”
Namjoon’s mouth lowered to Seokjin’s hardening cock, and he sighed, restless, letting a hand push into the locks of Namjoon’s brown hair just as Namjoon’s wet, hot mouth enclosed around him –Seokjin umph’ed from the pleasure. Namjoon laughed somehow, even with a mouth full of cock – just enjoying it, and Seokjin loved the sound of it. He pulled Namjoon back up to him and into a wet kiss – because what Namjoon took, Seokjin gave up instantly with fiery want.
Namjoon returned the kiss with a sense of finality and purpose, like he was pressing in the final letters of a well-crafted, masterful chapter.
IV
Seokjin woke up early, his hindbrain alerting him to get out of bed and head to the gym for a forty-minute workout before work, have the day’s first few emails sent by seven forty-five with a takeaway coffee on his office desk.
But instead he was thousands of kilometres away and, as it happened, groggy and sleepy and completely wrapped up in Namjoon’s arms. He was still half-asleep and nuzzling into Namjoon’s bare chest, their ankles interlocked, with Namjoon’s arm crossed over Seokjin’s lower back, not an inch of clothing on either of them.
He closed his eyes firmly, breathed through the awareness that gradually washed over him. The memories came back vividly: of him whining under and on and above Namjoon with the wanton spirit of a sexually frustrated college student. Or not that, no, but… with the dedication and enthusiasm of a husband deprived of his spouse for years? Fuck…
Seokjin pulled back, and Namjoon let out a sleepy huff but didn’t wake up. Namjoon looked young and innocent: brown hair a mess, cheeks flushed, face relaxed. Seokjin reached out, brushing stray hairs from Namjoon’s forehead, letting his fingers brush the side of Namjoon’s face, slight stubble scratching the tips of his fingers.
He’d never expected to wake up to this again – to be this close. It was like time-travelling, but not even to Doksan-dong, but before that, to the two-bedroom apartment in the back of a Los Angeles bungalow where Seokjin had spent an entire summer learning how to love another person. And not just physically – god, far from it. The pillow talk had been more foundational: the confessions, the admissions, the “I’ve always wondered if that makes me a bad person?” about a vengeful thought, the “Do you ever feel like a failure because of that?” about an insecurity. This was always met with understanding, support, and a “God, I thought I was the only one who felt that way.” In the end, that had cut in deeper than the physical pleasure.
After that intensity, even their years spent apart couldn’t take away the comfort of waking up in that embrace again – breathing in the familiar sex-laced scent of Namjoon as Seokjin admitted, in the first vulnerable moments of consciousness, that he had missed this for seven years.
Namjoon’s eyelids fluttered open, his arm around Seokjin tightening. Seokjin took in a steadying breath – time to face the music. “Morning,” he said quietly, cheeks warming at the memory of their night together as Namjoon took him in.
“Morning,” Namjoon returned, voice deep, the look in his brown eyes warm – his obscenely muscled arm still firm around Seokjin. “You sleep okay?”
“Mmm. Not that we slept much…”
Namjoon huffed softly – giving him a tired, sheepish smile that made Seokjin want to kiss him. “Well after, you know. Did you sleep okay after…?”
“Yeah,” he confirmed.
The sex had been thorough: needy, excited, filthy… But comfortable, too, in a way – a small tell-tale that they had done plenty of this before, and often. What word was he looking for? Marital?
“I don’t know what got into me last night,” he lied, as he lay in Namjoon’s oh-so-muscular arms.
Namjoon gazed at him, eyes slightly hooded. “Oh, you don’t know…?”
“Mm, I guess we had some pent-up…?” he trailed off, fingers brushing down Namjoon’s chest.
He suppressed a smirk as Namjoon’s length slowly began to harden against him. Ah, Namjoon was up so his dick was up – no change there. Namjoon had an expectant and hopeful look in his eyes, and the feel of him was getting Seokjin riled up.
“I’m pretty sore,” he admitted, Namjoon’s coaxing fingers slowly brushing his lower back.
“Was I too rough?” Namjoon asked, worry on his brow, but Seokjin had no intention to wax poetic about Namjoon’s dick in comparison to most other Dicks of His Life, so he just shook his head. “There is other stuff we can do…” Namjoon noted, and by now Seokjin’s cock was semi-hard. Namjoon’s hand moved to his upper back, stroking, then tracing to his neck, fingers slowly brushing over his throat. God, Namjoon’s fingers in his mouth as they’d fucked had driven Seokjin mad, with Seokjin sucking on them like they were the length now pressing against him… And Namjoon had blown him for the second round, had looked so good with his mouth full…
But at the thought of Seokjin returning the favour, of letting Namjoon gaze down at him as he opened his mouth for Namjoon, his throat closed up.
He pulled back from their embrace. “Ah, maybe we…” he trailed off, uncertainty squeezing his heart. Their dicks said yes, but Seokjin’s overwired brain said no. Not with Namjoon. “Like, um, last night was a thing, right?”
“A thing,” Namjoon repeated, his gaze searching.
“A thing that happened.”
“Yeah, it… definitely happened,” Namjoon said and glanced down between them, as their hard-ons remained under the covers. “And is happening…?”
“Oh come on,” he objected. He recalled murmurs of ‘You’re being so good, baby…’ and wanted to fling himself into the sun, or simply on top of Namjoon.
Namjoon was studying him, intelligent eyes sharp. “Are you wishing we hadn’t?”
“Are you?” he countered, and for a second neither of them said a word, although Seokjin thought of pinning Namjoon down, swallowing Namjoon’s length down as Namjoon would, predictably, pull on his hair and murmur praise and make Seokjin all hot and bothered until Namjoon fucked his throat and released in his mouth… God, it’d always been so hot when they’d done it, but it took so much trust too, and—
He sat up swiftly, gathering covers to his lap, heat creeping up the back of his neck. “Look, we don’t have to, like, get into it.”
“You’re turning red,” Namjoon noted, also sitting up – and Seokjin glared. Asshole.
“Well, you’re sitting there on full display,” he accused, because Namjoon was, with all his muscles and abs and junk on display, the length of his cock a flushed pink like ‘Oh hello good sir, what a fine morning, care to sit on me?’ “Can you at least put some goddamn clothes on – you’re not the David you think you are.”
“And thank god for that,” Namjoon said, cupping at his crotch, and Seokjin wanted to throw something at him – a pillow? A lamp? Himself?
“What’s big here is your ego,” he said pointedly and got out of bed, unnerved as he pulled his pyjamas back on. “I get dibs on the shower.”
Once in the bathroom, he washed his face and took in his reflection: swollen lips, puffy face, unruly sex hair. “Shit,” he muttered, examining the damage – his hard-on, at least, had gone down. But, truthfully, he wasn’t surprised that he’d slept with Namjoon. He wasn’t surprised at all.
Was Namjoon on the rebound after that Ben guy – was Seokjin the rebound? How dare Namjoon! Or was Namjoon in some fucked-up way rebound for him, after Youngmoo? But it didn’t feel like that, really: you didn’t have years of history with a rebound. You didn’t have a marriage with a rebound.
He felt Namjoon still in him, erotic in a way that had made his brain melt and his heart skitter. The sex had been different from what he remembered, too, like opening the door to a world of new possibilities…
Stop it.
But it was even worse than that, this unforgiving morning after he’d slept with Namjoon.
With an exhale, he sat on the edge of the bathtub – defeated. The locket he’d hastily picked up on his way out now dangled from his grip. He gently gathered it up on his palm, studying it. Perhaps he was trying to convince himself that his Namjoon was still there somewhere, and salvageable. But that was the man he’d walked out on, wasn’t it?
He clicked open the round locket, which had once contained two grainy, cut-to-size pictures of him and his brother, just like his grandmother had kept them – but the crumbling pictures had fallen out years ago, leaving the round locket empty, with a small, circular space inside. A small bundle of navy silk fabric now occupied it, and Seokjin tipped it out onto his palm, the thin fabric unfurling – and at the sight his chest ached, and a hollow pain thrummed in his guts.
The fabric had revealed a round object: unassuming, long forgotten, like a coin of foreign currency left over from a holiday.
Namjoon had worried that it was too plain when picking it out. “Are you sure?” Namjoon had asked, nervous yet eager, looking at the displays in the pawn shop. “We can get something flashier, I have the money,” Namjoon had lied. “Babe, are you sure you like it?”
Quietly, a whole decade away, Seokjin said, “I’m sure, Namjoon-ah.”
The tap of the bathroom sink dripped.
He cleared his throat hastily, wiped at his suddenly watery eyes, and folded the silken bundle up again, clicking the locket shut like nothing had happened.
It wasn’t anyone else’s business – not even Namjoon’s, who hadn’t existed for him in so long. He missed his Namjoon, the one before all the awful fights, before all the heartache. This Namjoon was someone different, someone new – but pulling him in, nevertheless.
Past perfect – or was it just the present?
Seokjin slipped the locket back around his neck, guarding it as fiercely as he always had – yet he had no idea what timeline he was supposed to be on anymore.
* * *
Half an hour later, Seokjin was sitting at the breakfast bar with his laptop, sipping on an orange juice, with an empty plate with only crumbs from his toast left – and with the locket safely tucked under his shirt. He was shower fresh and appropriately dressed for the day, listening to the sound of water running as Namjoon showered after their reckless coupling. God, Seokjin had been so filthy about it and so obviously getting off on everything Namjoon did to him, and now he had to sit there and cling on to his pride somehow…
By the time Namjoon came to the kitchen in jeans and a t-shirt, hair wet, Seokjin was scrolling through finance reports – although he tensed up instantly. Namjoon looked uncharacteristically cautious, but a thread of intimacy lingered between them, leaving confusion and tension churning in Seokjin.
“You getting on with work?” Namjoon asked, motioning at his laptop. “On a Sunday?”
“Yeah. You know me, I just love money.” He accompanied this with an exaggerated beam.
At this, Namjoon broke into a small smile, dimples appearing, and Seokjin faltered. Was Namjoon here to talk it out? Look, they both were mature enough to know that the sex was A Thing That’d Happened, and that was that, right? Curiosity satisfied… intensified… Seokjin needed a lobotomy. A vasectomy. Castration? Dear lord.
Point the second, it wasn’t unheard of for divorcing couples to fuck. There were a lot of confusing feelings involved, and fucking offered release for them. It’d been a cleanse, really – but one that left Seokjin feeling more dirty than clean (mostly in, uh, a good way).
“There’s toast,” he offered, motioning behind himself.
Namjoon went to the sink, rummaging through a pull-out drawer while Seokjin tried to focus on his laptop screen. Namjoon slipped a pack of painkillers onto the breakfast bar with a raised eyebrow, pushing it towards him. Oh.
“Thanks,” he said, although he was unsure if the pills were for his arm or ass or, indeed, both. Namjoon nodded, eyes firmly on him, and Seokjin’s gaze focused on Namjoon’s lips, still somewhat swollen – and so inviting, all plump and pink. He blinked – focused!
“I’ll let you get on with work,” Namjoon said, voice low.
“Aren’t you going to have breakfast?”
Namjoon was always hungry after fucking – and they had fucked a whole lot. But Namjoon shook his head, and Seokjin suppressed a frown.
Namjoon moved past him to head to the study, with a hand briefly coming up to push strands of hair behind Seokjin’s ear. And before Seokjin could even process the caress, the touch was gone. Namjoon grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl while Seokjin wished he could know what Namjoon was thinking and feeling – but the distance between them was too great and confusing.
Namjoon was nearly at the door of the study when he stalled. “Hey, you wanna grab lunch in town later?” Namjoon motioned outside – then shrugged. “The weather’s nice. We should get fresh air after last night, right?”
Lunch? Them? Together?
Namjoon waited him out with a determined air.
“Sure,” he said slowly, hating that heat was creeping up his neck. But they could not fuck in public places – hence, public places were good. “Yeah, let’s get fresh air,” he agreed firmly, focusing on the laptop once more. “It’s, like, fine with me.”
“Cool,” Namjoon said – like he was oh so cool – and entered the study without another word.
Seokjin worried his bottom lip uncertainly, then popped out a few pills. Sighed. Felt the ghost of Namjoon’s quick caress on him still. Washed the pills down with orange juice. Prayed for his sanity.
One thing he knew for sure: they were now dancing around each other in a way they had never done before.
* * *
Come early afternoon they were in the only pub in Haast – a grey building along the main road that had deer antlers hanging from its ceiling beams, with a pool table in one corner and a generous assortment of greasy food on the menu. They’d both been starving – for obvious reasons – and eaten burgers and fish and chips for lunch; pleasantly filling, although Western food wasn’t cutting it for Seokjin anymore.
But this was a lesser concern, because they hadn’t shut up in a good while – it had been nothing much at first, just Seokjin spotting the antlers and telling a story of a hiking trip he’d gone on with Hoseok: their tent had been infiltrated by bugs and the moonlight had made the tree branches look like massive antlers to the point Hoseok became convinced horned creatures were about to trample them, and they’d noped the fuck out of there, calling Yoongi in a panic to come get them in the middle of the night.
“When was that?” Namjoon laughed and, to his shame, Seokjin said, “Ah, like last summer… But that’s another thing!”
After that was another, and another, as the air between them felt warm and inviting, as Namjoon’s bright, flirtatious smiles worked their magic on Seokjin – which he hated, for the record. When had Namjoon realised how hot he was? Who’d told him? This was a potential weapon of mass destruction, currently aimed at Seokjin. Unfair, so unfair!
And yet he leaned into the table, lost in Namjoon’s anecdotes of the Iranian bookshop keeper in Brooklyn who’d gotten Namjoon into Persian poetry; of the Gwangju lady who’d owned the best Korean restaurant in all of London and made the best kimchi mandu; and of the museum of modern art that Namjoon had visited every week during a summer in Munich. Namjoon had been to so many places, had seen so much…
If only Seokjin had been there: to read poetry with him, eat mandu with him, visit all the world’s museums with him – but no, he heard of it all as tales of a life Namjoon had lived without him.
But Seokjin had stories, too, which he shared eagerly: of his fishing trips with Yoongi in the summers, of his snowboarding trips in the winters, insisting that Korea was the best for whatever you wanted – why leave? “And,” he enthused, “you always get the best food in Korea. The best! Wherever you go!”
“I concede you the point,” Namjoon said softly, dimples on his cheeks, “Korean food is superior.”
“Why go elsewhere,” he insisted, endlessly warm from how Namjoon kept looking at him as they sat at the corner table, chairs close together, knees almost touching, after they’d spent the night together. The effect of that lingered like electricity, Namjoon claiming space close to him in a way that left Seokjin wistful. He loved that he could turn away and know that Namjoon’s attention was still on him, figuring him out.
Namjoon dipped a lone chip in some ketchup, shrugging. “Because how do you know that it’s superior if you never leave?”
Seokjin faltered ever so slightly but he changed the subject and was relieved when they found another topic to chatter over, catching up after so many years – or reintroducing themselves, perhaps, as Namjoon kept looking at him with interest in his eyes. Had Namjoon thought of him on all those travels? Had last night ever figured into any of Namjoon’s dreams?
Maybe the trap they’d fallen into last night wasn’t quite done. Should it be?
A few of the Taiwanese teenagers were playing at the pool table, and, after they finished, he and Namjoon got up to play – enjoying a round of beers, laughing and chatting… flirting.
“Oh, you think you’re so good?” he challenged, and Namjoon’s eyes sparkled, so endlessly attractive that Seokjin wanted to call someone with an official complaint.
They circled each other as they played – arms touching every now and then, Namjoon’s hand even brushing his lower back. Seokjin wanted to pin Namjoon down on the pool table.
Yet he admirably controlled the urge and tried to find an angle for his next shot as Namjoon said, “Yoongi called me before we left, by the way.”
Seokjin instantly froze – alert.
Namjoon gave him an innocent smile. “You’re in Thailand, he said. Thailand, huh?” Namjoon cocked his head to the side. “How is it?”
“Oh, just lovely.” He motioned around the pub. “Gigantic swimming pools.” He lifted his beer bottle. “Elaborate cocktails!” He shook his head and leaned over to take his shot – and aimed it perfectly, the orange ball slotting into the corner pocket. He straightened up and said, “Yeah, I… I told them I was going abroad. Thailand, why not? And they decided I was going to a promiscuous gay resort or something.”
Namjoon snorted. “A promiscuous gay resort? Wow. Although perhaps surprisingly not far off the mark…?” Namjoon nodded towards the barmaid who was serving two older men. “And how are the men at this resort of yours?”
“Oh, gorgeous, you know,” he said, eyeing the locals sporting strong Middle-Aged Heterosexual Farmer looks. “The men are all fabulous: wearing next to nothing, with perfect tans and eight packs. Not to even mention their buns of steel, or their dicks the size of tree trunks – and there’s fountains of lube in the foyer, too.”
Namjoon laughed, leaning against his cue, and Seokjin grinned widely. God, he’d missed the sound of Namjoon laughing: like warm sunshine, weaselling deep inside his chest.
Namjoon circled the table to find a good spot and said, “Dicks like tree trunks? I’m flattered.”
“Please, you’re a sapling at best,” he countered instantly, but Namjoon did not seem offended, giving him a flirtatious smile in response. Seokjin reeled himself in as Namjoon aimed for his next move. Stop flirting with your husband already! What is wrong with you?
But it was engaging and exciting, and Seokjin couldn’t help himself.
Before Seokjin could say anything, Namjoon said, “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not a blond anymore. That was such a lethal look, you’d be fighting them off at this resort of yours.”
“Lethal?” he repeated, because he liked compliments – and he liked them from Namjoon especially.
“Oh, absolutely. I ended up married to you because of that blond dye job of yours.” Namjoon took his shot, and the ball rolled in. Namjoon smirked.
“It wasn’t just the dye job, I hope. I mean, at least you have an excuse. Me? No such thing – you had that godawful mint buzzcut.”
Namjoon gave him a look of mock offense. “Godawful, was it?”
“So awful,” he said, with the thread between them pulling him in.
“Okay, fact one?” Namjoon said, rounding the table. “You called me your mint teddy bear, like, all the time.”
“Perhaps once,” he said, instantly flustered. His stupid, big, endearing teddy bear…
“Fact two,” Namjoon said, stopping in front of him. “You couldn’t keep your hands off me. You thought I was hot as fuck.” Namjoon raised a single eyebrow at him, and the confidence was devastating. “Let’s not pretend our marriage wasn’t sexually intense at the very least.”
“And you’re welcome. My sexual peak was spent on you.”
“I’m not so sure,” Namjoon said quietly, eyes dropping to his lips. “The stuff you’ve learned since is… pretty intoxicating.”
Namjoon’s arm came up to curl around his hip, and for a wild second Seokjin expected to be pulled into a kiss – right there in the middle of the pub. But instead Namjoon guided him to the side before taking a shot at the pool. Seokjin took in a deep breath. Right, he was cutting himself off. No more beer for him.
Namjoon straightened up, eyes deep and warm – dimples showing as he smiled, faux innocent. “Your turn.”
Seokjin took a sip of his beer, trying to focus on something other than the attraction. “Truthfully, I didn’t see why I should tell Hoseok or Yoongi about where I was going. Their wedding is coming up, so it seemed petty to make things about me right now.”
“So no one knows you’re here?” Namjoon asked, eyes on their game.
“Jungkook knows,” he said, after missing his shot and motioning for Namjoon to go ahead.
Namjoon glanced at him. “Who’s that?”
“A legal advisor, at the firm.”
“Oh.” Namjoon took his shot and missed, letting out a grunt of annoyance. Namjoon straightened up. “So, is that someone you’re…?”
“Overseeing?” he finished for Namjoon, shaking his head. “Not really, he’s in another department. It’s a funny thing, with the legal team,” he began to explain, with genuine enthusiasm but found Namjoon’s attention fixed on something behind him. Typical! But when Seokjin glanced over his shoulder, he found the girl behind the bar beaming at them – or at him, more specifically. She was significantly younger than him – early twenties?
Namjoon’s smile had faded. “Guess not everyone here knows.”
Seokjin gave a stiff nod back to the girl because he didn’t want to be rude – he was of course flattered but not interested, for a whole variety of reasons. “Knows what?” he asked as Namjoon rubbed the chalk to the tip of the cue.
Namjoon huffed, eyes still on the game. “That you’re married to me.”
Seokjin’s heart tripped and fell face first inside his chest – it was true, technically speaking, but it wasn’t true in the way it was for most other people, and it wasn’t how Namjoon meant it either. But Namjoon looked at him in a way that made the distance between them unbearable, tugging at a soft and eager warmth inside Seokjin’s chest.
They finished the game – Seokjin winning that at least, but drawing the line on more beer as he still had to drive. The day was dimming as they got into the SUV, and Seokjin clicked his seatbelt into place before reaching for the centre console to change radio stations.
Hoping to sound casual, he asked, “So are there book groupies?”
“For me?” Namjoon asked and chortled, shaking his head as Seokjin began to drive out of town. “Oh yeah. Kim author-nim, I really connected with your book, can I connect with your dick too?”
Seokjin laughed, amused by the mock seductive voice Namjoon had put on.
Namjoon gave a modest shrug, looking out the window. “Book groupies. Yeah, they’re a thing. I guess the second novel had its steamy moments. Well, you know that, of course.”
“Sure do,” he lied.
“Which one have you liked the best? Or,” Namjoon said, a sheepish look to him, “I hope you’ve liked them?”
“Aah, impossible to pick a favourite,” he said – fake it till you make it! “Although the steamy bits were good, of course.” Flirt your way out of it, Seokjin! “Bet you dabbled with those groupies, too.”
Namjoon said nothing at first, then admitted, “Yeah. Early on. Learned quickly when they kept asking how I’d write them into the next novel.”
Seokjin snorted – he’d always told Namjoon not to put him in the novels.
Namjoon looked at him from the passenger seat. “Well, have there been… investment groupies?”
Seokjin shook his head. “We call them old-fashioned gold diggers. More straightforward, don’t you think?”
Namjoon was looking at him funnily – it was oddly serious, after all their back-and-forths, perhaps brought to the surface by a few beers.
“What?” Seokjin asked.
Namjoon shook his head, then said, “I mean, you don’t have to tell me but… after you enlisted, did you… meet anyone? When you were serving?”
Seokjin was taken aback. “Are you asking me if the military is kind of gay? Really?”
Namjoon nodded, gaze fixed on the fields lining the uneven dirt track. “Yeah. Figures, right?”
“Namjoon-ah,” he said, confused – Namjoon had served before him and told him of his no-strings-attached blowjob buddy, which was good considering how goddamn long enlistment took. As for Seokjin, there had been a few helping hands/mouths over the length of enlistment, and one memorable Banged in the Shower Thank God encounter, but mostly he’d been too heartbroken to even look at other men with any real interest – and it’d felt like cheating when he had. It’d taken a good while to unlearn those thoughts – and for all he knew Namjoon was raving away in New York with a new hottie every night.
The mood between them changed in a way Seokjin couldn’t decipher. He parked outside the cabin in the late afternoon. Namjoon seemed closed off, and Seokjin wasn’t sure whether to back off or flirt some more – or get his things and head to the motel. Surely Bunty and Liz had a couch to spare?
They pushed off their shoes as they got indoors, Seokjin hanging up his coat before offering to take Namjoon’s.
“Well,” Seokjin said, pushing his hands into his front pockets, rolling on the backs of his heels. “Thanks for lunch.”
“You paid.”
“Right, yeah. Well, you’re welcome.”
It was A Thing That’d Happened – bittersweet, perhaps, that they’d had one final night together. And in between Namjoon had had his adoring fans, and Seokjin had of course had men of his own, and that was just fine. Of course it was.
Namjoon was taking him in with an air of frustration – just standing there.
Seokjin felt raw, with confused longing reverberating in him. “I did call you that. The teddy bear. Mint. Except now, well, it’d be… it’d be brown, I guess.” And perhaps the nickname suited Namjoon better than ever, after the muscle gain.
Namjoon looked awfully serious, and Seokjin didn’t know how to read him.
“Well,” he repeated, awkwardly, turning away – and Namjoon grabbed him by the arm and pulled him into a kiss: it was passionate, deep, with Namjoon wrapping Seokjin up in his arms. Oh thank god.
His mouth pressed to Namjoon’s firmly, letting out a soft moan from the contact he’d craved since that morning, fingers pushing into Namjoon’s soft hair. The press of Namjoon against him was a drug, and the kiss was needy, perhaps even longing, bridging seven years. Namjoon nudged their noses together as the kiss broke, and they caught their breaths. Well. Well, shit!
Namjoon held onto him so tightly that Seokjin never wanted to be let go.
“I need to ask you something,” Namjoon said in a serious tone, and Seokjin felt light-headed, anticipating the question: what did last night mean to you? Do you feel that pull between us, the one from years ago, and what does that mean? Doesn’t it in some fucked up way feel like we’ve never been apart?
And will there be a reckoning for this?
“Yeah?” he asked feebly.
A smirk formed on Namjoon’s lips. “You wanna be in my next book?”
“Fucking hell, does that work on anyone?” he questioned with indignant offense, and Namjoon laughed – the sound of it like home. And in that moment Seokjin wanted to destroy empires in his name.
He kissed Namjoon – pulling, tugging, submerging himself in the still-familiar warmth and comfort of Namjoon, who welcomed him with no questions asked.
They had passed the point of having enough sense to stop.
* * *
Seokjin woke up uncharacteristically late on a weekday, with sunlight permeating through the curtains. He pushed into the pillows of the warm bed, enjoying the lazy morning, and drifting back to sleep. After a few minutes, however, he stirred again – because loud whacks had begun to sound from somewhere.
He sat up sleepily, pushing a hand through his bed hair. “Namjoon-ah?” he called out through a yawn. “Namjoon-ah?”
What in the living…?
He wrapped his naked form up in Namjoon’s (Marcus’s?) navy bathrobe and padded out of the bedroom. From the kitchen, the faint smell of coffee wafted promisingly in the air, with the entire cabin full of soft morning sunshine. It was almost ten in the morning, and normally Seokjin would have been at the board of directors meeting – in a suit, with a presentation ready to go, his hair perfectly styled – but instead he… well. Last night, again. And the night before that, and the night before that, and the… Okay, look, there was a pattern.
“Namjoon-ah?” he called out again, pushing his feet into boots and following the noise outside. His breath rose in the chilly air, and he wrapped the robe around himself more tightly, body pleasantly tired from sex and too much sleep, but now stirred by the crisp air. He stopped at the top of the deck steps, bundled up.
Namjoon was by the pile of firewood at the front of the cabin – in a red lumberjack shirt, old jeans, and big boots, and wielding an axe in a way that sent utter terror into Seokjin’s heart – he was awfully awake in an instant.
Namjoon spotted him up on the deck and shielded his eyes against the morning sun. “Oh, hey! You’re up.”
Seokjin could say nothing.
“Ah, don’t worry,” Namjoon insisted, axe rising. “I’m good at this!”
“But you can’t even chop oni—”
The axe came down, splitting the log that was placed atop a large chopping block – the pieces flying and Seokjin flinching. For the love of god! Namjoon rubbed his nose to the shirt sleeve, threw the split pieces into a growing pile, and chose another large log to dismantle.
“Sleep okay?” Namjoon asked before the axe came down again, with Seokjin holding his breath. “You were knocked out when I got up.”
At this, Namjoon gave him a quick, knowing look.
“Yes, wonderful sleep, best ever. Namjoon-ah, don’t we have enough, do we need to—”
Another whack, and he flinched, breath evaporating in the air – yet birds sang in the trees, with the landscape around them beautiful, and Namjoon chopped firewood with ease. It was not a sight he’d ever expected to see, but it was not unwelcome. Was Namjoon good with his hands in the countryside? Was that a thing? Seokjin was completely bewildered.
He lingered awkwardly even when Namjoon said there was breakfast waiting, and Namjoon laughed at him, clearly enjoying his plight. “You worried about me?” Namjoon smirked.
“As if,” he said, crossing his arms – but he hovered, anxiously. What? There was hardly a hospital around here! Was he expected to piece Namjoon back together?
But Namjoon’s presence had changed in the past few days, the physical barriers between them evaporating: they had draped all over each other the night before while eating Pringles and watching a DVD from Kira’s romcom collection, about a bizarre French woman who had stolen a garden gnome, and then they had got the console working and played racing games until Seokjin had pulled Namjoon into the bedroom to fuck him. Was this the mature behaviour of men in their thirties? But Seokjin felt so young around Namjoon, so light and excited.
God, there was definitely a glow about Namjoon – something in the quiet confidence of him, now magnified. Nothing wrong with an orgasm glow, of course, especially after a few days of cabin-fevered coupling. Seokjin had shown more than once that he was at his sexual peak at thirty-three. (Everything ached.)
Namjoon still had that glow when he finally put the axe away and piled up firewood in his arms, cheeks rosy with exertion. Namjoon ascended the steps, carefully carrying the logs. “Ye of little faith,” Namjoon teased, stopped – and then reached over to kiss him, firewood precariously balanced in his arms, and Seokjin met him halfway in the ‘good morning’ kiss: a soft tell-tale of the night before.
The kiss was gone in the next second, but it left Seokjin ever so breathless.
Namjoon kicked off his unlaced boots with, “There’s coffee. Made it stronger like you asked.”
“Sure. Let me just freshen up.”
Over breakfast Namjoon explained how he’d woken up around six, completely energised, and had gone to the study to rework a difficult chapter that he’d finally figured out, thus bringing the novel one step closer to completion. Seokjin recalled Namjoon’s good moods when writing was going well.
“Perhaps I needed some inspiration,” Namjoon said, sat next to him on the bar stool, their shoulders pressed together.
Had they properly talked about the fact that, after a seven-year break, they’d started sleeping together again, right after they had agreed to divorce? No, they had not. Seokjin knew he had to bring it up eventually – he was older, he should handle this maturely – but there was a care-free lightness in not talking about it.
Namjoon gave him another kiss as they wrapped up breakfast: lithe but precise. Seokjin welcomed it, feeling the kiss roll in warm waves through him, his hand gently pressing to Namjoon’s chest – almost letting his fist curl around the fabric of the shirt to pull Namjoon in. Namjoon sealed the kiss with a smaller one, and Seokjin smiled into it with, “Don’t kiss me like that.”
“Like what?” Namjoon asked, lips pillowy and soft, planting further gentle, coffee-flavoured kisses on his lips.
“You know,” he said, pulling Namjoon closer for another kiss: lips and noses squashed together, but the connection was one of ease and comfort. Namjoon kissed him like he was the centre of the universe, like Namjoon wanted to be nowhere else, and like kissing Seokjin was the singular most meaningful act he could do. He shivered.
“What if,” Namjoon said quietly, with another lingering kiss to his mouth, “I keep kissing you like this anyway?”
“Then I’m gonna have to call management,” he said, and Namjoon laughed, the sound of it bubbly.
When they pulled back for air, Namjoon left light kisses to his jaw, kissing to his ear. “As if you can talk, when you kiss me like you want me to take you back to bed.”
Namjoon caught his lips, and Seokjin parted his mouth, tongue meeting Namjoon’s – his toes curling from how good it was, Namjoon’s words dancing across his skin and sending nervous excitement to his heart.
And so here he was, on a weekday morning, smooching Namjoon in the kitchen like he had nothing else to do. He broke the kiss softly, nudging his nose against Namjoon’s. “Go write, will you?”
Namjoon smiled, standing up. “Yeah, yeah… And you go, er, supervise… money?”
“Sort of,” he granted, and Namjoon gave him another warm smile. “Oh wait, you’ve got–” He motioned for Namjoon to lower his head, so Namjoon did – and he reached up, removing a small splinter of wood from his hair, holding it between his thumb and forefinger as proof of Namjoon’s reckless lumberjack efforts. He smoothed over Namjoon’s hair, humming in approval. “Okay, you’re good.”
Namjoon had a frustratingly knowing look in his eyes. What?
Namjoon added, “You’re cute, you know.”
Hardly! He was intimidating and professional!
But as Namjoon headed to the study and Seokjin poured himself another cup of coffee, he caught himself with a wide smile on his lips. What was it? Joy? Infatuation? He exhaled shakily, drummed his fingers against the porcelain of the coffee cup. Lo—
The sound of You Are My Sunshine cut through the air – Hoseok. Thank god!
Seokjin grabbed his phone from the counter with, “Hey, give me a minute.”
He hastened to the door, pushed his feet into Namjoon’s boots and quickly grabbed a coat. “How’s my dongsaeng, then?” he fussed, stepping outside and heading to the end of the deck where a wicker chair stood facing the view: mountain ranges in the distance, gentle clouds in the sky. He sat down, with Hoseok chattering pleasantly about his week and what Yoongi had cooked for them the night before – and Seokjin made appreciative noises as his breath rose in the fresh air, inhaling the beige fur-lined coat that smelled of Namjoon’s cologne.
The sensation of being caught red-handed strengthened – and he must have missed a question, because Hoseok said, “Hyung? Are you listening?”
“What? Yeah. Yeah, of course. Sorry, I just woke up.”
“Aish, I forgot about the time difference! It must be super early over there.”
But, truthfully, he was hours ahead of Seoul, not behind. Yet Hoseok was the worst liar he had ever met and would tell Yoongi in a heartbeat if Seokjin told him the truth, and then they’d have Yoongi calling to see what the hell was this he’d heard of Seokjin and Namjoon together! At a cabin! Together! In New Zealand! Together!
Hoseok would probably, however, have given him some sympathy: Hoseok knew Seokjin’s history with Namjoon, had been there at the very start and, indeed, at the end when Seokjin had moved out of the Doksan-dong studio, heartbroken and lost – mere weeks before he’d enlisted. Hoseok, perhaps, would have been kind to him.
He shivered in the cold and said, “Ah, yes, it’s really warm here. Amazing weather. I’m sweating through my shirt – god, Thailand is gorgeous.” He closed his eyes, not wishing to see the New Zealand mountain ranges. “But, uh, it’s been an… an unexpected rollercoaster too?”
“Really? Is something wrong?” Hoseok asked instantly, while in the background Jimin was loudly yelling to pass on his regards. Hoseok laughed and explained: it was a gorgeous summer day in Seoul, and they were out for a picnic – Yoongi would soon be arriving with some fried chicken, and Jimin had just gotten there. Whereas Seokjin was on the West Coast, wrapped up in Namjoon’s coat – and even as he sat outside he wanted to go back in, find Namjoon, cuddle, hug, sniff. Oh this was bad…
“Nothing’s wrong,” he lied, noticing a birdhouse on one of the nearby trees with a green bird peeking out from it. “Aish, nothing’s wrong. It’s lovely here, really… but I guess, uh. There’s someone I’ve met?”
“You have? Hyung, tell me all! No, no, let me guess – tall, rich, handsome?”
“I mean… you’re not wrong. He is… all of those things.” And dreamy and smart and witty, making every date Seokjin had been on in the last five years seem like a joke. “But it’s kind of, um, complicated too. Like, uh… temporary.”
“Ah, a holiday fling, I got it. Mm, tricky – is it just some fun or potentially more, right? Well, is he local?”
“No, he lives elsewhere.”
Who even knew where Namjoon would go after Haast? Hong Kong? Luanda? Quito? But there was no way to say ‘I’m in New Zealand with Namjoon, and we’ve been sleeping together like fools – and, by the way, we’re divorcing because we’re sort of married, and now I don’t know what I feel for him, and I don’t know what he feels either.’
Hoseok asked when Seokjin was due back – and he said he was flexible, not mentioning that he didn’t know because he was trapped.
“Well, you have more time to spend with him, then,” Hoseok said, “and then you’ll know more about how deep that connection runs for you both.”
“I guess,” he said. How deep was that connection when revitalised after all this time? And was he considering this as something potentially more than a cabin fuckfest? He rubbed at his face, trying not to think of how warm and fuzzy Namjoon made him feel. “Hey, random question – would you ever sleep with an ex?”
Hoseok giggled at the end of the line. “Me?”
Stupid fucking question: Hoseok had been with Yoongi for nearly eight years. But Seokjin persisted – yes, would Hoseok?
“Say it was Yoongi, and you guys broke up back then but now he… he, uh, starts work at the dance studio with you and Jimin. And you have the spark, even if things were kinda messy last time.”
“Aah, hyung,” Hoseok said shyly, but with a clear smile to his voice. “I absolutely would. Aish, how do I say it? Yoongi can– He has skills, and we… Uh huh, yeah, I’d want to revisit that if I’d been living without it. What’d be so bad about that?”
But perhaps such things were of little consequence for Hoseok, whereas Seokjin always worried about consequences. What was it that his father always said? “Life isn’t an amusement park” – yes, that was it. Life wasn’t for fooling around: it had to have structure, a purpose, supported by making the right decisions, carrying yourself with dignity, pride. Life wasn’t for epicurean hedonism like this.
“Why do you ask?” Hoseok prompted. “Are you thinking of Youngmoo?”
“Wait, who?” he said, trying to focus. “Ah, him… Yeah, sure.”
Hoseok clearly had no notion of an alternative version of life where Yoongi had broken his heart. How did you go back to someone after that? After Youngmoos and Ben-Graemes and novels and car crashes and promotions and international moves and literal thousands of days spent apart, living unconnected lives? Because they were not kids with their whole lives ahead of them, but older, tied down, with their individual responsibilities and separate lives. And this little slice of countryside fucking? It had nothing to do with the real world. Seokjin knew that deep down, but god Namjoon’s smiles nearly convinced him otherwise.
So when he took a moment to think rationally, he knew this could never be this simple: get stuck in Haast with his ex, fall madly in love again, ride off into the sunset. Because the years he had spent avoiding Namjoon had been Seokjin moving on – evolving, improving, even as he now listened to the sudden echo of Bach from the cabin with an ache in his heart. Out of habit, he reached for the chain of his locket, thumbing it, breathing through the onslaught of emotions.
What if he told Namjoon he felt something for him again, after all this time, only for Namjoon to frown and say he did not feel the same?
Seokjin sighed. “I guess the real problem is that I always go for the wrong people.”
“Virgos?”
“Yes, precisely,” he said with relief – this was why Hoseok was his best friend. “Doomed from the start, right? Too… complicated. Aish, maybe I should just give up on all this messy romance nonsense. Who needs love and work?”
“Hyung,” Hoseok said, carefully and slowly. “We all need love.”
But Seokjin had gotten this far in life without substantial amounts of love: it was sporadic, not a constant. Maybe he just needed a fuck buddy – leave love out of it as too difficult. Leave Namjoon out of it as too emotionally fraught. His parents had never expected grandkids of Seokjin, but then the legislation had changed. “Seokjin-ah,” his mother had recently said, “I understand if you don’t want a husband, but at least have a child. There are clinics, aren’t there? Have a child, for your old age. And then keep a lover, you know, for the other business.” She’d let out a dramatic sigh. “That’s what I should have done…”
Mother! Please! But his mother had always been straight-talking to a fault.
Namjoon was a bad fit for such advice: not a man Seokjin could limit simply to ‘the other business’, when Namjoon had been so all-consuming since the day they’d met.
“How about you talk to your holiday mystery man,” Hoseok advised. “Just be like, hey, I’ve been having an amazing time with you, where do you maybe see this going? Like casually, you know, but putting it out there.” A voice said something in the background. “Ah, good point, Jimin-ah. Communicate how you feel! Good communication, that’s the true test. And you’re funny and successful, hyung, you’re so smart and handsome! Honestly, I’d be shocked if he weren’t falling for you already.”
But asking Namjoon – his husband! – how he felt about Seokjin was, perhaps, a new low that Seokjin was not willing to put himself through.
He gave up and wished Hoseok, Yoongi, and Jimin a lovely time, not perhaps having gained perspective, but still feeling a little lighter. His fingers were cold as he stood up and stretched – he closed his eyes and listened to the echo of Bach, mixing with birdsong.
He felt something.
God fucking shit fuck shit, he felt something – for Kim Namjoon, still, even now. It was exciting, seductive, and new, and it left him rather giddy. Shit shit shit…!
But Seokjin would not probe. He would not ask. He could, he supposed, let it evolve on its own. Perhaps he’d wake up tomorrow and be cured? Find Namjoon’s darling face suddenly annoying and ugly? (Unlikely. He was so pretty… Shit!)
But fine, he would let a week or so more of co-habitation guide them, let their time together speak for itself. Maybe that way they could both get their heads around this.
* * *
That afternoon they headed into the township to buy some groceries, and at the mini-mart at the petrol station they picked up bread and juice. The older woman behind the counter greeted them warmly, in her uniform and with her grey hair tied up in a neat bun – Susan, her name tag said. Seokjin recognised her from before.
“Have you boys been enjoying yourselves?” she asked, scanning the Coco Pops for them, and Namjoon said something of the sunny winter weather being a treat. Susan smiled, pleased, then fixed sharp eyes on Seokjin. “And you are a banker? In Seoul?”
It was not accurate, but he nodded anyway.
“Ah, isn’t that lovely,” she said, eyes bright, tilting her head. “Just lovely. A banker! But it must be hard being so far away from each other. You must be newlyweds?”
What made her say that?
“No,” Seokjin said, waiting for Namjoon to jump in, but Namjoon just had a sly smile on his lips.
How had Seokjin’s arrival been mythicised, with him staying at the motel at first and being desperate to leave? A lover’s quarrel that only needed a small rockslide to be fixed? Now he’d been spotted everywhere with Namjoon – smiling, laughing…
“Well, it’s nice you boys have had this extra time together,” Susan said encouragingly.
…because of a rockslide, Susan! He physically could not leave.
“We’ve tried to make the best of it,” Namjoon said diplomatically, and Seokjin wanted to scoff but held back.
Newlyweds? As if! Ten years, Susan!
In Korean, Namjoon said to him, “We need anything else?”
He shook his head, his debit card at the ready. Susan said, “That’ll come to—”
“Oh,” Namjoon said, pointing behind the counter, his other hand coming to rest on the small of Seokjin’s back. “Susan, could we get a pack of Durex? Those on the mid-shelf there?”
In that instant, Seokjin longed for death.
It took a nanosecond for Susan to put on a professional face. “Of course, sweetheart,” she said – which made it worse.
Namjoon said to Seokjin, “Should we get two packs?” Smiling at Susan, Namjoon added, “Make it two packs, actually? Save us coming back, you know.”
Susan grabbed two packs of the “thin feel intense pleasure” condoms and scanned them before giving them their total. Seokjin punched in his pin with his eyes firmly fixed to the floor, ears aflame, while Namjoon in his eco-friendly state slipped the purchases into a tote bag advertising an arts festival in Berlin.
“Thankyoubye!” Seokjin said with a hasty bow and headed to the door, with Namjoon so close on his heels that they bumped together, Namjoon laughing and getting the door for him, palm once more brushing the small of Seokjin’s back in a gesture that made Seokjin feel wanted and claimed. For the love of god…! And now Susan was smirking too. The filthy wench!
The second they stepped outside, Seokjin said, “Yah, do you live to embarrass me? What is wrong with you? I go in to buy some cereal. Cereal! And you have only one thing on your mind!”
No doubt all the locals would be delighted that the Korean husbands were having a great time back at the cabin.
Namjoon, the bastard, just laughed as they opened the SUV doors. “Come on, what’s the big deal? Let people be envious if they want…”
“She’ll tell the entire town, Joon-ah!” Seokjin paused, shocked. “You’re getting off on this, aren’t you? You sick, twisted fuck!”
They got into the car, Seokjin clicking in his seat belt. “I leave you for seven years and you’re out of control, this is what happens when I’m not supervising you, why am I surprised… Seven years, well I won’t make that mistake again,” he muttered to himself angrily.
Namjoon eyed him with mirth and warmth. What was that sensation? Ah, right: Seokjin felt something for Namjoon, even when Namjoon was being a little shit.
Two packs? Maybe Seokjin should drive home quickly…
They were barely out of town and still arguing when Bunty’s red jeep crossed their path, and Seokjin slowed down when Bunty rolled his window down, giving them a wave. They stopped next to each other, speaking through the open windows. Bunty was beaming at them. “You boys heard?”
“What?” Seokjin asked, praying the answer wasn’t ‘Susan ran out of condoms because of you two.’
“The roads are reopening on Saturday morning.”
Seokjin blinked, translating in his head, and almost shouted, “Really?”
A sudden and overpowering rush of relief ran through him. Saturday was three days away. Finally! At last!
“That’s what they told me this morning,” Bunty bragged. “Sooner than we thought, right?”
“Yes,” he said excitedly. Only three more days. That was amazing! “This is very good news!”
Three more days! Only! Only three… Only. Only?
That was no time at all.
Next to him, Namjoon remained silent.
“Thank you,” Seokjin said politely, swallowing it down.
“Make the most of it, eh?” Bunty told them and departed with a friendly wave, and Seokjin pressed the side console controls to roll the window back up.
Three days. Then fly out to Seoul, be back home Sunday evening… Come Monday morning he’d be back in the office in Gangnam, filing their divorce papers.
Three days.
“Well,” Namjoon said, into the silence filling the car. “That’s good news.”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course it… Of course it is.” Why was he frowning? “I mean, I’ve been here long enough, right? Getting in your way,” he said, but found himself unable to smile.
What were they doing?
“Hopefully that’s bigger news than our condom purchases,” he joked as he pushed the gear back into drive. “And two packs, too. Optimistic much?”
He made sure his tone was light and teasing as he kept driving – because it had all been light so far, free of consequences, and maybe he could keep that going for a few hours more.
“Well,” Namjoon said, looking out the window. “Who said they’re for us, anyway?”
“True,” he said and focused on driving, wishing there was something to make note of on the road.
The sudden countdown clock loomed over them, signalling what they should have known already: that it was over.
How easy it was, in the end, for their bubble to burst.
* * *
Three days turned into two. For their own sake, they should stop now with sleeping in the same bed and all that it entailed. Yet they did not stop: Seokjin got on with whatever work he could manage, while Namjoon edited his book, worked out, read books. Come Thursday morning they had perhaps stopped talking as much, both busying themselves.
Seokjin went for a drive along the coast that afternoon, alone, as Namjoon cited a work deadline. When he returned, Namjoon was reading in the armchair with glasses low on his nose, turning pages quietly. Namjoon had gotten the fire going, and he looked peaceful there. What if in another life they had never parted, and Seokjin would be working remotely while his husband of ten years – the unquestioned love of his life – was finalising his new novel? What if he could go over and hug Namjoon as tightly as he wanted to, with no bad blood between them?
Frivolous to want such things.
On his drive Seokjin had hoped that he’d forget about these views quickly – that would be for the best. Once back in Seoul he would bury himself in work, go back to sixty-hour weeks, too tired to feel the ember burning in his heart until time thankfully smothered it.
He pulled himself together. “You want steak for dinner? With pasta?” he offered.
Namjoon looked to him and nodded.
Perhaps it was the shadows from the fire, but Namjoon looked older. There were moments, sometimes, when you saw what a person would look like in their old age: the way wrinkles would overtake their face, the way grey hair would push through, and how youth ebbed but experience overtook it. A contentment: I have lived a life. I have lived.
Seokjin saw it on Namjoon in that moment – the past that Namjoon had lived without him and the future that Namjoon would live without him, too. The time they had spent together would remain secret and would, eventually, be lost to time itself.
Seokjin swallowed it down and started cooking, getting out some olive oil, garlic, salt, helping himself to wine. He should talk to Namjoon about this – or maybe Namjoon was waiting for him to get the hell out of there already? That morning, in bed, Namjoon had been fast asleep against him, head resting on Seokjin’s bare chest – and he’d carded through Namjoon’s hair slowly, so slowly, wishing no bad thing to ever come Namjoon’s way. Was he a bad thing?
Namjoon read the book as the flames crackled, and Seokjin said, “There were some dark clouds coming our way. Hopefully not another storm.”
Namjoon hummed but didn’t look up.
Seokjin chewed his bottom lip. “You okay? Namjoon-ah?”
Namjoon looked up from his book. “Yeah. Sorry, the book’s just at a good spot.”
“Oh, sure,” he said and focused on annihilating the garlic. He was struck with nostalgia and longing, and Namjoon wasn’t. Namjoon had been able to say “spread those legs for me like a good slut” the night before, but now had nothing to say. What else did Seokjin need to know?
He drank more of the pinot noir, relishing the sour flavour, and he soon had his hands rubbing the marinade into the meat rather aggressively. “Hey, could you bring me my laptop? There’s a recipe I want to check.” He nodded at the padded laptop sleeve on the coffee table, and Namjoon slowly put his book down and picked up the sleeve, bringing it over. “Get it out for me?” he asked, hands covered in olive oil.
Namjoon did, slipping the laptop out – papers coming out with it.
“Ah, I’ll need my fingerprint, hang on,” Seokjin said, heading to the sink to wash his hands. He dried them onto a kitchen towel that had London landmarks on it, while Namjoon had gone back to his armchair, now examining the papers that had slipped out. Seokjin got his laptop going before he realised what the papers were: their divorce papers, signed on the night he got there. Namjoon’s jaw was set tight as he read the first page, then flipped onto the next.
“Uh,” Seokjin said awkwardly. “You can just, uh. Put those back?”
Namjoon nodded but kept reading – what was there to read? Seokjin checked the recipe he’d been after, putting clingfilm over the bowl to leave the meat to marinate.
“This,” Namjoon said firmly, when Seokjin closed the fridge door. “I’ve been wondering about this.”
Namjoon placed the paperwork on the coffee table. Seokjin approached cautiously and sat down on the couch before peering at what Namjoon was pointing at: date of separation, fourth of August 2016.
“What of it? That’s, um, when you left for New York, right?”
“Exactly,” Namjoon said, his book now forgotten on the coffee table. “Why that date? That’s my question.”
For a few beats, Seokjin was stumped. It was the date of Namjoon leaving Korea altogether, never to return. That seemed like a fair date, didn’t it?
“So. Wait. Do you want to change the date?” he asked, confused.
“There are other dates. The sixth of July, when you moved out?”
When Namjoon had gone to Ilsan to stay with his parents, for them to cool off: and Seokjin had packed what little he had and left…
Something heavy settled in Seokjin’s stomach. Shit…
“Ah, all this…” he said, motioning at the paperwork. “What does it really matter? It could be any date, right?”
A day and a half more and the roads would open, and he had no desire to draft new divorce papers to appease Namjoon, and he didn’t want to think of what had happened seven years earlier either.
“It matters,” Namjoon said slowly, face darker in the glow of the fire, “because I don’t agree that we separated when I left for New York, and I don’t agree that you drafted divorce papers that state that.”
“But it’s just a fact,” he said objectively, his years of contract negotiations keeping him calm. “You wanted to go to New York – so you went to New York. That’s all it says.” And why should it be the date he moved out? Why not the date Namjoon had cheated on him, right before he enlisted? But he was gracious. “It really doesn’t matter,” he said firmly, suppressing the memories that hurt too much.
But Namjoon nodded – scoffed and nodded. “Well, if any date will do, then I guess you still think our marriage is a joke. Just like you always did.”
With that, Namjoon stood up.
Seokjin stared at him in complete surprise. “I never said that! Joon-ah, what on earth…?”
He blinked, trying to organise his thoughts. He had moments when he could immerse himself in this: in Namjoon and whatever was now between them, like stepping underneath a waterfall, but only seconds later he had to step out, drenched and shivering.
“I had to pick a date – yes, I could’ve picked another one, but you moving abroad came to me first. It could have been me enlisting or… or any of those other things, too.”
“Insult to injury,” Namjoon said – petty, immature. “Especially when I had asked you to come to New York with me so many times.”
Seokjin shook his head, exasperated. “And what would I have done in New York? Unemployed in a country where I didn’t speak the language, doing what?”
New York had been a pipedream then and was one in hindsight too.
“You’d have been with me,” Namjoon said with a hint of desperation that felt like whiplash – Seokjin hadn’t heard it in seven years. Namjoon kept his gaze on the logs in the fire. “I wanted you to come with me.”
“And I didn’t want to leave Seoul. I kept telling you that.”
“But it was only for a year,” Namjoon said, but hadn’t Namjoon’s one year turned into seven, just like Seokjin had always feared? And here they were, repeating a fight they’d had so many times that final summer, in their small studio that turned from a haven to a battlefield. “But what your dad thought mattered more than what I did, right?” Namjoon said bitterly, shaking his head. “So you gave up – you walked away. And, after all these years, I think our divorce papers should show that.”
With that, Namjoon walked to the liquor cabinet in the corner, helping himself to Kira’s extensive whisky collection. Seokjin was stunned. What the hell had he done to deserve this attack? Out of nowhere! After days and days and days!
Namjoon turned back to him with a dram in a whisky glass, the amber liquid moving. “You never thought our marriage was real. It was just some edgy thing you’d done on holiday as a fuck you to your dad – and that’s all.” With that, Namjoon took a sip.
Seokjin reeled. “What the fuck? That’s not true.” An ill sense of foreboding filled his chest. “How dare you say that?”
“Because it is true,” Namjoon shrugged, the words cutting deep into Seokjin. “I spent nearly three years trying to convince myself that it was real for you too – but it wasn’t, and you accepted a job with them, and you were never going to even tell them we were married.”
Seokjin knew this fight – he knew this fight well. He got up, stood his ground. “They wouldn’t have understood it. They were traditional people then, still are now, and they would have laughed—”
“So you let them think we wore couple rings, like some cutesy little—”
“But we knew what they were. That’s what mattered to me.”
“That’s bullshit. God, that’s such fucking bullshit. You don’t keep a husband secret! What the fuck made you think that was okay? And the– the fact that I went along with it? That I tolerated you treating me like that? God, just shows how stupidly in love with you I was, how I was so helplessly— You chewed me up and you spat me out, and I was so stupid and naïve that I let you. And fuck, I’ve been so angry at myself for it for years.” Namjoon swallowed tightly, squeezing the glass. “The entire time you were ashamed of me.”
Seokjin was relatively sure that his jaw dropped. “Ashamed? What are you talking about? I didn’t speak to my parents for a goddamn year because they weren’t treating you right! I wasn’t ashamed, I was protecting you – us, from them. They’d have been the ones saying it wasn’t real, that it wasn’t legally binding – I didn’t want that for us. And all our friends knew, your family knew – I was so proud to have a husband like you! I was never ashamed of you. How dare you say that!”
“You accepted the job at the firm. And you never told them.” Namjoon threw back some of the whisky, made a face showing it burned down his throat. Shook his head again. “How’s that protecting us?”
Seokjin felt exhausted: and this exhaustion was at least ten years old, one that had started with youthful defiance but then had just worn down over the years. “We were broke, Namjoon-ah… I was tired, I… I figured the job would help us out, even if…”
Namjoon eyed his drink. “But I told you that I’d sell my book. I told you, over and over again, that I’d support us, support you. We just had to hang on a little longer, just a little longer… But you stopped believing in me.”
Seokjin stepped back and took Namjoon in: the most beloved author in the country, just like he deserved. And beneath the brown hair, the muscle and the confidence was that klutz of a youth with endless talent and mint hair, vowing that he’d make it, even when that mantra had become a broken record for Seokjin – and now: you stopped believing in me.
He exhaled, with pain in his heart. “Yeah.” He pressed a hand to his temple to fight off the headache. “Yeah, I did.”
He admitted to it at last. At that, Namjoon nodded, suspicions and accusations confirmed, and he walked over to the sliding doors, looking out into the darkened night – hurt and upset.
“And you haven’t read my books, have you? And don’t lie this time,” Namjoon said, voice barely a whisper. “You’re not very good at it.”
Namjoon’s books… Fictional worlds and people, perhaps, with intricate plots for imaginary lives, and yet beneath those layers were the thoughts Namjoon was having, the topics that intrigued him, the conundrums he pondered over. Little bits of Namjoon’s soul on each page, and—
“No,” he admitted, watching the tension in Namjoon’s shoulders. “No, I haven’t read them. I’ve often thought of it, whenever I see one… but no. Why would I do that to myself? I was trying to move on.”
“So I finally made it and you still couldn’t be supportive.”
“That’s a fucking unfair take on it,” he objected, unsure how to even verbalise that for years just seeing Namjoon’s name had hurt.
Namjoon seemed lost in thought, back turned to him – but he was reflected in the glass, staring down at his feet and rubbing at his mouth. “Fuck, that makes me feel so stupid. I always… This part. You know? This interaction here, in this chapter. Seokjin will laugh at this part. And this line – Seokjin will love this line. I always thought like that… And you never even read them.”
He felt tarnished – shamed and humiliated – even as the thought of Namjoon hoping he’d read the books surprised him. Every book, to Seokjin, had been a further testament to Namjoon having moved on, living a glamorous literary life without him. Every new book was a ‘I’ve forgotten about you and I’ve forgotten about us’, and Seokjin had hurt.
Seokjin understood it, then: that there was nothing left to save and nothing the two of them could rebuild. It was too late – always had been. And yet they’d been unable to resist each other when thrown together, like fools.
Now Namjoon’s words were so full of mistrust and anger that all Seokjin could do was say, “Like you were so perfect yourself.”
Namjoon looked over his shoulder at him.
“What? You’re willing to shit all over me but not acknowledge that?”
Namjoon was already nodding like he agreed, which only infuriated Seokjin more. “If you want to get into it, then we can,” Namjoon said slowly, turning to face him with a pained expression. Like this was a courtesy Namjoon was granting! “I owe you a good apology for it, one I never gave you.” Namjoon paused, looked thoughtful. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
“Cheated on me,” Seokjin corrected swiftly. “Maybe if you admitted to it, I could accept the goddamn apology.”
Namjoon looked exasperated. “You’d moved out, Seokjin-ah. You were staying with Hoseok.”
“But that didn’t mean you could fuck all of Seoul,” he snarled: and this, too, was a fight previously fought.
“For the thousandth time, I didn’t fuck him!”
“Ah, of course! How could I forget: it was just a blowjob! I remember: technically not sex,” he spat furiously and looked around to address an invisible audience in the flicker of the fire, shouting like they had years ago. “Who knew? Oral just doesn’t count! It’s like shaking hands, apparently! What, were you testing his temperature with your dick?”
“Would you let me off the hook for one stupid thing I said seven years ago? Of course it was sex – fine, I admit it! At a party, and I was drunk, and it was fucking awful!” Namjoon scrubbed at his mouth. “I fucked up. I know that. Trust me, I know that. But you just used it as an excuse to walk away from all our shit.”
“Because you’d cheated.”
“How the fuck was it cheating? How? You weren’t even taking my calls! For fuck’s sake, you’d stopped wearing the wedding ring. God knows where you’d left it, you probably threw it into Han River. You didn’t give a shit anymore!”
At this, Seokjin stepped back – the words landing on him like a physical blow. “That’s not true,” he said, hand coming up to press the locket against his chest protectively. “That’s not… I never—”
“It is. It fucking is.” Namjoon scoffed, jaw clenched. “You know I wore mine for a whole six months after I landed in New York? Kept telling people my husband was serving in the army, so that’s why I was alone?”
Seokjin wanted him to stop talking now. Stop talking, stop all of it.
“One morning I woke up and… I didn’t know why I was wearing it anymore. And I cried. Fuck, I cried like a baby. It was the lowest I’ve ever been.” Namjoon shook his head. “But you threw yours away before I ever left for New York, before I went to a party and got so drunk that I… So those papers? Those papers you drafted? They’re a fucking lie, Seokjin, because it’s not all on me. Our break-up? Separation? It is not all on me.”
Namjoon drew in a breath, eyes flashing. “And I was honest about it, wasn’t I? When you finally called me, I told you what’d happened, and you said I’d fucked up our marriage and betrayed your trust, which was news to me because I thought you’d dumped me already. But no, you blamed me. All on me, when… when all I saw was you having given up on us already. When all I knew or, or thought I knew was that… you didn’t love me anymore.”
“That… That isn’t true,” he said quietly, the thought horrifying. He had loved Namjoon so much that it had eaten him up alive.
“No? Well, maybe it happened later. Either way, how could I have known? You’d stopped showing it.” Namjoon huffed, lips twisting into a humourless smile. “And then you enlisted, to– to punish me, I guess? Right? You wanted to punish me.”
To this, Seokjin had no comeback – and, at his silence, Namjoon seemed to deflate, shoulders dropping. “And then I left – then we stopped talking.”
Namjoon slowly returned to the armchair and sat down, as if weighed down by the memories. And though these were fights they’d fought before, they lacked spirit – the punch, the furious shouting until their throats were hoarse, the slamming of the doors, the tears, the hysterics, the passionate kisses. They were beyond that now: too old, too self-aware, too tired.
“It took me years to see it,” Namjoon said quietly, glancing at him. “But eventually I did: that you wanted me to do something like that, like what I did at the party. To give you an out, you know?” Namjoon shook his head slowly, hand squeezing the glass. Voice quiet. “And sometimes I think that’s why I did it, too – to put us both out of our misery.”
The words sunk into the core of Seokjin, sharp and so painful that it nearly numbed him.
Startled, he sat back down on the couch. “I…” he began, fighting to find his voice. “…I think you’re right.” He admitted it to them both for the first time, in that moment. “You’re right. I… I needed a way out.” He blinked, the horror of the admission permeating. “An excuse to end it for good.”
“And?” Namjoon asked, in a tone void of hope. “Did it work? Did I put us out of our misery?”
At this, he broke into a small smile and shook his head. “No, Namjoon-ah. No, it didn’t work.”
They looked at each other quietly: and nothing was left.
V
When Namjoon said he’d sleep on the couch that night, Seokjin did not protest: neither of them wanted proximity any longer. It was over, then, that irresponsible tumble of bliss that they’d indulged in. They both went to bed without a goodnight.
When Seokjin jolted awake, a soft patter of rain sounded against the cabin roof. He blinked in the dark, orientating himself in the early hours of the day. Returning to him unbidden, their blow-out re-played itself in his mind: mistakes that neither of them could change, endless litanies of ‘but you did this, no you did that, but you did it first, no I did it first…’
They had made the right decision back then to walk away from those fights.
He lay in Namjoon’s bed, alone. It was cold without Namjoon’s warmth, and even the large sweatshirt he’d pulled on couldn’t replace the embrace he’d already gotten used to.
The cruellest part of it was that they could never redo it: go back, be better. Sketch out another life for themselves. That seemed unfair when he knew so much more now – yet life was unrelenting, only moving forwards. You only got one shot at life – how could that be reasonable? How could it be acceptable that you couldn’t go back after learning from mistakes? ‘I was only rehearsing’, he’d say, ‘I’ll do it better this time. I was only practising how to love you, Namjoon-ah – let me get it right this time.’
And what if he hadn’t moved out of their studio back then? What if he’d said ‘okay – it scares me to death, but okay, take me to New York with you’? Or what if he’d shown up at that party before Namjoon had left for New York, finding his husband drunk and sad with a leering dickhead nearby just waiting to pounce, and Seokjin would have stepped in between them, pulled Namjoon into his arms with, ‘Babe, you’ve had enough. That’s it, come on now – let’s go home’? And Namjoon would have fallen into his embrace, where he still had belonged? Those were such simple solutions now.
And yet, like a puff of smoke, all those other versions of life evaporated, and this was what was left: them in separate rooms, unable to forgive.
He reached for his phone – a little after five in the morning – and he lay back down, pulling the covers more tightly around his shoulders.
But as he was about to drift off again, a flash of lightning crossed his vision, thunder echoing. He blinked in the dark – the shapes of the wooden ceiling beams created distorted shadows above him. A rumble brewed outside. Another storm?
Heavier rain began to drum against the roof. Would there be another rockslide, perhaps? And why did he almost wish for one?
More thunder – and he got up, certainty pulsing in him.
Light from the living room shone from under the bedroom door.
He hesitated, even as his bare feet carefully crossed the heated-up floor. His bare legs were cold as he stepped into the living room, the grey sweatshirt covering him to upper thigh. The embers of the fire had faded, but a lamp was on. Namjoon’s duvet was on the couch – but no Namjoon was in the room. “Namjoon-ah?” he called out, even as he headed to the study.
As he’d anticipated, Namjoon was behind the large writing desk in the glow of his laptop and the ceiling lights. Namjoon was in his pyjamas, with messy bed hair and black-rimmed glasses. Seokjin paused in the doorway, momentarily self-conscious of his half-dressed state, although Namjoon had seen much more as of late. Namjoon’s gaze travelled down his legs, then up again, and Namjoon adjusted his glasses nervously – boyish in the early morning hours.
“Couldn’t sleep?” Seokjin offered cautiously.
“Yeah,” Namjoon said, with a quick glance towards the window.
See, Seoul got some spectacular thunderstorms – Seokjin had always liked them, and even as a kid he’d pressed his face against the window and whooped at each loud crash and bang. He had stopped liking them, however, when he’d curled around Namjoon and talked to him about whatever silly thing he could think of, with Namjoon nervously picking on the corner of the duvet, apologising that it was silly and irrational, yet letting out mild sounds of distress whenever thunder roared, and Seokjin said that of course it wasn’t silly.
Did anyone grow out of that?
“Yeah, I couldn’t sleep either,” Seokjin said, and it wasn’t a lie as such. He motioned over his shoulder. “Um, you want a cup of chamomile tea or something? Or, if we’re done tearing into each other, we could watch a movie?”
It was a bad joke and he accompanied it with a sheepish smile – the offer was sincere, however.
Namjoon looked at his laptop, then to him again – and straightened up in his chair, just as a flash of lightning came, unfiltered and bright even through the curtains. Namjoon tensed up, jaw clenching. Seokjin stepped forward with, “Let’s watch a movie then, come on.”
Seokjin picked up the extra chair from behind the door as Namjoon muttered something like, “Well, I mean, if you’re not tired…”
Namjoon made some space for his chair, and Seokjin took a seat before pulling the laptop closer. “Do you think the dongle will let us stream something?” he asked. The laptop had a pdf open with sections of text highlighted – and Seokjin was about to click away, before seeing something about a knight and a unicorn. He stalled out of pure confusion.
Next to him, Namjoon said, “Ah, it’s a… Um. It’s a submission from a short story competition. School kids have submitted their stories.”
“What?” he asked, taking in Namjoon’s embarrassed expression – Kim Namjoon, who was so snobbish about literature, reading fairy tales?
“Yeah, I’m one of the judges,” Namjoon said quietly – like reading the stories at five AM was normal.
“That’s… kind of sweet,” he admitted.
Namjoon said nothing but gave him a wary smile. They had gone for each other’s throats earlier, yelling over past hurts – but what a defeated fight it’d been. It occurred to Seokjin, then, that it was a fight they had outgrown, despite their attempts to push in a final word.
“I quite like this one,” Namjoon said of the story on the screen. “Perhaps an overuse of pathetic fallacy but, well, she is”—Namjoon motioned to the file name—“eleven.”
Seokjin chuckled, clicking onto one of the other opened pdfs. It was a list of the judges, and Seokjin was surprised by how prestigious the competition actually was. Namjoon was the youngest judge on the panel, too, and his bio came with a handsome monochrome headshot of Namjoon in a crisply ironed shirt, the text underneath listing all of his publications – fiction and non-fiction – and his numerous literary awards.
“You look so professional,” Seokjin admired, turning to look at Namjoon sitting next to him in blue pyjamas and fluffed up hair.
“Aish, it’s nothing…” Namjoon muttered, like all of his books and achievements were nothing.
“It’s not nothing,” he interjected, as rain drummed the window and thunder sounded. “I’ve always been really… I am really proud of you. I– For years, I’ve… even if I never read them. …I’m sorry I never read them. It was too… painful.” His voice dropped on the last word.
Namjoon exhaled, nodding. “Well… I’m sorry I’m such a typical narcissistic artist that I assumed you would.”
“Luckily for you, I was gonna let you slide on that one.”
They exchanged soft smiles, and he fought back the urge to caress Namjoon’s face and bring him into a kiss.
He turned to the laptop. “I read some of the reviews, though. Sometimes.”
“Oh, please never read the reviews,” Namjoon said to him pointedly. “That’s rule one.”
“Of course,” he agreed, smiling. “I should’ve remembered that. Well, should we narrow these short stories down to the winners?” He gestured at the laptop, shrugging. “What else is there to do at this time of night, right?”
Apart from heart-to-hearts and confessionals, and Seokjin didn’t trust himself with either of those.
Thunder sounded again, making Namjoon’s tentative smile vanish, and Seokjin cursed the skies silently.
“And besides,” he continued quickly, “I think you need to hear these stories being read aloud, and I am excellent at this kind of stuff. What, you don’t think so? You know my hyung has two kids, right? My nephews can’t get enough of me – so I’ve done my share of bedtime reading, trust me. And you can do some of the characters, too… Ah, in this one I’ll be the lion if you do the lines for the coconut? This’ll show us the winners, you’ll see.”
Namjoon scooted closer – brown-haired and bare-faced, thick glasses on his nose, dimples deep. “Okay, I trust you.”
Seokjin swallowed down all the longing.
They spent the next while critiquing the stories together, reading them aloud, and arguing about what kind of a roar a unicorn would have. Namjoon showed him a few more stories about ponies that barfed sweeties and dragons that had misplaced their homework.
“Well, it’s pretty important,” Seokjin said, “to make sure you have your homework.”
The storm kept going, but colour returned to Namjoon’s face, a warm glimmer in his eyes as his shoulders relaxed fully. Seokjin was shoving Namjoon playfully at the end of it, unable to take his eyes off him.
A studio in Doksan-dong, a cabin on the West Coast – yet not all things changed.
“I guess we have a winner,” Namjoon conceded at last, clicking down the various files and folders. Outside it was still dark, but the thunderstorm had passed.
“I guess we do,” Seokjin said – and Namjoon’s hand came to rest on his thigh in the darkened study.
Namjoon was examining him, and Seokjin was unnerved by the scrutiny. With a sigh, Namjoon said, “God, you make me nostalgic.”
Seokjin stilled, and Namjoon reached out to cup the side of his face, turning him until they faced each other. Seokjin let him, meeting his gaze.
“You make me think how I was happier, you know? A young idiot, but happy, and then we… vanished from each other’s lives.” Namjoon’s hand dropped.
“For obvious reasons,” he said, nodding towards the living room where they’d argued the night away.
“Yeah, but… I don’t know if I ever recovered from it, really.” Namjoon shook his head. “We should’ve been better. Back then. Although I always thought that… we’d still be friends, if something ever happened to us. Did you ever think that? Because we were so close, you know? But we weren’t. We weren’t friends at the end of it.”
“It’s hard most of the time, being friends after it all. Too much disappointment.”
But Namjoon was right, too: they hadn’t just been a couple, but best friends too. Why hadn’t they been able to salvage that from the wreck of their remains? And he’d had time to think of Namjoon’s words – accusations – that Seokjin had given up on them. Perhaps he had, but… he hadn’t stopped loving Namjoon back then. That was what’d made it so hard: how do you end it when you still love so much but can’t see a way to keep going?
He didn’t know how to tell Namjoon any of that – and what did it matter anymore, after all this time?
“You know,” Namjoon said, “when you got here, I didn’t know what to do. It was you like I remembered you, but also just some stranger who looked like my husband had once done, but now I… You feel like him. You know?”
“A mix of old and new. Yeah. Yeah, I get that too.” He paused, idly taking Namjoon’s hand in his own: large, warm. “Hey, you remember how we used to, like… just make out all the time? For hours? Nothing else. Just that.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon said and frowned. “God, what the hell was wrong with us?”
They shared a laugh, shaking their heads in the dark.
But after a beat, Namjoon said, “This is kinda sad, too.” Namjoon squeezed his hand. “This. Sitting here with you, chuckling about how we used to be. Wouldn’t the… the people we were… Wouldn’t those kids have been upset knowing we’d end up here, counting their failures? Calling them naïve – for all the petty fights, jealous arguments, and all that insecure shit?”
Seokjin remembered all of it, although some of it had been blurred out by time: why were you being so nice to that guy, he clearly just wanted to fuck you, blah blah… They’d both done it: they want you to write an article for how much? Please, the editor just wants to sleep with you! Your professor said you were excelling in class, Jinnie? Well he just wants to fuck you, and there must be a reason he thinks that’s on the table! Pointless drama about nothing – and never anything that needy post-argument fucking hadn’t been able to fix. Seokjin scoffed thinking about it now: what the hell had that all been for? So immature. So insecure too, as Namjoon said, even with rings on their fingers.
It was sad to think so harshly of their younger selves now – but something about it felt masochistic in a way Seokjin couldn’t quite help. “Are you upset by it?” he asked quietly.
“Not upset,” Namjoon said, exhaling. “We were so… idealistic back then that, really, maybe it was doomed from the get-go, but… there’s something sad about this, too. The reality. Isn’t there?” Namjoon looked to him with searching eyes, and Seokjin found himself unable to lie. It was sad – and if he thought of it for too long he just might cry.
But maybe sometimes you felt so much for someone that you didn’t know how to channel it – Seokjin hadn’t known that at twenty-three, what to do with the sheer amount of love and need and adoration he’d felt for Namjoon. That connection they had was like bubbling devotion that had made them co-dependent, but it had also been ugly and painful when either of them felt threatened – and selfish, too.
“A lot of it was immature,” Seokjin said with a shake of his head. “But we were so…”
“Besotted?” Namjoon suggested, and he smiled. Sure, besotted. It was a good way to put it.
Seokjin didn’t let go of Namjoon’s hand but held it between his own. “But I’m still like him?”
“Yeah. Often.”
“You too,” he said quietly, brushing his thumb over Namjoon’s knuckles. “But I guess that’s not a good thing. That we’re still too much like them.”
Their fight had shown that painfully clearly.
“I know, but… we had a lot of good, too, despite all the fuck-ups. We had a hell of a lot of good.”
“Yeah. And we loved each other a lot,” he said, wondering how much that ultimately excused. All of it or none of it?
“Yeah. Yeah, we really did,” Namjoon agreed and, surrendering, Seokjin gently tugged Namjoon into a kiss. It was tender and longing, and Seokjin held it without rushing it, trying to put the ache inside him into it. He gently pulled off Namjoon’s glasses – smudgy, in need of a clean – and pulled Namjoon into a deeper kiss, one that grew more passionate. And, as ever, Namjoon welcomed him.
“Come back to bed?” Seokjin offered, hand cupping the back of Namjoon’s neck.
“Yeah, okay,” Namjoon said, hand sliding up Seokjin’s bare thigh.
Once in bed, they began to undress with patience they hadn’t exhibited so far, but nothing made more sense than the two of them in the early hours of the morning, getting lost in each other, imperfectly perfect. Namjoon sat with his back against the headboard as Seokjin sat in his lap – hands gripping Namjoon’s shoulders, lube and latex between them as Seokjin lowered himself onto Namjoon’s cock.
This time they didn’t talk much – they hardly spoke a word, but swallowed down moans, hands pressing into heated skin, kissing through it. Namjoon’s arms circled his waist, pulled him closer, and the sheer girth of Namjoon made Seokjin raw and needy. He aligned himself to get pressure against his prostate, and he shivered, hands clutching Namjoon’s hair, breathing him in. Namjoon smelled so good, kissed him so good…
“Feels so good,” he managed, and Namjoon took over when he got too overwhelmed, fucking up into him, and he encouraged it with small “yeah, right there”s.
“Jinnie,” Namjoon said, and Seokjin met his eyes – deep, trusting, his. He moved to meet Namjoon’s thrusts, hands cupping Namjoon’s face, breath choked…
“Are you still mine?” he asked, pressing his lips to Namjoon’s – and received a nod. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Namjoon breathed, and Seokjin deepened the kiss, moaning as Namjoon’s hand tightened around his length. Seokjin went faster, kept pleasuring himself on Namjoon’s length until it got too much, and, even when it did, he kept going, helpless and overpowered until he climaxed, thighs trembling. He gasped for air as come rolled down his shaft in thick rivulets and onto Namjoon’s hand. He shivered in Namjoon’s lap, spent.
Namjoon cupped the back of his neck and pulled him into a kiss with, “That’s it, just like that… just a bit more, baby…” Namjoon kept stroking him, and Seokjin groaned in the aftershocks, spilling more between them. “There you go…”
Their tongues brushed together – Namjoon still in him, hard as anything. Seokjin sat up, lifting off – and Namjoon slipped out of him, the hard length prodding against his buttocks. Seokjin tugged the condom off, his hand sliding down the warm length of Namjoon’s cock. Namjoon canted his hips up, biting on Seokjin’s bottom lip – letting out a needy moan.
“Let me take care of you,” Seokjin whispered, pressing a wet, open kiss to Namjoon’s mouth – he moved down the bed, pulling Namjoon with him. Namjoon lay down, resting on his elbows – eyes darkening as Seokjin slowly kissed down his chest and stomach. “Lie down,” he instructed, “just relax, I’ve got you…”
Namjoon obeyed, and Seokjin was rewarded with a deep moan as he took Namjoon into his mouth. Namjoon tasted good – the crown bitter with pre-come, the scent of him familiar. Namjoon jerked as Seokjin sucked, one hand pressing quickly to Seokjin’s hair. Seokjin had perfected giving head on this specific cock, really – his efforts prior to Namjoon having been modest at best, but together they’d had the time and the enthusiasm to master this, and it’d gone, ironically, to Seokjin’s head: having Namjoon a writhing mess from his mouth alone, making Namjoon beg, letting Namjoon fuck his throat…
“Oh fuck,” Namjoon said above him, and Seokjin worked his mouth expertly, the heavy weight of Namjoon on his tongue firing him up. Seokjin stroked Namjoon’s stomach with his free hand, petting him almost: good, stay still, baby…
Namjoon’s cock slipped out with a wet pop, and he mouthed down the shaft with swollen lips, tongue flicking, tracing the veins. Namjoon was staring down at him, chest heaving, one hand still in Seokjin’s hair. He tugged gently on Namjoon’s balls before catching the cockhead in his mouth again, rubbing his lips to the soft flesh and tonguing the slit with a moan. Namjoon swore, hand in his hair tightening – and Seokjin added pressure, slow licks of the flat of his tongue against the crown, being rewarded with more pre-cum coating his tongue. Fuck, he still loved doing this to Namjoon…
“Want you to come,” he said, taking Namjoon deeper again, with Namjoon’s hips bucking. He closed his eyes, hand wrapping around the base firmly, hollowing his cheeks as Namjoon’s cock pushed against the back of his throat. Namjoon’s hand kept tugging on his hair – caressing, urging, at times merely holding on.
“That feels so good,” Namjoon sighed and pushed Seokjin further onto his cock – and Seokjin took him down deep, loving that Namjoon was far gone enough to be more needy than polite. He closed his eyes – swallowed Namjoon down his throat. Namjoon let out a completely filthy litany of curses, but Seokjin kept up a rhythm, knowing how close Namjoon was. Namjoon’s hips shifted, stuttered, and Seokjin blindly grabbed Namjoon’s other hand, bringing it to the back of his head.
“Shit…” Namjoon breathed as Seokjin slowed down in anticipation – and Namjoon began to fuck his throat, slowly and carefully at first. Seokjin welcomed it, an excited contentment in him, keeping himself and his throat relaxed: mind over matter as he breathed through it. He’d always loved Namjoon using him like this – working Namjoon up to the point that Namjoon had no choice but to fuck his mouth, to find release. “I’m gonna come,” Namjoon warned him as his thrusts quickened, hands twisting in his hair so hard that his scalp hurt. “Ah, fuck, I’m gonna come, you gotta —”
Seokjin pulled back enough to get his hand around the base, Namjoon easing up his thrusts, and Seokjin bobbed up and down fast, sucking, tongue adding pressure, fist meeting his lips – and warm liquid filled his mouth, Namjoon coming apart under his touch. He swallowed it down, slipped his mouth further down the shaft – swallowed again. “Oh my god,” Namjoon panted. “Baby, oh my god…”
Despite his efforts, cum rolled down to his fist as he pulled back, with him still sucking on the cockhead, taking his time to make sure Namjoon was done. Namjoon pulsated in his grip, his cock beautiful shades of dark red and pink, with streaks of milky white on the skin, and Seokjin traced the length of him with his lips.
Namjoon’s hand – unsteady, shaking – pushed hair away from Seokjin’s eyes. “Fuck… I forgot that you are so…”
“Yeah,” he said, his swollen lips enclosing around the head once more before he pulled back and wiped at his mouth – jaw aching and throat sore, but content.
Namjoon hauled him back up, sealing their mouths into a deep kiss. As Seokjin’s fingers carded through Namjoon’s hair, Namjoon broke the kiss, lips brushing his jaw, then throat and collar bones, peppering kisses. Namjoon kissed down his left arm – and Seokjin’s heart skipped a whole sequence of beats as Namjoon pressed a gentle, slow kiss over the scar he had there, like soothing away an old hurt.
“Hey,” Seokjin said, guiding Namjoon’s mouth back to his own. “Hey, come here…”
Namjoon obeyed instantly – so soft, so willing. This would have been a nice thing to hold onto – this embrace, this warmth, this closeness. Seokjin should have fought harder for them – he knew that now, after having played his cards and life having taken him away from all those other possibilities for them.
He knew it years too late: the beauty of hindsight.
* * *
The road out of Haast re-opened on a morning that was bright and cold. Seokjin stepped out onto the deck, his breath in the air, and not a cloud was in the pale sky. The coffee mug steamed in his hand, and the deck creaked under him, his feet in Namjoon’s slippers as he sat down at the top of the stairs. The windows of his SUV were covered in frost, but that would melt soon enough once he got going. He wrapped the large, knitted cardigan around himself tighter, earth tones of brown and red – another one of Namjoon’s – and he eyed the mountains in the distance, white peaks aglow with the rising winter sun as birdsong rang in the distance.
He was halfway done with his coffee when the door opened behind him, and he smiled wistfully into the mug. Quietly, Namjoon sat down next to him on the top step, likewise with a coffee mug in his hand, feet in clunky boots. Seokjin had made enough coffee for two, just like he’d used to. Namjoon had thrown a long navy robe over his pyjamas, hair still sticking out from sleep. They’d shared the bed again, and more.
Namjoon looked at the mountains. “They’ll have cleared the road, then.”
Seokjin eyed his coffee. “Yes.”
He found it all too difficult to say: what his time there had meant and what it hadn’t. Getting into the car without any grandiose goodbye seemed like the best thing to do now.
Namjoon’s mouth was pursed, expression thoughtful. “Could we have grown together?” he asked and looked at Seokjin, who steadied himself. Namjoon’s eyes were earnest – sad. “That’s what I wonder about all the time. If you and I could have grown together.”
Seokjin shook his head. “What’s the point of asking that? Five, six years. Seven. We can’t take those back.”
Namjoon squinted at him in the morning light, boyish, dimples deep. “I still like you, though.”
Seokjin smiled, hit Namjoon’s knee with his own. “Yeah. Yeah, I like you too.” He breathed in the clean air and thought how wonderful it was to have Namjoon sit by him, even for a while. Then stilled, mournful. “Maybe that answers the question.” He hit back the pain. “If we could have grown together.”
Or was that just a lie they were both buying into?
Namjoon sipped his coffee, then held it between his large hands, gazing at it. “We both regret it.” Namjoon looked to him. “The break-up.”
“We don’t have to do this,” he said quickly, straightening his back and shaking his head.
Namjoon stilled – the morning heavier around them, the colour of the sky duller and the birdsong less joyous.
“If we sit here and… and conclude that we… that we threw away the. The best thing… The best thing we ever– I can’t. I can’t.” He shook his head. Felt like he could barely breathe. “It will break my heart.” He sucked in a breath, swallowing it down. “It can’t be undone, Namjoon-ah. And now? There’s too much regret and resentment. You saw that. I saw that. No, what we need is… What we– what we both deserve is someone new. A clean slate.”
Namjoon studied him carefully. “Because new is better?”
“Not better, but… healthier. Compared to whatever this is.”
“Healthier,” Namjoon repeated, sounding the word out.
“Yeah – a healthy relationship,” he said and laughed. “What the fuck even is that, I don’t know. People talk about them sometimes, you know? Healthy relationships. I never know what the hell they mean.”
“A relationship that does more good than harm, perhaps?” Namjoon suggested, and he nodded – yeah, maybe. “A clean slate,” Namjoon repeated slowly, as Seokjin suppressed a shiver in the morning chill. “But, you know, I sometimes think that knowing someone is the most valuable currency that humans can have. Because it’s hard work, getting to know anyone. I don’t know, maybe it’s because I’ve changed places every few years, but I appreciate the people I’ve known longest the older I get. There’s no replacing ten years, fifteen, twenty years of friendship. Of someone accepting you for who you are even at the end of that.”
Namjoon shrugged. “Whereas now, I meet people and– and the investment to get to know them seems exhausting. And it’s not just me either, they feel the same. ‘Why invest in him when he’s only passing through?’ I guess that’s why so many couples stay together even once the magic’s gone: because that quiet comfort, even if unsatisfactory, is outweighed by the sheer emotional effort and risk that someone new would demand.” Namjoon paused, taking in the seemingly endless mountain view. “The older we get, the harder it gets to know people.”
He nodded, agreeing. “We build more walls as we age.”
“Yeah, we really do,” Namjoon said and put his coffee down on the step beside them before exhaling decisively. “So I’m thirty-one.”
He huffed, admiring the way the sun now caught Namjoon’s hair. “Congrats.”
“You’re thirty-three. And I know you. I know you, and you know me, and– and I didn’t even understand the value of that until you came here. God, I love that we still know each other, even if we have changed, too, and even if right now I have no idea what you’re thinking.” Namjoon gave him a careful smile that filled Seokjin with yearning, even before Namjoon’s hand came to gently rest on his knee. “But when I… when I woke up this morning? Saw the sunshine out the window and smelled the fresh coffee? I knew you were out here. I knew, in the same way you used to cram yourself onto our tiny balcony in the mornings. I woke up this morning, and I still knew you, Kim Seokjin. And I love that too.”
“So you’re lazy. You don’t want to put in the work with someone new.”
“Of course I could,” Namjoon said sternly. “Eight billion people? Come on, there’s millions who would do me more good than harm. So what? There’s always more people, always more potential new loves for you, for me – new and shiny. This healthy clean slate that some people dream of – so what? Am I expected to keep chasing some naïve idea of perfection because we can’t stand the truth that real relationships are messy? Which doesn’t even invalidate them – it just makes them human? There’s nothing wrong with messy if you’re working to make it right. And maturing is appreciating what you already have, too: it’s experience and perspective.”
Seokjin looked at the woods, smiling to himself. “The world doesn’t want perspective. It wants unblemished first loves and endless first summers.”
Namjoon paused, hand slipping from his knee. “Is that what you want?”
He shook his head – no. Give him experience over innocence. There was no going back once one won over the other.
“That type of love? The head-over-heels, can’t-breathe-without-you kind? I’m never going to have that again,” he said quietly. “I think about that sometimes: that I won’t ever fall in love again – not like I did with you. There are walls we build that we just won’t take down for people later in life. We’ve become too cynical.” He paused. “Did you know ‘cynic’ comes from the Greek word for dog?”
“What?” Namjoon frowned, amused.
Seokjin nodded, thoughtful. “And there was a naked man in a barrel? Aish, I have to look it up – it was one of Youngmoo’s anecdotes. Anyway… the things we collect along the way.” But he didn’t mind, then, all the random stories that they had from lives lived without each other, from people Namjoon had loved after him or vice versa. Because they could still talk for hours, the two of them: about those random stories, or shared ones. It didn’t seem to matter when they were alone like this.
They observed the sway of the trees together: some of them evergreen, others leafless for winter. Seokjin was cold – they both were – but he didn’t move.
Seokjin said, “You know, I often think of that version of our lives where we made it. Do you know that one?”
“I know it well.”
“Yeah. Me too. But… there’s so much I’ve done with my life that I wouldn’t want to take back, so…” His chest hurt. He gritted his teeth. “So I can’t regret the past seven years. I don’t regret them. And while I… I regret plenty of things about our break-up, I can’t regret the end result because it’s taught me who I am.”
He sucked in a breath. “But, with that being said… I miss you.” It thrummed in him, more strongly than ever. He dared a look at Namjoon, so familiar and soft-looking in the morning. “There are days when I miss you so goddamn much. It’s a Tuesday morning in my office and suddenly I miss you. It’s a work dinner on a Friday night and I miss you. It’s a weakness, or nostalgia, I think of it as a…”
He steadied himself. “I have this painting in my office, showing some California coastline – I bought it because it reminds me of our time there. I see it every day. When I let myself think about it, I just miss you. And maybe that’s because… I never really replaced you. I’ve tried but… those walls, you know? And inside them, I miss you.”
Namjoon gave him a small nod. “Yeah. I miss you too.”
Seokjin nodded, blinked the tears in his eyes away. He cleared his throat, wiped at his face – toughened up. “Or I miss my idea of you. Of course it’s not who you are anymore.”
“That’s funny,” Namjoon said without it sounding funny at all. “I know myself exactly, when I get to be with you.”
Namjoon reached for his hand, brushed a thumb over his knuckles. “Tell you what, Kim Seokjin, who knows me, and who I also know, and who at the end of this all has still done me more good than harm – if you’re still single at forty, marry me again. Fuck it, you know? Let’s conclude there’s nothing better out there for either of us and let’s have a wake to mourn that truth and then get married again. Let’s just do it.”
“So romantic,” he said, with his heart in his throat, and Namjoon laughed, dimples deepening. Seokjin shook his head. “God, what an offer. I’d be insane to resist.” He looked down at the slippers he was wearing. Namjoon meant it. He really meant it – what a loveable fool. “And what happens when I turn forty and you’re thirty-eight and married to a handsome New Zealander? Probably have adopted two kids with him too?”
“Ah, that’s nothing,” Namjoon waved it off. “I’ll just walk out on them – classic absent father move. Come find you – elope again, just like we once did.”
“Vegas again?” he asked, blinking too quickly.
“Yeah,” Namjoon said – smile faltering. “Or wherever you want.”
Seokjin lowered his head, took in an unsteady breath. “It doesn’t work that way, Joon-ah. Real life.”
The sun had fully come up from behind the mountains, and Namjoon was silent: perhaps he too knew that any promise of a future shared was just a plaster so that parting ways now, for good, wouldn’t hurt as bad.
Namjoon didn’t have to say it – and he didn’t, thankfully. He just said: “But you know. Don’t you?”
Seokjin nodded, holding his hand. “That’s why we stay away, right?” he asked, slotting Namjoon’s fingers in his. “Because of that thing.”
“Does it have a name?”
“Don’t be cheeky,” he reprimanded – of course it had a name.
Namjoon exhaled. “And now you’ll go?”
“Yeah. Now I’ll go.”
It was a long drive to Christchurch if he wanted to manage it in a day. He let go of Namjoon’s hand and stood up, picking up his empty mug. Namjoon stayed on the step and was still out there ten minutes later when Seokjin re-emerged dressed for the road, with his suitcase and laptop bag.
Namjoon stood up to greet him, with a lost look in his eyes – and how funny was this? That, for all their history, they had never said goodbye before.
Seokjin squeezed the handle of the suitcase firmly. The wind blew gently, stirring the brown strands of Namjoon’s hair – his roots were growing out, darkening the parting. Namjoon at thirty-one – he was glad to have seen it. He was glad to have been here.
“I have something to give you,” he said – surprising himself because he had not intended to give it, and yet perhaps he had? He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his coat as Namjoon frowned at him. He pulled off the locket he had worn since his grandmother had passed – Namjoon had never met her, but Seokjin was sure that they’d have liked each other.
He handed Namjoon the round golden locket, placing it on Namjoon’s palm. “I want you to have it,” he said, pushing Namjoon’s hand closed around it.
“But–”
“Keep it. Please. Think of it as a divorce present, perhaps,” he joked before he pulled Namjoon into a tight hug. Against his shoulder he added, “And be happy. Okay? I really need you to be outrageously, obnoxiously happy. Fall in love – adopt those kids. Do all of it, okay?”
Namjoon squeezed the back of his coat, burrowing into him fervently. “Seokjin-ah…”
He held Namjoon for longer than was wise, but he pulled back, wiping at his cheeks. “But if you’re ever in Seoul,” he began, exhaling. His throat was closing up, words difficult. “And want to talk, like old acquaintances.” Not even friends. “Then lots of good new cafes.” He was nodding too much. “There’s a place in Insa-dong with a peach mocha you might like.”
“When you’re forty?” Namjoon asked, eyes glistening – still reminiscent of a twenty-one-year-old Namjoon with California-kissed skin, stumbling sleepily out of the bedroom of a small bungalow apartment in Atwater Village, in nothing but loose grey boxers, and now standing in front of him an entire decade later, having lived up to all that potential. Namjoon looked a lot wiser, even with the broken look on his face.
“Yeah, when I’m forty. And you’re married with two kids, don’t forget.” He gave Namjoon a smile that he hoped conveyed all the things that were too difficult to say. “Be happy, Joonie. Do it for me.”
And the world ended and began in the single second that it took for him to walk past Namjoon: another small moment that offered a hundred other versions of life – ones that were kinder, warmer, more hopeful, or more forgiving.
But in this version – the only sketch or rehearsal for life that Seokjin would ever get – he carried his suitcase down the stairs, unlocked the car and slid his suitcase in the back. Namjoon stood at the top of the steps, gazing down at him, locket on his palm. Seokjin felt lighter without it – and that was good. That was surely good.
Namjoon shivered and turned away – wiped at his face, wiped at the tears, and Seokjin allowed himself a moment to take him in: the sleep-ruffled hair, the flush on his neck and cheeks. The mole under Namjoon’s lower lip that he couldn’t see but that he had kissed before this final day had dawned.
He loved Namjoon more than anyone he would encounter in this life. Of that he was finally certain. And if only he had known how to be better, before it was too late. If only he–
The radio turned on with the engine. The muddy ground had dried, so backing out of the driveway was easy, with him turning the car around. He didn’t look in the rear-view mirror nor did he look into his thoughts, because he would have found Namjoon in both, and that was too much for now. Maybe it had always been too much.
Haast was quiet in the frosty morning: the streets empty, the lights in many of the houses still off. The slip had been cleared, and Highway 6 was open again, leading him up to the mountain pass.
It was a beautiful country, he thought. It was a beautiful country to exchange overdue goodbyes in.
* * *
The eight-lane road outside the magistrate’s office was packed with cars in the rush hour, with honking and yelling carrying through the air. Amidst the noise and the rush of people heading into work, Seokjin stared numbly at the billboard that advertised a large family car with a slogan New start! New journey!
Someone bumped into him without so much as an apology as he stood in the queue at a taxi rank. He’d become dutiful with record-keeping over the years: completing administrative tasks on time, filing his taxes correctly, signing off his annual performance reviews – and submitting any other paperwork that came his way.
And so he had just filed another set of paperwork.
He blinked – and saw coin slot machines, casino lights, a dimpled smile and mint hair.
It ended here ten years later.
He numbly got into a taxi, giving the address of the office – dressed in one of his better suits, having worked thirty-two hours that week already. He wasn’t complaining, of course, because with work occupying the hours, he didn’t have to reflect on it: the absence.
But the radio played one of Namjoon’s favourite songs: Stevie Wonder’s Signed, Sealed, Delivered. Seokjin smiled in the backseat: the paperwork had been signed, sealed, and now delivered. I’m yours – but not this one. Not in this version.
“Thank you,” he said to the driver, getting out outside the office – running into one of the other department heads on the way in, talking business already. Bury yourself in this – forget him already. You did it once already, how hard can it be?
And if it felt too raw, then it was; if it felt too hard, then it was.
Seokjin only needed time: blessed time to snow over the memories, bury them, with the snow gradually layering up and turning into ice. And then, whether that took two years or ten, Namjoon would be merely a memory once more.
Thirty-two days later he received an electronic confirmation email that Kim Seokjin and Kim Namjoon had divorced. A paper copy would be sent to him in due course.
He stared at the email, some part of him unable to process the information. He blinked again: casino lights, warm hands, dimples, coin slot machines, and the chapel doors closing for the last time.
His desk phone rang, and he picked it up automatically with, “Ah, do you have the figures I asked for?” He clicked the email away, with his heart breaking inside his chest.
Hours later Seokjin was still in his office, with his email inbox and some Excel sheets open, flicking between tabs and programs, unsure what he was looking for. The painting of a California seaside cliff by his office door swayed and turned, as if in the midst of a storm. His phone, with a darkened screen by his keyboard, had a text drafted: congrats to us. He’d added a champagne emoji – removed it. Added it again. Removed it.
Someone had once told him that all good things must come to an end – it was the bad ones that went on forever. Namjoon had been a good thing. Namjoon had always been a good thing.
A knock sounded on his office door. “Ah, Jungkook-ssi,” he said as the legal advisor stepped in with a polite bow, as bulked up as ever, dressed in smart office wear but with his hair even longer: now in a bun, but styled office appropriate. Some of the seniors had made comments, but Seokjin had no patience for their narrow minds and archaic pretensions – let the kid live, goddammit.
Seokjin said, “It’s ten PM, shouldn’t you be home?”
“You aren’t home either,” Jungkook pointed out with a benevolent smile. “I saw the light on, so I thought I’d hand these in.” Jungkook handed in the paperwork he’d requested – ah, excellent, this would take him up to midnight.
Because the thing was that… the thing was. The fact of the matter was that Seokjin had just gotten divorced from the man he loved, and if he gave himself even two minutes of rest then he would crumble.
Jungkook hovered. “Well, I’ll get going home if you don’t need anything else…?”
“No, no. Go home, Jungkook-ssi. It’s a bad habit, staying this late. Don’t–” He stopped, then gave Jungkook advice no other senior staff member would ever give: “Don’t let this become your life. It’s a job – and your life is the stuff out there.” He motioned at the window, at his painting. “Don’t become like me – married to the job. Marry a person, not a job.”
Jungkook looked appropriately startled. “Oh. Um.”
“Are you dating?”
“Um,” Jungkook said, rubbing at the back of his head, shy-looking – even in the suit, the bun, the toned frame that half of the office allegedly lusted after. “Yeah, um, I have a– a boyfriend, Tae—”
“Good, you’re such a quick study. Good. And you’re in love, I expect, the two of you?”
Jungkook was turning bright red. “Yes.”
“I’m happy to hear it,” he said: to be young and in love. That was what life was for. “Now go home to him. Don’t stay in the office with old folk like me – it’s too late for me, but not for you.” He gave Jungkook what he hoped was an encouraging smile and shooed him away.
Jungkook nodded, bowed politely again, but paused with the door still open. “Ah, if I may,” Jungkook said nervously, and Seokjin hummed, scanning the paperwork but looking up quickly. “You’re not old,” Jungkook said, with an unsure yet sweet smile. “I don’t know why you would think it’s too late for you – you are not old at all.” Jungkook bowed again and left.
Seokjin stared after Jungkook and, out of habit, he tried to catch the chain of his locket because it had always given him that reassurance that it had been real, that Namjoon had existed – but it was no longer there.
He felt old, however. Thirty-three – ancient. It was all over at this age. And a divorcee to boot. Nothing good in life could ever come his way: he’d sat under the fig tree and chosen which fig to eat, and now all of the others had rotted.
Was this how he was going to spend his life? In the office until he one day blinked to discover he was sixty-five? A job was a job – and he enjoyed his job, he truly did and was good at it too, but he also let it take over all of his time to hide the fact that no one waited for him to come home. Life, exciting and wondrous, was out there somewhere. But where?
With a sigh, he switched off his computer – and headed home, earlier than he’d intended. Maybe he needed a hobby. Pottery? Ceramics? That sounded therapeutic. Who needed a husband if you had a ceramic wine carafe?
In the convenience store near his apartment, he picked up some gimbap and a couple of beers, mechanically scanning the magazine section for the latest Business Korea, keeping his mind busy every second to occupy space, to push back the loss. He paused.
The magazine section had a small collection of paperbacks on the lower shelf, almost as an afterthought: Parcels for Caretaker Park, one of the covers read. The one that had come out only a year ago.
He grabbed it in a flood of relief: something real, something solid. He looked around fervently, rejuvenated – but no one else there seemed to know or care.
He rushed to the till, and the shopkeeper said, “Ah, it’s a page turner.”
“I hope so,” he said.
The next morning he phoned into the office and told them that he felt ill and wouldn’t be coming in that day. Truthfully, he still had seventy pages to go and had barely slept, devouring the book: laughing, crying, laughing again – and crying, again. Because it was Namjoon talking to him, from only a year ago. It was his husband, on each page, with his humour and wit and intelligence, telling Seokjin of his thoughts, from the profound to the trivial, and spinning an entire world and story just to make him smile – or, at least, this was how it felt. Seokjin gasped in the right parts, shook his head in others.
And his husband was still there: in the book.
Not gone after all. Still not gone.
When he closed the novel at last, he was laughing – through tears, wiping at his face. How exhilarating that Namjoon was still talking to him and had perhaps always been. The seven years had never been real silence: a pause in conversation, but nothing more.
Seokjin steadied himself, taking stock: it was the day after their divorce. They were free now to pursue new loves – better loves, less complicated loves. It was what Namjoon deserved: one of those million potential soulmates. Seokjin was unsure what he himself deserved.
Yet he texted, Parcels for Caretaker Park: 9/10
Only a 9 because I can’t believe you made Mirim miss her mother’s funeral.
He didn’t know what to expect when more than a month had passed since his departure from Haast – and he hadn’t heard from Namjoon at all. Why would he? What was there left to say?
But that evening his phone beeped with a new message: She got stuck in the morning rush hour. What am I, the god of Ulsan traffic?
“You wrote it,” he said accusingly at the phone screen, then laughed. Trust Namjoon to think that his stories were not even under Namjoon’s control, but things that took on lives of their own.
He clutched the phone, warmth and relief spreading in him.
He didn’t reply – he headed out to the nearest bookstore and bought every Kim Namjoon novel he could find.
* * *
Seokjin had prepared a mantra solely for this November Saturday: he must not sleep with Namjoon. He must not throw himself at Namjoon like a desperate divorcee, and he must not do what he had done at the cabin, succumbing to his weaknesses. Come hell or high water, he must not sleep with Namjoon even a little – they could be civil, perhaps have some small talk, but that was all.
He reminded himself of this as he made his way to the wedding at the Conrad in Yeouido-dong, dressed in a new black suit, hair neatly slicked back, forehead exposed, Cartier watch and cufflinks in place. Pity on Namjoon more than anything! Namjoon would take one look at Seokjin and be filled with lust, of course – because Seokjin looked flawless, from the polished shoes to the crisply ironed white shirt and the black vest and suit. He’d bought new cologne – sandalwood with a hint of citrus – and in the hotel foyer women and men alike turned to ogle at him as he arrived. “Was he in an idol group once…?” someone pondered.
Unlike the usual wedding ceremonies, Hoseok and Yoongi had gone all out: not only having a ceremony and a meal, but a Western-style reception afterwards. What was wrong with a wedding hall in Yeoksam-dong with a ticket for the buffet and the whole shebang done in two hours max?
But Yoongi and Hoseok had waited a long time for this day: to even be allowed. Seokjin would be the first to grant them such an indulgence.
The banquet hall was on the forty-fourth floor and the reception area outside of it was overcrowded with family and friends. Seokjin pulled on the sleeves of his jacket as he got there, scanning the guests. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust himself, of course. It was simply that, months prior, he had spent some time very actively fucking his now ex-husband, and it had churned inside him since.
Legally speaking, he was about to run into his Ex-Husband for the first time in his life. What was the etiquette for that? No one had ever told him. Seokjin had no idea for how long Namjoon was due to be in Seoul, but it was likely to be a short visit because they always were. Yet on his phone was a collection of text messages: a rating, followed by a response, which was followed by silence until another rating. Seokjin had started rationing his reading because he’d become afraid of running out of books to read, and now he’d been working through the final fifty pages of Namjoon’s memoir for two weeks, trying to delay the ending.
How would he cope when the last one came to an end – when Namjoon would finally and truly stop talking to him? He hadn’t thought that far yet.
He queued up to get pictures taken with the grooms, making small talk with Hoseok’s aunt in the line. “Why do you look so nervous, dear?” she asked. “It’s not your wedding.”
“Ha, very true.” Yet he took furtive glances around the reception area, trying to spot any tall dimpled writers.
To say Seokjin felt permanently ridiculous didn’t come close.
Someone tapped Seokjin’s shoulder, and his stomach lurched as he spun around, eyes fixed up too high – and he had to lower his eyes to Park Jimin’s handsome face. Jimin, of course, looked breath-taking like he always did, blond hair perfectly styled, with dangly earrings and a touch of make-up in a smart navy suit.
“Jiminie,” he said, happy to see a familiar face. “How have you been? Tell me all!”
They chatted in line together with Seokjin eager for distractions, and Jimin sighed that this was his fifth wedding of the year. The year!
“When the legislation passed, all my friends went wedding nuts,” Jimin said, scrutinising the guests around them sharply – but so did Seokjin. Namjoon was to be the wedding’s MC so he should already be on site. “But where there are weddings there will be divorces…” Jimin mused, and Seokjin’s throat tightened, nearly at the door of the side room. “And not that it’s a competition,” Jimin said with the full implication that of course it was, “but this does at least look like the nicest wedding I’ve been to all year.”
“Yes, it looks great,” he agreed.
“What’s your wedding count so far?”
“Mine – of all time? Who knows?” he shrugged, now at the door – inside Yoongi and Hoseok were standing in matching black suits against a beautiful backdrop of cream fabrics hanging from the ceiling, flower arrangements around them, posing with a guest or a group of them at a time. Hoseok’s black hair was styled gorgeously, swept off his forehead, longer at the top, undercuts on the sides, and Yoongi’s dark brown hair was silky looking, sweeping across his forehead – his gummy smile wide with joy. They were obeying the photographer patiently but kept glancing at each other – over the moon in love.
Seokjin faltered. Jimin said, “And which wedding did you like the best?”
“What?”
“Of the ones you’ve been to – which one did you like the most?”
“My own. …cle’s… Uncle’s,” he awkwardly finished as Jimin frowned. He was thankfully next, so he marched over to the happy couple with a huge beam that was genuine: because while he and Namjoon had been busy being newlyweds in Doksan-dong, Yoongi and Hoseok had started dating. How the tables turned, huh? Yoongi and Hoseok had had their own ups and downs – even broke up for a week in the early days, and then reunited in a mess of tears. Now, ten years later, they were inseparable: their futures and plans had aligned and synchronised, one day ending with the two of them grey and old, laughing away a life shared. Who wouldn’t want that?
“Ah, hyung,” Hoseok said, giving him the onceover. “You’ve outshined us!”
“Inevitable, but you still look amazing.” He discreetly asked Hoseok who he should slip the envelope with cash to.
After the photo op, he moved to the banquet hall proper, still trying to spot a very specific head of honey-brown hair but not finding it. Namjoon had always responded to Seokjin’s short book ratings, but otherwise it was radio silence. Maybe Namjoon hoped that Seokjin would stop bothering him?
The tables had assigned seating, and Seokjin found his place halfway down the room. Jimin was thankfully at his table, and they helped themselves to some of the wine before a natural hush came over the banquet hall as everyone anticipated correctly that it was go time.
It was then that Namjoon emerged on stage in a black and clearly tailored three-piece suit. His brown hair was perfectly styled – parted at the side and pushed off his forehead – and he had smart, black-framed glasses on. Namjoon looked so different than he had on the cabin deck that final morning, with sleep-mussed hair and a thick robe around him. This Namjoon had an intimidating and authoritative air to him – that gravitas and natural charisma.
Seokjin sat up straighter, everything inside him aching, while around him he heard a few “is that the Kim Namjoon?”
Namjoon tapped the microphone, testing it. “Good afternoon, honoured guests.”
Their gazes met – from halfway across the room. Seokjin’s world vibrated, swayed, and dissolved. It’d been almost three months – three long months, and they had felt longer than the seven years that had preceded them.
Namjoon’s gaze shifted to others in the audience like he had seen nothing at all, and disappointment spread through Seokjin. Namjoon cleared his throat and continued, “I would like to warmly welcome you—”
Seokjin could not focus on Namjoon introducing the grooms’ parents, who entered in a stylish procession of traditional hanbok, nor on the grooms themselves who soon entered to much fanfare, making their way through the middle of the room as everyone stood up to snap pictures.
In the midst of this all, Seokjin heard the singing of birds, the howling of the wind in the trees, and Namjoon’s melodic voice talking about his endless travels as they lay in bed together in a cabin halfway around the world, quietly laughing. Namjoon’s skin had been warm wherever Seokjin had caressed him.
The ceremony proceeded as an officiant took over, and Yoongi beamed while Hoseok held back tears. Next to Seokjin, Jimin was openly weeping – a softie beneath it all. Of course Seokjin teared up too: perhaps love was something that merely happened to other people, he thought, as he watched his best friends be declared husband and husband. Love is elsewhere – but not here. Not with him.
Namjoon stood at the side of the stage with a warm smile on his lips as the crowd cheered.
All those years ago the two of them had rushed out of the Vegas chapel beaming with joy: matching rings on, eyes shining. He’d kissed Namjoon in the warm summer night: “I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you…” He’d never felt that high again in his life.
Namjoon had prepared a short speech for the newlyweds to wrap up the ceremony. The guests sat down once more, and Hoseok and Yoongi stood centre stage, arms around each other’s waists, married and beaming: rings on, eyes shining. I love you, I love you, I love you…
From behind the podium, Namjoon said, “When Yoongi asked me to speak today, he said ‘you’re a writer – write something good’. Something good, huh?” Namjoon looked to the crowd with a knowing smile. “Well, turns out that commemorating your best friends’ marriage after witnessing a decade of their love, support, and devotion was a harder job than I’d anticipated. What more is there to say that seeing them here today doesn’t already tell us? But the task of writing this speech did, at least, remind me of who we can thank for this union: me,” Namjoon said to the newlyweds pointedly as people appropriately laughed.
Namjoon recounted how he had met Hoseok while studying in Los Angeles and that, when he got back to Seoul, he told Yoongi that he just had to meet this guy – “But at the time I was rather in love myself, so Yoongi dismissed my words as such.”
Seokjin looked down at the white tablecloth of his table, embers burning in his chest.
When Hoseok returned to Seoul, just in time for Namjoon’s birthday, they had all gone out to celebrate. Seokjin knew all this: he had been there, smooching Namjoon and doing shots with him, forcing everyone to wear little party hats because it was his husband’s birthday. This part Namjoon did not recount to the wedding guests. But amidst the alcoholic fumes of it all, Yoongi had gathered his courage and asked Hoseok if he’d like to go see a movie sometime – but Hoseok, drunk on two beers, hadn’t typed in his phone number correctly.
“For all of two weeks hyung thought he had been rejected,” Namjoon explained, “and for all of two weeks Hoseok desperately waited for a call that never came.” Someone aww’ed while Hoseok giggled on stage with a heart-shaped smile, and Yoongi snuck in a quick kiss to his cheek, going for shameless PDA in a way Seokjin had never seen before. “Yes, dear wedding guests,” Namjoon said gravely. “This union never would have happened hadn’t I saved them from eternal singledom by inviting them both to see a movie with me – but failing to show up myself.”
Namjoon waited for the laughter to quiet down as Seokjin leaned into Jimin with, “That was my idea, by the way.”
“Ah, I remember now,” Jimin whispered back, sipping on the wine. “You dated Namjoon, right? Hobi-hyung’s mentioned it.”
“Dated? We were married for ten years.”
Jimin choked.
On stage, Namjoon continued, “As I was getting ready for today, I asked myself what makes love last. And what, indeed, makes a marriage last?”
Seokjin sucked in a breath. Here we fucking go…
Namjoon was addressing a crowd that did not know Namjoon was recently divorced. No one knew, except for Seokjin – and perhaps Jimin now, too.
“I came up with a few answers to this question.”
Seokjin reached for his wine glass, while next to him Jimin whispered, “What the fuck, hyung?”
“Firstly,” Namjoon said to the audience that was eating out of his palm, “it has to be a love that offers support whenever you need it. Whether that support is required for grand life decisions of where to work, what life goal to pursue, or something miniscule – honey, should I have orange or apple juice with my breakfast? Nothing truly is too large or small.”
Seokjin closed his eyes. They had already failed.
“Secondly,” Namjoon said, glancing down at his notes, “it has to be a love that brings joy, because what else is life for if not to be enjoyed? A love for watching bad films together, putting up with disastrous cooking, or sharing a game of pool, even if you’re both bad at it – but making each other laugh. That laughter will salvage even the most mundane of days, weeks, and months.”
“And,” Namjoon said, “the last point is the most important – because this will save you time and again. It has to be a love that is forgiving. We will make mistakes and say the wrong words in a heated moment, rush to make ill-advised decisions. And when people make mistakes, we can avenge or forgive. And it has to be a love that knows, instinctively, that it would rather forgive – and that includes forgiving the moments when support comes up short, and when the bad days take away the joy. Love that forgives those stumbles will remain. Forgiving yourself and forgiving the person you love. Most of us can’t do it.”
Namjoon took in a breath. “But our newlyweds today excel in all these three points – and this is rarer than they know. A lifetime of happiness awaits them, and the rest of us should seek their advice, rather than give it. Please join me in raising a glass—”
People did, cheering loudly, and Namjoon bowed to the crowd. Hoseok went up to hug him with a huge smile and laugh, and Yoongi followed, and Namjoon smiled at them both – even pulled Yoongi to his chest in a semi-awkward ‘come here then’ hug.
“God,” Seokjin said to Jimin, who was still staring at him, scandalised. “I need a drink.”
* * *
Operation “Don’t Bang Your Ex-Husband” was going grand, thanks for asking. The dinner had been extravagant, and the wedding had sectioned into a lively and more casual reception, but Seokjin remained anxious. Yoongi had given a speech that had made Hoseok cry, and Seokjin had stomped on Jimin’s foot to make him stop pestering him with questions of this ten-year marriage! When? To that god of a man on stage?
He had no idea where Namjoon was – he had vanished at some point during the meal. Maybe Namjoon had left? On a plane to Rome by now, probably, and Seokjin was still here in his expensive suit like a joke.
“So wait, is he single now?” Jimin teased as Seokjin subtly tried to locate Namjoon amongst the guests.
“Yes,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I doubt he’s your type, he’s very, ah, very pretentious and annoying and very selfish. And, uh, terrible in bed! Terrible, with all that firm muscle and those large hands… I doubt you’d like him much.”
“Okay, relax,” Jimin said with a roll of his eyes.
Seokjin nervously nursed his wine – normally he would be buzzed by now, and he almost longed for it, but somehow the alcohol just did not hit the spot this time.
Jimin eventually vanished to practise a song he would be gifting to the groom and groom before the night was over, and Seokjin was too restless to stay at his table.
He ended up at the bar and, admitting it was that kind of night, asked for a vodka.
“Straight up?” the rather cute bartender asked, and he shook his head because he’d rather have a—
“Vodka tonic and lime for him – and a whisky sour for me.” Namjoon stepped into the space next to him, and Seokjin felt physically ill and unexpectedly faint. Namjoon looked at him uncertainly, the glasses from earlier now gone, but he was still unbearably handsome in his black suit. “Unless your order has changed?”
“It hasn’t,” he assured, feeling his entire existence hanging off its hinges. Overemotional at a wedding. Original! Individual! He hammered it down and told the bartender, “Double. Please?”
“You gotcha,” the man winked, gaze lingering on Seokjin a little. Ah, maybe he should bang the bartender? Infinitely better than seducing his ex-husband by any account.
“And that whisky sour for me,” Namjoon repeated with a raised eyebrow, and the barkeep rushed to make their drinks. After this, Namjoon turned to him. “Fancy seeing you here.” This was delivered with an unsure smile. “Thought I… should say hello, at least.”
“Well,” he said, catching the scent of Namjoon’s cologne: musky, with perhaps a hint of rose. New. Perfect. “Hello.”
“Yeah,” Namjoon agreed, and silence landed on them. In that moment, Seokjin wanted to walk out and never come back. “You look…” Namjoon said, then gazed across the room. “Um. Well. I’m sure you know.”
Seokjin cleared his throat, not quite able to look at Namjoon either – like he was the sun that might blind him. “You look older,” he nevertheless noted.
“Older? Again? Here I thought getting rid of the ball and chain rejuvenated me.” Namjoon glanced at him as if to check whether the joke had landed.
“Please,” he said, deciding to be tantalisingly aloof, even as every touch, caress, and kiss they had ever shared mocked him – and now a divorce, too. “I was the best thing about you.”
Namjoon smiled, more to himself – eyes downcast. “Yes.”
Seokjin blinked. Flushed. The bartender pushed their drinks towards them, and Namjoon nodded a thanks. Seokjin quickly took a sip of his vodka tonic while the live band on stage kept playing pop classics.
“They didn’t have this in our day, huh?” Namjoon motioned towards the hall, apparently keen to have some small talk. It was true: this wedding was endlessly lavish, the banquet hall beautifully decorated.
“Well, they’ve been saving up,” he said, watching Hoseok and Yoongi laughing into each other’s necks on the dancefloor: two hours into a marriage. “You and I had nothing but dust in our pockets when– you know.” He swallowed it down and refocused. “Uh, are you– Are you in Korea for long?”
Namjoon’s mouth pursed. “Leaving tomorrow.”
“Oh. Right.” Seokjin let the panic of that sink in.
“Had a few busy days: meetings with the publishing house. And family, friends… Taehyung, my old PA, is telling me where to be and when. Well, I guess I’ve re-hired him.”
“That’s handy,” he said emptily: leaving tomorrow. Namjoon’s visits always felt like afterthoughts, like Namjoon couldn’t wait to leave again, and this time it stung like never before. And yet he had allowed himself to envisage asking Namjoon out for a coffee. What could be the harm? Just to talk – exchange silly stories? Laugh? Discuss his books at length? “So, you finished the book manuscript?”
“Yes. The week after you left,” Namjoon said.
Seokjin shifted on his feet as he thought of Namjoon alone in the cabin after he had gone. What if he’d stayed? What if he…
“And you?” Namjoon asked quickly, close enough to be in Seokjin’s personal space, but Seokjin was unable to move back. “Have you been busy?”
“Yeah, work’s been manic as always.”
“Right, sure. And have you…” Namjoon’s hand lifted to his temple, rubbing. Namjoon looked across the room. “Been busy dating or whatever? I figured you might have a date tonight.”
His stomach dropped like he was in a lift that was in a sudden freefall, plummeting. “Haven’t really had much time for that,” he mumbled, heart racing: his sixty-hour weeks ensured it. “And you? Did you find that Kiwi husband of yours before leaving?”
“Ah, I tried, but Bunty wouldn’t hear of leaving Liz for me. Married men, you know?”
Seokjin snorted, and Namjoon gave him his first genuinely warm smile that evening. Seokjin was about to joke back – something about fighting for Bunty’s love if Namjoon was sure he was the one – when Hoseok came rushing over to them, eyes bright. “Jin-hyung! Namjoon-ah!”
Seokjin once more got the distinct feeling of being caught red-handed. At Hoseok’s heels came Yoongi, both of them beaming. “Ah, is this the end of the Cold War?” Hoseok asked excitedly, hands on their shoulders. “Aish, you look so handsome together! Yeobo, don’t they look good together?”
Yoongi was regarding them more carefully – perhaps with pity or sympathy. Namjoon, thankfully, calmed down Hoseok’s overenthusiasm. “It’s your wedding – we can behave, don’t worry.”
“Old friends,” Seokjin supplied, and Namjoon glanced at him.
“Of course you are – we all are,” Hoseok smiled. “God, I can’t remember the last time the four of us were in the same room together. Was it after hyung got discharged? I remember your buzzcut, hyung – you pulled it off, naturally. Aish, what was the occasion?”
“Your birthday,” he and Namjoon said, in unison.
Hoseok blinked and turned to Yoongi. “Are they outshining us on our wedding day?”
“They’re not,” Yoongi said simply.
“Are you sure? And– Ah, honey, my uncle is leaving, we should go say– As you were! Ah, warms my heart, seeing– Enjoy the evening! Talk! Catch up! It’s all water under the bridge, right, all that old stuff. Dance a little, have some fun! Ah, we’ll be back!”
The newlyweds rushed to bid Hoseok’s uncle goodnight. Seokjin finished his vodka, hand squeezing the glass too tightly, as Namjoon stood tall beside him, tense looking. And, with a sudden surge of no fucks left to give, Seokjin said, “Well, we could dance?”
At this, Namjoon looked at him in surprise.
Seokjin rushed on, “I mean, if you think it would do more good than harm, I can understand if you—”
“No, no, it’d do no harm at all,” Namjoon cut in, hand reaching to touch Seokjin’s elbow, and he felt it all the way up his arm, to his chest, to his toes.
They left their hastily emptied glasses on the bar and headed to the dance floor, moving into the crowd that was enjoying the slow ballad that had just started, the lyrics about happiness being changing in nature but with you, baby, it’s eternal.
They faced each other, stepped closer, and Namjoon’s hands were on his hips before Seokjin said, “I’m your hyung – I lead.”
Namjoon smiled at this but nodded dutifully, and Seokjin pressed a palm to the small of Namjoon’s back, with the other taking Namjoon’s hand in his. He pulled Namjoon closer, Namjoon’s hand resting on his shoulder – they were close enough not to see each other’s faces, chests nearly touching, and they slowly began to dance, feet moving in circles to the slow rhythm of the cheesy song.
After a few beats they both pushed in even more, closing the distance between them. Namjoon was solid and real against him, and Seokjin closed his eyes to memorise the feel of him: it was just a dance, after all, on Namjoon’s final night in Korea. Just one small dance.
“Have you been enjoying it? Being back for a few days?” he asked quietly.
“Yes,” Namjoon said, the single word vibrating against Seokjin. “I love it here. I love this country.” Before Seokjin could object, Namjoon said, “Ah, I know – you’re thinking ‘but Namjoon-ah, you always hated it.’ And yes, maybe I did once, but… the country has grown, too. I mean, just look at this wedding. It’s all changed.” Namjoon’s nose briefly pressed to his hair – hand on his shoulder squeezing. “And after a meeting at the publishing house yesterday, I went to a café to write my speech and… I was just people-watching, you know? And it rained really hard.”
“It did,” he agreed, arm tightening around Namjoon.
“Yeah, and people started getting out umbrellas and running to make it home without getting rained on, and I thought… how nice it would be to sit there forever and be content watching this never-ending stream of people in bad Seoul weather. And it’s not perfect, but… it’s home. It’s always been home. You know?”
How he wished that he had words: Namjoon’s words, the webs and tangles of his novels, like delicate and vibrant paintings Seokjin could step into. How he wished he could step onto that rainy side street, too: walk over to the café and find Namjoon sitting at a table by the window. Sit down. Stay there with him, forever.
But he didn’t have such words – he had never had them.
The song finished, and the band instantly swapped for an energetic hit from the previous summer, guests around them erupting in cheers and mimicking the choreo of the viral music video. Namjoon looked startled as they stepped back from their embrace. “I don’t know this one,” he said – hand on Seokjin’s elbow.
“No? It was everywhere last summer.”
But, then, Namjoon had not been in Korea last summer.
They headed out to find a quieter spot for their conversation, walking out to the entrance area that had flower arrangements placed in the corners. There were wall-length windows near the hotel lifts, offering a view of the city, and they wandered over slowly, Seokjin explaining banally about how much rain they’d been having lately. But no landslides, ha.
The music carried through, and Yoongi’s six-year-old twin nieces ran around by the lifts, giggling and chasing each other. He and Namjoon stopped by the windows: the city was shining in all directions, except for a black streak running through the panorama. Seokjin didn’t know what to say.
Thankfully Namjoon broke the silence with, “I miss that river. Better than the Seine, the Hudson, and the Thames put together.”
“That’s high praise,” he said – were they going to rank rivers together? Seokjin had so much to say right then, but how did you start? And so instead: rivers.
Namjoon studied the view with an air of longing that surprised Seokjin. “I’d like to move back.”
Seokjin froze, disbelieving: like the five words were something he’d always waited for.
“When I retire, maybe. Get a place that has a river view,” Namjoon added, and Seokjin exhaled. Namjoon cleared his throat and said, “So. You’ve been reading my books, then?”
“Yes. All of them. I’ve read all of them.”
He felt nervous saying it – because why was he texting his ex-husband after a truthfully painful divorce?
“And I can see why you won the awards. I can see why… And bonsais! Who knew they were so fascinating? The trade routes… Diplomatic exchange. The symbolism, the philosophy of tending to them. It was all. Yes, well.” He paused, eyeing the view. “And I’ve been reading the memoir, too.”
While the novels and non-fiction had been brilliant, it was the memoir where Namjoon himself was most easily seen: Namjoon in his late twenties moving to London, and the experience of not belonging in Britain but finding himself out of place when visiting Korea too. The memoir chronicled Namjoon’s first year there: exploring, learning, writing. A few candid accounts of dating, figuring out how it was different – Namjoon being discreet enough about how the dates had ended. There’d been a whole chapter on what love was, what it could be, what it had been for him in the past. Musings, witty and engaging. Wistful. No mention of Seokjin anywhere, but then again he hadn’t expected that.
Yet little crumbs were scattered in the memoir, dotted along like a path in a fairy tale: Namjoon had talked of living in Doksan-dong in a small studio apartment – with Seokjin, omitted. Namjoon wrote about getting stuck in Seoraksan National Park once, missing the last bus out of Injegun – with Seokjin, omitted, and them having a hell of a row when they had to get a room in an expensive tourist hotel, unable to get back to their friend’s apartment in the city.
Whenever the memoir had strayed from the confines of London, to Korea – Seokjin had been right off the page, and they were the only two people in the entire world who could read the book and know that. It’d been a lengthy letter that an old friend had written to Seokjin, telling him of his life in England, but thinking back to their times shared too.
He’d loved the memoir especially – he’d loved that he understood it from the first page onwards, with fewer than fifty still to go. He’d thought all over again about the value of knowing another person: with all the walls between you removed.
He realised too late that Namjoon was standing before him on tenterhooks, waiting. He rushed out, “It was all brilliant, Namjoon-ah. You have a new fan in me. I’ll read them all from here on out. I look forward to the next one already.”
A hesitant smile emerged on Namjoon’s lips. “I’m really happy you read them, Jinnie. And liked them. It means a lot, it really…” Namjoon looked at the view again, restlessly.
From the wedding echoed classic trot and the guests began whooping loudly. They both laughed at the sudden noise, but after that Seokjin didn’t know what else to say.
“Guess we should join the others?” he said, although he didn’t really want to: he liked this, getting Namjoon to himself. Always so greedy…
“I guess so,” Namjoon said. With a final glance at the view, Namjoon added, “Anyway, I haven’t been to that river in years. Never have the time.”
Seokjin paused. Considered. And, without knowing where the courage came from, said, “Do you– Do you want to go?”
Namjoon stilled. “What?”
“Do you want to go?” he repeated, heart hammering. “It’s, what? A ten-minute walk from here?”
“Right… right now?” Namjoon checked. Right, of course, they were at their best friends’ wedding – what was he thinking? But Namjoon glanced back to the banquet hall, then focused on him. “Yeah?” Namjoon said with a growing smile. Dimples. “I mean, yeah, if you want to? It’s not far, you’re right.”
“We’d be back in time for the cake. Stretch our legs before that? See the river, while you can?”
“Sounds good,” Namjoon nodded. “Sure, why not? It won’t take us long. That’d be nice.”
“Okay, great. Well. Let’s get some fresh air,” he said although he felt suddenly giddy, and they headed to the cloak room, looking for their tickets. Seokjin found his and handed it over to the lady manning the room, saying, “We’re just popping out for fresh air.”
She eyed Namjoon next to him and said, “Sure.”
* * *
The pedestrianised area by the river had people milling about even on a chilly night in early winter. In the summer the slope was lined with food trucks and street performers, but even without them tourists were busy posing with the large ‘I Seoul You’ sign. A street vendor was selling hotteok, and Namjoon bought one with nuts and honey filling, offering it to Seokjin, too. Their breaths rose in the air, and the wind was stronger in the open space – they walked slowly, talking, with the collars of their winter coats turned up against the wind.
“They’ll definitely be together forever,” Namjoon said, chewing on a bite of the hotteok. “You can just tell, right? I’ve been to some weddings where you know it’s doomed. Sounds mean, but we’ve all been there.”
“Ours?” he asked, their arms brushing as they walked, reaching the river.
“Harsh,” Namjoon objected, and Seokjin laughed because what else was left?
But was he being selfish again? Always another hour, another day… Reading Namjoon’s books, devouring the words, just to hear Namjoon talking to him a while longer. And Namjoon so graciously always gave, and Seokjin didn’t know why.
Namjoon passed him the steaming hotteok, which he accepted – Namjoon’s took in a deep breath, looking up and down the length and breadth of the water. “I love this. The noise. The people. The smell. Korea has this smell, you know? Whenever I get off the plane, I just breathe the air in. Maybe that’s why I love writing about this country, even now.”
He couldn’t say that he’d noticed anything distinct in the air, but his mouth was full of hotteok anyway. He swallowed and said, “You could do with refreshing your memory. You know you were wrong about some things in the memoir.”
Namjoon frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Well, first of all, that hairdressers in Doksan-dong? It was not called Luxury Hair.”
Namjoon blinked. “Yes, it was. It was. I walked past it twice a day!”
“It was Romance Hair,” he said, rolling his eyes. “And that is only one of the many inaccuracies in your work.”
“You’re wrong,” Namjoon challenged, but with a smile on his lips. “Ah, you’re an old man, Seokjin-ah, your memory is failing.”
“Oh fuck off,” he said as they laughed. “How dare you? Insolent youth, I’m not wrong at all.”
Namjoon smiled. “Well, we can never check: it’s not there anymore, anyway. Luxury Hair.”
He swallowed the last of the hotteok quickly. “Romance Hair. And how do you know?”
Something dark overtook Namjoon’s features. “Because I went there yesterday. I couldn’t sleep – jet lag and hotel beds, you know, they’re never… So I ended up getting a taxi over. I don’t really know what possessed me.”
Seokjin blinked, trying to imagine this Namjoon – grown and strong – walking around Doksan-dong late at night, where they had once lived together.
“It’s been redeveloped. Our old building? It’s gone. Just gone… There was a GS25 where that fried chicken place used to be. I barely recognised any of it, and – god, I felt old and disorientated. It’s all gone.”
The news washed over him like icy water, painfully chilling him to his core: the small studio that had never been meant for two people, with the tiny balcony that’d fit one person – the selling point! – and them there, in love, happy, in a way Seokjin had never been able to replicate. And it was gone?
After a beat, Namjoon added, “Perhaps some things are meant to stay in the past.”
“Yes,” he said, feeling faint.
As they stood there, breaths in the air, and with tears threatening to blur Seokjin’s vision, he swore that two young men walked past them as if through the grainy feed of an old film reel, one with hair as white as snow, the other with a mint-dyed buzzcut, and they wore shorts and loose tank tops because for them it was summer – an eternal summer – and their silver wedding bands matched as their hands moved to hold the other’s. They were laughing about nothing at all, pulling each other closer than close, with entire lives yet to be lived.
They walked right past him and Namjoon, who stood there on a cold November night a decade later, with different colours of hair, wedding bands long gone – and this vision of the two younger men moved up along the river, turning towards the subway station, with the blond-haired man pulling the younger one closer as the sound of their carefree joy echoed.
Namjoon had been so beautiful back then – and exciting and goofy and charming and intelligent. Namjoon was all of those things to him still.
Namjoon said, “About your locket.”
Heat travelled up Seokjin’s cheeks, even in the cold.
Namjoon’s hands were on the railing, gaze on the murky dark flow of the water. “I’m sorry I… I think I accused you of…”
“It’s fine,” he said, feeling exposed in a way that he hated. “You can do what you like with it now. If you… If you want to throw it in, you can.” He motioned at the river.
Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t want to do that.” Namjoon bit on his lower lip. “I kept mine too. In my wallet, in the coin pocket. I must’ve lost that wallet a dozen times; you know how forgetful I am.”
Seokjin did know: so forgetful.
Namjoon cleared his throat. “But I’d always get the wallet back, one way or another – and it was always the first thing I’d check: is the ring still there? One time someone took out all the bank notes, but they hadn’t emptied out the coins, and I was so relieved.” Namjoon paused. “I just. I want you to know I didn’t get rid of it either.”
“I’m amazed you never lost it for good,” he said, heart beating painfully, thinking of how in the past few months he’d kept dreaming of Namjoon almost every night, then waking up and making scrambled eggs the British way that Namjoon now liked, playing the Bach that Namjoon enjoyed, reading Namjoon’s books cover to cover, and nourishing the sense that Namjoon was still there with him, even if no longer snuggled protectively inside a locket against his heart.
“It’s the one thing I’d never lose,” Namjoon said, and Seokjin stepped closer to him. The wind caught Namjoon’s hair, and Seokjin was about to reach out to fix the strands when Namjoon said, “I’m moving to Canada.”
His hand dropped back to his side.
“Yeah, I… I’ve been offered a residence in Toronto for two years, so… I need to go back to London and pack, properly this time.”
“Oh. I see.” He swallowed, at a loss, and Namjoon turned to him hesitantly. “And so the adventure continues,” he said with a smile that he did not feel, and Namjoon nodded, jaw clenched. “Sure. Toronto. Sounds exciting.” He didn’t know what else to say or do. “I’m so happy for you. I’m really—”
He watched a tourist boat glide along the river: an orb of light in the darkness. Namjoon said nothing, and in that moment Seokjin was so angry with him. So what Namjoon had kept his ring, too? So what? And yet—
“What time is your flight tomorrow? Maybe we– we could meet up and have lunch before you go. Or dinner. I mean if you—”
“It’s a morning flight. Otherwise I’d love to, but—”
“Sure, don’t worry about it,” he rushed to say. Typical Namjoon – typical, goddamn typical. What the hell had Seokjin been thinking? “We should get back to the wedding, then. Although. Although, would you sign your books for me? As a memento, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course,” Namjoon said, gaze searching. “I’d love to sign them for you.”
“Yeah? Because I’m. I’m a ten-minute ride away. I just. I just don’t know if we will otherwise, unless we go now. And I don’t know when I’ll see you again after tonight, is the thing.”
Years from now: another seven? Or until Namjoon one day retired?
“We might miss the cake but we’d be back before the wedding wraps up, I mean, you probably want to say goodnight to Yoongi and—”
“Lead the way,” Namjoon thankfully said, with an air of severity. Seokjin exhaled, finding it a little easier to breathe.
Soon they were in the backseat of a taxi, a lingering yet heavy silence between them – and Seokjin thought of Canada and Toronto and of Namjoon there, living yet another chapter of his brilliant life without Seokjin.
They didn’t ask for the taxi to wait when they got to Seokjin’s building.
In the lift up Seokjin wondered what on earth he was doing there, mid-wedding, and had anyone noticed them missing? The lift felt small and confined, Namjoon so horribly close to him and yet too far. Namjoon sent Yoongi a quick text that they’d popped out for fresh air but would be back shortly, and Seokjin didn’t want to know what their friends made of it. What time was it? What time did Namjoon need to catch his morning flight?
“Ah, it’s nothing much,” Seokjin said pre-emptively, which was a lie to be fair, as he pressed in the code for his door and let them in.
Namjoon took off his nice shoes and placed them neatly on the shoe rack – considerate, because he’d used to fling his shoes about wherever and had at the cabin too – and after hanging up their coats, Seokjin led them into the spacious living room where he had full bookcases. Namjoon whistled taking in the place, hands in his pockets as he went up to the windows to see the views.
“Yeah – I pay for that view, trust me,” he joked, going to the K section and thumbing the Kim Namjoons. “Aish, do I have a marker…?” he asked aloud, busying himself because Namjoon was there in his home, where Seokjin had never dared to visualise him, and his heart kept beating nervously. “Help yourself to something to drink,” he said, motioning to his expansive collection of liquor in the glass-doored cabinet. “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with a black marker and found Namjoon still taking in the views, no drink in hand. He pulled out his selection of Namjoon’s books, placing them on the sideboard. “Silly, isn’t it, that it took me so long to read these,” he said, just to say something.
But unlike him Namjoon stood still, looking like a runway model in the flawless suit. “Hey, so,” Namjoon said, hands still in his pockets as he turned to face Seokjin. “What are we doing?”
“Hmm? Signing these, I thought?”
“Seokjin-ah.” Namjoon was observing him, no trace of humour on his face. “You leave me in New Zealand after giving me your wedding ring. You file the divorce papers. We divorce. Then you… you send me little messages about my books. What does that mean?” Namjoon stepped closer. “And then you ask me to dance at the wedding, and after that you ask me to sneak out, and you bring me back to your place.”
Well it sounded bad when put like that!
Before he could defend himself, Namjoon said, “You filed the divorce papers and said you wanted to move on. I tried to respect that, I tried to get my head around it. So I’d prepared myself to leave that wedding early tonight – for you to show up with someone new, for you to act cold. I’d prepared myself for all of it, but instead I… I don’t think you want to bid goodnight. Seokjin-ah…”
Seokjin felt close to tears. The living room was large, but it felt like there was no space in it whatsoever as Namjoon slowly moved closer. “You should ask me again.”
“Ask you what?”
“Why I’ve never moved back here.”
Quietly, Seokjin asked, “Why have you never moved back to Korea?”
“Because you’re Korea,” Namjoon said firmly. Seokjin blinked, and Namjoon shook his head. “I don’t see how I can live here and not have you be mine. It’s torture. This, right now? It’s torture.” Namjoon stepped closer, voice urgent. “Tell me to stop and I will – if you don’t want to hear this, then I’ll walk out right now and I—”
“Don’t,” he cut in, panicking. “Don’t do that. Please don’t do that. I can’t breathe thinking you’ll go.”
Namjoon’s eyes were large, sincere – but sympathetic too. “In that case… I need you to know that I don’t care anymore. Okay? I don’t care about all the things we’ve been angry about for years. I don’t care about the arguments about jobs, parents, other fuck-ups… We have so many fuck-ups. We could build a shrine to them at this point, alright? But I don’t care because I’ve forgiven us. You and me both. I’ve forgiven us.” Namjoon took in a deep breath. “But if you haven’t forgiven me? If you’re still punishing me or mad at me for what I did back then, then you need to let me know right now.”
“But I’m not mad at you,” he said quietly. He wasn’t mad at Namjoon at all.
“Mad at yourself?”
At that, he nodded.
“Then you should forgive yourself too,” Namjoon said, stepping closer to him and cupping his cheek with one hand. “I’ve forgiven you. And me. The latter was harder, trust me.” Namjoon brushed his hair gently. “And yet you keep talking like we won’t see each other again in this life. What on earth are you talking about? Have mercy on me. On us. I don’t want to wait until we’re older – until you’re forty, until I’m thirty-whatever. God, it’s been three months…” Namjoon brushed away a tear rolling down Seokjin’s cheek.
“So that’s enough now, Jinnie. Okay? That’s enough. Three months is more than enough to know that my feelings are real and that they haven’t changed. It’s been seven years, and this hasn’t changed.”
Seokjin was trembling, hands pressed to the front of Namjoon’s suit jacket.
Namjoon nudged his chin up with a finger. “You know that can’t-live-without-you kind of love you talked about? Well, you have it with me.”
“I do?” he asked weakly, with tears clinging to his eyelashes.
“Yeah, you really do. And it’s hard. I know it’s hard, but you have to let me in now. But you can, alright, baby? You can with me, like I can with you. Okay?”
Seokjin nodded, and Namjoon lit up, dimples emerging, eyes sparkling with the kind of joy that could save the most mundane of days, weeks, and months. “Okay,” Namjoon said, “okay, good. God, come here.”
Namjoon pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, but Seokjin broke it with, “But you’re leaving. You’re moving to—”
Namjoon shook his head. “I’d rather come home.” Something in Namjoon’s tone bordered on desperation, and Seokjin ached. “Just tell me I can come home, okay?” Namjoon pressed their foreheads together. “Because truthfully? I can’t stand this whole not being married to you business.”
He laughed, arms looping around Namjoon’s neck, pulling him into a teary kiss. He forgot about the books, the wedding – Toronto, Romance Hair, intercontinental moves, and a whole host of fights that bore no relevance to Seokjin any longer.
“But there’s a catch,” he managed as the kiss broke but the two of them stayed pressed together. “A catch to me asking you to stay. It’s that, I– I have a memory foam mattress.”
“What?” Namjoon asked, frowning. “Wait, wha—”
“So I can’t have the mattress learn your shape only for you to disappear, because then I’d have to buy a whole new mattress, and I’m a busy man and I have no time for that, so if… if I asked you to spend the night, then you’ll have to stay not only tonight, but until you’re old and grey, and that means you’d have to move back here and be with me. You’d have to settle down, Joonie.”
Namjoon cupped his face, nodding. “I’m pretty sure I can do that.”
“Can you?” he questioned, unsure.
“I’ve seen the world – bits of it. Nothing’s as good as home. As you,” Namjoon said. “But I might, every few years, ask you to spend a spring here or there exploring a little… You can come with me for my writing retreats, work from wherever we are every so often.”
“I could do that,” he said, because he did not want to blink and be sixty-five, in his office alone. Life was out there: wherever Namjoon was, as the perfect excuse to finish work early. “I can definitely do that,” he said, relief and joy spreading. “But there’s a final catch.”
“There is?”
He nodded, throat tight. “Because… because all too soon I will take you to the registrar’s office because I can’t stand it either – not being married to you, that is – and I’ve been looking for a trophy husband and you tick most of the boxes. And that’s the final catch.”
Namjoon laughed, tears on his eyelashes. “Just most? Not all?”
Namjoon did tick them all.
Namjoon slipped an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. “Sounds like you’re proposing to me.”
“When I do, you’ll know,” he said pointedly, and Namjoon beamed and kissed him. Seokjin pulled him closer than close, finally finding strength in it to make Namjoon stay.
As the kiss broke, Namjoon said, “But will you ask me to stay, then, I wonder?”
He breathed Namjoon in, burrowing into him. “Joonie?”
“Mmm?”
“My mattress is memory foam, did I ever mention that? No? Well, it’s state of the art. And hotel beds, you know, they’re so uncomfortable. So I’ve been thinking. Do you want to spend—”
“Yes,” Namjoon said, and joy expanded inside Seokjin immeasurably, in a way that he had felt only once, a very long time ago outside a chapel. It was the can’t-breathe, can’t-live-without-you kind of joy, but even better now: because as Namjoon kissed him, their plans and goals were synchronising, moulding into a shared vision – perhaps for the first time in their lives. Namjoon nuzzled against him, but Seokjin already felt him much deeper, claiming space within the most reserved and carefully protected corners of his own being.
“So it’s settled, then,” he said. “No morning flight. No leaving this time. You’ll stay.”
“As long as you’ll have me,” Namjoon said.
“That’s going to be a very long time.”
Namjoon smiled. “So be it.”
* * *
“Jungkook-ssi,” Seokjin said upon stepping out of his office on a Wednesday afternoon. Jungkook looked up from his desk, alert and ready for instructions – this was why he had promoted Jungkook to work directly under him. “I’m heading for a long lunch – no one is to call me.”
“Yes, sir,” Jungkook said but was looking at him funnily. April was always a busy time for them all, signalling the month they finalised new investment strategies. Seokjin’s entire week was subsequently booked, except for these three hours taken as personal leave. “Looking very smart today,” Jungkook said.
“Ah, it’s a new one,” he defended himself – because the suit was new: Armani, all black, and all too glamorous for an office Wednesday.
“Very flattering,” Jungkook said appropriately – give the boy extra points for that! Seokjin was nearly out the door when Jungkook called out, “Sir, does the call ban include—”
“No, not him,” he said quickly. “He’ll be with me.”
Jungkook took that in with a knowing smile, and Seokjin headed out to the taxi he’d pre-ordered. On the way he passed billboards advertising the new Kim Namjoon novel. Another success, of course, and he smiled at that a bit smugly as he thought of the dedication on the first page: To Seokjin – as they all were
Aish, what a romantic… Embarrassing, really! Ah, no need for such things… Well, perhaps for a few more…
Seokjin arrived early and stood under the few cherry trees still in their final bloom on the plaza. He had a text from his father, confirming they were on for Friday dinner at the restaurant – they’d meet them there like last time. Good, that was one more thing ticked off the list. Excellent, perfect…
A tall, imposing figure in a stunning black suit finally crossed the plaza towards him, and Seokjin stood straighter, hands sweaty. Truthfully, he wasn’t even sure whose idea this had been, but there had been a conversation and an online booking system – upload the documents. Pleasingly straightforward: he appreciated good organisation and efficiency. One was nearly compelled to follow through because of that alone!
“Ah, there you are,” he said, weak at the knees. “Took you long– Did you have your hair cut?”
“Just now,” Namjoon admitted, greeting him with a peck to his lips before brushing through the shorter dark brown locks. “After you left this morning, Taehyung came to help me get ready. He insisted I smarten up some. Did they cut it too short, you think?”
“No, it’s fine,” he said, fixing Namjoon’s tie nervously. “And Taehyung knows? Weren’t we going to wait until afterwards to tell people?”
Namjoon was looking at him – warm with intent.
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“You weren’t nervous last time.”
“I was drunk the last time,” he said, which they both knew was a lie. “I have a week packed with work! Can we just get this over with?”
“So nervous,” Namjoon teased, slipping a large hand into his.
“I just want this done. It’s embarrassing that I keep referring to you as my husband and then have to correct myself in front of people.”
Namjoon smiled at him – boyish and dimpled, looking youthful in his excitement. Okay, so it was Seokjin who had done the asking. Fine, he’d proposed – he admitted that. Just like he had proposed to Namjoon a whole decade and some earlier, as they had passed a Las Vegas chapel. Turned out that Namjoon just brought that out in him.
Together they had now picked out their matching platinum rings and spent the month of their sort-of engagement head over heels, feeling the excitement and longing and impatience between them grow.
He smoothed over Namjoon’s shirt and jacket. “Mm, and we’re on for Friday, by the way – what our parents make of each other, I don’t know. And I take no responsibility for what my mother does when she finds out, whereas my father will just want to know whether there’s a prenup.”
“Such a romantic, your father,” Namjoon grinned, still gazing at him lovingly. “I’ll have to tell him that I am not planning another marriage or divorce.”
“Yeah,” Seokjin said, voice softening. Ah, what was he to do with such a goofy teddy bear? Marry him, apparently. “Yeah, that’s sort of my plan too.”
“Well,” Namjoon said, nudging his chin up with a finger and pressing a kiss to his lips. “How lucky for me.”
Seokjin was too enamoured to even protest. He pulled Namjoon into a tight embrace – overeager but perhaps on this day he was allowed? The locket under his shirt pressed to his chest, now holding inside it two matching silver bands: together, like they always should have been. There was nothing wrong with carrying one’s past, with all the dead-ends and spectacular mistakes. Nothing wrong at all when you had put in the work for it to take you somewhere good, somewhere better: and besides, platinum was stronger.
“You got the rings?” he checked with Namjoon, who nodded. “Good,” he said, keeping Namjoon in the tight hug. He inhaled. Exhaled. Then finally stepped back, ready. “And, you know, this isn’t even the good part.”
Namjoon quirked a teasing eyebrow at him. “No?”
“God no. The good’s part tomorrow.”
“Hmm, and what’s so special about tomorrow?” Namjoon asked, so goddamn smug that Seokjin loved the idea of putting up with it for the rest of his days.
“Well this,” he said, motioning at the courthouse on the edge of the plaza. “This is just paperwork, a nuisance if anything. But the… the marriage is what we do tomorrow – and every day after that. That’s the good part.”
”Yeah,” Namjoon agreed, “it is.”
Somehow Seokjin’s nerves faded, with clarity and calmness overtaking them.
Namjoon frowned – looked around the plaza. “Hey, can you hear that?” he asked, arms slipping around Seokjin’s waist. “The music?”
The nearby road hummed with traffic, but Seokjin still said, “Yeah, I can.”
With Namjoon, he always heard it.
Namjoon smiled knowingly, and Seokjin’s arms slipped tightly around Namjoon’s neck, as they slowly swayed to music no one else could hear.
“I like this song,” Seokjin said. “Don’t you?”
fin.
|
Heejin tosses her backpack onto the floor in front of Mrs Kim-Oakley’s desk in the art classroom, plonking down into the velvet armchair and throwing her legs over the side. Mrs Kim-Oakley (Mrs K.O for short) raises an eyebrow at Heejin, taking off her glasses and letting them dangle by their chain around her neck. Her blonde hair is in its usual tangled mess, an orange leaf stuck near her ear. Heejin’s eye twitches at it. But she ignores it, taking a deep breath—
“Mrs K.O - Jungeun - can I call you that? So, Jungeun, here’s the deal: I am gonna kill myself,” Heejin says, all in that one breath. She’d been leaning closer and closer with every word and she has to grab the edge of Jungeun’s desk to stop herself from tipping over. “Just thought you should know. As an adult.”
“Okay then,” Jungeun says, perching her glasses back on her nose and picking up her sandwich again. “Thank you for letting me know.”
“I—” Heejin sputters, “Is that it? Aren’t you gonna send me to the counsellor or something? Put me on suicide watch?”
Jungeun shrugs a little. “Why would I do that? I was just in the middle of writing my own suicide note actually.” She picks up a blank notepad in her other hand. “Dear world, I am tired of my life. I’m tired of teenagers barging into my room when I’m trying to savour what little alone time I have in this godforsaken hellscape of a school, and whining about their problems as if I give a shit. I just want to eat my sandwich, God, just let me eat my sandwich on the other side. Peace out, fuckers, K.O.”
“You could’ve at least pretended to have been worried,” Heejin sniffs, her palms starting to get sort of clammy with embarrassment. “Okay, I’m not gonna kill myself but I am feeling like absolute poo right now. Just a giant stinking pile of depression poo, on top of a—”
Jungeun’s long dramatic sigh cuts her off, and the screech of her chair being pushed back makes Heejin wince. “Alright, come on. You can talk while you paint.”
“Where were you at lunch?” Chaewon whispers, when Heejin barrels into AP Calc just in the nick of time. Chaewon watches Heejin wet her fingers with her tongue and rub furiously at the paint splatter on her forearm, eyes still sparkling with a sweet smile. “With Mrs K.O again, huh?”
“Chaewon, if you don’t mind, could you sound a tad more judgemental when you say that?” Heejin gives up on getting rid of the paint, flopping onto her desk. She huffs a breath onto the strand of wavy hair that falls into her eyes, but like with the paint, it achieves nothing.
Chaewon’s focused on cutting out a piece of washi tape for her unsettlingly perfect bullet journal thingy, but she tuts, “Why would I judge you?”
“Spending my lunch with a teacher? Could I be any more of a fucking dork?” Heejin says, sitting up again when the Calc teacher walks in.
“Mrs K.O’s a super cool teacher though, everyone thinks so,” Chaewon says matter-of-factly. She shuts her journal, reaching down into her backpack to take out her Calc textbook. “And so what? Sometimes I—” she leans sideways, lowering her voice even further, “you know with Olivia from Class B to let off some steam. Everyone has their vices.”
Heejin’s eyebrows shoot up, and she can’t help but sound mildly impressed when she hisses, “You’ve banged Olivia? Like leather jacket-wearing Olivia? Rides a motorcycle to school Olivia?”
“Heejin,” Chaewon gasps, “I have not. I meant weed. We smoke weed. It’s not really a big deal,” she straightens up, sniffing, “It’s going to be legalized here soon, you know.”
“Invite me next time, biatch,” Heejin says, knocking her Doc Marten against Chaewon’s polished brogue. “I’ve always wanted to get high.”
Chaewon turns a shiny pink, her eyes shifty as she turns her attention to the teacher clearing his throat to start the lesson. “Ummm, okay. I’ll ask Olivia if it’s cool.”
Heejin snorts. “If you wanna make out, I promise I won’t look.”
“Heejin.”
The first time Heejin met Hyunjin she was fifteen and sitting in on her stepbrother’s soccer practice. She’d made herself comfy in the bleachers, sifting through her French notes from earlier that day to kill time before Jaehyun drove them home.
“Hey,” came a soft voice from below her. Heejin glanced down and her eyes nearly fell out of her skull. The girl was pretty and doe-eyed, with long inky hair that was swept up into a ponytail, and when Heejin’s gaze darted lower, a pair of strong tan thighs in these skimpy athletic shorts.
Heejin gulped, throat dry. “What’s up,” she said, pushing her thick glasses back up with a knuckle.
“I don’t know, it’s just - do you mind if I sit?” she asked, sinking onto the bench immediately below Heejin before she’d even finished asking. “I’m just trying to psych myself up to go speak to the coach.”
“Oh,” Heejin said, “Why?”
The girl peeled her eyes away from the pitch, looking back up at Heejin, mouth set in a small, sad smile. “I’m new here. I wanna join the soccer team but it’s,” she continued drily, “boys only according to the principal.”
“Ah,” Heejin said, words failing her. She wanted to say something smart, something that would let the girl know how unjust and sexist her dilemma was but all she could manage was an unimpressive, “That sucks.”
The girl hopped up a second later, hands curled up in determined little fists. “I got this. I’m gonna plead my case and I’m gonna win. Thanks for talking to me,” she told Heejin, “I’m Hyunjin, by the way.”
“Good luck,” Heejin called out as Hyunjin jumped over the short railing. She gave Hyunjin a salute, and then immediately mouthed a pained what the fuck at herself when Hyunjin started walking across the pitch. She watched Hyunjin talking to the coach, shrugging at Jaehyun when he gave her a questioning look from afar. She watched the coach burst into laughter and wrap an arm around Jaehyun’s shoulders, jostling him, and she didn’t know what he was saying but she knew it was absolute bullcrap.
Hyunjin left the pitch in defeat, sticking out her tongue and shooting a thumbs down at Heejin.
Heejin was in love.
Jungeun sets up a sea glass vase on the centre table, a few sprigs of baby’s breath sticking out of it, and pulls up a stool in front of the easel next to Heejin’s. Heejin has already laid out the oil paints for them to share, pouring out a small cup of turp next to the palette.
“You won’t believe what Miss Jo is making us do in Home Ec,” Heejin starts to explain, mixing a blue and green.
“I’m certain I will,” Jungeun says. She dabs her paintbrush into Heejin’s mixture, before facing her prepped canvas. The midday sun strikes the sea glass in a way that makes turquoise light shimmer across the 9th grade charcoal drawings stuck up on the opposite wall, like an ocean wave breaking against the shore. “Have I told you about the time my wife invited Haseul to our summer soirée - ah, sorry, sorry, my bad, continue your story, Heejin.”
(Heejin has only met Jungeun’s wife a couple times, when she’s come to pick Jungeun up in her chauffeured Rolls Royce. Heejin had been but one student in a sea of many loitering outside the school, either waiting for the bus or a parent. Like everyone else, her jaw dropped when Jinsol Oakley, infamously eccentric Korean-English countess and multimillionaire, stepped out of the car, flipping her long blonde hair over her shoulder and pushing a pair of cat-eye sunglasses over her hazel eyes. She was wearing a pantsuit in tartan print, and the way her heels clacked against the pavement could be heard from a mile away in the awed silence. Jinsol had paused at the entrance, leaning over the steps to take a marker Jisung Park was holding out to her. She autographed his arm, ruffled his hair, and then addressed the student body: “Toodle-oo, everyone, my dear wife awaits me. Would anyone care to show me where her office is?”
Heejin had stuck her hand straight up. She’d like to cite two years of Academic Decathlon for her lightning speed.
They didn’t converse much as Heejin led her down the corridor, but Jinsol had complimented her tortoiseshell glasses in that sexy London accent of hers and pinched her cheek when it turned pink, and as soon as they were outside the art room, Heejin ran away before Jungeun spotted her and furthered her embarrassment.
The next time Heejin met Jinsol, she’d interrupted an after school painting sesh earlier this year, with Chaewon and a kid called Renjun. Jinsol pinched Heejin’s cheek again and told her that it was a shame she had gone and gotten lenses instead of wearing her glasses.)
“I’m still holding you to that story though,” Heejin says. Her tongue sticks out a little as her brush works across the canvas, a small eight incher today. “I’m trying to build up my blackmail portfolio on all the teachers.”
“What do you have on me?” Jungeun asks.
“Well, Mr Nakamoto loves dishing the dirt on you and your wife in return for me doing mascot duty during the games,” Heejin says smugly. “Amongst other privileges.” (Mainly getting to interact with Hyunjin without her knowing who she is. It’s great.)
“Interacting with Hyunjin Kim without her knowing who you are?” Jungeun says. She presses her paintbrush a tad too hard into the canvas, smudging the baby’s breath. “I’ll be having a little chat with Mr Nakamoto later.”
“How’d you know about that?!”
Jungeun laughs, tapping her temple with the end of her brush. “And don’t think I don’t know you came here to complain about Miss Jo pairing you up with Hyunjin for that egg baby project you have to do. She was raving about it in the teachers’ lounge all recess.”
“But we only had Home Ec last peri—bitch, I knew it was rigged!” Heejin cries, almost knocking over her easel. It wobbles precariously before righting itself.
Jungeun shrugs. “What can I say, us old hags have nothing better to do than sit around gossiping about our students’ love lives.” She rolls her eyes at Heejin’s aghast look, deadpanning, “I’m kidding. We have tons more important shit to do. Look, it’s just a coincidence you were paired with Hyunjin. There’s no big conspiracy, the teacher Illuminati aren’t out to get you.”
Heejin crosses her arms. “I didn’t say that.”
“And for the record, Haseul’s worked really hard on this project. Trust me, I had to listen to her 2AM agonizings all summer. You guys are gonna enjoy it.”
“Really?”
“Really,” Jungeun reassures her, “Now, do you wanna hear about the summer soirée or do you wanna spend,” she looks up at the clock on the wall, “the last ten minutes of lunch sulking over a girl?”
“Sulking over a—”
Jungeun gives her a look.
“Summer soirée,” Heejin mumbles.
from: egg wife ♡
to: heejin
hey this is hyunjin! just making sure you got my number
from: heejin
to: egg wife ♡
it has a 69 and a 420 in it, can’t forget it!!! ur one of the lucky ppl :^)
“Oh my God, why would I say that. She’s gonna think I’m a freak,” Heejin mutters to herself, watching the three dots that indicate Hyunjin’s typing appear and disappear and reappear. She throws her phone onto her bed next to all the French homework she’s been slogging through as she waits for dinner. It dings a second later.
from: egg wife ♡
to: heejin
never thought about that, you’re so funny!
Heejin sort of - well, she squeaks.
“Heejin!” her mother yells from downstairs, “The Lees are here for dinner! Go answer the door!”
from: egg wife ♡
to: heejin
i’ll see you tomorrow when we get our egg x
“Our egg,” Heejin repeats, holding her phone to her chest and kicking her legs up into the air, “Kiss!”
“HEEJIN!”
“Coming!” Heejin puts her phone down, and hurtles out of her bedroom and across the landing, sliding down the bannister like she’s been doing since she was ten, despite having broken her ankle at some point (Chaewon had to cover up all the dicks the boys in Class A drew on her cast with white-out before Heejin went home. Heejin thought they were a bit cute though, in a chibi sort of way because they didn’t have much space to work with.) “Hi, auntie, uncle,” she greets, plastering on a sweet smile when she opens the door. They each give her a quick hug before disappearing into the kitchen to find Heejin’s mom and stepdad.
Jeno’s hair has gotten even shaggier since Heejin last saw him (two days ago, across the cafeteria). He raises an eyebrow at her. “You look hot,” he drawls, pushing past her into the house.
Heejin looks down. She’s wearing a giant Black Sabbath hoodie that once belonged to her late father and the daggiest pair of pyjama bottoms she could find, having been daydreaming about Hyunjin’s mouth when her mom told her they were having guests and to dress nicely. She shrugs. Nothing Jeno hasn’t seen before. Their moms met in freaking pregnancy yoga when they were both in the womb.
“Thanks. It’s an outfit to reflect my dark, twisted mind,” Heejin says, following Jeno upstairs. “Dude, school already sucks ass.”
“Tell me about it,” Jeno says, flopping back onto Heejin’s French homework when they enter her bedroom. “You doing that egg baby proj?”
“Duh,” Heejin says. She pulls her desk chair up to the bed, throwing her legs next to Jeno. “Who are you paired with?”
Jeno huffs, bringing his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This soccer jock called Jaemin. He’s so—” Jeno makes an aborted noise in the back of his throat. “Just look at this.” He takes his phone out of his jean pocket, unlocking it and tossing it to Heejin.
“What are you doing?” Heejin reads, “To which you replied just studying. He says, haha without me? sad face, nerd face. Oh God.”
“It gets worse,” Jeno groans.
“You’re really adorable. Just so you know, you can call me daddy if you’d like, winky face,” Heejin continues, pausing to fake barf for a moment, “Two hours later, if this project goes well… Do you want to make another baby together? Oof, he’s got it bad.”
“He’s just making fun of me,” Jeno says, leaning up on his elbows. He frowns. “We’ve been in Class B together for two years and he’s never spoken a word to me before this, so.”
“So what? I’m really tired of you spamming my Twitter tee-el at 2AM with ‘I miss Mark Lee so bad’ and ‘when am I gonna get a boyfriend’ and ‘Todoroki, beep my ass’ and—”
“I got it, Heejin,” Jeno cuts her off. He shakes his head. “I don’t know, I just don’t think he’s being seriou—hey! What are you typing?!”
“Nothing!” Heejin exclaims, rolling her chair back and quickly pressing send on sure before Jeno snatches his phone out of her hand. “It was for your own good! Jaemin Na’s really hot!”
“I hate you, I seriously hate you,” Jeno says, “He’s never gonna leave me alone now.” He narrows his eyes. “Who are you paired up with anyway?”
“No one,” Heejin quickly says, “I’m a single mom.”
“What?” Jeno pokes at her leg with his foot when she doesn’t reply. “You’re lying, Jeon, who is it?”
Heejin whistles, staring at the ceiling.
“Holy shit, it’s Hyunjin, isn’t it?”
Heejin continues whistling.
“You’re so screwed,” Jeno laughs, “How are you going to get anything more than a D for this project when you turn into a stuttering tomato around her?”
“A stuttering tomato,” Heejin repeats, unamused.
“I said what I said,” Jeno says, grinning.
There’s a shout from downstairs, “Heejin! Jeno! Dinner’s ready!”
“This conversation isn’t over,” Jeno tells Heejin as he hops off her bed.
“Whatever, bitch,” Heejin says, shoving Jeno into the doorframe so she can reach the bannister before him, “I’ve already accepted my fate, anyways!” she yells as she slides down the stairs, “I’m gonna win her over!”
Jeno leans over the railing, holding a palm to his ear. “Huh, what was that? I thought I just heard Heejin Jeon making a joke?”
Jeno ends up being left behind by his parents when he falls asleep on Heejin’s shoulder in the middle of a Fullmetal Alchemist episode. He gets bridal carried to the spare room by Heejin’s stepdad, snuggling against his broad shoulder, while Heejin follows them with her phone camera out.
In the morning, she tosses him something of Jaehyun’s when they get ready for school.
“I look so prep,” Jeno grumbles, fiddling with the collar of his sweater in the full-length mirror next to the front door. He turns, inspecting the leather patch on his elbow. “Ugh. I’d still suck Jaehyun’s dick, even if he is a normie.”
“Shut up, don’t ever speak those words again,” Heejin says, grabbing Jeno’s shoulders and manhandling him through the door. “Bye, mom!”
“Bye, mom!” Jeno echoes, laughing when Heejin pinches his arm. “C’mon, we’re gonna miss the bus.”
They part ways at Class A and B, promising to text each other about how the project goes later. The day is mind-numbingly slow until Home Ec, where Hyunjin is waiting patiently for Heejin, sitting ramrod straight and her expression blank. She smiles when she spots Heejin entering the classroom alongside Chaewon, and the sight of it nearly makes Heejin trip on her own feet.
“Hey,” Hyunjin says when Heejin slides onto the stool next to her. Chaewon goes to sit next to her partner Yerim, who is also on the soccer team with Hyunjin. “Your hair looks cute.”
Heejin reaches up to fiddle with a strand. “Oh, this?” It’s in its usual wavy mess, but she’d added her lucky butterfly clip just above her ear. “Thank you.”
“Excited to meet our baby today?” Hyunjin asks.
Heejin smiles, doing her best to mentally will down the blush that is starting to creep up her neck. “The question is, are you ready for parenthood?”
“To be honest,” Hyunjin starts, leaning closer to Heejin with a hand braced on the edge of Heejin’s stool. Heejin sucks in a breath. “Not really. I’m not that great with kids. I’m too… awkward, apparently, I scare them off.” The ends of her hair tickle against Heejin’s thigh. “You’ll have to make up for me, Heejin,” she adds, before pushing back with a grin.
“I’ll try,” Heejin says weakly, turning her attention to Miss Jo walking in.
They’re given their eggs, Hyunjin picking out a beige one, the shell a little speckled. The rest of the class is spent drawing faces onto the eggs, filling out their birth certificates and building tiny bassinets out of cardboard and pipe cleaner.
“Hey,” Hyunjin says, as Heejin is in the process of giving their egg baby little pucca buns. She’d positioned the face so that the spots on the shell looked like freckled cheeks. “Don’t you think it sorta looks like Yeojin Im? The girl who does the morning announcements?”
Heejin picks it up, squinting at the face. “Wow, it does,” she laughs, “Should we name it Yeojin?”
“She’ll hate that,” Hyunjin says, stroking her chin.
Heejin raises an eyebrow at her.
Hyunjin grins. “You’re right, Heejin. I’ll fill out the birth certificate right now.”
They dub the egg Baby Yeojin, sprinkling a couple drops of blue Gatorade that Hyunjin had leftover from yesterday’s soccer practice onto her head (“It’s holier than normal water!” Hyunjin insists) and placing it gently onto its bed of cotton balls.
“The project ends next Monday,” Miss Jo tells them when class is over, “I expect you all to be spending the majority of your time together taking care of your babies, or scheduling shifts. Your first two journal entries are due on Friday, and the other three on Tuesday so it would be ideal if you and your partner meet up over the weekend.”
Heejin packs up her things, jumping when she feels Hyunjin nudge her shoulder. She has her finger curled around the handle of Baby Yeojin’s bassinet, and Heejin is about to clutch her chest and coo when Hyunjin asks, “Do you wanna go to lunch together?”
Heejin’s eyes widen. “You want to sit with me?”
Hyunjin lifts up the bassinet. “We have to take care of Yeojin,” she says.
“Right,” Heejin breathes, feeling her face start to heat up again, “The project.”
They wait for Chaewon and Yerim to finish up - they named their egg Harry (“After Harry Styles!” Chaewon tells Heejin, “Yerim and I bonded over One Direction. Rest in peace.”) - and Heejin shoots off a text to Jeno:
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
how’d home ec go last period??
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
>:| don’t ask
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
jeno!!!
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
our egg’s called angel. apparently it’s named after me
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
aw ain’t that the darndest thing :^)
is it a girl or boy name?
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
our baby is genderless. jaemin insisted
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
dad goals :’(
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
shut!!! wbu? is miss jo mopping u up off the floor as we speak?
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
shut [2]!!! she isn’t~ in fact hyunjin invited me to lunch with her~ haha i’m dying inside but it’s fine~ married life is great~
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
oh my god
“Hey, you coming?” Hyunjin asks, a hand on the crook of Heejin’s elbow.
Heejin nearly jumps again, reflexively shoving her phone into her jean pocket and sending up a quick prayer to the Heavens that Hyunjin didn’t see her conversation with Jeno. “Yeah, sorry,” she says, following Hyunjin out of the classroom.
“You’ll have to hold a gun to my head for me to acknowledge that imposter!” Yeojin’s saying, her cheeks full of nacho chips, like a squirrel storing nuts for the winter. A crumb sprays out of her mouth and lands on Hyunjin’s nose. Heejin shuts her eyes, wincing, but Hyunjin just snorts, flicking it off. “No, I take that back! I’m willing to die! There can only be one Yeojin!”
Hyunjin holds Baby Yeojin up to her cheek, stroking its head. “Yeah, it’ll be our Yeojin.”
Yeojin turns to Heejin, eyes pleading. “You wouldn’t kill me, would you, Heejin? You love me more than that thing, right?”
Heejin looks at Hyunjin, who in turn hams it up, sticking out her bottom lip and pressing her fingertip into Baby Yeojin’s cheek. “I—” God, Heejin is such an awful person. “I’d choose Baby Yeojin over you.”
Yeojin gasps loudly. She holds onto the edge of the cafeteria table, falling against Chaewon who’d been in deep discussion with Yerim about Ziam (“Larry who? Zayn and Liam were totally in love,” Chaewon insists, when Heejin tries to humour her to avoid talking to Hyunjin). Chaewon glances down at Yeojin, rolls her eyes, and turns to Yerim again.
“Don’t get me wrong, I still love you,” Heejin tries, “You’re my favourite junior!”
“But am I your favourite Yeojin? Am I?” Yeojin cries, “Hope you’re happy in your weird little nuclear fam—” Yeojin cuts herself off, and it seems as though something had dawned on her. A grin slowly forms on her face as she lifts away from Chaewon. She looks between Heejin and Hyunjin. “I see how it is, of course you’d take Hyunjin’s side.”
Heejin shakes her head hurriedly. She reaches under the table to pinch Yeojin’s leg, and Yeojin yelps, shooting Heejin a withering look.
“What do you mean?” Hyunjin pipes up, to which both Heejin and Yeojin shout, “Nothing!”
“It’s nothing. Yeojin’s just being a little shit,” Heejin tells Hyunjin, pinching Yeojin again.
This seems to placate Hyunjin. She nods solemnly. “We’ll raise our Yeojin better.”
“Of course you will,” Yeojin drawls, winking exaggeratedly at Heejin, until she finally realises what Hyunjin had implied, and she protests, “Hey!”
After school, Baby Yeojin goes home with Hyunjin with a promise that Hyunjin would write up the first journal entry based on how she takes care of the egg tonight. Heejin’s spending her own evening hunched over her drawing tablet at her desk. She’s taken a break from homework to work on her manhwa collaboration with Jeno - he writes the story, she does the art - that they plan to publish when they go on their graduation trip to South Korea together. It’s about an arranged marriage between the President’s son and the heir to Samsung (they’re still working on a name to get around copyright) and Heejin’s just started on a scene where Haneul has pressed Taehyun against the wall of their apartment, tensions high.
She grabs her phone.
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
wait dude
who’s gonna bottom?
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
taehyun!!! how many times do i have to tell u to read ALL the dialogue before u start drawing
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
i’m not that good at korean i missed it!!!
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
bs
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
>:|
ofc taehyun’s the bottom bitch he’s basically ur self-insert
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
SLANDER
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
“make sure to give him an eye smile”
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
eye smiles are common!!!
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
wtvr. better to get dick through my art than none at all right TTT
this is srsly charity i should get 70% for indulging ur fantasies
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
WE HAVE A WHOLE SUBPLOT ON OMORASHI COS IT T*RNS U ON
from: heejin
to: jenotaku
yeesh 50/50 it is
anyway bye ur distracting me
from: jenotaku
to: heejin
...
Heejin’s halfway through a frame where Haneul tears apart Taehyun’s button down shirt when her phone pings with a text. She sighs, “What do you want, Jeno?” but immediately chokes on her words when it’s from Hyunjin instead.
from: egg wife ♡
to: heejin
hey heejin [photo attached]
Heejin clicks on the attachment, smiling when she sees Baby Yeojin propped up in an egg cup on Hyunjin’s dining table. There’s a straw placed against its mouth, sticking out of a glass of milk.
from: heejin
to: egg wife ♡
cute! :’(
from: egg wife ♡
to: heejin
i was wondering if you and bb yeojin would like to come to my soccer practice tmrw
if you’re not busy ofc
“What the fuuuuuu—” Heejin says lowly. She quickly switches to her chat with Chaewon.
from: heejin
to: mariposa ♡
HYUNJIN ASKED ME TO WATCH HER SOCCER PRACTICE TMRW WHAT THE HECK DO I SAY
from: mariposa ♡
to: heejin
say yes?
i can come with~ ♡
from: heejin
to: mariposa ♡
FINE
oh god
Heejin returns to Hyunjin’s chat.
from: heejin
to: egg wife ♡
would love to!!
only busy looking after yeojin <3
from: egg wife ♡
to: heejin
ahhhhhhhh
see you then >///< <3
“Huh,” Heejin breathes. She picks her stylus up again.
“We’re looking at a top of 78F today, with clear skies and a light breeze. Make sure you head outside for lunch to soak up some much-needed Vitamin D this hump day!” Yeojin’s voice is rambling through the speakers as Heejin skips through the school hallway to her locker the next day.
She’s feeling super perky this morning, even managing to fit in breakfast with her mom and stepdad before she headed down to the bus stop.
(“You’re awake?” her mom gasps, “I feel like I’ve seen a ghost.” She turns to her husband. “Do you see her?”
Heejin’s stepdad makes a show of squinting at Heejin and rubbing his eyes. “I think I do?”
Heejin rolls her eyes, taking a seat at the dining table and grabbing a piece of toast. “A ghost wouldn’t feel as alive as I do,” Heejin says dreamily, her chin in her palm as her mind replays the message she’d received from Hyunjin this morning: good morning, hope u slept well! me & bb yeojin missed u, plus a selfie of Hyunjin pulling the ugliest face she’s ever seen on her next to the egg.
“Heejin,” her mom starts to ask, “Are you and Jeno finally dating?”
“Oh my God,” Heejin says, pulling a face, “God, no, but I’m so happy right now that I’m not even gonna bother being disgusted by the thought of that.”
Her mom shrugs. “Thought I’d give it another shot.”)
“And I have Mrs K.O telling me that,” Yeojin continues, as Heejin takes out her books for French and Calc, “Mercury is in retro—retro—”
There’s a loud whisper in the background, “Retrograde, Yeojin.”
“Retrograde, that’s the one!” Yeojin exclaims, snapping her fingers. “I think that means shit’s gonna hit the fan - sorry, Mrs K.O! - so stay safe, take care of yourselves. To all you egg parents out there, raising a baby is hard but don’t let the planets ruin your week! Communicate with your partner, have fun doing this hippie crap - love ya, Miss Jo - while you still can with college apps around the corner. On the other hand, Heejin Jeon, your baby can choke. Sorry, sorry. This has been Yeojin Im, byeee!” The speakers cut out.
Heejin laughs to herself, shaking her head, and heads down to AP Calc.
Chaewon’s already waiting for her, blonde hair falling over her eyes as she fills out out her bullet journal. She snaps it shut when Heejin walks past her.
“What was that?” Heejin asks, slipping into her seat.
“Just pencilling Olivia into this Sunday,” Chaewon says demurely. “Do you want to come to my place too? She’s bringing you know what.”
Heejin leans in, beckoning Chaewon closer. “The strap?”
“Heejin!”
“I don’t get why you take such glee in making fun of me,” Chaewon’s saying outside Class B’s homeroom as they wait for Jeno to finish up so they can head down to the soccer pitch, “It’s not like I tease you about your crush on Hyunjin.” Chaewon gets an evil glint in her eye. “And trust me, I’ve got material.”
“You’re such an easy target, I can’t help myself!” Heejin says, as she touches up the blush on Baby Yeojin’s cheeks. Hyunjin had come to their table for lunch again and passed Yeojin onto Heejin for the rest of the day. Then she’d sat down next to Heejin and stared longingly at her croissant until Heejin got the message and gave half of it to Hyunjin, heart lurching in her chest at Hyunjin’s happy face. “Plus, in the four years I’ve known you, you’ve never been into anyone.”
“You just never noticed,” Chaewon says.
“I—” Heejin gapes, a guilty flush crawling up her chest. Students are starting to bundle out of Class B. As Olivia walks past and gives Chaewon a shy smile, Heejin whispers, “Who’d you like?”
Chaewon just looks at her, a wry expression on her face. After a long torturous minute, she grins and says, “No one, I just wanted to see you squirm.”
Heejin pouts. “I probably deserved that.”
“I don’t know what happened,” comes Jeno’s voice, “but you probably did.” He hoists his backpack up his shoulders, his fist enclosed around his and Jaemin’s egg. “Ready to go?”
“You’re gonna accidentally crush Angel,” Heejin tells him as they make their way to the soccer pitch. They pick a spot in the middle of the bleachers and wait for the team to start making their way onto the field.
“That’s the point,” Jeno says darkly.
“You’ll fail,” Chaewon pipes up, primly taking her seat, her tote bag open at her feet with Harry’s bassinet placed inside. She pulls her bullet journal into her lap, effectively meaning that won’t be paying attention to anything else.
“And it’ll be worth it,” Jeno replies. Jaemin spots them in the bleachers and he tugs at Hyunjin’s wrist to point them out to her. Where Hyunjin simply waves at them, Jaemin blows kiss after kiss at Jeno. Jeno bats them all away, Heejin and Chaewon in fits of laughter next to him. “This isn’t funny,” Jeno seethes, “He’s wearing me down. I’m starting to feel things.”
Heejin snorts. “What kinda things?”
“Nothing I can say in front of our children,” Jeno says, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes (so he can properly watch Jaemin do laps around the pitch, Heejin surmises).
The soccer team is co-ed now, with Hyunjin its star striker and captain. The previous coach retired soon after Heejin met Hyunjin for the first time and was replaced by the younger, more progressive Yuta Nakamoto, whom Jaehyun tried to hook up the entirety of his senior year (it didn’t work. Mr Nakamoto has standards. At least that’s what Heejin told Jaehyun when he whined about it, and he hit her back with, “Well at least I’m not a gigantic nerd with a Napoleon Dynamite haircut,” and Heejin ran to her room and sobbed into her pillow).
Hyunjin was the first girl to be placed on the team and Jaehyun took her under his wing, threatening any male player who so much as looked at her wrong. It was actually Heejin who convinced Jaehyun to start a campaign to make the soccer team co-ed, but Hyunjin’s never found out about that, Heejin swearing Jaehyun to secrecy after he spent a full 24 hours teasing Heejin about her very first gay crush (it was actually Katara from Avatar the Last Airbender, but whatevs).
Heejin spent that year waiting in the bleachers after school, watching Hyunjin grow stronger, more confident, and when Jaehyun graduated, she got herself hired as school mascot so she had another excuse to keep watching Hyunjin in her element. She’s had a lot of practice Hyunjin-watching.
So why does it feel so novel now, to be sitting here, eyes following Hyunjin move nimbly across the pitch, ponytail whipping back and forth? Is it because Hyunjin knows she’s there? That she asked her to be there? That when she scores a goal she immediately looks up at Heejin, like she’s making sure Heejin saw it?
“Feels like we’re the WAGs club,” Jeno says, voicing what Heejin had been too afraid to conclude.
“I wish,” Heejin murmurs. Her face grows warm thinking about it: being Hyunjin’s girlfriend, waiting for her after practice, going home together to study but really making out on Heejin’s bed, Hyunjin giving Heejin her spare jersey, Heejin wearing it to a game, 01 KIM emblazoned across the back so everyone knows who Heejin belongs to, cheering obnoxiously every time she scores, running up to her after, and Hyunjin, all sweaty, picking Heejin up and kissing her—
Jeno snaps his fingers in front of Heejin’s face. “Hello? Heejin? You in there?”
Heejin blinks. “Whaaa—”
“Practice is over,” Jeno tells her. He stands, pulling Heejin up with him.
Chaewon has already packed her things and is heading down the stairs at an oddly rushed pace. Jeno and Heejin share a look. They follow after her, hiding behind a wall when she turns back, eyebrows furrowed. Jeno startles next to Heejin when a loud growl of an engine suddenly comes from the parking lot, and Heejin quickly tugs Jeno towards the noise to see: Chaewon climbing onto the back of Olivia’s motorcycle, pulling a helmet onto her head. She spots Heejin and Jeno standing at the edge of the parking lot, jaws dropped, and she sends them a shy little wave before sliding her arms around Olivia’s waist.
“Holy fuck,” Heejin breathes.
“How is Chaewon the coolest out of us three,” Jeno says, “She still plays with her American Girl.” (It’s true. Whenever Chaewon is asked what she wants for her birthday or Christmas, she’ll just send a link to the American Girl online shop. Heejin could honestly buy herself her own doll with how much money she’s given them up until now.)
“Hot stuff!” someone calls out. It’s Jaemin, making his way over to them after bursting through the backdoor to the locker room. His hair is damp, a small towel slung around his shoulders, and he smiles brilliantly when he reaches them. “Can I take you home, Jeno?”
Jeno raises an eyebrow at him.
“I’d offer you a ride too, Heejin,” Jaemin says, eyes slowly straying from Jeno (his lips, specifically) to Heejin. He switches the charming smile on again, though Heejin notes it’d been a lot softer when he was looking at Jeno. Cute. “But Hyunjin would kill me.”
“A good enough reason!” Jeno suddenly announces. He grabs Jaemin’s arm and starts dragging him through the parking lot. He twists back and waves at Heejin, yelling out a bye! before he beelines for Jaemin’s car and deposits Jaemin onto the driver’s side.
Heejin leans against the wall, dragging her sneaker through the gravel in an infinity loop as the team starts to filter through the door and head home. Heejin would do the same but Jaemin’s words keep echoing through her head: Hyunjin would kill me. So she stays, heart pounding in her chest when her thoughts start to morph back into her earlier daydream, the one where she’s dating Hyunjin. “Baby Yeojin,” she whispers, holding the egg up, “I’m really losing it. Should’ve killed myself when I had the chance.”
After Mr Nakamoto, Hyunjin is the last one out, changed into a band tee and a pair of athletic leggings that make her butt look amaze. Not that Heejin is looking. Hyunjin scans the parking lot for a good minute before turning around, her face crestfallen, and seeing Heejin waiting behind her, having been too nervous to call out to her.
Hyunjin lights up. “Hi. You waited.”
“Uh huh,” Heejin says. She pushes off the wall, wringing her hands. “I - well, I was planning to walk to the Starbucks nearby to study for my French test.”
“Yeah?” Hyunjin presses.
Heejin hadn’t been planning on saying anything else but Hyunjin looks at her expectantly. Oh? Oh. “Would you like to come with me?”
Hyunjin nods. Her grin stretches even wider, flashing her canines, sharp as a vampire’s.
“I hope you weren’t bored,” Hyunjin tells Heejin. The sidewalk isn’t that narrow but their arms brush against each other every so often, making Heejin feel all tingly inside. “The games are definitely a lot more fun.”
“I wasn’t bored,” Heejin reassures her. She scrambles for something else to say but comes up short, and so they walk in silence for a bit. While she looks for a table for them, Hyunjin slips away to the counter before Heejin can even protest and orders at the speed of light.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that,” Hyunjin laughs, stuffing the receipt in her pocket as she makes her way to where Heejin’s pouting at the tabletop. “It’s not a big deal. I am hijacking your study time by being here with you, so lemme make it up to you.”
Heejin frowns even deeper, turning away from Hyunjin when she tries to reach out to touch her arm. “Starbucks is expensive as fuck,” she mumbles, and Hyunjin laughs even harder. A moment later, Hyunjin’s name is called out and Heejin springs up, pushing past Hyunjin to get the order: two coffees and a slice of banana bread.
“Thanks, Heejin,” Hyunjin says when Heejin sits across from her again. She grabs one of the forks and the iced americano, drinking down a quarter of it in one gulp.
Heejin picks up the caramel frappuccino, staring dubiously into its creamy depths. “So, this one’s for me?” she asks.
“Yeah!” Hyunjin says, through a mouthful of banana bread. “I figured you’d like something sweet! ‘Cause you’re—” she cuts herself off, stuffing another piece of bread into her mouth.
“I’m what?” Heejin says, smiling around the straw. She takes a sip of the drink and has to stop herself from visibly wincing at the cloying taste. Her usual order is more along the lines of a black coffee, no sugar, but Hyunjin doesn't need to know that right now.
“Well, you’re sweet,” Hyunjin mumbles, “Do you like it?”
“Yup!” Heejin says, giving Hyunjin a thumb’s up as she wipes whipped cream from the corner of her mouth. “Thank you for buying it for me. And for keeping me company. And for, um—” Heejin twirls a strand of hair around her finger nervously, “—calling me sweet.”
Hyunjin shakes her head, eyes looking at a spot over Heejin’s shoulder. She seems to recover after a second, grinning mischievously at Heejin. “Hey,” she says, poking Heejin’s leg under the table, “Wanna see how many ice cubes I can hold in my mouth? My bet’s on 20.”
Heejin laughs. She shoves her French book back into her bag, and starts counting.
Jungeun seems weirdly subdued during art the next day, her hair pulled back into a ponytail when she usually wears it down, letting it take a life of its own. But Heejin doesn’t have a chance to question her until after class, embarrassingly distracted by Hyunjin using the easel next to her.
“I had fun yesterday,” Hyunjin whispers, eyes darting to where Jungeun is slumped in her armchair, legs propped up on her desk, and barking an insult at the closest kid to her (Chaewon, and Jungeun says her attempt at The Starry Night is what would result if Hulk finger painted with an egg yolk. “That’s very creative, Miss,” Chaewon replies delicately.) “I don’t think I’ve ever told you before but your art’s really nice.” Hyunjin gestures at Heejin’s The Creation of Adam. “You’re really talented.”
“Thanks,” Heejin says. She looks at Hyunjin’s canvas in the hopes of complimenting her too, but all she finds is a blob of orange in the centre, and a hastily swiped purple stick figure. “Wow, art,” she laughs.
“Shut up,” Hyunjin whines, pushing Heejin’s arm.
When class is over, Hyunjin takes Baby Yeojin to lunch and Heejin hangs back, flopping into the armchair in front of Jungeun’s desk.
“What do you want?” Jungeun sighs. She dips below her desk to take out a haphazardly wrapped sandwich from her bag.
“I just wanna know what’s wrong,” Heejin says, pouting.
“Are you my therapist?”
“Let’s just say I owe you one,” Heejin persists, “C’mon, Mrs K.O, tell me what’s up.” Okay, Heejin is a little nosy but Jungeun does seem really sad and she doesn’t want her favourite teacher to be sad.
Jungeun sighs again, taking a woeful bite of her sandwich (lettuce and… butter?). “I haven’t seen my wife in over two months,” she slowly divulges.
Heejin gasps. “You’re getting a divorce?”
“What, no?!” Jungeun sputters, “She’s just been off in England for business.”
“Oh. Right. Thank God you haven’t split up, you guys are like, my OTP,” Heejin says. She bumps her chest and throws up a peace sign. “Best Lesbians Ever.”
“Ignoring that,” Jungeun says. She shoves the rest of her sandwich into her mouth before continuing, “I don’t know, I - we’ve been fighting so much this past week. Over dumb shit like whether it’s a good idea for us to adopt goldfish when she comes back or the Buzzfeed quizzes she’s sent me that I keep forgetting to take. I’m afraid it’s going to make the distance even worse.” Jungeun faceplants into her desk, and Heejin makes out a muffled, “I miss her so much.”
“There, there,” Heejin says, gently patting Jungeun’s hand. “You and Jinsol will make up very soon. Haven’t you heard? Mercury’s in retrograde right now.”
A pause.
Jungeun huffs. “I didn’t think of that.”
“See? You should really pay me, I’d make a great therapist,” Heejin says proudly. Her phone dings in her pocket and she fishes it out, glancing at the message preview from Jeno: COME TO COURTYARD ASAP!!!!!!!!!
“Sure you would,” Jungeun says, sitting up. “Now get out of here, I’m about to start crying and you really don’t need to see that.”
Heejin accepts the dismissal, dashing down the corridor to the school courtyard. There’s a crowd of students gathered around - Heejin stands on her tiptoes but she can’t see anything. Hyunjin however is somewhere near the front so Heejin squeezes her way through and wraps a hand around Hyunjin’s wrist. Hyunjin barely flinches, twisting around to smile at Heejin.
“What’s going on?” Heejin asks.
“Jaemin and Jeno are getting married,” Hyunjin says, gesturing to where Yerim is fussing over Jaemin’s hair, threading tiny daisies in the caramel strands.
“There you are, Heejin,” Jeno interjects, stomping over to pull Heejin out of the crowd and back to the corridor again. His hair is slicked back and though his glasses have been tucked away, he doesn’t seem to be wearing contacts. He squints at Heejin’s face. “You have to be my best man.”
“This isn’t how I pictured being asked that, but okay,” Heejin says, “Why are you getting married?”
“Jaemin thought it would be distasteful to raise a baby out of wedlock,” Jeno explains, straightening the blazer he definitely wasn’t wearing this morning.
“What the fuck?”
“I think he just wanted an excuse to embarrass me in front of the whole school,” Jeno says.
Heejin laughs. “Or he wanted an excuse to confess to you in front of the whole school. Can you try to be a little more romantic?”
Jeno frowns, and says quietly, “I just don’t want to get my hopes up.”
“Aw, Jeno,” Heejin coos, tugging Jeno into a hug. “If he breaks your heart, I’ll beat him up, okay?”
“Thanks,” Jeno mumbles. He pulls back, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Let’s go.”
The students part as Heejin and Jeno walk in, a collective hum of Here Comes the Bride started up by Yeojin, and Jaemin turns to look at Jeno, wearing the dopiest most lovestruck smile Heejin has ever seen on anyone. Yeojin acts as the celebrant, giving a long-winded and rousing speech on love and family with ten too many references to 13 Reasons Why and when finally Yerim brings over the rings with Angel held in her palm, and Jaemin and Jeno say ‘I do’, lunch is over. They kiss to the school bell.
Heejin walks away once Jaemin slips his tongue into Jeno’s mouth, after a whispered I really really like you, and finds Hyunjin waiting for her.
“That could be us,” Hyunjin says, grabbing Heejin’s hand with her free one, Baby Yeojin in the other.
Heejin glances down, feeling warmth fill her from head to toe. “Really?”
Hyunjin hums. “Maybe when we’ve graduated high school.”
“Maybe,” Heejin breathes, nodding dizzily when Hyunjin asks if she can walk her to class, letting herself be whisked away.
Like Miss Jo had instructed, Hyunjin comes over Heejin’s house on Saturday morning. She brings a Monopoly board, and Heejin’s really glad she vacuumed because Hyunjin sinks cross-legged onto Heejin’s rug as soon as she enters the room. Baby Yeojin is sitting in its cup as they play, Heejin with the Scottie dog and Hyunjin with the thimble.
“Are you hungry?” Heejin asks, stretching out on the floor and making her Scottie dog bounce up and down on its spot in jail.
“I know what you’re trying to do and I won’t fall for it,” Hyunjin accuses, shaking a fifty dollar bill at Heejin. She tosses the dice at Heejin and Heejin squeals, rolling away to avoid it.
“I’m innocent!” Heejin insists. Her shirt’s ridden up with the movement and she draws it down. Hyunjin’s eyes follow her fingers, and Heejin feels her guts churn like a volcano. She clears her throat. “I swear, I wanted to know if you’d like to make pasta with me. It’s like, the only dish I know how to make.”
“Can’t even boil an egg?” Hyunjin says.
Heejin makes a horrified noise, stretching forward to place her fingers around Baby Yeojin’s sides. “I would never.”
“Promise you won’t steal my money while we’re gone?” Hyunjin asks, with a dubious twist of her mouth.
Heejin holds out her pinkie, and Hyunjin wraps her own around it. “I had my fingers crossed,” Heejin whispers when they make their way to the kitchen, yelping when Hyunjin makes to push her down the staircase.
“I’m really competitive,” Hyunjin says matter-of-factly.
“But are you any good, is the real question,” Heejin teases, rounding the kitchen. Hyunjin huffs, perching herself on the counter as Heejin takes out the ingredients for pasta. She backtracks, “I’m just kidding. I’ve seen you play, you’re incredible.”
“I didn’t think your field of vision was that great,” Hyunjin says. She grins, taking the can of diced tomatoes Heejin is struggling to open out of her hands, popping the tab, and handing it back.
“What do you mean?” Heejin asks, bracing herself against the edge of the counter so she doesn’t like, swoon.
“Under the mascot costume,” Hyunjin says.
Heejin’s heart plummets to her toes. Her mouth twitches in an awkward smile as she breathes, “What?”
“Your dance routine is so cute,” Hyunjin says, “I remember you told me you came up with it yourself.”
So Hyunjin knew it was her all along. Wow, Heejin does not rate Mr Nakamoto. “That’s a lie, it was actually Chaewon. She’s good at aegyo and shit,” Heejin mumbles. She remembers Hyunjin jogging over to her after a match, shirt clinging to her damp, flushed skin. She’d smiled as she told Heejin she liked her choreography, and Heejin had wanted to throw off her giant cat head and kiss the fat underneath Hyunjin’s eyes.
“So you were trying to impress me?” Hyunjin says, nudging Heejin’s hip with her foot.
Heejin’s mouth presses into a tight line, hot blood snaking up her neck. She snatches the knife back and begins to slice the onion vigorously.
“Cat got your tongue, Heejin?” Hyunjin sing-songs, tickling her toes even harder into Heejin’s leg.
Heejin dabs the stinging in her eyes with her sleeve, scowling at Hyunjin.
Hyunjin laughs, reaching over to wipe away the one tear that hightails it down Heejin’s cheek. “Sorry I made you cry,” she says.
“The onion made me cry,” Heejin sniffs. She tilts her head up and blinks in succession.
“Square up, onion,” Hyunjin snarls at the chopping board, holding up her fists. “No one makes my baby mommy cry.”
Heejin’s head snaps back down. She sputters, and Hyunjin lowers her hands, looking a little sheepish.
They go back to making the pasta.
It’s been a while since Heejin has been in Chaewon’s room but it’s exactly how she remembers it: walls painted a creamish pink, her American Girl merch arranged neatly on her poster bed, her desk stocked with pens in every colour of the rainbow. It’s a bedroom fit for a princess, so Heejin is in fits of laughter seeing Chaewon perched on her window seat in what Heejin calls her Victorian ghost pyjamas, licking the edge of a joint. Olivia is sitting on the floor between Chaewon’s legs, and she looks simultaneously perplexed and unamused by Heejin’s glee.
“How are you so good at that?” Heejin marvels, rolling into her back and clutching her stomach when she’s overcome by another wave of laughter. “Oh my God, I’ve got abs.”
“It’s called practice, Heejin,” Chaewon says drily, looping her arms around Olivia’s shoulder and leaning down so that Olivia can light the joint up.
“You can try first,” Olivia tells Heejin, and there’s a reedy quality to her voice Heejin never really expects, and when Heejin looks even closer, an awkwardness in her eyes even when she’s smiling. Like she’s permanently on the verge of crying.
“Awww,” Heejin coos, stretching forward to pluck the joint out of Olivia’s hand. “You look like you could kill me but you’re really just a cinnamon roll, huh?”
Chaewon snorts, and Olivia’s eyebrows furrow even deeper. Heejin just plants herself back onto the carpet and cocks her wrist, fingers pinched around the joint like she’s seen on Skins, and takes a long clumsy puff. She’d hoped to be smooth about it after seeing how experienced Chaewon is, but Heejin definitely misjudged: she ends up coughing her throat into prolapse practically, and Chaewon rushes downstairs to get her a glass of water while Olivia pats her back.
“Nevermind, I think you are trying to kill me,” Heejin wheezes. She presses the back of her hand into her forehead, feeling woozy. “Wow, I think I’m high. This is amazing, woooooow.”
Olivia cracks a smile. “You’re really not. C’mon, I’ll show you how to do it properly.”
Heejin sits ups, clasping her hands in her lap. “Take it away, master, teach me your ways.”
“Never call me that again,” Olivia says, rolling them another joint. The last one is mangled on the carpet like autumn leaves in a gutter, crushed underneath Chaewon’s foot as she ran across the room.
She does get stoned eventually. If Heejin was a chatterbox before, Heejin 420 is even worse than Miss Jo when she gets excited about candle making, which is to say she only stops talking to fill her lungs with oxygen. It’s around the fourth time Heejin brings up the topic of speciesism against tentacles that Chaewon pulls Heejin up and dumps her on her bed, shoving her phone into her hand.
“Here,” Chaewon says, “Make some bad decisions. I wanna kiss my girlfriend.”
Heejin pouts, watching Chaewon go back to the window seat and sit on Olivia’s lap. She looks down at Chaewon’s American Girl doll. “Guess it’s just you and me,” she says sadly, “Sorry I don’t know your name, I kinda zone out when Chaewon talks about you. Is it Annabelle? Amethyst? Amber? Annalise - that’s the one.” Heejin unlocks her phone, finger hesitating over the iMessage icon. “What’s the point of being high if I don’t get to make out with someone too… You know, I’ve always heard that orgasms feel crazy good after you’ve smoked weed. Sorry, you’re meant to be a kid, I probably shouldn’t have said that.” Heejin looks at her phone again. “You’re right, though. If I want to make out with someone, I should just ask, right?”
from: heejin
to: egg wife ♡
hi
Heejin scratches her head, not sure where to go from here. She looks at Annalise for guidance, and its sweet impassive face reminds her of Hyunjin. Heejin’s stomach flips.
from: heejin
to: egg wife ♡
i rly like@u hyunjin, mahbe i even love u, i wanna be wit u, i want to kiss u and est u out and i want ur mouth on. my tits! crush me with ur jock thighs PLS. luv heejin xoxo
“There,” Heejin says, clicking send on the message, “That should do the trick.”
She waits five minutes for a response that doesn’t come, before she sinks into Chaewon’s fluffy cushions and falls into a deep blissful sleep…
(“THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT, YOU GAVE ME MY PHONE! YOU KNEW I WOULD DO THIS!” Heejin screeches the next morning, her phone face down at the bottom of Chaewon’s staircase after Heejin had accidentally dropped it seeing what she’d sent to Hyunjin.
“How was I meant to know you’d confess to Hyunjin?” Chaewon says, voice calm but her face a little red with frustration. “And I’m using confess very loosely here. I thought you’d just send Jeno nudes like you did last time we got drunk!”
Heejin lets out a scream. “It’s your stupid doll’s fault. It kept talking to me!” She runs back into Chaewon’s bedroom, hissing, “I’m gonna rip its fucking head off.”
“HEEJIN, NO,” Chaewon cries, chasing after Heejin.)
The only way Chaewon manages to get Heejin to go to school with her is by agreeing to let her use her expensive Tombow pens for her and Jeno’s manhwa for a month. (“You drive a hard bargain,” Heejin says, standing on Chaewon’s window seat. With her shoes on. “But I’m still willing to jump out of this window at any second.”
Chaewon looks panicked. She sighs, “I’ll also do your Calc homework for a week.”) Heejin’s very keen on skipping homeroom and just hiding in a bathroom stall for the rest of the day, but Mrs K.O catches her trying to sneak into the boys’ and escorts her directly to her class.
“I really like you, Hyunjin, maybe I even love you, I want to be with you,” Jungeun reads as they walk through the hallway, holding Heejin’s phone out and lowering her glasses on her nose, “I want to kiss you. Honestly, it’s not that ba—and eat you out. Uhhh, I want your mouth on my tits. Crush me with your jock thighs, please. Oh, how polite. Love Heejin, hugs and kisses.”
There’s silence as they pass the computer lab, one of the ninth grade classrooms, the Home Ec room. Finally, Heejin bursts out, “Say something, oh my God, please!”
“I—” Jungeun starts, handing Heejin her phone. “I think you should look out for run on sentences.”
“That’s it,” Heejin says, shoving her phone into the pocket of her denim skirt. “Chaewon thought she could stop me, but I’m really killing myself this time.”
“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” Jungeun tries, grimacing a bit. “You kids are wilder than I’d ever care to imagine. Maybe she liked it? Maybe she’ll say yes.”
Heejin shakes her head. “She didn’t reply.”
“Well, go and find out,” Jungeun says, stopping abruptly and gesturing at the door of Class A’s homeroom. “Also, can you please pray to Buddha no one heard me reading all of that out loud to you? I actually like my job.”
Heejin lets out a sob, before pushing into the classroom.
“Heejin!” Hyunjin calls out immediately, waving her over. “I have bad news.”
Heejin’s heart sinks, and she takes a step back. She’s getting rejected in front of her whole class. She didn’t think Hyunjin could be so cruel.
“Heejin,” Hyunjin whines, beckoning even harder. “You have to see this.”
What, Heejin thinks, is she trying to bait me? She walks over timidly, dumping her bag on her desk on the way. That’s when she sees it.
Hyunjin’s hands are huddled around what appears to be the remains of Baby Yeojin. There’s a large shard that shows one of her eyes and a pucca bun. Heejin’s hand covers her mouth in horror.
“H-how did this happen?” she asks.
“Well,” Hyunjin starts, looking up at Heejin with these large sad puppy dog eyes. “When I got your texts, I was in the kitchen. And uh, I dropped Baby Yeojin on the tiles.”
“Oh God,” Heejin mutters, pacing around Hyunjin’s desk. “Holy shit. I’m so sorry. Oh my God, I was totally stoned when I sent those. I’m so sorry. I freaked you out and I killed our child. I deserve to go to jail.”
Hyunjin holds Heejin’s wrist, stopping her short. “Calm down, Heejin, it’s okay. We’ll just hold a funeral for her at recess. That’s what responsible parents would do, so we won’t even fail. And you didn’t freak me out.”
“I didn’t?” Heejin asks.
Hyunjin grins. “You didn’t.” The bell rings.
They hold a service in the school yard, next to the flower beds. It’s a small gathering of friends (Chaewon, Jeno, Yerim), spouses of friends (Olivia, Jaemin) and semi-peaceful protesters (Yeojin).
“Just so you know,” Yeojin whispers loudly to Heejin, as they all watch Hyunjin kneel onto the dirt and begin to dig a burial plot. “I may have hated your imposter baby, but I’m seriously offended that you killed her. Any child named after me should live a healthy well-rounded life and die peacefully in their sleep at the age of 100.”
“I didn’t kill her, Hyunjin did,” Heejin whispers back. Chaewon twitches next to her, the only other person aside from Hyunjin to know the sordid details behind Baby Yeojin’s death. “Also didn’t you curse my baby last Thursday?”
Yeojin shrugs. “My gut is telling me to blame you. I will find out why.”
Hyunjin barks out a laugh, cutting herself off just as quick. “Heejin, can you come help me with this?” she calls out quietly.
Heejin squats down next to Hyunjin, not wanting to get her knees dirty, and together they lower Baby Yeojin’s tissue-wrapped shards into the ground.
They say a quick prayer. Everyone places a flower atop Baby Yeojin’s grave (except for Yeojin, who rests a snail she found somewhere on top of the flowers), lips quivering in an attempt not to laugh as they give Hyunjin and Heejin their condolences.
When they’ve all wandered off, Hyunjin grabs Heejin’s hand, hoisting her up to her feet. She dusts off her knees with her spare hand, still holding onto Heejin’s. “Now that that’s over,” Hyunjin says, “Do you wanna skip art and make out in the bathroom?”
Heejin gives her a dubious look, and Hyunjin squeezes her hand, mouthing, I like you too.
“Yeah,” Heejin says, beaming. “I do.”
(Hyunjin slots one of her thighs between Heejin’s legs, Heejin’s skirt hiking up a little, and shoves her even harder into the bathroom wall. Heejin’s a tiptoe away from lifting off the ground and she holds onto Hyunjin’s shoulders like they’re a buoy protecting her against an ocean wave. They’d kissed sweetly at first, they really tried. But the second Hyunjin’s fingers inadvertently pressed into Heejin’s bladder (okay, so she drank a litre of water on the way to school to stop herself from having a nervous breakdown) Heejin had let out this humiliating whimper. Hyunjin pulled back, pupils dilating so manically Heejin was almost worried, and then dove back in, crashing her lips against Heejin’s again.
They kiss, rough and frantic and too too hot.
A loud cheer from the outside interrupts them. They pause, but don’t stop. Then there’s another, and a whole chorus of them, and someone yells out, “What the fuck, Mrs K.O’s wife just jumped out of the airplane! That English bitch crazy!”
Heejin and Hyunjin share a look, and rush over to the window above the toilet. In the sky are the words Marry me? written in smoke (Heejin later finds out from Jungeun that it was the only thing the pilot knew how to write), an airplane circling overhead and to their disbelief, Jinsol Oakley floating down to the ground in a parachute, her platinum blonde braid unmistakeable.
Hyunjin shoulders open the window and they squeeze together, peering down to watch Jinsol land. Jungeun runs up to her, not even waiting for Jinsol to get rid of the parachute before she’s pulling her in for a kiss.
“How romantic,” Heejin cries, clutching Hyunjin’s arm.
“Don’t expect me to do that for you,” Hyunjin says. Below, Jinsol tries spinning Jungeun around, only to trip on the parachute and end up in a heap on the ground. She pretends to shudder. “Way too public.”
Heejin tilts her head, watching the airplane shoot away, making the words scatter in the air. “And probably way too expensive,” she adds. She drops back down to the ground, paling at the loud slosh her stomach makes. She pushes Hyunjin to face the door. “Okay, now I really have to pee.”)
|
He couldn't just let it slide. It was too cute. It wasn't a well known fact to most that Shisui enjoyed such silly things like corny television commercials or talking YouTube dogs. So, naturally you weren't spared for your burger patterned panties.
Honestly, he has never been with a woman who wore anything that wasn't at least a little laced on the first night of coupling.
Some might assume that kind of underwear was worn when you were completely comfortable with someone or if you're single and not planning on seeing anyone that day.
Maybe you just thought nothing of it.
He snickers and you narrow your eyes as he studies your underwear, the tips of his fingers lightly trailing the lining closest to your entrance. "(Y/n)-kun, I can't believe you wore this for me!" He says, teasingly, his good spirits increasing as you open your legs alittle more.
You observe his pink cheeks, the alcohol on his breath light. He wasn't drunk, but he was definitely buzzed up. The Uchiha is extremely light weight. After the double date, that went very well; Shisui remained at your side after your sister left with her date. He actually didn't mind your company and wanted to spend more time with you. This eventually lead to a rather clumsy kiss on your doorstep, initiated by Shisui himself, followed by you both sitting on your bed in nothing but your underwear.
"Well, they are my favorite. It's cool you like them, but I think they'd be better off. Don't you agree?"
"I don't."
"What."
Shisui smiles. "Just go with it, (Y/n)-chan..." He whispers, leaning in to press his soft lips against yours. It was like kissing the most perfect pair of lips in the world. You could just die.
Shisui slowly pulls away and he giggles boyishly when he sees how you chase after his mouth. You blush as he smiles 'oh so' charmingly. "Why'd you stop?"
"So I can watch your face when I do this."
And on cue you gasp, feeling his thumb press down on your sensitive clit through your panties. "Uh, wow.." You say just above a whisper. You clutch onto your sheets as he rubs slow but wonderfully pressured circles. "Shisui..."
The Uchiha slowly rubs your hardening clit in pressure controlled circles, coaxing soft noises and cute responses out of you. Despite your hazing senses, you are able to place a hand on his thigh. Your hand slowly caressing up and down his inner thigh. Each time you get close to the steadily growing erection concealed behind the deliciously tight black boxer briefs that he's wearing; you don't touch him.
Your other hand tenderly strokes up his jaw line and into his short, wild silky black hair which is tightly woven between your fingers. When you gently pull him forward, Shisui doesn't hesitate to return the kiss you press against his lips.
A soft groan rumbling up his throat when your hand finally touches him. You massage his length for a few moments too long for him; a sigh escaping his lips when you break the kiss only to nip his bottom lip.
Shisui hisses softly when you nip down alittle harder. You suck the pinched part of his delicious mouth between your own. The Uchiha presses closer to you, his fingers leaving your center for now in exchange for your chest.
With his eyes closed and mouth busy, he's able to unclasp your bra with ease. You let out a soft moan of contentment from feeling that constricting article of clothing being stripped off your skin.
His hands cup and massage your breasts. You would have whined if he had pulled away for any other reason but to suckle your breasts. The sounds emitted as he does so are so needy.
Shisui's mouth leaves your breasts with a quiet pop. His lidded eyes are dark with lust as he gently pushes you onto your back. You close your eyes, arching into his form above you as his body cages you in, his mouth kissing a light trail from your collar to in-between your thighs.
Without another word his face is between your legs, you moan, his nose presses against your clit, his mouth feverishly sucking at you through the soaking wet fabric of your panties. You wished he would just take them off.
You feel his hot huffs of breath and his tongue. You hear his muffled words and moans, he pulls you up, his arms wrapped around your thighs, half your body off the bed as he mouths at you. When he's had enough, he nudges your panties to the side and his tongue is hurriedly buried inside you. You gasp, mouth ajar as moans pass through your lips. Your fingers dig uselessly into your sheets.
His mouth his uncoordinated on your heat. His lips sucking on your clit and his tongue flickering and pressing against it. When you start to come, he's unrelenting, only doing so harder. Yout thighs pressed firmly against his face. He doesn't listen until after you've begged him to stop.
He slowly releases you, still gentle, helping to lay down your trembling legs. He's over you again and he kisses you, his lips wet. You can taste yourself on his tongue. Shisui's hard length presses against your entrance. He breaks the kiss, his forehead pressed against your damp one.
He's staring into your eyes with a sweet little smile on his face. A quiet sigh leaves your lips once more, you wrap your arms around his neck. "Please.."
He hums playfully, his fingers playing with the smooth line of your underwear over your behind. "Since you said please.." He slowly pulls them down, you help with kicking them off. Your legs wrap around his waist. Shisui takes off his own and soon you are granted with a nudge of his leaking lip against your center.
He lids lower even more, his beautiful, dark long lashes making him impossibly cuter.
"Ready?"
You answer with pulling his head down into a sweet kiss, your legs tugging him forward. Shisui guides his swollen cock into you, gasping against your mouth as he buried himself to the hilt inside you. "Shisui."
He gently bucks into you, his slow thrusts feeling you out. You watch his eyes close, jaw slackening. His hips circle before pulling out and thrusting back in again, little harder than before. "Fuck." He whispered, and groans. "You're so tight!"
Hearing his voice and the words that leave his mouth only encourages you to thrust your own hips forward. Your eyes fluttering shut at the feel of him inside you, stretching you. He's movements are gently, controlled. His brows slightly fixed as he concentrates, holding back.
It's driving you crazy.
"Harder, just fuck me Shisui...!" You beg, yearning for him to crush his body against yours, to hold you down and claim you. "I want it."
A low rumble comes just before a almost painful jab of his hips, it knocks the wind out of you. Soft whimpers leave your open mouth as he pummels into you, the weight of his body pressing further into with each thrust.
Your nails claw down his muscular back, leaving tiny red marks on his skin. He watches your face contort in ecstasy under heavy lashes. His husky groans voice in your ear as his lowers his head to your shoulder. His mouth sucks and nips wantonly at your skin, your walls tightening with every a action of his body. The intense feeling in your lower stomach makes your toes curl.
Shisui growls a curse as he feels your walls strangle his cock. His thrusts never wavering as he uses your body. His hands at your hips are firm, tight, and bruising.
The way he pounds into you, you are sure you'll be sore for a few days. You hear him moaning lowly, it's enough to fuel you for another orgasm.
You push up against him, he pries his eyes open enough to see what you're doing. There are no words, they aren't needed.
Shisui patiently lies on his back as you guide his hot and slick length into you, the feeling of your hand around his cock making him lightly hiss. He groans as you sit on his lap, his erection buried inside you again, your back to him.
As much as he loves your face, he likes watching your ass just as much. You whimper when his hands come down on your ass, a light spank that makes you clench around him. Shisui holds onto your hips as you go up and down. It's really fun, hearing his gasps and moans, controlling his pleasure. The Uchiha's head lolls back as his balls tighten, his release drawing near.
"Y/n!" He whines, the sound of desperation in his voice makes you throb. You fingers rub furiously at your clit as you move faster above him. His fingers dig into your flesh, he thrusts up harder, sloppy as he meets his completion. His hot seed fills you in a way that makes you feel almost light headed. He's groaning even after he's done, his lidded gaze watching rut against him.
"Oh, Y/n~" His voice soft but hoarse, he moves up and reaches for your shoulder. You gasp as you are easily pulled down to lay down on his chest, his cock still inside you, still hard for the time being. "Let me." You shiver feeling his whisper in your ear.
Your legs are hook outside of his, spreading you wide. The first buck of his hips has your body captive before his fingers reach your clit. A string of moans fly past your lips as he trails light kisses and licks on whatever skin he can reach.
You close your eyes as his thrusts work you over, your bottom lip caught between your teeth as he pummels into you.Shisui shudders against you, his oversensitive cock trapped in between your pulsing hot walls.
After you both come down from your high, you lazily flip yourself over and press your very sticky bodies together. You press your lips against his plump ones, toes curling at the sweet sound rumbling up his throat.
|
Something tingles at Tobio’s subconscious, niggling and insistent, until he opens his eyes and groans sleepily.
Shuffling under the duvet and squinting in the dark, he slides one hand across the mattress to find a warm, empty spot in the bed next to him where, theoretically, Hinata should be. Tobio presses another groan into his pillow and cranes an ear. There are no noises in the flat that he can pick out – no squeak of the ageing pipes in the walls, or the soft rush of water. So Hinata’s not in the bathroom, which means-
“Oh for fuck's sake…” Tobio mutters into good quality goose down, and moodily flings the duvet from his person.
Lurching upright - a bit unsteadily because he’s never the most graceful immediately after waking - Tobio stumbles from the bed and out into the hallway, eyes open wide in a valiant attempt to see in the gloom. There are no lights on, the only illumination coming from dim, far away lights that shine in through the windows. Tobio huffs another sigh.
He stomps down the hallway, past the empty bathroom, and into the large, open area which comprises both their living space and their kitchen.
And there, in the middle of the room, staring down at their kotatsu like it holds the answers to all of life’s questions, is Hinata.
Who is still completely asleep.
Tobio sighs up at the ceiling, shoulders slumping, and a little snicker escapes him. Hinata’s chronic sleepwalking problem is a little frustrating sometimes, but it’s also admittedly absolutely hilarious.
“Come on, you,” Tobio says, not bothering to lower his tone because Hinata would ignore him anyway even if he was fucking shouting. “Back to bed.”
Hinata doesn’t sleepwalk very often, but when he does he normally does one of two things. Either he wanders into the kitchen area, opens the fridge and stares into the abyss of chilled food and milk until Tobio comes along and slams it shut again, or he does this. Which is navigate the kotatsu to stand on one side of it, and then get stuck, because apparently walking back around it is one of life’s little mysteries that sleep-walking-Hinata hasn’t quite figured out yet.
Tobio rounds the kotatsu and gently places both hands on his husband’s shoulders. He’s found that his voice doesn’t tend to snap Hinata out of it, but sudden touch and movement do, and he’d rather avoid waking Hinata up, if he can. Luckily, Hinata is reasonably pliant like this, and he obediently shuffles forward at Tobio’s gentle nudges, circling the kotatsu like a champ.
They trudge back down the hallway, Tobio doing his best not to look too hard at Hinata’s creepy half-lidded eyes (he loves him very much, but he doesn’t want nightmares) until they make it back into the bedroom. Hinata tends to move on autopilot at this point and something about their bedroom must be familiar, because he heads to – and then falls onto face first – their bed with no direction needed.
Tobio rolls his eyes fondly and sighs, clambering back into his side of the bed and watching with great amusement as Hinata worms his way across the mattress like a caterpillar before falling still in his correct place by Tobio’s side. He’s motionless for now, but it won’t be long before Hinata’s restlessness kicks in, so Tobio drapes himself across his husband’s back once he’s settled and buries his nose in the soft red hairs at the nape of his neck.
It had taken some getting used to Hinata’s… exuberant sleeping habits.
The thing is, when Tobio goes to sleep, he lies down, shuts his eyes and doesn’t regain consciousness again for a solid eight hours. Almost nothing rouses him. Hinata often says he sleeps like a dead log. Tobio has never struggled to sleep anywhere in his life. He settles down, gets comfortable, and then is out like a light. It’s one of the few things that he considers himself to be genuinely talented at.
Hinata, on the other hand… moves. Tobio’s always known he’s a restless sleeper, from their very first overnight training camp all those years ago at school. Hinata tosses and turns and changes sleeping positions at least once every eight minutes, unless he’s truly, deeply asleep. Tobio had once wondered if such a restless sleep meant he never felt fully rested, but Hinata had never woken up the next day complaining of being tired.
The transition from sleeping in the futon next to him as a teenager – where the only hazard was the odd kick to his calves, maybe – and then to sleeping in the same bed next to him as his husband was… difficult. There had been more than a few nights where Hinata had thumped him a little too hard with a flyaway limb, or rolled so far one way that he’d taken all the covers with him, or so far the other that Tobio found himself wheezing with Hinata’s full weight on his chest.
But it had gotten better. They had always been good at solving problems together after all.
The usual solution is to, for lack of a better term, smother Hinata so that he doesn’t feel the need to move.
“I used to have a blanket as a kid,” Hinata had told him once, shame faced and fidgeting, at 3am when Tobio had forced them to come a solution so that he could have one good night’s sleep. “But I got rid of it because… it’s childish you know? I guess it did help to hold something…”
Tobio had gawked incredulously at that and flung his arms open wide because hello? Perfectly good husband here to hold, readily available and willing.
So Hinata had stopped trying to fall asleep next to Tobio, and started to fall asleep wrapped around him instead, which suited Tobio just fine. He quite liked (a lot) being held – either being spooned or with Hinata nestled into his side or draped on top like a human duvet. It was deeply pleasant and made Tobio’s mouth wobble every night – something he had to smother in the bed sheets or Hinata’s hair lest he get caught.
But even though the tossing and the turning and the flying limbs at 3:30am were mostly halted, Hinata still sometimes seemed to have so much leftover energy, he had to channel it by wandering around their flat still fast asleep.
Tobio had no memory of him ever doing this while at training camps, so the first time that he had caught Hinata, staring at a box of leftover pizza in the fridge – an extremely rare treat – in the middle of the night he’d thought that he was sneaking a midnight snack. Annoyed that Hinata, someone who prided himself on his immaculate diet these days, was cheating by eating carbs and grease in the dead of night – without him! – Tobio had stomped over and grabbed him by the shoulder.
But instead of leaping into the air with a shriek and whirling around to barrage Tobio with a bunch of babbled excuses or simply running at full speed back to the bedroom, Hinata had startled under his touch and immediately begun to panic.
Turns out, being awoken suddenly in the middle of sleep walking was extremely disorientating.
Tobio had had to reassure him they were just in the kitchen - and that yes, he really was Tobio, who else would he be? – and Hinata had settled from his initial fright reasonably quickly after that.
“You… sleep walk?” Tobio had confirmed as they clambered back into bed once Hinata had calmed back down.
“Yeah, I do that sometimes.” Hinata had nodded, like it was no big deal and not the sort of thing you should think to tell your husband about.
Tobio had raised an eyebrow and stared. “Since when?”
“I don’t know! Since I was tiny?”
“What? You never did it at camp!”
“Didn’t I?” Hinata had stared the ceiling, eyes crossing over in thought. “I don’t think I did in Brazil either… must only be when I’m home.”
Calling their little shared space - just a pokey apartment in Tokyo that would suffice until they had time to find something bigger - home had made Tobio so gooey that he hadn’t challenged it any further. He'd simply tugged his husband back down onto the pillows and tried to smother him so that he wouldn’t get up again.
From then on Tobio knew not to startle Hinata awake, just to poke and prod him like he's a particularly dozy cow to direct him back to their bed, whereupon Hinata would collapse onto the mattress and wake again in the morning none the wiser. Tobio’s tempted to make a little tally of how often he finds Hinata simply wandering around the house looking possessed but he thinks his husband might possibly take offence.
So Tobio doesn't.
Until the night he wakes up – through the usual marriage voodoo that enlightens him that his spouse has left his immediate vicinity – and finds Hinata… bouncing a volleyball. In the hallway.
“This is new,” Tobio remarks to nobody in particular, watching with mildly impressed intrigue as Hinata bounces a ball from waist height to the floor and back again. Like a small child.
Tobio shuffles closer, making sure to keep quiet so that he doesn’t startle Hinata awake – lest his partner springs back to awareness and accidentally bounce the ball hard enough to smack himself in the face or something.
Slowly, Tobio reaches out and snags the ball mid-bounce, holding it out of the way and squinting at Hinata.
Hinata stands still for a full three seconds, before vaguely waving his hands up and down, repeating the motion to bounce a ball... just without a ball. He does this a few times, before his vacant, gormless face scrunches up in confusion and upset.
Panicking, Tobio stuffs the volleyball back into Hinata’s hands.
Hinata holds the ball between his palms, but does not resume bouncing it, just returns back to looking vacant again with his half-lidded eyes and softly open mouth. Tobio sighs in relief and nudges him gently, the relief increasing when Hinata happily shuffles forward back into their bedroom like usual.
“How did you even manage to find a fucking ball while asleep?” Tobio mutters viciously as they both fall back onto the bed. He worms his way across the mattress and loops his arms tightly around Hinata’s waist, grumpily burying his nose into his hair. He puffs out a sigh, lets his eyes slide shut, and waits for sleep.
Then immediately pops his eyes open again when he registers that Hinata is still holding the volleyball.
Cuddling it to his chest even, with a small, dopey smile on his face.
Tobio gives himself thirty seconds to feel deeply offended that his husband looks happier cuddling a leather ball than him, before he gives up and lets himself drift off.
If he has to lose, it might as well be to Mikasa’s finest product.
The next night, the same thing happens. Tobio awakens in the middle of the night, and locates Hinata upright and bouncing his new favourite sleeping buddy again, this time in the kitchen. Tobio has to rescue the ball before it smashes into their finest glassware (courtesy of Ikea) and then he quickly stuffs both ball and husband back into bed before any more shenanigans can happen.
The night after, he finds Hinata sitting on the floor, rolling a ball along the floor until it bumps against their bedroom wall. It rolls back, and he repeats the motion, over and over. Tobio doesn’t even bother poking him back to bed for this one – at least he’s sitting down. He shouldn’t get too tired.
When Tobio awakens for the fourth time in a row that week, to find Hinata standing on their sofa, mimicking a spiking motion with his arm on repeat, he decides that enough is enough. He stops his stupid husband from giving himself a repetitive shoulder injury, drags him down from his perch as vigorously as he dares, all but shoves him into bed, flings a volleyball at him to cuddle and then gets in himself after.
Tobio lies on his back and glares up at the ceiling, and ponders.
Hinata happily snuggles his volleyball, drools into his pillow, and is none the wiser.
“Is everything alright?” Tobio demands the next morning, when they’re making breakfast together.
Hinata blinks at him over the rice cooker. “… Yes?” he tries, looking extremely confused.
“You’re playing volleyball in your sleep,” Tobio states, deciding to just dive right into heart of that matter.
Hinata stares at him. The rice cooker beeps, and he presses the button to pop open the lid without breaking his gaze. There’s a long period of silence while the smell of freshly cooked rice fills the flat and the gears in Hinata’s head visibly turn.
“That’s kind of cool, actually,” is what he decides on, once he’s finished thinking.
Tobio nearly flings a spatula at him.
“Sleep is for resting, not sports,” he hisses, waving his egg-drenched kitchen utensil at his idiot partner. “You’ve been doing it every night for days, aren’t you tired?”
“Not really,” Hinata shrugs, after a moment’s pause. Then he squints at Tobio suspiciously. “Are you?”
Tobio immediately bristles, before the irritation swiftly recedes to be replaced with resignation. He is tired, admittedly, just a little. Just enough that he’s noticed the difference from his usual energy levels in the morning. Having his sleep interrupted every night is starting to take its toll, especially as every interruption is now starting to feature some sort of exercise. He’s a little concerned that he’s going to have to set to a still-sleeping Hinata at some point to appease his bizarre brain before he can safely drag him back to bed.
“… I’m sorry,” Hinata murmurs, breaking his train of thought. He looks at Tobio sadly from across the kitchen space, slowly spooning rice into bowls with a furrowed brow. “I keep waking you up, don’t I?”
Those morose, big brown eyes melt Tobio quicker than the butter soaking into the warm pile of toast and he puffs out a little sigh. “You don’t mean to,” he relents, and then pivots the conversation back to the start. “Are you sure there’s nothing’s bothering you? With practice?”
They’re currently in training with the rest of the national team in preparation for the international season. Hinata doesn’t get anywhere near as nervous as he used to, back when they were much younger, but it’s the only thing that Tobio can think of as the cause for his sudden burst of night time volleyball activity.
The sadness in Hinata’s face morphs into befuddled thought. “No?” he says, after barely a moment’s pause. “I don’t think so – why, do you think I’m doing badly?”
The edge of a fight in his tone is warm and familiar and Tobio grasps at it gladly. “That emergency set on Tuesday was pretty sloppy –“ he dodges Hinata’s kidney jab with a snicker, “- no, I don’t, I just- I don’t know why you’re suddenly playing fucking volleyball in your sleep!” he bursts out all in a rush. “Or how you’re managing it, either, actually.”
“I don’t know! I do lots of weird things when I’m asleep!” Hinata wails back, scrubbing his hands through his hair. “Look,” he sighs, after a moment’s frustrated hair pulling. “I’ll… think of something.”
Tobio’s mouth starts to purse, but before he can say anything, Hinata is darting into his space to kiss him sweetly.
“I won’t keep waking you up,” Hinata promises between little smooches. He doesn’t elaborate, but there’s a spark in his eye that hints at an idea, so Tobio relaxes against him and draws him closer for a proper good morning kiss.
That night, after a practice so gruelling Tobio is sure that Hinata will actually stay still all night, he is awoken, not from marriage voodoo, but from a ball literally dropping onto his head.
He springs awake with a bellow, cursing viciously when the ball smacks onto his face a second time and turns a murderous glare up the culprit.
Hinata stares sightlessly back down at him, standing upright in their bed, quietly fetching the ball from where it rolls across the mattress and moves to drop it back onto Tobio again. Tobio has just enough time with his sleep-dulled reflexes to lift his hands up protectively and catch the ball before it careens back into his face and breaks his nose.
He’s so irritated that rationality is thrown out the window, and he flicks his wrists with a snarl, launching the ball back up. Hinata surely can’t see it, but he somehow makes a clumsy, uncoordinated attempt to hit it with his hand anyway, completely misses, and just blinks dumbly when the ball finishes its skyward arc to knock against his forehead with a soft fwap.
Tobio squints warily, waiting for the moment when Hinata blinks back awake and prepares for the panic.
But Hinata doesn’t. His husband just blinks once, before his legs fold slowly as he sinks back down onto the bed, tilting sideways until he slumps against the headboard and simply… drops back to sleep.
Tobio gawps at him for a solid minute, flabbergasted.
He should, probably, rearrange him so that he doesn’t give himself the world’s stiffest neck from sleeping like that, but Tobio is so cross from having a ball dropped on his fucking face that he’s feeling a little vindictive. So he flings the volleyball that was innocently nestled on a pillow through their open bedroom door and out of sight and rolls decisively onto his side to go back to sleep.
(His stubborness lasts for about ten minutes before he does, in fact, rearrange Hinata back into something resembling a normal sleeping position. Hinata may be failing his duties spectacularly right now, but Tobio is a very good husband, thank you very much.)
“You dropped a volleyball on my face,” is Tobio’s response when Hinata greets him in the morning.
“… Oh,” Hinata says, small and soft. “Maybe I was trying to get a set?” he jokes, but his smile is weak and the humour falls flat at Tobio’s displeased, grumpy glare over his morning tea. “… I’ll work on it.”
That night, they go to bed as normal. Tobio drapes himself across Hinata like a human body warmer, as normal. They wish each other goodnight with lazy, mismatched kisses, as normal.
And then, later, as is the new normal, Tobio wakes up in the middle of the night, thanks to the universe deciding that it must always whisper in his ear whenever Hinata decides to drift more than three metres from his side. But the apartment is completely silent when Tobio stirs awake, and that in itself is now so abnormal, that it’s more curiosity than annoyance that drags him from the bed.
Tobio shuffles down the hallway, squinting in the low lighting, ears peeled. There aren't any immediate noises of a ball thumping against the floor or the walls, or the telltale shuffle of Hinata's feet across the floor. He peeks into the bathroom on his way past just to make sure that Hinata isn't doing something weird in there for a change, but there's no sign of him. Frowning sleepily, Tobio slouches into the living area, and squints.
There, on the sofa, horizontal and fast asleep like a completely normal person, is his husband.
Hinata is sprawled across the cushions in his usual manner - limbs akimbo, hair a mess and happily drooling into his pillow. Or his makeshift pillow, rather. Which seems to consist of a particularly lurid hoodie featuring the Brazillian flag balled up under his head. There's a blanket on the floor, seemingly thrown there at some point during the night, likely from Hinata’s constant tossing and turning. Tobio’s half surprised that Hinata hasn’t flung himself from the sofa as well, to be honest.
As Hinata snores gently in his sleep and wiggles his feet against the arm of the sofa, Tobio stares down at him with a mixture of fondness (because a sleeping Hinata is always sort of sweet, even if he is a constantly fidgeting, drooling mess. True love really did make you blind) but with also… a decent amount of petulant annoyance.
Tobio’s mouth purses in a grouchy pout and he plucks at some of the loose threads sticking out from their sofa irritably. Hinata had definitely gone to bed with him earlier that night, snuggled up to him nice and close, with Tobio draped across him like a happy limpet, but it seems he hadn’t planned on staying there.
It’s possible that Hinata could’ve gotten up for his usual mid-slumber stroll, but with the blanket and the hoodie… no. He’d gotten up, and taken himself to the sofa, fully awake, not wanting to sleep next to Tobio.
So Tobio pouts, and folds his arms, and tries not to sulk even though he is definitely, absolutely, resolutely, sulking.
He’s tempted to poke Hinata awake right there. Demand to know why his husband thought sleeping on the sofa was in any way acceptable when they weren’t actually fighting, but he doesn’t. Because Hinata is, admittedly, for once actually asleep – properly, deeply asleep – and not wandering around the flat or trying to practice receives against their fridge or trying to give himself some sort of repetitive shoulder injury. The thought is both soothing and also kind of upsetting, and Tobio feels his stomach squirm in guilty jealousy.
He stares mournfully down at his sleeping husband for another minute or two, before he sighs shakily and bends to pick up the discarded blanket. Draping it back over Hinata, he presses a quick kiss to his temple, neatly dodges the leg that kicks out in reflective response, and slopes off back to their bedroom.
Where he wraps himself around their duvet, pretends that it’s a person, buries his face in the pillows, and tries to sleep with his shoulders around his ears and his back altogether too cold.
Tobio wakes the next morning to a perfectly chipper Hinata who greets him just as he’s opening his eyes. He barely has time to blink the crust from his eyelids away before his husband is pressing a quick kiss to his yawning mouth, delivering some quip about his morning breath and then is dashing away again, yelling something about dibs and showers.
Normally, this would be the point where Tobio would throw himself from the bed in reckless, competitive abandon, in a desperate attempt to launch himself into the bathroom – and the shower – before Hinata did.
(They had tried showering together exactly once. It ended fairly quickly after they got a little too excited with the soap and Hinata had given himself a fantastic concussion on the wall tiles.)
But this morning, Tobio cannot be bothered. He lets Hinata have the first shower, responds half-heartedly to the victorious jeer, and simply slouches into the kitchen to finish the breakfast preparations.
“Are you okay?” Hinata asks him when he enters the kitchen himself, shower fresh and damp around the edges.
“Fine,” Tobio grunts automatically as he finishes plating up their breakfast. Then his stubborn side kicks in and his mouth is running without his permission again. “Actually, no. Why did you sleep on the sofa last night?”
He doesn’t mean for it to come across as accusing as it does – like Hinata had done something objectively wrong… except actually, no that was exactly what he had done. Husbands aren’t supposed to leave the other husband lying in bed all alone and cold with no explanation. Tobio is very confident about this. So he lets his face fold into an annoyed scowl and levels his terrible husband with a deeply unimpressed stare.
Hinata at least as the decency to look sheepish, and he shuffles on the spot, idly reaching for a tea towel to wring it between his fingers as he fidgets. He starts to speak just as Tobio thinks about kicking him in the ankle. “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he says, his abashed expression crumpling into something a little more upset, and Tobio abruptly feels all of his irritation simply evaporate. “I keep waking you up and that’s not fair on you so I thought I’d… sleep out here instead. And then if I did get up in the night you wouldn’t notice. But I still woke you up, didn’t I? I don’t know what I’m- I must be noisy, I’m sorry-“
“I wake up because you’re not there, idiot,” Tobio interrupts suddenly, once he realises exactly where this is headed. “Not because you’re crashing about.”
Hinata tilts his head at him in soft confusion, some of his distress giving way to intrigue, though he continues to twist the tea towel into tight coils in his hands.
Tobio’s tempted to reach out and tug it from him, but it’s an outlet for Hinata’s constant, never-ending restless energy, and that always acts up when he’s feeling anxious about something. “I’m used to having you there next to me, dummy,” he elaborates, letting exasperated fondness soften his tone. “I wake up because you’re missing, so of course I noticed you were on the sofa. I don’t actually know if you got up or not.”
“… Oh,” Hinata murmurs, and continues his assault on the tea towel as he stares off into the middle distance. Clearly Tobio’s words aren’t bringing much reassurance.
So Tobio sighs and steps up close to him, raising his hands to rub Hinata’s upper arms slowly (and taking a small, private moment to enjoy his biceps. He’d been denied the privilege all night after all.) “I don’t like the idea of you sleeping on the sofa every night,” he says simply, because straight to the point is normally the best way of getting through to Hinata. “That’s ridiculous, and you’ll hurt your back.”
Hinata squirms uncomfortably. “But when I… sleep walk, and stuff, I don’t even notice. I’m not tired in the morning even if I do get up, so it’s nothing to me. But I do wake you up, and I know you’re tired.”
Tobio’s gut instinct is to protest this, and he even gets halfway through opening his mouth to retort before he’s pinned by an unimpressed, golden-brown stare and he shuts it again with a soft clack of teeth. He ponders this point carefully. Yes, he’s a little drowsier in the mornings because his sleep is interrupted. Yes, it’s sort of annoying. And yes, it’s going to become even more annoying once it starts to impede on his volleyball performance.
But Tobio really, really doesn’t want to sleep apart from his husband more than is strictly necessary. They already spend at least half the year apart when the club season starts – their together time is precious enough as it is.
“You’ll just have to stop sleep walking,” he states simply.
Hinata squints at him in irritated disbelief. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, voice drenched in sarcastic exasperation. “I’ll just stop. Of course. Silly me, I forgot I do it on purpose.”
Tobio does at least wince. “No,” he groans, regret flooding him. “No, no… I mean, we need to think of a way to stop you getting up every night. I swear you are not normally like this, I would have noticed. Something must be different to make you get up so often.”
“But I don't know why!” Hinata whines, resuming his assault on the tea towel. He wrings it a few more times, staring down at it while he visibly thinks. Tobio waits patiently, rubbing his thumbs over Hinata's skin soothingly where he still holds his arms gently. “What… do I normally do?” Hinata asks eventually, brow still creased in thought.
“Normally you just roll around the bed like a tornado,” Tobio says, with the air of someone who has long since resigned themselves to their spouse never having a normal night’s sleep. “And you get up sometimes. Just to wander into the kitchen mostly, you go back when I poke you. You’ve never gotten up more than one night in a row though, and the… sleep volleyball is definitely new.”
Hinata’s brow knots up tighter, and he sucks on his lower lip to chew on it in thought, but no revelations seem to come forth. Tobio releases his arms to run a hand through his own hair as he ponders in turn. There has to be something…
“What about…” Tobio starts, as he grasps at straws. “When you were little?”
“Huh?”
“It started when you were little right? Did you ever do anything like this when you were a kid, or has it always been just… wandering around?”
Hinata stares up at the ceiling as he thinks hard. “I… have no idea,” he says honestly. “I don’t remember anything, obviously, but I guess… maybe? Mum did always say it was troublesome.”
“Call her,” Tobio essentially demands, clinging onto this thin shred of hope.
“What?”
“Call her,” Tobio repeats, irritably. “Ask her if you started playing sports or did any other weird shit in your sleep as a kid and what you did to stop it.”
“I’m not- I can’t-“ Hinata protests, a furious, embarrassed flush staining the bridge of his nose. “I’m an adult!” he whinges – Tobio raises an ironic eyebrow – “I don’t want to call her about stuff like that-“
“I will,” Tobio threatens. “I’ll ask her. I’ll ask her right now.”
He moves with decisiveness to do just that (though it’s mostly a bluff – not that he has any issues with calling his mother-in-law, he just doesn’t know where his phone is.)
Hinata flings himself to wrap two strong arms around Tobio's waist, whining piteously. “No, no!” he pleads and then immediately withers under the force of Tobio’s glare. “I’ll call her,” he promises, pressing his increasingly red face into Tobio’s pyjama shirt. “After practice.”
Tobio squints down at the tuft of red hair by his armpit. “Promise?” he growls. He really, really wants to sleep one full night before he truly loses it. The tiredness is starting to make him feel irritable and twitchy, and the resulting snappishness is frustrating.
“I promise,” Hinata sighs and releases his iron grip around his waist. He still looks uncomfortable, a lingering flush still clinging to his cheeks and neck, but his eyes are set. And Tobio knows to trust those eyes, once that little glint appears, lighting up the brown. He bends to press a kiss to a red cheek in gratitude and stands up swiftly before Hinata can chase for anything more. They’re going to be late at this rate, and besides – Hinata can have all the kisses he wants once he’s fulfilled his end of the bargain.
True to his word, at least, Hinata does fetch his phone once they return to their apartment later that evening after practice. He ushers Tobio into the kitchen and orders him to make a start on dinner, and then hustles to the sofa with his phone pressed to his ear. Normally, Hinata prefers to cook himself, but Tobio suspects this is his way of keeping him out of the way while he’s on the phone. No matter – the living space is open, and the sound will carry across anyway.
So Tobio clatters around the kitchen, getting his meal prep under way and unabashedly eavesdrops as Hinata starts speaking from across the room.
“Hi Mum- yeah no, everything is fine, how are you…?”
It trails off into hums and ‘okays’ and the usual pleasantries and Tobio bangs a pot of water down on the hob a little harder than is really necessary – a silent way of urging Hinata to get on with it.
“Actually, I was just wondering… remember when I was a kid? And I used sleep wal- yeah. … Yeah. Well, kind of…”
Promising, Tobio allows, as he dumps his ingredients into the pot on the stove and stirs them. He ear wigs as Hinata asks the odd question but otherwise hums along to whatever his mother is telling him. When Tobio glances over his shoulder, his husband is rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, but he is smiling. Good. At least whatever he’s being told isn’t so humiliating to him that it’ll become a roadblock to a solution.
“Alright, I see. … Yes. Yes, thank you. Tell Natsu I said hi. Mmm, I will. Okay, okay, I gotta go, love you, bye.”
“How was that?” Tobio calls as Hinata hangs up and blows out a breath.
Leaving his stew to simmer on a low heat, Tobio washes and dries his hands, and then crosses the room to flop down onto the sofa next to Hinata.
“Well,” Hinata starts, and there’s a little glint of mischief in his eye. He lifts his arm and throws it over Tobio’s shoulders, and Tobio shuffles a little closer obediently, bending his head close. “She said there was one time – before I discovered volleyball – where I got really into baseball for a month because Japan won a tournament or something. And apparently I’d always sleepwalked, right, ever since I was tiny and could get out of bed on my own, but for a week I slept walked around the house with a baseball bat.”
“Oh my god,” Tobio groans, torn between horror and extreme amusement.
Hinata’s smile widens. Clearly he thinks it’s hilarious, at least. “Yup. Broke at least three ornaments… and the tv.”
He exchanges a look with Tobio. They look at each at other for a beat, before they both start snorting.
“Okay, okay, no but I did make Natsu cry at one point so my Mum did have to intervene,” Hinata says around his giggle. He takes a couple of breaths to sober himself before continuing. “She said apparently she just used to… talk to me, for a bit, before I went to bed. Something about letting me 'get it all out of my system’ before I went to sleep, and then I stopped doing it.”
“Why didn’t she just… hide the bat?”
“I kept-“
“- finding it,” Tobio finishes, with a nod of solidarity. Stupid question, really, he’s already tried hiding the volleyballs littered around their flat to no avail. There was one moment where he considered popping them, but the thought had left him feeling vaguely ill, so he didn’t (after apologising to the yellow and blue leather reverently.)
He glances up once he notices that Hinata has fallen quiet, and frowns at the odd, pensive expression that has fallen over his husband’s face. “What?” he asks, nudging Hinata’s knee with his own. “This is an easy solution, what’s the problem?”
Hinata lifts his arm from around his shoulders and pokes his index fingers together. “I’m sorry I’m… difficult?” he replies, but his voice is lifted in its inflection at the end – like he’s not sure of his own word choice. “First it was me moving too much, and now it’s this- I know you just want to fall into bed and go to sleep, so-“
“Shouyou,” Tobio interrupts, before this can further devolve into nonsense. “What you are asking me to do is basically hold you in bed and talk about volleyball with you until we both fall asleep, because you are too excited about the new season and you keep getting up because of it. That about right?”
“... That’s about the gist of it, yeah,” Hinata confirms with a reluctant little nod.
Tobio pouts, trying to figure out the problem. Cuddling and talking about the best sport in the world with his favourite person until they both fall asleep. Getting to stay asleep for a whole eight hours, uninterrupted. There were absolutely no downsides to any of this arrangement. “What’s the problem again?” he asks, just for clarification.
“You don’t mind?” Hinata says hopefully.
“… Why would I mind…” Tobio says slowly, deeply confused, “holding my husband and talking about volleyball?”
Hinata tilts his head this way and that. “Fair point,” he agrees after a beat, and he lets a sunny smile spread over his face. Tobio has just enough time to return a small one back before Hinata is shuffling across the sofa to clamber into his lap, bullying his way into Tobio’s space like it was his all along. “Hey,” he murmurs, as he leans in close and trails the tip of his nose up and down Tobio’s bridge. “What about… one extra thing, before we do all that?” he kisses Tobio long and deep, and then leans back just enough to waggle his eyebrows suggestively.
Tobio huffs a laugh against him, grabs Hinata's lower lip between his teeth and tugs. Lets his hands slide under Hinata's shirt and over the strong muscles in his back. “Dinner first,” he says lowly, and grunts when Hinata changes the angle of their kiss just so and leans his weight onto Tobio – forcing him backwards against the cushions.
Hinata plants his hands on the back of the sofa either side of Tobio’s head and kisses him deep, soft little sighs pouring out whenever Tobio’s wandering hands trail over something sensitive. “I won’t sleepwalk tonight,” he promises, a twinkle in his eye.
“You’d better not,” Tobio grunts, tugging him a little closer and relishing the gasp it elicits. “If you get up again tonight I might have to consider divorce.”
Hinata lifts one hand from the sofa to tug at Tobio's hair – not tightly, just enough to show his annoyance – and Tobio snickers. Hinata plants one last smooch, loud and obnoxious, against his cheek before he pulls away, red faced and a little breathless. “Who else would you marry? The volleyball?” he asks, laughter in his voice.
“The volleyball is a very good bed partner,” Tobio says solemnly. Hinata should know – he snuggles one every night.
Hinata catches his eye and then they’re both laughing, the ridiculousness of the situation (and a slight amount of sleep deprivation on Tobio’s part) getting to them and tickling at their ribcages. Then the oven timer beeps from where Tobio had set it earlier and Hinata levers his way off of Tobio’s lap with a few remaining giggles.
“You’re the best husband,” Hinata says as he tugs Tobio to his feet in one smooth motion. “Please don’t divorce me.”
“I’ll try,” Tobio smirks, because he knows this, and he strolls into the kitchen with Hinata hot on his heels and jabbering in his ear.
And later that night, after dinner and their extracurricular activities, wrapped around each other a bit too sticky but too comfortable to care – Hinata babbles happily about that week’s practices and next week’s practices and their upcoming game and all the new moves that he wants to try.
Tobio simply holds his husband tightly, hums where it’s appropriate and lets himself drift off slowly to the sound of volleyball in his ears.
And doesn’t wake up again for eight whole hours.
|
Carey: I’m gonna do it
Magnus squinted at the text from Carey. It was a Thursday afternoon, and he was trying to get through his math homework so he could sketch out this sculpture concept a bit before bed. He had no idea what Carey was talking about.
????, he replied
Carey: I’m asking Killian out and theRE’S NOTHING U CAN DO TO STOP ME
Magnus: Hell yeah!
Carey: IM DOING IT
Magnus: DO IT
Carey: Oh god I can’t do it
Magnus: Wait, why not?
Carey: She’s so cool and beautiful and I’m just a scrawny little lizard of a person and there’s no way she’d ever say yes and then everything it going to be WEIRD and we can’t be a team anymore and Magnus we’re NEIGHBORS even if I quit fencing I have to see her every day and I can’t get myself kicked out of another school or my mom will literally actually kill me so I can’t escape she’s going to know I like her and she’s going to laugh at me and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
Magnus had to read the text twice before he caught all the nuances in it. Carey had worked herself up into a proper panic, and he was never sure exactly how to defuse that, but sometimes logic helped. It at least made him feel like he was helping. God, he wished he could drive. He could just go over to her school and talk to her face to face, maybe hug her. Instead, he began to type out his reply.
Magnus: K, let’s break this shit down. 1, do you think Killian would actually laugh at you? Or make things awkward? She’s like the chillest person ever
Carey: No I would make things awkward Im so awkward
Magnus: Let me finish, I got a numbered list here
Carey: ://///
Magnus: 2, you’re more like a DRAGON than a lizard, you’re a badass, and Killian knows that. Why would anyone not like you, esp someone who knows you as well as she does?
Magnus: 3, fuck your mom, but also don’t get kicked out on purpose ok? I’d miss you if I couldn’t beat you up with foam swords every weekend
In conclusion, uh, I get if you don’t want to ask her out today, but don’t be mean to yourself about it.
Carey: can I say shit now?
Magnus: yeah
Carey: ok I’m not going to get kicked out
Carey: probably
Carey: not on purpose
Magnus: good
Carey: I’d miss you too. I missed amtguard so much over the summer
Carey: WAIT THAT’S GENIUS
Magnus: ????????
Carey: I’M GOING TO ASK HER TO COME TO AMTGUARD
Carey: SHE LOVES SWORDS
Carey:ITS LOW PRESSURE
C: and then maybe if we have fun I can bring up that maybe it’s a date??????
Magnus: That’s a good idea actually
Carey: the only kind I have ;)
Carey: ok gonna go ask brbbbbbbb
Magnus grinned at his phone and set it aside, making himself focus on his math. Usually he liked matrix multiplication—it was straightforward and methodical—but it took so long, and tonight he barely had the patience for it. Between Carey and the scholarship competition, it felt like everything else was more important than schoolwork.
He managed to keep his brain on his homework for a good ten minutes until his phone chimed again.
Carey: ok I’m back
Magus: !!! How’d it go????
Carey: mixed results :/
Magus: tell me more
Carey: ok so she’s coming to amtgaurd, which, GREAT, but she also immediately suggested that Noelle come too and like that’s a great idea!!! She’d love it!!! But also now it can’t be a date bc I love Noelle but platonically yaknow? So that’s less great
Magus: oof. That sucks
Magus: guess you’ll have to ask her out directly like a regular person
Carey: or I could not do that
Carey: I could just never say anything to anyone again until I die
Magus: maybe don’t do that either
Magus: <3 <3
Carey: <3 <3 <3
———
Barry pulled up to Magnus’s house and parked his battered white car out front. The address Magnus had given him was for a two-story house on a quiet residential street. As promised, there was a field next to it, up a short hill from the street. It was a simmering Saturday afternoon, the only sounds the singing of a few late cicadas and the faint noise of traffic a few streets over.
And then the silence was shattered. Magnus burst through the house’s front door, carrying a humongous fake sword that appeared to be wrapped in duct tape. “Barold! You made it!”
Barry lifted a hand, slightly reeling from the nickname.
Taako and Lup appeared in the doorway behind Magnus, arms full of smaller swords. Taako hoisted one into the air. “Hail and well met, my dude!”
“Uh, hi.”
The three of them clattered down the front stairs to the street, then began to climb the hill to the field. At first, Barry just watched them go, unsure what to do, but then Lup called “Come on!” over her shoulder, and Barry hurried to catch up with her.
“Do you, uh, need any help with those?” he asked, indicating the swords that were threatening to spill out of her arms.
“Nah, I got it.”
Barry didn’t know what else to stay, so he just followed her onto the grass, where she and Taako dumped their loads onto the ground. They weren’t only swords, Barry saw now, but a whole variety of weapons—daggers, a couple maces, an axe, a pair of nunchucks on a string, something that looked like a double-ended lightsaber. All of them looked oddly tube-like. Barry picked one up—it was surprisingly light. “What are these made of?” he asked.
Magnus said, “The swords are all pool noodles on pvc pipe, wrapped in duct tape. Everything else is a variation on that.” He set down the giant sword he was carrying, and now Barry could see that it was pretty clearly three noodles attached side-to-side. Someone had written the word “Berserker” on it in hot pink washi tape.
“They’re really impressive.”
“Thanks, man!” Magnus grinned at the compliment. “They’re really fun to make. Fisher, come!”
Barry blinked, then realized the words weren’t meant for him, and turned. A huge black dog was bounding out of Magnus’s yard and toward the four of them. It hit Magnus at top speed, knocking both of them onto the grass. Barry winced, but Magnus was laughing, wrasseling with the dog.
Lup sidled up to Barry. “That’s Fisher,” she said.
“I gathered.”
“She’s a sweetie, but she’s kind of a lot.’
Barry had figured this out, too, but repeating himself would be rude, so he just stayed quiet.
Lup gave him an odd, sidelong look. “So,” she said. “Amtguard. I assume you don’t know the rules?”
Barry shook his head.
“Right. Basically, your goal is to fuck up everyone who isn’t on your team—or everyone, period, if we’re playing everyone-for-themselves. If someone hits you in the torso, that’s an insta-kill. You get hit in the arm or leg, and you can’t use it anymore. Headshots and groin shots don’t count, and also are a shitty thing to do, so try not to do them, capisce?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Oh, and one more thing. You’re going to suck ass.”
Barry immediately went red. “Ex-excuse me?”
“Your brain is used to fencing—one opponent, straight line, et cetera. This is super different, and you’re going to be fucking terrible. Don’t worry about it, though. We’re chill here. And I heard there’s going to be some other new people today, so you might not even be the worst!”
Barry wilted a little. He was sick of being bad at things. Bad at fencing, bad at talking, and now bad at Amtguard, before he’d even had a chance to play. He longed for the weekend to be over, so he could go back to school where at least he knew what the fuck he was doing.
Lup jostled him with her shoulder. “Buck up, broski. You’ll have fun, I promise.”
Barry laughed—just a small, awkward laugh, but a laugh all the same. Lup smiled even bigger, and it seemed like she was about to say something else, but then her eyes snapped back to the street.
“Oh shit, here come the kids!”
Sure enough, a truck had pulled up to the lot, and Angus and Mavis were spilling out of it. It looked like they’d both tried to leave through the same door at the same time. Merle leaned out of the driver’s side window and called, “Have fun, kiddos!”
“Thank you, sir!” Angus called back, but Mavis studiously ignored him, going to fist bump Magnus instead
Just as Merle was pulling away, a dark blue sports car parked in front of Magnus’s house. It was small and expensive-looking, all clean lines and tinted windows, its beauty only marred by a gnarly dent in the rear bumper. Out from the driver’s side popped a skinny white girl with short black hair and a flannel tied around her waist. “I’m a free woman, fuckos!” she shouted, running up the side of the hill. Magnus opened his arms, and she ran into them.
Two other girls emerged from the car rather more slowly. One was nearly as tall and buff as Magnus, with brown skin and thick black hair that she had up in a pony tail. The other was shorter, with light skin, curly hair, and freckles. There was something unusual about the way she walked—it took Barry a moment to notice that her left leg was a prosthetic.
When they were al gathered on the field, Magnus said, “Everyone, meet Carey, Killian, and Noelle, the kickass St. Ioun’s fencing team. Ladies, this is Angus, Mavis, and Barry. They fence with us. And, uh, you already know Taako and Lup.”
Carey, the skinny one, reached out to bump fists with Lup. Killian and Noelle hung back, a little awkward. There was a moment where no one spoke, and Barry contemplated self-immolation, and then Taako said, “Hey guys? Are we gonna fucking play or what?”
Magnus cheered and clapped him on the back, and then made for the pile of weapons. The others followed. Lup grabbed Barry’s wrist. “Come on,” she said, pulling him with her, “or you’ll get stuck with shitty daggers or something!”
Barry wound up with two short swords. He had no idea how to fight with his left hand, but everyone else was either dual-wielding or using an impractically large weapon, and all the big ones were gone by the time he got there. Mavis had won the scramble for the Berserker. Angus had the only shield, a big rectangle of cardboard covered in duct tape, and had a sword in his hand and an extra dagger stuck in his back pocket. Carey only had two daggers, which struck Barry as a risky move. Almost everyone else was armed like him, with one or two swords.
“Teams?” Lup suggested, and the others nodded like it meant something. At least Noelle and Killian also looked like they weren’t sure what was supposed to be happening.
“Magnus and I are going to kick your ass, Lulu” said Taako with a grin.
“We’ll see about that. Barold, Mavis, be on my team?”
“No, I wanted Mavis!” Magnus said.
Mavis said, “Sorry, dude, she asked first.”
Magnus turned to Carey. “Are you going to abandon me too?”
“Course not, my dude!”
Angus piped up, “Can I be on your team, sirs?”
“Sure thing, little man,” said Taako.
Lup said, “Noelle, Killian, help me smash them?”
“Hell yeah!” Killian said.
“I’d be honored,” said Noelle. Barry was struck by the strength of her southern accent, and by how he wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic or not.
The two teams made their way to opposite sides of the field. Magnus, Taako, Carey, and Angus huddled up, but Lup just stood with her sword at the ready.
“Um,” said Barry, “shouldn’t we be strategizing like that?”
Lup laughed. “Nah, dude, their plan is going to fall apart in exactly ten second. Our plan is—” she raised her voice so the others could hear her too, “—watch each other’s backs and try not to get your asses killed. HEY CHUCKLEFUCKS!” (This was directed at the other team). “LET’S FUCKING FIGHT!”
“FINE!” Taako bellowed back.
“Hey, Mavis, will you count us down?” Lup asked at a more reasonable volume.
Mavis nodded. “Three!” She called. “Two! One! Lay on!”
Barry had expected them all to run at each other, but instead, the groups approached each other slowly. Angus tried to sneak around the side, but Killian noticed him and swung at him, coming up short but sending him scrambling back to his team.
“Okay,” said Lup, “more like thirty seconds.”
And then they were in fighting range, and Lup was gone, dueling with her brother.
Carey made for Barry, and he stumbled up, bringing up his sword to block her. He tried to to hit her, but she was inside his guard—those damn daggers—and he couldn’t get the space. He would have died right there if Noelle hadn’t taken Carey’s arm off from behind.
Carey cursed, dropping one of her daggers and tucking her arm behind her back. “I thought you were my friend, Noelle!”
“Sorry, hun!” Noelle was already running away to help Mavis fight Magnus, but the exchange had given Barry time to back up, and now he swung at Carey. She ducked under his swing, dropping into a roll and popping up right in front of him before he could think to move—all with one arm behind her back. He barely managed to deflect her blow into his arm instead of his chest.
From halfway across the field, Taako shouted, “Oh shit, sweet flip!”
Carey flashed him a smile, and Barry swiped at her again. She noticed his blow in time to knock it into her leg, cursed, and then stabbed him right in the gut. She wobbled away, muttering about newbies taking all her limbs.
Barry sat down on the ground where he’d died. He wasn’t the first fatality—Killian had underestimated Angus, and was sprawled out on the ground going through some pretty dramatic death throes—but Lup was right, he hadn’t made an especially good showing. Still, watching the battle raging on around him, hearing everyone’s laughing and shouting and carrying on, and just the knowledge of how deeply silly this whole thing was, made it hard for him to feel down on himself. Especially when Lup crashed down beside him, finally bested by Taako and Angus working together. Mavis and Noelle were still alive, and Carey and Magnus were dead, so their odds were pretty even.
“Avenge me!” Lup called, shaking her fist in the air.
“You’re dead” said Taako. “You can’t talk!”
“We’re undead over here, baby!” Lup dabbed, and Taako stuck his tongue out at her—and was promptly killed by Mavis.
Lup burst out laughing. Barry did too. It was hard, he was learning, to not laugh when Lup was laughing.
Angus killed Noelle, and then Mavis killed Angus, winning their team the battle. They cheered for her, and she high-fived all of them. Barry was half-surprised when she high-fives him, too, but then he had been part of the team, even if he wasn’t that useful.
Lup elbowed him again. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, and it wasn’t even a lie.
——
The second battle was everyone-for-themselves. Noelle had Magnus backed up to the fence, with nowhere to run and no good ideas. He still had all his limb, but that wouldn’t last if he didn’t get away. Noelle may be new, but she knew what the fuck she was doing with a sword. She swung at him, but he blocked it, barely. He fainted at her head, then swung around at the last minute and got her in the knee. He was about to do some dumb one-liner when he realized what he’d done—he’d hit her right in the prosthetic leg.
Magnus froze. He tried to stammer out an apology, but he felt like his brain was short-circuiting. He couldn’t even make a sound.
Noelle looked down at her leg, and for a moment Magnus was terrified she’d say he’d broken it, but she just deadpanned, “Gosh am I careless. I can’t believe I lost the dang thing twice.” Then she looked up at him and grinned, and he grinned back, and she stabbed him in the stomach and hopped away on her remaining leg.
———
The third fight, another team battle, found Lup, an arm and a leg down, wobbling her way toward a similarly-wounded Killian. Killian let out a tremendous shout and launched herself at Lup, who screamed in response and fell forward, sword extended. It was mutually assured destruction—Killian rammed Lup in the stomach just as Lup sliced her across the side, and both of them collapsed onto the grass.
Everyone else was still alive (though Magnus was on his knees, swinging wildly at anyone he thought was close enough), so Lup said, “Looks like we’ll be here for a while.”
“Yep. Fuck. I can’t believe that Barry guy cut my arm off.”
Lup threw back her head, laughing. “Barold learns fast!”
“Is his name actually Barold?” Killian asked.
“No, it’s Barry, but Barold is better, don’t you think?’
“Oh, I mean, obviously. But Barry could be short for, like, Bartholomew or something.”
Lup snorted so hard she physically doubled over. “Holy shit. God, I hope his name is Bartholomew, that would be fucking gold.” She straightened up, planting a hand on Killian’s arm to steady herself, and bellowed across the field, “BAROLD!”
Barry was trying to fend off Noelle and Angus with one hand behind his back, but he still turned when Lup called. “Yeah?”
“IS YOUR NAME SHORT FOR SOMETHING?”
“Uh, yeah!”
“WHAT?”
“Sildar. Goddamn!” Noelle swiped him right across the stomach, and he sat down in the grass.
“Huh,” said Lup.
“Huh,” said Killian.
“I guess we’ll unpack that one later.”
——
The afternoon wore on. Barry spent enough time dead on the ground that he wasn’t exhausted when they finally broke for the evening, but he was decently sore. Merle came to pick up Mavis and Angus, and as they were leaving, Killian said, “We’ve got to head out, too. We’re only signed out until six. See you tomorrow, though!” She shot finger guns at them.
“Tomorrow?” said Magnus.
“Yeah, dumbass,” Taako said. “Tomorrow’s the first tournament. Your mom is driving us.”
“Oh shit,” said Magnus. He covered his face with his hands and said again, “Oh shiiit. I completely forgot. My mom’s working all day tomorrow.”
“Well, fuck,” said Lup. “Can you borrow her car? You got your license over the summer, right?”
“I, uh, may have failed the test.”
“Magnus!”
“A couple times.”
Lup raked her fingers through her hair. “I guess we could ask to borrow our grandfather’s car, but that’s pretty much definitely not happening.”
“Would your mom care if I drove her car?” Taako asked.
Magnus grimaced. “Probably.”
Lup turned to Carey. “Could we ride with you guys?”
“I wish. It’s a school activity, so we have to take a big fucking bus for just the three of us.”
Magnus looked like he was about to cry. “Shit, guys, I’m so sorry.”
“I could drive you guys.”
Every head turned to look at Barry, who was twisting his hands together.
“Are you serious?” said Lup.
“Yeah. I don’t have any plans tomorrow. How far away is the tournament?”
Taako and Magnus glanced at each other. “It’s in Felicity,” Taako said, “so like an hour and a half?”
“Oh yeah, that’s no problem. I mean, if you guys want me to.”
Lup grinned at him, fire-bright and lovely. “You just saved our lives, Barold.”
|
Jimin has been feeling horrible, he is definitely sick, he has a fever and can't really concentrate, that is when he us actually awake. It's knocked him for six, and he's had terrible dreams. Dreams where he's with Yoongi again, belly round with just pups. Having amazing sex and being knotted.
It's unrealistic and hurtful. He knows that Yoongi isn't his. Not anymore. And by the end of the moon. Not ever. He's Hana's now, mated and probably bred with pup's on the way.
It's painful and soul destroying to think about, so he doesn't. He concentrates on the nice person who made his best for him. The person who is taking care of him, the one who smells so nice and gives him good cuddles.
He feels miserable, emotionally drained but damn dues getting cuddles with back rubs make him feel good.
He wakes, finally feeling better, stretching his limbs out a little, tensing and relaxing them. He feels someone, probably the nice person caring for him nuzzle into his temple.
Opening his eyes for the first time in what feels like forever he's net with the sight of his caregiver.
“Yoongi?!” Jimin shuffles back out if Yoongis hold, “what are you going here? Your meant to be with Hana.”
Yoongi looks pained for a second, pulling Jimin back to him and rolling over, face to face, in their sides.
“Nope. Not when my omega is in heat. And definitely not when he thinks I'm with someone else.”
Jimin looks stunned. Mouth open in shock.
“But, you were going to mate her, and breed her,” voice quiet, so quiet that Yoongi almost misses it, “your her boyfriend.”
It's sounds so painful. The words Jimin is saying, but he needs to get them out.
“Why would I mate her when I have a soulmate already? And as for pups, the only person I want to carry them us you. My pups need to have your chubby cheeks or I'm not having any at all.”
Wait, what?
Is Yoongi serious? He wants pups with Jimin.
Screw that, he's not mating Hana?
But hold on, aren't they dating? What does that make Jimin?
“But she's your girlfriend? She told me you were going to mate.”
“Well she's a lying liar that lies. We were never together I promise you. The first time we went out was at the pub. She's been lying the whole time. About everything.”
Jimin is hopeful, “so she's not your girlfriend?”
“Nope, I only went out that night to meet new people. And when I saw you, I had never been more grateful to go out to a bar in my entire life.”
“But you said you were happy? With her?”
“No I was ecstatic to do f out you were still single, well your mated, but you weren't saying Jungkook line I thought you were.”
“Kookies just a friend.”
“I know that know, but the watersports and fucking in a bathroom comment told me otherwise. Plus Eunae introduced him as your alpha.”
“It's a silky joke, I told them to stop.”
“And I'm thankful they did.”
“So, I'm your omega?”
“That's what you focus on?” Yoongi grins, “yes your my omega, if you want to be. I don't deserve it after what I did. Trust me, Jin and Jungkook were very clear on that. But. I'm going to court you. Show you I'm worth it to be your alpha again.”
“You don't have to. Just…” Jimin hesitates, “tell me what happened. Why didn't you contact me?”
“I thought you regretted mating. Knowing is fucked up your life was something I wasn't ready for. So I panicked and ran. I thought that you didn't want me. So I thought it would be best just to let you live your life. Jin set me straight.”
“Yeah but if Jin set you straight why didn't you call me after that, or write?”
Jimin is pulled closer to Yoongis chest, “Jin set me straight last Saturday before the party.”
Jimin pulls back, “so for ten years you thought that I regretted mating with you?”
Yoongi nods, “which is why I didn't like Jungkook.”
Jimins eyes widen understanding coming over him suddenly, it's a lot and tears start to spill out if his eyes.
“Don't cry, I'm an idiot, I know, but I'm going to make it up to you. Your going to be courted so hard that even Eunae will be jealous, and she likes to brag about Baram.”
Jimin giggles, his hormones are all over the place, “I know she loves to tell anyone and everyone about how great an alpha Baram is.
“So, do you wanna tell me what it was like after I left. Jungkook gave me a brief rundown but I'd like to hear it from you.”
Jimin tells him, everything, from Yoongis parents coming over, to the fight. He tells him of his fallout with Taehyung. About how alone he's felt without him. About how he hadn't spoken to anyone during his final year after high school all through University. About how he had met Jungkook and the rest of his friends.
Yoongi is speechless, pulling Jimin as close as possible to give comfort. And it does work, he feels safer than he had in ten years.
“I really fucked up. J shouldn't have left. I'm so sorry you had to go through all that. I really thought I was doing the right thing in leaving you. But I wasn't, I wax being dumb. I swear Jimin if I had known what you were going through at the time I would have come and gotten you.”
“It was the silence that was the worst bit. I never regretted mating. Not ever. But what hurt the mist was ggd silence after. No phone call, no letters, nothing.”
“I didn't know it was happening. I didn't spoken to Jin until that night at the bar, and I didn't have the guts to talk to my parents, not after they would have found out.”
“you haven't spoken to your parents?”
“Do you think I could face them after their fairy tale romance to tell them, oh I mated Jimin, but turns out he didn't want it. Guess I'll go die under a rock so he can forget about me and be happy.”
Jimin hits him in the chest, “I'm only really happy with you. I forgive you, I really do, it was a fucked up situation, but honestly, this us the happiest I've been in ten years.”
“Same. Definitely same. Shit when I got to hold you again at the game night I almost took you and ran off. Especially after you started purring. My little alpha heart went to heaven.”
“You held me at fans night?” Hana told me you were with her.”
“Nope, Hobi rolled over me and I took that opportunity to cuddle you, jumped at it almost.”
“So Hana lied.”
“Yeah, she's a big liar who lies.”
Jimin snuggles into Yoongis chest, “I see. Guess I'll just gave to start calling her out.”
“You can try, but Jin has already sworn to do it. He doesn't like her much. Not since that party.”
Jimin hums, closing his eyes and breathing deeply for the first time in ten years.
“So I went into heat then, should I expect pups, or….”
“Your virtue is intact baby, and I'm not doing anything until I court you properly, and we decide to settle down and have pups. That's when your getting the d from me “
“You really don't have to court me again, but if your really set on it I'll let you.”
“Good because you don't have anyway in it. Now we need to get up and get done properly food into you, but also you have no food, so what do you want to order?”
“Anything is fine, I just want a shower,” Jimin unwraps himself from Yoongi heading out of his bedroom and turning towards the bathroom.
Yoongi gets up as well, pulling the soiled blankets out if Jimins nest and replacing them with clean ones. He still had the rest of the day to best before he would want to pull it down.
Shoving the sheets in the washer and pulling out the ones from the dryer and folding them. Pulling out his phone he orders food. He tidies up and moves things back to where they were. He heard Jimin step out if the shower.
They snuggle on the couch with their panda express, movie on the television.
It's nice.
Jimin can't believe his luck.
After everything he still has Yoongi.
Sure it was shitty what happened, but Yoongi was his again. Well, Yoongi was still his.
They had a lot to work on but if Yoongi was willing, then he was too.
|
"Thank you," Lan Wangji murmured stiffly as the air hostess handed back his passport. He brushed slipped past her onto the plane, awkwardly dragging his carry-on up the narrow aisle of economy class. He stopped to wait for a man to force his bag into the overhead compartment, then again for a woman trying to squeeze past, then for a man standing in the aisle for no reason at all. By the time Lan Wangji made it to his seat, bag shoved between his legs, his nerves were fried and his brain was running fuzzy static half way to sensory overload. The window seat was already occupied by his flight companion. Lan Wangji mourned first class, personal space, and the freshly brewed jasmine tea he could've been enjoying right now.
He could feel the man in the window seat beside him watching curiously as he unpacked his bag, ruthlessly rubbing down the tv screen, armrests, seatbelt, and flight tray with antibacterial wipes. Then he slotted his neck pillow over his head, slathered his hands with lotion and his lips with lip balm, and set out his eye mask, noise canceling headphones, and a book about the history of calligraphy for when the announcements were over.
His fellow passenger watched in silence as Lan Wangji completed his ritual studiously and then piped up, "Someone came prepared."
Lan Wangji glanced over at him and got an eyeful of tanned skin and sharp cheekbones and grey eyes, the hint of a smile lingering on the corners of thin, peach lips. His flight tray was scattered with M&Ms.
Lan Wangji offered him the pack of wipes. "Planes are filthy."
Playful eyes flicked between the wipes and Lan Wangji, the hint of a smile spreading into a smirk. "A little filth never killed anybody."
Lan Wangji opened his mouth to inform the stranger that this was severely untrue, but the light dancing in his eyes stopped him with the sudden and profoundly uncomfortable sense that he was being made fun of. The other man's grin widened as he very deliberately placed a red M&M into his mouth from his
unsanitised
flight tray, his gaze never wavering. Lan Wangji recoiled to the sound of peals of laughter. He tersely shoved the wipes back into his bag.
"Ridiculous," he snapped as the man snorted and giggled. Lan Wangji withdrew more tightly into himself, their elbows brushing when the stranger moved. The intercom crackled as the pilot announced, first in English and then in Mandarin, that this would be a fifteen hour flight.
After the safety demonstration Lan Wangji put on his ear defenders, opened his book, and tried to pretend that the seat next to him was empty. He had only limited success. The man beside him occupied himself for a while by watching a movie on the seatback screens, but soon took to flicking through the entertainment menu at high speeds, breaking Lan Wangji’s concentration. For a while he amused himself by scrolling Douyin using the in-flight wifi loud enough to defeat Lan Wanji’s noise-cancelling headphones. Then he began flicking through the paper menu while jogging his leg, brushing against Lan Wangji intermittently.
A few hours in he ordered a meal and, to Lan Wangji’s horror, fished from his bag handfuls of bright red chilli packets until the sight and smell of his plate of seafood rice made Lan Wangji’s stomach roll violently. Lan Wangji found himself reading and re-reading the same page over and over as his ability to concentrate was repeatedly disturbed, settling instead for fantasising about how he was going to
strongly
express to his brother that Nie Huaisang never be in charge of organising his flights ever again.
He gazed over at the curtain separating business class and coach longingly as the man beside him sucked loudly on his chopsticks and scraped the last grains of rice from his little plastic tray. Lan Wangji had made sure to eat in the premium airport lounge but he’d known, with dread, that it wouldn’t last him the whole flight. The strong smell of chilli oil was making him feel unwell. Four hours into a fifteen hour flight somehow felt shorter on the other side of that curtain, safely ensconced in his own little pod with ample leg room and good food and complimentary blankets. Lan Wangji had never flown
economy class
in his life; business class was a minimum, first class preferable. Now the livid voice of Jin Guangyao on the phone when he discovered that Nie Huaisang had only been able to book Lan Wangji into coach on the last available plane before the wedding made sense.
Lan Wangji stared at the two empty seats in the centre aisle to his left, every fibre of his being aching to gather his things and slide just one seat over so that he could have distance, have
space.
But his ticket said that his seat was Row 36, Seat K, and no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t do it. His ticket had his seat on it. The empty seat wasn’t his. Those were the rules. He could manage, even if he didn’t want to.
A tap on the shared armrest dragged Lan Wangji from his thoughts. Large grey eyes blinked at him as shiny pink lips sucked the last remnants of sauce from his chopsticks before the other man set them down on his finished plates.
“I just realised it’s been four hours and we haven’t shared names,” the man said. “I’m Wei Ying, courtesy Wei Wuxian.”
Lan Wangji thought about ignoring him. His attempts at reading weren’t going anywhere fast — and he got the impression that ignoring this man would only invite more determined attempts to catch his attention. He inserted his bookmark and put the book down.
“Lan Wangji,” he replied, and then, because Wei Wuxian had, he added: “my birth name is Lan Zhan.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian repeated slowly, thoughtfully, tasting the syllables. He grinned and Lan Wangji’s stomach rolled in a way that wasn’t travel sickness or the smell of chilli oil. He felt acutely as though he had made a mistake. Sure enough, Wei Wuxian leaned over and took a hold of his arm, crowding his space even more in a way that made his heart pound with nervous discomfort. “I’d say after four hours together that makes us familiar, right, Lan Zhan?”
“Incorrigible,” Lan Wangji hissed, bristling at the lack of formality. His senses were filled up, overloaded, by the feeling of Wei Wuxian’s fingers burning holes through his shirt, squeezing at his bicep.
Wei Wuxian tilted his head to the side and Lan Wangji was profoundly reminded of the videos of energetic black foxes that Nie Huaisang liked to send him on WeChat. “So, Lan Zhan, what took you to the States?”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes widened comically as Lan Wangji explained his trip and his return for the wedding. “The Chinese National Orchestra? Wow,” he said, playing with his long black hair and staring in a way that made Lan Wangji feel like he was being devoured. Wei Wuxian chewed on his bottom lip a little. Lan Wangji shifted in his seat. “Lan Zhan, you’re
sooo
talented. If your brother is anything like you then his wife is gonna be one happy woman.”
Lan Wangji thought of Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue and elected not to comment. “What were
you
abroad for?”
Wei Wuxian blinked in surprise and smiled. It wasn’t like any of his earlier smiles. “Oh, you know — just getting lost for a while.”
His eyes suddenly looked very empty. Lan Wangji backtracked furiously.
“Do you play?” Lan Wangji asked, trying to redirect the awkwardness elsewhere, trying to return to music, to safe topics, because that’s what Lan Xichen told him it was courteous to do. Conversation. In conversations Lan Wangji had to show an appropriate amount of interest — but not too much — in the other person, and deliver no more than an appropriate amount of information — a normal amount — about his own.
“I play the flute,” Wei Wuxian replied brightly, unexpectedly. In a blink the empty chasm was gone, replaced again with endless vivacity. Lan Wangji’s interest soared and he made a considerable effort to remain politely detached, even as he hungered,
hungered
for conversation about music. He settled for tipping his head, prompting Wei Wuxian to continue.
“Not professionally. Just for me. I’m self-taught,” Wei Wuxian shrugged. “Really it just means I’m very good at blowing. And fingering,” he said, that glint of mischief back in his eyes as he mimed playing the flute in mid-air.
Lan Wangji swallowed thickly. “Mn.”
Lan Wangji listened in rapture and agony as Wei Wuxian delved into a little further detail on exactly how he
fingered
the flute when he played. Lan Wangji followed him as he went on a tangent about self-teaching, sight-reading, and the state of musical education in schools, throwing in the occasional “oh” and “mn.” That seemed to be enough for Wei Wuxian who jumped on his audience eagerly. He ended by explaining how he’d come to learn the flute —
Madam Yu wanted us all to learn piano but I hated it so much so I thought, why not learn something I want to learn, you know? Do you ever do that? I bet you don’t, you look so proper, Lan Zhan! I bet the aunties love you
— with Lan Wangji hanging on his every word, drinking him in, in awe of how he chattered away with barely space to grab a breath. He left Lan Wangji openings to speak but he didn’t demand it. He seemed perfectly happy to fill the whole cabin with the sound of his voice and his racing thoughts like they were the only two people in it, like Lan Wangji was the only person there who mattered. Somewhere along the line he’d stopped twirling his hair and started gesturing broadly with his hands instead, narrating as much through show as through speech.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian suddenly said quietly, leaning in. Lan Wangji leaned in automatically at the shift in tone before he could catch himself. Those big grey doe eyes gazed up at him through long lashes, bright little bunny teeth biting down on the centre of Wei Wuxian’s pretty lower lip. “I could teach you to play the flute sometime, if you like.”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji blurted, captivated by those eyes. He felt his ears go hot from his ungainly eagerness, then added, more soberly: “I would like that.”
Wei Wuxian hummed indulgently and continued to stare, so long and so intensely that Lan Wangji began to feel antsy. He undid his seatbelt and stood up abruptly without saying a word, striding stiffly down the narrow aisle until he got to the bathroom at the end of the plane, rushing inside and locking himself in. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself and uncurled his fists. There were another ten and a half hours of this flight to go. It wasn’t even half done. God, he missed business class. He didn’t even need to use the bathroom. Now that he was here, surrounded by the hum of machinery and the oppressive feeling of liminal space bearing down on him and bright, sterile toiletry, he didn't know what he was doing. He didn't know what he was doing when a soft knock on the door prompted him to unlock it, or what he was doing when Wei Ying slipped through the door with a wolfish grin and dropped to his knees in front of him, filling up the tiny space.
He
did
know what he was doing when Wei Wuxian pulled down his zipper with his teeth and retrieved his half-hard cock, spitting in his palm and stroking him to hardness so quickly that he felt dizzy. He grabbed the edge of the sink to steady himself, his breath coming in thin, desperate streams. Wei Wuxian pressed a single slim, flute-playing finger to his lips, wide eyes staring up at him innocently like he’d stared at him across the armrest as the sound of footsteps passed the bathroom door. The thought of someone finding them in such a lewd position — Wei Ying on his knees, Lan Wangji’s cock hard and leaking in his hand, the man himself pressed up against the toilet and hanging on for dear life — made the sensible part of his brain recoil in horror. It also made the part of his brain that had firmly migrated south jump and leak in Wei Wuxian’s hand, his partner’s eyes fluttering half-lidded with desire.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whispered, his little pink tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “I thought you were so straight-edge, but you’re not, are you? I bet you’d love someone to walk in on us. I bet you could fuck me in front of the whole plane.”
Lan Wangji closed his eyes and gritted his jaw until his mouth went dry, willing himself to last as the vision of Wei Ying blindfolded with Lan Wangji’s sleep mask and bent over a row of those horrendous economy seats played in his mind's eye.
“Lan Zhaaaan, look at me,” Wei Wuxian whined. Lan Wangji looked down to see him lap up the head of his cock with the flat of his tongue. He hollowed out his cheeks and dipped his tongue into the slit, holding it in his mouth as heavy footsteps approached the bathroom door. Lan Wangji went perfectly still, staring at the door and fancying that on the other side there was another passenger staring back. He brushed his thumb across Wei Ying’s jaw before sliding his free hand into miles of soft, inky hair and gathering it up in his fist.
'Good boy,'
Lan Wangji mouthed softly, boldly. He knew from the look on Wei Wuxian’s face that he’d given him exactly what he wanted. Lan Wangji sighed soundlessly and tossed his head back, thrusting smoothly in and out of that hot, wet mouth. The sound of the engines was loud at the back of the plane. It
probably
masked the wet sucking sound of Wei Wuxian’s lips sliding up and down his dick. He wasn’t sure he cared anymore whether it did. That mouth was plush velvet, searing wet paradise.
Wei Ying whimpered as Lan Wangji used his hold on his hair to ease him off until only the tip of his cock was held between his lips. He released his hold on the sink and brushed Wei Wuxian’s hand away from the base of his prick, firmly gripping and squeezing his jaw open instead. Stormy eyes rolling with lust fixed on him unwaveringly. The footsteps receded from the bathroom. Lan Wangji held the other man’s jaw tight as he slammed his cock into his mouth until he nailed the back of his throat.
“Lnnn Zhnnn,”
Wei Wuxian moaned wantonly around him as he fucked his face roughly, pulling his hair and filling him up. Lan Wangji gasped through gritted teeth as the head of his dick forced its way past the back of Wei Wuxian’s throat again and again, trembling at the sight of his drool-covered face and teary eyes. Every time Wei Wuxian choked his throat contracted deliciously, squeezed Lan Wangji like it didn’t want to let him go as his thrusting became more brutal, his pace less forgiving. He thumbed jewel-like tears from high, proud cheeks, Wei Wuxian's eyes red-rimmed and puffy like the swollen peach lips stretched wide around Lan Wangji’s girth, and the sight of him so wrecked and undone was the final straw. Wei Wuxian closed his eyes, fucked and blissed out, as his head was forced down until his nose brushed Lan Wangji’s groin. Lan Wangji moaned and shivered, throbbing waves of pleasure rolling over him and wiping his mind blank. He grunted as Wei Ying choked wetly on thick ropes of cum. It dribbled from the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin.
He kept his hold on fistfuls of hair until his dick softened and slipped from his lover’s mouth. His chest clenched at the sight of him, face messy with tears and cum and spit. His eyes were glassy, staring into space as he slowly came back to himself, one hand shoved down his boxers. Lan Wangji stumbled back until he was sitting on the closed toilet, chest heaving for breath. Only the sound of their heavy breathing and the constant hum of the engines filled the small space between them.
Lan Wangji wet some tissues and began gently dabbing the other’s face, cleaning him off while Wei Wuxian knelt swaying slightly, still a million miles away. He combed his hair through with his fingers and smoothed it out, gently brushing his knuckles over red marks left on his jaw that would almost certainly become bruises later. The thought that he’d marked his partner sent a thrill running up his spine. The thought that they were going to disembark this plane and go their separate ways doused it in cold water.
“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian mumbled clumsily.
“I am here, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji soothed. Wei Wuxian closed his eyes and leaned into his touch, tipping forward to rest his head on his knee.
“You took care of me,” he muffled into Lan Wangji’s trousers. “Thanks.”
Lan Wangji said nothing as he carded his fingers gently through Wei Wuxian’s hair. They sat in silence for a few minutes before Wei Wuxian drew a shaky breath and struggled to his feet, peering at himself in the mirror.
“You should go first,” he said. “I’ll follow in a second. It’ll look less obvious.”
“Alright,” Lan Wangji replied. He pressed his ear to the bathroom door and listened for the presence of anyone outside; then he quietly unlocked it, slipped out unobtrusively, and went back to his seat.
|
"I don't know what I'd do without you," Dream speaks from behind George, his arms wrapped around the smaller boy in the warm, soapy water.
Dream cradles him and holds him tight, placing kisses on the back of George's neck every so often. George's pale, much skinnier arms rest over Dream's larger ones, covering Dream's folded embrace that keeps them tight, close together in the steamy tub. They would probably be sweaty and gross from the temperature if it weren't for the fresh water and glistening suds submerging their bodies, playing with their heads. The waves of heat that hover in the air make both boys drowsy, their minds processing, almost as if they are even just slightly intoxicated from the steam that fills their lavish bathroom. As Dream's chest rises, George's lifts as well, breaths synchronized just like their hearts.
George leans his head back, so that his mouth brushes against Dream's ear, "I love you, Dream."
The blush that blossoms into Dream's cheeks is undeniably affectionate, fueled not from the fever of the water, but by his indisputable tenderness for the pretty boy laying, pressing closer, back into him. He never wants to leave.
George returns his head to his foreword positioning, smirking at his rare and daring remark, the words so scarce at the beginning of their relationship that every time they leave his lips, it's like a siren's song to Dream's ears, pulling him in, making him fall deeper and deeper each time.
"I love you too, George." Dream smiles. He feels selfish. He gets to have all of George... all to himself. Nothing can compare to the moments they share; the deep root of their friendship beneath it all spread and evolved into what they are now.
Dream doesn't mind being selfish, though. In fact, he revels in it, gently bringing his head forward and tilting his chin down, just to brush his lips, feather-light, against the backside of George's left shoulder. George lets out a faint sigh, pleased with Dream as he leisurely graces them up the side of George's neck, sending wonderful tingly sensations through George's upper body and down into his lower abdomen.
Dream slowly unclasps his hands from their hold around George's chest and gently places them on his sides, running them up and down, in and out of the water, making it trickle of his hands and down the sides of George's chest. Dream resumes his carefully placed kisses on George's neck, starting light, just like he did with the teasing of his lips. George tips his chin back slightly, a calm satisfaction that brings him to be more relaxed, letting himself and his consciousness wander.
Dream moved his hands, still on either side of George, so that his right rests on George's stomach, and his left slides in-between George's torso and arm, to come up, cross George's chest, and cup the smaller boy's cheek, turning his head to face his own.
He gently bumps their noses together, both of them closing their eyes and melting in the contentment of the moment, everything around them slipping away like they're the only two people in the world, the only two who could ever matter.
The scent of vanilla soap and cinnamon candles hovers in the air. They breathe it in, almost as if they are not two separate beings, but two people so close they could not possibly do anything apart.
After what seems like an eternity, figures still, held at that moment in time, Dream finally connects their lips. It's plain... and sweet... but it's perfect.
They pull apart, George's neck still turned to the side. His expression looks... lost... but in the best way possible. He looks at Dream like one looks at a special treasure, the value out of it out of comprehension. He's a gift to George, a gift that means so much to him, he doesn't know what he could have ever done to deserve it.
Pressing his hand against the bottom of the tub, George sits up for a second readjusting to shift his body so that he's laying comfortably on Dream, on his side.
"You're stabbing me with your boney hip, you idiot." Dream chuckles fondly.
"Shut up," George reply's with a closed-lip smile, and this time, it's George who brings their lips together.
While one of his hands is occupied pressing against Dream's chest to help support his weight, George lifts another to Dream's jaw, delicate and caring. The kiss grows in intensity, George parts his lips, and Dream follows, no longer only pressing their lips together but venturing with tongue as well. Dream hums his satisfaction at Goerge's submission, letting Dream dominate the kiss.
Moving a free hand down to grip George's waist, he slides him off of his own body and onto the floor of the tub next to him. It was good that the tub was huge—a big circular bath resting on the tiled floor. Jets surround the edges, Dream's genius idea to install a few months ago.
As their tounges dance inside George's mouth, Dream sides his hand from Geoge's side, all the way down to the back of his thigh, bending his arm and pulling, so that George's leg rests across Dream's torso.
Dream holds it there.
George feeds his arms between Dream's head and the edge of the tub to latch around the taller boy's neck.
They continue with their lip lock, the tension in the room rising with the heat of their breath. Both boys' hearts beat fast; their attention solely focused on giving everything they have to the other. Dream squeezes the hand on George's leg, earning a slight whimper, muffled by their kiss. Everything starts to become sloppy, their breaths uneven, and their thoughts drifting. The reserve with which they'd kissed before goes from mildly monitored to almost nothing at all.
George lets out a second, much needier whimper as he grinds his hips lightly against Dream in the hot, steamy water.
Dream pulls away abruptly.
"None of that." He says it almost like he's a mother speaking to his child, the same fond but scolding tone. "Remember... we said just a bath."
"But..." George finishes his argument with a frustrated groan. Pouting and looking up at Dream, he tried to convince him with his eyes. He wants more, and he knows Dream knows that.
"Come on, let me wash you a little," Dream smiles. "I'll get your back." He sits up a little, shifting his weight to sit up more in the tub. He really did care for the boy.
George still fixed on his pity-frown, doesn't budge.
"Let me take care of you. It makes me happy," Dream asks right back using his eyes.
George grumbles.
"I know it makes you happy, too..." Dream lowers his voice, teasing George with his sing-song tone.
Finally, George rolls his eyes and sits up, failing to hide the smile that so undoubtedly shows his true colors, shows exactly how much he agrees with Dream's words.
Dream reaches for a washcloth that's draped lazily over the edge of the tub.
"Sit in front of me again," He says to George, opening his legs so George can place himself in between.
George readjusts, plopping himself right where Dream wants, leaning back playfully like Dream is a chair. They both chuckle before George sits up, anticipating Dream's touch. With an acquiescent sigh, George feels Dream's hands run flat, from the small of his back, all the way to his shoulders.
Half massaging and half washing, Dream rubs his love deep into George's skin, hoping George can feel how soft it makes him. Dream reaches for the bottle of body soap on the far rim of the tub and squeezes out a small dollop, the bottle making the wheezing sound that almost empty bottles so often do. Placing the soap back on the side, Dream turns to face George again, who is now watching him, innocence set on his face. He smiles meekly when Dream notices him.
Still partially sitting in Dream's lap and in between his legs, George closes his eyes, relaxing into Dream's hands that return to his back. George is turned outward, facing away from Dream, lax at the golden boy's touch.
"That feels... good," George sighs, his voice grateful and airy.
Dream says nothing but runs his hands from the tops of George's shoulders and down the sides of his arms, lathering George in the foamy soap.
Bubbles are created from Dream's movement, and more and more begin to form around the two boys.
George feels Dream's hands pull themselves away. He's left in pure bliss, head tipped back, a high, closed-lip smile on his expression.
"Turn around," George hears Dream say.
He does, craning his neck over his shoulder to see just what Dream is up to. What he's met with makes a giggle erupt from his lips.
Dream has given himself a bubble beard.
"Do me, do me!" George says with exasperated giggles. He turns around in the tub, Dream's legs still on either side of him, and faces his lover, sitting with his legs crossed.
Laughing along with the boy sat between his legs, Dream scoops up another handful of bubbles and holds it up, away from the surface of the water. Dream laughs uncontrollably when George shoves his chin into his hands, smashing all the bubbles and foam but getting his chin wet in the process.
"No, you have to be gentle, George," Dream chuckles, and George lifts his head back up, his smile telling Dream he was ready for the next one.
"Okay, stay. Lemme do it," Dream cradles another wad of bubbles and lifts them carefully to George's face. He applies them carefully, pressing them to George's chin and then gently pulling his hands away.
George's eyes twinkle as he looks back at Dream with his own matching bubble beard. His cheeks are slightly pink, perfectly complementing his flush lips and pointed nose. Almost unseeable dark auburn freckles dot below his eyes and just on the bridge of his nose, and his small shoulders, skin tone smooth and pale, glisten from the soap of their heated bath.
"He's perfect," Dream thinks, smiling right back at the brunette boy.
Dream's bubble beard slowly slides down his chin and soon plops into the water, returning to the rest of it's kind.
George lets out a childish laugh, giggling again, and Dream reaches out and pulls him sideways into his chest so that George's head is tucked under Dream's chin and his shoulder is pressed against his Dream's chest. Dream squeezes him tight, and they both erupt into laughter, George now resting, leaning against Dream, warm and content.
Dream holds him tight and slides his back further down the side of the tub and deeper into the steamy water that now goes to Dream's pecks and George's shoulders. George hums a pleased reply to Dream's choice of action, the water making him feel tranquil and comforted, cradled by the taller boy.
George whines when he felt a hand snake around his waist and lightly touch his semi-hard member, still excited from their interaction earlier. A drunken smile washes over his face, and he pulls away from Dream to look at him, eyes half-lidded. "What're you doing..?" He giggles lazily.
Dream wraps his fingers around it.
"Giving you what you wanted earlier," Dream replies, the sonorous words sliding off of his tongue like hot melted butter.
George whimpers when Dream starts to move his hand, slowly jacking him off under the water. For a moment, George gets lost in the moment. His body softens in Dream's cradle, letting the dirty-blonde have control. He sighs again and bites his lip as Dream's speed increases but composes his voice just enough to slide a little sass.
"You're such a simp."
The hand stops.
There's silence.
George giggles at his accomplished tease but looks up after a few seconds of stillness, Dream refusing to move his arm, his hand still cupped around George's tip, frozen in place.
George's smile fades, and he bites his lip again, looking down, just wishing Dream would pick back up again.
"Dream please--"
Dream hums, his voice low, "You see, George, if you want what I think you want, so bad..." Dream thrusts his hips up, and because George is laying on top of him, his hips jut upward as well, thereby causing George's member to thrust up into Dream's hand and then come back down again with dream's hips, George, unable to hold in the sharp breath that escapes his lips. "...then you'll be a good boy and fuck up into my hand..." Dream thrust his hips again, causing George to as well, "...won't you."
George's cheeks burned red. It was taking everything in him not to move. Seconds ticked by one by one, and George was going to be stubborn.
"Fine. You have 3 seconds, or we're getting out and drying off right now."
Fuck.
George gave in and thrust upwards by himself, moaning harshly as Dream's cupped fingers ran from the tip, down to around his base, and then back up to the very edge of the tip again.
"That feel good?" Dream speaks quietly into his ear.
George does it again, relishing in how good it feels and how much better it feels when he wants it more. The way Dream holds him-- guiding George's hips with his unoccupied hand, clenching his hand in just the slightest every once in a while to make George's moan just a little louder-- it's intoxicating. He feels Dream's mouth attach to the side of his neck from behind and whines when he feels the all to familiar suction that always seems to find itself all over George's body by the end of the night.
George keeps thrusting up, pleasuring himself with Dream's hand and letting his head fall back and to the side to reveal more unmarked skin, perfectly empty and ready for Dream to mark up. George moans at the thought of Dream's lips all over his body; every inched graced by their touch, every dark spot put there with passion and lust.
Dream moves up George's neck, unlatching his mouth and moving up further to find a much better spot slightly behind his ear, directly on top of his pulse. He sucks till the flesh begins to bruise and continues to help George with a hand on his waist, and the other moving up and down George's dick as he thrusts up into it, matching the smaller boy's rhythm.
Dream can't help it anymore; He's getting hard just from jacking George off. His dick starts to grow needy under George's back, and he lifts his hips up and down. There's only one thing Dream can do: he grinds up against the back of George's ass, keeping with the pattern George is already holding to get himself off in Dream's hand.
"Fuck," Dream moans quietly. It feels good.
George whimpers, turned on by Dream's comment.
Dream moves with George once more, his dick rubbing against George's back while George continues to moan from Dream's other hand. Dream picks up a repetitive pattern, and with every one of George's thrusts, Dream grinds against George's ass.
"Mhh- shit- yes-" George cries. His British accent is heavy and slurred. "Fuck, Dream, that's so good-" He moans, every word getting louder as it exits his mouth.
George's thrusts become more spasmed as he struggles with trying to jut his hips up as fast as possible while still getting weaker and weaker from the pleasure shooting through his spine. He squirms against Dream's dick, distracted by the knot forming in his stomach.
Dream knows he's close, and as much as he would love to let him come, he knows he needs to pull his hand away if he wants to get more out of George than just this.
Without warning, Dream lets his grip go slack, and his hand drops to hold George's hip as he continues to hump the back of George's ass. "Oh, fuck-" Dream releases the suction on his newest mark upon George and groans into the nape of his neck, going faster to try and get more friction.
As one could imagine, George was a mess. His tip was red, desperate for release, and his upper leg muscles burned from propelling his hips forward non-stop for the past 5 minutes. He sat there numb, obviously frustrated that Dream removed his hand. Unfortunately for him, because of his physical tire and the heat from the water making him slow and sedated, he's unable to move and only lets out a small whimper in protest of Dream's most recent actions.
Dream composes his urges and slows down his own grinding, knowing he needs to last a lot longer if this is to be a memorable night.
"Dream," George pants quietly. He presses the back of his head into Dream and whimpers, lightly thrusting his hips into nothing out of pure reflex.
"Here, lean to the side again," Dream directs George to lay off his left side once more, continuing to lay on the dirty blonde. Dream runs his right hand from George's side, down to his ass, rubbing in circles before squeezing the tender skin.
George lets out another small noise.
"I'm gonna prep you, okay?" Dream asks with a smile, mesmerized by George's beautiful figure.
George nods rapidly. He can always trust Dream. Perhaps that's why he loves him so much. Because no matter what Dream does, whether it's stupid, or scary, or sexual... he can always trust Dream never to hurt him. He can always let down his guard.
George relaxes his tense muscles and presses the side of his head against Dream's bare chest once more. He brings his left fingers to his mouth, a bad habit he often does, and he places his right hand up Dream's chest and over his shoulder.
Dream squeezes his ass one more time before be bring his middle finger to George's hole, easily rubbing over the tight skin. He obviously doesn't need any lube because they're in a bath, so he isn't worried about hurting George too much at all.
He presses the pad of his finger right at George's entrance and pushes in ever so slowly. He waits at his first knuckle to lean down and place a kiss on George's head, lying contently on his chest. Then, he pushes the rest of his finger in and listens to the small noises that leave George as he partially pulls it back out again.
Dream moves it in and out, finding a rhythm and keeping with it, aiming higher just a little bit every time.
"Mhh," George digs his fingernails into Dream's shoulder, not yet hard enough to leave a mark.
Dream continues and uses his unoccupied arm to hold George tighter, pressing a second finder to George's entrance with the other. He lets it sit there, bending against the skin as the other goes in and out.
Soon George is ready. With another muffled noise, George feels the second finger enter along with the first. He brings his upper leg forward, giving Dream better access and letting his stomach lay flat against Dream. He can feel Dream's bulge beneath him. It's good they're in water because otherwise, he would be crushing it.
Dream starts scissoring his fingers, stretching George out even more.
George groans and presses his ass back against Dream's hand, wanting more.
"Don't be so needy. I don't wanna hurt you," Dream says, his tone soft and calming.
George can't help it, "Fuck, please, Dream."
Dream hums in approval of the boy, weak, submissively laying on him. He focuses all his attention on prepping George, everything he does coming from the bottom of his heart. He pumps both fingers in a few times before scissoring some more, and then abruptly adding a third, knowing George does not need for him to hold back anymore.
"Unh..." This comes from the brunette.
George's little moans are driving Dream insane, he almost wants to sit George up, right then and right there, but he halts his thoughts, reminding himself to finish up with George and help him feel as good as he possibly can.
He pushes all three of his fingers in and out rapidly.
George arches his back in reply. "So good..."
George is a slut for Dream's hands- and Dream knows it too.
He aims his hand inside George, looking for that one, very specific spot.
"Unh, fuck- oh shit, Dream- unh," George can't help but be vocal when Dream hits it. His British accent makes the words string together, and his relaxed state makes them slurred. George's legs weaken, and the nails of his hand over Dream's shoulder dig into the taller boy's skin, just like a cat's claws on a satin bedspread.
Dream decides that that's enough prep. He takes out his hands just as George's cock begins to twitch again.
"Fuck- Dream- no- please-" George cries and lifts his chin into Dream's neck to stifle his unhappy noises. George's dick is throbbing, and now that he's been edged twice, it was getting painful. Instead of letting Dream have the satisfaction of hearing him, he decides to put his mouth to better use. Fining a soft spot on the side of Dream's neck, George nips and sucks, trying to leave his small little mark on the person he loves so dearly. His affection is displayed and gratefully taken as he moves onto another spot, and he hears Dream sigh in reaction.
Everything is screaming for George to touch himself and finish what Dream started, but he knows better than to give in that easily.
After successfully leaving three decently light red spots on Dream's collar bone, he kisses each one lightly. Then, he looks up to meet the gaze of the owner to the eyes curiously watching him and doting on him fondly.
Dream bends his head down to George's ear.
"Turn around and sit up in my lap," He whispers into it, quiet, low, and direct.
George almost moans at his tone, catches himself, and then blushes, embarrassed by his own thoughts, despite the reality of what he's currently taking part in with Dream anyway.
Despite his sidetracked brain, he manages to follow Dream instructions without slipping up. He lays back on Dream, legs spread and breath heavy. His ass sits right above Dream's hard as it sticks up, right beneath his ass. Because he's short, his head lays partially next to Dream's and partially back on the top of Dream's shoulder.
George can tell Dream likes the quick access to his pulse because Dream latches on right away, only delaying what is soon to come with silly love bites and his infinite ability to give purple bruises.
Dream reaches down and strokes George's hard once more, using his other hand to lift George's ass and give it a squeeze. He sucks harder with his mouth and bites down a little, making George squirm and whimper on top of him. Pleasuring George's dick is short-lived because Dream ceases helping with George's incline to grab his own member and align it up with George's entrance.
With sensual moans from both boys, Dream sinks deep into George, holding down his hips and bottoming out. His dick twitches inside of George, but he stays still, waiting for George, just in case he needs a minute to adjust, and if not... there's no shame in savoring the moment.
"Fuck- please move, Dream," George bites his lip and clenches the muscles in his ass.
Surprised by the squeeze, Dream moans. "Shit," he pants, "So tight." And with that, he starts thrusting.
Both of Dream's hands hold George's hips, and George's hands have reached up and back to hold onto the edges of the tub above them.
"Oh, fuck, yes, mmmm," George's noises are pornographic.
"You glad I stretched you out good?" Dream's heart races, and he looks at George's eyes, and as awkward as it may be in this position, George looks right back at him, lids hooded.
Dream thrusts his hips faster, or as fast as he can go without water splashing out of the tub.
George doesn't seem to answer Dream's question but tries anyway.
"Unhhh- you fuck me so good, Dream," George clenches his ass again.
"Fuck, oh my god."
Dream's eyes roll back as the muscles around his cock tighten for the second time that night, and all he can think about is how in love he is. He loves George's face. He loves George's character. He lives his person, his banter, his noises. Dream can't name a single thing he doesn't love.
A low boiling fire grows in his stomach. He never wants it to leave. It pulls on Dream like a rope. One he can't cut or escape, yet... he doesn't want to. All he wants to do is let it wrap around him and pull him closer and closer, tighter and tighter, till he can never bear to let go. For leaving the rope would leave everything he now lived for.
Beads of sweat start to appear on George's forehead, some from the heat of the room and others from every muscle holding onto the edge of the tub for drear life. He can feel himself already about to cum from all the edging earlier.
Everything in George's body screams for more. He wants to feel everything; be as close to Dream as possible. He can already feel every sensation throughout his entire body- yet he craves more.
He pants, breath hitching when Dream lets out a deep moan, echoing off the walls as he thrusts faster, in and out of George, pulling down on his hips to help please the both of them with every sharp movement.
George moans, and his eyes roll back into his head.
"Fuck me slower," He mumbles, barely being able to form the words.
Dream whimpers and forces himself to stop. He lifts George's hips, pulling out until just his tip is left inside the boy, and holds him slightly suspended in the water right above his own hips. Then he pulls him down again and looks down, connecting his sight with George's eyes.
George is a mess, his hair askew and his cheeks red and hot. He looks slightly high, and his mouth hangs open as his head leans back against Dream's shoulder as far as it will go. George's hands are still reached up past his head, attached to the rim of the tub, and his body is arched as far as he can make it go.
Dream burrows his head in George's neck and rolls his hips strong but slowly against George's ass, pushing himself in and back out as slow as he can. It's almost painful how measured and unhurried he thrusts.
Both of them feel every move, every clench, every twitch, every muscle, as Dream fucks up into George with the utmost sedated intent.
Dream's dominant side has retreated. All he can do is moan into George's neck and whimper at the overwhelming pleasure he feels. His arms wrap around the smaller boy, and as he sucks harder in his neck, his hips roll slower and slower until all he can do is let out small, pitiful cries, muffled by George himself.
George, on the other hand, is in ecstasy. All his pain is gone, and with Dream's slow, deep thrusts, he somehow hits his prostate just barely each time.
The pace that Dream moves in is not intended for release but for the pure act of passion itself. Every breath seems deliberate, every moan purposeful.
They can't get enough, yet, it isn't enough at all.
Time seems to pick up again, and Dream starts to roll his hips faster, George groaning happily at the change in pace.
Desperate to help in any way he can, George back-thrusts his ass against Dream, perfectly matching every penetration and hitting his prostate square on.
They're both close now.
Dream goes faster, pulling his head out to try to form words, but all that manages to slip past his lips is a messy string of words, "You- unh- so good- fuck." And then it's right back into George's neck. He no longer even has the capacity to kiss him; just press his open mouth against his lover's skin and fuck him as hard as he possibly can.
George cries out and calls Dream's name.
Dream grips the sides of George as hard as he can, pounding in him, close to his own release.
"Fuck, Dream," It all George can get out as his dick twitches.
Almost as if everything perfectly aligns, they cum together, Dream thrusting a few more spaced out, quicker, harsher times before burring himself in George as far as he can go, and George letting himself go in the water.
Dream lets out a final moan into the nape of the brunette's neck and loosens his tight grip on George's hips.
"I really fucking love you," George says breathlessly.
Dream, still panting, chuckles and takes the opportunity to crack a joke.
"And I really love fucking you," He says into George's ear before kissing it.
"Fuck you," George giggles, a wide smile across his face as he looks at the ceiling, feeling the up and down of Dream's chest beneath him.
"Love you too," Dream says and leans down to kiss the boy's cheek.
|
And I won't be broken
I won't even feel it
Even if you asked me
BP Valenzuela
Even if you Asked Me
Now
Yibo knocks on the door briskly, a sharp rap of knuckles on wood, and steps back.
He can hear movement inside the hotel room -- a shuffle of steps towards the door, a pause to peer through the peephole, then the sound of the lock clicking.
He holds himself still, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie and feet braced apart. He keeps his chin high and looks directly into the fisheye lens of the peephole. He doesn’t fidget or look up the corridor to make sure it’s still empty, although he wants to do both. His skin is prickling with something that rides the line between anticipation and anxiety.
Xiao Zhan, when the door swings open, looks soft and surprised. He’s changed out of his award show clothes and into a t-shirt, sweats, and a loose cardigan with sleeves that flop over his knuckles.
“Yibo,” he says, eyes wide behind his glasses. “What -- ?”
Yibo doesn’t wait for the rest of the question. He doesn’t let himself think about how good it feels to hear his name on Xiao Zhan’s lips again.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Yibo says as he pushes into the room. He closes the door behind himself and turns to Xiao Zhan. He forces a smirk and hopes it looks more natural than it feels. “It’s just fun. We’ve always had fun, haven’t we? Despite whatever else.”
“Yibo,” Xiao Zhan says again, his hands coming up automatically to rest against Yibo’s arms as he crowds into Xiao Zhan’s space.
Yibo waits a minute to see if Xiao Zhan is going to follow up with an objection, but he doesn’t. His eyes flick across Yibo’s face and his fingers curl around Yibo’s biceps. Before the moment can stretch on for much longer, before Yibo has the time to stop and second guess himself, he wraps a hand around the back of Xiao Zhan’s neck and drags him into a kiss.
At the touch of Xiao Zhan’s lips against his own, the hard knot in Yibo’s throat loosens. He feels like he can breathe for the first time all day.
For the first time all year.
He pushes himself up onto his toes, pressing closer and groaning against Xiao Zhan’s mouth. Xiao Zhan’s hands shift, one sliding to brace against his back and the other to cradle the sharp point of Yibo’s jaw. His thumb strokes against Yibo’s cheek in a small, tender movement.
Yibo shakes the touch off with an irritated twitch of his head. He doesn’t want that.
Xiao Zhan breaks the kiss and Yibo doesn’t want that, either. He makes a disgruntled noise and chases after Xiao Zhan’s mouth, but Xiao Zhan takes a half step back, putting a bit of space between them and keeping his lips decidedly out of reach.
“Yibo, what are you doing?”
“This,” Yibo says. He shoves his jaw out, stubbornly, and stares Xiao Zhan out. He doesn’t move his hand, but holds it there, feeling the prickle of the regrowing hair at the nape of Xiao Zhan’s neck.
“Are you sure you want -- “
“Yes,” Yibo cuts him off. He doesn’t want to talk about this. He definitely doesn’t want to stop to think about it. He just has an itch under his skin that needs scratching. “Don’t you? It doesn’t have to be a big deal either way.”
It doesn’t. People sleep with their exes sometimes. It doesn’t mean anything.
Xiao Zhan studies his face for a beat more and Yibo focuses on not fidgeting under his steady gaze. He’s just starting to get nervous that Xiao Zhan is actually going to send him on his way, when he instead gives a sharp nod.
“Yes, I want this,” Xiao Zhan says, turns and leads the way further into the hotel room. He looks back over his shoulder as he shrugs off his cardigan, letting it slide down his arms to land in a pile on the floor.
Yibo toes his shoes off and follows. He pulls his hoodie and t-shirt off over his head as he walks, cursing under his breath as they get briefly caught around his face. When he finally gets clear, dropping the tangle of fabric to the floor near Xiao Zhan’s cardigan, he almost stumbles at the sight that greets him.
Xiao Zhan has already skinned out of his t-shirt and sweats and is sitting on the edge of the bed in just his thin boxer briefs, erection clear through the thin fabric. His glasses are neatly folded and sitting on the bedside table. He is leaning back on his arms and his stupidly long legs are sprawled apart a little. It is a lot more skin than Yibo was braced for yet. The pale, lean lines of his chest and thighs are making Yibo’s hands twitch.
There is something watchful, still, about the look on Xiao Zhan’s face.
Yibo avoids his gaze by ducking his head and focusing on undoing the fly of his jeans. He peels the tight denim down his thighs, kicking free of it so that he is standing in front of Xiao Zhan in just his underwear.
That seems to drive the last of whatever was distracting Xiao Zhan out of his head. His eyes go heavy-lidded and hot as he reaches out to grab Yibo’s hips and pull him forward until he is standing between Xiao Zhan’s splayed thighs. He holds Yibo’s gaze steadily as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of Yibo’s underwear and pulls it down. The fabric slides down until it pools around Yibo’s ankles for Yibo to step out of and kick aside.
Yibo feels like he’s been turned on forever at this point, aching with it. He’d started to get hard before he’d even got to Xiao Zhan’s room. But the sight of Xiao Zhan looking up at him through his hair, the feel of his hands cupping Yibo’s hips, pushes it to another level. His dick throbs and his mind goes blissfully blank, the tangle of thoughts he’s been fighting all day melting away under pure, uncomplicated arousal.
Yibo cards his fingers through Xiao Zhan’s short, soft hair and pulls him forward. With his other hand, Yibo guides his cock into Xiao Zhan’s mouth.
Xiao Zhan leans forward willingly, parts his lips eagerly. He pushes his tongue up as Yibo presses in, a slick pressure against the sensitive underside of his cock in just the way that Yibo has always liked best.
“Ah, ah, fuck. Yes. That’s good, so good.” It’s the sight of Xiao Zhan’s pink lips stretched around Yibo’s dick and the way his eyelashes flutter as he starts to bob his head as much as the feeling that drags the exclamation from Yibo.
He’s missed this so much.
And that’s a dangerous thought.
Yibo bites his lip, hard, to stop himself from saying anything else, to stop anything incriminating from popping out. He squeezes his eyes shut and tips his head back, blocking out the sight of Xiao Zhan, focusing on the feel of what he tells himself could be any mouth.
But it is so good, Xiao Zhan is so good at this. He falls into a fast rhythm that pushes all of Yibo’s buttons, drags him to the edge right away, and far too soon Yibo has to push him off or else he’s going to be coming right now. He wants more than a blowjob out of tonight, irrespective of how good the blowjob is.
Xiao Zhan leans back, wiping away the spit that has leaked out over his chin with the back of one hand. He doesn’t say anything, just watches, one hand still resting gently against Yibo’s waist, as Yibo takes a shuddering breath, and then another, trying to calm down. The feel of Xiao Zhan’s eyes on him isn’t helping -- even now, even after a year, something in Yibo’s brain is hardwired to find Xiao Zhan watching him unbearably arousing.
“Do you have condoms? Lube?” Yibo’s voice, when he asks, is unsteady. There’s a quaver to it that Yibo chooses to attribute to arousal.
Xiao Zhan nods and levers himself up from his seated position, twisting lithly past Yibo to disappear for a moment into the bathroom. Yibo throws himself down on the bed and palms his cock and absolutely does not feel a little bloom of misery that Xiao Zhan has sex supplies to hand.
They’re broken up, Xiao Zhan can have sex with whoever he wants. Right now he’s having sex with Yibo and it’s convenient that he has supplies.
Xiao Zhan is back in a second, two foil packets in hand. He drops them on the bed next to Yibo’s hip and shucks his own underwear off before climbing up to settle down next to him.
“How do you want this?” Xiao Zhan asks. His voice is quiet, the watchful look back in his eye despite the evidence of his flushed, hard cock between them. He’s just as turned on as Yibo is, he wants this like Yibo does, and Yibo isn’t going to worry about whatever else is going on in his head. Xiao Zhan has always thought too much about everything; looks like that hasn’t changed.
Yibo tosses the condom to Xiao Zhan and tears open the packet of lube, squishing it out over the fingers of his right hand. He pulls one knee up to his chest and reaches down and behind himself, pushing two fingers in right away. He’s still loose from where he’d fingered himself in the shower in his own hotel room earlier, thinking about this, trying to decide if the half-formed idea fell on the side of a fantasy or an actual plan.
When he looks up, he finds Xiao Zhan kneeling, unmoving, eyes glued to where Yibo’s fingers are pressing into himself. He has the unopened condom still in his hand and a bright pink flush has spread across his cheeks and down his chest. His lips are parted and, as Yibo watches, he lets out gasp as Yibo gives a particularly hard twist with his fingers.
Yibo feels caught in a feedback loop of Xiao Zhan getting turned on by watching him and Yibo getting turned on at the sight of Xiao Zhan watching. It’s achingly familiar but somehow twice as hot for how long it’s been. Yibo gives another twist, pressing just right against a sensitive spot inside himself, and lets himself gasp more obviously, lets himself arch his back in a sinuous roll against the bed, putting on a show. Xiao Zhan’s tongue flicks out, wetting his lips. He had used to like to rest his head against Yibo’s thigh when Yibo was fingering himself open like this, to press kisses against Yibo’s knuckles and over the taut skin of his balls. It had been equal parts dirty and tender, and had always left Yibo feeling cared for.
Yibo doesn’t want that now. This is just a bit of fun, a convenient outlet after a busy day. Something to help Yibo shake the restlessness that’s been plaguing him lately.
He pulls his fingers out, even though he hasn’t done much yet to really stretch himself, and flips over. He gets his elbows and knees up underneath himself and braces with his ass in the air. He is slick with lube and open and ready to get on with things. Looking back over his shoulder to where Xiao Zhan is still sitting, grasping the unopened condom, he says, “Come on. Hurry up.”
It’s a challenge and Xiao Zhan rises to it, the way Yibo knew he would.
He tears open the foil pack and gets the condom on in a flash, then knee walks up the bed until he’s settled between Yibo’s sprawled thighs. Yibo drops his head down, resting his forehead against the bedspread for a moment and biting his lip as Xiao Zhan smooths his hands down Yibo’s sides. The gentle touch makes Yibo feel more settled somehow, although he resents it.
“Come on, come on,” Yibo mutters, pushing his hips back to nudge against the hard line of Xiao Zhan’s cock. “Fuck me already.”
Yibo feels the blunt press of Xiao Zhan’s dick against his hole just a brief second before Xiao Zhan is thrusting forward in a steady, relentless slide that leaves Yibo gasping and full. Xiao Zhan bottoms out and pauses for a moment, just long enough for Yibo to suck a breath in and tell himself to relax but not long enough to actually adjust, then pulls out and pushes back in again.
In no time, Xiao Zhan settles into a measured rhythm that keeps Yibo shivering on just the right side of oversensitivity. He has no space left to think about anything but the feel of Xiao Zhan’s hands tight around Yibo’s hips, his cock stretching Yibo from the inside out. It’s perfect. It’s just what Yibo wanted. Xiao Zhan always was good at reading his moods and giving him exactly what he needed.
Yibo’s own cock is hard and leaking between his thighs, his breath coming in moaning little gasps. He is on the edge of coming already and maybe under other circumstances he’d feel a bit embarrassed at how quick it is, but fast and hard is exactly what he’d come here for.
Yibo shifts, bracing his weight on one elbow and tensing his abs to keep from over-balancing as he reaches down to wrap a hand around himself. It only takes a couple of strokes before he comes, trembling and spilling over his hand.
Xiao Zhan doesn’t relent, fucking him through the quivering aftershocks until Yibo’s knees give out and he collapses forward onto the bed. He withdraws then and Yibo can hear the snap of latex as he pulls off the condom, dropping it carelessly over the side of the bed onto the floor before settling his weight over Yibo’s thighs, pinning him down.
Xiao Zhan’s knuckles graze against Yibo’s butt as he strokes himself, the slide of his hand over his dick a rhythmic skin on skin noise that would probably have got Yibo going again had he not just, just come. Instead, it’s all he can do to twist his head around to watch over his shoulder as Xiao Zhan jerks off over him. Xiao Zhan’s hair is sweaty and his face is flushed, lip caught between his teeth. His eyes are heavy lidded but intent, staring down at the sprawl of Yibo’s body beneath him as he comes in hot stripes over Yibo’s lower back.
Then, in slow, stately motion, he collapses forward and to the side, landing next to Yibo on the bed, one leg still draped over Yibo’s thighs and a tacky hand spread possessively over Yibo’s butt.
Then
The Peter Pan birthday cake is a hit, despite all of Yibo’s worries beforehand. Xiao Zhan lights up when Yibo slips through the door unannounced in Xuan Lu’s wake, cake box clutched in both hands and heart in his throat. He wasn’t invited, he’d just bought a plane ticket and booked a hotel room on a whim, hopeful that he’d be welcome.
Yibo has missed Xiao Zhan fiercely since filming wrapped. He can’t count the number of times he’s turned to grin at him or to share a joke, only to be startled again at the empty spot by his shoulder. It’s been months, it should have faded, but it hasn’t.
He sweats and laughs his way through Xiao Zhan’s birthday dinner of super spicy hotpot, dredging each bite through a puddle of sesame paste in the desperate hope that it will cut the heat before shoving it into his mouth. He’s probably drinking too much, bolting down his beer to try and wash the chilli away.
Xuan Lu begs off after dinner with the excuse of an early morning flight out. Xiao Zhan hugs her goodbye and thanks her for coming all this way to celebrate with him. Once she’s gone, he cocks his head and sends an entreating look in Yibo’s direction.
“One more round before we call it a night?” he asks. “I’ve missed you. Stay to catch up properly with me.”
Yibo nods. Of course he’ll stay for another round. He’s flown all this way to see Xiao Zhan, he’s not going to take off early.
After, Xiao Zhan insists on accompanying him back to his hotel room, riding in the back of the private car that’s been waiting for Yibo around the corner from the restaurant. He’s affectionate in his happiness, arm slung over Yibo’s shoulder as he pulls up some stupid meme he’d saved from Weibo the other day that he swears is going to make Yibo laugh until he cries. When they get to the hotel, Xiao Zhan waves off Yibo’s offer to have the driver take him home.
“I’m a gentleman,” he says, giggling under his breath in a bright, tipsy sort of way. “I’ll walk you to your door!”
They ride the elevator up in silence, Xiao Zhan rocking on his heels and smiling to himself, Yibo’s knees feeling wobbly and his head swimming. It’s partly due to alcohol and partly nerves. He’s trying to finally, finally, get up the nerve to do something about the stupid torch he’s been carrying for Xiao Zhan all summer. He imagines kissing Xiao Zhan against the wall of the elevator, then he imagines grabbing his hand while they walk down the corridor. He doesn’t do either.
Xiao Zhan snatches the keycard out of Yibo’s shaking hands when they finally get to the door of his room. He’s wearing Wei Wuxian’s sweetest smile as he stands just a step too close to Yibo for it to be casual. “Lao Wang. You’re weaving on your feet. Aren’t you old enough to know your limits?”
Xiao Zhan’s tone, like always, is teasing. Too light to mean anything, but too loaded for it to be totally meaningless.
“My hands aren’t shaking because I’m drunk,” Yibo says. Then, recklessly, right there in the hallway, he drags Xiao Zhan in for a kiss. It’s awkward, a slightly too hard smash of lips with an edge of teeth, over before it’s really begun. It’s nothing special and totally amazing all at once, the culmination of months of flirting and dancing around each other.
Yibo pulls back, lets his hand fall away from where it has been fisted in the front of Xiao Zhan’s t-shirt and presses his back hard against the door. The pinch of the wood against his shoulder blades feels good. Grounding. He’s waiting for Xiao Zhan’s reaction, waiting to find out if he read the situation right.
Xiao Zhan blinks, lips red and wet, eyes losing some of the vagueness of alcohol they’d had a minute before.
“Ah, Yibo,” he says. “You beat me to it. I was trying to build up my nerve to kiss you first.”
A giddy feeling breaks in Yibo’s chest like a soap bubble popping. He is grinning, too wide and too uncool, as he tips his head back to look up into Xiao Zhan’s eyes.
“Well, I couldn’t wait around for you forever, old man,” he says. He blocks the swat that Xiao Zhan aims at his hip in retaliation and then snatches the keycard back. “Want to come in?”
Now
Yibo realises, in a terrible moment of post-orgasmic clarity, that he’s made a mistake.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time, obviously. A quick fuck, for old time’s sake. Something to take the edge off after a long day, most of which Yibo had spent trying to avoid Xiao Zhan backstage at the Tencent awards.
Then, at the end of the night, he’d accidentally caught Xiao Zhan’s eye while they’d been waiting to go on for the final award presentation of the night. Xiao Zhan had smiled at him and it had been so unexpected that Yibo found himself grinning back before he’d quite realised it.
He’s seen the pictures of himself staring down the stage at Xiao Zhan on Weibo already, of course. He hates them, hates the longing he can see in his own face. He hates that he’d gone looking for pictures the second he’d got back to his hotel room. He hates that he’d given in and asked his manager to find out what room Xiao Zhan was in, knowing full well that Tencent had booked everyone into the same high-end, highly secure hotel.
It had seemed like a good idea at the time. A bit of fun.
Now, though, Yibo is lying in a tepid wet spot in Xiao Zhan’s bed, sweat and come cooling on his back. He’s listening to Xiao Zhan breathe, hyper-aware of the way that neither of them is asleep and neither of them is saying anything.
This was a mistake.
Yibo feels Xiao Zhan tense the moment before he rolls to his feet. He closes his eyes as Xiao Zhan pads barefoot around the end of the bed and into the bathroom, decidedly not watching. As soon as he hears the tap turn on, Yibo levers himself into a sitting position and reaches down to scoop up his jeans. He can’t see his underwear and doesn’t waste any time looking, instead hauling his jeans up over nothing. The slick of lube and the scratch of the harsh denim on his skin is a deeply unpleasant combination, but he ignores it and reaches down to pick up his t-shirt and hoodie.
He wants to get out of here. He wants to be back in his room. This was such a mistake.
Xiao Zhan emerges from the bathroom with a washcloth in his hands, catching Yibo as he loses his patience with the tangle of fabric and gives a violent tug to get the two shirts separated. He freezes when he notices that Xiao Zhan has returned and is watching him with a wary expression.
“What?” Yibo asks. He quickly yanks his t-shirt over his head and moves on to trying to get his hoodie rightside out again.
“I was going to. Uh. Did you want to wash up?” Xiao Zhan gestures with the cloth, reaching out to offer it to Yibo. He seems unselfconscious about his nudity, despite Yibo having got mostly redressed already.
Yibo shakes his head and pulls his sweatshirt on over his head, running a quick hand through his hair afterwards to settle it back into place and then heading towards the door to get his shoes.
When Yibo looks up from jamming his feet back into his trainers, Xiao Zhan has pulled his sweatpants on. He’s grabbed his glasses, too. He slips past Yibo to stand next to the door, keeping carefully clear of Yibo’s personal space. Yibo, for his part, is horrifyingly conscious of the exact distance between them, of the sweat and sex smell of Xiao Zhan’s skin. Of his gentle, watchful eyes.
Xiao Zhan is standing between Yibo and the door. He’s making no move to open it. The silence is brittle and uncomfortable and it’s making Yibo’s neck itch.
“Well, thanks,” Yibo says. His voice is too loud and too brash to his own ears, but he powers through. “It’s been fun.”
Xiao Zhan nods, looks away for a moment and then back.
“It’s really good to see you,” he offers. One corner of his mouth is tucked down, pulling the whole thing a little lopsided. His too-short hair leaves his ears looking bare and vulnerable. Yibo notices that the tips of them have flushed red. “Maybe we can catch up again some time. Properly. It’d be nice to talk.”
“Sure,” Yibo says, in a tone that clearly means the opposite. “Listen, I’ve got an early morning. I need to crash. Do you mind?”
He gives a jerk with his chin towards the door and the flush across the top of Xiao Zhan’s ears spreads to his cheeks. “Yeah. Of course. Sorry.”
Xiao Zhan checks that the corridor is empty -- first looking through the peephole, then opening the door a crack to peek out. The coast clear, Xiao Zhan pulls the door the rest of the way open and steps back out of the way.
Yibo slips out past him and doesn’t look back.
He manages to keep it together long enough to get to his room, two floors down and at the opposite end of the corridor from the elevator. It’s late and the hallway is empty, but if he had passed anyone, Yibo would like to think they wouldn’t have noticed anything wrong. He keeps his face strictly under control, forcing it into the chill, neutral lines that he usually drags out for photo shoots. His hands are shaking as he gets his keycard out of his back pocket and he has to focus to get it lined up to swipe through the reader.
Yibo is stripping back out of his clothes almost before the door even swings shut behind him, taking them all off, right down to the skin, leaving them balled up on the floor as he heads directly into the bathroom. He steps in under the spray of the shower without waiting, the cool water making him shiver for a minute until it finishes warming up. He washes quickly and efficiently, shivering again as he scrubs the lube away from the still-sensitive skin of his ass.
Afterwards, he dresses again in clean underwear and soft sweatpants. He picks up the clothes he’d left on the floor and shoves them into a plastic laundry bag from the hotel closet, then buries the bag at the bottom of his suitcase. He doesn’t bother with his usual nighttime skincare regimen or to do more than towel-dry his hair before crawling, still slightly damp, beneath his blanket.
Fuck, that had been a mistake.
It’s been a year. Yibo thought he was over Xiao Zhan, thought he didn’t feel anything for him anymore. Maybe part of the reason he’d gone to Xiao Zhan’s room tonight was to prove to himself, once and for all, that he’d moved on. That he isn’t still hung up in the guy who dumped him months ago.
He feels broken open now -- a raw nerve exposed to the air. His chest hurts with a wet, sucking feeling that knocks him right back to where he was a year ago.
He curls up on his side, hugging his arms across his chest and pulling his knees up.
Then
The fanmeet goes brilliantly. The Untamed has only been airing a month, but the venue is packed with enthusiastic fans. The games the host puts them through are pretty stupid, but Yibo is too happy to be as impatient with it all as he usually is. He suspects he stares at Xiao Zhan too obviously on stage. He knows he is flirting far too openly. That said, he deserves a medal for not giving in to the temptation to feel Xiao Zhan up a bit during the game where they have to try to push each other off a pedestal.
He hasn’t seen Xiao Zhan in weeks and even then it had just been an overnight squeezed in between Yibo wrapping up One More Try and Xiao Zhan flying out for an on-location ad shoot. This time, they’ve managed to clear their schedules for five whole days and nights after the concert and Yibo is giddy, he’s so excited.
“I’ve made a list of all the food I want to eat this week,” Yibo shouts over the sound of the hairdryer. He feels lighter for having washed away the layers of stage makeup and sticky hairspray. “It’s a long list. We should start by getting room service.”
He flicks the dryer off and sets it down, then pads barefoot out of the bathroom. The air in the hotel room is cool and dry in comparison to the steam left from his shower. Yibo is bare chested, with just a towel tucked around his waist, and it makes goosebumps break out down his arms.
Xiao Zhan, who’d showered first, is sitting sprawled in the armchair in the corner of the room. He’s pulled on soft looking sleep clothes and his hair is flopping down into his eyes. He’s got his phone up in front of his face and is looking at it with surprising intensity. He doesn’t reply to Yibo.
“Zhan-ge?” Yibo prompts, coming over to peek over Xiao Zhan’s shoulder.
Xiao Zhan starts at the brush of Yibo’s hand on his arm, finally looking away from the screen.
“Sorry, what was that?” he asks. He moves to put the phone away, but Yibo intercepts him, plucking it from his hand to get a better look.
Xiao Zhan’s clearly been scrolling through the Untamed topic on Weibo. The very bottom of one of the professional shots from the fanmeet is at the top of the page, with a short text post beneath it from a fan who’d been in the audience. Beneath that, however, is a poorly lit, slightly blurry picture. Yibo recognises it immediately as the invasive kind of fan photo that Yibo pays good money to a security team to try to limit opportunities for.
This one has caught just enough of Xiao Zhan’s profile to be undeniably him. He’s wearing the clothes that he left the fanmeet in, walking through the front door of the hotel that they’re in right now with just one staff member at his side. The date stamp shows that it’s only been posted in the last ten minutes, but it’s already starting to rack up big numbers of likes and comments.
Yibo frowns at the picture and then up at Xiao Zhan. “What are you looking at shit like this for?”
Xiao Zhan avoids Yibo’s eyes as he takes his phone back, plugging it in and putting it face down on side table next to the chair. “I don’t know. I just wanted to see what people were saying about the fanmeet.”
Yibo rolls his eyes at Xiao Zhan. He normally feels every inch the junior he is around Xiao Zhan. He leans into it, in fact, playing the brat for laughs, letting Xiao Zhan coddle him when he’s feeling soft. He likes their age difference. But in moments like these, their roles are reversed and Yibo remembers how very little time Xiao Zhan has spent in the spotlight. In celebrity years, it’s Yibo who is the senior.
“You’ll drive yourself crazy if you spend too much time on the fan side of Weibo,” he says.
Then, bored with wasting time on stalker photos and fan opinions, Yibo reaches down to flick loose the towel around his waist, letting it drop to the floor. Xiao Zhan’s disgruntled expression at getting gently chastised melts into a dirty smirk as Yibo crawls, entirely naked, into his lap and drags him into a kiss.
Now
Yibo sleeps terribly.
Obviously.
He eventually drifts off an hour or so before dawn, but it is a light, fitful sleep. He wakes up and checks the time on his phone half an hour before his alarm is set to go off, and then again with about five minutes to go.
The second time, he doesn’t bother waiting any more. He turns the alarm off before it can ring and drags himself out of bed.
His hotel checkout routine is so ingrained that he doesn’t really need to be awake for it anyway. He swaps his sweats out for baggy cargo pants and tops them off with a t-shirt under a zip-up hoodie and loose, lightweight jacket. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, then brings his toiletries bag through to toss into his suitcase.
He tucks his phone into his pocket and his charger into his side sling bag with everything else he’s going to want for the half a day he’s spending in transit back to Hunan for Day Day Up filming. He pulls a cap down over his hair, which is sticking up at weird angles from going to bed with it wet, then flips his hood up on top for good measure. He hooks a mask over his ears, but leaves it tucked under his chin for now.
And that’s it. He’s ready to go.
Yibo’s manager meets him at the door of his room with a massive black coffee. She gives him a measuring look as she hands it over, taking in, he has no doubt, the heavy black circles under his eyes and the sullen set of his mouth. Yibo half expects her to say something -- she knows full well what he was up to last night when he asked her to find out Xiao Zhan’s room number -- but she doesn’t. She just takes the handle of his rolling suitcase from him and wheels it ahead down the corridor, leaving him to focus on inhaling his coffee.
His security team is waiting for him in the lobby and they slip into place around him as he steps out of the elevator, mask pulled up even though he is far from finished with his coffee. He catches sight of a girl with a phone in her hand pointed at him leaning over the second floor mezzanine level. He keeps his chin tucked in towards his chest to give her the worst possible angle on his face, but otherwise ignores her as he walks out of the lobby and climbs directly into the car idling at the curb outside.
He naps in the car on the way to the airport, startling awake when they pull to a stop. His team has called ahead to arrange for him to get through security as smoothly as possible, minimising the number of chances people have to snap candid airport photos of him in the check-in line. In the private waiting room, he docilely eats the fruit cup that his manager shoves in his direction.
When he gets onto the plane, he settles into his seat, tips his head back, and is asleep again before they even take off.
He wakes up when the plane is on its descent and peers out of the window at the familiar cityscape. He’s less tired after the nap and coming in to Changsha always feels like coming home. More than his infrequent visits to Luoyang have done for a long time.
When he lands, yet another car is waiting to whisk him off to the studio. They’re filming some segments this afternoon ahead of the live audience taping tomorrow. He climbs into the backseat, shuffling across to the window to leave space for his manager to follow him in. Once he’s settled, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and takes it off of airplane mode. It vibrates in his hands as a few hours worth of notifications come through at once, the red bubble counters in the corner of apps ticking up and up.
He ignores Weibo for the moment and clicks in to WeChat. He quickly fires off a few messages in answer to friends, then takes a little longer replying to his mother. She sent through a string of messages while watching the awards. She has opinions about Yibo’s various outfits and asks if he is eating enough because he looks thin. She has also sent through a picture of her TV screen at the moment Yibo comes on stage to accept his award. Congratulations, All Round Artist of the Year! she sends through as the final message, followed by a string of cheering emojis and hearts. It makes him smile to see the blurry image of himself against the familiar backdrop of the living room wall.
They’re almost at the studio when Yibo notices the friend request notification. He clicks through to the contacts page and then almost drops his phone.
It’s from Xiao Zhan.
Yibo must make some kind of noise without realising it, because his manager turns to look at him, startled.
“Are you alright, laoban?” she asks.
“Yeah, yeah, sorry,” Yibo replies. He turns his phone off and jams it back into his pocket before she can get a good look at the screen. “I’m good.”
Xiao Zhan has sent him a friend request.
Obviously, they’d been friends before. Before everything. Xiao Zhan had smiled at him at the end of the first day of table reads and held out his phone with the QR code loaded up. By the time they’d properly got together, they had exchanged thousands of messages of what in retrospect was intense, sticker-punctuated flirting. That wasn’t even counting the half a dozen groups they were both members of, as well.
After Xiao Zhan had broken up with him, Yibo had deleted him from his contacts list. It had been an act of self-preservation -- he hadn’t been able to stop himself from doom scrolling through their chat history, trying to figure out where things had tipped from good to on the decline.
Yibo doesn’t know when Xiao Zhan clocked he’d been deleted. It wouldn’t have come up until Xiao Zhan tried to send him another message. It could have been any time in the last year, and he’d just decided not to push. It could have been this morning.
But what does he mean by sending a friends request now? After everything? After a year of silence and a single edged hook-up that Yibo had initiated?
He’s not going to accept it, Yibo decides as the car pulls up in front of the studio. That’s that. They don’t have anything left to talk about. Done. Decision made.
But the friend request weighs on his mind for the rest of the afternoon, distracting him.
He is proud of being professional through anything, but today he fucks up again and again during taping. With every mistake, he gets more embarrassed and irritated with himself. He bows and apologises and resets each time, but by the end of the day he is grinding his teeth with frustration.
When he tries to slink away after the taping finishes, Wang Han hooks him by the elbow and steers him in the direction of the studio canteen.
“Han-ge,” Yibo starts, intending to apologise again for the mistakes of the afternoon, for the fact that his screw-ups had dragged taping out so that it ended late for everyone. Wang Han gives his arm a pat to shush him.
“It’s fine. Everyone has a bad day now and again. Let’s get you some food and sit for a minute. Did you eat lunch?”
Yibo grimaces as he shakes his head. He’d meant to grab a snack when he got to the studio, but had lost track of it.
“Ah, Yibo-didi,” Wang Han says, drawn out and pained. “You always forget to feed yourself.”
Wang Han’s steady, sure affection is a balm after the anxiety and turbulence of the last twenty-four hours. Yibo lets himself get steered into one of the low, soft chairs that line the room and absolutely does not get his phone out as he usually would while he waits for Wang Han to organise the food. Wang Han is back in minutes with a steaming bowl of Yibo’s favourite noodles and a big bottle of water.
When the food is put in front of him, Yibo suddenly realises he’s starving. Maybe not everything about the botched taping is down to the distraction of Xiao Zhan -- Yibo has pushed himself through the day on too little sleep and a fruit cup eaten hours ago. He adds vinegar to the soup with a heavy hand and then buries his face in the bowl, inhaling half of it before he comes up for breath.
Wang Han is leaning back, hands cupped around a paper cup of tea, watching Yibo eat with a benign smile on his face. Yibo blushes, aware that he’s splatted a bit of the broth on his face with his last slurping bite of the noodles, and snatches up a handful of napkins to swipe at his chin.
“Feeling better?” Wang Han asks.
“Much. Thank you, Han-ge. I guess I’m tired from last night and forgot to eat anything around the flight and everything.”
Wang Han’s gaze sharpens at Yibo’s response, pinning him to the spot. He has an uncanny sense for when Yibo is dissembling. He doesn’t say anything, just lets the silence stretch while he stares Yibo into submission.
Yibo squirms for a minute and then, more or less gracefully, gives in.
“Xiao Zhan was there,” he says.
Wang Han nods, leans forward to put his tea down. He doesn’t sit back again, instead bracing his elbows against his knees and folding his hands together. “I know. I watched until I had to put Xiao Suancai to bed.”
Yibo looks down at his soup. He bends down for another bite of noodles to give himself some time to think.
He’s never really said to Wang Han about Xiao Zhan, but he thinks he knows. Wang Han had watched in that intent way of his when Xiao Zhan had come on as a guest for the anniversary episode, no doubt catching and cataloguing every time Yibo stood too close or smiled too wide. He hadn’t said anything at the time, but afterwards he would periodically ask Yibo how Xiao Zhan was doing. Xiao Zhan was the only one of Yibo’s friends that Wang Han had specifically asked after.
Then, last year, after Yibo had responded with uncharacteristic bite that he wouldn’t be going down to Chongqing for a weekend during the New Year’s hiatus after all, Wang Han had stopped asking. He’d been even more affectionate with Yibo than ever for a month or so after, texting him every couple of days with reminders to eat or pictures of things he’d stumbled over that had made him think of Yibo.
Yibo thinks that Wang Han knows, if not the specifics, then the general shape of it.
“Did you get a chance to talk to him?” Wang Han asks gently.
Yibo focuses hard on not blushing as his unhelpful brian flashes a full colour image of all the not-talking he and Xiao Zhan had done.
“A little,” he says, settling on that as the most truthful possible response he can give to the man who is like a second father to him. The kind of second father that one discusses deep, philosophical things with and absolutely does not ever mention sex to. “It was pretty stilted. But he sent me a friend request on WeChat today.”
Wang Han’s eyebrows go up at that. “Are you going to accept it?”
Yibo surprises himself by hesitating. He had decided not to, but now he’s not sure. “I don’t know. I’d thought not. But. I don’t know.”
“Hm,” Wang Han makes an understanding noise. “It’s weighing on you. You’re wondering what he wants to say to you.”
Yibo nods. He pushes the noodles away and leans back in his chair, rolling his water bottle between his hands. He feels, abruptly, very, very tired. This is all too much to try to cope with on too little sleep. He doesn’t want to wrestle with this anymore.
“What should I do?”
It comes out small, plaintive.
Wang Han reaches across the table and pats Yibo on the knee. “Nothing today. Get some rest, see how you feel in the morning.”
Yibo feels absurdly relieved, given that nothing has been resolved. It’s like some part of him was just waiting for permission not to have to deal with this right now. He gives Wang Han a wobbly smile, a little overcome in the face of his warm, steadfast support. Then he clears his throat and levers himself to his feet.
“You are so wise, Wang-laoshi,” Yibo says with a flash of his usual cheeky grin. Wang Han barks out a noise that is half-exasperation and half-laughter as he stands to give Yibo a swat on the shoulder. Yibo snickers as he dodges, feeling lighter than he’s been all day.
“Sleep well, didi,” Wang Han calls after him as his manager emerges from the corridor to herd him off to a waiting car. “See you in the morning.”
Then
“Do they like me?” Xiao Zhan is fretful as he asks, fiddling with the ridiculously long belt that the wardrobe department had put him in. It’s cinched tight around his narrow waist, the tail of it dangling halfway to his knees.
Yibo, stripped of the blazer he was wearing on stage, looks up from where he is pawing through the snacks on the side table. Yibo loves the fruit baskets that the Day Day Up producers stock the guest dressing rooms with, but is only able to raid them when they invite someone he knows onto the show.
He turns his nose up at the apples, which are nice enough but nothing special. There is a kiwi and a mango perched on the outside, both of which Yibo disregards as being too messy. He snags a skewer of watermelon cubes from the artful spray at the back of the arrangement. “Who?”
“Your brothers. Wang Han, the rest.”
“Of course they do. You’re so polite,” Yibo says. He has stuffed his mouth with watermelon and has to shift the cubes around with his tongue before he can reply. He is already reaching for another stick, this time of cantaloupe. “What’s not to like?”
“Do they know?” Xiao Zhan is giving Yibo one of his narrow looks that says this conversation matters more than Yibo thought it did. Yibo holds the cantaloupe skewer in his hand without taking a bite and does his best to look serious, even though he’s not totally sure what they’re being serious about.
“Know?”
“About us. Do they know?”
Ah.
Yibo swallows the last of the food in his mouth, clears his throat. Takes a minute before answering. “I haven’t said anything, but I think. I think Zhangwei-ge knows. We always stand together for filming, I talk about you during the breaks. More than I should. Maybe Han-ge. He notices a lot. Not the others, I don’t think.”
Xiao Zhan’s face does something complicated at Yibo’s answer. Yibo can’t tell whether it’s approval or disappointment. Was he supposed to have said nothing at all, made it out like he and Xiao Zhan aren’t even good friends? Or was he supposed to have told his co-stars every dirty detail?
It’s hard. He can’t tell.
“It’s probably just as well to be discreet,” Xiao Xhan says, which doesn’t make it any clearer.
Yibo decides to just ask outright. He’s not great at this sort of nuance and he doesn’t want to get things wrong. “Do you want me to tell them? I will, if you want me to.”
The blunt question seems to push Xiao Zhan out of his head. His expression clears and he meets Yibo’s gaze directly. “No, it’s fine. It’s better to be discreet.”
Yibo nods, then sucks more cubes of cantaloupe into his mouth than really fit. He shoots Xiao Zhan a sticky, chipmunk-cheeked smirk when Xiao Zhan squawks in protest at his manners.
The filming today has been even more fun than usual, with both his Day Day Up brothers and Xiao Zhan in one place all day. For tonight, he’s made reservations at one of his favourite restaurants for dinner and he’s looking forward to seeing Xiao Zhan eat his way through a spread of spicy Changsha specialties.
This one slightly tense exchange aside, it has been a great day.
Now
Wang Han is, as usual, right.
Yibo crashes as soon as he gets to the hotel. He kicks his way out of his clothes, leaving them in a messy trail across the floor, and crawls straight into bed. He doesn’t bother with his usual nighttime ritual of showering. He doesn’t even brush his teeth, which he is normally meticulous about. He falls asleep the second his head hits the pillow.
In the morning, he feels much, much better. Lighter, not buried under a black cloud of frustration and regret and indecision.
He wakes up before his alarm, having fallen asleep early by his standards, and takes his time in the shower. He picks up the dirty clothes from the floor and tucks them into his laundry bag, then pulls out clean clothes. He shoves his feet into his shoes, grabs his phone from the charger, and walks out the door.
In the elevator, he opens up WeChat, clicks through to the contacts, and accepts Xiao Zhan’s friend request. Then he closes WeChat again, puts his phone in his pocket, and resolves not to think about it again today.
The filming goes a lot better than the previous day, now that Yibo is rested and focused. They are doing a bulk of filming in a row this week to build up footage ahead of the busy New Year and Spring Festival season. Yibo smiles as he dodges Da Zhangwei’s exuberant gestures, which nearly smack him across the face more than once, and cracks up when the guest photographer sticks a single flower standing straight up in Qian Feng’s hair before the on-stage photoshoot. It is nice to know he gets to come back and do it again tomorrow, and then next day.
After the taping, he gets shuffled off by his staff to stand in front of a blank wall and film a quick series of endorsements and seasonal greetings for Douyin updates across the next month. He throws on and off different coats for each segment in an effort to disguise the fact that they’ve all been recorded at once and makes a game for himself out of reading the cue cards as fast and accurately as he can. Then it’s back to the hotel and done for the evening.
He hasn’t looked at his phone all day, which is unusual enough behaviour that Da Zhangwei had teased him in the green room about not recognising Yibo without his nose glued to a screen. Yibo had laughed it off and changed the subject, distracting Zhangwei by asking him to sing a bit of his new song. Da Zhangwei, always happy to be the centre of attention, had dropped the topic of Yibo’s phone and obliged.
Unsurprisingly, Yibo has a massive backlog of emails and Weibo notifications after not looking at either for two days. He settles in with the takeout his manager has ordered for him from his favourite Changsha restaurant and dutifully works his way through them. He replies where he needs to and reposts a couple of his brand endorsement advertisements from the company accounts, then turns his attention to WeChat.
Xiao Zhan has messaged.
He forces himself to go through the backlog of messages from other people before opening the one from Xiao Zhan.
He hates the way his chest goes tight with anticipation as he clicks through.
The message itself is a bit of a let down.
Hi, Yibo. Thank you for accepting the request. :)
Yibo doesn’t know what he was expecting. It wasn’t this totally bland, innocuous greeting.
He doesn’t reply.
He clicks out of the app, pulls up a recent interview with Rossi that someone has subtitled and posted on Youku, and absolutely does not think about Xiao Zhan anymore.
Xiao Zhan messages again a couple of days later with a picture taken out the window of a car. It shows one of Yibo’s Yanjing beer promotions on the side of a bus pulled up at a bus stop plastered with one of his Redmi phone ads. Xaio Zhan’s followed it up with the message I’m seeing double!
Yibo doesn’t reply to that message, either. It doesn’t seem to require an answer.
Two days later, another message comes. Yibo has wrapped up the Day Day Up filming and is in the thick rehearsals for the Hunan TV New Year special. It’s been nice to be in one place for a stretch after the frantic dashing around Yibo has been doing since mid-summer. He’s on the floor of a dance studio, stretching, when his phone pings with the notification.
It’s another picture, this time a shot of the Shanghai skyline, the distinctive Oriental Pearl tower striking against a cloudless sky.
Any recommendations for somewhere to eat while I'm in Shanghai? You must have found some good places this summer.
The direct question certainly invites a response, but the reference to Yibo’s summer in Shanghai throws him off balance. Had Xiao Zhan been paying attention to his schedule since they broke up? Or had he just sort of been aware of it, casually, picking it up secondhand?
Yibo is irritated with himself that an off-hand message like this one from Xiao Zhan still has the capacity to throw him. He is trying to be over Xiao Zhan. He’d thought he was over Xiao Zhan, until he’d made the mistake of hooking up with him again.
I didn’t really eat out, just takeout and hotpot on set.
Xiao Zhan’s reply is instantaneous. Yibo stomps out the little thrill in his chest at the speed of it, telling himself Xiao Zhan is probably just screwing around with his phone in the back of the car or something. He’s not staring and waiting for Yibo’s message. That would be dumb. It doesn’t mean anything.
Okay! I’ll send you a recommendation instead if I find anywhere good! :)
And this is the pattern they settle into.
Every day or so, Xiao Zhan sends a message through -- always friendly, no pressure, no reference to anything beyond some small thing that’s going on in his day and has made him think of Yibo. More often than not, they are accompanied by a picture of whatever has caught Xiao Zhan’s eye.
Yibo doesn’t reply unless he’s asked a direct question and then he always keeps his answers short and to the point. He never initiates any exchanges. He is doing his best to give every impression of not caring one way or another about these updates. But, despite himself, Yibo is getting dragged in again. He can feel it happening in the hitch he feels when he sees a notification on his lock screen. In his weakest moments, he sometimes gives in and scrolls back through their short chat history, rereading the messages to try and divine if there is some kind of hidden meaning to them.
Which is, of course, ridiculous.
There is no hidden meaning -- they’re just politely friendly messages.
Xiao Zhan is the kind of guy who would want to be on good terms with his exes, Yibo tells himself firmly. He’s given Yibo a year to get over being dumped and is now reaching out. It probably doesn’t mean anything more than that.
Yibo is too busy to be wasting time with this bullshit anyway.
His new song drops at the end of December and is well-received. He loves the reactions to the dumb selfie collage of the cover art after all the high-fashion teaser pictures that had been posted before.
Preparations for the New Year’s performance take up a lot of his time and attention as well. He drills the choreography for the new song, practices on the wires until he’s confident he looks cool and collected spinning through the air. He gets to meet Wang Leehom and, once he’s over his attack of shyness at meeting a childhood idol, has a great time performing with him.
The show is spectacular and goes off without a hitch. At the stroke of midnight, Wang Han, Da Zhangwei, and Qian Feng drag him into a group hug, squishing him between them and jumping up and down and laughing.
Yibo is happy.
If, when he finally gets back to his hotel in the small hours of the morning, he finishes ringing in the new year by falling asleep to Xiao Zhan’s performance for Dragon TV, that’s his own fucking business.
Then
“Xiao Zhan!” Yibo practically shouts his name into the phone. His first call had gone through to voicemail, so he’d hung up and called again, and then a third time, until Xiao Zhan had finally picked up. He clutches his mobile phone in a sweaty hand, presses it too hard against his ear. He’s pacing in a tight circle in his hotel room, too wound up to be still. “Fucking hell, are you okay?”
“Of course,” Xiao Zhan says, quiet and utterly, inappropriately calm. “Sorry. I was just in the bathroom.”
Yibo hates that he is half the country away right now. He hates how good an actor Xiao Zhan is. He knows Xiao Zhan’s tells, but the too blank face and the way he fidgets with the hem of his shirt when he’s upset aren’t apparent over the phone.
“Can we switch to video?” Yibo asks. He knows the question is abrupt, but he’s overwhelmed suddenly with the need to see Xiao Zhan. To check for himself that he’s okay.
“No, no. I need to leave for a meeting in about five minutes. There’s no point.”
Yibo grinds his teeth. “Fine. Fuck. How was that allowed to happen? Where was your security team?”
Just looking at the pictures that had hit Weibo had made Yibo feel panicky and claustrophobic. For Xiao Zhan, trapped in a revolving door by a press of bodies on both sides, it must have been a hundred times worse.
“They did their best,” Xiao Zhan replies, his voice shading towards something more sharp.
Yibo misses the warning in Xiao Zhan’s tone and snaps back, waspishly, “Well it wasn’t fucking good enough. You should get a new team, I can --”
“I said it’s fine, Yibo.”
Yibo snaps his teeth closed over the end of his sentence, cutting it short. That was the closest Yibo’s ever heard Xiao Zhan come to yelling. At anyone. He’s endlessly patient, endlessly good humoured in public. Even when it’s just the two of them and the cameras are off, his worst moods manifest with him getting quiet and withdrawn. Not temper, not shouting.
It’s not fine, obviously, but Yibo’s attempts to help are making it worse.
“Okay, okay,” he says, backing down immediately. He takes a deep breath and tries to loosen his grip on his phone. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I was just scared for you. That looked scary.”
Xiao Zhan’s voice, when he speaks again, has regained that preternatural calm. “It’s fine. I’m fine. No harm done. Look, I need to go.”
“Yeah, of course. Your meeting.” Yibo pauses, then adds, “I’m looking forward to Thailand next month. I miss you.”
There is a pause, then, “Me, too. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, go,” Yibo says, the last of the sentence lost to dead air as Xiao Zhan cuts off the call midway.
Now
After the New Year’s show, Yibo goes home to his own apartment in Beijing for the first time in well over a month. He makes a face at the musty smell that hits him when he unlocks his door. It’s not unclean -- he has someone coming in regularly enough to ensure he isn’t confronted with layers of dust every time he comes home -- but the stale smell of a space that has been unoccupied for too long is unpleasant.
He toes off his shoes and turns the suitcase sideways to make sure it doesn’t catch on any of the tower of shoeboxes that line his hallway as he wheels it through to his bedroom. He flicks the lights on as he goes and, despite the cold, cracks the windows in each room to air the place out.
He smiles at his wall of lego projects in the living room and leans down to straighten up one of the helmets that he has spread out on a little mat in his spare room when he pops in to open the window in there.
It’s nice to be home.
He’s going to actually get to stay home for a while, too, which is a rare luxury.
Day Day Up is filming an entire episode at the Beijing Snow Centre and then he’s got some photoshoots and endorsements booked locally. After all that, he’ll be focusing on the CCTV gala rehearsals. His parents are even flying up to Beijing for the Spring Festival this year, so aside from a couple of days here and there, he'll be home for over a month.
His staff have made sure his fridge is stocked with prepackaged meals, one of which he grabs and shoves in the microwave. There is a six pack of beer in there, too. He pulls one out and pops the top while he waits for his dinner to reheat. When the microwave timer goes, he pulls the food out and, in a fit of domesticity, transfers it into a bowl he’s taken out of the cupboard rather than eating it directly from the plastic container.
His civilisation doesn’t extend to eating at a table, though. He takes the bowl over to the couch, flicking on the TV as he passes, and then proceeds to get his phone out as well. He scrolls absently through his Weibo feed, stopping now and then for a bite to eat or a sip of beer. He’s mostly ignoring the badminton match on the TV screen.
He’s just finished tapping out a quick snarky comment on Yu Bin’s post about turning thirty when a notification comes in that Xiao Zhan has sent him another message.
Yibo presses "post" on his comment and switches apps with a swipe of his thumb.
Xiao Zhan has sent a picture that Yibo recognises as the front door of the CCTV building in Beijing.
Xiao Zhan is in Beijing.
Where Yibo also is.
They’re in the same city for the second time in nearly as many weeks.
He leans down to pop his half-finished dinner onto the coffee table and quickly types out, You’re at Da Kucha?
He presses send and then, belatedly, remembers the rule he’s made for himself about only replying, never starting conversations. It’s the surprise that’s done it. He didn’t realise Xiao Zhan was in Beijing.
Yes! I had a meeting about the BRTV Spring Festival show.
Yibo has recovered himself enough that he doesn’t send a reply. He’s not planning to reply. But after a short pause, Xiao Zhan sends a second message.
Are you in Beijing, too?
It’s a direct question. It would be rude to ignore it.
Yes.
Yibo tries to keep his answer brief to make up for his earlier slip in messaging unprompted, but maybe. Maybe that was too abrupt? He sends a second message to soften the response.
I have a few things scheduled -- I’ll be here for a while.
The pause before Xiao Zhan’s next message is long enough that Yibo picks up his bowl and takes another bite of his dinner. He tries to figure out who's winning the match on screen. He tells himself that Xiao Zhan isn’t glued to his WeChat. He’s probably got more meetings or photoshoots or whatever. Or maybe actual plans with actual friends.
It’s about five minutes before Yibo’s phone sounds with another message notification.
He scoops it up.
We should grab something to eat while we’re both in the city! If Lao Wang can fit me into his busy schedule.
The nickname makes Yibo’s chest cave in. It’s familiar and he’s missed it, but it hurts. It’s the first reminder in all these exchanges of what they used to have.
He closes out of WeChat and shoves his phone down between two couch cushions and turns his attention back to his food and the TV, which he switches over to one of the dozen idol competition programmes that seem to be on air at any given time. He distracts himself by muttering equal criticism of the trainees and their dance mentors, which works for the better part of an hour. But then the show is done, and so is his food.
Yibo pulls his phone back out. Xiao Zhan hasn’t waited for a response, but has instead sent through a couple more messages.
I’m free tomorrow night if you are? Or in the following afternoon. If not one of those, let me know, and I’ll look at my schedule for next week.
And then, when he doesn’t get a response from Yibo, Xiao Zhan sent a second message about fifteen minutes later that says, If you can’t make dinner, we could just grab a drink?
Yibo really, really hates how off balance he feels. He doesn’t understand what Xiao Zhan is doing with all of this. The friendly messages, the sudden interest in seeing him. It’s been a year and they live in the same city -- if Xiao Zhan had some burning need to spend time with him, he could have reached out earlier than now.
The only thing that Yibo can think is that it’s about sex.
If Xiao Zhan is looking for some no strings sex, the ex who initiated a hook-up a few weeks ago probably seems like they’d be up for it.
And, fair enough, Yibo is up for it. It’s probably terrible in terms of self-preservation, but Yibo is definitely up for it. They had always been good together, which obviously hasn’t changed if the evidence of a couple of weeks ago is anything to go by. The sex had still been great. Xiao Zhan obviously thinks so, too.
The explanation settles Yibo. He feels like he gets it now. He can adapt to anything, as long he understands what’s going on.
I’m free tomorrow night. Any time after eight.
He’s actually free all day -- a rare stretch of time off at home that he has mentally bookmarked for sleeping in, throwing a couple of loads of laundry through his little-used washing machine, and playing stupid video games. All of which could be rearranged, but. He doesn’t want to seem eager.
It’s just sex. It’s just sex. He’s not a very casual person, what he and Xiao Zhan used to have wasn’t casual. But this can be. He’ll work on it.
Great! I’ll make a reservation and send you the address tomorrow!
Yibo closes WeChat and takes his bowl back into the kitchen, washing it up in the sink and putting it upside down in the draining rack to dry. Then he goes into his bedroom and unpacks his suitcase, sorting out the dirty clothes into piles for washing tomorrow and carefully tucking his shoes back into their boxes.
After, he grabs a second beer out of the fridge and settles back on the couch for a few mindless rounds of Mario Kart. He doesn’t stop until his fingertips have circular indents in them from the buttons and his eyes are starting to ache from all the blinking lights.
He showers before bed and slips naked between his sheets, which are clean and cool against his skin. It’s so nice to be home, with the smell of his own laundry detergent surrounding him and the familiar sliver of light angling just so through the bedroom door from the corridor. It’s relaxing.
He should be relaxed.
He isn’t.
Yibo gives a frustrated huff and kicks off his blankets, glaring down his body at the persistent semi he’s been sporting since he agreed to meet up with Xiao Zhan. No matter how many mundane chores he drags himself through, no matter how he tries to distract himself, he can’t stop thinking about sex.
Sex with Xiao Zhan.
Sex with Xiao Zhan tomorrow. Maybe. Probably.
This level of preoccupation is annoying. He is failing at casual right out of the gate.
Well, if distraction isn’t working, then he’s going to try the opposite and lean in, try and get it out of his system.
He slides his right hand down his body, brushing over his abs, then the trail of fine hair that starts below his belly button. Yibo feels his tense muscles start to relax even as his dick perks up even more. When he finally wraps his hand around his mostly-hard cock and gives it a light, initial stroke, it feels really, really good. He rolls his head back against the pillow and lets out a long breath as he strokes again, then again.
He lets his mind wander and, unsurprisingly, it settles on Xiao Zhan. He’s spent most of the year trying not to think about Xiao Zhan while jerking off, with mixed success. But after what happened at the Tencent awards, with what is probably going to happen again tomorrow, there doesn’t seem much point in avoiding it any more.
Yibo thinks about Xiao Zhan’s hands, about how those slender, artist’s fingers felt against Yibo’s skin. He thinks about the way they felt wrapped around his dick, the way they felt inside him.
Another nice thing about being home, of course, is a fully stocked bedside table. Yibo stops to rummage around in the low cabinet next to his bed for the lube he keeps there. He squeezes out a little puddle of it into the palm of his right hand, then lays back down and returns to what he was doing.
The slick slide of his hand feels twice as good now and Yibo gives an audible hmm of pleasure. He lets his knee fall open, splaying his legs wide.
His hand speeds up as he thinks back to the hotel room and the way Xiao Zhan’s cheeks had hollowed out and his eyelashes had fluttered as he had let Yibo fuck into his mouth. His hair was cut shorter than it had ever been in the time they had been dating -- it had felt soft between Yibo’s fingers, barely long enough to grip as he’d guided Xiao Zhan’s head down.
He remembers how it had felt to have Xiao Zhan fucking him again, hands clamped around his hips and driving into him in a rhythm that was just on the edge of too much.
He remembers, after, Xiao Zhan’s weight pinning him down, the look in Xiao Zhan’s eye when Yibo had turned to watch over his shoulder while Xiao Zhan had jerked off over Yibo’s back.
That’s the thing that tips Yibo over the edge. He comes with a grunt, bracing his heels against the mattress and grinding his hips up into his fist.
He wipes himself up afterwards with a couple of tissues, which he drops onto the floor with a mental note to deal with them tomorrow. He’d come fast and harder than he usually does when jerking off, and the afterglow is making him feel lazy.
He has just enough energy left to drag the blankets back up over himself, pulling them up to his chin and snuggling down into them, before he drops off to sleep.
Then
Yibo feels absolutely wrung out as he uploads the selfie to Weibo. The last of his stage makeup is washed away. His hair, washed soft, falls entirely unstyled over his forehead.
The green mountains will not change, and waters flow endlessly, he captions it. There must still be a bit of Lan Wangji lurking in him to turn him so poetic.
It’s that, or just how overwhelmed he’s feeling the two days of farewell concert. A complicated tangle of emotions is swelling his chest like a balloon. He feels on edge, like one misstep could pop it and the whole messy lot of them will come flooding out of him in unpredictable, uncontrolled ways.
It’s not just about saying goodbye to the Untamed. He hasn’t seen Xiao Zhan, not properly, in months.
Thailand had been a tease -- they’d only actually seen each other in front of cameras or on stage. Xiao Zhan had jetted directly off after the concert for a Gucci thing.
Yibo had been hoping they’d be able to spend a bit more time together with the two day concert at Nanjing, but Xiao Zhan had been booked on an overnight livestream and had spent this morning doing an Olay shoot.
And, of course, there’s how sick Xiao Zhan has been. By the end of the concert, Xiao Zhan was weaving on his feet and his hand, when Yibo had brushed his fingers against it, had been hot to the touch. The tears in his eyes on stage had been absolutely genuine grief at letting Wei Wuxian go, but the fact that he hadn’t been able to stop crying once he got off stage had more to do with how unwell he was feeling than anything else. He’d barely come off stage before his staff were scooping him up to take him back to the hotel to rest -- Xiao Zhan had only had time to say to Yibo, quietly, that he’d message later.
Yibo isn’t counting on it. Xiao Zhan had probably crashed the second he got into his hotel room. He’s trying to come to terms with probably not seeing Xiao Zhan tonight. He probably shouldn’t see Xiao Zhan tonight. What Xiao Zhan needs is sleep, not to be sneaking around the hotel in the middle of the night.
But, you know.
Yibo has been really looking forward to seeing Xiao Zhan and it sucks.
At the sound of a quiet knock on his door, Yibo’s head whips up. He looks through the peephole more out of habit than any real need to check -- the rhythm of that knock is familiar.
Xiao Zhan.
Yibo throws open the door and drags him in, nudging him out of the way so Yibo can get it shut behind him as quickly as possible.
Xiao Zhan stands where he is put, head tipped down, exhaustion clear in every line of his body. He looks terrible. His eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot, despite what Yibo knows will have been an endless number of eyedrops being dumped into them. His nose is red, too, and there are deep bruise-purple circles under his eyes. The rest of his face is an unhealthy looking pallor.
“Zhan-ge,” Yibo says, dragging Xiao Zhan into a hug. Xiao Zhan sags into Yibo, bending down until his head is resting against Yibo’s shoulder.
If Xiao Zhan’s appearance had been a concern, the hiccupping sob and the seeping wetness through the shoulder of Yibo’s shirt is a cause for outright panic. Has he stopped crying at all in the hours since the end of the concert?
“Zhan-ge. Ge. What’s the matter?”
Xiao Zhan just shakes his head where it is tucked against Yibo and gives another little sob.
Yibo shifts his grip on Xiao Zhan so that he can lead Xiao Zhan over to the bed. Xiao Zhan sits down on the edge when Yibo pushes on his shoulder. He keeps his head down, looking at his hands, tears streaming down his face.
“You’re just tired,” Yibo says, a bit desperately. “And being ill doesn’t help. You’ve pushed yourself too hard. Come on.”
He kneels down and undoes the laces on Xiao Zhan’s shoes, taking them off for him and setting them out of the way. He pulls Xiao Zhan’s shirt off over his head, then gives Xiao Zhan a nudge that tips him down onto his back so that Yibo can yank his sweatpants off. Xiao Zhan just goes along with it all passively, moving his arms and shifting his hips when Yibo tells him to, but otherwise still and quiet.
When Yibo gets Xiao Zhan down to his underwear, he maneuvers him around until can get him tucked under the covers. Yibo does a quick whip around the room, turning out all but the bathroom light and getting a glass of water to set on the bedside table next to Xiao Zhan. Then Yibo strips off his own clothes and climbs in next to Xiao Zhan, tugging him over until he is lying in the circle of Yibo’s arms, with his face pressed against Yibo’s bare chest.
“You shouldn’t let yourself get so tired, ge,” Yibo says. He ignores the hypocrisy of this advice coming from him. “Look how upset you’ve made yourself.”
“I’m not upset because I’m tired.”
It’s the first thing Xiao Zhan’s said since he’s arrived. Yibo hopes it’s a sign that he’s starting to come back to himself.
“What is it then?”
Xiao Zhan shakes his head and for a long moment Yibo thinks that’s all he’s going to get. A headshake, a no, as in I’m not going to tell you.
But after a long silence, Xiao Zhan speaks again. “I just feel like it’s all coming to an end. It was the most amazing experience I’ve ever had, I’ve met such great people. I’ve met you. And tonight it feels like the end.”
Xiao Zhan whispers it, like a confession, into Yibo’s collarbone.
“No, ge. Zhan-ge. It’s not like that. We’re not ending. I’m still here.” Yibo tightens his hold on Xiao Zhan as he rushes to comfort him, pressing a kiss against the high corner of his forehead, which is all he can reach with Xiao Zhan turning his face determinedly into Yibo’s chest.
Xiao Zhan gives a whole body shudder at Yibo’s words and pushes himself closer. He tucks one of his legs between Yibo’s and loops an arm around Yibo’s waist. Xiao Zhan doesn’t say anything else and Yibo doesn’t loosen his hold on him until long after his breathing finally evens out into sleep.
Now
The address, when Xiao Zhan texts it through the next morning, is not what Yibo was expecting. He’d thought Xiao Zhan would make a booking at some reasonably discreet restaurant near one of their apartments. Somewhere to have a quick meal, sound out whether Yibo is up for a repeat hook-up, and then nip back to whoever’s place is more convenient.
The address he sends, however, is for the decidedly less conveniently located and more upmarket restaurant at the Four Seasons hotel.
Which, Yibo supposes, is in a hotel. So it’s not like a bed is too far away once he makes it clear he’s interested.
Yibo hasn’t really thought about what he’s going to wear. Probably, if he had stopped to consider it, something casual. His usual hoodie and cargo pants maybe. But that’s not going to work, not for Cai Yi Xuan, with its opulent decoration and its Michelin star. He needs something that’s nice, but still not too nice. Not like he cares too much.
He settles on a pair of slim-cut black trousers and a plain but expensive white t-shirt. Over it all, he throws a boxy suit jacket with some funky black on black detailing down the lapel. He wears his little-used dress shoes -- not the designer, red bottomed ones his stylist tends to put him in, but a serviceable pair of plain black ones that are actually his own.
He resists the urge to style his hair beyond blow drying it a bit so it doesn’t fall in his eyes. He already feels like he’s maybe putting too much effort in to get away with casual, but it is a really nice restaurant and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself by being too underdressed, either.
Yibo tucks condoms and lube into the inside pocket of his jacket and his phone in the outside one, then heads out.
The drive across the city takes a while and Yibo is glad that he didn’t cut it too fine. He fiddles with his phone and then looks out the window, too fretful to really settle down to either activity. Eventually, the driver pulls up under the covered entrance to the hotel and lets him out.
The advantage of the more upscale place, of course, is that they are discreet about it when Yibo sidles up to the reservation desk and gives his name. The host just nods and leads him, without fuss, to the private dining room near the back of the restaurant.
Xiao Zhan stands as Yibo slips into the room and closes the door behind him. Like Yibo, he’s dressed nicely in dark blue trousers that make his legs look like they’re going on for days. In the place of a jacket, he is wearing a waistcoat that hugs his narrow waist and makes his shoulders look broader than normal.
“Hi,” Xiao Zhan says. His hands give an abortive twitch, like he’s going to reach out to clap Yibo on the arm or shake his hand or something. In the end, he tucks them behind his back and settles for a smile. “It’s good to see you. I’m glad you were free tonight.”
Yibo nods and looks away from Xiao Zhan to take in the room. The space is dominated by a large, round table that is clearly far too big for a dining party of two, but Yibo appreciates the security of a private room. The dark wood paneling on the walls and muted lighting from the inbuilt wall sconces make it feel quite intimate despite its size.
“Here, here. Sit.” Xiao Zhan gestures to the chair next to where he’s been sitting. There are only two places set at the table and a bottle of wine is sitting between them, chilling in an ice bucket. There is a wine glass and a water glass at each place. “Would you like wine? I’ve bought a bottle, but obviously order something else if you prefer.”
“Wine is fine,” Yibo says, unbuttoning his blazer and slipping it off to drape over the back of his chair. His voice is scratchy. His throat had felt tight the whole drive over and it’s given a rough edge to his voice. “Thank you.”
Xiao Zhan scoops up the bottle and pours wine into each of their glasses before sliding into his own seat. Always the classier of the two of them, he gives his glass a gentle swirl before taking a small sip, savouring the taste of the wine. Yibo, for his part, takes a much larger swallow. The alcohol is crisp and dry in his mouth, washing the thick feeling in his throat away.
A waiter gives a polite warning tap on the door before coming in to hand them menus, then melting away again. It’s a welcome pause to their stilted conversation as both of them study the food on offer. There are a lot of garlicky dishes that sound amazing -- wagyu beef with garlic and fennel, prawns with black garlic and chilli -- but, with an eye to the evening ahead, Yibo regretfully passes them over.
When the waiter returns to take their order, Yibo sticks to light and sweet dishes, ordering salt and pepper tofu, candied ribs, and vegetables poached in broth. Xiao Zhan orders a steamed fish dish with bean curd in spicy sauce on the side. At the last minute, he also adds the chef’s selection of appetisers.
“To share,” he says to Yibo as the waiter writes it down.
Then the waiter is gone again and it is just the two of them. Without the distraction of reading the menu, the silence that falls is awkward.
Yibo throws back the last of his glass of wine and reaches for the bottle to refill it. He gestures with it to Xiao Zhan who, despite still having about half of his left, holds out his glass and lets Yibo top it up.
“Thank you,” Xiao Zhan says and takes a sip before setting his glass back down. He shifts in his seat, turning to sit angled towards Yibo. He props an elbow on the table. “So, tell me, how was it performing with Wang Leehom? I know you’re a fan, it must have been exciting.”
“It was good. He was really nice.”
Xiao Zhan smiles and tilts his head to the side, seemingly amused by whatever he’s read into Yibo’s short response. “Were you star struck?”
Yibo snorts, the huff of amusement breaking out of him not entirely intentionally.
“Yeah, a bit,” he admits, mumbling the answer into his glass as he sips his wine. Xiao Zhan’s smile stretches out into a full blown grin at that, the skin around his eyes crinkling into laugh lines with the strength of it.
“Ah, Yibo, so shy until you get warmed up.”
“Shut up,” Yibo grouses, but there isn’t really any bite to it. It doesn’t seem as tense anymore between them, the rhythm of their banter settling into something comfortable and timeworn.
The appetisers come as Xiao Zhan asks Yibo about his filming projects from last summer. Yibo gets drawn into describing the craziness of his schedule and the ups and downs of Street Dance of China around mouthfuls of abalone puff and crunchy spinach rolls. Xiao Zhan is listening with that particularly intent way of his, his head cocked to the side, gaze steady and unwavering.
When the waiter comes in to clear their appetiser dishes and replace them with full plates of food, Yibo is startled enough to remember himself and cuts off mid-story.
It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s settled back into old habits, talking to Xiao Zhan about his life like. Like. Like they’re together.
That’s not why Yibo’s here. He can’t let himself forget what this is.
Casual.
Fun.
Yibo tops up his wine glass from the fresh bottle that had arrived with dinner. He throws half of it back and then picks up his chopsticks, turning his attention to his food and leaving off what he was saying. He tucks a large bite of the fragrant poached vegetables into his mouth and lets silence fall as he unhurriedly chews and swallows. Beside him, Xiao Zhan is carefully pulling his fish into shreds, alternating bites of it with the frighteningly red bean curd.
When Yibo reaches for one of the candied ribs, he knocks elbows with Xiao Zhan, who is slipping a bit of the fish into Yibo’s bowl.
“Here,” Xiao Zhan says, giving up any effort to be subtle and dumping the fish on top of Yibo’s rice and vegetables. “Try this. It’s not your usual thing, but it’s really good.”
It’s something that Xiao Zhan had always used to do when they were together -- demand he try little bits of whatever he was eating or drinking. It had made him happy when Yibo had leaned in to accept the offerings, told him how nice it tasted.
Yibo looks down at the shred of fish in his bowl. It makes him feel bruised just to look at it, a swollen, tight feeling settling into his chest.
He can’t handle any more of this. He can’t chatter away about his year and trade bites of food. He can’t let himself start thinking like this is a date when it’s not. He needs it to be casual, he needs to be casual.
Yibo abruptly pushes his plate away. He takes a final quick slug of his wine, then shoves his chair back and stands up.
“Yibo,” Xiao Zhan says, startled at the sudden movement. He pushes his own chair back and is going to stand up too, but Yibo forestalls it through the simple expedience of sliding into a straddle on his lap.
Xiao Zhan’s mouth goes slack with shock, which Yibo takes advantage of as he drags him into an open-mouthed kiss. It’s hot and dirty, from zero to sixty all at once as Yibo licks the flavour of soy sauce and wine from Xiao Zhan’s mouth. Yibo hooks his arms over Xiao Zhan’s shoulders and grinds his hips down into Xiao Zhan’s groin. The kiss dissolves into a graceless panting against each other’s lips at the rush of sensation that results for both of them.
“Do you want this?” Yibo asks. It’s an echo of his question the night of the Tencent awards. Now, as then, it’s abrupt and rushed. The waiter could come back any minute, with Michelin star-standard attentiveness, to fill up their wine glasses and ask how the food is.
Now, as then, Xiao Zhan nods.
“Okay,” Yibo says. “Me, too. Now.”
He slides off Xiao Zhan’s lap and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. He pulls it on and does up the front buttons, then length of it nicely covering the erection ruining the line of his trousers. The outline of Xiao Zhan’s cock is clearly visible, too, and his waistcoat is useless to disguise it. Yibo smirks at him unsympathetically as he walks over to the door, sticks his head out, and waves down the nearest of the waitstaff.
When their own waiter slips in a few moments later, Xiao Zhan says they’re ready to pay. He has artfully draped his linen napkin over his lap. The waiter’s bland, mildly pleasant expression slips as he looks in dismay at the largely uneaten spread of dishes.
“Was there something wrong with the food?” he asks.
Yibo supposes that people probably don’t normally spend a small fortune here to barely eat what they’ve ordered.
Xiao Zhan rushes to tell the waiter that everything was delicious, bashfully mumbling something about strict diets. It’s a handy excuse for all manner of odd celebrity eating habits and the waiter seems reassured.
Yibo lets Xiao Zhan pay the bill without putting up even a token, polite argument. When they get down to the lobby, he lets Xiao Zhan pay for the room, too. It’s an absurd expense -- renting a room for a dirty hook-up at the Four Seasons. But since Xiao Zhan chose the location, he can bear the cost of it.
They stand a discreet distance apart in the elevator on the ride up to their floor. The corridor is a balcony facing into the multi-floor atrium at the centre of the hotel. Yibo stands back, bouncing on the balls of his feet and studying the hundreds of shining steel butterflies mounted on the back wall of the open space, while Xiao Zhan swipes the key card in the door.
Xiao Zhan fumbles the card a couple of times, cursing under his breath when the red light above the door handle shows, then finally gets it on the third try.
Yibo is cool.
Casual.
He waits until the door actually closes behind him with an audible click of the latch catching before grabbing Xiao Zhan by the front of his very neat white, button up shirt and drags him back into a hard kiss. It’s a relief -- straightforward and obscene, all tongue and teeth and heat. It cuts through the confusing tangle of emotions that had caught Yibo up over dinner, makes everything simple again.
Yibo blindly attacks the neat line of buttons that march up the front of Xiao Zhan’s waistcoat as he crowds Xiao Zhan backwards, into the room and towards the bed. He gets the waistcoat off, tossing it to the side without looking where it lands, and has started in on the buttons on Xiao Zhan’s shirt by the time they reach the bed. He yanks it out from where it’s tucked into Xiao Zhan’s trousers to get to the last of the buttons, then breaks the kiss, finally, to be able to watch as he shoves it off Xiao Zhan’s shoulders and down his arms. He hasn’t undone the buttons at Xiao Zhan’s cuffs and the shirt tangles for a minute around his wrists, but then Yibo flicks them loose and the shirt joins the waistcoat on the floor.
Yibo steps back, then, puts a little distance between them so he can take in Xiao Zhan’s bare torso.
He hadn’t taken the time to look much last time.
Xiao Zhan’s shoulders are broader than Yibo remembers, the muscles of his chest and arms more defined. The picture Yibo has of Xiao Zhan in his head from before is all lean lines -- a slender chest leading down to a narrow waist. He’s bulkier now, evidence of hours spent working out.
Xiao Zhan goes pink while Yibo looks his fill, the colour spreading down from his cheeks to his neck and further, until he’s blushing from his ears to his collarbones. He fidgets a bit and then, when Yibo smirks and stares even more obviously, gives a huff of exasperation and closes the gap between them.
“You’re wearing too much,” he complains, sliding his hands up Yibo’s chest to peel back the lapels of his blazer. Yibo lets him push the jacket off and then pulls off his own t-shirt before Xiao Zhan gets the chance.
He preens when Xiao Zhan takes his turn staring, knowing full well that his abs are nearly as defined as they’d been back in his debut days after having spent half the year alternating between dancing, surfing, and throwing himself around on wires in the last of the Legend of Fei filming.
Xiao Zhan’s eyes darken and he flushes more deeply. It’s obvious he likes what he sees and Yibo, as always, likes having Xiao Zhan looking at him.
Xiao Zhan licks his lips, then reaches down and with unabashed speed, undoes his fly as he toes off his shoes. Despite his complaint about being less dressed than Yibo a moment ago, he shucks his trousers and underwear in one quick move so that he’s completely naked and then lets himself fall back in a sprawl on the bed. He shuffles up until his head is near the head of the bed, props himself up on his elbows and shoots an absolutely filthy look at Yibo.
“Well, come on,” he says, deliberately provocative. He flicks a look down at Yibo’s cock, hard and obvious against the fly of his trousers, then back up at Yibo. “Unless you just wanted me to lie here and watch you take care of yourself?”
Yibo doesn’t know what turns him on more; the challenge in Xiao Zhan’s tone or the idea of Xiao Zhan watching him jerk off. It’s two of his surest turn-ons -- competition and exhibitionism -- and Xiao Zhan knows that. He knows that about Yibo and is using it against him, the absolute bastard.
Xiao Zhan getting a little bit mean is probably only slightly behind the other two when it comes to Yibo’s hard and fast kinks.
He’s so turned on as he tries to get his fly open that he jams the zipper in his rush, the tab getting caught in a trailing bit of fabric, and ends up just yanking the half-undone trousers down his legs and off in his impatience. He only just has the presence of mind to fish the condoms and lube out of the pocket of his blazer where it lies crumpled on the floor. He tosses them on the bed before crawling up the length of Xiao Zhan’s body.
Yibo braces over Xiao Zhan for a moment, holding his eyes just long enough to make it clear that it’s a challenge in return, and then lets himself sink down to rest full length against Xiao Zhan.
He buries his head into Xiao Zhan’s neck, resting his teeth lightly against the spot where it meets Xiao Zhan’s shoulder without biting, without leaving any awkward marks, but the implication is there and it’s enough to make Xiao Zhan gasp and buck up against him. Yibo thrusts his hips, pushing Xiao Zhan back down, their legs tangling and cocks sliding against each other and it’s so, so good.
He does it again, and then again, Xiao Zhan pushing back up to meet him each time. Xiao Zhan has looped his arms up under Yibo’s and hooked his hands over Yibo’s shoulders from behind, which he is using to get better leverage to rock back against Yibo’s thrusts. The slide of naked skin against skin, the space between their hips made slippery with sweat and the precome they’re both leaking all over the place, is glorious. Yibo can hear the breathy grunts he is letting out with each downward thrust but he can’t quite bite them back.
Then Xiao Zhan braces a foot against the bed and, in a lithe twist that mostly only works because he has the element of surprise, flips Yibo over. Yibo is left blinking and stunned by the change in positions, lying flat on his back in shocked, momentary immobility.
Xiao Zhan levers himself up and slings a leg over Yibo’s hips so that he is kneeling up over Yibo’s thighs. At some point, probably while Yibo had still been blinking stupidly at the ceiling, he’s picked up the condom and lube. He rips open the condom package and then pauses, the twist of latex pinched in his fingers, to look up at Yibo.
“I want you to fuck me this time.” He is watching Yibo’s face intently as he says it.
Apparently the hot spike of arousal that goes through Yibo at the statement is clear in his expression, because Xiao Zhan doesn’t wait any longer before rolling the condom down over Yibo’s dick and then squeezing lube out over Yibo’s fingers. He shuffles up until his knees bracket Yibo’s ribcage and he can reach to brace his arms against the headboard above the bed.
The lube and the position are a clear instruction. Yibo has to take a moment to take a deep breath and get himself under control before he complies. He cups Xiao Zhan’s ass with one hand, not propping up Xiao Zhan’s weight or clutching at it, but just holding it gently for the pleasure of feeling the curve of it and the shift of muscle under the skin. He slides the lube-slick fingers of the other down the cleft between Xiao Zhan’s buttocks.
Xiao Zhan throws his head back and bites his lip as Yibo presses a single finger into him.
“Okay?” Yibo asks, pushing in and out with just the one finger, feeling the tight clench of Xiao Zhan’s body around it.
“Yeah. Yeah, good. It’s really good. Fuck. God, your hands.”
The burble of words is more what Yibo is used to and it reassures him. The silence and the lip biting had been unnerving. Something about getting fingered open had always made Xiao Zhan wordy -- a babble of directions and praise for Yibo’s hands and, when he got close, incoherent noises.
“More. More, please. Another finger. Come on, Yibo, fuck.”
Yibo presses a second finger into Xiao Zhan and then, when Xiao Zhan asks, a third one. Xiao Zhan’s hair is sweaty over his forehead and his hips are shifting hungrily as he rocks up and then back against Yibo’s hand. On each forward shimmy, his balls brush along the centre of Yibo’s chest and his dick rocks nearly in reach of Yibo’s lips.
Yibo is just thinking about craning his neck up to suck the head of Xiao Zhan’s cock into his mouth on the next forward thrust, when Xiao Zhan lets go of the headboard with one hand and grabs Yibo’s wrist. Yibo stills, hand caught in Xiao Zhan’s hard grip, fingers still buried in his body.
“Enough,” Xiao Zhan says and tugs. “Enough, I’m ready. Come on.”
Yibo slides his fingers out, squirts the last of the lube in the little travel pack into his hand, and slicks his dick up with a couple of perfunctory strokes. He’s turned on enough that even that makes him shiver and he has to think very hard about how fucking embarassing it would be to come from just this, before he’s even got inside Xiao Zhan, to pull back from the edge.
Xiao Zhan reaches behind himself, bracing Yibo’s cock with his hand and lining himself up until he can sink down over Yibo in one smooth, steady motion.
It’s good. Fuck, it’s good. Overwhelming. Aside from the blowjob Xiao Zhan had given him the last time they’d hooked up, Yibo hasn’t had anything but his own hand on his dick for a year.
Yibo is enveloped in Xiao Zhan -- his hands against Yibo’s chest, his knees braced hard against Yibo’s ribs, his ass tight around Yibo’s cock. It’s all Yibo can do to wrap his hands around Xiao Zhan’s hips, the points of pelvic bone hard against Yibo’s palms, and hold on as Xiao Zhan lifts himself up and then slides back down, working himself on Yibo’s dick, again and again.
Yibo isn’t going to last long, but Xiao Zhan is as into it as he is, as close to the edge. Yibo remembers all the signs -- the way breathy noises start to fall from his lips, the way he arches back.
Xiao Zhan braces one hand against Yibo’s thigh and wraps the other one around his own dick, stroking himself with hard, fast movements. He comes, with a hoarse shout, in hot stripes across Yibo’s chest, then flops forward in a loose slouch right into the mess he’s made.
Yibo tightens his grip on Xiao Zhan’s hips and braces his feet against the bed. With Xiao Zhan draped against him, Yibo can’t get the leverage to thrust too hard, but settles into a gentle rocking motion that results in a constant ebb and flow of sensation. It keeps Yibo just this side of an orgasm, keeps him caught and surrounded by Xiao Zhan, by the smell of his hair and the feel of his skin against Yibo’s. Then, all of a sudden, the sensation comes to a head. Yibo thrusts once, twice more, and then he’s coming, eyes screwed shut and toes curling with the force of it.
They lie like that for a long moment, chest to chest, sloppy and soft in the afterglow. Then Xiao Zhan gives a shiver and rolls to the side, Yibo’s softening dick slipping out of him as he goes. He isn’t touching Yibo anymore; his hands are tucked together under his own chin and his body is curved in a careful parabola a precise inch or two away from Yibo from shoulder to ankle. But his eyes are steady on Yibo’s face.
Yibo avoids the look, focusing with unnecessary intentness on his own hands as he pulls off the condom and ties a knot in the end. He levers himself to his feet and pads into the bathroom to toss it in the bin. He grabs a washcloth from the neatly rolled pile on the marble countertop and runs it under warm water in the sink, ringing it out before he brings it back out to Xiao Zhan in the bed.
Xiao Zhan hasn’t moved, still lying on his side, curved around the empty space where Yibo had been. He watches as Yibo approaches, still except for where his eyes track Yibo as he pads barefoot across the space between the bathroom and the bed.
Yibo perches on the side of the bed and offers the cloth to Xiao Zhan. Xiao Zhan reaches for it and briskly wipes himself down, scrubbing at his face and chest before reaching back to swipe at the lube between his thighs. When he’s finished, he hands the cloth back to Yibo, who carries it back to the bathroom and runs it under the tap again before cleaning himself up with it. He tosses it into the bathtub when he’s finished.
Xiao Zhan is sitting up when he comes back into the bedroom and watches as he reaches down to untangle his underwear from his trousers before pulling them both back on in turn. Xiao Zhan hasn’t bothered to get dressed himself. He hasn’t even draped the loose sheet over his groin. He’s just sitting, naked and unembarrassed, propped against the headboard. His legs are stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankle. His arms are draped in a loose fold over his chest.
Yibo flicks a look over at him as he pulls on his t-shirt.
“Thanks for tonight,” he says, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his blazer, then patting his pocket to make sure he still has his phone. “It was nice.”
Xiao Zhan watches him intently as he says, “I’m glad. I enjoyed it, too. It was good to see you.”
Yibo nods and sits back down on the bed to pull his socks on.
After a moment, Xiao Zhan adds, “Maybe we can see each other again? Whenever we’re in the same city next?”
Yibo leans down to tie his shoelaces. “Yeah, sure. After the Douyin awards, maybe?”
Xiao Zhan smiles, then. It’s a small, pleased little tuck at the corners of his mouth rather than a full, beaming grin, but it’s genuine. “That would be good.”
“Cool,” Yibo says as he finally stands up.
Xiao Zhan shifts, like he’s going to get up and walk Yibo to the door or something. Yibo pushes him back. He looks down at Xiao Zhan, at his hand spread out over Xiao Zhan’s shoulder, then gives in to the temptation to lean down to press a last, quick kiss onto Xiao Zhan’s lips.
“I’ll see you,” Yibo says when he pulls back. He doesn’t wait for Xiao Zhan to reply before turning around and striding in the direction of the door.
Then
After the Tencent awards, Xiao Zhan comes through the hotel room door, barefaced and grim-mouthed.
Yibo knows -- he knows -- he’s not going to like whatever is about to happen.
Xiao Zhan has been subtly off all night -- nothing the cameras would catch, of course. There were no cracks in Xiao Zhan’s perfect performance of a bashfully pleased rising star being showered with praise and awards. But Yibo can tell. He knows Xiao Zhan too well not to be able to pick up on the strain under the surface. All night, Yibo has been looking at Xiao Zhan and Xiao Zhan has been looking away.
“What is it?” Yibo asks, right there in the narrow corridor, next to the bathroom.
“Come sit down,” Xiao Zhan replies. Another avoidance.
“I don’t want to sit down,” Yibo says. He crosses his arms over his chest, flattens his hands against his sides. He can feel that he’s pouting, stubborn and sulky, but can’t get his expression under control.
Xiao Zhan doesn’t argue, just walks past Yibo and into the hotel room, leaving Yibo no choice but to follow after all. Xiao Zhan comes to a stop awkwardly at the foot of the bed, and Yibo moves over to stand by the window. He leans back against it, the cool surface grounding against his shoulder blades.
“What is it?” Yibo asks again.
“I want to stop.”
For a moment, Yibo doesn’t get it. He stares, uncomprehendingly, at Xiao Zhan’s impassive face. Stop what? Stop standing? Stop doing award shows?
Xiao Zhan, apparently correctly interpreting Yibo’s silence as confusion, clarifies. Brutally.
“I want us to stop. I don’t want to do this anymore.” Xiao Zhan emphasises his point with a vague waft of his hand, a gesture that somehow encompasses himself and Yibo and the space between them. The this between them that he wants to stop.
Yibo had known whatever Xiao Zhan had come to say was going to be bad. This is worse.
“What? Why?”
“It’s time. This thing that we’ve had. It’s run its course. We barely see each other anymore and it’s only going to get worse. Our careers are going really well right now and we have to make the most of the opportunities that come our way. It was good between us, Yibo, it was. But it’s time.”
That. That hurts. Yibo feels winded with how much it hurts. He has to swallow a couple of times before he can push his voice out of his tight throat. “It’s still good. We can’t see each other as much as either of us would want, but we can work on it. We can make more time to be together.”
“I don’t want to,” Xiao Zhan replies. His voice is gentle and terrible. He is standing with his hands loose at his sides, relaxed.
“We can make it work, Zhan-ge, it -- “
But Xiao Zhan is shaking his head before Yibo is even half way through his sentence and it hurts. It hurts how much this doesn’t seem to be hurting Xiao Zhan at all. He is implacable and calm.
“You don’t want to be together anymore at all?” Yibo asks, blankly.
Yibo feels stupid as soon as the words leave his mouth, then stupider still when Xiao Zhan replies, “This isn’t what being together is -- spending most of our time apart, sneaking around to see each other in a hotel room once every couple of months without any of our friends knowing. This isn’t a proper relationship. It isn’t good for either of us.”
It’s this that finally pushes Yibo over the line from pain to anger.
“Fuck you, Xiao Zhan. Lao Xiao. The voice of experience, passing judgement on what does and doesn’t count as a relationship. Fuck you.”
Xiao Zhan looks at the wall just to one side of Yibo’s head as Yibo curses at him. His expression doesn’t change. He waits until he’s sure Yibo is done, then nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. I’m going to go now, Yibo.”
Yibo can feel the tears prickling behind his eyes and spins around, stares out the window at the city lights so that he doesn’t have to look at Xiao Zhan. Behind him, he hears Xiao Zhan moving towards the door.
“Goodbye, Yibo,” Xiao Zhan says. “Look after yourself.”
“Fuck off,” Yibo mutters, but in a voice small enough that Xiao Zhan probably doesn’t hear him.
Then there is the sound of the hotel room door opening and closing again.
It’s hollow and horrible, the sound of that door closing.
Yibo closes his eyes and grinds his forehead hard into the cool glass of the window. His ears are ringing, his chest is tight. He can’t breathe -- he chokes as he tries, as if he has sucked in a mouthful of smoke instead of air. When does manage a breath in, it comes as a ragged sob, loud and raw in an empty room.
Now
The Douyin awards are, of course, a whirlwind. Yibo films a couple of vignettes with Zhang Ziyi in the days leading up to the event, which are pretty fun. He likes his bartender outfit. On the night, he does the usual mad dashes between the red carpet and photo shoots and performance, with costume changes for every appearance. Once his performance is out of the way, though, Yibo relaxes. He’s not even faking the smile he gives when he and Zhao Liying accept their awards together.
After, he’s standing backstage, wishing Liying-jie goodnight, when Xiao Zhan sidles up. He’s got his own award -- Popularity Star -- tucked under his arm. He is his most charming self as he greets Zhao Liying, who reciprocates politely but then quickly extricates herself from the conversation. She seems keen to get out of her uncomfortable awards outfit and back to the hotel, where her husband and baby are waiting.
She bustles off, her staff trailing after her, leaving Yibo and Xiao Zhan behind in one of those strangely intimate little pockets of space you sometimes get in the middle of a large crowd. The other celebrities have started filtering out in the direction of dressing rooms and waiting cars. Everyone else around them are crew, who are too busy rushing around with their post-show jobs to pay any attention to the two of them.
“Congratulations,” Xiao Zhan offers, gesturing at Yibo’s award. “All Round Artist again. It’s well deserved.”
“Thank you. Congratulations to you, too,” Yibo replies.
Xiao Zhan fidgets for a moment with the black ribbon trailing from his shirt, then says, “I like your new song. It’s good.”
“Thanks,” Yibo says, again.
Xiao Zhan smiles, then shuffles a half step closer as a crew member comes past pushing a trolley with lighting equipment on it. He doesn’t step back again when the coast is clear. His face settles into an intent expression and he opens his mouth to say something, then appears to think better of it. He shoots a wary look around himself, and instead says, “I think we’re at the same hotel again. Do you want to come by for a drink after? If you’re not too tired?”
“Sure, sounds good,” Yibo says, carefully casual. He’s been trying not to think about their half-agreed plans to see each other tonight. They’ve had a few text exchanges since they saw each other last, but neither has mentioned tonight, even to say a casual see you there. Yibo couldn’t decide if he’d be disappointed or relieved if it didn’t work out.
Xiao Zhan grins at Yibo’s reply -- bright and happy and far too pure looking for a man who’s just sidled up to Yibo to proposition him for another hook-up. It throws Yibo off, makes him feel like he’s missed something somewhere in the conversation. That is what he’s just agreed to, right? A hook-up?
The doubt knocks Yibo back to last year, to the tense feeling in the pit of his stomach when he could tell that something was wrong between them, but not what. Or, apparently, how badly wrong things were. He could tell then that he was missing some piece of the puzzle, too.
“Great, great,” Xiao Zhan says, seemingly oblivious to Yibo’s sudden spike of uncertainty. He rummages around for a second in the pocket of his elegantly draping trousers until he fishes out a keycard in a little paper folder with the hotel logo on it and a room number written in Xiao Zhan’s familiar handwriting across the bottom.
“Here,” he says, offering to Yibo. “I got a second key in case you wanted to come by. So you don’t have to stand out in the corridor knocking. I’m heading out now, so I’ll probably beat you back. Come whenever.”
With that, Xiao Zhan turns and melts away into the crowd. His staff, who have been standing discretely out of hearing, scramble after him. His two bodyguards catch up quickly, but his little PA has to break into a skipping half-run to keep up with Xiao Zhan’s long, purposeful strides.
Yibo looks down at the key in his hand and, if anything, feels less confident than ever.
He changes out of his suit and into his own clothes in record time, then scrubs roughly at his face with makeup remover wipes to get rid of his layers of foundation. He isn’t very precise and probably misses a few spots, but he can’t be bothered to care. He ends up having to wait a couple of minutes while his manager calls to get the car to come around, having got ready to leave much faster than anticipated.
Back at the hotel, he swings by his own room to dump his things off and dives through a shower to wash out the sticky hair product that is making his hair crunchy and unyielding to the touch. He’s in and out in under five minutes, and back in clothes with his hair finger combed and teeth brushed five minutes after that. He picks up Xiao Zhan’s room key from where he’d put it on the dresser and is out the door.
Despite having the key, Yibo gives a quick warning rap on the door before he lets himself in, just so he doesn’t startle Xiao Zhan. Xiao Zhan is waiting in the narrow corridor, having apparently started towards the door at the sound of the knock. Yibo slips in and makes sure the door is firmly closed behind him before turning to fully face Xiao Zhan.
Xiao Zhan has showered and changed as well. He’s in the same soft-looking, loose cardigan he had worn after the Tencent awards and he’s wearing his glasses instead of his contacts. His hair, still shockingly short to Yibo’s eyes, is drying in soft tufts over his forehead.
“Yibo,” he says, smiling. “Come in. Come sit down. I’ve got beer. There’s food if you’re hungry.”
Yibo nods and slips past Xiao Zhan to lead the way into the hotel room. There is a room service cart parked out of the way against one wall, with a plate of sandwiches and a handful of bottles on it.
Yibo passes over the sandwiches and grabs a beer, popping the top and then going to stand over by the window. He leans his shoulder into the glass and watches as Xiao Zhan picks up one of the sandwiches and nibbles a little at the corner, then puts it back down and opens a beer of his own. He takes it over to the foot of the bed, sitting down on it awkwardly and sipping his drink.
“Do you, um. Do you want to sit down?”
Yibo shakes his head.
“I’m good,” he says. He’d sort of expected to be moving through the ‘have a drink’ portion of the evening to the ‘get naked’ portion of the evening a lot faster than this. The sandwiches are a surprise. Xiao Zhan is tense, nervy, and it’s making Yibo nervous in turn. It feels like he’s about to get broken up with again, but they’re not even dating.
Xiao Zhan looks down at his hands, picks at the label on the beer bottle with a fingernail. He is chewing on his bottom lip.
The silence stretches on longer than it should. Yibo hates feeling awkward and the silence is very, very awkward. Yibo takes another long draw on his beer and then, abruptly, loses patience with whatever is going on.
“What is it?” he asks, baldly. Social graces aren’t his strong suit, not like Xiao Zhan, but he’s elevated bluntness to a fine art. He uses it to deliberate effect now.
Xiao Zhan looks up at him, a smooth, solemn expression on his face. It’s a cover for some kind of stronger emotion roiling below the surface. Probably most people wouldn’t be able to tell it’s not genuine, but Yibo can. Even after all this time. Xiao Zhan never liked to show his deeper, uglier feelings on the surface.
“I want to try again. With you. If. If you wanted to.”
It’s not what Yibo was expecting.
He draws back, pressing into the window, and stares at Xiao Zhan for a long moment. Xiao Zhan meets his eyes steadily, but he has a white-knuckle grip on his bottle.
Yibo’s head is whirling and he can feel himself gripping his own beer bottle just as hard. He has the presence of mind to turn and carefully place it down on the windowsill. His hands shake as he does, so he balls them into fists at his sides.
Eventually, Yibo asks, “Why?”
“I miss you.”
“Miss me or miss the sex? Because I’m fine with this whole hook-up thing. It’s working pretty well.”
Xiao Zhan is shaking his head before Yibo finishes speaking. “No, I miss you. I miss you. I want more than casual sex. If you do. If you were willing to give me another chance.”
Yibo’s breath stutters. He can feel his heart beating in his ears, the heavy throb of blood rushing to his head.
That is.
Not what he’d expected.
Yibo takes a breath, closes his eyes. He shakes his head to try and clear it.
He’s been fucked up over Xiao Zhan breaking up with him for a year, has thrown himself into an even more frenetic schedule than usual to try and distract himself from how much losing what they’d had had hurt.
He’d pushed his way into that hotel room back in December in part to prove to himself that he was over Xiao Zhan. He’d found, to his horror, that he isn’t. Not really. He’s better, but he’s not over him, and the idea of starting all over again is --
“I don’t know. I don’t know if I want that.”
Because he’s watching so carefully, Yibo catches the flicker of Xiao Zhan’s eyelids at his response, the twist at the corner of his mouth, before Xiao Zhan gets both back under control, forcing his face back into its hard-to-read mask.
“That’s fair. I hurt you. I understand if you’re not -- If you don’t want to have anything to do with me anymore. I just. Everything that’s happened since December gave me hope that you might let me try to. To make it up to you. How it ended before.”
Yibo turns to look out the window, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts. Xiao Zhan’s reflection is clear on the glass, overlaying the cityscape beyond. He sits still on the end of the bed, waiting Yibo out.
“Why did it end like that?” Yibo eventually asks, not turning around. Not yet. “Why did you break up with me like that?”
Xiao Zhan stands and Yibo tenses, but he doesn’t make any advances. He moves instead to put his half empty beer down on the cart, then walks over until he can stand, leaning back on the wall. He’s no closer, but he’s in Yibo’s peripheral vision now. Previously, Yibo could see Xiao Zhan’s reflection and all Xiao Zhan could see was the back Yibo’s head, but he has a good view of Yibo’s profile from his new spot.
Xiao Zhan’s voice, when he speaks, is quiet and sad. “I felt overwhelmed by it all. The attention, my schedule. Our relationship. It all felt like too much. I thought you, us, was the thing I could cut out of my life to make the rest of it more manageable. To make it a bit easier.”
It stings to hear that their relationship had been so expendable, but Xiao Zhan is at least being honest. More honest, apparently, than when he’d said, last year, that it had just run its course.
“Did breaking up with me help?”
“No.” Xiao Zhan pauses after he answers, then adds, “But I’m not sure I could have done anything else. Even knowing how it turned out.”
Yibo absorbs that, turning it over in his head.
“Why?”
“I’ve missed you so much this year,” Xiao Zhan says, again. Yibo turns to look at him now, at the way he has his arms crossed over his chest and his head angled so that he can watch what he could see of Yibo’s face while it was turned away from him. “I’ve missed you so much it hurt, but I don’t think I could have done anything else. I was losing myself. I was being stripped back to bare bone and I didn’t have anything left over for us.”
“So what’s changed now?”
“Me. I’ve changed.” The reply is immediate and emphatic. Xiao Zhan uncrosses his arms and takes a couple of careful steps towards Yibo. Telegraphing his intentions clearly, giving Yibo plenty of time to object if he was going to, Xiao Zhan reaches out with one hand and cups it over the ball of Yibo’s shoulder. The physical contact is grounding, pulling Yibo into the moment and out of the slightly drifty, disconnected headspace he’d been in.
“I’ve had a lot more time to think this year than I would have liked,” Xiao Zhan says with a grimace that speaks volumes. “I don’t know that I really understood what I was getting into when I threw myself into this career. I love singing, I love acting, but the rest of it is. I wasn’t prepared for that. I’m not as experienced at celebrity as you are, Lao Wang, and I made mistakes.”
The old nickname is a touch of levity that Yibo can’t help respond to. He feels himself smile a little at it. Xiao Zhan smiles back, carefully, and squeezes Yibo’s shoulder.
“I understand it better now, and I understand myself better. I’m sorry I hurt you so much before I figured it out.”
Yibo hadn’t realised, until that moment, how badly he’d needed to hear Xiao Zhan apologise. How badly he’d needed to hear Xiao Zhan acknowledge and say sorry for how he’d made Yibo feel. The tightness Yibo has been carrying around in his chest for a year finally, finally, loosens and he brings a hand up to lay over the one on his shoulder. He squeezes it in a thank you that he’s not sure he has the words to actually articulate. He hopes Xiao Zhan understands.
They stand like that, Yibo holding Xiao Zhan’s hand and Xiao Zhan holding Yibo’s shoulder, a calm tableau.
Then Yibo says, “If we did try again -- “ A hopeful light dawns in Xiao Zhan’s eyes and Yibo emphasises, “If we did try again. It’s not going to be any better than last time. We’d be apart more often than we’re together. We’d be back to sneaking into each other’s hotel rooms.”
“It’s been working pretty well lately,” Xiao Zhan says, smirking as he throws Yibo’s words back at him. He grows serious again, though, and adds, “We can work on it. We can make time where we can, message when we can’t. Like we’ve been doing.”
“I’d want to tell people,” Yibo says, surprising himself with the vehemence of it. “Not a lot of people. But the people that matter. My family. My friends.”
Last time, they’d never talked about it, but Xiao Zhan had got nervous every time it seemed like someone might have guessed about them. So Yibo had kept it a secret, without even being asked. Yibo had been so stupid in love, he hadn’t thought it had mattered. He’d thought it was a small price to pay if it meant having Xiao Zhan. But then they’d broken up, and he’d been miserable, and he’d been alone. There was nobody to talk to about it because nobody had known they’d ever been together in the first place. A few people had guessed, like Wang Han, but they hadn’t known for sure, and Yibo had felt so isolated.
It is, Yibo realises, a dealbreaker. He wants to tell people this time. If Xiao Zhan says no, then. That’s it. Yibo isn’t going to give this another try. He’ll walk away.
But Xiao Zhan is already nodding, agreeing. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
“Yes. Me, too. I want that, too,” he says.
Yibo takes a deep breath. Takes a moment to check that he really means what he’s about to say. When he finds he does, he nods. “Okay.”
Xiao Zhan looks blank for a moment, and then realisation dawns. “Okay?” he asks, a grin starting to stretch across his face.
“Okay,” Yibo repeats. “Okay. We can try.”
Xiao Zhan surges forward into Yibo’s space, hands moving up to cup Yibo’s face. The kiss he pushes against Yibo’s lips is graceless, a smash of lips with an edge of teeth where Xiao Zhan hasn’t stopped smiling.
Later
Xiao Zhan throws open the door to his apartment before Yibo even has a chance to knock, then steps back out of the way to give Yibo the space to push his massive suitcase in ahead of himself.
“You’ve packed pretty heavy for one night,” he says, laughing as he tugs Yibo in one-armed for a hug and a smacking kiss on the cheek. He’s showered and changed into sweatpants already. Yibo, for his part, is still in the street clothes he’d been wearing when he’d left the Weibo awards. The fresh smell of Xiao Zhan’s body wash when he pulls him close makes Yibo conscious of how stale and sweaty he feels.
Yibo rolls his eyes and elbows Xiao Zhan off of him so he can toe off his shoes and wheel the suitcase into the living room. “I’m flying out in the morning for the start of the Luoyang shoot. I brought my stuff so I can sleep in later and go directly from here. Asshole.”
The insult is affectionate and it makes Xiao Zhan laugh.
Yibo tucks his suitcase out of the way in one corner of the room and accepts the beer Xiao Zhan holds out to him gratefully.
“Are you hungry? I can order something in, if you want.” Xiao Zhan has his phone in his hand already, but Yibo waves him off. He’d grazed on enough snacks at the awards that he’s fine. It’s late enough that he’d probably just fall asleep waiting if they tried to order anything more.
“Stop fussing around, just come sit,” Yibo says, throwing himself down on Xiao Zhan’s couch. When Xiao Zhan sits down next to him, Yibo kicks his feet up into Xiao Zhan’s lap and wiggles his toes, shamelessly hinting for a foot rub. Xiao Zhan complies, digging his thumbs into the stiff ball of Yibo’s left foot.
“Oh,” Yibo groans, letting his head fall back against the arm of the couch. “That’s good. I have to constantly clench my toes to keep those stupid loafers my stylist keeps putting me in from sliding right off my feet. I thought I was going to get a foot cramp when I was walking across the stage.”
“It’s the price of fashion, Lao Wang,” Xiao Zhan says, switching over to the other foot. “If you didn’t insist on being so stylish, you could have had nice, boring lace up shoes like I did.”
Yibo uses the foot not currently being rubbed to poke Xiao Zhan in the ribs. “Asshole,” he says again, fondly. “Like I get to pick what I wear to events.”
By the time Xiao Zhan has finished with both feet, Yibo is melting bonelessly into the cushions and fighting not to just fall asleep where he is. Xiao Zhan has to yank him up off the couch and herd him in the direction of the shower. Yibo washes and brushes his teeth with the toothbrush that Xiao Zhan keeps in the medicine cabinet for him. Then he pads naked from the bathroom to Xiao Zhan’s bedroom.
When he comes in, Xiao Zhan, who was sitting on the end of the bed and scrolling through his phone while he waited, levers himself up and heads to the bathroom. As the tap turns on and the sound of Xiao Zhan brushing his own teeth starts up, Yibo flips back the covers and crawls into bed.
Xiao Zhan comes back as Yibo is plugging in his phone and setting his alarm for the morning. He pulls the door to the bedroom part closed, but leaves enough of a gap for the glow of the hallway light to show. He climbs in on the other side of the bed, plugs his own phone in, and then turns over onto his back and holds his arms open in invitation.
Yibo rolls over onto his side and tucks his head under Xiao Zhan’s chin. He shoves his nose into the dip of Xiao Zhan’s clavicle and spreads his hand across Xiao Zhan’s chest, feeling the steady beat of Xiao Zhan’s heart beneath his palm.
In the morning, they’ll trade handjobs and Xiao Zhan will make him coffee and then Yibo will be off again for a couple of weeks. When Yibo’s back in Beijing next, Xiao Zhan is scheduled to be in Wuhan for his play rehearsals.
They have an overlapping free long weekend next month. Until then, they’ll message and video call.
It’s not perfect, but it’s working. They’re making it work.
It’s good.
End.
|
CHAPTER 44
I pulled open the door to the bar and immediately saw Taurin sitting at a raised circular table across the way. He was talking to Severin, an Ice Dweller I met at this bar. They both had beer glasses in front of them. He didn't look around as he talked in my mind.
'Come to me?'
My anger dissipated and my insides turn soft as I walked to him, 'Yes.' When I was close enough he held out his hand and I took it.
"I remember you. Your eyes changed," Severin said, smiling at me.
"Yes, we met briefly," I said, my eyes leaving Taurin for a second to glance at him. Taurin slid off the seat and placed a hand under my chin. I looked deep into his blue eyes as he bent closer to my face. We kissed, in public, and I didn't mind. It was one of the most lovely kisses I had ever received from anyone. I felt precious and loved through it and I ached to give him the same feelings.
Severin gave a low whistle and we turned our attention to him. His face was serious, "Best of luck with that Taurin."
We watched him walk down the stairs and then looked at each other with affection. "He's talking about the crazy thing isn't he?"
Taurin gave a non-committal shrug, "It could be because you're ummm... what are you, oh yeah, a demon hunter." He laughed at me.
"Yeah, well, there is that."
"Are you ready to go?" He asked.
"Please." We walked out hand in hand.
It was after one am when we stepped into the alley. I inhaled the night air deeply. "Who was that demon who grabbed me in the bar?"
"I've never seen him before. I asked Ezra and he didn't know either."
"Is that normal? I forgot to ask Zanzibar."
"Not necessary. I was there for the lecture remember. Zanzibar had no idea who he was either, despite that my brother knew who he was. As for us not knowing each other, it happens, rarely, but still."
I changed subjects, "Is Daemion that much of a bad ass?"
Taurin turned to give me his full attention, "Honestly, we're all surprised Zanzibar's still alive."
I paused and decided to table the discussion about longevity for later, with Ezra around. Instead, I focused on another avenue, "Oh, so you don't know his real name either?"
"No. Never cared."
"Hmm," I responded as we kept walking in the heat filled night towards the jeep. My heart rate accelerated when he turned me around and pushed me up against the jeep. A cascading warmth permeated my body as I happily accepted the start of a passionate kiss. The front of our bodies pressed up against one another and I hastily wrapped my arms around his neck. I reveled in the length of his body against mine and the cage of his arms enveloping me. We were interrupted by a nonchalant voice.
"Attempting to make me jealous?"
Out of my periphery vision I saw two small flames dance across Ezra's hand.
"Maybe. I'm tired of always being the jealous one." Taurin spoke with his lips against mine.
I stared deeply into his iced over eyes as we shared breaths.
Ezra continued blandly. "Did either one of you stop to think about Oldavai?"
I would have backed up at those words if the jeep wasn't in the way. Taurin didn't though, two of his fingers gently caressed down my lips.
"I'm not the one lying about my feelings." His intense blue gaze moved from my lips to my eyes.
"This distraction makes you both easy targets." His flaming hand came down hard, an inch from where my head rested.
Taurin grabbed me by my waist and pulled me away quickly. He gave me a quick kiss on the lips as he twirled me around behind him. "Yes, Ezra," he said dispassionately.
Ezra moved in close to him, until they were almost touching. "You can do better than this Taurin," he hissed.
His flaming eyes looked over at me, but he didn't say anything. I could almost hear the accusation, 'and so can you'. But he didn't, because he wasn't so sure anymore, and Ezra didn't say things he wasn't sure about. I was starting to agree with him, because it never once occurred to me to question whether I was being influenced by Oldavai.
Despite the ache in my back I decided to drive back to the hotel to help me from being distracted by Taurin. I kept glancing in the rearview mirror at him anyway. He never acknowledge me as he looked out the window, but he had a slight satisfied smile on his face. I wanted to be with him, it had to be Oldavai, only I didn't smell or feel any indication of it.
"How could he have gotten to us?"
'Are you sure it's 'us',' Taurin asked in my head. I ignored him and glanced at Ezra, who was also looking out the window.
"I have no idea," Ezra responded.
"Could he have been that demon who was pushy at the bar?"
There was a weighted silence coming from Ezra. I waited, knowing him well enough that he was figuring out what to say.
"I know Oldavai."
I raised my eyes at that. "And you didn't think that was pertinent for me to know?!"
"I met him when he was a young incubus. I know the feel of him in my mind. I also told you that he is good at illusion."
We sat in the jeep at the hotel as I digested this bit of information. "So, it could have been him."
"Only if he can change his actual self."
"I wouldn't classify that as an illusion then."
"Exactly, I would know him no matter what form he choose to wear." Ezra said with satisfaction since I understood what he was saying.
We all got out of the jeep. "Every day I feel like I get the short end of the stick. And you know what?" I said to no one in particular, "It all started the day my mother was murdered."
Neither replied and I was happy they didn't. I didn't want pity, not that I'd get that from them.
When we got into the hotel I was irritable and antsy. I wanted to be with Taurin, in his embrace. I was positive it was Oldavai. I'd never felt this way before. Sure, the two of us were getting closer, but I didn't think feelings would just jump this way. Would they?
I paced in the bedroom and thought about throwing Taurin out, but I couldn't say the words. I could hear the two of them talking in demon behind the closed door of the adjoining sitting room. I wondered briefly for the hundredth time why I never bothered to learn the language. Probably because I thought I was only going to kill demons and not live with them. I scoffed and laughed sourly at myself, so short-sided Dove.
I decided to focus on getting ready for sleep and practically threw myself down on the bed when I was finished. If Oldavai was in Seattle then I needed to try to hunt him down. I thought about getting back up and preparing a circle, but decided to toss and turn instead.
I stared up at the dark ceiling as I thought about Taurin. I looked towards the bedroom door as I felt air push inward. My finger tapped on the mattress as it opened. Taurin stood behind Ezra. God, this sucked. I thought I really was starting to like Taurin more and didn't want Oldavai to fuck with my feelings. Ezra came closer to the bed. The fierce red glow from his body made shadows on the wall. His hand pushed back the hair in my face.
"I don't know what to do," I stated, refusing to look at him. I couldn't stand to see what he was feeling in his eyes. I wouldn't know what to do with that either.
"I know," he replied.
"Is it just me?"
There was a long pause before Ezra responded, "Taurin says he is not affected."
"So, I'm the weakest link," I whispered.
Ezra nudged me over with his hip, "What are you going to do next?"
"I'm going after Oldavai with everything I have."
"Good."
I glanced at him, "You kept the gun from the wolf attack?"
"No one tries to shoot ordinary bullets into a demon thinking it will kill. I kept the hand gun, but there was a rifle that Taurin found in the woods. The magazine was empty. I let him sell it. Now you need to tell us what you found out."
It was then that I realized I hadn't told them yet. I was distracted... by Oldavai. Oh, he was good. So, I told them what I learned from Punk. Ezra chuckled when he heard about where the magic came from. Then I told them about Laci. Neither demon said anything out loud, but I could almost hear the buzz between their minds at the mention of her name. I opened my mouth to ask what they were talking about when Ezra interrupted. Probably on purpose.
"I take it you are starting tomorrow?"
"Yes." I said with determination.
Ezra stared at me, "If that is what you wish."
"Bad PR for demon hunters if you manage to find him in a public place," Taurin said from the doorway.
"I don't care anymore."
Ezra gave me a blank look and redirected the conversation. "You need to get some sleep. It will help you heal."
"I know," I turned and stared at the shrouded window, wishing that Taurin was on the other side of me.
"Will you sleep if Taurin is next to you?" Ezra asked blandly.
I swear he read my mind with that question. Fragilely I whispered, "I don't know."
I felt Taurin move from the doorway and my body unclenched itself. He flowed towards the bed feral like even fully clothed. I watched him, my eyes only for him. I barely registered Ezra moving me over more to lay down next to me over the blanket. I held my breath as Taurin and I stared at one another, his eyes completely iced over. The silence pervaded the room, cloyingly thick. The click of the air conditioning prompted me to exhale and with it all my fears. I reached for him and he crawled under the blanket to be closer to me. He held me and pushed my head on his shoulder. He wasn't as cold as I was used to.
Taurin bent towards me, "We're reasonably sure he doesn't know who Ezra is and therefore hasn't been able to focus his magic on him through you." He continued with a matter-of-fact tone, "You remember that he's trying to make one of us kill the other or each other, even without his knowledge of Ezra personally."
It was on the tip of my tongue to say I didn't care, but I forced myself to stop. I collected my thoughts before I replied, "You won't."
Taurin hugged me closer and said, "I'm glad you're full of conviction. It keeps us safe."
Ezra reached over and touched my back like I was his touchstone for restraint. A little dragon inside of me whipped its shimmering tail back and forth.
CHAPTER 45
I slept late into the day. I guess I needed more healing sleep than I realized. Taurin stayed with me the entire time and I felt blissful because of it. This only caused me to worry. I was awake and thinking rapidly as I wiggled every part of my body deeper into his embrace.
"Your eyes are closed, but I can hear the clamor of you incoherent thoughts," he whispered into my ear.
I crinkled my nose and kept my eyes closed, "Then tune it out and stay out of my head."
Taurin laughed softly. "Are you ready to hunt, IshaDove?"
I stretched, focusing on the lack of suppleness on my back, but I'd live. I looked over at him and asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Each day I feel better. I think that if that magic stayed in that we'd die. As it is, I keep wondering if I got it all out of my system. Ezra believes so."
My mind wandered over something he said and I replied distractedly, "Ezra only deals in certainties."
"He could have changed," he said with serious.
That pulled me out of my meanderings and I replied, "What do you mean?" Quickly followed up with, "I know what you mean, but, what do you mean?"
Taurin laughed and hugged me closer. "I only meant to imply that maybe he would like me to believe him and not concern myself anymore."
I squirmed out of his embrace and looked at him, "You're saying that he would deliberately lie to you."
He shrugged and moved off the bed, "It's just a thought, Dove."
I rolled off the other side and went towards the bathroom, voicing a noise of skepticism. He left the bedroom to give me space to get ready for the day. I was adjusting my sheaths when I finally walked into the sitting room where they were.
"If you can maybe die with these bullets why do demon hunters chant a death incantation when we kill?" I looked up to find them both staring at me. They were completely stone faced. Suddenly Taurin broke into a wild laugh.
"You don't know! Are all demon hunters as-" He abruptly shut up.
Shutting up was not at all like him, but I didn't care. Ezra was already in front of me with a death grip on my wrist that was pulled back to fling a dagger. I twitched my head when I noticed smoke coming from where Ezra bit me. I closed my eyes briefly, so frustrated at this point that I couldn't even swear. He slowly placed his hand where the scales were hidden by my t-shirt and looked steadily at me. I took a deep breath and stared into his eyes.
"It would be best to relax." His hand slid up my neck until his fingers brushed behind my ear.
I fought his other hand that was forcefully bringing my arm down. A subtle movement and he was even closer to my body. I finally eased into him and sheathed my dagger. "I'm going to kill him. Kill him for messing with my emotions. Kill him for making me think that I actually want to be with that." I motioned to Taurin still sitting on the couch.
Taurin slowly got up and walked to the door. Little by little his head turned to us, his hand on the door knob. "Shall we go?" He asked as coldly as the breeze he was making waft though the room.
I raised my chin and cocked my head at him, "Yes."
Ezra mouth sided up to my ear, "You can kill him. You would not do it though."
I closed my eyes and knew he was right. Whether he was talking about Taurin or Oldavai I had no idea.
Ezra wisely convinced me not to go on a rampage with an empty stomach. Taurin kept giving me side glances and small smiles. That probably had to do with the fact that he could feel my compulsion to be closer despite my anger at him. Because of that I purposely asked for a table with chairs.
That also was the reason that I ended up tearing pages of the phone book as I agitatedly flipped through it looking for vamp bars, helpfully highlighted in red. I paused in thought and looked up Zanzibar's. It was highlighted in black with red letters. I laughed. I was surprised they didn't have it black on black or that it was even in the phone book. Demons seemed to be thought of as the worst of the worst. I laughed again and said my thoughts out loud. Ezra simply agreed. Taurin continued to annoy me with foot nudges under the table. I handed the phone book to the hostess, paid the bill, and we left.
We hit the vamp clubs that stayed open during the day for meetings. Mostly for people booking events or those who were nervous about visiting them at night and needed reassurance. Watching a human woman practically dragged into a club by her boyfriend made me wince. If you had that much anxiety over the idea then I say ditch the guy and stay away. At that thought I looked at Taurin and wished I could take my own advice. I continued to be antsy as a live wire due to Taurin's behaviors; his casual brush ups, impish smiles, and fast touches. I couldn't decide if I wanted to kiss him or punch him.
It was the fourth club that we never got into because I screamed a sound of fury in his face. "You have got to stop! Just stop!" I pushed at his chest. "I am not doing this!"
His mouth stretched into a huge smile and his body moved as if he was laughing, but no sound came out. I felt the air move towards me and he grabbed me. His hand secured the back of my head and I was being kissed with a fiery passion.
I was lost immediately. My heart beat erratically and I latched on to him, responding in kind. Emotions I never knew I possessed poured out of my kiss. We were smashed up against one another and my hand was running through his hair. His hold on me felt like a safety net that I didn't want to leave.
A little dragon shrieked a battle cry so loud inside of me that Taurin and I both jumped back in an instinctive move. My heart beat from desire to fear in less time than it took for me to draw breath. I turned to my left very slowly, afraid of the sight I would see. He stood there, propped up against the wall, arms crossed. Still as a statue except for the flickering flames swirling in and out of his body. My attention was all for him, as his seemed to be for me. I doubted it though. I would bet he was aware of every movement from Taurin on my right.
A man stepped out of the front door of the club. I cautiously turned my head from Ezra to the man. He wore jeans and a t-shirt and he wasn't smiling. He had an unassuming face with a stylish cut of brown hair. I figured him to be in his thirties, but the way he regarded us didn't fit with that age in human terms. His gym shoes tapped on the pavement.
"There's a lot of magic going on outside this bar." His eyes focused on me. "I take it you're the one looking for Laci. Your message is being passed around. Zanzibar started asking for her last night."
Before I could speak Ezra moved next to me. He gently placed his hand on the small of my back. I glanced at him in astonishment at his soft touch after such an air of anger surrounding him. He surprised me again when he spoke to the man in what sounded like Dutch.
The man responded in kind and bowed minutely to Ezra before he turned to me. "It takes a brave soul to live with the devil and not kill it or be turned into one," he said in a perfect American accent. He walked into the bar without another word.
I blinked, speechless. I didn't know if he was talking about me or himself, because, as far as I was concerned, he lived with devils too.
CHAPTER 46
Ezra directed a small pressure on my back to get us walking. "We have done all that we can in this direction. Would you look for him now through magic?"
I eyed him from the side. He was taking this fairly well. No mention of what just transgressed. As we passed Taurin I specifically kept my gaze from him. "I suppose I could do that. Find his secret hole or maybe do some research on him at the Affairs' Office."
"Search him out," Ezra directed. "Verify that he is close by."
"Ohh kay Ez," I looked at him in speculation. "What's on your mind?"
"I want to know his power range and how it pertains to his influence on you."
'If Oldavai is influencing you, I like it. I hope it stays after we're done with him,' Taurin said smugly in my mind.
I stumbled over my feet at Taurin's words. Ezra caught me by my elbow before I face planted myself in the pavement. I knew he liked it. It was obvious. I just didn't expect him to actually say those words to me. How could he be with someone not knowing if it was magic propelling them or not? Must be demon mentality.
"Taurin, I have no idea or inclination to know what you just said to Dove, but enough. She needs to focus."
I looked up at Ezra and was amazed at the intense fury he showed me belying his calm tone. My awareness pivoted solely on him, Taurin's words forgotten. His loose hair moved from the heat wafting off him. He moved, snake like, closer to my face.
"I will be intensely exhilarated when this is over, Dove."
My breath stuttered as I stared into those flickering eyes. His rage had so noticeably intensified since Taurin came into our lives. It smothered the air around us. I breathed in heat through my nose and cupped the side of his face. I hoped he could see the concern and love reflected in my eyes as I moved in to kiss him. He closed his eyes and placed a finger on my lips, effectively stopping me.
"I cannot look at you when you open yourself to me. Not now. You strip me bare. The stare of your dawn eyes would drown me and I am so very... very... angry." He opened his eyes and I finally saw the flames that I only glimpsed reflections of. "And I do not want to be calm," his voice was harsh and adamant to my ears.
"Ezra," I whispered. "Don't lose me because of your anger."
He grabbed me so quick I felt the air displacement as it happened. He hugged me close and spoke into my hair. "I will never be able to lose you." I felt his lips curl into a smile, "You would never let me."
I chuckled into his chest. Feeling warm and safe, and this time I knew it was all me.
He pulled me away and held me at arms length. He opened his mouth to say something, but I watched him change his mind. Instead he gave me heavy lidded eyes and said, "Get to work. Pull yourself into shadows and search for him. His kind do not walk the shadows. They walk another dimension of time."
I raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. Thoughts about actively using demon magic flew through my head. Ezra waited with a guarded expression as if expecting an outburst from me. Instead, I decided to surprise him and abruptly leaned against the wall of the building.
I closed my eyes and it was almost too easy to lure myself into the shadow world. I felt momentarily disorientated as my mind altered itself to inhabit that place. I stood inside the darkness brought on by the walls of the buildings.
The world seemed the same, yet not. The lights were brighter, the shadows darker. Everything seemed to pulse like a heartbeat. I looked over at Ezra staring at where my body had been. The darkness inside of him blazed as if it was light. I turned my attention to Taurin leaning up against another outside wall, nearer to the entrance of the alley, he had shades of gray inside him that seemed to crash into and swallow one another constantly. I realized that I could get lost in this wonder, so I redirected myself to work.
My sword rang with music as I pulled it out and started my ritual for finding a demon.
I sniffed out Oldavai immediately. His scent clung and I realized that it surrounded me. Over it hung the incense combination that he had been using at the house. I followed it slowly to Taurin and smelled it ever so faintly on him. Not even close to the way it seemed to saturate me. Which was a relief and not, all at the same time. Miraculously, there was no scent coming from Ezra. It gave me hope that he would continue to keep Taurin and me sane. I shook my head and spread my magic out, searching for him.
He was everywhere in this city. I opened my eyes in awe at the vastness of his abilities. His scent lingering on so many people, man, woman, human and not. And then over that particular scent of his were combinations of other scents. It was as if I stepped into an herbarium shop. Zanzibar called him a soul sucker and I wondered if he knew how right he was.
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"Peterson just got busted for watching porn in his office," Calvin belted out as he walked into my office.
"No way, when did that happen?" I asked sitting up in my chair.
"I guess they caught him last night, and confronted him about it this morning," he answered. "They had a big meeting about it and decided to can him a few minutes ago."
"Just like that huh?" I quizzed. "They gave Randy a second chance when he got caught, so why not give Peterson another shot? Or, was this already his second shot?"
"I don't think Peterson has ever been on anyone's radar," Calvin said. "I think it has everything to do with the kind of porn he was looking at."
"Why is that?" I asked "What kind of porn was he looking at? There's no way Peterson was watching gay porn, he's too churchy."
"It wasn't gay porn bro," he said. "But, it's still shocking that Peterson would be watching it. In the meeting Sara said it was nuns getting pounded by demons. Isn't that some crazy shit?"
"Nuns getting pounded by demons?" I asked bewildered. "Is that even a thing in porn? I've never stumbled across that when I'm scrolling through the categories."
"Apparently it's a thing and he couldn't get enough," he said. "Sara said she couldn't work next to someone who's into that, so everyone's hands were tied."
"Well, she is Catholic, so that doesn't surprise me," I said.
"We need you to wipe his computer this afternoon," he said.
"Oh come on," I said. "Can't you get Adam to do it?"
"His plate's full amigo," he said. "He has to finish everything before he goes on vacation. Everyone else is working on the software update, so that just leaves you. Sorry."
My response came in the form of a raised middle finger as he turned to leave my office. It wouldn't take that long to reformat the computer, but it's the principle of it all. I felt like it was below my pay grade. At least I could take a peek at what he had been watching first. It sounded weird, but you never really know. Peterson must have found something about it to peek his arousal.
I strolled to his office and took a seat behind his computer. I didn't have much to do in order to clear his computer. Things like browser history and temporary internet files would get cleared off when the new employee login was generated. I just had to make sure the hard-drive was clear, so the new employee didn't stumble on a surprise picture when they loaded their screen saver.
There were thousands of folders in the computer, most of which I could ignore, and only a handful that Peterson had clearly made up himself. I clicked on the first folder and it brought up about a dozen sub-folders. After opening each one, it was clear they were all work junk he probably didn't need anyway. When I opened the second one though, I found the money folder. There were videos and pictures galore, and even with the small icons I could make out well enough what they were.
I started deleting them chunks at a time, keeping my eyes peeled for anything that looked interesting enough to inspect further. Nothing really jumped out at me though. Most of it was computer animated pictures or videos of big monsters banging skinny blond girls. Once I deleted all the pictures and videos I noticed a folder labeled "Instructions." I opened it and found several documents, all with different odd names. I clicked on the very first one and read the first paragraph.
It appeared to be step by step instructions for something, but I couldn't really figure out what for. Skimming through it mentioned five blue candles and what to say when lighting each one. I skipped down a bit and it said where to stand in the room and some gibberish to say. I was damn curious to find out what those instructions were for. I started actually reading every word, in hopes it would reveal to me it's purpose. Finally, after reading for almost ten minutes I read the words, "you will feel her presence in the room and if she approves she will allow you to see her."
Well that was all I needed to read. Like a complete idiot I emailed all the documents to myself, so I could read more later. I finished removing everything I could find from his computer and I went back to my office. I decided to wait until I got home to look at the documents I'd emailed to myself. Something Peterson had opened at work got him fired and I wasn't going to make the same mistake he'd made.
I knew my wife was going shopping with her sisters and I'd be alone for a few hours that night. As soon as she left I grabbed my tablet and opened my email. I opened the first document again and this time I read the whole thing word for word. When I finished reading it I decided to give it a try. Why the hell not? I figured there's no way anything is going to happen anyway, but what if something did. Either way I didn't see that I had anything to lose by trying.
I looked through the cabinets until I found my wife's candles. Much to my surprise I found exactly five new blue candles. I took them to my room and placed them throughout the room, as described, and read of the gibberish as I lit them. I figured there was little chance I was even coming close to pronouncing any of the words correctly. I followed every instruction to the letter, even disrobing and placing my clothes outside the candle pattern. Finally I read aloud the final gibberish while laying naked in the middle of all the candles.
Then I waited. After several minutes I decided to close my eyes and see if I could feel her presence. Nothing. I did feel a little ridiculous, but no presence to be felt at all. After another long period of waiting I decided it was all craziness. What was I expecting anyway? Some porn star looking hotty from hell that craved cock? Clearly I had temporarily lost my mind and felt pretty stupid for even trying it.
I grabbed my clothes and put them back on. I picked up the candles and put them in the trash outside. I figured it would be easier to plead ignorance to the lost candles than trying to explain why there were five partially burned candles back in the box in the cabinet. I opened the windows in the room and turned the fan on. Luck seemed to be on my side, because there didn't seem to be any candle smell by the time she got home.
I had just finished brushing my teeth when she got in. She walked in and gave me a kiss and then turned on the shower. I passed her as she started to undress and I got in bed. Laying in bed I thought once again about how stupid I was to even try conjuring whatever thing I thought those instructions would bring. I shook my head and laughed to myself before drifting off to sleep.
I woke up rather peacefully in the middle of the night, which was really not like me at all. Usually once I was asleep the alarm clock was the only thing that could wake me. I wasn't startled awake, but I could feel someone watching me. I looked at my wife and she was on her back clearly sleeping. I looked around the room but couldn't see anyone. My wife had two night lights that almost made it too bright in our room at night. The first was next to her side of the bed, and the other was in the bathroom next to the sink. With those two lights it would be impossible for anyone to simply hide in plain site in our room at night.
I still felt like there was someone watching me. I looked to the right side of the room, trying to focus on every shadow in the room. I looked slowly to the left side of the room and froze when I noticed two blue eyes staring at me from the hallway. They were not blue eyes like Megan Fox's, but more like the kind of blue when your headlights reflect off an animals eyes on a dark road. I hit full on panic mode when the eyes started moving towards me and I could start to see the outline of a person in the doorway.
My heartbeat was pounding inside my chest and I felt like I couldn't breath from fear alone. The figure entered the room and the little light from the two night lights allowed me to see it a little. I wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. It was clearly a female by her ample tits just hanging right out there. She also had rather shapely legs from what I could see, but I could only see to about her knees. Her arms looked very feminine, skinny with not much muscle tone at all. Her face and head were the biggest anomaly for me.
She actually had a very pretty and feminine face, but in the poor light her skin looked grey. At first I thought her hair was tied up in two funny looking pony tails that rain along the top of her head, but when she got closer I realized they were horns. They started right at her hairline on her forehead and went straight back, curving up on the ends about an inch or so past the back of her head. Her hair looked black and it was straight as could be. With little light it appeared her horns and hair were the same shade of black. I couldn't decide if she gorgeous or hideous.
As she neared my bed I remembered the words from the instructions. You will feel her presence in the room and if she approves she will allow you to see her. That had to be her then. I was still terrified though. It felt like standing behind a fence when a baseball is hit right at you. You know you're safe, but you still flinch at the danger right before your eyes. Only, I didn't really know for sure that I was safe at all. I had conjured her when I was alone in the room, with hopes of pornographic bliss, but that was hours ago. Now my wife was sleeping next to me and I realized nowhere in that document did it say what she would do after she was conjured.
She stopped right next to me beside my bed and she pulled the sheets off me. I was still frozen in terror while she appeared to be examining me from head to toe. I was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts, so she could pretty much see all of me. My heart was still racing, but I kept telling myself she was only here for sex and not to kill us. She leaned down slightly and grabbed my boxers at my waist. With one easy pull she pulled them all the way down my legs and over my feet. Then I was completely naked on the bed in front of her.
She climbed onto the bed slowly and I looked over at my wife really quick. She was still sleeping but now she was on her side facing us. I looked back at the demoness and watched her straddle my waist. As she climbed on top of me I noticed she had hoofs instead of feet, and I swore I caught a glimpse of a tail. I was still telling myself this was a good thing, but I was also still freaking out at the same time. Straddling my waist was required for sex, but it's also a good way to pin down your victim to kill and devour them.
While straddling me she started to move up the bed toward the headboard, and my eyes watched hers get closer and closer to me. When her knees reached my shoulders, she lifted them over each one and then she sat on my chest. She stopped with her pussy an inch from my face. In any other situation I would have recognized that as an invitation to eat her pussy, but I was still completely frozen in fear. I assumed she wanted me to lick her, but I had a few scary thoughts running through my mind. She is a demoness after all, so is it even safe to lick her at all? Is her skin or pussy poisonous? Will my tongue get burned when it touches her? Is it even safe to touch her at all with my hands?
She put an end to my silent questioning by grabbing my hair and pulling my face to her pussy. Suddenly I was too scared not to lick her pussy. At first it was just compliant licking, with no thought or real effort involved. Just me sliding my tongue up quickly, pulling it away and sliding it back up quickly. Then I realized what was really going on here. She was indeed the sex demoness that I had conjured using the instructions, and she really was there just for sex. It was time to treat her as such.
I moved my hands to her ass, so I could really lick her pussy properly. When my fingertips felt her skin, it reminded me of a pet snake I once had. Her skin definitely didn't feel like human skin, and in the dim light I noticed her skin even reflected light similar to snake skin. I noted it all and decided to focus on the task at hand. With my hands on her ass as leverage I pulled my mouth to her pussy. Pressing my tongue flat over her pussy lips and licking her pussy aggressively. I noticed her pussy didn't taste anything like any woman's pussy is ever eaten before. It was sweet tasting almost like fruit. I started focusing on her clit with each lick. When I would move my tongue back down I would slip it inside her pussy really quick and then press it flat over her lips again as I pulled it out. It was a move that always made my wife cum and the demoness seemed to enjoy it as well. Her hips would move in a small grinding motion on my tongue every time I did it.
I was caught off guard when something wrapped around my cock. Her hands were on my shoulders, so I knew she hadn't reached back with one of them. I thought it could be my wife, but I couldn't see past her thigh next to my face. It seemed unlikely my wife would wake up and see what was happening and not freak out though. Then I noticed it was coiled around my cock and came to the conclusion it was her tail, which I caught a glimpse of earlier.
I'm sure a few minutes before, when I first woke up, I had my overnight wood going. I'm also sure it went away the moment I noticed those eyes looking at me. So, when I first felt her tail around my cock it wasn't hard at all. It didn't take too long, however, to start growing hard again. The sensation of her tail on my cock was hard to figure out. Her tail wasn't stroking my cock like a hand would, up and down, but instead it was moving in kind of a side to side massaging motion. However she was doing it, it sure felt amazing.
What she was doing to my cock had me licking her pussy even more feverishly. I assumed her demonic pussy worked the same as any other woman's pussy, so I seriously went to work on her clit. She started making a hissing sound and I moved my eyes to her face. The expression on her face was evidence my tongue was doing good work. Her eyes we closed and her mouth was open wide. That's when I noticed her long fangs and couldn't decide if they made her more terrifying or more sexy.
She pushed herself up a little and started moving her hips, essentially grinding her pussy against my tongue and lips. I felt her fingers on the back of my head just before she grabbed my hair and pulled my face to her pussy. For a few seconds I couldn't breath at all, because her pussy completely covered my mouth and it all was shoved up under my nostrils. My eyes got really big when I realized I couldn't breath, but fortunately her body started to shake and she threw her head back. Her convulsions, which I could only assume were orgasmic, moved her pussy just enough that I could take a breath.
After her convulsions subsided, and she'd calmed down, I realize she had been squeezing the shit out of my cock with her tail too. In my panic to breath again I hadn't noticed, but once I had air in my lungs again I quickly realized the pain. As if on queue her tail uncoiled and left my cock throbbing. At first I didn't want her to touch it, but before I could say anything she reached back and wrapped her fingers around it. I got nervous at first and anticipated more pain, but instead she just stroked it gently while she crawled back down my body.
Once she was in position over my waist again, she lowered her pussy down over my mushroom head. When I was licking her pussy I thought it felt rather warm on my tongue, but once my cock was completely inside it felt really hot. Not Megan Fox hot either, but fiery hot. I think she knew it was uncomfortable for me, because she just sat there with my cock resting inside her pussy for several seconds. The look on her face seemed a little quizzical, like she was watching me to see how I could handle it.
After several seconds she finally started moving her pussy up and down my shaft. I wasn't sure if it would help or make things worse, but it seemed to help. Her pussy still felt hot, but I wasn't worried about getting burns on my dick anymore. After a few minutes she found her groove and everything was Megan Fox hot again. I reached up and touched her tits for the first time. They were soft and for the most part felt just like any other pair of tits I'd ever touched, but still covered in the snake-like scale skin.
I finally had the chance to just lay back and take her all in. Where she was at on top of me on the bed the night light lit her up a little better. I thought she really was sexy to watch. I could see my cock disappear inside her pussy, which was hot in both the literal and figurative realms. Her tits swayed in a very sexy manor as she rode my cock with a very smooth rhythm. Aside from intimidating fangs, her face was very attractive. From my viewpoint under her I couldn't see her horns, so they were easy to dismiss while she was riding my cock.
I was still looking at her face when I heard the moan. It sounded so different than her hissing earlier, and she didn't look like she had moaned either. Then I heard another and my eyes shot over to my wife in shock. Sure enough her eyes were closed, her head was tilted back, and her mouth was wide open. At first I thought she was fingering herself, but then I looked between her legs. I couldn't see it very well from where I was laying, but I could see her tail had pushed Kelly's panties over and it was sliding in and out of her pussy.
I don't know why I found that so arousing, but I really did. Maybe it's because my wife is so religious and the thought of a demoness lesbian fucking her with its tail would probably traumatize her. I just know it really got me going. I reached over with my right hand and pulled her shirt up, exposing her left breast. The demoness did exactly what I'd hoped she'd do and reached down with her left hand and started massaging my wife's tit.
God damn that was just too hot for me to handle. I started breathing heavy and added moans and grunts to let her know I was about to cum. For a split second I wondered if my semen might be poisonous to her, but that was just stupid. I still felt like I needed to warn her for some reason.
"I'm gonna cum, " I grunted out.
She continued to ride my cock, so I took that to mean it's okay. I grunted out louder as I felt my cum shoot into her pussy. Gush after gush pumped into her pussy and my body started to shake as I filled her pussy. She started hissing again so I knew it was all good. I felt her pussy squeeze really tight around my shaft and the heat returned in a flash. I felt the final drops leave my cock, but then it felt like my cock was on fire.
I tried to push her off me, but she grabbed my hands and hissed at me. It was a very different hiss than the ones she'd done in the throws of passion. That one had clearly been a warning for me. I didn't know if she was warning me not to push her off or not to touch her at all. I just knew I was going to have to deal with the burning cock until she got off on her own.
Thankfully she did just that a few seconds later. I noticed my wife appeared to be sleeping again somehow. I had no idea how that was even possible, but I was a little relieved that I didn't have to explain it tonight. I was trying to figure out what I was going to say in the morning though.
I turned my attention back to the demoness, but she was nowhere to be found. I sat up in the bed and looked all around the room. When I couldn't see her I climbed out of bed and began looking behind things and under the bed. Then I left the bedroom and checked every room in the house. She was just gone as suddenly as she appeared. After a few minutes I had to accept reality and go back to bed. Although, it would take me quite awhile to actually fall asleep.
When my alarm went off a few hours later I was so tired still. I hit the off button and had to decide of it had all been a dream or not. I crawled out of bed and realized I was naked when I stood up. So, either it had all really happened or my dream was so vivid I took off my boxers in my sleep. What a crazy turn of events had transpired. First, what even compelled me to even try to summon her? Second, why in fucks sake did I think it would be hot to fuck a demoness? It was all so fucking nuts and I felt lucky to have survived the experience.
When Kelly woke up she came down and got her breakfast ready like nothing even happened. I was ready to head out to work, but lingered for a few minutes to see if she would bring it up. I didn't dare ask her anything about it, but I was dying to know how she felt about it. Once she turned on the news and started eating her cereal I knew she must have thought it was all a dream.
I gave her a kiss goodbye and walked to the garage to drive to work. I hit the button to open the garage door, got in my car, started it up, and freaked out when I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw the demoness in the backseat. I quickly swung my head around and saw only empty seats. I thought I was starting to lose it or something. I shook it off and drove into work.
When I got to work I went straight to my office without even saying hi to anyone. I had a lot of work to get fished, but mostly I was worried they would know if I talked to them. Once I was at my desk I thought I'd be able to distract myself with work. I just needed something to keep my mind occupied until things got back to normal.
"Hey, did you see the email from Peterson?" Calvin asked. His voice startled me, mostly because I hadn't heard him walk in. "Oh hey man, I didn't mean to scare ya there. Everything okay dude?"
"Oh yeah, of course," I replied. "But, um, no I haven't read any emails yet."
"Did you clear off his computer yesterday?" he asked.
"Yeah, of course I did," I replied. Somehow Calvin knew, I could just feel it. I didn't know how he knew, but my gut told me he knew. "What's going on Calvin?"
"Just read the email and get back with me," he replied and walked out of my office.
I turned on my computer and waited for it to load up. I was interested in seeing what this email that Peterson had sent was all about. Once I was logged in to everything my emails popped up on the screen. I scrolled through the twenty or so emails looking for something from Peterson. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed the door to my office close. I turned to look but there wasn't anyone there. That was creepy. I turned back to my monitor and suddenly the lights went out in my office.
When the lights are out it isn't pitch black by any means, because there are large windows to my left. Granted the morning sun is shining on the other side of the building, but there's still enough light coming through the blinds to see everything in my office. Not to mention the light coming off my monitor. I turned my head to the right to see if the light switch was off, but it was clearly up in the on position. When I turned my head back she was sitting on my desk directly in front of me.
"Oh shit," I belted out. I pushed my chair back as a reflex but realized how dumb that was. She fucked me last night, so she probably wasn't going to kill me this morning. "What are you doing here?" I asked.
She just looked back at me without saying anything. I probably should have figured it out sooner from the previous night, but I realized in that moment she probably couldn't talk. Or, if she could I wouldn't be able to understand her. I watched her look at me for a few seconds and then she spread her legs wide and gestured for me to come to her.
"This is my work and anyone could walk in at any time," I said. "We can't do this here. It's not safe."
She continued to gesture for me to come, so I stood up. Perhaps if we were on the same level she wouldn't feel like she had power over me or something. Yes, I was that stupid and actually believed that.
"Oh come on now," I pleaded. "No, we can't do it. You need to go now and we can do it again tonight in my room, just like last night."
She hissed at me again with the angry warning hiss, and I knew she wasn't going to leave until she'd had what she wanted. I didn't see a way out of it, so I figured I should just get it over with as quickly as I could. I was once again trying to figure out what the fuck I was thinking even reading those damned instructions the day before. I started walking toward her, unzipping my fly as I moved. I pulled my dick out but it wasn't hard. I tried stroking it but it wasn't really a sexy setting, and I wasn't aroused. She reached down and started stroking my cock with her right hand and moved her left hand behind my head. She started to pull my head toward her tits and I realized she wanted me to suck on them.
With the light coming in through the large windows, and my computer monitor, I could really see her much clearer than the previous night in my dark room. I could see that her skin not only felt like snake skin, but it also looked like it. The thought of putting my mouth on her snake skin titty was actually a little repulsive. She pulled on the back of head a little harder, and I resisted even more. She hissed at me again and pulled so hard that I couldn't stop her. My face pressed into her breast, so out of fear I opened my mouth and wrapped my lips around her nipple. Much to my surprise it was incredibly pleasant. Her nipple didn't feel like snake skin on my lips or tongue, and I swear she tasted like blueberries. I moved my left hand to her right breast and started to massage it while sucking on her left breast. Her hand working on my cock did the trick.
Once my cock was hard she pulled it toward her pussy and I understood exactly what she wanted me to do. I took a step closer and she guided the head of my cock to her pussy lips. Once I felt the warm wet sensation on the tip of my cock I pushed my hips forward, sliding my cock completely inside her. I remembered how hot her pussy was when she just held my cock inside, so I made sure I didn't push it in and leave it there at all. I started pumping my hips immediately. Although, it wasn't just to avoid her burning pussy juices, but also to get it over with quicker before I got caught and fired.
I pumped my hips as fast as I could and sucked and licked her nipple at the same time. I used long fast strokes to maximize the sensations, knowing it would make me cum sooner. There was something incredible about her tits though. The more I sucked and licked them the more I wanted them. It was like her tits secreted some kind of drug and I was becoming addicted on my first dose. I moved my right hand to her left breast and I massaged both of her tits, while moving my lips from one to the other every few seconds. I heard her start to hiss again, and this time it was the hot orgasmic hissing sound.
Her hissing for some reason really turned me on this time and I felt my orgasm building up quickly. I sucked on her nipple harder and she hissed louder. That was all it took to push me past the point of no return and I shoved my cock deep inside her pussy. I felt my body twitch a little as my cum shot out of my cock and into her pussy. She wrapped her legs around me and moved her hands to my ass, pushing my hips towards her. I couldn't pull out at all and nor did I want to at first. I grunted as quietly as I could with each gush of cum as it filled her pussy. I pulled my lips off her nipple and looked at her face while I came inside her. Her head was tilted back, her eyes were closed, and her mouth was open slightly, but she had almost a smile on her face this time.
I took that to mean I did a good job and hoped she would let go of me before the burning came again. She did not and the fiery sensation returned quickly. I grit my teeth and tried to push away again, knowing it was useless. She didn't look like it, but she was a strong bitch. The fire in her pussy grew even hotter this time, and it felt like my dick might burn off. She held me tight and I swear she was holding me in place with her fire pussy too.
It almost got to the point where I was worried about passing out when she finally released me. I pulled out and took three quick steps back. The cool air felt so good on my cock, which had gone limp almost as soon as the burning started. My dick was bright red and looked and felt like it was sunburned.
"What the fuck is that all about..." I started to say. But, she was gone when I looked back up. Damn she was a disappearing little demon. I quickly tucked my stinging dick into my pants and boxers and zipped my fly back up. Once I was presentable I walked towards the door and the light switch. As I reached for the light switch the lights came back on, before I even touched the switch. I probably should have expected that one. I paused at the door expecting it to open itself back up as well, but that didn't happen. I opened the door and returned to my desk.
I was able to pull myself together enough to get back to work. I realized I never had the chance to read Peterson's email. I found his email and clicked it open. Had I not lived through the actions of the last twenty-four hours I would have thought he had lost his mind, but after reading his email I got a little nervous instead. It freaked meet out, but I'm sure Calvin thought he had gone bat-shit crazy.
'Guys - I don't know who will be "cleaning" my computer, but be careful. Whatever you do don't open any of the files. Just delete everything. No, fuck that, just destroy the whole computer. It's fucking evil. - Cody'
Sure would have been nice if Peterson had sent that a day earlier. He'd just been fired, so I doubt our well-being was very high on his priority list. I did wonder why he thought his computer was evil though. That sounds a lot like a guilty husband blaming a computer virus when his wife finds porn on their computer. I figured I should at least give him a call just to find out what I'd really gotten myself into. I pulled out my phone and found him in my contacts. He picked up after the third ring.
"Hello, this is Cody," he said.
"Hey Peterson, it's Dale," I replied.
"Dude, what now?" he asked.
"That's not fair man," I responded. "I didn't have anything to do with it, and I definitely didn't have a say in the matter."
"Then why are you calling me?" be asked.
"Because I opened one of those documents on your computer," I said.
"What?" he shouted into the phone. "Why would you do that? I specifically said not to do just that."
"Yeah, well you were several hours too late with your warning," I said. "I made a new grey friend last night, and she just visited me here at work a few minutes ago."
"You didn't actually read the document and perform the ceremony did you?" he asked.
"Well it turned out I had exactly five blue candles, so I said what the fuck," I answered.
"You fucking moron!" he shouted again. "I assume you fucked her both times then didn't you?" he asked.
"I'm not really sure I had a choice either time," I answered. "But, yeah I did."
"Did she burn her name on you?" he asked.
"No, well I don't think so at least," I responded. "What the fuck are you even talking about? Where would she burn her name on me?"
"On your Johnson dude," he said. "She brands you with her name. Brands your dick with her pussy and it hurts like a mother-fucker too."
"Oh shit, hold on Cory," I said. I unzipped my fly in a hurry and pulled it out. I gave it a quick inspection. "It's pretty red, like a sunburn, but I don't see a name or anything on it."
"You might have gotten lucky then," he said. "Look I'm not an expert on this by any means, and I'm still trying to figure out how to get my own ass out of it. I will save you a little trouble and tell you don't bother trying to delete the videos. They just come back at the worst possible moments. That's why I saved them. And definitely don't try reading any of the other documents. Summoning others after you've been branded is just flat out painful."
"Wait, what videos are you talking about?" I asked.
"The videos of you and the she-devil," he answered. "If you fucked it twice then there should be two videos on your desktop."
"No way," I kinda whispered. I grabbed my mouse and dropped my screens until only the desktop was showing. Sure enough there were two video icons. I double clicked the first one and slide the fast forward bar to watch the video quickly. I let up near the end and couldn't believe what I was seeing. It looked like computer animation but there was a big demon looking guy laying on a bed with a normal looking woman riding him and finger fucking a demoness laying next to them. "What the fuck? That's what happened last night."
"Yeah, except you're the demon in the video and she's the human," he replied. "Every time you do it you will have another video."
"But you had to have over a hundred videos," I pointed out. I clicked open my second video, and sure enough, there was a woman on a desk getting pounded by a big demon looking guy.
"Look I gotta go and I think I've probably already said too much," he said.
"Wait, I've got a lot of questions still," I said but it was too late though. "Hello? Cody? Hello?"
He'd already hung up and left me wondering what to do. I wasn't really sure how he got caught "looking at porn" at work, but I assumed someone found it on his computer. I decided to take his advice and not delete the videos, but I also didn't move them to such an obvious file. I picked a random folder where I kept the most boring work related files on my computer.
It took a bit of willpower but I was able to actually do a little work. I was constantly expecting her to show up again, but I made it through the rest of the work day uninterrupted. I even stayed a little late to finish up a project, so most of my coworkers had left for the night. I really thought she might show up again when the office was mostly empty, but there was no sign of her.
I shut everything off when I was finished and walked out to the parking garage. There were only two other cars in site and they weren't anywhere near mine. It was late enough in the evening the parking garage was a little dark, so I was sure she would appear before I got in my car. I was wrong once again.
I got in my car and shook my head. I wasn't even sure if I'd ever see her again at all, so why was I so freaked out walking to my car? Then I remembered seeing her in the mirror while backing out of the garage. I looked in the mirror real quick but only saw an empty parking garage. I laughed to myself a little and then started my car. Suddenly she was right next to me in the passenger seat. I wasn't exactly startled or scared, but I'd just started thinking she was finished with me. I was disappointed to see that wasn't the case.
We just sat there staring at each other for a few seconds. The dimly lit parking garage was actually the brightest room we'd been in together, so I got the best look at her that I'd get. Her skin wasn't grey at all, but actually a shade of light purple. I also confirmed that it looked like snake skin, which matched how it felt. Despite her snake skin, fangs and horns she really was very beautiful. Had she been human she would have been model material for sure.
I only got to look back at her for a few seconds before she grew impatient. Although, I wasn't really sure exactly where to go from here. I thought perhaps picking the front seat of my car wasn't really the best choice for her. With those fangs I didn't really think kissing was much of an option and she didn't talk. It didn't seem logical for me to climb over the center console to get to her, and I had the steering wheel on my side.
I gave her a look that tried to say "I don't know what to do" and shrugged my shoulders. I hoped she'd see there wasn't a way to do it and she'd leave, but I was wrong again. She reached over and unbuttoned my pants and pulled down my zipper. I tried to push her hand away but she reached in and pulled out my cock. I tried pushing her hand away a second time and she hissed at me again. Then she grabbed my wrist really tight and it felt like lava wrapped around my arm.
When she removed her hand after a couple of seconds my wrist was red and throbbing painfully. Then she took my hand and blew on my wrist like I might have done when I was a kid. Remarkably my wrist felt immediately better and the redness went away. I decided that whole display was just another warning. I didn't object at all when she wrapped her fingers around my cock again and started stroking it.
I wasn't getting hard and actually thought I wouldn't be able to this time. Cody sounded terrified on the phone and that had me terrified as well. I couldn't see a way out of it, but thought maybe she'd move on if she didn't get what she wanted from me. As if she knew what I was thinking she leaned over the center console and I felt her lips close down around my limp dick. She didn't move her head up and down but I could feel something sliding up and down my then growing shaft.
The sensation felt incredibly similar to when she'd stroked my cock with her tail. I realized what I was feeling had to be her tongue wrapped around my cock and massaging my shaft. That amazing sensation coupled with her sucking made it impossible for me to resist. My erection was standing strong with no chance of going limp in the near future.
I think she simply wanted to make me hard because as soon as I had a full erection she pulled her mouth off and climbed over the center console and straddled my waist.
"Why are you so obsessed with my cock?" I asked as she lowered herself onto my erection. "I know it's big, but it can't be the biggest you've had. I know I'm an attractive guy, but look at you. You can find a hotter guy."
She didn't react at all to anything I said. She just started riding my cock right there in the front seat of my car in the parking garage. I didn't expect her to answer me, and I was really just thinking out loud. I just figured it wouldn't be bad for me to voice those thoughts and hope for the best. Perhaps her lovely blueberry flavored tits bouncing in front of my face was her answer to my questions.
I found myself torn by those tits that were bouncing so nicely. In the better lit garage her skin really didn't look so appealing, but I remembered how great her nipples tasted last time. I wasn't sure if I was more repulsed by her skin or more aroused by the taste. I decided to meet myself half way to start with and reached up grabbing each of her tits with my hands.
She started hissing in her pleasant way as she picked up the pace riding my cock. She was really bouncing on top of me rather quickly, and had everything been normal I would have been fighting off my orgasm at that point. However, since nothing about it was normal I wasn't even close. I began to wonder what would happen if I couldn't cum for her. Clearly my cum is what she kept showing up for, so it must be important in some weird way.
She put her hand behind my head and pulled my face to her tits. I learned from the last time that she meant for me to suck her nipple, so this time I didn't fight or hesitate. I wrapped my lips around her nipple and slid my tongue all over it, welcoming that familiar taste of blueberry. Once I started licking and sucking I started to get more and more aroused. There must have been something about her tits and whatever it was that had that blueberry taste that acted kind of like an aphrodisiac or something.
A minute before my tongue touched her I was a long way off from having an orgasm, but just a minute after I could feel it building up quickly. I was no longer trying to think of things to stave off my impending orgasm. Her nipple aphrodisiac had me wanting to cum in her and I could feel it building up to that point very fast.
Then we heard the sound of a car horn from behind us. I turned my head and looked over my left shoulder and noticed a man holding his keys. I didn't even need to turn my head back to notice she'd disappeared again. His car honking when he unlocked it scared her away instantly. I definitely wasn't going to complain. It was the first time I'd had sex where I was relieved I didn't get to cum.
Fortunately, it didn't appear as though the stranger noticed anyone was in my car. Although, how he missed it is beyond me, because my car had to have been bouncing pretty good with how fast she was riding my cock. He just climbed into his car, backed out, and drove away. I shoved my dick back into my boxers, pulled and zipped my pants up, and hurried out of the parking garage as well.
As I left the parking garage I noticed a church a few buildings down. I couldn't remember the last time I'd actually been in a church, but in the movies they always know how to deal with her kind. I wasn't sure if they would even allow me in the door, but I felt like it was worth trying. I pulled into the parking lot, but it looked empty. I parked as close to the front doors as I could and rushed up to the building. I expected the doors to be locked but it opened right up when I pulled it.
I walked in and started looking around for anyone I could ask my questions. I didn't see anyone at all but I did see a sign that read "Confession Monday and Thursday 5pm to 6pm." Which worked out perfectly for me at 5:45 on a Thursday. I just had to figure out where the confessionals were. I walked around aimlessly for a few minutes and then I spotted them. I walked into the dimly lit booth and sat in silence for a moment.
"Hello," I said, knocking gently on the window thing. "Anyone in there?"
There was no answer at all. After about a minute I thought I must have missed him. It would explain the empty parking lot, but not the unlocked door. Having never been in a Catholic church before I had no idea how anything worked. I assumed a light came on somewhere telling them someone was in the booth ready to go. Not sure what else to do I figured I would just wait and see how things went.
I probably shouldn't have been, but I was surprised when the demoness was standing before me in the very dimly lit booth. She hadn't been able to finish in the parking garage, so she must have shown up to finish in the church. That totally went against everything I'd seen in the movies though.
She immediately reached down and unbuttoned my pants, pulled down my zipper and reached into my boxers. I don't know if it was being in the church or being so close to cumming not long ago in the garage, but my cock got hard almost as soon as she touched it. She turned around and leaned back, guiding my erection into her pussy. She didn't waste any time at all.
I don't know if she was worried I might put up a fight or something, but I felt her tail wrap around my waist. She started riding my cock in the booth and little window thing opened up. I was sure she would disappear again, but she just kept on riding instead. I looked at the window, then back to her ass, and then back to the window. Could he see what was happening?
"Hello, is there anyone there?" I asked.
"Oh, uh, yes I'm here," he said, sounding caught off guard. "Um, how long has it been since your last confession?"
"I've never done this before," I said.
"Are you a baptized Christian?" he asked.
"Well I do remember getting baptized when I was younger, but I haven't been to church in years," I answered. I tried to lean forward to see him but I couldn't. I imagined if I couldn't see him then he probably couldn't see what was going on in the booth.
"As long as you are a baptized Christian I can hear your confession," he said.
"Okay, good," I said. I tried to talk as normal as I could, but her pussy was really doing wonderful things to my cock while I talked. "So, I found these instructions to conjure a demoness she-devil thing to life and I lit the candles and said the words."
"Why would you do that?" he asked.
"I really don't know and I've been trying to figure that out actually," I answered truthfully. "I think it had something to do with the fact that I have never had a hard time getting hot women to have sex with me and I thought a nonhuman woman thing might be more of a challenge, or at least something different."
"So you're saying you summoned a demonic creature because you've had too much sex with too many women?" he asked.
"Well when you put it that way it just confirms how stupid I already feel," I said. I was starting to wonder if he'd ever figure out she was in the booth with me. Fortunately talking to him was keeping me completely distracted and far from cumming.
"Should I assume if you're here that you were successful?" he asked.
"Yes, that is very correct," I answered.
"I also assume you had sex with this demonic creature, for some ungodly reason?" he continued his line of questioning.
"Yes, actually a few times," I answered.
"And, when was the last time this evil fornication took place?" he asked.
I couldn't tell if he was joking around or not, but he sounded serious.
"So, you really can't see her right now?" I asked. "It was only mutually approved sex the first time, and since then felt a lot more like I was being raped. And, uh, I don't really know how to tell you this, but she's actually here right now in the booth having sex with me as we speak."
"What?" he shouted out. I could see the shadow of his face trying to look into the booth. Then I heard rushed footsteps leave his booth and scurry towards my door. Once again I was certain she would disappear, but when the door flung open she was still right there riding my cock. "Get behind me Satan!" he shouted out, holding up a crucifix.
She hissed at him but didn't stop bouncing up and down on me. Her tail coiled tighter around my waist, telling me she was prepared to fight him off. I had a hard time seeing what was going on and the commotion totally killed the mood. There was no chance I was going to cum any time soon.
"In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ I command you to leave this holy place, and leave this man alone for all of eternity," he shouted out.
Much to my surprise she just disappeared again. Leaving me with my pants down and a little embarrassed. I pulled up my pants and zipped and buttoned myself up.
"Holy fuck," I said, not realizing how appropriate it was at that moment. "Do you think she's really gone this time? You said she had to leave me alone for all eternity, so she's really gone?"
"Yes, I think you are safe now," he said. He walked up to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I think so," I replied.
"No, don't answer too quickly," he said. "You just summoned a demon just to have sex even though you didn't know anything about demons. Are you okay up here?" he asked, pointing to my head.
"That's a pretty good question actually," I replied. "I thought I was, but perhaps not. I just hope she doesn't come back. Can I move in here just in case?"
"I don't think she'll come back," he said. "You just better not invite her back. I think you'll be okay though, but if you're okay with it, I'd like to meet with you once a week. We can just talk and see what's going on with you, and we can make sure she doesn't make any future appearances."
"I'd like that actually," I said. "And, I have a friend I'd like you to meet as well. He could use a very similar favor."
"Absolutely, bring him here, I'd love to meet him," he said.
I do have a quick question before I go though," I said.
"Absolutely," he said, holding out his hands as if to say 'ask me anything.'
"She was pretty hot wasn't she?" I asked laughing.
"For a demonic creature, yeah she wasn't bad at all," he actually answered. "I've seen hotter," he said laughing as well.
I left the church and drove straight home. I knew my wife was going to be pissed at me for showing up so late and not calling or texting. Sure enough, she was pretty mad and started in on me as soon as I walked in. I didn't have it in me to tell her the truth and I wasn't convinced the demoness would be banished so quickly and easily. So, I took my lashes and apologized profusely. The next day she was my happy wife again and all seemed to be forgiven. I was relieved to make it through the night without any demoness sightings.
Everything basically returned to normal, except I would make weekly stops by the church to give my confession. Mostly it was my weekly visit with Father Andrews to let him know how grateful I was for his help. I even connected him with Peterson in hopes he could solve his problem as well. Father Andrews wouldn't discuss it with me, so I had no idea if he was able to help him or not. I just know they met a few times.
It had been several weeks since the last visit from her at the church, and I no longer expected her to show up whenever I was alone in dimly lit places. I'd gone out with some friends to a movie and a little chill time after. I returned home around 11pm and wasn't shocked to see all the lights off in the house. I parked in the garage and turned the light on as I entered the kitchen. I tossed my keys onto the counter and they landed next to a piece of paper that I recognized.
I picked up the sheet of paper trying to remember ever printing it out. It was the instructions for summoning the demoness. Then I realized there were lit candles in the living room and right in the middle of the room I could see them together. 'Oh Kelly, what did you do?' I thought to myself.
In the middle of the room Kelly was laying on her back and the demoness was kind of sitting on top of her. The demoness was almost hugging Kelly's leg and I could see they were in a kind of scissoring position with the demoness grinding her pussy against Kelly's. Kelly had a look of pure ecstasy on her face as the demoness was grinding their clits together.
It took me a minute to see it but I realized the demoness had her tail snaked between them and it was sliding in and out of Kelly's pussy while their clits were rubbing together. I didn't know if I should be upset or aroused. I just knew I had to do something, so I pulled out my phone and dialed the number.
"Father Andrews, are you free to help me out tonight?" I asked.
"Absolutely, I can be there in ten minutes," he answered.
"Perfect," I said. "Actually, can you make it twenty minutes instead?" I asked, reaching down and unzipping my pants.
|
Sharp pain spears throughout the prince’s body, pulling a low groan from him. He opens his eyes - his vision blurry from unshed tears. Xie Lian does his best to blink them away, slowly clearing his vision, revealing an unfamiliar child gawking back at him with panic spread across their face. Xie Lian slowly sits up, arms still holding the stranger tightly, trying to get a better look at them. The movement causes him to wince.
Oh, it’s a baby. He can’t be much older than 3 or 4 , Xie Lian thinks, taking in the kid’s appearance. He has large doe eyes of mismatched color, cheeks so plump they give the boy a slight pout. The stranger’s tiny grubby hands are clutching Xie Lian’s clothes in little bunches while his fluffy black hair sticks up in places due to unkempt curls. My goodness, he is so adorable, Xie Lian thinks to himself, using everything in his power to push down the urge to reach out and pinch those plump cheeks. What isn’t as cute , Xie Lian realizes, are the red and purple marks all over the little boy’s chunky arms .
Xie Lian furrows his brow, taking a closer look at the wounds. The other boy freezes like a statue, the only thing giving away that he’s alive is the intense look trained on Xie Lian. The prince gently takes the younger child’s wrist in his hand, delicately inspecting either side of it. There was a large bruise that vaguely resembled a hand near his upper arm. Xie Lian felt an unusual feeling well in his chest, it was bitter and cold and it startled the prince. That must be from the fall? He thought blinking fervently trying to push the odd feeling away, focusing back on the intense gaze that had never strayed.
“Hi, I’m Xie Lian… um, I live nearby over there” the Prince murmurs. still trying to catch his breath, he points in the direction of the castle. “What’s your name? Do you also live nearby?” Xie Lian knows there’s no way this boy lives nearby, the forest spans for at least 10 more miles before thinning out. The younger boy just stares back, eyes darting between Xie Lian’s.
Maybe he doesn’t know where he lives? Xie Lian thinks, mind racing on what to do next. I should bring him back to the castle, they'll tell me how to help.
With that, Xie Lian nods to himself. The prince wraps his arms underneath the chunky legs of the boy and holds him close. Xie Lian stands up, setting the black-haired child on the Prince’s hip. His muscles are screaming against the movement. Xie Lian’s arms buckle for a moment, almost dropping the boy, but the prince is able to recover quickly and wiggle the boy back in place.
“You’re probably lost.” Xie Lian muses, trying to settle the smaller boy in a less painful position “You are way too young to be this deep in the forest. It’s a good thing I found you! I’m old enough that I can travel the whole forest without a grown-up! I’m really strong, and smart, and I can run faster than my friends - and they are way older than me.” The prince reassures while softly rubbing the younger’s back hoping that his haggard breathing isn’t undermining his words. Xie Lian takes a moment to look around, trying to gather his bearings. To his right was the cliff he had jumped off of. Ah, that’s too tall for me to climb like this, Xie Lian thinks before glancing to his left.
The sight immediately sends ice through his veins. Only a few feet away from the two children is a raging river - scattered with jagged rocks and white rapids. Xie Lian doesn’t let himself think about what might have happened if they had landed in there. Instead, he decides he should follow the side of the cliff, in hopes that eventually it’ll slope down enough to climb it. He starts walking, making sure to walk at a pace that won’t jostle the boy on his hip, and as far away from the river as he could. The young boy is silent and gazes back at him, lips slightly parted.
Xie Lian continues reassuringly, “There is nothing to be afraid of when I am with you. I’m really good at thinking, my teacher said when I’m older, that I am gonna be so smart that I could beat anyone, even the biggest person - Like this tall - without throwing a single punch!” Xie Lian waves the arm that was soothing the younger boy, stretching his arm as high as it will go. He immediately draws his hand back in, wincing. A burning sensation crawling down his arm onto his back.
The small child stays quiet, his grubby hands gripping tightly at the center of the prince’s chest. Xie Lian continues babbling on, hoping to distract himself from the pain. The wavy-haired boy’s eyes are wide as Xie Lian tells story after story of his defense classes with his bodyguard, his debates with Mu Qing, and his prince training with Master Mei Nianqing. At every pause or lull in the story, the prince takes a chance to glance at the child on his hip, trying his best to decipher the look on their face. They don’t look scared anymore - which eases some tension in Xie Lian’s shoulders. He doesn’t know what he would do if the kid is terrified of him. The prince hasn’t met anyone who didn’t like him, so he didn’t have a backup plan to win the boy over.
The two keep walking so long that Xie Lian recalls at least 5 different stories to the young boy. Xie Lian looks around, it seems they are still well into the woods and the ravine has finally met into flat ground. It just dawns on Xie Lian how far he ran from home.
I’m going to be so grounded if anyone finds out, Xie Lian thinks to himself. The prince slows his walking until he stops underneath a large Maple tree.
“Um, let’s take a little break here for a bit. You’re probably tired of being carried for so long” Xie Lian says. In truth, his pain is becoming unbearable and he doesn’t think he can go any longer, but the younger boy didn’t need to know that. The prince shifts his arms, attempting to remove the boy from his side, which only prompts the young boy to cling onto him tighter - burying his face in Xie Lian’s chest. The Prince stands there for a bit, not sure what to do. He can’t keep holding the boy for much longer. The Prince’s arms are turning into jelly and his legs are about to give out from under him.
Xie Lian hums to himself, trying to think of a workaround. He can’t set the kid down - just attempting to set him down would cause him so much distress and the movement almost sent Xie Lian into tears. I guess we'll just sit together then, Xie Lian thinks as he does his best to maneuver them both so the prince would sit against the tree trunk with the small boy in his lap. It isn’t the most graceful thing but Xie Lian is impressed that he can achieve it without anyone getting hurt.
Once fully seated on the ground, the two are sitting face to face. Xie Lian’s hands are gently resting around the child’s waist and he slowly coaxes the small child to recline against the Prince’s bent legs.
“There, now we can both relax.” Xie Lian smiles softly and starts tapping his fingers against the boy's sides before continuing, “You know, you’re the first person I’ve ever met that has two different eyes - and that’s saying something since I’ve met loads and loads of people.” The prince can feel the child stiffen as they suddenly jerk their head down - hiding their face. Xie Lian can feel a slight frown pulling at his lips - not quite understanding the reaction.
If I had cool eyes like that I would show them off to everyone! Why is he acting like this? Xie Lian thinks to himself.
The Prince reaches up to gently cup both sides of the young boy's face - twisting his hands so the two are eye to eye. Xie Lian begins leaning closer, his body protesting the movement, bringing their faces only inches apart. The young boy's eyes dart between Xie Lian’s bright amber eyes at a pace the prince would find comical if it weren’t for the look of fear on the child’s face and shallow breathing. The Prince feels his brows furrowing as he slowly smooths his thumbs across the chubby cheeks of the boy- hoping that it may soothe the child the tiniest bit.
“I just want to see up close. It's okay, I’m not gonna hurt you - deep breaths, okay?” Xie Lian tries his best to sound reassuring between strained huffs and begins to take slow deep breaths in the hope the other would follow.
After a few breaths, the younger begins to catch on and match Xie Lian’s inhales and exhales. The Prince ignores the creaking in his ribs and continues a bit longer until he is sure the boy is calm. He then takes this time to get a good look at those doe eyes. The child’s left eye is a deep and warm brown - the shade not too different from the tree trunk they’re up against. What should be a matching brown on the right is instead a piercing Scarlett. It seems unnatural that a person could have such a vibrant shade as their eye color. If he hadn’t seen it in person Xie Lian wouldn’t have believed such a thing could be real. But here he is, staring into the depths of that shimmering iris that seem almost like a pool of fresh blood, swirling and warm. It’s hypnotic to the young prince.
“So pretty“ Xie Lian murmurs to himself. A small whimper escapes from the young child - the first sound they’ve made during the entire time together. The prince blinks to himself, now becoming aware of the odd atmosphere he had unknowingly created. He hadn’t meant to openly gawk but what was he supposed to do?!
The prince silently scolds himself. Ugh, maybe Mu Qing is right. I need to think things through first before doing them. So to fix the tension he created by acting without thinking - the prince does the first thing that comes to mind.
Xie Lian proceeds to push together the small boy's chubby cheeks. The smaller boy’s eyebrows gather as he stares confusingly at Xie Lian’s hands currently smashing his face. The small prince chuckles to himself at the ridiculous scene before him before busting into a fit of giggles. Between laughing and grimacing against the protest of his body, Xie Lian manages to get out “Y-you lo-lo-ook like -” before another round of giggles takes over him. He squeezes the younger’s cheeks a bit more- the fat of the boy’s cheeks starting to obscure his eyes and forcing his lips to pucker even more. Xie Lian wheezes before choking out “- a pufferfish!”. The prince's eyes are watering by this point - he isn’t sure whether from the pain or the ridiculous picture in front of him.
The young boy eyes the prince, all hints of fear and trepidation vanish and are immediately replaced with wonder with a dash of confusion. “ ‘m n-n-no p-puff fiss” the child says, struggling to get the words out against his squished cheeks. His voice is soft, barely more than a whisper but carries a serious tone.
Xie Lian is startled, not quite expecting the other to actually say anything - partially convinced that the boy wasn’t able to. The prince wants to hear him speak more - wondering what else he can get the child to say.
“Nah, I’m pretty sure you’re a pufferfish.” Xie Lian says, nodding his head resolutely, “We have a whole bunch in a fish tank at home and they look just like this.” Xie Lian gives the other’s face an extra squeeze for emphasis. The tiny child gives a small huff in response, a small frown trying its best to form but unable to due to the pressure on his cheeks.
“But!” Xie Lian starts, trying to placate the small boy, “I think you’re the cutest pufferfish I’ve ever seen! Way cuter than the ones I have at home” Xie Lian fakes an exasperated sigh before shaking his head. “Welp, guess that means I just gotta take you home with me. I’m sure we gotta have a fish tank big enough for you somewhere. Gonna make all the other pufferfish so grumpy”. The small boy lets go of Xie Lian’s shirt to put his hands over the ones attacking his face. The tiny hands are grasping as if they are going to pull Xie Lian away, but instead, they just rest there firmly.
“N-no fiss, ‘m boy. N-no seep i-i-in fiss tank. Seep i-in bed.” the younger one corrects earnestly.
Xie Lian pushes down a giggle that starts to bubble up. Does he actually believe I think he’s a pufferfish? Babies are so silly. I wonder if I was this cute when I was his age? The prince squeals to himself while trying to figure out how to continue his teasing. Xie Lian squints at the black-haired boy, humming to himself.
“Mmm, are you sure you’re a boy? I asked your name before and you never said it. If you are a boy what’s your name then, huh?” Xie Lian asks, staring expectantly, hoping it would push the boy to finally give the prince something to call him. The other blinks back at him, opening and closing his mouth. His mismatched eyes search for something on Xie Lian’s face before the younger opts to say nothing.
A twinge of irritation flares up in Xie Lian’s chest. Fine two can play at this game .
“Welp, that means you are a pufferfish and not a boy! Since pufferfish are pets and I name all of our pets that means I’ll just have to give you a name,” Xie Lian puffs out, not leaving any room for arguments. The prince rolls the little one’s face in his hands - looking at it from all angles, hoping it will help inspire a name. A few ideas are already swirling in his head, a mix of his favorite characters from books and prominent figures he remembers from his classes. The small pufferfish boy lets himself be manhandled, allowing his body to be moved in whatever direction the prince desires.
“I know the perfect name!” Xie Lian exclaims “It’s the same name as this Pirate King in my favorite book that has a red eye just like you. He is super cool, he wears an eye patch over the other one and he has a scimitar that he slashes bad guys with. I’ll have Feng Xin read it to us - it’s a little too hard for me to read by myself and Mu Qing said he’d burn my book if I asked again. But I think you’ll really like him - he is my favorite. Uh, the Pirate King I mean, not Mu Qing. I mean - Mu Qing is alright but nowhere as cool as the Pirate King! Anyways, starting today I’m gonna call you Sa-” the prince snaps his mouth shut, immediately going quiet.
He can hear rustling nearby and the faint sound of men talking. He feels the small boy’s breathing hitch and his body freeze. Xie Lian drops his hand and begins to lift the boy off his lap before setting him down to the side. The air is much cooler without another body radiating heat. The prince stands up, his bones creaking in protest, and begins looking cautiously in the direction of the voices.
Xie Lian takes a tentative step in their direction, not too sure if he should hide or seek them out. Immediately, the prince feels something pulling at him. He stops before glancing over at the little boy tugging desperately at his shirt. The tiny child’s hair is bouncing with how frantically he’s shaking his head.
The images of the small boy’s scattering of purple bruises and red welts flash across his mind. We need to get out of here, Xie Lian thinks, now scanning their surroundings trying to find the best place to hide but coming up short. Shoot-there’s only trees - I can’t pull us that high .
The men are drawing closer, close enough that Xie Lian can start to understand what they’re saying. It sounds like two men arguing about losing some kid. Xie Lian feels adrenaline rush through his veins like ice. He grabs the small child, shoving him behind the prince holding onto him tightly. It’s a brief moment before the men had come into view - not yet noticing the children a few yards ahead of them.
“I still can’t believe that fucker bit me. Ya don’t think it’ll give me bad luck, do ya?” a burly man with a dingy apron says, holding his arm out to the pale man with a straggly-beard walking next to him.
“Dude, you got jumped by a literal baby. I don't think you need to worry about bad luck when you’re dumb as a bag of rocks,” the straggly-bearded man scoffs, rolling his eyes before meeting eyes with Xie Lian.
“Oh shit!“ the man breathes as he abruptly stops the other man, only a few feet from the prince.
The three stand there silently staring at each other - nobody knowing what to do. Xie Lian’s mind is reeling trying to figure out how to get himself and the boy both out of here without issues.
Xie Lian forces a smile and cocks his head to the side, a strategy he uses a lot towards adults “Hi, I’m Xie Lian. Can I help you two? I wasn’t expecting anyone to be in these forests,” he puts forth his cheeriest voice - hoping that the two men are familiar enough with Royalty that the name drop will be enough to deter the two from walking any further.
The burly man snorts, “Kid, what are you doing in here? It’s not safe - what if some creep tried to kidnap you”.
The straggly-bearded man’s eyes go wide and immediately knocks the burly man in the back of his bald head before harshly whispering, “WHAT THE FUCK?! You can’t say that to him, are you insane?”.
Ah, Xie Lian thinks to himself, It seems only the straggly-bearded man recognizes me - that’s fine. I can work with that.
Xie Lian prepares to give a lighthearted response when a thought flickers across his mind. The burly man’s hands seem to be about the same size as the bruise on the small boy’s arm. The notion stokes flames in Xie Lian’s gut and he feels an odd cold sensation wash over him. His mind is racing as he's trying to piece together what might have happened before resolving, It doesn’t matter what happened. These weirdos are bad guys . Xie Lian hasn’t met bad guys in real life before - only heard about them in storybooks and whispers behind the closed doors of the general room. But he does know one person who could beat any bad guy - no matter what.
“Why should I not feel safe in my kingdom?” Xie Lian says with a smile, channeling his best Pirate King impression. “Unless you guys kidnap children and are planning on stealing me? I don’t think my dad - the King of Xianle - would be happy to hear that.”
The two men sputter horrified, “Oh no - your highness. We would never do such things.”
Xie Lian hums noncommittally, “Ah, but wouldn’t someone planning on stealing children say the same thing though? I’m pretty sure I heard you say you grabbed a child and they bit you? Why would they bite you if you weren’t?”
The two men begin to sweat, fear running down their spines. “No-no your highness you misunderstand. This child stole from me. We were searching for the kid so we could punish him - not kidnap him. The rascal doesn’t have parents and is a little demon - no one the young prince should worry themself with,” the burly man pleads, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck.
The child behind him begins to shake, pressing their face into the small of Xie Lian’s back. That odd burning feeling from before burns brighter, seeping through his chest. The prince snaps his ice-cold eyes to lock with the burly man.
“Are you really telling the Prince of Xianle that one of my people isn’t my problem?” Xie Lian says, tilting his head to the side. Irritation flickers across the men’s faces as they reel, attempting to placate the prince.
Xie Lian is getting tired of this game they’re playing. The men seem to not be taking the hints the prince is laying down for them. While Xie Lian admires the Pirate King’s witty comebacks and could dish them out here and there, he isn’t the best at drawn-out debates so the Prince hopes this plan works. He'll do it just like the Pirate King does when he saves the little girl from the bandits - word for word.
With a nervous bite to his lip, the prince grabs the little boy and pulls him out from behind him. Xie Lian gently sets the child directly to his side - his hand never leaving the young boy’s arm. The black-haired child's eyes widen and he holds onto Xie Lian tighter. The burly man’s face instantly turns red once he recognizes the child.
“YOU FUCKER, I’M GOING TO -” the man yells before being cut off by the prince.
“I know for a fact you aren’t talking to the ruler of this land’s bestest friend like that - am I right?” Xie Lian bites back with all the arrogance the royal child had.
The men stammer, blood draining from their faces. The straggly-bearded man is the first to speak “You’re highness, please pardon my bluntness but there is no way that street rat could be your friend?”
Xie Lian reaches down and ruffles the young boy’s hair lovingly before glaring daggers at the men. “Pardon denied, San Lang here is my best friend and is quite close with the Queen of Xianle as well. I don’t appreciate how you are talking about him,” the prince spits out with as much venom he can muster, trying his best to mimic the way the Pirate King quipped back to the bandits in the book.
Now, time for the final blow , Xie Lian thinks, taking a deep breath to steel his nerves.
"IF YOU'RE SO AMAZING, KEEP TALKING. EVERY WORD YOU SAY I WILL KEEP COUNT AND WITH EVERY COUNT, YOU'LL BE ONE STEP CLOSER TO MY BLADE! ” Xie Lian screams at the top of his lungs, glaring at the men - hoping and praying they wouldn’t recognize the direct quote. That they will be so intimidated by the prince’s title and the Pirate King’s chilling words that they won’t realize that he’s just a small and weak child.
The two men’s faces scrunch up in confusion and they take a tentative step back, startled by the sudden screaming. The straggly-bearded man locks eyes with the burly man with unasked questions before both train their eyes back on the young Prince.
Xie Lian swallows the lump in his throat before straightening his shoulders. “We are leaving. If you try to follow us, I’ll make sure the King hears about this and how you tried to kidnap me,” Xie Lian says as he pulls San Lang’s hand and they walk off.
The two men's faces are beet red, veins bulging as the burly man screams out, “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT WE DIDN’T EVEN TOUCH YOU!” The burly man is heaving as Xie Lian glances briefly over his shoulder, feet never stalling as he smiles back.
“Yeah, but my dad doesn’t know that.”
(Drawing I did of the boys, it's hyperlinked to my post and process on it )
|
Magnus had the day off and for the first time didn’t have anything to do and found himself sitting in his lounge feeling extremely bored. He thought about possibly going to see Alec for lunch, it had been a few days since he had seen him, and text messages weren’t a good replacement, only making him miss him more.
Grabbing his keys and his wallet he headed out.
Stopping by a small café on the way he grabbed a couple of sweet treats to eat with their lunch and continued onto the cinema.
It felt strange feeling this excited about seeing someone again, although this wasn’t just anyone, this was Alec.
Getting out of the car he couldn’t contain his smile, with every step forward it really hit him just how much he really missed him. That glowing smile that would light up a room, his beautiful hazel eyes always looking at him so intently. The tiny giggle that would pass his lips when feeling shy, making his eyes crease at the corners. His soft fluffy hair always managing to look slightly different each day. The rasp of his voice whenever he said hello, making Magnus want to hang onto every word that left his mouth.
God help him, he had it bad.
Entering through the doors, he found at least one familiar face. “Hey, Isabelle.” He said as he walked up to the counter.
“Oh, hey Magnus,” She sounded surprised to see him here. “What brings you here on a Wednesday morning of all times.”
“Is Alec around?” He asked suddenly feeling shy.
Izzy laughed like she should have known that was coming. “And here I thought you were coming to see a movie, silly me.” She teased.
Magnus found himself blushing, why was he blushing? He never blushed. “I wanted to take him out to lunch.” His heart was beating at a rather fast pace, what was happening to him? Why was he so nervous? He blamed Izzy and for the way she was looking at him like she knew all his secrets, not that he had many.
Izzy aw’d out loud clutching at her heart. She had a flair for the dramatic, he liked that. “That’s so sweet.”
Magnus couldn’t contain his smile. “So, is he here?”
“Oh, sorry no he’s not, he’s home sick.”
“Sick? For how long?”
Izzy paused looking him over like she was finally figuring him out, he felt exposed under her gaze. “You really care about him, don’t you?”
Magnus shrugged feeling a little uneasy at how good she was at this, was he that obvious? Magnus mentally rolled his eyes, of course he was.
Izzy seemed to let that pass as an answer and continued. “He’s been sick since last night, but I’m sure he would love a visit.”
“Are you sure? I mean If he’s resting I don’t want to disturb him.” He asked chewing at his bottom lip.
Izzy laughed, was what he said funny? “I can almost be 100% sure that he would love a visit,” Magnus found himself blushing again.
“Okay, I’ll do that, thanks, Izzy.”
Alec woke with a throbbing head, sore throat, and blocked nose, he could barely breathe let alone get out of bed. To put it bluntly, he felt like shit. He never got sick, this just doesn’t happen to him. He wanted the next few days to pass quickly, hating every minute of this.
A few hours after waking up he managed to make his way to the couch flopping his body down and regretting it immediately after, his head screaming at him for it. There was nothing interesting on the tv but left it playing on in the background anyway hoping somehow, he could drown out some of the aches he felt in his muscles.
He was dozing off and on trying and struggling to breathe through his nose when a knock at his door startled him sending a pain straight to his head wanting to crucify whoever was on the other side of that door. He briefly thought about ignoring it all together and just going back to sleep, but his better judgment got the best of him and he found himself dragging his tired limbs to the door.
Seeing Magnus on the other side, all his past thoughts went flying out the window. “Magnus,” He said, his voice dry and phlegmy.
Alec looked exhausted when he opened the door. His eyes glassed over and red, his nose all stuffy and blocked, and yet he still found him the most attractive man he had seen. His little pout on his lower lip doing it for him.
“Hey, you,” Magnus smiled, walking past Alec. “I heard you were sick, so I brought supplies.”
How did Magnus know he was sick?
“Chicken soup, movies, tissues, and well most importantly my company, if you want it.” Magnus had an unsure look on his face after he said that and Alec smiled finding it amusing, why wouldn’t he want his company?
Magnus had done all this for him. He needed someone to pinch him to make sure it was all real.
Realising he hadn’t yet answered Magnus, he quickly replied. “I’d love you to stay, just don’t get too close, I don’t want you getting sick as well.” Did he just imagine it or did Magnus just pout?
“So, no cuddling on the couch?” Yup, that was a pout. “How boring.”
“If you get sick don’t blame me.” Alec chuckled giving in and not being able to say no to those beautiful dark brown eyes. His chuckle soon turned into a mess of croaking and coughing, reminding him just how awful he felt.
“Aw, darling.” Magnus stepped closer, caressing down his arm. His hands felt so warm, he just wanted them to wrap around him. “Go sit down and I’ll bring everything over and then we can get comfy for the rest of the day.”
They settled on the couch shortly after, a blanket nestled around them both as they sat and ate their soup.
“Thank you for all this, you didn’t have to do any of this you know.”
“I know, but I wanted to.”
“How did you know I was sick in the first place?” Alec asked
“Well, I went into your work hoping to get you on your lunch break and take you out for some food, but Izzy told me you were home and not well.” Alec felt a small flutter in his heart rise, a coy smile growing on his lips. Feeling bold, he linked their hands.
“You were going to take me out for lunch?”
“Yes,” Magnus chuckled, his hand tightening around his. “Believe It or not I like to do nice things for the people who mean a lot to me, and well, you mean more than most.”
Magnus shocked himself with his own confession, it wasn’t that he didn’t already know that, but the fact that he said it out loud, to Alec.
Alec circled his thumb across Magnus’ skin sending shivers up his arm. “You mean a lot to me too,” It fell silent as Magnus tried to ground himself from moving forward and kissing him then and there, but their first kiss would not be like this. “I missed you.” Alec’s confession was sweet and quiet and only made Magnus want to kiss him more.
He settled for saying the words back, scared at how they would sound. “I missed you too.” He swallowed the lump that formed in his throat and tried to push away the butterflies that were swirling around in his stomach, but with the way Alec was looking at him, that wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.
They were just staring at each other, like neither of them wanted to pull away. What was this between them? This feeling he felt, he knew what it was but didn’t know if he was ready to admit it to himself yet, not knowing at all if Alec felt the same or as strongly as he did. If he could he would have stayed like that all day just taking in every feature of his beautiful face, he’d watch the rise and fall of his chest, the flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked, he’d memorize the feel of his fingers tracing patterns into his skin. He’d take it all in and hold it close to his heart. It was a perfect moment, one he hoped would turn into many more as they grew closer together.
Suddenly Alec ripped his head away from Magnus, a sneeze erupting from his nose.
Alec had no idea why Magnus would want to be around him like this, all stuffed and blocked up, sneezing every few minutes, but he was here and seemed to have no intention of leaving as he got up and put the first movie on, settling back down next to him.
Halfway through the movie, Magnus heard soft snores coming from next to him. Alec was leaning against him with his head bent to the side, not quite resting against his shoulder, he looked out to the world. He couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable the position must be him and decided to move him laying his head gently across his lap. Alec stirred a little from the movement but settled again as Magnus began to card his fingers through his hair slowly.
Magnus wanted so much more of this, just them and no one to disturb them.
The feelings that overcame Magnus while letting his gaze fall over Alec, it was overwhelming, everything feeling like it was about to burst from his chest. He almost let the words slip from his mouth but quickly stopped himself. If he was ever going to say those words to Alec he wanted him to be awake.
The door opening and closing brought his thoughts to an immediate stop scared someone would hear them.
Izzy walked in her eyes going to straight to Alec in his lap, but this time her smile wasn’t teasing, it was sweet like what she saw made her happy like she was admiring what she saw in front of her.
“Hey,” He whispered. His fingers still carding through Alec’s soft locks.
“Hey,” She smiled back. “How long has he been out?”
Time must have got away on him, “About an hour,” Had he really been lost in his thoughts for that long?
Izzy sat down in the chair across from them, still looking at the scene in front of her, he could tell she was hesitating, thinking twice about whether she wanted to say what she was thinking.
It was quiet for another beat or two until she finally spoke. “You’re good for him.”
“Good?” Magnus asked confused.
“Yes, good. Great even.” She shuffled in the chair getting in a better position. “Before he met you, I wouldn’t say he was exactly shy or anything, but I could always tell there was some small part of him that was struggling with himself, struggling to accept who he really was, not even just with his sexuality, but with everything. It was always the small things, I’d see him just watch and observe from the sidelines. But, now, I don’t know he seems more carefree like not so much is holding him down.” As she talked Magnus kept looking down briefly not being able to take his eyes off him.
Izzy continued. “I guess some of that has to do with our mother and her finally being honest with us, but I also think it has to do with you, there’s something about you that brings out this thing in Alec I have never seen. The smile he has when he’s around you, I have always wanted to see him smile that way. You make him laugh, and you listen. You’re the first person he wants to see when he needs someone to talk to, and I’m just really glad he has someone like you in his life.”
Magnus felt this sudden urge to cry, finding that everything Izzy was saying, Alec had the same effect on him.
It was hard for him to believe what she was saying. Did he really have that effect on him? He looked down at Alec’s sleeping form, his eyelids still closed.
“I still remember the way his face lit up the first day you walked into the cinema,” Izzy added, his memories taking him back there. Remembering the minute, he was greeted by this tall ethereal man his life changed forever. He remembers the feeling he got when he smiled at him for the first time and had thought to himself it was unfair for one human to possess so much beauty, not even just in looks but as a person.
“His smile is rather beautiful.” He murmured to himself saying it before he even registered what was coming out of his mouth. “The way I feel about him,” He paused unsure why he was opening up to Alec’s sister while he was sleeping in his lap, but he felt at ease to do so, so continued. “It’s scary.”
“Something so real always scares us at first, because we don’t want to lose it, or ruin it somehow.” He couldn’t help but think how right she was, he was terrified to lose him, afraid that if he tried taking that next step with him, he would get rejected and, in the process, lose a friend he had come to love.
Izzy continued. “I know you’re scared, but please don’t let that fear dictate how you are with him. You both deserve to be happy. Don’t keep him at arm’s length just because it feels safe there.” He could hear in her words how protective she was of Alec. How she only wanted what was best for him, and he felt the same. Except, he was also trying to protect himself.
He had used that word for the last 5 years, using it as an excuse as to why he never pursued anything with anyone beyond a few dates, he used it as a coping mechanism to keep his heart free of pain, to not let anyone too close. But Alec, he was different.
Every time he told his heart to stop, it wouldn’t listen and at first it was slow, just every week, that smile, the laugh, the soft eyes, it would chip at the wall he’d built, small knocks at a time, and then it happened all at once. He wasn’t even sure when it happened. It could have happened when they first went out for dinner, or when they accidentally spent the night in each other’s arms, or the night he and Alec talked about his parents. He had no idea when or how Alec made his way into his heart so easily, but now that he was there, he never wanted him to leave, feeling that if he did, there would just be a massive hole left in his place.
“I don’t plan to go anywhere as long as he doesn’t.” He said the first honest thing he could think of without giving too much away.
“Good,” She rested back in her chair. “So, what are you two watching?” He had completely forgotten there was a movie playing in the background.
Tossing her the DVD case he watched her smile in surprise. “I love these movies.”
“Thank god, when Alec told me he hadn’t seen them I was shocked.” He laughed
“Yeah, for a guy who works at the cinema he’s not exactly a movie buff is he.” She chuckled back. “So you’re making him watch all the Harry Potter movies then?”
“I am, but unfortunately I think we will have to watch this one again once he is better.” He smiled down at Alec as his nose twitched.
Bringing his hand to his head he couldn’t help but notice just how hot his head was, he was burning up.
“Yeah, he doesn’t exactly look insanely interested in the movie at the moment.” Izzy teased, but soon saw Magnus’ concerned expression. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, I think he’s getting a fever.”
“It’s cute how you’re so worried about him.” Magnus rolled his eyes at that and cursed the blush he felt crawl up his back.
“I can’t help it okay.” He mumbled back. “I know of some good flu medication you can get from the store to take his fever down, I might go down quickly and get some.”
“Oh god,” Izzy chuckled. “You really have it bad, even going to get him medicine, you two are practically married already.”
“I’m just doing what I would do for any of my friends.” He protested but really, he hadn’t done this for anyone but Alec.
“Mhm, sure.” Izzy teased back. “No, I’m kidding, that’s actually really sweet of you.”
“I just have to figure out how to move without waking him.” He sat there trying to think of different ways but decided that they were all just as bad as each other and decided to just get it over with. Lifting his head gently he slid out from beneath him resting his head back down on a soft cushion. Thinking he was in the clear he went to stand up but felt a hand rest on his arm.
“Where are you going?” Alec was still half asleep and was stirred awake by Magnus moving him. He didn’t want him to leave yet. Not just because he was comfy, he didn’t exactly get a chance to really talk to him today. But god his head was sore he could barely keep his eyes open.
“Hey, sleeping beauty,” Magnus whispered. “I’m just going to get you something for your fever, I’ll be back in a little bit.” He kissed him softly on his forehead. “Is that alright?” He asked running his fingers through his hair.
“I guess so,” He smiled as he felt Magnus’ lips against his head, he could have sworn his headache disappeared for that one small second.
“See you soon.” As soon as Magnus was gone he missed him already.
“Cute pout big bro.” When did Izzy get here? Was she here the whole time?
“Shut up.” He rubbed at his sore eyes.
“It’s cute.”
Alec groaned, “How long have you been here?”
“Enough to see you snuggled up in your boyfriend’s lap.”
Magnus had forgotten his wallet and was making his way back to the lounge and stopped in his tracks when he heard. “He’s not my boyfriend.” Spill from Alec’s lips. The sharp sting of the words hurting more than he thought.
It wasn’t the fact that they weren’t together it was the way Alec had said it, annoyance in his voice like he was sick of hearing such a thing…. Magnus swallowed trying to push away his next thought, but it wasn’t going anywhere. It had sounded like it was the last thing he wanted.
Trying to push away the well in his throat he continued forward to grab his wallet. “I’m just.” But his voice betrayed him, and it came out all broken and raspy. “I forgot my wallet.” Grabbing it quickly he left before he could hear what Alec had to say next.
“Magnus, I uh.” But he was gone.
Magnus had looked hurt, the break in voice confirming that. Had Alec done that? Of course, he had, he always fucks everything up. Would he even come back now? If he were Magnus he wouldn’t.
Groaning he flopped his face down into the pillow Magnus had placed there for him and regretted it the second he had done it, his head throbbing with every movement.
“Sorry, I feel like that was my fault,” Izzy replied looking guilty.
“It’s not. It’s mine.” Grabbing his phone, he pulled up Magnus’ name and started typing out a text.
“Alec, what are you doing?”
“Texting him, I don’t want him to think I don’t want him here or something.” Everything was easier when he was around. “Iz,” He said sighing. “How am I supposed to make this not awkward when he gets back.” Before she got a chance to answer someone’s phone dinged on the coffee table.
It was Magnus’, he would have to come back anyway, a wave of relief fell over him. But it was quickly gone with the thought of trying to come back from what just happened.
“Maybe just talk to him?”
“You mean like talk talk to him?” Izzy laughed at him.
“Yes, you doofus. Tell him how you feel for once.” Alec frowned at her offense written all over his face.
“I tell him how I feel.” He exclaimed.
Izzy snorted. “Alec, I hate to tell you this but calling him your friend and telling him you miss him, doesn’t count as telling him how you actually feel about him.”
“I tell him other stuff.” He protested.
“Like?” Izzy prompted. “Cause telling me how you feel about him doesn’t count.”
Alec stuttered out some form of a reply, but it wasn’t really coherent.
“Fine,” Alec sighed growing tired of this conversation. “Maybe I haven’t exactly told him how I feel but I don’t want to tell him while I’m sick.”
“Maybe not, but I’m sure there is some small way you can show him you like him or appreciate him today without saying the words ‘I like you’”
“Maybe,”
“Anyway, I have to go, I’m having dinner with Simon.” Izzy smiled getting up from her seat. “Try and enjoy the rest of your night.” She paused briefly. “And Alec, tell him, if not today, another day.”
“I will.” He would.
The whole way to the store he couldn’t shake the feeling he had when he left Alec’s apartment. He felt stupid for feeling so hurt when he had no right to. They weren’t together and had never even talked about ever getting together, but maybe that was the problem, they had never talked about it so all he was doing was constantly guessing. Guessing how Alec felt, assuming he felt the same? that maybe this, whatever this was between them would go somewhere. He felt stupid for letting his heart open again. He felt stupid for letting his heart love again.
He was in love with him. And Alec didn’t love him back.
Making his way through the store he tried to forget about it all, he could think about this later, not now.
It felt like Magnus had been gone for hours but it had only been a little over 30 minutes. He just wanted him back, was that selfish? Probably, but he just wanted to make sure he was okay and as Izzy said to show him that he at least feels something for him. He was still working on his plan. His brain wasn’t really working today.
His eyes sprung open as soon as he heard the door handle wiggle open. Standing way to fast to meet Magnus as he was walking in. “Magnus, you’re back.” He was sure he sounded far too relieved, but he was. He stumbled slightly as his head began to spin the after effects of standing up too fast.
“Whoa, Alec.” Magnus dropped his bags and rushed to his side. It was sweet he was so worried when he was fine. “Go back and lay down.”
“Yes, Doctor Bane.” Alec pulled at his lip in a teasing manner.
He could see out the corner of his eye he had at least made Magnus smile and took that as a win.
Magnus guided him back to the sofa, telling him to stay. He couldn’t help but laugh at the situation, it was so domestic and something people in relationships would do, yet they weren’t even close.
“Don’t laugh at me, I’m trying to take care of you.” Magnus scolded playfully. “Please, just rest.” Alec’s heart jumped at the softness behind those three words.
Magnus went away and came back in a blur holding something in his hand. “These will help clear your nose and hopefully bring down your fever.” Magnus was being so sweet he didn’t deserve this.
“Thank you, Magnus, for all of this you really didn’t have to go to all this trouble.” He didn’t have to, but he wanted to, and he didn’t think that would ever change. “Why are you doing this for me?”
“Because I care about you,” Magnus spoke softly causing Alec’s heart to do all sorts of flips and just before Alec got the chance to reply, Magnus, bet him to it. “It’s what friends do.” That one word feeling like a lifetime of cold showers. Was that how Magnus felt earlier? It hurt.
He didn’t want to just be friends. He wanted every part of Magnus he was willing to give.
Magnus was so close right now, only a few inches away. He could just lean forward and show him he was always more than a friend to him, he could share his sickness with him, right? Wrong….
He hated the shift he could feel in Magnus once he got back, it was awkward and uncomfortable, something that had never really been an issue for them.
“I bought us dinner. I just assumed you wouldn’t be feeling up to it?” Magnus pulled out two hot containers of pasta.
“Thank you,” Magnus sat an awfully long distance away from him on the couch, he didn’t like it. He continued. “No one has ever done anything like this for me, you know.”
“Really? Do I need to question who your other friends are?” Alec was about to remove the word friend from the dictionary when it came to Magnus.
Leaning back into the couch he let out an exasperated sigh “Magnus,” He could do this. “About before I didn’t mean---” He never got to finish his sentence before Magnus cut him off.
“It’s okay, Alec.” No, it wasn’t he wanted to shout. “There’s nothing to talk about. Let’s just enjoy tonight.” Alec was growing more and more frustrated with himself, he had ruined everything when all he wanted to do was lay back down in Magnus’ lap and let sleep take him for the night.
They finished their dinner in silence, but it wasn’t the good kind. It was uncomfortable, unknown, tension. Everything he hated. He didn’t know whether to leave or to wait until Alec had drifted off. When he looked over he could see him forcing his eyes to stay open as they kept dropping every few seconds.
“Alexander,” Alec startled awake, “Why don’t you go to sleep?”
“Can’t,” His voice was so sleepy and dare he say adorable.
“And why is that?” Magnus asked puzzled.
“Because you are too far away.” He went silent after that, Alec was confusing him.
Only because he could never say no to that face he moved closer. “Is that better?” Alec shook his head. Magnus lay his head back laughing at Alec’s face, he assumed his pout was supposed to be cute? It was, no doubt about that but it was also hilarious as Alec could barely keep his eyes open.
“Where do you want me?” Alec felt like saying ‘in bed next to me’, but he settled for laying down in his lap and falling straight to sleep.
He watched Alec fall asleep only a second after closing his eyes, he really must have been tired. “Goodnight, Alexander.” He whispered to himself. He really should be getting home but he could stay for just a few more minutes.
When Alec woke the next morning, he was in his bed, but he was alone.
|
wilbur heard the discord call go off for the fifth time in the last ten minutes, but still he hit the decline button, before minimizing it and going back to editing his latest vod. it was a challenge involving a hundred people being bees and having to collect ‘honey’ which was just orange and yellow pieces of wool throughout the map and if they didn’t work, well he wasn’t the admin for nothing. elody had done her part, but now it was his to add touches here and there.
he was so close to finishing it and yet another call came through, much to his annoyance. finally, he picked up the call to tell them off, but before he could open his mouth-
“have you eaten, will?”
wilbur snapped his mouth shut, pushing his mouth to the side. “phil, i really can’t talk right now. i’m almost finished with this video,” he answered, completely avoiding the question. in actuality, wilbur hadn’t realized what time it was and hadn’t eaten since twelve hours ago before he went to sleep.
“will, you’ve been working on videos and streams all week. you need to take a break. have you even showered?” phil asked, concern dripping from his voice like the parental figure he was.
wilbur rolled his eyes. he took a small bath yesterday thank you very much. “i’m fine, phil. don’t you have a stream to set up?”
“i’m not falling for that. i’m worried about you, mate. i know how you are.” wilbur clenched his jaw, thinking how much he wished phil didn’t know so much about him, yet insanely grateful someone had noticed. that didn’t mean he was okay with it completely. “last time you ate? slept? drank water?”
“yesterday, yesterday and i have a bottle on my desk, can i please go back?” wilbur replied, voice exasperated.
“will…” phil trailed, making wilbur’s hackles rise. that voice meant realization and nothing ever good came from that. “it’s nearly five at night. you haven’t eaten all day?”
wilbur shook his head, then realized their cameras weren’t on, but he couldn’t verbally answer. it was like disappointing a parent and you hadn’t even done it intentionally. guilt suddenly clawed at his chest.
“okay,” phil said simply, silence his answer.
wilbur heard the jangle of keys and the fumbling around. “phil? what are you doing?”
“i’m coming over, mate,” phil said from the distance. “i’m bringing kristen too.”
“phil, no, don’t-”
“wilbur, when was the last time you regressed?”
his cheeks suddenly flared as the words died in his throat. phil had known about him regressing because he felt comfortable enough to tell someone so important in his life about something that affected him. the stress was great many days between streaming, uploading, and facing the fans on the internet. he got severely worked up and the only way he felt safe and better was when he was little.
but like every other self care you’re supposed to go through on a daily, he didn’t do that. he hadn’t done it in weeks and he felt the ache in his bones and the numbness in his head from all the emotions building up and hurting him.
he had told kristen and phil when everything had gotten to be too much, after a situation with a fellow content creator and having done a lot of writing for the smp lore, he was completely exhausted and stressed that people weren’t going to like it and his relationship with the other content creator would break apart. he had slipped and cried, curling up in his chair and fingers gripping his hair in a panic.
phil and kristen had been so patient with him, despite not completely understanding what was happening. they carefully eased him, kristen using many pet names and striking with one that eased wilbur enough to focus his attention back on them. they reassured him that everything was going to be okay and that he was smart and wonderful and kind. he would figure it out and if he needed time for the lore, he could take it, everyone would understand, and if anyone hated it, phil would personally beat the shit out of them for hurting his kid.
wilbur let out a watery giggle, biting his thumb bashfully. they asked him if he had anything to make him feel better and he pulled out a pacifier and a shark whale plushie. they stayed with him on call until he was fast asleep in his bed.
the following morning, wilbur was horrified, but the couple were quick to reassure him that it was okay, that they did their research about it all night and were completely okay with the coping mechanism. no one really knew wilbur’s history, but he never talked about his family or childhood, so they had some ideas. the attachment to the couple and using the SBI dynamic in real life spoke volumes.
they didn’t mind it and became his caretakers since they weren’t too far from him in brighton, taking care of him when he slipped and wanted to talk on vc. phil would even end his streams if wilbur was distress and wanted a call, but the kid was good at making sure to wait for phil to be done if he wasn’t upset.
or he would cancel a whole stream to care for wilbur.
they knew wilbur had a habit of forgetting to take care of himself and would often force a call on and help him slip, but there hadn’t been a time when wilbur downright refused to regress and was too stubborn to listen to phil. it was a new situation and phil coming to visit was new, spiking wilbur’s anxiety slightly.
“right, we’re on our way.”
the call ended, leaving wilbur to slump in his chair and stare at his unfinished video. well it was practically finished he supposed. elody had done a fantastic job and he was a nit picker, finding the odds no one else would really see unless they watched the video a million times over.
he left it alone for now, saving it and shutting down his whole computer. phil and kristen would be over soon and he would have to face his ‘parents’ about the issues he was hiding from everyone.
he didn’t fully slip as he sat there with a soft yellow baby blanket in his lap. he was teetering, but didn’t fully slip. he might need to open the door for the couple and act normal in front of his housemates.
another reason he hadn’t slipped was because they didn’t really have boundaries, even if he told them not to enter. he enjoyed them, but sometimes they were too much. he’d have to figure something out later.
“will! you got visitors!” one of his housemates yelled up the stairs.
“send them up!” wilbur called back, pushing his voice to be deep and not light when he was little, or on the verge.
his door creaked open, gaining his attention. kristen and phil peeked in, small smiles on their lips. kristen had her bag and was wearing a sweatshirt with sweatpants, while phil was in his batman pajama pants and his hardcore shirt. wilbur was grateful they were comfortable enough to wear whatever when visiting, especially since he’d probably beg for cuddles.
he definitely was
not
touch starved.
he was scared of them being disappointed or angry at him, so he looked down, unable to look into their eyes. his shoulders hunched over and his legs pressed close together.
“hey, bubba,” phil greeted, approaching with kristen and both kneeling before his chair. his fingers still fidgeted with the blanket in his lap. “how old are you feeling, kiddo?”
wilbur kept his gaze down and held up two fingers.
“we got a small boy today, huh?” phil said, glancing at his wife.
“shy little boy, too. what’s up? how are you today, pumpkin?” kristen asked, hand reaching up to curl around his hair and play idly with it.
wilbur hummed, enjoying the feel and relishing in the nickname he only heard from kristen, adoring it. it sent him a little deeper into littlespace, but not quite what he wanted.
to be fair he didn’t really want it, trying to finish as much work as possible, but he knew he needed it. obviously phil did too and brought his wife as a reinforcement.
he liked when kristen was around while he was regressed.
“tired,” he admitted lowly.
“yea? why don’t we get you some angel milk and a few plushies and hop on into to bed?” kristen suggested softly, earning a little excited nod. “oh! i also got you a little something for working so hard these last few weeks.”
wilbur perked at the idea of receiving a gift. he doesn’t remember ever getting a gift for when he was little. he had bought all of his gear himself; his whale shark plushie, his yellow blanket, all of his sensory toys, pacifiers and cups were specifically bought by him. but kristen and phil got him something. his parents got him something.
wilbur sat up, excitedly looking up at them, earning amused chuckles. kristen held her bag opened and phil pulled out a blue sheep plushie that reminded him of the sheep from the dream smp. wilbur gasped, eyes lighting up with excitement as he held his hands out, making grabbing motions. phil put the stuffie in his hands and watched as the younger carefully held it, before hugging it close to his chest.
“thank,” he muttered into the blue fabric.
“you’re welcome, kiddo,” phil responded. “now, come on. in to bed you go.”
wilbur stood on shaky legs and grabbed kristen’s hand, pulling her towards his unmade bed with his new friend and yellow blanket in his arms. she giggled, allowing him to tug her while phil grabbed a few more blankets and went to the little light up ball that lit up a soft yellow, turning it on before snatching a sippy from the bin and shuffling down the stairs. wilbur’s housemates had been leaving at the time they were arriving, so he could safely fill the sippy cup with angel milk and warm it up without questions asked.
phil went back up the stairs and stopped at the door, smiling softly at the scene before him. he found wilbur curled up with his new plushie and a blue and white pacifier in his mouth. his box of little stuff was sitting in the open from where it normally was under his bed, indicating that kristen had drug it out and helped the little chose what he wanted.
phil turned off the light with a smile, moving to the bed and laying the extra blankets over the two, before slipping in himself. wilbur sighed, humming when phil handed him the sippy cup full of warm milk, content with his position between mumza and dadza. he slowly drank as he buried his face close to phil’s chest, feeling kristen’s hand combing through his hair with the tips of her fingers to not scratch his skull with her nails. their hands were linked over top of his waist and the added pressure felt nice.
the whole thing was nice. the dimmed room with his favorite light up, squashed in both physical and emotional warmth from the two he saw as his parental figures with a new stuffie, something he got for being good, with the pressures and stress off of his fragile mind.
he slipped his eyes shut and fell asleep to phil and kristen’s soft talking.
and weeks afterwards, he would get little gift boxes with little things, like the occasional stuffie, or blanket, or pacifier and his heart warmed at each little hand written message from phil and kristen and he thanked them a million times over vc while in his little headspace.
“always, mate,” phil would reply with the softest voice and kindest eyes.
“anything for you, pumpkin,” kristen would coo, arms around her husband as they watched wilbur ramble on excitedly.
|
Sansa
It was hard for Sansa to imagine the difference between the man she had come to know from his savagery in battle and the man before her in the bathtub. Sandor Clegane had always been unflinching, a human weapon dangerous and cold. To see a smile across his horrendous face, to hear a laugh come from his large barreled chest, were not things Sansa was used to or had known possible. It was encouraging, it made her smile despite himself.
‘Perhaps I can make this work between us. He’s not so bad.’
She was more relieved then.
As their conversation continued, Sansa went to feeling his masculine body with her hands. It was something she had never considered, the strength of his form, the beauty of its muscled edges. His body was hard, all of it, even the parts that were not normally so on a man. Sansa had never seen or felt a man’s erection, though she knew it was possible. It awakened something in her, something in her woman’s place. HIs lips on her breasts made wetness rush to the apex of her thighs without her leave. Sansa was suddenly gripped with the feeling of wanting her hand to move harder and faster over his huge length, but his voice woke her from her musings.
“Does my arousal frighten you?” He asked her teasingly. It most certainly did not, quite the opposite to her complete surprise and relief. Sansa had known from the time he won the tournament that she would use her body as a way to bring him to her side, but she had not expected to enjoy it. Not like this.
“No.” Was the only thing she could say, her brain not working properly, so singularly focused on what was in her hand. “It’s just so...so...big.”
This seemed to rouse the warrior from his little games and advance his plans. Breaking their embrace he stood, allowing the water and soap to roll off of his chiseled body, staring at her like an animal on the verge of attack.
Sansa stood, taking a step back to more fully take him in. Sandor was indeed breathtaking, his muscled chest covered in dark hair, which traveled down below his waist to his enormous manhood. Her mouth must have gaped open for quite a while, judging by the amusement on his face. The ruined side of his face pulled into naughty smirk.
“You’re the Warrior in the flesh.” Was all she could say, though it didn’t properly describe her true feelings.
He stepped out of the tub and came toward her, taking her by the wrist, bringing her infront of her vanity mirror. Sansa’s back was suddenly against his muscled chest, his hands ripping the back of her gown in half, pushing it and her small clothes down her body all at once.
She cried out in surprise, which only spurred him further. Sandor pressed her naked back to his chest, took her chin in his left hand, turning her head up toward him, and plunged his right hand down her abdomen and between her legs. Sansa had never been touched there before, she yelped at the sudden intrusion of his calloused fingers to the gentle folds of her quim.
“So wet for me.” He muttered into her hair as she looked into the mirror, watching this giant of a man, one of the most feared warriors in the Seven Kingdoms, clutching her possessively to his intimidating form. Worshiping her as if she were a goddess.
That was when it clicked,
‘He loves me.’
She realized,
‘He’s always loved me. Perhaps I can learn to love him too.’
Sansa gripped his forearms then, sighing into his neck and kissing his jawline. He bucked his hips against her backside, pushing his erection tighter against her body.
Without knowing what possessed her, she moved her hands from his forearms to where his cock was pressing into her, behind her back near her buttocks. Coming up on her toes so she could straddle it, Sansa moved his erection so as to keep it between her legs and have it rub against his fingers and her wetness. The great warrior’s moan was more than rewarding. He then began to grip his manhood, his fist resting on a particularly sensitive place above her opening. He began fuck his own hand, still keeping her body pinned to his own. The feeling of his iron cock rubbing her folds, combined with the pleasurable pressure of his fist on her most sensitive area and watching them move together in the mirror made Sansa moan more wantonly than she ever knew she could. She gripped his thighs now, their firmness hurting her fingers. They might as well have been made out of stone, instead of flesh and blood.
She could feel his heart beating through his chest, and into the back of her shoulder. The deep rumble in his throat as he growled in complete pleasure, shook her entire body. His utter capitulation to her melted any inhibitions Sansa may have had, allowing her to give in to something primal, something she had never knew she had in her. Sansa closed her eyes, allowing her senses to take control, for once letting her instincts drive her.
Before she knew what was going on, his body was gone from hers, his hand pulling her by the wrist toward the bed they would share together. Sansa nearly tripped over the mess of clothing he had ripped from her body and let pool on the floor at her feet, nearly splling her on the cold stone floor. She regained her footing just in time to be pushed roughly to the bed, her hands catching her, her naked bum bent over toward him. She was naked and exposed to the warrior, only now realizing that he intended to take her this way, from behind rather than face-to-face.
“No.” She said, grabbing his massive hands, which had already taken their place on her hips. She didn’t want her first time to be like that, no matter who she was with.
He didn’t take kindly to her seeming rejection, gripping her hips harder and repositioning her in an animal style position.
“Just wait, just please…” she pleaded, doing her best to fight against the overwhelming strength of her new husband. Sansa kicked and tried to pry his hands free of her, in a vain attempt to turn herself over.
“You’re not backing out of this now.” His words tietered between anger and amusement, Sansa not wanting to push him toward the side of anger, but she continued to fight.
“Just let me…” She pleaded.
Now he was getting angry, she could feel it in his bone crushing grip and hear it in his breathing. “I want to see your face when we do it!” she screamed finally exasperated by the situation, stopping their little tussle mid way.
She couldn’t see his face from her current position, but she used the fact that he seemed stunned by her request to turn herself over, her bum now on the bed, leaning back on her arms supporting her weight.
‘He’s surprised.’
Were the only words she could think of to describe the look on his face.
It wasn’t anger or frustration, even amusement that marked his normally expressionless face. Sandor’s dark wet hair hung down both sides of his shoulders, he was somewhat bent over her, his face twisted into confusion.
His reaction was oddly touching and even more telling. Taking this moment to sit at her full height, Sansa reached a hand to the burned side of the Hound’s face, guiding it down so that he had to put both his palms and knees on the bed over her.
“Please don’t hide your face from me.” She whispered, her blue eyes searching his grey ones for understanding.
At one time she had cared about looks, found his face too horrible to look upon. However, Sansa’s time in King’s Landing had taught her that the real monsters of men lived within, and she would have him look upon her as he took her, as he claimed his prize.
Sandor kissed her suddenly, it was something she hadn’t expected from a man like him. For all of the force he could put in his fighting, all of the pain he could inflict, his lips were surprisingly gentle, his mouth warm, his beard tickled her lips and chin. She giggled in an almost girlish way as his kiss deepened pressing her head into the feather mattress, her arms instinctively wrapping around his body, pulling him even closer.
She loved the feeling of his body on hers, she decided then. The way his beard scratched against her face, putting her senses on fire. His chest eclipsed hers easily, its rough hair rubbing against her nipples, spurring on her bearly containable arousal. The way he was rubbing his manhood against her slit combined with his kiss and his touch made Sansa dig her nails into his back without willing them to. She was no longer the master of her own body, he had hijacked it, her lips matching his in a passionate kiss, her hips bucking against his, urging him to fill her.
As suddenly as this moment of passion had began, Sandor suddenly rose up on his knees and ran his fingers through his hair, towering over her. He was looking down at her, deciding what he would do next. Anticipation made her tense suddenly, a bit of fear as well. There was no denying his intimidating form, even when they shared a marriage bed. Now she had a better understanding of what his opponents must feel, seeing this monster of a man towering over them before he ended their life, or willing them to yield on the tournament grounds. It was frighteningly seductive, beautiful the way his muscles moved even when he was just breathing and thinking.
Sansa stared up at him, doing her best to not seem frightened about what was to happen. She had to trust the enormous warrior would not break her in two, hope against the odds that he would show her mercy in a way he was unaccustomed to. He was quick, pulling her by her thighs to the edge of the bed, dropping to the floor on his knees and burying his face between her legs.
She fought him a bit, not knowing or understanding what his intentions were. Sandor didn’t seem to notice her meager attempts at defense or her pleas, but as his tongue began to touch her in her most intimate place she couldn’t help but yield. It was unlike anything she had known or expected.
Sansa gasped and arched her back from the bed, squeezing her thighs together as his tongue made circles on her woman’s place. He’d possessed her with his mouth, turned her into a lust filled she-wolf, her body acting of its own accord. Sansa gripped the sheets erratically, yelled words she didn’t know she knew, afraid she would suffocate him as she brought her legs around his head. Hungry for more, demanding more...needing more.
And for the second time that evening, she felt like a goddess.
|
By the time they’d left the bar, Justin knows there’s alcohol derived gaps in his memory - he has no memory of their journey back to Justin’s apartment, but he does remember the moment when he’d realised his apartment was totally unsuited for guests - one bed, and no spare bedding available for the couch.
But if he’d been drunk, Olli had been drunker, so Justin had steered him in the direction of his bed, and flicked through his drawers, hand sliding past his his collection of soft, worn Oilers tees to find one of his even older red and white Badgers tees, threadbare, soft and shapeless. Too closely linked with a happy time to even consider throwing away.
“Here, use this,” he said, tossing the tee onto the bed, next to where Olli was sitting on the bed looking at him owlishly. “Sorry it’s badgers, not your hippos.”
“Moomins,” Olli corrects automatically. “Not hippos.” But he pulls the t-shirt over and start to strip off, so Justin grabs another t-shirt and some shorts for himself and slips out of the bed room. There’s a blanket on the couch he uses for naps; he’ll have to make do with that so gets ready and then curls up under it. He doesn’t even have a spare toothbrush to offer Olli, although he pulls out his travel bag for himself, since his usual toothbrush is in the en suite.
But then he remembers Olli’s drunk a lot and they haven’t done anything about that, so he gets up to get a glass of water and a bottle of Gatorade from the kitchen and some painkillers from his travel bag.
Olli grunts in response when he knocks on the door so he goes in; the light is still on, but Olli’s now in bed. He looks up when Justin enters.
“Brought you these, you need to rehydrate,” he drops them onto the cluttered bed-side table. “You need anything else? Sorry, it’s a bit basic, I’m not really set up for unexpected guests.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s my fault, you shouldn’t have to take me in like this…”
“I wish you didn’t have to, but I’m happy you are though,” Justin says with a smile, as he goes to leave the bedroom.
“Where are you going?” Olli looks perplexed.
“I was going to sleep on the couch, give you the bed.”
“I thought… I assumed… you’d be here with me?” Olli stutters. “I can’t take your bed. That’s not fair on you. If you don’t want - if you can’t bear to be close to me, I’ll take the couch. I can’t take your bed.”
He pulls back the covers, starting to roll out of bed. Justin stands there for a moment, trying to decide what he wants with his fuzzy brain. And then it catches up with what Olli just said.
“Olli, it’s not about not wanting to be close to you. I just didn’t think after what happened… you might have preferred to sleep alone.” He waves his hand in the direction of Consol, to indicate the whole Harry thing. Which really, was stupid given that Harry was probably sleeping down the hall. “You’ve just split up with Harry. I couldn’t just jump straight back into your bed.”
Olli’s brow creases at that. “Your bed. It’s not my bed, it’s your bed. Look, I know you broke up with me and yeah there was the Harry thing tonight. I just don’t want you sleeping on the couch in your own flat, it seems unfair. Surely we can share a bed? I mean, we have slept in one together before now. It’s only one night. Nothing’s going to happen.”
Justin considers for a moment. It does seem kind of weird to insist on the couch. If Olli’s happy to share, he doesn’t see why he should object. He’s not the one heartsore after the events of the evening.
Well, mostly.
0--0--0
Now Justin’s remembered all of that from the night before, he can almost laugh at the way Olli has him in a deathgrip, refusing to let him move in the faint light coming through the curtains.
But he really needs to piss, so somehow he’s going to need to free himself from Olli. It takes a combination of wriggling, and shoving and coaxing and murmuring but eventually he is free.
He takes the time to drink more Gatorade and water, take more painkillers and make some coffee before returning to the bedroom, where Olli is still sleeping the sleep of the just - or the exhausted hockey player, arm sprawled out across the space Justin had been in before.
He sets Olli’s mug down next to the bed alongside more Gatorade and painkillers. The coffee might not be the fancy stuff Olli prefers but after last night… he thinks any coffee will do this morning.
He slides back into bed, gently rolling Olli’s arm out of his space. There’s a snuffle and a twitch at the contact and Justin stills. He shouldn’t have to sneak back into his own bed… but he also doesn’t want to stay upright until the painkillers can give him some relief.
Fortunately they are are kicking in by the time Olli starts to show signs of waking. He’s sipping on his lukewarm blissful coffee, playing on his tablet when Olli’s head starts to emerge from under the covers. There’s some muted Finish cursing and a bloodshot eye appears, blinking rapidly at him.
“Fuck.”
“There’s lukewarm coffee on the table and some water and painkillers too.”
“You’re an angel!” An arm sneaks out and feels around until it’s located the bottle and the tablets, before disappearing back with them under the quilt, followed quickly by some slurping before the empty bottle is tossed out from under the covers again.
“You’re picking that up later,” Justin says warningly. There’s a grunt of agreement from beside him.
Time passes, and in that time, Olli’s communication has been limited to a series of quiet moans and the occasional cursed exclamation. Even Justin’s offer of breakfast had been met with a violent whole body shake followed by another louder moan.
It’s just when Justin’s looking at the lump with concern, starting to wonder if there’s something actually wrong, if Olli could actually be dying rather than thinking he’s dying, when the duvet is flung back dramatically.
“Oh my god, why did you let me do that last night?”
Justin snorts. “You could have said no yourself.”
“But there was Tanger. And Sid. And Horny and Hags. And the mongooses. And Flower!”
The last is wailed out, expressing the inevitability of Flower.
“Yeah, but you expect me to say no to them on your behalf. Not a chance. Besides, seems like you needed it.”
Olli groans. “I’m not sure I needed to tell the guys what I think I remember saying about Harry. Fuck. Please tell me I didn’t talk about him to Sid and Tanger and that that was a vodka driven dream.”
Justin shakes his head. “Sorry, I can’t. You did - but I’m not sure if that was you or them? It seemed like they wanted to know what had happened and maybe you needed to talk about it?”
Olli rolls over, burying his face into the pillow. “I didn’t need to tell everyone how pathetic and sad I am,” he mumbles into.
Justin moves onto his side, facing Olli, reaching over to stroke his shoulder gently.
“You didn’t sound either pathetic or sad to me,” he says. “And I don’t think Sid or Tanger thought you sounded sad or pathetic either. They’re the only other ones who heard all of what you had to say last night. Everyone else probably thinks you have the patience of a saint for putting up with him for so long.”
“Or was too stupid to know better.”
Justin pinches him, gently. “Stop that. You aren’t stupid.”
“I feel it.”
“No one else thinks it.”
Olli groans again into his pillow. Justin keeps stroking his shoulder, feeling the warm muscles tight under his smooth skin gradually relaxing and releasing their tension. Olli slumps more into the pillow, so Justin keeps doing it, enjoying the feel of Olli’s skin under his hand. The room is quiet and still and there’s nothing outside of now, this moment, just Olli next to him and the silence between them, once comfortable and now becoming intense as Olli relaxes, going supine and pliant next to him, breaths matching.
Olli turns his head to look at him, and his eyes are dark and deep and he’s watching Justin as he continues to rub his shoulders. It’s not exactly comfortable, but there’s no way Justin is stopping, not when Olli is looking at him in a way that’s sending shivers up and down his own spine. The world is Olli now and Olli is the world and the moment feels enormous and he has to break the tension so he leans forward slowly, drawn so badly he can’t not do this, so slowly in case he’s reading this wrong, but yearning for it, wanting to feel Olli’s lips on his.
Olli’s lips are soft and warm as he kisses them gently. But not unwelcoming. Olli’s kissing him back at first gently too, but they’re falling into it, Olli turning into him, getting more intense and deeper and his lips are opening… and it’s good.
Of course, that’s when Olli’s phone starts buzzing.
Olli freezes when he hears it. Justin really wants to keep going and pretend it isn’t there because this is good, but it’s like the world and everything that’s happened has just uncouthly shoved its way back between their moment and he knows they aren’t going to be able to recapture it.
He stays frozen over Olli for a moment to sigh before saying “I suppose you want to get that?”
“I’d better,” mutters Olli and their lips are still so close that Justin can feels the breath as Olli speaks. He really doesn’t want to but he does the good thing and rolls back, letting Olli reach out to grab his phone off the nightstand.
“It’s Horny,” he says with some surprise as he flicks his thumb to accept the call. Justin, aware of the state of his half-hard cock, thinks wryly something is definitely horny.
“Yeah he is, let me put it on speaker,” says Olli to his phone. “Horny wants to speak to both of us.”
“Hey Horny,” Justin says once Olli holds the phone between them. “How’re you doing?”
“Good thanks, Schultzy, how are you two this morning?”
Olli groans dramatically. “Why did you make me drink so much?”
Horny laughs. “Because you needed to and because we care about you and we’re a sharing caring team who do what you need, not necessarily what you want.”
“Fuck you Horny!”
Horny ignores Olli's interjection and just carries on talking. “Anyway, I’m calling because concern has been expressed about Olli going back into his apartment if Harry is still around and more concerns were expressed if you went with him Schultzy so I’m coming over to make sure he doesn’t cause any problems if he’s still there.”
Justin and Olli exchange a look. Olli looks faintly exasperated.
“You don’t have to. I don’t even know where he is right now, I’ve heard nothing since last night.”
Justin starts at that. “But he’s got keys to your apartment, Olli?” he asks.
Olli glares at him, a look of betrayal on his face. “It’s fine,” he says dismissively.
“Nope, it’s definitely not then," disagrees Horny. He's calm, but is sounding immoveable. "I’m coming over because I’m not going to tell Sid that I didn’t after he asked me to and especially not knowing that. When’s good for you?”
They arrange with Horny to come over in an hour.
Horny hangs up with a breezy “Cool - Phil’s making some breakfast to bring over with me for you!”
“Why does this team have to be so busybody?” Olli asks. He sounds tired.
“Because Sid,” Justin replies without really thinking about it, he just feels it. “You’ve got a captain who cares about his team and that filters down. It’s better than the alternative.”
Olli looks at him sharply at that but says no more so he heads off to shower.
0--0--0
Horny is on time, entering Justin’s apartment waving two insulated boxes at them, grinning broadly and just as loud and enthusiastic as ever as he enfolds them both in a welcoming hug.
“Phil made me and Hags breakfast so we thought you might appreciate these. Just throw them in the microwave for 20 seconds to make sure they’re warm enough.”
Justin peeks inside and there’s some kind of breakfast burrito in there and the smell is amazing. Following Horny’s instructions, the smell only gets better. He hands off the re-warmed boxes to Olli to plate up while he makes everyone coffee.
“I hope this isn’t messing up your day,” Olli says, as he starts to inhale the burrito. “You really didn’t need to come over…”
Horny shrugs. “It’s because it wasn’t messing up my day that I’m here.”
He holds left hand out in a fist. “Sid… well for sure Sid couldn’t do it. And for sure, it wouldn’t have been a good idea for Geno to do it. Too temperamental.” Two fingers are extended as he speaks their name, punching the air for emphasis.
“Tanger wanted to do it, but we didn’t want him to end up in jail if Harry’s there, so Sid banned him. Kuni - his kids have ballet this morning and he’d already said to Maureen he’d take them. And Cully - well, it’s not really something for Cully. He’s too nice. We needed some snarl.’
He closes his fist with a snap to emphasise that, then continues. “Dales had plans as well, and we thought it wasn’t fair on the guys who had played with him in baby Pens. Bones… he’s got a small kid so he gets to spend time with Maizie. We didn’t want to risk Phil’s hands or Hags’ hair. Beau would only injure himself somehow. We didn’t want to leave Duper to whatever Harry might say. Schultzy is obviously out for obvious reasons. So that left me, Colesy and Rev and Sid thought I’d be best at keeping my cool, so here I am, at your service.”
Justin’s feeling pretty impressed at the level of planning involved but Olli has his face buried in his hands and is shaking his head.
“Why can’t this team mind their own fucking business?” he groans out.
“Because then this team wouldn’t be this team,” answers Horny like it’s the easiest question in the world and the answer is obvious. “I mean, you’ve been on this team longer than I have. We’re closer this year but since even before, Sid mother-hens everyone. And you were a rookie with him, so it’s even stronger with you.” His eyes crinkle into a grin. “It’s always hard to let the little ones go.”
“Fuck you Horny!”
“Anyway, let’s go see if there are any nasty smells in Olli’s apartment to clear out since you’ve finished breakfast. The longer we leave it, the worse they’re going to get.”
Olli nods, but for all his complaints about interference, he’s gone pale now.
“Come back and tell me what happens?” Justin asks, as he realises that Olli is probably going to stay in his own apartment after whatever happens happens.
“For sure!” exclaims Horny as he ushers Olli out the door.
|
August 1969
Once Hermione knew that Voldemort had created horcruxes, everything seemed so much clearer to her, most specifically, the way that he kept coming back to life, seemingly unable to be killed. She threw herself into researching the terrible objects, as much as she could, needing to gather as much information as possible to prepare herself.
The more she read about them, the more she began to wonder if perhaps Harry had been a horcrux himself. It was disturbing to think about, but the connection between Lord Voldemort and Harry had always troubled her, especially when she was in her fifth year at Hogwarts. Now, she wondered if a little bit of Voldemort's soul hadn't ended up a part of her best friend when he was just a baby. It would certainly explain everything.
But, that wouldn't matter, now, because she was going to prevent Voldemort from ever killing Lily and James Potter, leaving Harry the orphaned boy-who-lived.
Headmaster Dumbledore had to tell Arthur and Molly something, and so he clued them into their plans to deal with You-Know-Who. Dumbledore explained that he was growing too powerful, too influential, and that he would make the wizarding world worse off with his plans to eradicate muggleborns. Neither of the redheads needed much convincing to agree to assist in anyway that they could. Arthur in particular was irritated by the things he was seeing in the Ministry of Magic.
Hermione had smiled then, seeing the fledgling beginnings of the Order of the Phoenix, although they did not have the same number of members yet, nor the name. Both Molly and Arthur promised that they knew of other people who would want to help - Molly's older twin brothers Gideon and Fabian for two - and Dumbledore did as well. They made plans to gather everyone over the Yule holiday so that it could be disguised as a party, and not draw undue attention.
It also gave Hermione and Dumbledore time to work out what exactly they were looking at. If they had a method and an idea of what the horcruxes were by then, they could share the burden with other members of their group.
But before they could do that, they needed to get into the Chamber of Secrets and kill the basilisk that was living in it.
After much research, Hermione saw that fiendfyre was an alternative method to destroying the evil objects, but she was concerned that they would react pooly. After all, fiendfrye was dark magic itself, and she didn't want to add fuel to the flame by tossing in something so uniquely evil as a horcrux. She could see it ending in disaster, even for an experienced wizard like Headmaster Dumbledore.
Once that was decided, Hermione and Headmaster Dumbledore made plans for her to come to Hogwarts to enter the Chamber. It was decided that she should come before the students returned for term, considering that their safety was paramount.
So, on a non-descript Tuesday morning in August, Hermione flooed to the Three Broomsticks, and made the short walk up to the castle. It was hot outside, and by the time that she made her way inside, she was grateful for the cool air in the huge stone school. She didn't see anyone, not even a ghost, on her way up to the Headmaster's office, but she was surprised to see it already occupied by Professor McGonagall.
"Miss Granger," the other witch said, before her eyes settled on her rounding waist. "You're...Albus, did you know about this?" she asked, sounding more than a little disappointed.
Hermione couldn't stop her hands from crossing protectively over the curve of her five month pregnant belly, protecting the little witch or wizard that was growing inside of her. It certainly didn't feel good to know that a Professor she respected so much was judging her. A part of her wondered if future Hermione would be judging her choices, though, too.
"I don't know why he would have known," Hermione said tartly. "It's not as if he was involved," she added with a blush.
"Well, it must have happened while you were still a student!" Professor McGonagall argued back. "While you were in our care."
She could feel her cheeks heat up at the suggestion. "If you must know, it didn't happen at school. It happened during a Hogsmeade weekend in one of the rented rooms at the Three Broomsticks," she said hotly, perhaps revealing more than she wanted to. "But, I did not come here to be interrogated about my pregnancy, and if it is going to continue, I can leave."
"That won't be necessary, Miss Granger," Headmaster Dumbledore said, finally stepping in to end the inquiry by Professor McGonagall. "Minerva, Miss Granger is going to help us locate the Chamber of Secrets. There is no need to be antagonistic."
Once she was properly chastised, Professor McGonagall set her lips into a tight line, perhaps wishing to say more about what Hermione had revealed, but not wanting to upset the Headmaster.
Hermione was somewhat worried with the number of people that Dumbledore was telling about their plans to destroy the horcruxes, but she knew that everyone so far was completely trustworthy. Still, it was hard not to be concerned about their knowledge to get back to Voldemort, and him moving his horcruxes, or making some sort of backup plan. But, for now, she knew that she had to focus on getting the basilisk venom or they would have no way to destroy the horcruxes they did know about.
"Come on," Hermione said, confidently taking charge. "Let's go. The entrance is in the first floor girl's lavatory."
"One moment, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, before returning to his desk. "I just need to grab something to aid us in the slaying of the beast." When he lifted his arm, he was carrying a wire cage with two red and white weasels snoozing happily.
Hermione had to cover her nose with her hand. "Oh Merlin!" she said, hoping that she wouldn't be sick in front of her two former teachers. "Do they always smell quite so pungent?" she asked, thinking that it was maybe one of the most horrible smells she'd encountered.
"Hopefully the basilisk will find it as appalling as you do, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said with a wink. "I thought that the smell of a weasel would be a more reliable way to kill it, rather than trying to get a rooster to crow down in a dark chamber."
She was unable to help but smile at that, wondering what Ron would think about the animal he was so frequently called being the one to take down the beast of Slytherin. It was somewhat poetic she thought.
The trio made their way to the lavatory, and Hermione quickly identified the sink with the small snake engraved on the tap. "Here," she said, showing it to Dumbledore. "This is how we get in. Only..." she trailed off, realizing that she wasn't sure how they were actually going to get in. "I've only just realized that Harry is a parselmouth. I don't know if we will be able to get in."
"Albus, does this mean that Myrtle..." McGonagall said, looking towards the stall that the ghost usually haunted.
"Yes, Moaning Myrtle was killed by the basilisk's gaze, released by Tom Riddle," Hermione said, off-handedly.
McGonagall's face looked a bit white. "That means that Hagrid is completely innocent!" she cried.
"Surely you already knew this, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked softly.
"Yes, but well...there was always a part of me that wondered," she admitted. "But, now, we can have his wand reinstated!"
"First, let's get through this," Dumbledore said. "Although Hagrid is important, I am afraid that this takes precedence." The wizard handed the cage with the weasels to Hermione, before stepping up to the sink, his fingers tracing the snake. "While I am not a parselmouth, I can understand parseltongue. Perhaps I can give it a try."
The wizard proceeded to make a series of hissing sounds that didn't sound too different from what Harry could do, but even Hermione knew it wasn't right. It was far too stilted, not the smooth sounds that a snake would make. To their dismay, the chamber remained shut. The headmaster tried again, but had similar luck, unable to replicate the kind of tones that a snake would make.
Hermione bit her lower lip, her mind churning with ideas. She wondered, if parseltongue was simply the language of snakes then...would a snake be able to open the chamber? "Serpensortia!" she said, waving her wand, watching as a dangerous red and black serpent emerged from her wand.
McGonagall and Dumbledore looked alarmed, stepping back from the coiling creature, watching them silently.
Before they could question her, she sent a stinging hex towards the creature, making it hiss and spit in anger. She waited with bated breath, hoping that she hadn't just pissed off the snake for no good reason. But then, rumbling from deep under the stones started, and Hermione watched in awe as the sinks began to move and rearrange, and the red snake fell down into the pit that was created.
Seeing the shocked faces from her companions, Hermione shrugged her shoulders. "Wild guess," she said, before stepping towards the edge, looking into the inky blackness. She hadn't seen the Chamber of Secrets the first time, seeing as she had been sitting petrified in the infirmary ward, but she'd eagerly lapped up every word Harry and Ron had to share about the historically significant chamber.
"Keep your eyes closed tightly until we can be sure that the basilisk is dead," Hermione warned, before holding the cage of weasels tightly against her chest. With a deep breath, she stepped to the edge of the slide and jumped in. She wanted to scream as she went deeper and deeper under the castle, but she held her tongue, not wanting to alert the basilisk of her presence anymore than she surely had already done.
She landed in a pile of shed snake skin, grateful for the cushion to her fall. Standing up quickly, Hermione moved out of the way, giving room for Dumbledore and McGonagall to follow after her. Blindly, she fumbled with the latch on the cage, setting the pungent weasels free. She could hear them chattering as they made their way down the pipes, and she wondered if she should follow them.
When the other two arrived, she told them about how she'd let the weasels loose. "How will we know if it's worked, though?" she asked.
Before long, she heard a terrible screech, one that almost sounded like a scream, followed by a huge thud. Dumbledore smiled, finally lighting his wand to reveal what was inside the Chamber of Secrets. He began walking down the pipe that the weasels had, unbothered by the few inches of standing water that were getting his robes wet. "I think that might be all the indication that we are looking for," he quipped.
Hermione cast an impervious charm before following Dumbledore, with McGonagall hot on her heels. When they finally found the open part of the Chamber that housed the massive statue of Salazar Slytherin himself, they saw the giant basilisk, dead on the ground, mouth open in agony. The two weasels were still chattering around their kill.
Dumbledore was already walking up to the carcass, using his wand to sever the fangs from the beast's mouth, large vials ready to catch the dripping venom. "Well, Miss Granger, I think that we've got exactly what we needed," he said with a smile, showing off his sincere happiness. For once, Hermione felt like she knew exactly what Dumbledore was feeling, as the man was typically very guarded.
"Yes, I think that we are ready for the next steps," she said, her heart fluttering in her chest. Now that they had the means, there was nothing stopping them from destroying the horcruxes. But, she was afraid to see how that would turn out.
|
"Not this one," Jason decides, grimacing angrily at his reflection in the smudged vertical mirror. He doesn't know if it's just him, but it seems like mirrors in clothing stores are specifically designed to show you at your worst angle so nothing looks good. Seems a little counterproductive if the goal is to be selling clothes, but whatever the reason may be, Jason can't seem to find an attractive position no matter how he turns or poses. "The way it falls on my shoulders is all wrong. Too heavy."
Dick wanders up behind him and winds his arms loosely around Jason's waist, holding him in place so Dick can nuzzle into his neck. He turns his eyes up to the mirror, and Jason can't help but jealously notice that of course Dick would look good even in the world's shittiest mirror. Has he ever not looked good? The jury's still out.
"I like it," Dick argues, putting his hand on one of Jason's shoulders to feel it. It just makes the fabric feel even heavier. More restrictive.
"Nope," Jason declares, sidestepping away from Dick to shuck off the offending jacket. It lands draped across a rack, and Dick hurries over to put it back on its hanger like the good Samaritan he is. He replaces it among the other leather jackets, of which there are a wide variety--of which none have pleased Jason so far. So what? He's a man of standards. So far in his lifetime, he's run into exactly one leather jacket that suits his needs exactly. And that rare find is the one that is currently draped over Dick's shoulders, a little big on him but irritatingly attractive all the same. "All of these suck," Jason complains.
"They wouldn't if you would just let me buy you a good one," Dick reasons. "I could get you one that's really nice. We could even get it custom made. It'd be easier."
Jason curls a scornful lip. "You know how much that would cost?" he demands, sorting through yet another rack of unsatisfactory jackets with mounting frustration. Too flashy, wrong color, bad quality. "You could buy a used car for less money than those custom-made pieces of shit. The day I buy a jacket that expensive is the day you can march me back to the Joker and tell him to get the job done right this time." Jason will be the first to admit that he's being a tad dramatic, but his wardrobe is something he cares about immensely. Unfortunately, however, he cares about it just a little bit less than he cares about sticking it to Bruce by refusing to comply with his opulent culture of wealth. Growing up, Jason had done one hundred percent of his clothes shopping in second-hand stores. Why stop now? It seems wasteful to spend so much on an article of clothing when there are perfectly good ones available for much more reasonable prices. If you know where to look.
Dick has been privy to this particular tirade on no fewer than four prior occasions, and as such responds by rolling his eyes in fond, familiar exasperation. "Fine, but if you really are so dead set on finding your jacket at a thrift store, you have to stop complaining about the options here. You picked these options. This is on you."
Jason snorts, but much to his chagrin, Dick is correct. It was Jason's idea to come to Goodwill in search of a new leather jacket. Still, though, the blame cannot entirely be placed on Jason. He wouldn't even need a new jacket if it weren't for Dick's sudden, weird possessiveness over the old one.
It had begun after Dick's most recent heat. The one characterized by his sudden declaration of ownership over Jason's favorite (and only!) leather jacket on a rooftop during a stakeout. It has since taken up prime location in Dick's nest, the place of honor at the head by the pillows, and since has only left so that Dick can wear it when he and Jason go out, or when Jason's not visiting. Which is less and less often, lately. Jason visits so often he might as well live in Dick's place in Bludhaven. Dick's apartment is much nicer than most of Jason's safe houses, after all. Air conditioning and heating. Hot water. The fact that Dick is there.
"We wouldn't be doing this at all if you could give me back my jacket," Jason complains, selecting a jacket off the shelf that looks promising. Dark brown with soft, buttery leather. Hmm. Maybe.
"I tried," Dick whines dramatically, holding the jacket closer to himself as if worried Jason intends to take it away. Which, despite his complaints, Jason would never. If the jacket is what makes Dick feel safe and cared for and loved, then replacing it is a sacrifice Jason would make every single day. It's a true mark of his feelings for Dick--for no other omega would he ever make this allowance. And, true to his word, Dick had made a valiant attempt to relinquish the jacket's ownership back to Jason. But the moment it was off him and out of his nest, the scent of distress had risen up so strong, Jason would have to be nose-blind not to notice it. "My nesting instincts have been all over the place lately. I don't know what's up with them. I wish they'd cut it out."
All of Jason's annoyance melts away like magic. That's one of the things about Dick. No matter how much he riles Jason up, no matter that he can irritate Jason faster and more intensely than anyone else he's ever met, he also is a miracle worker when it comes to calming Jason down. He puts a hand on Dick's elbow and squeezes. "I know, baby."
Dick's eyes lock on the jacket in Jason's hands. "How about that one?" he asks, snatching it away from Jason to examine. It's pretty similar to Jason's old one. With a few modifications, like the addition of bulletproof protection and compartments to store weapons, it could be just as functional as the old one.
"Maybe," Jason allows, taking it back from Dick to remove the hanger. Stepping in front of the mirror he shrugs it on and examines himself with careful scrutiny.
"This one's hot," Dick informs him helpfully, adjusting it on Jason. "Is it comfy?"
"I guess," Jason grumbles reluctantly, moving his arms and flexing them to test the sleeves. They allow for a surprisingly decent range of motion, loathe as Jason is to admit it. And the leather seems like good quality. The sort of material that will last for years to come.
For a long minute, Jason scrutinizes it thoroughly. Checks the seams for quality, the material for durability and motion. He relies on Dick's judgement when it comes to style (and receives an eyebrow wiggle, a smirk, and a highly suggestive thumbs-up). Unfortunately, Jason can find no excuse to reject this jacket other than misplaced loyalty for his old one.
"It's perfect," Dick says in a winning tone, running his hands down Jason's chest appreciatively. "Almost better than your old one. Be careful or I might have to steal this one too."
"You will not," Jason snaps, pulling himself away from Dick defensively. One well-meaning jacket theft, Jason can handle. Two is just pushing the line. Any more than that, and Jason might just have to give up on clothing entirely. "You already have one. This one's mine."
Dick rolls his eyes but presses a kiss to Jason's cheek nonetheless. "So possessive," he teases, as if that isn't the most hypocritical statement ever uttered.
Jason swats him playfully as he pulls away, grabbing his arm to keep him close so Jason can give him a real kiss. "I mean it," he warns, pulling back until his lips are an inch from Dick's and he's glaring into Dick's eyes. "I'll get you everything you want for your nest, baby. Just no more of my jackets."
"Fine," Dick agrees, dragging out the word in an exaggerated show of reluctance. His grin is wide and bright, eyes crinkled up and sparkling. And Jason thinks, if Dick asked him for this jacket, he would probably give it to him. He would give him anything he ever asked for.
*
Dick grits his teeth, frustration welling up in his stomach and threatening to boil over. This is the third time he's completely stripped the bed, rearranged it, and found the results inexplicably unsatisfactory. His anxiety mounts with every failed attempt, and so does his frantic energy. He's got to make the nest perfect before Jason comes home. He's gotta make it perfect, and it's not. Why can't he do this? He's always been able to do this before. And tonight he doesn't have much time. Jason's gonna meet him at the apartment so they can get ready for patrol together, and that means the nest needs to be done before nightfall or else he won't have any more time to work on it until tomorrow. The thought is, for whatever reason, chilling.
Dick picks up his favorite pillow, grips it hard enough that the fabric protests beneath his fingers, and hurls it at the ground, where it lands with an unsatisfying swish of fabric. Damn it. That pillow is usually perfect. He doesn't know why today it's making him so angry.
Staring at its dejected form on the cluttered ground, Dick forces himself to take a deep breath. Closes his eyes. Counts to ten very slowly.
This is okay, he thinks. This is something he can deal with.
When he was Robin, around fifteen or sixteen years old, Alfred had decided it was a good idea to send him to therapy. Because, apparently, spending every night engaging in age-inappropriate violence while wearing an animal themed costume was the sort of thing that qualified a kid to speak to a professional. Necessitated it, even. At the time Dick had been outraged, although now, he'd give an arm and a leg to get Damian and Tim into some useful counseling.
Dick, insulted by the implication that he required professional help, refused to attend the sessions, and as a compromise, Alfred and Bruce made him fill out this annoying workbook instead. It was full of worksheets with exercises like, "Five Positive Thoughts!" and "Reasons to Stay Confident!"
Mostly worthless. Perhaps the sort of thing that would have been helpful for another kid, but for one as world-weary and free of innocence as Dick, it was a bit of a joke. All except for one worksheet.
Bold, black letters across the top: SO YOU HAVE A PROBLEM.
Step One: Identify the problem.
Step Two: Identify possible solutions.
Finally: Select the solution that makes the most sense.
Clenching his fingers, flexing them tensely, Dick goes back to the worksheet in his head.
So I have a problem, he thinks, forcing his fingers to unclench. Identify it.
Dick's nesting instincts are spiraling out of control. That's the issue. Nothing he does feels right, and the thought of Jason walking in to see an incomplete, subpar nest is mortifying.
Identify possible solutions.
Frustratedly, Dick thinks, just fix the damn nest. It should be as easy as that. It always has been before. But how to do that?
Maybe he needs new nesting materials. Maybe he needs ones that smell better. Maybe he needs a new bed. Or a new room. Or, screw it, a whole new apartment. Because, sure, a whole new unfamiliar space sounds like just the thing to put Dick's inner omega at ease. Really good thinking, Dick.
A new angle might not be such a bad idea, though. Dick scoops up all of his favorite materials: a soft quilt, his two perfect pillows, the weighted blanket he got for his birthday one year, and of course, Jason's jacket. He piles all of those into a laundry basket along with some of Jason's other clothes, like a T-shirt he's left behind, and hauls them into the living room.
The couch. If the bed won't do, the couch will have to get the job done instead.
Feeling reinvigorated by a new burst of inspiration, Dick gets to work. Throws all the useless sofa pillows onto the floor (why does he even own those? What good are they doing anybody?) and replaces them with his own soft pillows. Lays down the quilt first, and the weighted blanket on top of that, because that way, when Dick crawls under the covers, he'll have all the comfort of the quilt with all the calming weight of the weighted blanket on top. Jason's jacket finds a home at the head, by the pillows like usual, and his other clothes are scattered throughout so no one spot is too far away from anything of Jason's. It means the whole nest is appropriately saturated with his scent, which is soothing to Dick's aggravated omega.
Finally satisfied, Dick carefully peels back the covers and makes himself comfortable among them. He's purposefully left an empty spot beside him--that's where Jason belongs, once he arrives. And now that Dick's got a nest that's up to scratch, he can hardly wait.
It feels good to be snuggled up in a good nest like this. Lately Dick's been feeling... out of sorts. Nothing glaringly or obviously wrong, but his nesting instincts have been dialed up to level ten and his desire to claim and safeguard Jason has reached new levels of intensity. On top of that, his stomach has been uneasy. Probably something he ate. What's weird is that usually these are symptoms he'd attribute to preheat, but he'd just had his heat a couple weeks ago. So he's not really sure what could be causing all this.
Well--that's a lie. He has a slight, niggling suspicion of what could be going on. But there's no way it could be that. Just no way.
The door creaks open, and the sound of Jason's heavy footfalls fill the apartment. "Honey, I'm home," he announces. He makes that joke every day. Dick loves it even more than it annoys him, mostly because it's coming from Jason.
"In the living room, dear," Dick calls back, and Jason troops in from the hallway to join him. He looks surprised at the sight that meets him on the couch: Dick, comfortably snuggled up in a fully-blown nest. On the sofa. In the living room. For some reason.
"What's all this?" he asks, eyes darting back and forth to take it in.
"A nest, clearly," Dick explains with an eye-roll. He looks at Jason expectantly and Jason stares right back, utterly nonplussed. "Well?" Dick demands, waving an arm around emphatically. "You waiting for a cordial invitation?"
Jason, if possible, looks even more surprised. Awkwardly, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and uses it to check the time. "Baby, we have to go on patrol," he says, showing Dick the time on the screen. "You said you wanted to go as soon as I arrived, right?"
Suddenly feeling more stupid than he's ever felt in his life, Dick stares at the phone screen and swallows against the rising shame and embarrassment. Jason is right. They don't have time to waste, lounging around in Dick's nest like two dumb teenagers who can't keep their hands off of each other. "You're right," he says, turning his eyes away. He can't meet Jason's gaze right now.
Why did he think this was a good idea? Why couldn't he just be satisfied with the perfectly good nest he already had? He was being so stupid.
Dick prays that Jason won't notice his abrupt shift in mood, but much to his unsurprised chagrin, Jason is vigilant as ever. "Baby, what's wrong?" he asks, rushing over to put a hand on Dick's cheek. Meeting Jason's worried gaze makes a lump rise in Dick's throat, and he doesn't know how to explain it. "You do still want to go on patrol, right? We don't have to."
"Of course I still want to go on fucking patrol," Dick snaps, tearing his face away from Jason's gentle hand, and to his complete horror, hears his voice break.
The worst part, the part that makes this whole thing more excruciating, is that Dick doesn't know why he's so emotional all of a sudden. Just that Jason's rejection upset him, made him angry, and his easy display of affection and concern makes him feel devastated. Something hot and painful burns behind his eyes, but he refuses to cry. He will not.
Suddenly despising his perfect nest more than he's ever hated anything before, Dick throws the covers off and lets them pool on the floor. He stalks into his room, arms crossed defensively across his chest. "I'm getting ready," he snaps in a clipped, angry voice.
Jason just stares at him, eyes reading utter, bemused befuddlement. "That was a fucking mood swing," he mutters under his breath. "Goddamn."
"I heard that!"
*
Dick manages to calm himself down by the time he's squeezed into his Nightwing suit and is ready for patrol. Jason, amusingly, seems incredibly relieved that his abrupt fit of anger is not destined to last. "We good?" he asks as he opens up the window for them to depart through.
Dick manages a small, soft grin. "We're good," he confirms. "Sorry. I don't know why I was like that. Sorry."
Jason just exhales a sigh of relief. "All good, baby," he reassures easily. "Let's kick some asses."
Thus commences ass-kicking hour. Dick and Jason make their way via rooftops across the city to the harbor, where one of the casinos is suspected to be a front for money laundering. Money that ten percent of was supposed to go to the Bludhaven school district. The underfunded, falling-apart schools with almost criminally underpaid teachers are a testimony that that is not what's happening.
Tonight's mission is easy. Dick and Jason are planting recording devices all throughout the casino in hopes that the names and information behind the operation will be revealed. Technically speaking, they don't even have any ass-kicking on the agenda. They're supposed to be in and out, silent and discreet as can possibly be.
Jason is outfitted in his brand new, custom-modified leather jacket, which in Dick's opinion, is almost hotter than the last. Dick himself is wearing the Nightwing suit as usual, having miraculously managed to tear himself away from the jacket he'd stolen from Jason. He wishes he hadn't needed to, though. The Nightwing suit tonight feels horribly uncomfortable, rubbing against his chest and chafing in ways it never did before.
"You take the main floor," Dick whispers, indicating the inside of the casino where tourists at varying levels of drunkness gamble amongst bright lights and decor. "I'll get the upstairs office and stuff."
"Can do," Jason agrees, removing his helmet. It would stick out like a sore thumb among the other patrons in the casino. The domino mask below, not so much. Casinos in Bludhaven are used to some pretty unusual clientele, many of whom are partial to anonymity. "Meet you back here in an hour?"
"See you then." Dick pulls a tool from his suit and gets to work removing the grate from a vent. While Jason can just walk into the casino and plant their recording devices under the guise of a dudebro gambling the night away, Dick will need to be very discreet sneaking around the private upstairs portion of the building. He's slender enough to fit in most vents, luckily, so those will be his secret mode of transport.
When the grate is off, Dick climbs into the vent and then places the grate, unscrewed, back atop the hole. He'll be able to escape through this tunnel quickly if need be, but someone walking by wouldn't be able to tell anything was different about this particular vent.
The microphones, at least, should be easy to plant. He will hardly need to reach an arm out from the vent before he can plant the device and be back in his hiding spot. The cameras might pose a little more of a challenge, if they want to get a good angle. But that shouldn't be too hard either. This is the sort of mission Nightwing has completed hundreds of times, in much more difficult circumstances, with success.
He's wired a couple of rooms without being detected when he hears it, coming from the main floor of the casino: gunshots. Before he has even consciously decided what to do, Nightwing is bursting out of the vents and into the office he'd been wiring, and then dashing out the door, through the hallway, and down the stairs into the main room where he knows Jason is supposed to be. His heart is threatening to pound right out of his chest. Jason could be in danger. He needs to go help his alpha. His alpha needs him. More gunshots echoing through the halls spur him on.
The scene he is met with on the gambling floor fills his chest with hot, heavy rage. Several guards, all huge, hulking alphas with protective vests and visors, are firing at Jason. He, of course, is dodging easily and firing back effortlessly, but the civilians cowering behind the bar and tables are not so skilled and could be in danger. Dick manages to tamp down his protective urges for Jason to hurry over to the nearest group of civilians.
"I'll get you guys out," he promises over the deafening sound of gunfire. "When I say go, run for the emergency exit. I'll cover you. Okay?"
Fearfully, the half-drunk gamblers agree, and on Dick's call of, "Go!" they're scrambling for the exit. The guards aren't aiming at the civilians, of course, but stray gunfire could easily kill someone who isn't careful. Dick keeps an eye on it, ready to throw someone out of the way if necessary.
Turns out, it isn't. The entire group makes it out safely, as Jason takes out one of the aggressors with a devastating shot to the kneecap.
Dick moves on to another group of people, and Jason continues the gunfight. He hasn't been shot yet, but Dick is hyperaware that every second that goes by is another second of risk. Another opportunity for a guard to land that one lucky shot. Jason is holding his own admirably well, which isn't really surprising--he's good at what he does. But for some reason, Dick can't seem to squash down the anxiety in his chest. Jason could get hurt. And that--that can't happen.
Because--the thing is. Dick thinks he might know why he's been feeling so weird lately. He has a tiny, niggling suspicion in the back of his mind. Omega always knows, after all. And if Jason gets hurt--or, God forbid, if Jason dies--
He can't, if what Dick suspects is correct. He absolutely cannot.
There's another shot, ringing out above the sounds of chaos, and Dick's head snaps around to follow the source. A guard has shot at Jason--and finally hit his mark. Jason's down. Jason's hurt.
And suddenly Dick cannot think above the red hot rage that clouds his vision. As if in a dream, or a druggy haze, or an out-of-body experience, Dick feels himself unholster both escrima sticks from his back. Rounds on the guard that shot Jason. And unleashes that fury.
His vision is narrowed into a foggy little tunnel of rage as he lands blow after blow on the criminal's body. Head. Ribs. Knee. He hears the cracking of bone, sharp over the pained grunts and yells, but it's like he's listening to them through thick earplugs. He's not processing the sounds, let alone their meanings. All he knows is he has to protect his alpha, protect his mate, he needs his mate almost as much as their pup will--he cannot ever let anyone hurt them. Never never never.
A voice he knows is suddenly cutting through the static--Jason, yelling his name. A hand on his arm, but it's not a violent one--it's a strong, firm grip from a hand he loves to hold. Familiar. Calming.
Frantic.
"Nightwing! Nightwing, stop!"
Dick has to hear the words a few times and think about them for an uncomprehending moment before he finally slows his movements. Unclenches his tense muscles, and feels his shoulders lower. "You're--okay?" he whispers, turning to look at Jason.
Jason is there, in front of him, gripping Dick's arm strong and steady. His face is scrunched in a painful grimace, but he is standing, and there is no spreading bloodstain or broken bone that Dick can see. "Bullet resistant armor, baby," he murmurs. "Just a bruise. A fucking painful one, but--"
"Oh my God," Dick hears himself say, and runs his hand over Jason's face. He's okay.
And suddenly the reality of what he's done comes crashing into him. "Oh my God," he repeats, taking a stumbling step back. "The guard. Is he--"
"Alive," Jason confirms, standing over the injured guard. "I'm calling the police to get the rest of these guys, and paramedics for him."
Dick doesn't respond. He's staring at the bloody mess of a man on the floor, the stains on his hands and escrima, and thinking, I did this.
More than that, he's thinking, this could have been Jason.
Shuddering, he wraps protective arms around his stomach. It could have been Jason. Could have been Dick, and then what would have happened to--
"Come on," Jason says gently, putting an arm around Dick's waist gently. "Dude's gonna be okay, I'm gonna be okay, everything's fine. You did nothing wrong. You know how I feel about killing, I wouldn't have stopped you if I thought you'd be okay with doing it. You finish your part of the job?"
Numbly, Dick nods.
"I finished mine, too, before they caught me. So let's go."
*
They go home, and though Jason had been truthful when speaking to Dick, he can't help the worry that swirls around in his gut. That had been... very out of character, for Dick to do. Sure, omegas are always protective, but to this extreme? When Jason wasn't even really hurt?
It's odd, for sure.
Come to think of it, though, plenty has been odd with Dick lately. Mood swings about as subtle as a swinging pendulum, or a wrecking ball. Jason would have had to be blind and deaf not to notice them, and even then, he probably would have. Going from affectionate, to angry, to devastated, all in the blink of an eye. The nesting thing, too. Dick has always been very meticulous about creating and maintaining his perfect nest, but lately, he's been out of control with it, snatching all of Jason's favorite belongings and refusing to give them up. Despairing when his nest even ever so slightly fails to meet his standards. Jason never notices the flaws--to him, a nest is a nest. But to Dick, this sort of thing matters. More than usual, lately.
So something is up with Dick. Jason wonders what. If his omega will trust him enough to share.
Back at the apartment, Dick strips off his Nightwing suit like it's personally offended him, and sighs in relief when it's off. He puts on a comfortable pair of boxers and his most well-loved sweatpants, but leaves his chest bare. That's not super unusual for Dick. Like most male omegas, his chest is pretty flat most of the time, with only the most subtle hint of breasts. Lately, Jason notices that is not strictly the case. His chest has swelled a little, forming two perfect, tiny breasts. And Jason loves Dick no matter what his body looks like, but--okay. That's a sight that he can shamelessly admire. So cute and perfect and precious.
Not that he think's Dick's in the mood for anything of that nature tonight, what with his whole over-protective freakout earlier. Jason will want to talk to him about that.
"Babe?" he tries, stepping up to Dick in the doorway of the bedroom. "What's up?"
Instantly, Dick is peeling Jason's jacket and top off of him. "Are you okay?" he asks, running his fingers very, very gently over the bruised skin over Jason's ribs.
"I'm okay," Jason says, feeling goosebumps rise beneath Dick's soft touch. He shivers. Dick's touch is so light, it doesn't hurt even where the bruising is most severe. That's something he loves about Dick. Usually, he is so careful. So loving and gentle with Jason. Stereotypically, such softness would be the alpha's role. Nurture the omega. Protect them. Keep them safe. He does love to do those things for Dick, but what feels even more special is when Dick returns the favor. It sets them on equal ground. Jason likes that. Likes that, around Dick, he doesn't always need to be the big strong alpha.
Because he suspects Dick might be needing some reassurance right about now, he adds gratefully, "Thank you for keeping me safe, baby." He grips both of Dick's hands in his own, careful but strong.
Dick looks away. "You could have handled yourself," he admits, removing his hands from Jason's. "I just..."
"Is everything okay with you?" Jason is quick to ask, reaching up a hand to brush some of Dick's unruly hair out of his face and tucking it behind an ear. "That was... unusual."
Dick takes a deep breath. "Let's go to the couch," he suggests. "I think I need to... tell you something."
Stomach uneasy with sudden nerves, Jason agrees, "Of course," and leads Dick over to the couch. It's still in ultimate nest form, but Dick permits him to sit atop the blankets, and then settles down himself a few feet from Jason. The sight of that feels like a stone dropping into Jason's gut. Is Dick about to break up with him, or something? Why else would he be sitting away?
Jason will be okay with anything Dick tells him. He'll support him no matter what. But God. If Dick breaks up with him, it'll hurt more than anything else. There's plenty of fish in the sea, he knows. But there's only one Dick Grayson. Which means, really, there's only one fish in the sea for him.
"I... have been feeling weird lately," Dick begins, looking anywhere but Jason. "My stomach hurts, I can't stop nesting the fuck out of this place, and I feel. Weirdly possessive over you and all your stuff. Which, sorry about that, by the way."
"All good," Jason says weakly. He... he does not know if he likes where this is going. Does not know what this might mean.
"Other things, too. Mood swings. I know you noticed them. Thanks for, uh, sticking around through those. I know it can't be easy. Also, my tits hurt. And there's another thing! I have tits! I don't usually, really."
Jason nods attentively. Technically speaking, Jason is processing all of this information, but for whatever reason, they are failing to add up in a way that makes sense. These are symptoms that happen to omegas, sometimes, but why would they be happening to this omega? It's odd. Jason can't make any sense of it.
Dick's not wrong, though. The mood swings, he has weathered stoically, but they're incredibly confusing. Not to mention, Jason has visual evidence of aforementioned tits right in front of him. If they weren't having such a serious conversation, he'd probably want to be all over them. Unfortunately, the serious nature of this chat has ruined any chance of that happening any time soon.
Dick says something, but Jason's ears are ringing, so he doesn't really hear it. Or, he thinks he does, but he can't have heard correctly. "What," he says, peering at Dick with wide eyes. "What was that?"
"I said I think I'm pregnant," Dick repeats, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. "You know, like... expecting? With child? Got a bun in the oven?"
Jason stares. Yes, he and Dick had shared a heat, and yes, he may have promised to... breed Dick (it was the heat of the moment, alright, the words had just come out) but he had never anticipated it would actually happen. But why hadn't he? He promised to breed Dick, and he did. They'd enjoyed it. Jason daydreams about it, like, eight times a day. Why did neither of them anticipate that the breeding would... well... stick?
"Earth to Jason?" Dick tries, beginning to look annoyed. "Anyone home?"
"Yes," Jason says, snapping suddenly to attention. "That's me. Jason. And I am home."
"Good," says Dick, not looking like he means it. His posture reads irritation, but his eyes are full of rare vulnerability.
Okay. Dick needs Jason to step up. To be the alpha he promised he would be. Jason will get his dad game on in good time and he'll play it to the best of his abilities, but first, he needs to hone his mate game. And an A-game it must be. Dick deserves nothing less.
"Okay, uh, have you... gotten a test?" Seems like an important measure to take, not that Jason knows from experience.
"No," says Dick, "I didn't want to jump to conclusions. I still don't. It could be nothing. But I should get one, probably."
"I'll go buy one!" Jason exclaims, jumping up off the sofa like his ass is on fire. He's eager to get his omega anything he needs, but also, he needs a little bit of time to think. To process. To decide how he feels about this. And taking a slow, leisurely trip to the farthest pharmacy in town seems like just the way to go.
"Um, okay," Dick says, looking up at Jason from where he's still seated. "Are you--"
"Back soon!" Jason is out the door like a flash, but not before he remembers to double back to where Dick sits on the couch, and gives his forehead a reassuring kiss.
Dick watches him go.
*
The door swings shut behind Jason, and Dick exhales. His heart feels like its sunk right through his chest and into a dark pit. He... doesn't know how he feels.
Jason was okay with the news. He kissed Dick on the forehead--he can still feel the gentle touch lingering like smoke. But then he left.
And Dick gets it. He probably needs time to process. Jason is younger than Dick, and they've only been together a few weeks. This is big news. Like, big news. Dick would probably want some time to process, too.
And yet. Watching Jason's form retreating through the door, it had felt like he was taking a part of Dick with him. A part of his heart. What if Jason never comes back? What if he doesn't want to? Dick wouldn't blame him. Wouldn't blame him at all, but would mourn the loss no less, not only the loss of Jason but of the part of Dick's heart he took with him.
So you have a problem, Dick thinks, tries to reassure himself with his calming exercise. It's gonna be okay, he tries to tell himself. He can fix this. It's just a problem, just a little problem, and he can make it better. Problems are temporary.
I have a problem.
I have--
And all of a sudden tears are rolling down his cheeks in shameful little streaks. It's not working. It's just not working.
Problems, as he often reassures himself, are temporary.
Children--children are decidedly permanent.
He's got his whole life ahead of him, here at this impossible fork in the road.
*
Jason doesn't know how to classify the intense emotion that rises inside him as he searches through the aisles at the pharmacy for a pregnancy test. It's like when you're so happy, you just have to cry, and it almost feels as devastating as real sorrow. It's like that. Jason feels that bubble of intense, all-encompassing feeling, lets it expand inside him, and doesn't know if, when it eventually bursts out, it will be joy and excitement or something else.
Then, it's possible to feel both. Jason can be happy and excited and nervous at the same time. And he is. Very, very nervous, that is.
He grabs the pregnancy test and strolls through the shop, wondering if he should get something else. It would probably be the nice alpha thing to do, to bring Dick a gift when he's in need of support. Then again, this is a pharmacy. Not a lot of gifts worth giving to be found.
In the end, all he gets is the test and a cute congratulations card that says, "It's a Pup!" Like the gender-neutral equivalent of "It's a boy!" or "It's a girl!" He thinks Dick might appreciate the humor, if nothing else.
It's as he's paying for his purchases that he is finally able to categorize his feelings. The cashier, another alpha, takes a look at the merchandise, raises an eyebrow, and says, "This for your omega?"
Maybe the question is a little nosy, but Jason finds himself nodding.
"First time?" asks the alpha, bagging up the items for him in a small paper bag.
Jason nods again.
"How you feeling?" The cashier hands Jason the bag with an understanding smile and curious eyes.
Jason takes the bag. Tucks it very carefully into the pocket of his leather jacket. And whispers, "So fucking proud." And suddenly he feels like he's battling back tears.
Because Dick might be pregnant. With Jason's child. A pup they created together, together as one, because they love each other. They love each other, Jason loves Dick so much, and yes. Jason is so. Fucking. Proud.
He might not be ready for fatherhood yet. But he's got nine months to fucking get ready. There's never been a task he's more excited to rise to.
*
Jason, riding the wave of his elation as he drives home at breakneck speeds, is hardly able to contain his excitement as he hurdles back into their apartment and swings the door shut behind him. "Honey, I'm home," he announces like he always does. He wonders if, when the pup is born, he'll need to adjust the greeting to include both of them. Honey and baby, Dad's come home.
No response from Dick, which is not how the ritual usually goes. Jason, concerned, steps into the living room and sees him, sitting right where Jason left him atop the couch-nest. One look at his vulnerable, tear-streaked face, and Jason wants to run to him, pull him into his arms and kiss those stains away. He's about to do it, reaching out open arms to pull Dick in, but Dick scoots away.
"Did you buy it," he asks. He's put a shirt on, but not Jason's leather jacket. He always loves to wear that jacket. It's his favorite.
Jason hands the test to him, and is about to whip out his congratulatory card as well, but it occurs to him then that Dick might not want this child. He would have to give up Nightwing-ing for at least a year, maybe more, and Jason knows how much he'd hate that. And raising a kid is a lifetime commitment. He can't just have the kid now, and then decide later that parenthood is not for him. They are at a crossroads. Two roads diverge in a yellow wood--
Whichever they pick will define their lives. That's a lot of pressure. And not every omega wants to have a kid. Maybe Dick would prefer not to.
The thought crushes down on Jason's hopeful heart, but he knows that if Dick tells him he wants an abortion or to put their child up for adoption, he'll support that decision. It's Dick's body. Dick's pup. And more than anything else in the entire world, Jason wants Dick to be happy. He would give up anything to make that happen, his own arm or leg or heart or, need be, pup.
Dick takes it, murmurs, "Thanks," and stands up to head into the bathroom. He closes the door softly behind him, and Jason does not invite himself in. Dick will come out when he wants to.
Waiting feels like an hours-long endeavor. It's like every time he checks the clock, it's slowed down. He wonders if it's even possible for minutes to take this long, and checks his phone as well to make sure the clock isn't actually broken like he suspects. It's not. Maybe the clock's not what's broken. Maybe something else is. Maybe something else is about to be.
Twenty minutes later and Jason cannot wait another second or his heart will burst. He makes the executive decision to stand up and knock softly on the door. "Dick?" he asks, trying not to let his worry seep through into his voice. "Can I come in?"
It's a moment of tense silence before Jason hears Dick's quiet, "Okay." If possible, Jason's heart beats faster. He swallows down a liquid rush of anxiety and takes a deep breath in. There's nothing to be nervous about. It's just Dick.
Yeah. Just Dick.
Jason opens the door and steps through. Dick is sitting on his knees on the cold, white tile floor, pregnancy test grasped in one hand. He looks up, wide-eyed, at Jason when he steps in.
Positive. So it's true, then. Dick is pregnant.
It's really happening. It's real.
Jason drops to his knees beside Dick, trying to contain the giant smile that threatens to spread across his face. He needs to get a read on how Dick's feeling about this. He would love more than anything to pull Dick into his arms and kiss him for hours, hold him for hours, but he'll wait until Dick gives him the okay. Space. Maybe Dick needs space.
Jason waits a moment for Dick to speak, but when silence prevails for long moments, Jason starts the conversation. "So... you're pregnant," he says.
"Evidently," Dick agrees with one numb nod and a side eye towards Jason. His expression is unreadable, and Jason is furiously debating whether it's time to bust out the tissues or the congratulations. He can't decide.
"I'm sorry," Dick whispers, words harsh in the quiet bathroom. He wraps protective arms around his stomach, as if to keep safe the tiny pup inside, and it breaks Jason's heart, because all Jason wants to do is protect that little baby, too.
"Sorry for what?" Jason demands, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "Getting pregnant? Pretty sure that was a joint effort, babe."
Dick shakes his head minutely. "You're--do you even want a pup? Are you ready for one? I don't want you to be stuck with one."
Jason's mouth drops open. "Dick," he exclaims, too shocked and appalled to be gentle. "This is your pup. A tiny little Grayson. I--I couldn't picture a pup I want more." He leans forward and, finally, puts his arms around Dick. Dick trembles very slightly in his hold. "It'll be the most perfect baby," he whispers, "if it turns out even a little bit like you." It's so hard to keep his emotion contained when all he wants to do is hug Dick so tight he can never let go, wants to announce it to the entire universe. Rub it in everyone's faces. Look at Jason, with his perfect omega and their perfect pup. There is no better family anywhere. God. He loves Dick so much. And already he loves their pup--whoever they may turn out to become.
"Do you mean that?" Dick whispers. "Please don't--you have to mean it."
Jason pulls back just enough to take the card out of his pocket. He hands it to Dick, and with anxious fingers, Dick takes it.
His face is unreadable as he takes it in. Soundlessly, his lips trace the words. It's a Pup. He opens the card.
Handwritten in messy blue ballpoint pen, a note from Jason. Boy, girl, or otherwise, it reads, I am in love with our pup already, just as much as I am in love with you.
Jason isn't really one for romantic gestures, and his stomach feels squirmy and vulnerable as he watches Dick read the card. Had he laid it on too thick? Is Dick not ready for this level of commitment? Even so, the gesture feels necessary today. And he's willing to be a little vulnerable if it means showing his support. A few weeks ago, he might not have been, but Dick--changes him. Makes him the best version of himself.
He watches with bated breath as Dick flips the card over to read the front again, and spends several long moments staring at the note. Anxiety claws up Jason's chest. Why isn't he responding?
Finally, a little grin forms at the corner of Dick's lips, and Jason's heart almost stops.
Dick flicks soft, warm blue eyes up at him. "You cheesy asshole," he accuses quietly. The grin spreads until it can be classified as a smile. A small one, but still. Dick's smiles are always beautiful, no matter the size. "What would you have done if I didn't want the pup? Or if I wasn't pregnant after all?"
"Burned it," Jason says promptly. His chest is still tight with nerves, like there's a band wrapped around it that his heart is threatening to break down with the force of its fast-paced beating.
But now Dick is laughing, and nothing has ever sounded better to Jason's ears. Suddenly he's throwing himself into Jason's arms and hugging him tight. Jason breathes in his scent and feels his worries melt away. Feels his own lips tug up in a grin.
God. They're going to be parents. Isn't that the most incredible thing. Suddenly Jason's chest feels light instead of restricted, like it's full of fluttering butterflies. Elation. His heart broke through the barrier, everything is okay, everything is going to be alright. Better than that. Everything could be wonderful.
And from the soft, sweet scent of joy rising up from Dick's scent glands, discernible even mingling with the new, gentle scent of pregnancy Jason can now identify, Jason knows Dick can feel it too.
|
Fink’s bedroom was lit only by a single-incandescent-bulb bedside lamp (Fink’s favorite, its durable plastic base molded to look like a barrel of TNT with red sticks spilling out). It was soothingly dim, and warm too, and the headboard Professor Venomous rested his back against felt unusually comfortable. As he read, his own voice droned in his ears, the rhyming sing-song cadence of the children’s book turning into a lullaby, leaving him in a drowsy trance. He didn’t realize that Fink had already fallen asleep until he felt a dot of wetness against his chest and saw that she’d started drooling down his shirtfront. Blinking rapidly, trying to wake himself enough to tackle his own bedtime routine, he tucked Fink under the blankets and tiptoed out.
As he shuffled down the hall and into the kitchen, the sharp brightness of compact fluorescent and LED lights shocked his eyes back to some level of alertness. He drank a glass of orange juice from the fridge, feeling the coldness of it settle in his stomach. A possible option… to fall straight into bed, clothes on, as befitted a night of some debauchery and two separate painfully awkward conversations? No. Tomorrow-morning’s-Venomous would have enough to deal with without starting it off feeling grungy and stale.
The shower’s initial cold-tinged blast of water sent an uncomfortable chill through Venomous’ naked body. Almost immediately, though, the well-made system reached a savory intense heat. Ven soaked his head, abandoned his senses to the feeling of hot water flowing over his limbs, and let his mind wander.
The first thought his mind settled on was a memory of the past evening. It wasn’t any of the moments of physical pleasure and emotional connection that he would have wanted to dwell on, but the one moment he would rather forget.
Acting on impulse, he reached his hand forward and snapped his fingers in Boxman’s face. And immediately felt shame.
Why had he done that? As much as he wished he could deny it, he already knew.
After months of business dealings with Boxman—or rather, lack of dealings, as he had funneled orders to Boxmore through Cosma and the rest of the Board, and received back only increasingly outlandish and groveling excuses—he’d thought he’d known the man. He’d pieced together a story from the curl of Cosma’s lip, from the disdain that oozed from Billiam’s tone of voice, from the shadow of a frown that marred Vormulax’s visage. Joke. Fool. Failure. He’d accepted the two-dimensional picture of Boxman with the same jaded, lazy ease as he’d adopted every aspect of the pre-fabricated villainous life he’d found himself leading. And when, at an evil cocktail party, Wat Mel had complained of a missing shipment of automated melon-ballers, Venomous had known exactly what to do. “Oh. Boxman.” He had said just the one word. But the curve of his eyebrow and the tenor of his voice had been as good as a full comedy roast routine; everyone in hearing range had erupted into mocking laughter. And at that time, Venomous had felt proud of himself.
His casual cruelty hadn’t even ended after he had met Boxman. Certainly, he had been as professional as he’d had to be during their first meeting. Certainly, after witnessing the fury of the pie gun attack, he’d recognized that Boxman’s -10 Pow rating was no error and no fluke, but a measure of his true power. Certainly, he’d been sincere when he’d expressed his admiration. But he hadn’t been able to let go of his preconceptions. Not yet. Not hardly. Even as his respect for Boxman’s skills had grown with every visit he made to Boxmore… even as he gradually began to admit to himself that his frequent thoughts of Boxman were not a mark of annoyance, and not simple professional admiration, but were a symptom of growing affection, of desire… he had stayed stuck in his old mindset. He had wanted to stay stuck.
He had canceled meeting after meeting. “I’m only here because POINT’s been breathing down my neck lately.” As cold as that.
He had even disrespected Boxman to his face.
“But I’m a villain!”
“You are a boxman… Boxman.”
And Boxman had simply accepted the dismissal, the degradation in those words, by saying, “Touché.” And then he had worked to transcend them.
“Give me a chance to show you I am more than just a boxman.”
And Venomous had agreed. It wasn’t until later that he thought, he shouldn’t have required feats of worthiness before acting with decency towards another villain.
He had given Boxman the chance to prove his villainous chops, and he had given him the chance to be seen as a person outside of his work role. He had given himself the chance to move beyond his preconceptions. And it had worked out; it had worked out far beyond his first fevered wishes. But Venomous would always carry the shameful secret: he had thought about fucking Boxman before he had ever thought about respecting him.
There was no changing the past, though. The only thing to do was to treat Boxman well in the future.
Venomous took a deep breath and let it out slowly, willing his thoughts to dissipate, submerged in the simple physical pleasure of the shower… the warmth, the wetness, the sensation of it sliding over his skin…
…oh hello. An ache from his second, neglected phallus drew his attention, and then his hand. It stiffened at the touch of his fingers, sending a sweet frisson through his pelvis. Ah well. As good a way to end the night as any.
He gave himself a couple of exploratory strokes and his groin sent a pulse of gratitude up his spine. His thoughts blossomed into another memory, this one something he wanted to linger on, to treasure… to use in planning a sequel…
Boxman... deepened the kiss. He leaned forward, hands clasped around Ven’s shoulders, and pushed him back onto the bed, keeping their lips locked. Climbing on top of Ven, he ran his hands through his hair, down his neck, dragging his fingertips over his pecs and abs, reaching down to grip his hips…
Why had Boxman stopped there? He had wanted to go farther. Venomous had felt it, in the way his fingertips had dug into his shoulders, the way his motion had shifted their weights to press Venomous’ back into the bed, the way his pelvis had thrust against Venomous’ just before he’d taken hold of his hips. He’d wanted to grind Venomous into the mattress, grind him right through the floor. And Ven had been ready, more than ready, to bring out the lube, to start the prepwork, at the first word from Box. But instead he’d asked for “what I just gave,” which was sweet, for sure, but also sounded suspiciously like a way to say, “I don’t have the confidence to suggest anything you haven’t already done.”
Well. If Box lacked confidence, that was a problem to work at solving… later. For future trysts. Now, alone in the shower in the small hours of the night, it was time for just one thing: to get off as efficiently as possible.
Venomous’ hand settled into a rhythm, a familiar pattern, experience and bio-feedback working together to stoke the spark of climax that was starting to catch inside of him. Fragments of memory ghosted through his body, memories of sensations swelling into vividness without regard to chronological order or logic. Hands on shoulders. Groin against groin. Mouth against mouth. Mouth around dick.
Moving faster, starting to grimace, to wheeze, Venomous let his imagination run ahead of his experience.
He ran his hands down… dragging his fingertips over his pecs and abs, reaching down to grip his hips… he teased at his opening with one lube-slick finger, entered… Ven put one of his own fingers to his asshole. Hot water was still coursing down his chest, running down over his belly, his thighs…
Bodies joined, the mattress pressing against Venomous’ back, his legs wrapped around Box’s bulk… Box’s face flushed, intent, as he harnesses the strength of his body, as he surrenders to the strength of his desire, and he thrusts…
Venomous cried out, a yelp as rough as a cough, and spurted into the basin of the shower.
Waiting for his breath to slow, he laid his forearm against the coolness of the tiles and his forehead against his forearm, watching through half-closed eyes as the white was washed down the drain. His head felt light and his legs weak and heavy. Exactly why he hadn’t let that happen earlier. Smart, Professor. He fumbled to shut off the tap, to grasp one of the towels waiting in a fluffy stack, to dry himself to some half-passable degree. He gave his hair a perfunctory tussle with the towel: he would sleep with it wet, and he’d wake with it in crooked spikes; but it always looked that way, more or less.
Venomous shuffled to his bedroom, slithered between the sheets, and was almost instantly asleep.
|
"Did you see how Kacchan just threw Ei over his shoulder?" Izuku asked as he lets out a stuttering breath watching Shouto peel his boxers down and off his legs leaving him bare…. Which frankly was unfair as the dual quirk user was still in his boxers. "Fuck that was hot… What about the bite marks on Kat's neck and shoulders when he ripped his shirt off during the sparring match?" Shouto says watching his boyfriend with a smirk as he blows warm air over his hard dick with a hint of smoke coming out between his lips. The green haired male groans at the sight, the warmth, and the memory as he leans his head back bucking his hips to try and get Shouto to suck him only to groan when he feels teeth on his thigh. "Can you imagine how those teeth would feel just marking you up all pretty like, Baby?" Shouto asked licking at the mark he left of the other's thigh before letting out a cold breath where he licked smirking at the shutter and whine Izuku let out. "Here on your thighs, on your chest, your shoulders, and god-" he lets out his own groan at the thought. "-on your neck. Would you let him make a collar of bite marks? I bet you would. Baby you'd be so fucking beautiful marked up by him." Izuku lets out a quiet but long whine as he listens to Shouto, his pupils blown wide with arousal watching his breathtakingly beautiful boyfriend. "F-Fuck Sho…. A-and Kacchan?" He prompts softly biting at his lip as Shouto moves to finally, fucking god damn finally his brain thinks, lick at his cock. "Hmmm your Kacchan would definitely mark you up too… except his would be on your hips as finger marks and handprints as he spanks you and holds you in place while he fucks you on any available surface he can get you on." Shouto replies after placing quick bites to the others hips before giving the hard member in front of him more little teasing kitten licks. "Fu-Fucking hell Sho." Izuku groans and his head falls back with a thud on the headboard. "You know what I heard the other day?" Shouto asks running his hands over Izuku's large thighs swiping his tongue over the underside of his cock. He continued speaking once he heard a hum in answer that was really closer to a whine, but he’ll take it as his queue to go on. "They’ve taken a third on before…” The dick in front of him twitches and he looks up through his lashes to see Izuku’s face flushed red and eyes dilated fully in lust. But the green haired hero can’t form proper words before he finally settles on a low groan and biting at his lip. Shouto chuckles at how his boyfriend is most assuredly in the ‘Izuku.exe has stopped functioning properly please wait for reboot’ mode… but he’s not one to wait for him to catch up when he had a plan. He forgoes the leaking member again to nip at the others hip to jolt the other back into focus. “So, I was thinking… that you can take a picture of me going down on you and ‘accidentally' send it to the group chat we have with them.” He doesn’t even get to ask what the other thought of the idea as Izuku curses and is reaching for his phone on the bed side table. He almost laughs hearing the others hand hit the side of the table before he actually gets ahold of the device but he does let out an amused huff from his nose before he wastes no time swallowing Izuku's cock down fully, the other cursing loudly nearly dropping the phone onto the bed. "G-God Shouto." Izuku groans out his free hand going to thread through the duel colored hair. "Fuck warn me next time." He says looking down at his boyfriend and fuck him he looks beautiful looking up at him small whips of smoke coming out his nose mouth stretched wide around his dick. "God you're so pretty… It's just unfair." He says quietly loving the low hum around him that Shouto gives before he starts bobbing his head slowly. The one thing is that his brain to mouth filter, while normally not functioning well in the first place, full on doesn't work at all when they are being intimate. "So pretty… and you take my cock so well… You keep saying how they'd fuck me but god I can't help but think of them wrecking you baby. You’d be so pretty riding one of their cocks. I bet Kacchan would love to have you choking on his dick and crying." Shouto groans again and looks up at Izuku pushing all the way down till his nose was just about pushed to the other's naval green hairs tickling at his soft skin. Heterochromatic eyes watching as one scared hand holds his hair back to clearly see his face and the other holds the phone to take the picture. "Fuck…. Sho they are going to love this." Izuku bucks softly to get Shouto to continue his bobbing and sucking as he checks the phone able to see his own dark green curls around the base of his cock and the smoke coming from Shouto's nose clearly in the image with his own scared hand holding back strands of red and white while duel colored eyes looked straight up into the camera. The angle gave it almost POV feel to it and he knew it would have their friends drooling. He curses again at the feel of Shouto's mouth warming more and quickly navigated to the group chat between the four of them to send off the photo. Once sent he tosses the phone to the side of the bed and pushed his now free hand through the other hair alongside his other before speaking lowly. "Now be a good boy for Daddy and let me fuck your face." - - - The simultaneous dings of both their phones had Eijirou reaching over and grabbing his of the side table. Katsuki was curled on his chest while they laid in bed in a small doze and the movement made the blond give out an annoyed grunt. Eijirou smiled and ran his hand through blond hair as he unlocked the phone and navigated to the texting app. Deku: img.sent “Ah Midoriya texted the group.” he informed Katsuki who simply grunted at him pushing his head into his palm like a cat. The red heads thumb pressed the groups chat log and waited for the photo that the green haired male had sent to load. When it did, he dropped his phone right on top of Katsuki’s head who let out and indignant growl. “What the fuck Ei?!?” Eijirou blinked up at the ceiling not even registering that Katsuki had sat up. “J-just look.” he said his brain still trying to process the image that had been sent to them. Was it a mistake? It had to be. Right? Midoriya wouldn’t send it on purpose... Wait did that mean they shouldn’t look at it? Shit I should stop Kats from looking at it! Katsuki was already looking at the phone with a red face and neck when Eijirou sat up to look at his boyfriend. “Fuck.” Is all the blond said, not even looking back at him, and was just staring at the phone in his hand. A few beats more before the blond shifted beside him on the bed. “Icyhot looks pretty like that, don’t you think? Finally has that stupid mouth of his quiet.” Eijirou’s mouth was dry and mind blank as Katsuki finally looked at him. The blond’s shorts were tight, showing that the photo was affecting him and turned on. Katsuki shifted again throwing his leg over the red head and straddled his lap with a wicked smirk. “You going to help me send a picture back?” “K-Kats I’m not sure that was sent on purpose.” he tried to reason but the blond was already tugging his tank over his head messing up his blond hair in the process. “I know I call you Dumb Hair but you really aren’t that dumb, are you?” Red eyes rolled in exasperation. “It takes a few steps to send a photo to someone, you dumbass. Deku is smart he, even with his dick getting sucked, would have noticed if he was sending it somewhere he didn’t mean to. So what does that leave us with?” Eijirou blinked. To be fair he was very distracted with the blond straddling him and only moving enough to get his shorts off his thin waist and muscled legs, so it took his brain a moment to process the words that were spoken to him. “Uhhhh... that he sent it on purpose?” Another set of dings from their phones and Katsuki grinned when he looked at his before he turned it around to show Eijirou the screen. “Does this answer your question?” Deku: Img.sent “Fuuuck.” The red head breathed out a moan looking at the new photo sent to them. The new image showed a scared hand holding Shouto’s long hair in a tight grip pulling the dual quirk user’s head back slightly in what looked like mid moan, Shouto’s dipped flawless pale skinned back to his round ass cheeks that had bright red hand prints over both sides. The two-toned male held himself open as Izuku took the picture of just the head of his cock being pressed into the other. The angle suggested it was taken slightly above the pair so Izuku's abs and hips where just barely in the frame from lifting the phone to get the right angle. “Damn that’s just not fair… They are both hot.” Katsuki laughed at his response and ground his hips down against the red heads growing erection, both from the photos they got and from Katsuki. “So about sending one back… you in?” - - - Shouto was curled up on Izuku’s chest as the green haired hero scrolled through the latest news articles. The dual-quirk user was half dosing on top of the other his own phone clutched in his hand but the screen turned off from no use. He wasn’t quite ready to fully call it time for bed but after a good fucking like before his body was well sated enough to try and pull him under. Plus, Izuku mindlessly ran his fingers through his hair gently fixing any tangled bits he met sending him into a nice soft lull. All of which flew out the winder with a quiet buzz from his phone in hand and Izuku’s above him. Heterochromatic eyes snapped open and he quickly unlocked the phone to see the text they had received to their group chat with their best friends. KingExplosion: Img.sent “Sssshhhhiiiiiit.” Shouto groaned lowly looking at his lit-up screen as Izuku gave out a low appreciative moan that rumbled in his chest under his cheek. The other pair hadn’t just replied to them with a simple text message like they had thought they would. No. Oh no these two decided that a picture deserved a picture in response. Katsuki had stretched the phone in front of him and pointed the camera over his shoulder slightly. The blond’s cheeks, neck and ears were red with his mouth open in mid-pant or mid-moan, it could have honestly been either other them, intense crimson eyes trained right on the camera lens knowing exactly how hot he looked. The photo showed new and old marks with small beadings of blood from bite marks from left behind by Eijirou’s teeth over his shoulders and then show the dip of his tanned back from his hips being raised. Eijirou’s own equally intense scarlet eyes were also trained on the camera's lens teeth biting into the soft round flesh of Katsuki’s ass lips pulled into a pleased smirk and he was three fingers deep into the blond's hole. “Fuccck… I think I want them more now… How is that possible?” Shouto groaned looking over every detail he could of the photo. “I want his thick fingers in me like yesterday Izu I swear.” “God, I know. Bet his dick is thick too. He would have you stretched out more than you have been before but you can take it, can’t you baby boy?” Izuku said to him in a low voice that had his chest rumbling making Shouto moan softly and nod rolling to look up at him. “Daddy will let him fuck me yeah? While Daddy’s Kacchan takes care of him?” Shouto asks his dick already starting to get hard again even after thorough fucking he just received just a bit ago. Before Izuku can even respond to him their phones go off again. DumbHair: img.sent Shouto hates waiting for the image to load but he let out a long moan once it finally did load and Izuku groaned. This one had the pov feel like the first one they themselves had sent the other pair. Katsuki was pictured riding Eijirou leaned back on one arm that gripped the red heads thigh. His other hand was wrapped around his own cock mid stroke and his eyes were once again trained on the camera. Another text came shortly after. DumbHair: Maybe next time we can do this in person? IcyTHot: If it gets that big dick in me, I’m in. Deku: Friday good?
|
“If I die and you survive,” Midoriya Izuku says during his third year to Todoroki Shouto, “Make sure that there are no red spider lilies at my funeral.”
Izuku isn’t sure if it’s a thought that would worry Takahashi-san, his therapist, but he finds that he needs to say it out loud. The League of Villains have been ramping up their attacks and the final confrontation seems inevitable the closer that Class 3-A approaches graduation day. He’s eighteen and thinking about funeral arrangements.
Does he regret being a hero though? No. Never. But, sometimes, in these darkened nights or on the piece of loose leaf with his Last Will and Testament written on it, he almost feels a tug of something bittersweet.
It’s the dead of night as he tells Shouto this. They have these nights. It’s never on a set schedule. Sometimes when neither of them can sleep and the silence of their respective dorm room feels too deafening, then they will seek out the other in their room. Tonight, Izuku crept out of his dorm and found the light on from under Shouto’s door.
They lay side by side on Shouto’s futon. Izuku eyes half shut as he says his request. He thinks back to last year when he told Shouto about feeling like he lives in a ghost story before sharing the truth about One For All with him.
“Okay,” Shouto says, not pushing. He never pushes when Izuku gets like that. Shouto understands that sort of invisible scars that a person carries on their soul. His are from his family, mainly. Izuku’s are from people that he can and can’t name, from spending most of his life never knowing a power that lives in your skin.
He tells Shouto anyway.
“My classmates would leave them on my desk whenever a quirkless kid committed suicide.”
Kacchan, after all, was hardly the first person to tell him to go and die. He wasn’t even the tenth or the twentieth.
He feels Shouto stiffen next to him. The silence of the room grows heavy as his friend processes what he said.
“Bakugou?”
“I don’t know,” Izuku responds. Therapy has been good for Kacchan that and anger management. They’re better now, talked through issues in the presence of both their therapists along with Aizawa-sensei and All Might. Kacchan even apologized and meant it.
They will never be friends, he and Kacchan. Not like they were. Too many things happened between them. Izuku hurt too much. There are some sins that he will force Kacchan to take his grave because Izuku doesn’t want to know. He thinks that it will break this…thing they have between them.
Shouto is silent.
“What kind of flowers? If not spider lilies. Do you know?”
The first time he got the red spider lilies on his desk. Izuku went deep into the language of flowers. It changes from culture to culture, which is fascinating. It’s amazing, he thinks, how humans can assign meaning to anything.
“Bury me with red camellias or carnations. Daisies would be nice. Just no red spider lilies.”
He doesn’t look at Shouto as he says it. Instead his friend slips his hand down and threads their fingers together.
“Okay,” he promises. “I’ll be sure to tell them.”
Izuku sleeps easy after that promise.
“If I die young,” Watashi Kiyomi says to Akiyama Sora one lazy afternoon. “Make sure no one gives me red spider lilies at my funeral.”
Sora pauses from where he’s tuning his guitar and looks up over at his friend. She’s sprawled up on the plush rug that his mom bought him for his dorm room. Her eyes are half shut, earring catching the afternoon light.
“Any reason why you’re thinking about death?” he asks. He knows Watashi comes to him about the darker topics because, well, he probably gets it more than Ito, who wears their heart on their sleeve and cries easily.
“Number One and I were talking about our childhoods. He’s trying to figure out how broach the suicide baiting in all of his quirk and quirkless discrimination work. It made me think of my old middle school. Red spider lilies on my desk, one time I was out sick for a week with the flu and they had a memorial up on it. A couple kids said they were disappointed I was still breathing.”
Sora breathes in from seven and out for four. He knew, distantly, that younger generations of quirkless people had it bad. But it still turns his stomach inside out that his friend and classmate can speak of things like that, that the Number One hero went through such things, that they still happen.
“What kind of flowers do you want instead, Watashi-chan?” he asks. He likes Watashi a lot, who is sharp, smart, and brave. How she has a kind word for people, how when she opens up it’s like a flower in bloom, how she has a temper at times. He likes how her room is filled with books and hero merch and how she made her own heroes out of the stories before quirks.
He likes it when she grinned at the Sports Festival across from him before they knocked each other out and tied for third with bloodied teeth and wild eyes. How she yelled to the crowd that boos and cheers in equal measure, “Call me quirkless, but I’m limitless.”
“Bury me in sunflowers. Surround me in peonies and morning glories. Decorate my memorial in lotus blossoms. Say your goodbyes with sweat peas and zinnia. Just no spider lilies.”
Sora nods, “I’ll make sure of it. You need Deku?”
Watashi shakes out of whatever state she was in, sitting up and looking at him. Her smile is smile but genuine and a little bit bittersweet.
“Nah. My main bully growing up, Tanaka, he sent me a letter today. Apologizing.”
Sora doesn’t speak. He knows Ki, knew the topic that she broached had to more with the suicide baiting topic that her mentor was figuring out how to tackle. Instead he allows the silence to fill itself. Understanding that his friend needs a moment to say what she needs to.
“I don’t owe it to him to accept it. It just sucks that he’ll probably forget about the shit when he’s all grow up. And the sight of a funeral with red spider lilies will always make me think of them on my desk when I was twelve and thirteen. You know, before Number One set the lawyers on them. It made me maudlin and I’ll probably cry about it in my therapist’s office tomorrow. I just wanted someone to know.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Sora says seriously. His green hair falls in his face and he tucks it back with calloused hands.
“Thanks for not calling Aizawa-sensei the moment I opened my mouth.”
“Yeah well you never snitched about how that knife got up in the ceiling so…”
Watashi laughs at that and winks, “C’mon Rocksteady. I think the others are making cookies. Let’s go see if we can be a general nuisance disguised as help.”
|
Sirius doesn't come back home.
Regulus supposes that it was never home for him, was it?
But surely, surely now - even Sirius, proud and unbending as he was, surely after this, even he would come back? Where else would he go?
( - "I didn't mean to - " Sirius yelled, wiping angry tears from his eyes. Regulus is standing in the shadows, like always - somewhere where nobody can see him, till its too late, like always. The hallway is deserted, except the three of them.
"You never do, do you?" Potter replied, cold, mocking, indifferent. "You never mean anything you do. You never think about anything you do. You just - "
"He isn't dead, James," Sirius said, loudly. "Will you stop acting like - "
"Like what?" Potter asked, with a cruel, bitter laugh. "There was so much blood, Sirius, when I reached. Two more minutes, and he would have been bitten - "
"I - I didn't - " Sirius clenched his jaw.
"I thought I knew you," Potter whispered, and Regulus could almost feel Sirius break. "I thought you were my - brother."
"I am, James, I didn't - " Sirius's shoulders were tensed, his fists white. Regulus felt something sinking.
"I don't know who you are anymore," Potter said, before leaving Sirius behind in the hall. "And I don't think you do, either. When you figure it out, come find me." - )
Regulus watches James Potter running out of the Hospital Wing, his face a reflection of his brother's tear-stained one after the two fought - there's absolute silence in the Great Hall - and five conspicuously absent students.
Maybe, Potter isn't as unfailing as he's thought to be. Maybe, sometimes, sometimes - his luck runs out too.
Regulus watches Peter Pettigrew - and he's shouting. Pettigrew is - shouting - at Mcgonagall, who's not allowing James or him entry to Dumbledore's Office.
Maybe, Pettigrew isn't as spineless as he's always thought to be. Maybe, just maybe, Peter Pettigrew is a dangerous man to cross.
Regulus watches Remus Lupin come out of the Hospital Wing three days later. He's quiet, quieter than before, there's no glint of mischief in his eyes - there's no pale, dark-haired boy by his side. There is however, a new scar that runs right across his face, broad and deep.
Maybe, Lupin isn't just his brother's shadow. But without his brother, he's hardly more than a shadow. Maybe, just maybe, they were more than what they seemed to be.
On the fourth day, Dumbledore makes it clear. He announces, grave and grim and stern - the expulsion of sixth year Gryffindor student, Sirius Black - and Regulus watches the three marauders avoid everyone's eyes. Mcgonagall stares with an unreadable expression at Dumbledore.
Regulus watches Severus Snape come back from St. Mungo's six days later. He's lost no limbs, his broken ribs have been fixed. His head injury was severe - but he's back, and he's not the same. He's still human, Regulus realises, on the next full moon.
Maybe, Snape felt remorse. Maybe, just maybe, he felt that though he wasn't the one hurt most from all of this - he realised that it was his fault, too. Its a start.
"You could have died," Regulus said, evenly.
"I know," Snape replied, blank-faced.
"Would you have blamed my brother, if you did?" Regulus asked. It wasn’t a fair question.
"Would he have blamed himself?" Snape asked, idly. That is a fair question.
"Yes," Regulus said. Firm. Of course, he wants to add. He doesn't, though. He doesn't even know his brother anymore. Who is he to say anything about him?
"Then that blame would be enough," Snape replied, and Regulus realises that Snape isn't the same vengeful, petty boy that he used to be, anymore. He's learning. He's growing.
Regulus watches and watches - as the school grows quieter, dimmer - there isn't anyone laughing anymore - Regulus watches James Potter scream at a Slytherin in his year for daring to say that Sirius got what he deserved, even though in his anger - James had told Sirius almost the same. Regulus watches James Potter coming and going from the Owlery everyday, letters in his hand.
Regulus knows that none of them reach.
Regulus sends letters home himself, but no response comes. He spoke the wrong Floo Address, his mother says, not sounding very angry. He didn't come back home. Sirius never reached Grimmauld Place. And he is not your brother, Regulus.
Sirius is - not his brother.
But he is, Mother, don't you see - he is, he is, he always will be - like Regulus holds a place in Sirius's heart, Sirius owns a place in Regulus's too. His mother calls it tainted. Sirius's presence tainted the house - his existence was a blemish to their name -
Regulus calls him a memory.
Because, for all he knows now - for all he dares to hope - Sirius is just a memory. A ghost, a shadow-boy slipping through Regulus's heart, the angles of his smirk still visible everytime Regulus blinks. Canine. The glint of a charmed silver knife in the dead of the night, the shards of a broken mirror embedded into pale hands, a whispered, We're brothers, Reg, of course -
And no goodbye. Sirius once told Regulus that till the time Regulus can look up to the night sky, and see Sirius - he'll be there. Regulus thinks that Sirius meant that he would always be there. Regulus traces the star with his eyes every night, just to be safe.
Sirius doesn't go back home.
Sirius doesn't go back to Potter's place, Sirius doesn't go back to Grimmauld Place, Sirius doesn't go to Andromeda, Sirius doesn't go to Uncle Alphard - Sirius simply disappears.
Its the summer after a year more that Potter stops asking Regulus about Sirius. Its the summer when Regulus no longer remains his own person - he's got ink on his skin now. Dark, dark, cursed ink - that says he belongs to the -
Regulus graduates.
_____
Sirius doesn't return. He doesn't send a single letter. Doesn't reply to a single one. Kreacher can't find him. Regulus hears no whispers, no news - not even a body, because how would he even know if Sirius was still alive? - Regulus sees the news of Lily Evans and James Potter's engagement in the Prophet, and he truly wonders - as he looks at Lupin, standing next to the newly wedded couple as Potter's Best Man, that don't they see this is all wrong?
He flips the page. He idly reads the news of some magi-zoologistic discovery, he flips through the news of a missing Ministry witch, scans the large article on the second page about the new winner of Germany's Duelling Championship, he's quite young too, a Durmstrang student, sees the list of the muggle villages that have been attacked in the last week or so, reads about Narcissa and Lucius's one year marriage Anniversary -
He thinks, everyday, he thinks - if Sirius came back, after his disappearance two years ago, what would Regulus say to him?
Curse him, probably. They're rather good at that.
But, no. Sirius Black is just a memory. And just because he didn't say goodbye, doesn't mean he would ever see him again - the slightly more handsome face of his -
Regulus would never see that smirk again.
Sirius doesn't come back home.
______
The Dark Lord asks Regulus for a House-Elf. He obliges, graciously - his insides tightening for no actual reason -
Kreacher comes back, but only just.
Anger flares in him like never before, is this what Sirius feels when he's angry? Like Regulus could burn down the whole -
No. He's a Slytherin. He searches, and studies and studies and searches -
Regulus doesn't say goodbye to anyone, either.
He looks at the locket in his hand, opens it and slips the small parchment inside.
He knows what to do.
( - To the Dark Lord, he writes.
To Sirius, he thinks. - )
( - I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret, he writes.
I want you to know that I died for something that you can take pride in, he thinks. - )
( - I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more, he writes.
I face death in the hope that when you remember me, you will remember me with love, he thinks. - )
( - R.A.B, he writes.
Always yours, Reg, he thinks. - )
_____
Lily knows something is wrong the moment Dumbledore calls them. Dumbledore never calls on them. James has never forgiven Dumbledore for Sirius, never forgotten what Dumbledore took from him.
But, he's called them now.
Why? What's happened that you need to -
There's only one possible reason.
Sirius.
( - "There are so many times when I wonder if he - if it was because of me that he left," James tells her, his Head Boy badge gleaming on his chest as they both sit on James's bed, looking at the empty space next to it. There should be another bed there. "If I hadn't been so - I was just angry, I didn't mean all of what I said - "
Lily traces the lines on his palm, something that always comforts him. He smiles brokenly at her.
"I - I told him that - that he wasn't my brother!" James says, wiping furious tears from his eyes. "But - but - I didn't - I didn't think he would - if I could just take that back, I would, Lily, I really would. He is my brother."
Is. Not was. He believes in Sirius. Its been almost a year, and Lily's seen the piles and piles of letters James has sent. None are ever received.
"He always will be. Always." - )
She doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about what would happen if James is told that Sirius is -
( - "He isn't here," Lily says, finally, one hand holding the white veil of her wedding gown up, and James looks wryly at her.
"Bastard owes me hell of a lot more now," James says, shrugging, though the disappointment is clear in his eyes. "We got the event printed in the fucking Prophet for this." - )
No. No, no, no, James doesn't believe it yet, and its not that he's in denial - no, James knows it. He knows that Sirius is okay - knows that Sirius is alive. He fully believes, in his heart, that Sirius is alive and well -
( - "Thought you would have more faith in him, you tossers," James says, to Remus and Peter, who look uncomfortable - sympathetic. James doesn't need the sympathy. He believes in Sirius. Always has. "He's a fucking marauder. It takes more than an expulsion to kill him."
Peter squirms in his seat, "James - its been more than four years - "
"Four years, three months and thirteen days," James whispers, shocking even Lily. "You think I don't know? I would know if he was - if he - "
"Peter, let it go," Remus says, looking unconvinced, but unable to hold back his hope. - )
James doesn't look scared. Lily feels apprehensive, though. What if Dumbledore's found Sirius? - What if he isn't -
James squeezes her hand, like she's the one who needs comforting.
( - "And that's your mum," James says, softly, rocking Harry in his lap and pointing at a picture. "Lily Evans Potter. Someday, bud, you'll meet your godfather, too. His name is - "
"Sirius Black," Lily finishes, coming up behind him, as James stares at her, shocked. They hadn't ever discussed the subject of godparents. James had never asked, and Lily didn't need to. "We'll see him someday. Soon."
James looks happier than Lily's ever seen him before, his eyes shining. - )
"Lily, James," Dumbledore starts, unusually grave. "I'm glad you were able to come in such short notice. I hope you're both doing well? - Ah, as well as one can be, in these troubled times - "
And he tells them why he's called the two of them.
Its not about Sirius, after all. Its about Harry.
And a prophecy. Stupid, stupid - five lines worth of bullshit - a prophecy -
A prophecy, made by Sybil Trelawney, a prophecy, overheard by Mulciber, who must have already reported it to Voldemort.
If Lily was scared for her little family before, she's terrified now.
____
When Regulus reaches the cave, there's already someone there.
____
When Alex Verlac is in his sixth year, he meets him for the first time.
"Sebastian," he says shortly, by way of introduction, moving his small suitcase into the dormitory, his hair dark and short, almost a head above Alex's own. "Pleasure."
"Is it?" Felix Durmont says from the other end of the room, in a jeering voice. "You don't look very pleased."
"And you would know that, would you?" Sebastian asks quietly, evenly, his British accent even stronger than Alex's own, and Alex can hear the amusement in his voice. Like he's above it all. He doesn't seem like the other newbies, especially the transfers - scared of every other nook and corner and student and Professor in Durmstrang - just because its infamous for its Dark Arts. Felix doesn't reply, but Alex can feel him backing out already.
And a good thing, too.
Sebastian turns out to be something of a prodigy. The first week, he spends every waking hour in the library - listens to the teachers with undivided attention, gets all his spells right on his first tries, all of them powerful, potent, perfect.
The Headmaster had formally announced his presence a day back, exchanging a look with Sebastian, that Alex could only describe as intrigued. Curious. Hopeful, greedy. Like artists look at their masterpieces. The next week, they're all made to come to the Headmaster's office in two's and take oaths. All the students, every year, regarding the privacy of Sebastian. Its a complicated vow - and it stops them from telling any outside party, directly or indirectly, about the existence of the boy. Its extraordinarily strange, and Alex is almost itching to ask, but he knows merely asking wouldn't help. Students whisper amongst themselves, all theories improbable, and overly exaggerated.
"You're such a swot, Sebastian," Felix says - because nobody ever uses his last name, he doesn't have one, apparently - looking at him pour over a book.
Sebastian finds that so funny, he almost laughs, something of a rarity for him. "I wish I could record you saying that," he says, snorting. "I know someone who'll love it."
"Do you ever do anything besides studying?" Felix asks, with a frown. "Anything at all?"
"Is there anything to do here?" Sebastian asks, in a mocking imitation of Felix. "Anything at all?"
They play quidditch in the evening, and chess the next morning and Sebastian is the best at them, too.
"Have you always been this great at chess?" Alex asks him, his quill hovering over the Daily Crossword in the paper as Sebastian wipes the floor with Nashvin, a quiet boy in the year above theirs.
"I don't know," Sebastian replies, looking a little lost. "I just - never tried before. Need help with that?" he adds, perking up. "I love crosswords."
Surprise, surprise - he's great at that, too.
_____
"Who the hell are you?" Regulus breathes out, gripping the fake locket tight in his hand, wand pointed right in front of him. "How did you find this - "
"I - you - " the man seems to be at a loss. He's wearing a hood of some sort, a hand on the chain that ties the boat to cross the green lake and Regulus can only see the outline of his face. "Did you - Regulus?!"
That tone. That voice. The height, exactly what Regulus has always estimated it would be - that accent -
Regulus sucks in air, no - no - god, not now - he won't believe it, it has to be a trap, right? How much of a coincidence is this - that Regulus defies the Dark Lord and he's here now and he's seeing -
"The Blood-traitor is alive," Kreacher mutters, vengefully, and Regulus's wand drops a little. "Master Sirius always was a difficult brat to get rid of, Kreacher knows - "
"Shut up, Kreacher," the man-who-can't-be-his-brother says, and Kreacher shuts up instantly, like it was an order. "I just - what are you doing here?!"
"I could ask you the same," Regulus says, quietly, the man has still not raised his wand. "If you are who you claim to be."
"Er - I haven't actually claimed to be anyone," the man says, awkwardly - and Regulus almost screams in frustration.
He drops his wand a little more. "Implied, then."
The man ignores that, glancing once at the centre of the lake, where the crystal basin is, and then glances back, and says, in a sneering voice, "Heard you've become one of Him." Regulus already knows where this is going. "Is Mother proud?"
"You think I'm here as a Death-Eater?" Regulus asks, resisting the urge to tell him that he has no right to talk about their mother. "You've always been an idiot, but surely, a few years on the run would have helped?"
Sirius shows no sign of discomfort, but Regulus sees the slight flinch, a tiny clenching of jaw at the words 'on the run.'
Sirius doesn't reply. Just looks at him.
"You're taller than me, now, you absolute fucker," he says, standing upright and walking a few steps towards Regulus, till they're just two feet away. Regulus can see his face now.
Same grey eyes - same long eyelashes that cast shadows across the same sharp cheekbones -
There's a new, tiny scar across his eyebrow.
He's right, though. Regulus is taller. It makes him want to smile a little. Taller, thinner, longer hair. Sirius looks strange without his hair in a bun. Because that's how Regulus had imagined him all this time.
Sirius smiles a small half-smile, his mouth pulling up at one corner - and Regulus wants to cry. He had come prepared to die. He hadn't come prepared for this. He doesn't know what's harder.
He takes a shallow, calming breath - before taking the locket, grabbing Sirius's hand and putting the locket in it. "Open it," he says, because if he's going to die today, he's going to say goodbye first. Sirius is going to know why. Because Regulus never did, when Sirius disappeared.
Sirius does. He illuminates the paper with a wandless Lumos, that's slightly impressive, Regulus thinks grudgingly - and reads it through quickly, eyes running from one line to the next.
He looks up from the paper once he's done, swallowing, his expression pained.
No. No, he doesn't get to be hurt. Not him. Not now.
"I thought you were dead," Regulus whispers, brokenly, his voice catching embarrassingly. "I thought - you didn't even - not a single letter - "
And then, Sirius is hugging him, saying something over and over again, and Regulus is holding him like he's going to disappear again - I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry - I didn't know you wanted me to - I'm sorry, I missed you and - sorry - and then, they're both crying - Sirius's skin is wet, where Regulus's touches it -
______
Alex Verlac is going to be in so much trouble, he thinks, as he and Felix sneak back to their dormitory, Felix giggling and swaying - Alex trying to be sturdy on his feet.
They attract the attention of the groundskeeper almost immediately - and then they're running to their dormitory, Mr. Stakov right at their heels. Their robes are drawn up, so their faces can't be seen - but if he catches them before they reach -
Durmstrang punishments are harsh.
They run into the dormitory, wheezing and panting - and the first thing Alex sees is Sebastian on his desk, writing something that looks like a letter. He jumps up as they enter, startling and hiding the paper - before he sees their condition, breathless and half-drunk.
Sebastian starts to grin, an easy, mischievous, practiced in a I-always-smile-like-this type of grin - one that Alex has never seen on his face - until he freezes like he's remembered something and says, grimacing, "What's he drunk?"
"Stronger than firewhii-iiskey," Felix says, in a sing-song voice, repeating the bartender's words. "What're you writing, Seb?"
Sebastian raises an amused eyebrow at the nickname but doesn't reply, stuffing the paper back.
"Open up, boys!" a voice outside yells. "NOW!"
"Fuck," Alex mutters, as Felix laughs carelessly. "Fuck - fucking - "
"I know you're all awake," Stakov continues, gleefully. "OPEN UP, BOYS!!"
"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sebastian mutters, and gets up from his desk - moving so fast, Alex barely realises it.
He takes out a vial from under his chest of drawers, tipping Felix's head back and pouring it into his mouth. He flicks his wand with his left hand, changing Felix's clothes to his nightwear, before doing the same to Alex - both sober now, he sort of pushes them towards their beds, throwing a random book from his desk at each of them.
He swings the door open in a matter of seconds, with a wide, innocent smile.
"Yes, Mr. Stakov?" Sebastian asks, charmingly polite. "We are awake. But I'm afraid I'm new to the school and nobody mentioned that we couldn't study inside the dormitory after curfew?"
Mr. Stakov looks at them, Felix staring dazedly at his book, but he usually looks like that, so there's nothing amiss - Alex cross-legged on his bed, with a book and a confused smile. "Good evening, Mr. Stakov," he says, when the man glares at him.
Stakov's eyes are narrowed suspiciously as he peers inside the dormitory. There's nothing even mildly out of place.
"I'll take your word this time," he says, huffing begrudgingly and walks out, as Sebastian wishes him a cheerful, "Sweet dreams, sir!"
Alex and Felix, now looking far better than he had five minutes ago - stare at Sebastian. It takes him a second to realise they're looking at him.
"How'd you - why did you - " Felix begins, looking confused and stuttering a little.
"Sleep it off," Sebastian says, rolling his eyes. "I'm sure you'll feel the need to be unpleasant once you're feeling better."
"Thanks, Sebastian," Alex says, with a small smile.
Sebastian doesn't reply, just walks to the attached bathroom with a scoffed, "Amateurs."
_____
Kaspar Vogler is exhausted. He'd always thought the war with Grindelwald would be his last. He'd always thought that it'd be the last time he would have to deal with battle - last time he would have to hear the desperation behind defensive walls of pride - and anger -
Sirius Black, the boy says, defiantly, proudly.
He was expelled from Hogwarts yesterday, Kaspar remembers the headline well. He should be missing, he thinks. Anyone with any knowledge on the whereabouts of Sirius Black to contact Alphard Black - on the address -
"Why here?" he asks, curious. Impressed, in a way. A sixteen year old disgraced student running away from his country - without a trace, without a sign. The boy has promise, he can see that. His magic is unfurling around him, eager - fierce - thirsty to prove -
"Where else?" the boy replies, sweeping a careless glance at the school ground stretching below them - an institution of learning, of magic that Hogwarts doesn't know -
"Your relatives are searching for you," he says, carefully noting his reaction. There is none. "Albus Dumbledore might be - "
"He let me go," Sirius says, quietly, blankly. "I owe nothing to Dumbledore. And I don't want to be found. I won't - I will not return to Britain like this. Not yet. Not uneducated."
"You ask for a lot," he replies, stoic. "You ask for my discretion, you ask for a place in my school. I'll surmise that you have no funds - "
The boy doesn't flush, doesn't respond. Just looks at him.
" - and magic taught at Hogwarts is always a step below the magic taught in Durmstrang," he continues. "What would you give me in return?"
"My loyalty, of course," the boy replies, without hesitation, spreading his palms outwards, and "Debts are fulfilled. Promises are kept. But my loyalty would be yours. Completely."
"And I should take a Black on his word?" he asks, quirking a slight smile. Sirius smirks, and its sharp - sly - it reminds him of another tall, proud boy, reminds Kaspar of him -
"Of course not," he says. "You think I'll take you on your word?"
Fair enough, he thinks.
"Then only one thing remains, doesn't it?" he asks, rhetorically, leaning on his desk, fingers folded. "How valuable is your loyalty?"
Sirius's smirk widens, and Kaspar's made up his mind already. Still, though -
"Impress me," he says, softly.
Sirius Black doesn't disappoint.
_____
"I don't know who you are anymore. And I don't think you do, either. When you figure it out, come find me."
The words echo in his ears, again and again and again - like Marlene's broken muggle record-player in the common room - as Sirius sits in front of Dumbledore, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to face how lucky they were. Not wanting to face the fact that when we walks out of his office, when he walks down the corridor, it'll be his last time as a student.
The flames in the fireplace turn green, as Walburga and Orion step out, not a hair out of place - eyes cold, unforgiving, dripping hatred - he nods slightly, an automatic response to his parents' presence, even though he's stopped calling them that a while ago. Dumbledore tells them everything - leaving out parts about any werewolves involved. It almost sounds like Sirius gave Snape a quest to travel to the fucking monsters of west high -
Walburga argues back, because of course she does - it was only a half-blood who got just slightly injured, you muggle-loving fool - and Dumbledore doesn't give. Of course he doesn't. Sirius wonders when Dumbledore became like this towards him - distant, indifferent. Suspicious. Callous.
Sirius can't go back to Grimmauld. He can't - he would go crazy, he would die there - he would rather die than go there.
Walburga’s fingernails pierce his skin. He resists the urge to wince painfully.
Grimmauld Place is like a slow poison - its walls suffocating, imposing - surrounded by houses, but dreadfully lonely. Its dark and old and so frightening, Sirius thinks, the idea of going there knowing that he doesn't have Hogwarts as his haven, doesn't have James anymore - is terrifying.
He doesn't have anyone.
Its a strangely detaching fact, something he'd come to terms with when he gave back the sorting hat to Mcgonagall and walked from the little stool to the table clad in red and gold. James was just - god, he can't think about him right now.
He could go to Uncle Alphard's. He could even try Andromeda. They would take him in. But then what? Sirius isn't going to be idle while the war - he isn't going to be a bystander, the one who sees people die - he isn't going to be a liability to the people around him -
But he barely knows magic.
He still needs schooling. That's probably a crucial fact - he refuses to learn what Walburga or Orion teach him - he needs a school -
That's when it strikes him.
( - "Sirius has the aptitude for it, Walburga," Orion said, part excited, part impatient - his wand in his hand. "His magic is already so advanced. He could learn so much more under Vogler than he could under Dumbledore. Dumbledore's curriculum is so woefully incomplete - "
"He is not going to Durmstrang, Orion," Walburga replied, sharply. "He's a Black, he's going to go to Hogwarts, he's going to be a Slytherin, he's going to - "
"Hogwarts has only worsened since our day, my dear," Orion said, a note of plea in his voice. "Think about it. He's just four and he can levitate things on command, he can repair broken windows, he can conjure light! He's my Heir! He needs the best we can give him, which is - "
"Vogler is just as much of a fool as Dumbledore, Orion," Walburga said, calmly. "If Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald alone, Vogler did the rest for him. Or don't you remember the raids and battles during Grindelwald's reign? The hordes of wizards in his army, all - "
"Its a matter of the magical subjects taught, not the alliances of their respective Heads," Orion said, sighing - defeat clear in his voice already. "Why, Hogwarts can't even keep a Defense Teacher for more than a year! The level of teaching - "
"My Heir will be a Slytherin, like all the Blacks before him," Walburga interrupted, final. - )
That's it, then. Walburga didn't approve of his alliance. That's good enough for him.
His plan is dangerous. Its also the only one he has.
When it's finally time to go, Sirius collects his trunk - writes down a note to Remus, then to James - then ultimately loses courage, crumples them both and puts them back in his pocket -
"Somethings in life, are simply - meant to happen," Dumbledore says, heavily, as he hands Sirius his paperwork - and if Sirius hadn't known any better, he would have been touched by the regretful display. "Do not lose courage. You still have the potential to be someone great. I wish you a better life ahead, Mr. Black."
"Thank you," Sirius mumbles, out of necessity, and walks into the floo - without a name on his lips, concentrating as hard as he can on the name of the Headmaster and the school, the only thing he knows about the location -
He falls out of the floo in a tiny room, making a tall, thin man with sandy, salt-and-pepper colored hair, jump out of the chair he had been relaxing in - their wands are up immediately, frozen towards each other -
The temperature has seemingly dropped atleast ten degrees. Sirius feels a cold shiver.
"Who - wha - are you a student?" the man asks, in fluent German, and Sirius translates in his head instantly - Walburga was good for something, atleast. He has multiple languages stored in his head, impossible to forget -
He glances outside the window, glances at the files spread around the room. Black and white student's faces, serious, gloomy, stare at him from the front pages. The man is in uniform. It looks like an office, like - like - Filch's. This must be the caretaker, here, then.
He's at the right place, he just knows it.
"Not exactly," Sirius replies, in English, to test the waters. The man understands, before taking in his school trunk, the papers in his hand, the student file that has most of his school performance reports - and looks at him, confusion clear on his face. "I need to meet with the Headmaster. As soon as possible."
The man passes him a suspicious glance. "Its not possible to floo in through the school's fireplaces without permission - "
He's getting rather good at those. Impossibilities.
"I can wait," Sirius says, ignoring his question because he honestly doesn't know the answer. "I'm not wrong in assuming this is a part of Durmstrang?"
The man passes him an incredulous glance like, obviously, you idiot.
"Right, and you are...?"
"Trenton Stakov, groundskeeper and quidditch instructor," the man introduces automatically, picking up a quill and paper, writing down something and whistling. A large white owl flies inside immediately, and grabs the note from his hands. "Your name - ?"
"I'm afraid I can't say," Sirius says, clipped. "I'll give my wand if you don't feel comfortable with that."
Sirius gives his wand up, his left ankle tapping anxiously against the silver knife hidden in the sock he's wearing on his right leg, his eyes scanning any possible ways out, if this goes south -
The man stares at Sirius without speaking. Sirius stares back, and tries to not fidget.
No reply comes, for quite some time.
Sirius hopes all this hasn't been for nothing. It probably has been, he thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat. No. Not right now. You'll have enough time to sob about everything like the pathetic loser you are. Not fucking now.
Stakov gives him water, offers him some food - but he's so winded up right now, he doesn't think he could keep it down -
"The Headmaster isn't here, Mr. Stakov," a heavily accented voice from the doorway says. Sirius jolts upright, trying to even his breathing. Its cold, even with the warming charms in the room. In the doorway, there's a boy standing, tall, muscular - in what Sirius assumes, must be a Durmstrang uniform. He's holding his wand in his right hand, a strong Lumos in place. "He's sent a message through Professor Dimitri. Please show him to one of the Holiday Home guest rooms for the night. He'll not be able to meet the Headmaster before tomorrow evening. He's away on some important business."
Sirius doesn't know whether to be relieved or more nervous. He'd been hoping to do all this, right now - when his adrenaline was pumping him up, nevertheless, he gestures for his wand, shrinks his trunk using it and hands it back.
He doesn't sleep the night.
"When you figure it out, come find me."
He will. He would do that, Sirius promises in the dark.
_____
He meets Headmaster Kaspar Vogler at 6 in the evening the next day. Stakov keeps his wand until then, which doesn't stop Sirius from turning into Padfoot and seeing the campus. Its beautiful.
The Headmaster is more understanding than Sirius had ever expected. They make Unbreakable Vows, from both sides. Sirius comes to respect the man - for his ability to take things to stride, his way of prioritizing things, his lack of prejudice. He barely questions why Sirius was even expelled. He says that he can tell what remorse looks like.
He places Sebastian, as Sirius is to be known for now, in a dormitory which has all those students who aren't German by Nationality, so he would have lesser language issues. Sirius hasn't made any changes to his appearance, so the truth will come out someday, of course - but Headmaster Vogler has guaranteed that he would take steps to ensure that his presence at Durmstrang wouldn't come out immediately.
He settles in, and then studies and studies and studies.
Moony would be a proud, a voice in his head tells him. Would he even care?
He cries the first night, and the second one.
_____
In one world, when Regulus Black steals from the Dark Lord, he's alone. He dies in pain, a forgotten hero - alone, alone, alone as he screams.
In another world, when Regulus Black steals from the Dark Lord, he's not alone. His brother's with him - he's different now, though, he isn't the same, immature kid Regulus remembers - but they still laugh as the fiendfyre swirls around them, their magic binding and merging into one powerful force, one will.
In one world, he leaves behind a last note, a last farewell to fate - and he becomes a tragedy.
In another world, he leaves a locket behind, but there's nothing in it - because he doesn't need to say goodbye. Not this time.
In one world, Sirius Black hears the news of his brother's death three days later, and he goes to the funeral he isn't invited to, disguised.
In another world, there is no funeral. There are excuses, and punishments, and secrets - and a new spy in the Dark Lord's ranks.
In one world, Sirius Black mourns his brother, the little kid who grew up inside sharp talons, who had no choice, who was too soft - too idiotic - who couldn't say no - Sirius Black mourns for the brother he wished he had saved, the brother he wished he had tried harder with.
In another world, Sirius Black feels pride. Feels so, so fucking proud, of the brother he believed in, because in the end, Regulus didn't let him down. And that's what mattered. Because, in this world, Sirius knew the truth.
In one world, a generation later, they would remember Regulus Black again, because he died a hero.
In this world, a generation later, they would know and love Regulus - because he lived.
Regulus Black lived.
______
Sirius writes a hundred letters, to Remus and James and Peter and Marlene and one, even to Mcgonagall, and all of them start off the same - guilt, guilt, guilt - but he isn't able to send them.
He doesn't want to ask for forgiveness. He doesn't want it like this -
In the end, he sends one letter.
He never expected a reply, and he doesn't get it either. But the letter isn't sent back, which means it was received.
And he understands, that the fact the letter wasn't sent back - is a way of showing acceptance. Its enough for now.
( - To Severus Snape, he's written. - )
|
Hal had been joking when it happened.
It was supposed to be a normal day, they were all gathered at the Watchtower and Clark had almost finished another boring lecture about the newest threat the league was about to face when his ring began to glow and buzz loudly.
Batman leveled him with a glare, "Something more important than the fate of the planet, Lantern?"
"Looks like it." Hal said with an amused look, thankful for the distraction.
"Green Lantern of sector 2814, you have been chosen by the Guardians of The Universe for an important mission." His ring said, "Would you like to hear the details of your task?"
"I hope it's another diplomatic meeting on M'brai, everything there tastes the best." Hal grinned cheekily, "And I don't just mean the food."
The Flash shoved him playfully and a few people groaned.
"Nah I bet it's that one planet you hate, the one with the 8ft tall vampires." The Flash said teasingly.
"God I hope not, they were obsessed with me. You know the guy I slept with from there tried to-"
Superman cut him off quickly, "Green Lantern, please focus on the debrief."
Hal shrugged, looking very pleased with himself. "What can I say? I'm delicious."
"Waiting for command." Hal's ring reminded him.
"Oh right, okay place your bets everyone." Hal announced.
"Can't you just wait to find out the details later?" Wonder Woman asked skeptically.
"I mean sure, but what's the fun in that?" Hal asked, "Alright ring, where am I going this time?"
"Your assignment is to go to sector one on planet D'iorn. You need to find common ground with the Uzarians and join them in their fight against the Manhunters threatening to exterminate their entire planet's population."
Hal paled.
Sometimes Hal forgot that D'iorn wasn't just a planet that Kilowog made up to scare rookies. He had heard it constantly in his early days when he complained about rough missions or strange planets.
"Hey, at least you're not going to D'iorn."
"Keep that up and ill personally ask the guardians to send you to D'iorn."
"Damn, you look like you came back from D'iorn."
Tomar-Re said it was known as the Finalis Subsisto on his planet.
The Final Stop.
D'iorn had been the final stop for countless green lanterns over the years. Their citizens have hated green lanterns for centuries and have been known to attack any lanterns that have attempted contact. It's a notoriously war-torn planet, disease and famine run rampant.
Not only that, the manhunters were ruthless killers, hellbent on killing any and all organic life. The Uzarians are large shark-like creatures, formidable in their own right. As if it couldn't get any worse, sector one was also on the edge of the universe. Practically no man's land. Not even Superman would be able to reach him in time if he called for help that far away.
So, his mission is to fight off hundreds of manhunters alone on a barren planet full of creatures that want to kill him while trying to convince them not to murder him so he can save their entire civilization from extinction.
It's a suicide mission.Nothing more, nothing less.
Hal stayed uncharacteristically silent for a moment, staring at his ring intently.
"Isn't that out of your jurisdiction?" Batman asked, something unreadable in his expression. But then again, Hal could never really get a read on the man.
The ring answered for him, "The Green Lantern of sector one is now deceased, his successor is too new to handle such a complex job. Hal Jordan of Earth was hand-picked for this mission by the Guardians of The Universe. He must report to D'iorn as soon as possible."
Oh yeah and he's not getting any help from the Lantern of that sector.Great.
Hal grimaced, quickly regretting his decision to announce his new assignment in front of the team. Although, he's incredibly thankful that D'iorns reputation hasn't reached Earth.
The Flash laughed, "That definitely doesn't sound as fun as M'brai dude."
Hal laughed with him, "Oh yeah, this ones gonna suck. Nothing I can't handle though, luckily I just happen to be the greatest Green Lantern of all time." He was aiming for his usual cocky tone but the sinking feeling in his chest weighed down his words just a bit.
"Don't let Gardner hear you say that one." Cyborg said with a smile.
Superman cleared his throat pointedly and soon enough they were back to the debrief, Hal's new mission quickly forgotten by everyone. Everyone but him anyway.
He feels Batman's eyes on him for the rest of the meeting, gaze suspicious.
See, here's the thing: Hal Jordan doesn't feel fear.
Or at the very least he's never met a fear he couldn't overcome. It's hard to be scared of anything when your biggest fear has already happened. Watching his father die right in front of his own eyes changed something in Hal, he'll admit.
Hal isn't scared of death, hell he's already died once anyway, what's one more?
However, something akin to fear has always tugged at him when he thought of one man.
Bruce Wayne, The Batman.
Now, Hal was in no way scared of Bruce. If anyone asked, the pilot wouldn't hesitate to say he despised the man and would readily take him on any day of the week. Sure, they got along well enough to work in the Justice League together but that's about it.
They were just too different, plain and simple.
Hal Jordan was hot-headed and a risk-taker. Bruce Wayne was a paranoid lunatic and certified control freak.
That's Hal's completely unbiased opinion.
But eventually, Hal began to notice things about Bruce.
He noticed the love Bruce had for all of his children.
He noticed the amazing leadership qualities Bruce had.
He noticed that he liked being challenged by Batman on missions, loved to feel that push back from someone he couldn't help but have a begrudging respect for.
But most importantly, Hal noticed his ass because god damn does he have a nice ass, I mean cmon it's pretty impressive.
Regardless, it would never work.
The feeling refused to listen to logic though and it continued to tug at his chest whenever he was around Batman.
The irritation of not being able to act on his feelings pushed him to irritate Bruce even more, Hal loved the way he could rile him up so quickly.
Bruce thought he was just some arrogant idiot and Hal was fine with that.
Was fine with that.
The idea of dying without ever being able to kiss Bruce Wayne felt insane to Hal.
If Hal Jordan was going to die, he's going out with a bang.
He rushed out of the meeting as soon as it ended, brushing the rest of the team off and flying just outside of the watchtower for some privacy.
He sighed, "Ring, what's the probability I'll survive my newest mission?"
"You have a 12% chance of survival and complete success."
Hal barked out a laugh at the odds, "I can't believe the guardians chose me for this, guess this is what I get for questioning authority." He still didn't regret standing up to the guardians as many times as he had but cmon man.
He took a deep breath and called Kyle on his ring, not really sure what he's going to say if Kyle picks up.
"Hal! Hey, what's up?" Kyle's said brightly.
Hal smiled, "Hey kid, I just wanted to check in. I got a new mission and I'll be honest, the odds aren't looking too good for me. I wanted to let you know you're an amazing Green Lantern and it's been an honor to work alongside you."
"...you're gonna be fine Hal, you've never seen a challenge you couldn't beat. You've got more willpower than anyone I've ever met. It can't be that-"
"It's D'iorn, kid."
"What?"
Hal ran his hand through his hair, wondering if he should've called Guy. Getting cussed out probably would've felt better than breaking the news to Kyle.
"I got assigned to fight off Manhunters on D'iorn. I'm gonna give it everything I've got but I needed to tell you how bright your future is, how much potential you've got. You're doing amazing."
"Hal...please-"
He hung up, unable to bear another word.
Hal flew back into the Watchtower, heading for the conference room. He knew Batman would've stayed behind to work on cases.
He slams open the conference room door and Bruce looks up from his work, entirely unimpressed.
"Is there something you need, Green Lantern?" He asks gruffly.
Hal grins and strides right up to him, stopping only when he's a few inches away from Bruce's face.
It's only when Hal places his hand on Bruce's cheek does he realize that his hands are shaking and his ring is buzzing obnoxiously, alerting him of calls from Kyle, John, and Guy.
"Hal?" Bruce asks, voice nearly soft with confusion.
Hal Jordan is a lot of things but he's not a coward.
He leans in and presses their lips together. The kiss is everything that Hal is, fast, passionate, and rough.
He pulls back quickly and only takes a moment to take pride in the fact that he managed to shock Batman, of all people.
He blasts off before Bruce can say anything, not bothering to explain or say goodbye to the rest of the justice league.
He doesn't want his last moments with them to be depressing.
Hal heads straight for D'iorn without a single fear or regret, replaying the kiss in his mind countless times.
|
I wish it were me, too.
Anne had never regretted saying something so quickly before.
She had done horrible things before, yes - she’s not a saint. Never was, and never will be. She had been born with a flame inside her that was just too much for an immigrant household that is her home, too much for the humble, goody-two-shoes that are her parents.
Her mother wanted her to dress in flowers and modest silk loincloths; she wanted to wear something short and tight that she could easily run around with. Her mother wanted her to sit down straight with her legs crossed; she wanted to hit tennis balls and yell her lungs out. She wasn’t the well-mannered, first and only daughter they had wanted her to be, if she even ever was. And Anne, trapped in the middle of their expectations of her, had once yelled the words out loud in frustration from the very room she’s sitting in right now; “I wish I wasn’t your daughter!”
She had pushed that unpleasant, embarrassing memory into the deepest, darkest corner of her mind, dodging it every time it surfaces. She didn’t want to remember her mother’s face right after she yelled those words - startled, angered, heartbroken. She didn’t want to remember the way they both didn’t speak for weeks on end afterwards; she didn’t want to remember the guilt and regret that hurt her whole body, to the very end of her nerves.
It was the little dirty secret Anne had kept inside her for years. She had never told anyone, not even Marcy and Sasha, because she’s always that good kid who had a great relationship with her parents - always have been, and always should be. What would they think of her? Anne, quick-mouthed and short-witted. Anne, with a flame too big to fit her own body, a flame she couldn’t control. No, she kept it all inside her until it would inevitably happen again - her anger turning her tongue into a sharp knife, her words stabbing someone.
And that moment happens to be now, it seems.
To Sasha, out of all people. Sasha. The Sasha she had once fell head-over-heels for, the Sasha that would make her brain short-circuit, the Sasha that makes her flutter, as if her insides had been replaced by a million butterflies.
To Sasha. Sasha fucking Waybright.
I wish it was you, her mind recalls, her teeth and bone hurting to her very core, you know that? I wish it was you instead of Marcy.
And Sasha had replied, with the most bitter tone she has ever heard her say, I wish it were me, too.
And the worst part? The worst part is that she knew that Sasha, as mean and manipulative and horrible as she can be, isn’t someone who’s quick-mouthed. She isn’t someone who would say something stupid that she doesn’t really mean - there is always some truth to her words, no matter how little it is.
And Sasha, Sasha looked at her dead in the eyes, and said without a stutter, I wish it were me, too.
I wish it were me, too. I wish it were me, too. I wish it were me, too. Those six words kept replaying over and over in her head, making her whole body ache all the way to her fingertips, and she wanted to reach for her hand before she could leave and tell her with a strained voice that I didn’t mean that I’m so fucking sorry please don’t leave -
- but the words were stuck in her throat, forming a lump of unsaid sentences, and tears well in her eyes and she wanted to desperately reach for her and hold her so tightly until her body stops aching with regret -
Nothing happens.
And Sasha leaves. She pulls her seat away from the table, stands up, and walks away, footsteps echoing against the silence of the night.
She leaves.
And now nothing remains of them but the worn-out polaroid of them in her pocket, the ashes of what they once were, and the unsaid words they’ll never say out loud.
“Anne?”
Her mother’s voice startles her as she turns around abruptly, wiping away the remaining tears on her face. Her mother walked towards her slowly, closing the door behind her and sat on the front steps of their house beside her, draping a jacket over her shoulders to shield her from the cold Californian night. “What are you doing out here? You’ll catch a cold.”
She tries her best not to let out a sob. Her body immediately betrays her.
“Anne?” Her mother calls for her again, concern written all over her face, “hey, what’s wrong?”
So much, mom, she wanted to tell her, but the words were stuck in her throat, just like everything else. There’s so much wrong.
Instead, she choked out, “I did a bad thing, mom.”
The words flowed out of her mouth and she kept her head down after, scared to look at her mother’s face. She felt like a little kid all over again, confessing of what would have been I broke your favorite vase or I got a bad grade in my test but instead it’s I told Sasha that I’d rather have her dead. “A really, really bad thing.”
That was an understatement.
“Oh, Anne,” her mother sighs, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulls her closer. “That’s alright. It’s alright to make mistakes.”
“It’s - it’s horrible,” she sobs harder, tears dripping down her cheeks and into her knees, “I did a horrible thing, and I - I’m a horrible person - “
“ No ,” Her mother’s voice says it with a gasp, as if she was so sure that it’s not true, and how could her own daughter say that? “No, no you’re not. Not my Anne.”
Maybe I’m not your Anne anymore, Anne wants to tell her between her sobs. Maybe I’ve never been. With a small voice, she asks, “how are you so sure, mom?”
“Because a bad mistake doesn’t make you a bad person,” her mother’s voice is so soft when she says it. “And you’re not a bad person. You’re my Anne, I - I know you…”
Anne looks up.
Her mother’s face looks older - more deepened wrinkles, more fine lines. She looks… tired. Worn out. And in her eyes?
There’s fear.
Fear of not being sure what was happening. Fear of not knowing who her daughter is anymore. And Anne tells her with a shaky voice, “mom, I’ve changed.”
Her mother stares at her for another while, eyes now so full of affection that Anne had to look away. She felt dirty and undeserving, to receive a look like that. But her mother gave them to her anyway, a hand reaching out to run her fingers through her hair softly and said, “I know you have. It doesn’t matter. You’re still my Anne to me.”
Anne melts into her touch, leaning her forehead into her mother’s shoulder. “Even if I’m a bad person?”
“You’re not a bad person, baby. Mistakes don't make someone a bad person.”
“Then… what makes someone a bad person?”
“It depends,” her mother says softly, pressing her nose onto the side of her forehead, “but for me? It’s if you’re not willing to change yourself and make it right. But you do, Anne. Every mistake you make, you regret it and make it right. You,” she presses a finger against her chest gently, “have a good heart. I’m sure of that, at least.”
“And if I am a bad person?” Anne kept pushing, like a curious little child testing the world’s limits. Do you love me? Will you love me ? “Would you still love me?”
Her mother doesn’t hesitate when she answers, “always.”
Maybe it’s the way her mother looks at her, like she’s looking at an angel, or the way she says it, gentle and thick with accent - but Anne instantly believes her words, all her doubts disappearing into thin air. Unconditional love, she realizes - that’s what they’ve all been missing, all this time. And Anne has it - she undoubtedly has it, always, from her parents who had always believed in their baby girl. But Marcy? Sasha? People grow when they’re given love and affection. So how could she hold it against them when they don’t?
No. Anne would love them, fiercely and unconditionally, no matter what happens - no matter if they scream or kick around like she had when she was younger, denying to be loved because they didn’t feel like they deserved it. But first…
Apologies.
The guilt weighs her down again, making her body ache, her mind recalling her words, I wished it was you instead of Marcy, and Sasha’s strained reply, I wish it were me, too. That , Anne thinks, was going to be the hardest part of them all - because how does one even begin to fix a damage so great like that?
But, her mother’s voice says inside her, you can try.
Yes. Try.
If she could survive seven months in a foreign dimension, she could do that, at least.
“There’s… something we haven’t told the rest of you about.”
The dining room table was deathly quiet once again, save for the humming of the refrigerator on the side. Anne fidgets with the little figurine that represents two-hundred fucking toads from the rebellion army, realizing with great burden of what she’s holding in her fingers. Sasha sits across the table from her, eyes like an eagle, focused on the battle plans and maps and figurines and anywhere but her.
Anne feels her whole body ache again. It’s that ache, always - she feels it all the way to her fingertips, throbbing in her body begging to escape, and she thought that it was guilt but she doesn’t think it is anymore now. No, it’s more than that. It’s something that’s stored inside Sasha’s blue eyes and Marcy’s brown ones, something the animal inside her craves whenever she’s just too close to them, just a step over the line that she doesn’t even know where exactly it is.
Love. Desire. Longing. She doesn’t know anymore. All that she knows is that she can’t lose Sasha the way she lost Marcy. She can’t. She’ll bury her feet in the ground to hold her down and beg for her to stay if she has to.
“Your friend Marcy is alive.”
Anne feels something blunt and painful stab her chest.
It was those words, those five words, “your friend Marcy is alive” - was what had stabbed her. Anne doesn’t think any sword or dagger can be as painful as hearing those words with her own ears, and then looking around the table wildly, tears in her eyes, questions all over her face.
And Sasha -
Sasha growls . Hands clutching on the leather straps on her armor, fire in her eyes. “Don’t fucking mess with me like that, Yunan.”
“She’s telling the truth,” Olivia speaks up to defend her. “Andrias, he - he had… plans, for her, long before I could see it coming. I saw it in his notes, his books - he’s using her. For - I don’t know. But he won’t let her die because he needs her. It was only logical.”
Anne feels like her head is about to burst. She turns over to Sasha, hoping that she would clarify, explain, anything, tell her that this is just some sick joke -
But Sasha stares at the table with a knowing look, hand now fidgeting with the figurine that represents herself.
And Anne stays silent.
“Where did you get the information that she’s alive?” Sasha spoke up, trying to hide the strain in her voice. Nobody else would have known or noticed, but Anne does - she always does. Long ago it would have been the question how was your sleep? or how was your weekend? And Sasha would give her and Marcy a smile as expressive as a mannequin and wave it off and tell them I’m fine, it was fine - but Anne knows the truth. She knows better than to trust the words and acts of Sasha Waybright, because she knows. She always knows.
Sasha Waybright always lies because that’s what keeps her alive.
“One of our scout team on the perimeter saw her a week ago,” Grime was the one who spoke up, this time, because he was the only person who could do it that wouldn’t get stabbed by a dagger after. “She’s being transported in a tube down to Andrias’ new base.”
“In a wh - one week ago?” Sasha was furious, voice high-pitched and broken . “Why didn’t you fucking tell me - “
“We had to confirm what we saw, Sasha,” Grime says calmly, and when he says Sasha and not commander, Anne knows that he’s really talking to the girl he now sees as his daughter, not his lieutenant. “I wouldn’t want you to hang on to false hopes.”
False hopes is better than none, Anne wants to say, but those words were stuck in her throat again, and she could only watch Sasha stutter and freeze for a moment before she shakes her head, clears her throat, and regains her composure again. Just like that.
A girl raised to wear a mask that wasn’t her face. A girl raised to bury everything so deep inside her until the point where she doesn’t even know what it is she buried down there anymore. Until she doesn’t know how to stop burying things anymore, and before she realizes it, she’s burying herself.
“Right. Okay, listen up.” She grabs a pen and circles over Andrias’ base on the map, far off the Californian shore and into the sea, “we are going to send a rescue mission as quickly as possible.”
Grime speaks up. “Sasha - “
“ - no, let me speak, just - listen,” there’s this anger and ambition in her voice Anne hasn’t heard since she had sworn to beat up a couple of teenagers in the park who had called Marcy the r-slur (which she did later on), and Anne is… terrified.
Anne had always had a fire inside her that was too big for her own good, yes. But Sasha? Sasha had always been on fire.
“If we get a hold of Marcy, whatever Andrias’ plan is would be put on hold or setback if not destroyed completely because he needed her for his plan, whatever it is, right?” Sasha asks. “She’s crucial. If only we could get her back…”
Yunan nods thoughtfully. “You are right, commander.”
“But it won’t be that easy,” Olivia tells her worriedly. “Andrias… Marcy is far too precious for him. He’ll have guards, protection, everywhere - don’t rely on him holding back. He’s willing to stab a child for all of this.” The woman’s voice breaks at the words a child, like she’s carrying some sort of guilt over it too, like she was somehow responsible for not being able to protect Marcy. “I need you to think clearly of this, Sasha .”
Sasha takes a shaky breath, angry tears welling in her eyes, “I know. I - I am . We are saving her, it’ll help us gain an upper hand on this war, and nobody has to get hurt because I’ll be the only one who’s going. It’s all a win.”
“But - what’s your plan?” Olivia pushes, “once you get there?”
“If I go alone, I’ll be able to make it quick - find Marcy, get her onto Joe Sparrow, and send her back. I’ll do everything in my power to get her back, I swear.”
Anne feels a wave of guilt overcome her once more as she begins to realize what Sasha was trying to do. Her gums and teeth hurt, her hands shaking, desperate to grab on Sasha and hold her tight until the aching disappears.
“But it’ll be a suicide mission,” Grime says in concern, too. “You can’t go alone, commander - I’ll come with you, make sure you both get out of there safely - “
“No. You need to stay here, look over the rest of the army.”
“But - “
You told me once that a commander should be willing to make sacrifices for the greater good,” she cuts him off. “ That is what I’m doing. I’m going. It’s final, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me, so the best thing you can do now is to help me finish my plan and pack up.” Sasha finished her sentence and stood up from her seat, chair dragging across the kitchen tiles, echoing against the silence of the room. “Meeting dismisse d. Further plans to be discussed later, after my mission.”
Grime tries again. “Sasha - “
“I said, meeting dismissed.”
Anne feels the thick pain in her throat surfacing, hot tears beginning to slip down her face.
She doesn’t say a word.
Screaming. Raw, terrified screaming, coming from the spare room downstairs, where Sasha had been staying for the past few weeks. And Anne has never jumped up and ran so fast, feet tripping against each other as she stumbled down the stairs, past her startled and dazed parents, slamming the door open and climbing into bed to hold the trembling girl in her arms.
“Sasha!” she exclaims, holding her shoulders and tries to shake her awake. “Sasha, wake up! Sasha!”
The girl in her arms gasped awake. Eyes wide and alert and scared, trying to find the danger from her dream and finds a certain brown-haired girl instead. Anne felt hot tears on her palm making its way down Sasha’s cheeks, and she wipes them away softly, whispering “ It’s okay, it’s just a dream, you’re okay, look at me - “
“Anne?” Her mother’s voice asks from the doorway, concern written all over her face, “is everything alright…?”
Sasha jumps in her place at the voice, shaking, pulling her close and grasping on her shirt. “It’s fine, mom,” Anne tries to assure, holding the girl tighter, “I’ve got it. I’ve got her.”
Her mother still isn’t convinced. There’s a clear hint of hopelessness when she spoke again in her thick Thai accent, “if there’s anything I can do…”
“ I know, mom,” she replies back. “ Go back to bed. We’ll be okay.”
Anne watches her mother nod disappear into the dark hallway, closing the door behind her. She turns back to see Sasha’s wide eyes still staring at her, tears still freely streaming down her face, hands still clutching on her shirt, desperate to get a hold of her.
Anne tugs her closer and rests her head on her shoulder, wrapping her arms around her tightly - her way of saying I’m here, I’m right here, you’re safe. And Sasha sobs, her whole body wrecking with each one, holding onto her too tightly but Anne didn’t have the heart to tell her that. She lost hers somewhere in the dark corners of this house, in the places where she had told her mother I wish I wasn’t your daughter and Sasha I wish it was you instead of Marcy.
But if her heart’s really gone, then what’s causing all of these feelings exploding inside her right now? All these guilt, longing, relief? What’s causing her to feel the ache in her nerves all the way to her fingertips, in which she held Sasha tighter, closer, finally -
Sasha pulls away.
And Anne was too much of a coward to make her stay.
“Sorry,” the blonde whispers, wiping the remaining tears from her face almost angrily, her voice dripping with shame. “I - sorry. Tell your parents I’m sorry.”
“Sasha - “ Anne tries, a hand reaching back out, every cell in her body begging to touch her again.
“I’ll be fine,” Sasha insists, her voice raising slightly, and Anne wonders how she could regain her strength and control just like that. But then again, Anne knows her better than that - and what she has isn’t strength. It isn’t control. “I’m okay,” she says, sounding more like she’s trying to convince herself, “I’m okay. I’ll be okay.”
(She didn’t say the darker parts of it. She didn’t say “ I have to be. I have no other choice.”)
And still, Anne keeps reaching out anyway, because she knows better than to let her go again. “Sasha - “
“ No!” she’s yelling, now, throat raw with pain in her voice. “Anne. Please.”
Anne doesn’t cower at that; not even a flinch. She wonders when she had stopped doing that. Maybe somewhere along the times when she finally realized that Sasha isn’t a fierce, fearless warrior but rather a scared, confused child hiding in the shell of one. “You know I’m not going anywhere.”
Sasha doesn’t reply back.
She tries to push her luck, an arm extending to reach for her again; Sasha says with a sharp, warning voice, her body trembling, “don’t fucking touch me.”
“Okay,” Anne nods, pulling her hand back. “Just - I’m sorry.”
It sounded rather insincere when she said it out loud. How do you say I’m sorry like you mean it? Who thought that someone could fix mistakes as big as mountains with two simple words?
So she says again, in her mother language, “ ขอโทษ .” I’m sorry.
Another moment of nauseating silence, the air around them so thick Anne could have cut it with her mother’s chopping knife. So thick that it was hard to breathe.
But she’s always felt like this around Sasha, doesn’t she? So why was this any different?
You know why.
“Did you mean it?” Came Sasha’s voice - no more than a whisper, as if for the first time in her life, she’s scared. Scared of the answer that the other girl would give her. Scared that the answer would be yes.
But Anne doesn’t hesitate to answer “No,” the same way her mother didn’t hesitate to answer “ always” when she asked her would you still love me.
“Then why did you say it?”
Anne swallows thickly, trying to find a logical explanation for it. Fearing that Sasha would disappear into the night if she said one thing wrong or a second too late. Why did I say it? Why did I say it? “Because I wished it was me instead of Marcy, too.”
Sasha looks up from her knees, eyes bloodshot with tears - Anne could see it, even in the dark of the night; the tears brimming in her eyes reflecting the faint light from the moon outside the window.
“You weren’t wrong,” Sasha whispers, averting her gaze, spitting out those words like a filthy secret. “It should have been me.”
“No,” Anne says almost immediately, hands reaching out to hold her in reflex - anything, anything just to ease the aching guilt boiling inside her. “No, no! You - “
Sasha pushes her off once again, gentler this time. “I have to go on that mission.”
“Sasha,” her voice broke when she said her name, like it was a tragedy. “ Please. I can’t lose you too.”
“Yes, you can. I’m horrible.”
“Fuck that, then, because I’m horrible too,” Anne held her desperately, looking her straight in the eyes, dark brown against blue, “ I don’t care.”
Sasha’s eyes widened with a small, breathy gasp. As if she couldn’t believe that she’s hearing those words said to her with her own ears. As if she refuses to believe that there’s someone that doesn’t care whether she’s a bad person or not. “...what?”
“I said, I don’t care.” Anne says again firmly. Her hands finally reached out to cup the other girl’s face, letting her hands be full of her. Stroking her face, the faint scar on her cheek. Finally, finally. “I love you. And I don’t care that you’re not good - you’re Sasha, the girl I learned how to tie my fucking shoelaces with, and I love you. I really, really do.”
Sasha shakes her head in disbelief, trying to back away from her. “No. You don’t - “ she swallows thickly, “you don’t mean that.”
“Yes, fuck you, I do,” Anne held on her still keeping her close because she’d be damned if she lets her leave again. “I love you. I love you.”
She shakes her head again, harder this time, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks once again, “I don’t - I don’t know how to believe that, Anne.”
“Then take all the time you need,” Anne tells her softly, wiping them away. “I’ll love you anyway.”
Sasha’s voice was no more than a whisper when she asked her like a scared child seeking certainty, “promise?”
Anne doesn’t hesitate when she answers, “I promise.”
Sasha sobs into the other girl’s shoulder. Anne lets her.
“D’you wanna know something?” she speaks up between the quiet of the night, between Sasha’s silent sobs, the trembles of her shoulders, her gaspy breaths. “In Thai, the words I’m sorry don't literally mean that. The first word, “ ขอ”, means request - it’s a rising tone. The second word, “โทษ” is a falling tone - meaning, punishment.” Anne swallows thickly. “So when I say I’m sorry In Thai - “
Sasha pulls away to look at her.
“A request for punishment,” she finishes. Her eyes staring right into Sasha’s to tell her that I mean it, I’m sorry.
Without missing a beat, Sasha replies, “love me, then.”
Anne smiles softly. “I don’t think that’s a fair punishment, Sash.”
“I don’t care,” Sasha mutters, resting her shoulder. “Love me anyway.”
“Remember that one time in literature class?” She asks her. “When we had to read out that thick book, Orestes?”
“No,” Sasha lets out a breathy laugh. “Only Marcy would remember that.”
The surroundings stiffen upon that name; like it’s a slur, like it’s a forbidden word. Like it’s a tragedy, only that it is. The girl who’s so scared of losing everything that she lost herself somewhere in between. Marcy.
“Sorry,” Sasha swallows thickly, shifting uncomfortably in Anne’s arms. “I didn’t mean - “
“Marcy,” Anne cuts her off, saying it loud and bold like nothing happened. “Marcy. You’re right. She’d be the only one who’d remember something like that.”
Sasha breathes in sharply every time Anne says that name. Marcy, Marcy, Marcy.
“We’re going to get her back,” She says again, bolder now, trying to fight the shaking in her voice, the uncertainty settling deep in her chest. “We’re going to get her back because nobody can take us away from each other. Friends until the end, right?”
A small chuckle. “Friends?”
Anne smiles. “Mm, you’ve got a point there.”
Sasha reached her hands out to pull her face down gently, meeting the tip of her nose on Anne’s. Quick, shy breaths, brown eyes against blue, the freckles on Anne’s face, the fading scar on Sasha’s cheek.
Anne doesn’t pull back, this time. Instead, she closes her eyes and sighs, relaxing against the other girl. “I’ll take care of you, Pylades said,” she murmurs, thumb lightly tracing the scar on her cheek.
“It’s rotten work,” Sasha replies, like she’s remembered it all along. Maybe she secretly does, burying it deep inside her, where the Sasha nobody’s seen before resides. The Sasha that’s aching for love. The Sasha that loves.
“Not to me,” Anne whispers in her ears softly; a promise to keep. A reassurance that she’ll always love her no matter what. “Not if it’s you.”
|
The backlash from the announcement that the Court was planning something was understandable. Annoying, but understandable. These people knew next to nothing about the Court, except that they’d sent him to kill one of their leaders. It was probably upsetting.
Still, he could have done without the accusing looks and suspicion rolling off of the members. Especially from that Artemis girl, but the others were doing it too. Well, the green girl was giving him worried glances more than anything, but, you know. Same difference.
It made him feel more alienated than he already did. He was completely out of place here, a Talon in a superhero hideout, helping the enemy of everything he did. It felt like armor that was too big for him- heavy and hard to move in. Every instinct was telling him to get out of there, but he knew he couldn’t go back to the Court without having killed Batman. And he still couldn’t bring himself to kill Batman. So here he was, in the middle of a huge mess he’d made for himself. If he hadn’t started to see Batman as another person, if he hadn’t engaged in conversation with him, he wouldn’t be here. This was why the Court liked their assassins silent. He’d never been good at that part, and now look where it had gotten him.
Anyway.
They had decided that they would strike that night, which meant they had all day to prepare. He tried not to think about how the Court had probably noticed he was missing by now. He kept repeating the words Batman had said in his head- he promised, he promised, he promised, I won’t get hurt - but only in his head. On the outside, he was flippant and only lightly interested in what they were planning.
The green girl and Artemis had gone out to get them food. Kid Flash had gone with them, claiming that he wanted to make sure they got the right stuff. Talon was pretty sure that he just wanted to hang around Artemis more. They stuck too close to each other for people who argued that much.
Aqualad- he was pretty sure his real name was Kaldur?- had started discussing precautions that would be taken when breaking in. Apparently Batman was going with the rest of them, which was something that didn’t seem to happen often, according to the raised eyebrows and side-glances the Team had given each other when they’d found out. Talon, for his part, was sitting on the floor, sketching out a vague map of the base from what he remembered of it. It might not have been completely accurate, but it would be a good guideline. His mask was off, the familiar gold tint of the world absent. It made the whole place seem even more unfamiliar to him, as if he’d fallen into another dimension. He’d taken it off because he figured the others might trust him more then. Not that it had helped.
Superboy was lurking behind him. Talon was trying to ignore that.
Finally, he sighed and gave up. “If you have something to say, you could say it instead of just standing there,” he said without turning his head.
Superboy walked up to sit next to him, looking somewhat abashed. “Sorry,” he said. “I just, I have a question.”
Talon didn’t respond, but raised his eyebrows.
“Why do you work for them?”
Talon stayed silent.
“I mean, you’re like, a kid, right? How’d you get mixed up in this stuff?”
“How did you?” Talon countered.
Superboy blinked in surprise. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
Talon stayed silent, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I mean, I’m a clone. Of Superman. Created to be a weapon that could take him down. If it weren’t for Aqualad and Kid Flash rescuing me from the labs that I lived in- Cadmus- I probably would have stayed a weapon.”
Talon stared at him, abandoning his map. “That sucks.”
“Kinda. I mean, the team helped me out. Helped me realize that I could be more than a weapon. Nobody can control me like that now.”
He paused, seeming to relish the idea. A small smile played across his lips. Then his attention snapped back to Talon.
“What about you? How’d you get in this?”
Talon stared at his map to avoid Superboy’s eyes. Finally, he spoke.
“What the Court wants, the Court gets. And you can’t get away from it. They control everything.”
They were both quiet for a while.
“I bet the League could help you,” Superboy said finally. Talon gave him a curious look.
“They could help you get away from the Court. If you wanted to. You could join the team, like I did.”
Talon rolled his eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. None of your League even knew the Court of Owls even existed until two days ago. I’m fine by myself.”
“Just because you’re fine by yourself doesn’t mean you have to be,” Superboy said.
Talon resumed making his map, and didn’t answer.
After a couple minutes of silence, Superboy got up and walked away.
…
“So, we’re going to Big Belly Burger?” Artemis asked. They’d been debating for a long time over where to go, but she thought they had finally narrowed it down.
“Yup!” M’gann said before Wally could say anything. Wally closed his mouth (he had been rooting for Wendy’s).
“Ugh, fine,” he grumbled. “Hey, are we getting anything for Owl dude?”
“I would assume so. Even assassins need to eat, right?” M’gann said. She was wearing jeans instead of her usual skirt, because it was getting late enough in the year that it was too cold for a skirt. A couple minutes ago, they’d passed some kids pretending they were smoking by blowing their puffs of breath into the cold air.
“I guess so,” Artemis said. “I don’t trust him, though.”
“Yeah, same,” Wally said immediately. “I think Bats is probably not thinking straight ‘cause of the murder attempts.”
Artemis rubbed her hands together and blew on them as they walked. She wished she had brought a jacket. Her mom had told her to bring a jacket, when she’d stopped by the apartment to say that she would be doing team stuff and probably wouldn’t be back until tomorrow.
“Yeah,” she said. “I don’t get it. Usually he’s pretty smart. But this kid… I mean, I’m not the only one who gets major creep-out vibes from him, right?”
“Yeah,” Wally said emphatically at the same time M’gann said, “Not really.”
Artemis turned to her. “What do you mean, ‘not really?’ This entire thing feels way too much like a setup.”
“I know, but… he can’t be older than, what, fourteen?” M’gann said, looking hesitant. “Probably younger. I just think it’s kind of sad. He probably doesn’t even know anything else.”
“That would suck,” Artemis said. Don’t I know it. “But it doesn’t really give a strong case for us trusting him. He tried to kill Batman. And I don’t think he’d have a problem killing us, either.”
M’gann fell silent, apparently not knowing how to answer. Artemis watched her, not saying anything. She looked kind of upset. It almost made Artemis want to apologize… but she wouldn’t. M’gann was new to Earth, and she didn’t know yet how horrible it could be. Artemis did, and she wanted to protect her from that. If M’gann got attached… well, it would be like when Jade left all over again, but this time with Artemis watching from the sidelines, instead of as the recipient.
She knew how it felt to be betrayed by someone. It was better that M’gann didn’t get her hopes up, because she didn’t deserve to go through the same thing Artemis did.
“I just think we should give him a chance,” M’gann said, breaking the silence. “I mean… he’s just a kid, right?”
“Yeah, a kid who has literally killed people ,” Artemis said. “He’s not some innocent little child who needs saving, M’gann.”
“Well, how do you know? We don’t know anything about him! What kind of kid signs up to work with assassins voluntarily?” M’gann’s voice had a slight edge to it, as if Artemis was being completely unreasonable.
My sister does, Artemis thought, but she didn’t say it. Instead, she said, “There’s always a choice. He made the choice to hurt people.”
M’gann turned to Wally desperately. “Wally, what do you think?”
Wally looked alarmed at being suddenly put on the spot. “Uh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry, Megs, I actually side with Artemis on this one. He had a choice.”
“Well- well-” M’gann looked frustrated, almost like she was going to burst into tears. “Well, maybe he shouldn’t have had to make a choice!”
She stalked away, walking faster towards the Big Belly Burger. Artemis and Wally exchanged a look, and hurried to catch up.
...
Kaldur was studying the map the Talon had drawn when the zeta tubes announced the arrival of lunch. M’gann came through first, looking annoyed and levitating Big Belly Burger bags. Wally and Artemis came through at the same time, Artemis carrying two more bags. Wally, it seemed, had not been trusted to carry anything.
As he watched, Wally and Artemis gave each other a look. M’gann was already in the kitchen, and they could hear her getting plates out a bit louder than she needed to.
Kaldur approached the two. “What happened,” he said, resignedly. It was a welcome change from the two arguing with each other, but it still wasn’t great.
“Man, I don’t know! We were just talking and she got really upset!” Wally said.
“What were you talking about?” Conner said, walking up to them.
“Talking about, you know,” Artemis lowered her voice and leaned in, “our guest.”
“What about him?” Kaldur asked.
“Whether we should trust him or not. M’gann thinks we should give him a chance.”
“And you don’t.” Conner deadpanned.
“Are you kidding me? Crazy ninja assassin guy is suddenly allowed access to our base after, what, almost killing Batman? Twice?” Artemis hissed. “I’m just saying, there’s a reason Batman’s not giving him access to the other base.”
"I mean, we don't have access to the other base either," Conner said.
“It is a strange situation. Maybe one that might be better discussed over lunch,” Kaldur said, giving them his best ‘meaningful look’ face.
They all got the hint and headed to the kitchen, where M’gann was. She glanced up at them, a fixed smile on her face. “Oh, good, we can eat now,” she said. “Uh, we got a lot of cheeseburger meals, Wally, you’re allowed to have four of them. That leaves enough for the rest of us. We also got fries. We didn’t get any drinks, you can get your own from the fridge though!” She was still smiling. It was a bit unnerving.
“Uhhh, okay then,” Wally said, moving forward to take his four meals. “You… okay, Megs?”
M’gann took a deep breath and braced herself against the countertop. “I’m fine,” she said. “This is a weird situation. I get it. We shouldn’t argue. Do you want juice?”
The others glanced at each other uneasily.
“Uh, I’m… I’m good. Thanks for offering,” Artemis said finally. “But seriously. We’re sorry for upsetting you.” She glared at Wally meaningfully.
“Uh, yeah, sorry about that,” he said sheepishly.
M’gann relaxed against the counter. “Don’t worry about it, guys. I just… I can’t make myself believe that any kid is a monster. Nobody’s really… a monster.”
Kaldur decided to intervene. “No. Nobody is a monster. That doesn’t mean people don’t make bad decisions sometimes. People are flawed. They make mistakes and quickly get tangled up in them.”
The team fell silent, all lost in their own thoughts. It was Wally who broke the silence.
“So… are we just going to philosophize and watch this Big Belly Burger’s get cold, or…”
“Yeah, no. I need to eat,” Conner said.
They all started taking their meals. The talking turned more light-hearted (“Hey, M’gann, did you catch up on that TV show I showed you?” “Oh, yeah, I got up to the part where Duncan died! I’m pretty sure he’s coming back, though,”) as they pulled open the plastic wrapping. The conversation came to a halt, however, when Conner glanced up at the doorway. “Oh, hey.”
“Hi,” Talon said from his place in the threshold. He looked somewhat confused, as if this wasn’t what he’d expected to walk into.
“Oh! Hi!” M’gann said brightly. “Do you want a cheeseburger? We got some for you, if you want it!” She gestured to the bag on the table, which only had one meal left in it.
Talon stared. He looked completely nonplussed. M’gann smiled back, seemingly unperturbed.
“Um. I’m fine.”
“Oh.” M’gann’s smile dimmed a bit. “Uh, we’ll leave it out if you want it later, okay?”
Talon nodded, and disappeared from the entryway.
Wally waited a moment to make sure he wouldn’t be overheard, then said, “Man, what kind of person doesn’t take fast food when it’s offered?”
M’gann didn’t comment. Instead, she said, “Hey, there’s still a bit of time before the briefing, right? You guys wanna watch a show?”
After they all agreed, they moved into the living room. Of course, the living room was much the same space, but they moved a couple feet to sit on the couch. Soon they were all absorbed in whatever sitcom it was now- Kaldur wasn’t up to date on surface-world media, something Wally and Artemis claimed needed to be rectified as soon as possible. Still, they hadn’t gotten around to the marathon that they said would happen sooner or later- most of the time they just kept making an ever-growing list of what they would make him, Conner and M’gann watch.
While The Office played in the background, Kaldur got up to get a glass of water. As he moved around the couch to get to the kitchen, he smiled to himself. The bag containing the last Big Belly Burger meal was gone.
|
It was the first of May and for the whole month of April, Mista had been scarce.
Buccellati knew better than to send the gunman out during this time, even just for coffee, so he'd been on desk duty when he wasn't holed up in his apartment cowering. His work had been confused at him using up all of his carefully collected sick days and shift trades, but Mista just couldn't do April. It was the worst month and no matter what day it was still the fourth month and he just couldn't do it. Giorno had been- well, an angel about it really. He never forced the numbers like Abbachio and Fugo sometimes did, or laughed at him like Narancia did exactly once; instead he helped him count, and understood why he would make it up to him on the first, and god he loved this boy.
So much so, that it led to the current dick being pressed into his ass.
"Mista, relax," the blond soothed from behind.
He didn't know how, it was- he'd never had- how could he?
"Uhhhn," was all he managed to articulate as his thighs tensed, and his forehead dropped to his arms.
Giorno chuckled, rubbing light circles on the gunman's hips, "it'll feel much better all the way in, I promise."
How did Giorno do it? From now on, he'd spend as long as the blond would need for prep work. Huffing and trembling, Mista managed to unclench enough for Giorno to slide in all the way, the sensation forcing a choked gasp from his throat.
It felt... Weird.
Full, and weird. Like he had to take a massive shit, and a bit too much with every tiny movement reminding him there was currently something in there. It wasn't uncomfortable, not exactly, but it was... so weird.
Giorno was kneading and spreading his cheeks with a fond smile as Mista buried his face in his arms and pillow, "how are you doing?"
Mista did not know.
How was he doing?
Not bad but he was something.
He was getting kind of used to the feeling when Giorno suddenly slid out a few inches making him squirm, "I ah- what if t-this isn't for me, ya know?"
The blond laughed airily, "Mista, we've not even really started, trust me, okay?"
Thing is, Mista did trust Giorno.
Completely, would-walk-through-fire-if-he-directed level of trust here he was so devoted. The blond had helped save his life, and gave him a chance, and loved and cared about him with complete disregard to his education or occupation, despite his wrongly wired brain.
He just- wasn't so sure if he could do this?
Damn if Giorno believing he could do it didn't light a fire in him though. He missed seeing the smile he got in response when he pushed his hips back, but he did catch the stilted gasp. And that- that wasn't so bad... pressing back and continuing to meet each movement of the blond's hips, he decided it was kinda hot making Giorno riled up from underneath him...
Eventually Giorno picked up a gentle pace, taking his time to get the gunman acclimated to the feeling. It was really sweet, and Mista was beginning to feel... something building deep inside him, something at the base of his spine. Something kinda good that he couldn't place but it made him push backd against the blond's cock more for himself rather than Giorno.
This... it was actually feeling pretty good now.
Abruptly the gunman's phone rang, startling him out of the daze he fell into.
"Is... is it important," the blond asked, out of breath, and fuck that was hot.
It was also Fugo's ringtone so "y-yeah," since he only called when it was really important and Buccelati was too busy.
Giorno reached over the gangster, who grunted at the blond using him for support as he grabbed the burner on the nightstand, grinding out a darkly annoyed "can I help you?"
Mista stiffened.
Oh no.
Giorno was using his mafia boss voice, and Mista could feel his cock twitch interestedly, "I'm afraid he's indisposed right now, but I can pass on a message."
Fugo wouldn't dare, not with gang stuff, and Mista could hear tinny muted protests from the speaker. He was too preoccupied with trying to stamp down the burst of burning arousal currently working it's way through him before the blond caught on to deal with that though.
"No, he is not available to talk."
Giorno had practically growled and Mista clenched involuntarily, quickly smushing his face into the pillow to muffle his moaning, but it was too late, Giorno inhaled sharply behind him.
"Mista," Giorno purred, the gangster immediately looking backward to meet his interested and amused eyes, phone dampened against his neck in order to hide the inevitable conversation from Fugo, "was that what I thought it was?"
This was not good-well it was, extremely so, but also not.
There were a lot of things about Giorno, or things he could do, that Mista found undeniably hot. His lips were hot, his ass, his legs, his personality, but his voice... when he got irritated, the blond would drop into this dark yet calm, unintentionally sexy tone that haunted Mista's wet dreams like some sort of swamp creature. It was authoritative, demanding, primal in the best sort of way, a way that had Mista's sex pistol ready to shoot if you know what he meant.
But the gangster was pretty unsure about following this particular rabbit hole with company he'd have to see at work tomorrow.
"Uhhh, I-I don't know what you're talking about," Mista stammered, shoving his face back into the pillow.
Giorno was unconvinced, Mista was fucked (or about to be), and maybe he could smother himself before he died of embarrassment.
"Oh yes, Mista is here with me... no, I can't let you speak to him," Giorno was back on the phone, free hand trailing up a tan spine.
Mista shivered, "you get him every day of the year, I can have him just this once, don't you think?"
Punctuated with a sudden snap of his hips that made Mista moan loudly with an eloquent, "uhnnn."
Giorno had started up a pace, faster than before and at a different angle that met each word, "we can continue to talk though, Fugo, he can listen in, can't you, Mista?"
Mista couldn't exactly focus, but Giorno's tone had him breathing out a "yes sir" as he gripped the sheets, although he wasn't sure what he'd actually agreed to or why he just referred to his boyfriend as 'sir'.
This certainly was an interesting time to learn he had a new kink.
Or two.
The pace had Mista gasping into the pillow and his legs trembling, he didn't think he was all that sensitive inside, but then again he had never actually tried to find out. It also probably didn't help that his body had long since acclimated to the intrusion.
His phone beeped louder, Giorno had turned up the volume, "so, tell us, what's so important?"
Mista swallowed down a whimper as he attempted to listen in over the wet slap behind him, but he couldn't focus on Fugo's stilted voice as the weirdly good sensation built its way back up and faster this time.
"Oh? That's rather serious," Giorno was just as collected as usual, if a bit more sultry, like he wasn't pounding a man into oblivion but was seducing one into bed, "don't you think so, Fugo?"
Fugo sounded like a stammering mess, voice pitched higher thanks to either Giorno's tone or the shitty phone speakers; Mista would laugh if he wasn't so busy trying not to be picked up by the phone receiver.
"Would you like to know what you could do," Giorno offered while gently pushing Mista's legs apart with his free hand, still holding his pace, "they'd find one easy enough, but if you stole a hundred..."
Mista was practically choking on his noises, the new position easier for Giorno to hit his prostate; he was lost in the physical stimulation and Giorno's authoritative voice and the idea that he liked being bossed around and maybe even a little bit of exhibitionism. Not that the last one was too horribly shocking. Now he just needed Giorno to cooperate, but it seemed that as soon as he got close the blond would slow down and spend a bit more time chatting until he had calmed down.
Fed up and bracing on an arm, Mista reached down to get himself off only for a hand to knock his away, "no touching, Mista, not yet."
"Giorno," Mista whimpered quietly, he was not above begging, not in this sort of situation, "I gotta-I need, I really need to- I could die-"
That got Giorno to chuckle, "you aren't going to die," Fugo mumbling into the phone in a probably concerned voice, "you are doing just fine."
Mista groaned loudly, slumping down only to yelp at the sudden sensation, ignoring the blond's breathless giggles and Fugo's worried questions. Ugh, why hadn't he hung up yet? Things were going to be so awkward at work tomorrow he just knew it.
"Mmm, right, where were we, Fugo?"
Mista groaned even harder, pushing back with a puff, "Giorno, get on with it, c'mon," god he was so close.
The blond simply chuckled, before saying some more polite yet subtly loaded goodbyes to Fugo, flicking the burner flip phone shut with a click.
"He was so nice," Giorno mused, tossing the phone aside and returning both hands to the gunman's sides, "unlike you," teasingly.
"Fugo doesn't have a dick up his ass," Mista griped, wiggling his hips pointedly.
"You don't seem to mind that as much as you are letting on," he could practically hear the devilish smirk in the blond's words, "in fact, you didn't seem to mind several things."
"Uhhh, yeah about that-"
"Does being bossed around get you off, Mista?"
Giorno had two settings when it came to talking: vague and mercurial like an oracle or blunter than an iron pipe. In lieu of a response Mista spluttered while gathering the sides of the pillow up to cover the red flush he knew was in his ears and cheeks. Who just- who just asks that!
"Who just asks that," Mista wheezed.
Giorno merely pressed his chest against the gangster's back, stretching over him to whisper in a burrowed ear, "you didn't answer my question."
The blond was sliding his hands up tan sides, fingers catching lightly on Mista's pebbled nipples, the press of skin on skin across his back sending electrifying shocks down his body. He had to struggle not to make any super embarrassing noises- just the normal level of embarrassing noises if the stilted gasps and moans were anything to go off.
"D-damn Giorno, don't rile a guy up if you don't plan on takin' responsibility," Mista halfheartedly grouched, face planted into the soft pillow.
"Mista."
Oh no.
"Tell me."
"Yes sir, I do, sir."
This was truly an educational experience
......
The next day at work was not too bad, it was a low day and the gang was scattered around the city for the most part doing stake-outs, trades, etc. Mista was a little sore in odd places, but overall a nice easy day.
Until Fugo walked back in as Mista was getting ready to leave
Immediately the platinum-blond flushed, eyes widening and looking anywhere but the gunman's direction. Mista was not going to have this conversation- even though his own traitor body was probably just as red at this point. Why was Fugo body-blocking the damn door. As the gunman was eyeing the nearby window and doing some quick mental math on the probability of death if he jumped through it for a quick escape, Fugo finally worked up the nerve to speak.
"So uh, Giorno is kind of really sexy."
Mista was now doing mental math on the probability of getting away with Fugo's murder.
The chances were better than the window.
|
The next morning, when Aya entered the Great Hall for breakfast, the reactions of the students were surprising yet at the same time not at all.
She could tell her housemates had mixed feelings over how they should feel about her unexpected, and frankly unfair, participation in the tournament. Zacharias Smith was the most vocal in his disapproval; he thought she was the worst for trying to steal the glory from Cedric and dirtying the traits and reputation of Hufflepuff by cheating her way into the competition.
The rest, however, were surprisingly not trying to confront her openly about it. They limited themselves to sending her suspicious looks and giving her the cold shoulder, but she noticed the wheels in their brains turning that no matter how she entered, Hufflepuff now had two champions representing Hogwarts, and regardless of who won the Tournament for Hogwarts, the glory would go to a Hufflepuff.
The house that surprised her the most was Slytherin. They either let her be and even avoided eye contact or they approached her congratulating her and offering their help and support. Curiously, Draco somehow managed to fall into both categories of Slytherin students. She graciously accepted both, but was wary of the intentions and sudden change in behaviour. There was something fishy going on, and she didn’t like it.
Ravenclaw, though not outright confrontational, let its distaste at her be known and most of the Gryffindor followed suit, with Ronald Weasley at the front. No surprise really. He approached her as soon as she sat down.
“How did you do it?” he spat from behind her.
She looked around for a bit, before focusing on him with a surprised look. “Oh, are you talking to me?” she asked with fake innocence.
He turned beet red from anger. “You think you’re funny, do you?” he said darkly.
Everyone in the Hall was witnessing the conversation with rapt attention.
“I don’t think, Ronald, I am funny,” she said simply. “Just because you don’t like the same kind of humour I do that doesn’t mean I’m not funny. Ask your siblings if you don’t believe me.”
“Leave my brothers and sister out of this, you snake,” he hissed. “I don’t know how Fred, George, and Ginny can be around you,” he sneered, “but you’re nothing but a slimy, twisted and evil snake. You should have been in Slytherin. With how dark and twisted you are, you would’ve fit right in.”
He expected her to react, but she was completely unfazed.
“If you have any objection in regards to my sorting, you can consult the sorting hat, because it was his decision to put me in Hufflepuff and not Slytherin. However, do you want to know what I think your problem is?”
He bristled.
”I think you’re just salty as fuck, because I am a champion and you’re not.”
Some students snickered.
Ronald snorted with fake bravado. “And why would I want to be a champion?”
“Because you want the glory and money,” she said with a forced smile. “Since you couldn’t become the friend of the Girl-Who-Lived and share in the spotlight and my fame, you were hoping to bypass the Age Line with an ageing potion and join the tournament that would bring you just that.”
Ronald’s face contorted into the ugliest grimace she ever witnessed and pointed his wand at her. “Shut up, bitch,” he hissed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
People gasped and Aya’s friends were ready to intervene.
She narrowed her eyes. Before a single syllable could leave his mouth, she was on her feet, grabbing his wrist and twisting his arm behind his back. She applied enough pressure to disarm him and then, with her free hand, she grabbed the back of his head and slammed him face down on the bench where she was sitting a second ago, forcing him to kneel.
“Let’s get something out of the way, shall we?” she said in a dangerously calm tone. “It’s clear to me that you don’t like me and, let’s be honest, I don’t like you either. In fact, saying that is putting it mildly. The only reason I can somewhat tolerate you is because of Fred, George and Ginny. If it weren’t for them and their friendship, you can be sure, Ronald, that you would have faced my wrath a long time ago for how you treated Hermione in your first and third years,” she gritted through her teeth.
Ronald whimpered as she applied more pressure on his head.
“I want to make something very clear, Ronald,” she hissed menacingly, “and to you, Smith, as well.” She glared at her pretentious housemate, who gulped and shrank in his seat.
“From now on, I don’t want either of you to so much as say a word to me, not even to say a ‘Good morning. How are you?’, because I can’t fucking stand the sight of either of you, much less hear your annoying voices.” Her voice was controlled, but she was shaking in supressed rage.
“I’ve been listening to you and your bullshit for over four years, and quite frankly I’m done with it. If I hear you or anyone talking shit about me because of this fucking tournament, I’m going to start smashing some skulls and teeth, until you motherfuckers learn to leave. Me. The. Fuck. Alone. And start minding your own business.”
Everyone paled at the threat.
“Unless you’re my friends or family, I don’t have to explain myself to you. I don’t care if you think I cheated my way into this tournament, I just don’t want to hear your thoughts and opinions, because I couldn’t give a shit about them. If you have any complaints, then I suggest you contact the ones in charge of the tournament and the bastard who thought it would be fun to make me participate.”
She released him, but threw him to the side for good measure. “Now,” she snarled, “get out of my sight, before I snap and start pummelling that stupid face of yours.”
Ronald whimpered pathetically and scurried away an all fours. In that moment, all the Hufflepuffs who were experiencing conflicting emotions in regards to her participation suddenly welcomed the idea of having her as a champion. No one was stupid enough to incur her wrath … well, maybe Zacharias Smith, but even he would now think twice before he opened that large stupid mouth of his.
…
After breakfast, she went to her father Severus’ room, where Sirius was waiting for her.
As soon as he saw her, he wrapped her in a tight hug and started fussing over the fact she would be competing in a dangerous tournament while still being underage. Aya simply rolled her eyes and smiled fondly at Sirius’ concern.
“Don’t you think I would have done something by now if there was something I could do, Black?” sighed Snape, pinching his nose.
Sirius looked dejected. “So,” he started carefully, “there’s nothing we can do?”
“I’m afraid not, Papa Siri,” she said gently, rubbing his shoulder. “But don’t worry. I’m going to show them who’s Aya Potter-Snape-Black. I mean, it would be a shame to let my forced participation go to waste, don’t you think?”
Severus and Sirius looked sceptical, but Aya continued in her confident and determined tone. “It’s like how that muggle saying goes, ‘If life gives you lemons, make some lemonade.’” A feral grin appeared on her face. “They want a show? Well, they’re going to get it. I hope they like lemonade.”
Her fathers shook their heads, but wore their signature smiles.
…
When Aya returned to the common room after spending some quality time with her fathers, she found Cedric sitting by the fire, talking with his friends. She approached him.
His friends noticed her first. There was a trace of fear and confusion in their eyes.
“Cedric,” she addressed him. He turned his head her way.
“I don’t want to intrude, but I’d like to have a word with you.”
He looked slightly alarmed. She chuckled at his reaction. “As long as you don’t cross me, you have nothing to fear,” she told him with a grin. He and his friends gulped, some even started to sweat a bit.
She laughed, drawing the attention of the entire common room. “Relax,” she said, “I’m not going to do anything to you. I simply want to talk about the tournament.”
He swallowed hard, but nodded. “Okay,” he said carefully and gestured to the place beside him on the sofa.
She sat down. “Thank you.”
He motioned to his friends to give them space and privacy. When they were somewhat alone, he spoke to her. “What exactly did you want to talk about?”
“Cedric,” she said in her low business voice, “I know we haven’t really interacted in the past four years, but now that we’re both competing in the tournament I thought we could … join forces.”
He narrowed his eyes, intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“I know this tournament is supposed to be each contestant for himself or herself, but it doesn’t have to be. We can team up and work together that way we have a much better chance at winning, but above all surviving this.”
Cedric was processing the suggestion in his head. After a while he said, “Suppose we help each other, just how much help are we talking about?”
“Well,” she breathed, “it mostly depends on the tasks. For example, the only thing we know about the first one is that it is designed to test our daring, but we don’t know what actually awaits us.”
She glanced around the room, then leaned closer in a conspiratorial manner and whispered, “However, I have learned from a trusted source that we can get a peek at what the task is going to contain in the Forbidden Forest after curfew on November 20th.”
Cedric’s eyes widened, clearly a lot more interested. Aya grinned wickedly.
“What do you say, Cedric?” she prompted him, “Are you in?” She offered him a handshake.
He looked at her offered hand, then back at her face.
He shook hands with her. “I’m in.”
“Excellent,” she said with a wide, toothy grin. She was about to leave, when she remembered something else. “Oh and … try not to spread the word too much,” she whispered. “We wouldn’t want the teachers or the officials getting wind of what we’re doing.”
“Of course,” he said, agreeing. “My lips are sealed.”
…
The secret nature of Aya’s conversation with Cedric ignited a wildfire of curiosity and speculation among the Hufflepuffs. But no matter how many speculations and theories developed in the following week, Aya, her friends and Cedric were like graves. Because of that, some started to think there was something going on between her and Cedric.
Aya was baffled. Why did people always assume the worst and always make everything sexual? Like, yes, Cedric was, objectively speaking, good looking, but she was not even remotely interested in him romantically or sexually. Besides, he already had a girlfriend, and she wasn’t interested in breaking up anyone. The only breaking she was interested in was the breaking of bones. But apparently, Cedric’s girlfriend Cho Chang believed the rumours to some extent, if the glares she was sending her way and how she was always marking her territory by holding Cedric’s hand or giving him hugs and kisses in public were any indication.
First, someone forced her to participate in a tournament she wouldn’t enter even if she had been old enough, and now this Ravenclaw girl thought she was trying to steal her boyfriend. Like, fuck everything. She didn’t have the time nor the will to deal with stupid people. That is why she spent the following Saturday afternoon wondering the school corridors covered with her special blanket.
She was walking with a book in her hands when, suddenly, she collided with someone as she turned the corner.
The impact messed up her balance and she fell backwards on her butt. The book she was holding landed on the floor beside her with a thud.
“My apologies, I didn’t see you,” came a male voice from above her and as she looked up, half-visible, she saw Viktor Krum offering her a helping hand while also eyeing confusedly her missing body parts.
As she thanked him and got to her feet, there was the sound of scurrying feet and female voices calling out for Viktor coming from another nearby corridor.
He stiffened and she could see panic in his features. He glanced behind him. “Please, help me escape dose vomen,” he pleaded with desperation coating his words.
Looking at her blanket, she pushed him behind her, told him to duck, and then, just as the members of Viktor’s fan club came into view, she finished draping him with the blanket and turning towards them with the book pressed to the chest and a neutral expression.
“Have you seen Viktor pass through here?” asked what appeared to be the leader of the club, a seventh year Gryffindor female student.
She blinked in confusion. “No, I haven’t seen him at all.”
She and the rest of her were eyeing her with distrust. The leader approached her and hissed in her face, “Either you’re lying or you’re blind if you haven’t noticed him.”
“I was too busy reading a book to pay attention to people around me,” she said, pointing to the book. She felt Viktor tug on the hem of her sweater.
“Well,” she started to move away from them with Viktor behind her and clutching her sweater, “I’ll be on my way then. Good luck with finding him.” She smiled sweetly one last time before walking away from the group.
Once they were out of their sight, Aya looked for the nearest broomstick cupboard and went inside.
“Thank you,” he said visibly relieved. “I am in your debt.”
He returned the blanket to her. She took it. “No problem,” she said smiling. “You know,” she cleared her throat, “if the attention of those girls bothers you so much, you could always issue a complaint or tell them to stop because you don’t like it.”
He fidgeted. “I knov, but … I don’t vant to be rude,” he explained shyly.
Aya gaped at him in disbelief. “These hormonal bitches are constantly harassing you, invading your personal space and privacy … and you’re worried about being rude to them?”
He winced as he realised how pathetic that sounded.
“Who cares if they feel insulted, dammit,” she exploded. “Do you want them to break into your room, tie you up and rape you before you’re finally going to put an end to this madness?”
He paled and started to shake his head.
“Then do something, dammit,” she demanded, swatting his chest. “Are you a man or not?” He nodded. “Are the balls between your legs just an ornament?” His eyes widened at her crude words, but he shook his head nonetheless. “Then fucking grow a pair and put those bitches in their place!” She sounded and looked like a military officer. “Because if you’re not going to do shit, then I will, because their behaviour has crossed all limits of normality a long time ago.”
She huffed and puffed for a few seconds to get her tamper under control.
“I suppose I should first offer you a sincere apology on behalf of women and normal students of Hogwarts,” she sighed. “I promise not all women are like that.”
“I knov,” he offered her a reserved smile. “Den I should offer you an apology as vell.”
That took her by surprise. “Why would you apologise to me?”
“For tinking you somehow cheated your vay into the competition.”
“Oh, that,” she said dismissively. “You’re not the only one, trust me.”
“I knov,” he said. “I saw vat happened in the Great Hall last Sunday, and it made me tink about vat you said dat night as vell. It might have been unexpected, but in my eyes, dere iz no question you have the attitude to compete and even vin. I am looking forvard to compete against you.”
She smiled, feeling oddly moved. “Thank you,” she said. “I hope you are prepared, because I’m not going to hold back. I’m going for the win.”
He laughed. “Oh, I von’t be holding back eider.”
She leaned against the cupboard wall with her back pressed against it and crossed her arms across her chest. “So,” she began tentatively, “besides your horrible experience with some of the female populace of this school, how has the rest of your Hogwarts experience been so far?”
He sighed and leaned against the wall beside her in the same posture as her. “The food iz good,” he said after a while.
She laughed, amused. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Good food is very important no matter where you go.”
“Egzactly. Vat else? The school iz nice. Very big. Much bigger and comfortable dan Durmstrang actually.”
She raised her eyebrows in wonder. “Really?”
“Yeah, for example, ve have just four floors, and the fires are lit only for magical purposes. But ve have grounds larger even than these — though in vinter we have very little daylight, so ve are not enjoying them.”
“Wow, sounds very austere and military.” She squinted at him, looking at his uniform. “Even your school uniform reminds me of some kind of Siberian war uniform.”
“Vell, our school focuses a lot on martial magic, because ve come from the land of Vikings, and Dark Arts, and has quite a reputation because of dat,” he explained. “I knov that people like Grindelvald and Voldemort give Dark Arts a bad name, but it iz not all dat bad. Did you knov that Dark Arts can be extremely useful and can be used in Healing?”
“I didn’t, but then again, no one here likes to talk about the benefits of the Dark Arts because they all start losing their shit as soon as they hear anything with the word dark in it.”
“Too bad. Dat iz van ting I don’t really like about dis place.”
“And are there many differences between Hogwarts and Durmstrang?” she asked. “Besides the ones you’ve already mentioned.”
“Vell, ve don’t accept Muggle-borns like Hogvarts and because ve are close to the North Pole, dere iz almost no sunlight in vinter and in summer it iz hardly dark.”
“You mentioned Vikings, just how exactly did you get here?”
“Ve travelled by ship.”
Aya’s eyes sparkled. “A ship? Like, a Viking or a Pirate ship?”
“I suppose it does look like a Pirate ship,” he allowed.
“Did you sing any Pirate or Viking sea shanties while sailing?”
“Uh, not really, but,” he added before she could feel disappointed, “some of my classmates have Viking ancestors and like to sing var and sea faring songs in Norse. If you vant, you can come visit us. I’m sure they vould be more than happy to sing for you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she smiled, and then added in a sigh, “We should go before people start noticing our absence and start panicking.”
He nodded. “Could you … help me get unnoticed halfway to our dorms?” he said awkwardly.
She laughed. “Of course, I will help you, Viktor. Here, put this on again.”
She handed him the blanket and he crouched before covering himself completely in it. Then, she carefully opened the cupboard door and surveyed the corridor.
When there was no one nearby, she signalled Viktor to follow her and stay close. They walked towards the Entrance Hall, crossed the courtyard, and then headed for the Boathouse, where the Durmstrang Pirate Ship was docked.
As soon as there were no students in the vicinity, they stopped.
“Tank you, Aya, again,” he said as he parted with the blanket. “If there is anything I can do for you to pay you back.”
“Don’t worry about it, Viktor,” she said nonchalantly, “I always like to help those who need and deserve it.” Her eyes soon acquired a shrewd look. “Although, there is something you could do, actually.”
“Vat iz it?”
“I know your headmaster is still upset with Hogwarts having two champions in the tournament, and I have a feeling he and Madam Maxime will try to cheat and find ways to help you and Fleur.”
Viktor’s expression turned serious. “I don’t need headmaster’s help.”
“I know,” she said softly, “but what if we helped each other? They didn’t say the champions couldn’t offer each other a helping hand.”
Viktor’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What egzactly does that mean?”
“It means that we, as in you, Cedric, Fleur and me, help each other throughout the tournament by solving clues and puzzles or giving general advice to each other so that we can tackle the tasks, prepared. Right now, Cedric and I have some information that you and Fleur don’t have in regards to the first task.”
Before he could complain or ask, she hurried and said, “It is nothing substantial yet, but if you want to find out what awaits us on November 24th, then you can join us at the edge of The Forbidden Forest after curfew on November 20th.”
He looked unsure, but nonetheless nodded with determination. “I vill be there.”
“Great,” she smiled. “Just don’t say anything about it if you can help it. We wouldn’t want your headmaster to lose his shit over something like this.”
He laughed. “I von’t tell anyone about it.”
“Then I’ll see you on the twentieth, comrade.”
They shook hands and parted ways.
…
Thinking it would be a waste not to read outdoors when she already came all this way, Aya decided to find a quiet spot near some trees where she could read her book.
As she was nearing the Forbidden Forest, she heard noises. Grunts and wood breaking. Curious, she decided to investigate the commotion.
She saw half a dozen trees ripped apart and another was just breaking in half by the trunk as a spell hit it. When it tipped over and landed with a thud, Aya saw a huffing and sweaty Fleur Delacour.
Their eyes met.
“What could have the poor trees done to you for you to be obliterating them in such a manner,” joked Aya, as she slowly approached her.
“What do you want?” Fleur said frowning.
“Nothing,” said Aya light-heartedly, raising her arms in a surrendering gesture. “I simply heard a commotion and came to see what all the noise was about.”
Fleur relaxed her stance a bit and sighed. “I am doing what you said to me.”
Aya was confused. She said a lot to Fleur on Hallowe’en; to what exactly was she referring? “And that is?”
“I zon’t want to be just a pretty face,” she said, determined. “I want to win zat Cup wiz my own strength. So I’m practicing my spell work to be prepared for ze first task.”
Aya was doing her best to smother her grin. “And how exactly do you plan to be prepared for a task you don’t even know what it will entail?”
Fleur blinked in confusion.
“How can you be prepared when you don’t know what you’re preparing for?”
There was moment of silence, before Fleur admitted Aya had a point. “Zen ‘ow do I get ready?” she said, looking like a lost puppy.
Aya wanted to laugh, but instead cleared her throat and said with a sly grin, “Well, you could join me, Viktor and Cedric on the twentieth of this month here after curfew.”
“Why would I do zat?”
“Oh, nothing,” said Aya innocently, “we’re just going to see what exactly the first task is going to be about.”
Fleur’s eyes widened and she gaped at her. “We are not supposed to ‘ave any ‘elp,” whispered Fleur.
“From teachers and mentors,” agreed Aya, “Mr. Bagman never said students or champions couldn’t help each other,” she said shrewdly.
Fleur let out a breathy laugh. “And why should we ‘elp each other? We are rivals, not friends.”
“True,” allowed Aya, “but why would you want to stand by yourself, when you can have people back you up?” she insisted. “Even if the help is coming from your rivals.”
Fleur regarded her with thoughtful eyes. “I see what you are trying to say. The twentieth you said?”
Aya nodded. “After curfew, near the Forbidden Forest.”
Fleur looked like she was debating with herself, but ended up looking at Aya with determination. “Okay,” she said. “I will come.”
Aya smiled wickedly. “Welcome aboard then, Fleur,” she said, offering her a handshake. They shook hands.
“I am sorry,” spoke Fleur after a while, “for ‘ow I be’aved towards you zat night.”
Aya nodded. “I’m sorry for how I spoke to you as well.”
“Don’t be,” giggled Fleur. “You were right about everysing, even if ze words you used to convey your message were vulgar.”
Aya chuckled awkwardly, “Yeah, I do have the tendency to curse a lot. I can’t help it. It’s who I am.”
“Oui, and violent as well. Not at all lady-like.”
She was probably referring to the incident with Ron in the Hall.
“And what about you?” said Aya. “Why would a delicate and beautiful lady such as yourself want to participate in a dangerous and physically demanding competition?”
“I’m a quarter-Veela,” said Fleur. “Because of zat, males get attracted to me and zey sink zey love me. I don’t know ‘ow many men ‘ave already declared zeir undying love for me and zey always give me lustful looks, and I zon’t like it.”
“So, you have a similar problem as Viktor with crazy fans only that in your case you have to deal with males instead of females?”
“Oui,” sighed Fleur dejectedly, “and because of my influence on men, many women zon’t want to be my friends, because zey sink I want to steal zeir boyfriends or ‘usbands.”
“That’s ridiculous,” snorted Aya.
“I understand zem. Some Veelas like ze attention and zey steal ozer women’s fiancés and ‘usbands, and because of zem, ze rest of us get ze bad reputation as well.”
“And you want to change that?” asked Aya tentatively.
“Not really, I want to participate because I am afraid one day some man iz going to become bold enough to force ‘imself on me and I won’t be able to defend myself, and I zon’t want zat. I want to be able to defend myself if it ‘appens. And because I want to become independent.”
“I don’t know if you’ll win, because I plan on doing that,” said Aya matter-of-factly and earned a glare from Fleur, “but regardless of the outcome, I think that by the end of the tournament, you’ll be strong enough to defend your honour if some son of a bitch ever decides to attack you like that.”
Fleur giggled. “I ‘ope so.”
Noticing it was getting quite dark, Aya and Fleur decided to go to the castle for dinner, after they returned the trees to their original state.
As they walked, Fleur mentioned her plans to work at Gringotts, and Aya was proud to say she knew a total of one person who worked there, and that was Ginny’s brother, Bill Weasley.
“If you end up working there, maybe you’ll meet him,” she told her enthusiastically. “He’s easy to spot because he’s so tall and has red hair … and he’s nice. He helped my father and I ward the house to make the use of muggle electronic devices possible without magic interfering.”
…
A week before their agreed meeting, Dumbledore announced a short ceremony called the Weighing of the Wands, where the wand maker Ollivander would test the champions’ wands to see if they were fully functional, which would take place after lunch in the adjacent chamber to the Hall behind the staff table.
After the ceremony, the Daily Prophet would conduct an interview with the champions. Aya was not looking forward to that, because of her history with the newspaper, but as long as Rita Skeeter wasn’t the one doing the interview, she supposed she could get through it.
An idea sparked in her mind. Why submit themselves to the torture individually, when they can face this hurdle together as a team. She immediately wrote her suggestion to all three and charmed the pieces of parchment to fly to them. She waited for their reactions and received a nod from all three. Now if the journalist wanted to be invasive or too personal, they could all have each other’s backs and keep the journalist in check.
The Wand Weighing lasted less than half an hour, presided over by Ollivander, Bagman, Dumbledore and Crouch. After Ollivander declared all four wands in prime and working conditions, it was time for the bloody interview.
…
The next day, their group picture was featured on the front page together with their short interview.
“TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT AT HOGWARTS: MEET THE FOUR CHAMPIONS”
By Eduardus Lima
Warning: This article contains strong language. Proceed at your own risk. Parental supervision and reader discretion are advised.
After Ludovic Bagman, Head of Magical Games and Sports, announced that instead of three champions, as was usually the case for a competition called Triwizard Tournament, there would be a fourth one this year as well, we had to get a closer look at the story behind such a development.
We took the opportunity after the ceremony known as Weighing of the Wands performed by Garrick Ollivander in the presence of the aforementioned Ludovic Bagman, Bartemius Crouch Snr., Head of International Magical Co-operation, and Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to speak briefly with the champions.
With me are Viktor Krum, the champion representing Durmstrang, Fleur Delacour, the champion representing Beauxbatons, and finally, Cedric Diggory and Aya Potter-Snape-Black, who will be competing for Hogwarts.
First, I would like to thank you for the interview and congratulate all four of you on making it into the competition.
Viktor, Fleur, Cedric, and Aya: Thank you.
Let us start with your feelings and impressions about the tournament. Were you expecting your involvement, or was it a surprise?
Viktor: Well, for me it vas expected and I have been mentally preparing myself for this since it was announced in September. I still feel honoured to represent my school. I will do my best to win.
Fleur: I suppose it was a bit of a surprise for me. Because there were others from my school who are equally competent if not more than I am, but I was really happy when my name was called, because now I have the opportunity to bring another victory to Beauxbatons and to prove myself.
Cedric: I suppose my reply is similar to Fleur’s. There are many good students at Hogwarts who wanted to participate and who had an equally good chance of being chosen as well, so I was surprised but happy for this opportunity.
Aya: My feelings and impressions, you say? Well, I was looking forward to watching the tournament as a spectator, but apparently, some fucker thought it would be funny if I participated against my will. However, I like to make the best out of whatever situation I find myself in, so now that I am part of the competition, I’m going to win this tournament.
I see. Well. In less than two weeks, you will be facing your first task. Since you don’t know the contents of the task, how are you preparing yourselves? Do you have any special training?
Viktor: I don’t do nothing out of the ordinary. I will probably improvise when the time comes.
Fleur: I try to keep myself in top physical and mental form with a lot of spell practice.
Cedric: I find it hard to prepare for something I don’t know. All I can do is make sure to have a wide range of spells at my disposal and my wits about me.
Aya: Special training? How the fuck can I prepare myself if I don’t fucking know what I’ll be doing at all? So no, I’m not doing anything special, just normal everyday shit.
Okay. And do you have any guesses as to what the task will be about?
Viktor, Fleur, Cedric, and Aya: Not really.
Aya: Although since it is supposed to test our daring, I suppose something fucked up. And there are a lot of things that come to mind under that description.
Last question. If you won the Tournament, what would that mean to you?
Viktor: If I won, it would be the first time ever Durmstrang won the tournament, but it would also make me feel accomplished.
Fleur: If I won the tournament, I would prove to others and myself that I can be strong and dangerous. And with the money, I could become independent until my internship at Gringotts begins.
Cedric: If I won for Hogwarts in front of my fellow students, that would be an amazing honour. I don’t really need the money.
Aya: Well, two things. First, it would be a big ‘fuck you’ to the prick who made me participate in the first place, especially, if the other person expected me to die. Second, what do you mean if I won? I will win, dammit. Just watch me slay all three tasks and become the Quadrawizard Queen.
Thank you for your answers and your time. We will eagerly watch your progress and performance in the tournament. So good luck to all of you.
Viktor, Fleur, Cedric, and Aya: Thank you and you are welcome.
We will write more about the tournament after the champions have completed their first task, where those who were unable to witness the spectacle can read about the technicalities and the results.
…
Despite Aya’s unfavourable opinion of the Marauder’s Map, she begrudgingly and reluctantly accepted the benefits of such device, when she tried to ‘smuggle’ over a dozen people to the Forbidden Forest after curfew.
It was supposed to have been just Cedric and Aya, but after Cedric told Cho about it, she wanted to come as well. Soon after, the rest of Aya’s friends had the brilliant idea to accompany her for moral support and to satiate their own curiosity. Luna already knew what they would see in the forest, but she tagged along anyway. Because why not.
“Dammit people, there’s no way I can fit that many people under the blanket,” she complained in their secret room.
“You don’t have to,” argued the twins.
“Cedric, Fred and I know how to disillusion others and ourselves,” said George, and the other two nodded.
“So we can all go and not worry about being seen,” concluded Fred.
She sighed in defeat. “Fine,” she agreed. “We’ll go together, and pay attention to your surroundings.”
One by one, their forms blended with the background until none of them were visible. “Okay,” said Aya. “Before we leave, also put a silencing charm on your feet, so we don’t make any noise as we walk.”
As they were about to leave the room, after everyone whispered Silencio, Aya remembered something crucial.
“Hey, how exactly will we know if we are all going in the same direction without stumbling into each other and straying from the group?”
“Good point,” said Cedric … probably. She couldn’t tell.
“We should hold hands to form a line,” suggested Luna in her signature soft and dreamy voice.
“Good idea,” agreed Aya, but even so, they were having trouble locating one another.
It took them approximately five minutes to form a line while holding hands and another ten to get to the meeting place with Viktor and Fleur.
Fred volunteered to go in the front, saying, “George and I know every nook and cranny of Hogwarts, so we know all the shortcuts and secret passageways.”
Behind him was George, then Aya, Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Cho, Cedric, Astoria, Daphne, Susan, Hannah, and Luna. At least they were supposed to have been holding hands in that order, but since they couldn’t see each other, they weren’t certain.
As long as they arrived at their destination without being caught, they supposed it didn’t matter in which order they were holding hands.
When they arrived safely at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, they made themselves visible again, because what would be the point of meeting with the other two champions if they couldn’t see each other.
Almost immediately, the figures of Viktor and Fleur flickered into visibility. They were looking warily at all the company.
“Don’t worry about them,” Aya assured them. “Did you wait long?”
“Five minutes at most,” answered Fleur with a shrug.
As she said that, a muffled roar could be heard from the depths of the forest.
All of them exchanged wide-eyed looks.
“You all heard that, right?” said Susan.
They all gulped and nodded, except for Aya. “Let’s go see what it is,” she commented excitedly instead.
The rest of them didn’t seem to share her enthusiasm, but followed her anyway. If they came all this way, they might as well go see what was producing roars like that.
She led them towards the source, and as they navigated their way through the trees and branches, the frequency and loudness of the roars increased. Crouching and hiding behind bushes and trees, they arrived at a clearing where they saw four cages with dragons thrashing and spitting fire.
“Dragons?!” whisper-yelled Hannah. “Are they crazy?”
Even the people dealing with the dragons were having trouble with keeping them inside the cages and under control.
“Didn’t I say in the interview that their definition of daring translates to something fucked up?” whispered Aya to all of them, while keeping her eyes on the dragons, one dragon in particular. “Well there you have the fucked up part I was referring to.”
She shook her head. “Seriously, these people don’t know the definition of ‘no mortal danger’. I bet you they wouldn’t have the guts to deal with the dragons if they were in our place,” said Aya confidently.
“And zey expected us to do ze first task without knowing we would be facing dragons?” said Fleur, affronted. “Imbeciles.”
The rest of them couldn’t agree more.
“Don’t worry, Fleur,” Aya said to comfort her. “Now that we know what we’re up against, everything is going to be much easier.”
The other three champions were not so sure.
“We just need to remember the three categories the judges are going to pay attention for points, which are how creative and versatile we are in our methods, how efficient and how quickly we can deal with the dragons,” she said level-headedly. “We still don’t know what exactly we will have to do with the dragons, and if they are the task itself, but I imagine we’ll have to subdue them without killing them or causing too much damage,” she wondered aloud.
“Makes sense,” agreed Viktor from behind a crouching Hermione.
“As general advice, I suggest you all play to your strengths,” continued Aya. “Viktor, Cedric,” they turned to her, “you play Quidditch, maybe you could use your flying skills and your Quidditch positions to your advantage against the dragons. Fleur, you could use some characteristics of your Veela to deal with the dragon as well. Or you could simply try different spell combinations, the more, the better, but don’t forget that whatever choreography you decide to do, it should be quick and effective, but still enjoyable for the audience.”
Grinning like a maniac and with a crazy and bloodthirsty glint in her eyes, she said, “Besides, you don’t have to worry about that one,” she said referring to the most ferocious and vicious dragon, “because that one is mine. I have a gut feeling I’ll be facing that one, and I already have an idea how to deal with it.”
They all looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“Do you even know what sort of dragon that is?” questioned Neville, gobsmacked.
“No,” she said simply, “and quite frankly I don’t really care.”
“That’s a Hungarian Horntail, the most ferocious and vicious of dragon species.”
“Neville,” she began softly, “after I’m done with it, it won’t be considered the most dangerous anymore, because I’ll whoop its ass, and show it who’s the boss. No dragon is a match for me when I decide to be a badass bitch,” she said confidently.
They all gawked at her.
“Besides,” she flipped her braid, “my Chinese Zodiac sign is a Dragon, so I’m going to roar and spit my fire on the twenty-fourth. The poor Horntail won’t even know what hit it.”
They all threw exasperated looks at her, while shaking their heads. Some even let out breathy chuckles.
“Anyway,” said Aya, returning her attention to the dragons, “Neville, Cedric, Ginny, Luna you all have Care of Magical Creatures, can you tell if the dragons are males or females?”
“It’s hard to tell from the distance,” said Cedric, with his girlfriend Cho gripping his arm, “but if I had to take a guess with the size and their temperament, I would say females.”
Aya nodded. She turned to Luna for confirmation. “They’re nesting mothers actually,” she informed them, “so be careful not to smash any of their eggs. No mother likes to see their born or unborn children massacred.”
“Excellent,” exclaimed Aya happily, “and besides Baby Girl Horntail, can you identify the rest of the dragons?”
“It would be easier to tell in daylight, but since we can’t afford that luxury,” said Cedric, “I think there is a Swedish Short-Snout, Common Welsh Green, and Chinese Fireball.”
“Well, we have a little less than three days until the task, so you better start preparing a strategy that will be able to top mine,” said Aya haughtily.
“And what is that strategy, Milady?” The twins teased her, one on each side.
A feral grin spread across her face.
“That, my boys,” she said sweetly, “is a surprise. You’ll see it with everyone else … okay, maybe not Luna, because probably she already knows what I’ll do, but I have faith that she will not say a thing as to not spoil the surprise.”
“Besides, I wouldn’t want my fellow competitors to steal my tricks,” she said, glaring playfully at the other three. They rolled their eyes, amused. “I gave you a few pointers, now use your brain meat and put them to good use.”
They snickered and giggled.
“I think we should go, we’ve seen enough, and we still have to sneak back to our dorms,” concluded Aya with finality after a while.
They agreed and carefully left the forest. As they reached the outskirts again, Viktor and Fleur parted ways with them (Viktor took a few extra seconds to whisper something into Hermione’s ear and press a kiss to her cheek, which made her blush and got them a few wolf-whistles from the others) to sneak back on the ship and carriage respectively. Just as Fred, George, and Cedric were about to cast disillusionment charms on all of them as well, Cho spoke to Aya.
“Aya, I want to apologise for thinking bad about you,” she said, “I thought you were interested in Cedric and that you wanted to take him away from me … but now, I know you were simply trying to help him in the tournament. Thank you and sorry.”
“Don’t sweat about it, Cho,” she waved dismissively, “I understand you, and if I were in your place and saw an unknown woman getting all chummy with my boyfriend, fiancé, or husband, you can be sure I would have reacted in the same fashion.” She thought for a bit. “Actually, I probably would have been ten times worse, because I’m extremely territorial. Besides, I’m not into breaking up couples and even if Cedric were single, he’s not my type. So we’re cool, Cho, don’t worry.”
She smiled and shook her hand.
“If Cedric is not your type,” said Ginny, “then who is?”
She turned to her with a blank stare, “Certainly not anyone currently at Hogwarts, student or teacher, nor anyone from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons delegations.”
Hermione let out a sigh of relief.
“Is our lady interested in older men?” the twins wiggled their eyebrows suggestively.
“If Demon Lord counts as a much older male, then yes, I am very much interested in older men,” she said matter-of-factly.
They all looked confused.
“Where does one find a Demon Lord?” Hannah questioned no one in particular.
“Most people would not fall in love with that kind of man,” said Luna enigmatically, “but I do think even he deserves to be loved by the right person, despite the monstrosities he’s committed.” She walked up to Aya and placed a hand on her shoulders while staring at her with sage-like eyes. “You will do him good, and he will do you good as well.”
Then, humming, she started moving towards the castle. “Are you coming?” she prompted them, bringing them out of their daze and confusion at her words.
As they walked towards the castle, blended with the background, they couldn’t get one question out of their heads … just who was Luna talking about? Who was Aya’s Demon Lord?
…
In the following days, each champion was busy preparing his or her strategy against the dragons.
Aya took advantage of her horcrux council to get their opinion on parts of the strategy she wasn’t sure what to choose, such as “Should I transfigure the rocks into chains and tie the dragon with them or should I just use Incarcerous to bind the dragon?”
Curiously, each horcrux had a different opinion about it. For example, Tom preferred Incarcerous, while Marvolo preferred transfigured chains. Gaunt thought she should use both.
During the day, she browsed through various Potions books, then asked her father Severus for permission to use his Potions Lab as well as his ingredients, and during the night, she simulated various approaches on a piñata version of the Hungarian Horntail, which spit piping hot caramel instead of fire.
Whenever she finished a simulation, she smashed it to make candy and caramel popcorn rain all over her mental landscape, and all four versions of Voldemort clapped impressed, looking forward to eating some snacks.
…
When the twenty-fourth finally arrived, Aya was more than ready to face the Horntail; in fact, she was itching to show what she had in store for the dragon she would be facing. After putting on her Herbology suit after lunch, she joined the rest of the champions in a tent adjacent to the Quidditch pitch, who were all sending her weird looks because of her outfit.
Once all the champions were gathered, Bagman joined them, holding a leather pouch.
“I see you’re all here, excellent,” exclaimed Bagman with mirth. “Before you start, there are a few things you need to know. In this bag,” he jingled it slightly before their eyes, “there are miniature versions of what you will be facing in a few minutes. Each has a number attached to it, which will determine the order in which you will compete. After you pull the number out, the first competitor will have ten minutes to prepare. The goal of this task is to retrieve the golden egg, which contains the clue for the second task, and cause as little damage as possible,” he informed them.
“After all four of you have completed the task, the judges will take a fifteen-minute break to discuss and calculate the results. After we reach a conclusion, we will call on you and publicly announce the results,” said Bagman. “Now, let’s start with the competing order. Ladies first.”
He approached Fleur and held the pouch up to her. She carefully reached inside, and flinched when she pulled out the miniature version of the Common Welsh Green and number 2.
Bagman moved onto Aya, who was searching for the most restless and energetic figure and after it bit her finger, she pulled her hand out of the bag. Nibbling and hanging from her forefinger was a mini Hungarian Horntail bearing number 4 around its neck.
Bagman fixed her with a grave look. “That’s a Hungarian Horntail, Miss Potter-Snape-Black,” he said gravely, “The most vicious of dragon species.”
She looked at him, completely unfazed. “I know, Mr. Bagman,” she said, picking the dragon by the tail and dangling it in front of her face, inspecting it. “However, after today it won’t be anymore, at least this one,” she assured him. “Because today, I will show it who’s the predator and who’s the prey,” she concluded with a feral grin.
Bagman gulped but nodded nonetheless.
He moved onto the male competitors. Cedric pulled out number 1 and the Swedish Short-Snout, and Viktor was left with number 3 and the Chinese Fireball.
“Now that everyone knows their starting number and the dragon they will be facing, Mr. Diggory, you have ten minutes before the sound of the horn. The rest of the competitors, please, remain on stand-by. Your mentors and the rest of the teachers and students will be watching you from the stands.” He was about to leave, when he turned to them and said, “Good luck to all of you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bagman,” they chorused.
He left the tent to join the other judges. Once alone, the champions faced each other. “Alright there everyone?” inquired Aya.
“I think so,” breathed Cedric. Viktor and Fleur nodded as well.
“Good. Let’s rally together like they do in team sports.” She encouraged them to form a circle placing their hands palm down on top of each other’s. “May we all pass this task, and may the most creative, effective and quick among us win.”
They all let out a warrior-like sound and they let go of the hands.
Each of the champions then retreated into their own side of the tent where they either revised their strategy or otherwise prepared themselves mentally for the challenge ahead. Aya felt completely calm and sitting in a lotus position, with hands resting on her knees, she began meditating.
During her meditation, she was vaguely aware of what was going on, but could hear the sound of the horn. From the gasps midway through Cedric’s performance, she could tell there were some complications, but the applause at the end told her he was successful in his endeavour.
Next was Fleur. During her performance, she heard a soothing melody and a heavy thud. Cheers and claps echoed, but there was a shriek right before the final round of applause on her side.
When it was Viktor’s turn, there were cheers even before he started his fight with the dragon, and the cheers and sounds of amazement followed him throughout the entire performance. Whatever he was doing, the crowd apparently loved it.
When Viktor finished, she opened her eyes, stood up, wrapped the belt with her handmade bombs and placed her headpiece with the air supply on her head. When the horn sounded for her, she slowly exited the tent.
…
Her steps were stealthy and measured, while her eyes surveyed the arena. The terrain was rocky with giant boulders and small rubble in between. In the middle was a nest with a golden egg amidst the real dragon eggs, but there was no Horntail in sight.
Still at the edge of the arena, she bent down and grabbed a pebble-sized rock. She moved slowly towards the closest boulder, and then threw it towards the nest.
As the rock hit another rock in the nest’s vicinity, a screeching scream could be heard from behind and above her, as the Horntail landed in front of the nest, trying to protect it. Aya immediately took cover behind a boulder, took out her wand and a smoke bomb, cast Incendio, and then threw the bomb in front of the dragon.
The dragon’s attention was immediately on the fizzing bomb, which started to produce more and more black smoke, until it blocked the dragon’s vision.
Before the dragon could dissipate the smoke with its wings, she liquefied the floor under the dragon and made it into cement. Then, once the dragon’s feet were deep enough, she solidified it.
The Horntail let out a furious screech, and started flapping its wings to break free from the ground and clear the smoke.
“Oh no, you don’t,” said Aya, the mask making her sound distorted and villainous. She transfigured the smaller rocks into steel chains, strengthened by an unbreakable charm, that shot out of the ground and wrapped themselves around the wings and tail, binding the dragon to the ground.
As a last resort, the dragon opened its mouth ready to fire, but Aya simply pointed her wand at her muzzle. “I suggest you calm your ass down, baby girl, and close that mouth, before someone gets hurt. Incarcerous,” she said as black ropes shot out of her wand and closed themselves around the dragon’s mouth, closing it shut, and the more the dragon tried to pry its mouth open the more the ropes tightened.
Completely helpless, the dragon was thrashing on the ground, but couldn’t break free.
Aya approached the dragon with confident strides and elegant grace, stopping just before the nostrils. She placed a gloved hand on the snout and started petting it in a soothing motion.
“There, there, my baby girl. Don’t get your ovaries in a twist, or you’re going to hurt yourself and your babies.”
She took another bomb from her belt and smashed it in front of the dragon’s nostrils. The muffled roars slowly subsided to helpless grunts and yelps as the creature had its eyes fixed on Aya. Eyes, which were slowly closing, until the dragon remained motionless.
Aya turned away from the beast and strutted towards the nest, then just before it, she took off her mask, shook out her hair, and lifted the golden egg high into the air.
The horn signalling the end sounded throughout the arena as the crowd exploded into cheers, with her friends and Sirius being the loudest as they jumped from their seats and flooded the arena. They pulled her into a hug. She laughed.
Fred and George lifted her up on their shoulders and proclaimed her as Aya the Dragon Slayer, although Dragon Tamer would be more appropriate.
With a Sonorus, Bagman calmed down the crowd, “I’m happy to say that all the champions have successfully completed the task. Now, I would kindly ask the champions to retreat to the tent until we are ready to announce the results. Thank you very much.”
Reluctantly letting Aya return to the tent, her friends returned to their seats, and she joined the rest of the champions.
…
“Dat vas van hell of a show,” congratulated her Viktor, smiling and shaking her hand.
“Thank you,” returned Aya. “I wish I could say the same, but I’m afraid I didn’t watch your performance,” she added apologetically. “But judging from the cheers, you must have been amazing as well.”
He shrugged dismissively, “I just used my Quidditch skills to confuse the dragon, until it vas dizzy enough to lose its balance, and then I flew towards the nest, going directly for the egg.”
Fleur came to congratulate her as well, the hem of her skirt a bit singed, but otherwise completely unscathed. “I took your advice and transfigured some rocks into a xylophone and played a tune to make it fall asleep,” she informed her excitedly, “but zen, a bit of flame from the dragon’s snoring caught on my skirt and set it on fire. Luckily, I quickly used Aguamenti, before it spread.”
Aya was smiling, “Yeah, I could hear the melody and the shriek.”
She turned to Cedric who was sitting on a bed, covered in bandages, while Cho fussed over him. “I don’t want to be rude or anything, but you look like shit,” commented Aya. “What happened out there? I heard gasps of horror midway your performance.”
Cedric winced and hissed in pain as Cho applied a healing paste over his burned exposed flesh.
“I transfigured a rock into a large Snitch to keep the dragon distracted, but halfway towards the nest, the dragon turned its attention to me and caught me with some of its flame on the side of my face and my arm. I ducked behind a boulder, summoned my broom and then flew to get the egg.”
Aya winced sympathetically. “Will it scar?” she said, referring to the burns.
“Madam Pomfrey says that with this paste his burns should heal nicely, but it will take a few days maybe even a week,” answered Cho. “I’m just glad he’s alive,” whispered Cho as she pressed a loving kiss on his good cheek, making Cedric blush a bit.
The other three were trying to conceal their grins.
…
Fifteen minutes later, Crouch came to get them.
As they walked out of the tent, there was no rocky terrain, but a normal Quidditch pitch. Bagman as well as the rest of the judges were waiting for them in the middle of the pitch; all the while people from the stands were cheering and clapping.
Once the noise settled down, Bagman held a piece of parchment with the results.
“Before I read the results from the judges, I would like to congratulate all of you for getting to the next task and not killing or otherwise damaging the dragons and their unborn young. What you had to face today was in no way easy, so regardless of the amount of points you received from the judges, you deserve a big round of applause.”
The crowd responded to that.
“Now, the results. I will start by reading the fourth place and make my way up to the first place,” said Bagman. “In fourth place, with 89 points, is Cedric Diggory from Hogwarts.”
The crowd had a mixed reaction to that, especially Hufflepuffs, but there was applause for Cedric anyway.
“Due to the slight complication, some points were deducted in all three categories, but I still think it was a solid performance,” explained Bagman.
“In third place, with 92 points, is Viktor Krum from Durmstrang.” Durmstrang and Viktor’s fangirls weren’t pleased with this at all, and started booing the judges, while the rest of the students and teachers clapped politely.
“Though an effective way to outwit the dragon, time and creativity were your weakest categories, but otherwise a very interesting performance. In second place, with 109 points, is …”
Aya and Fleur were waiting, hoping to hear the other girl’s name first.
“… Fleur Delacour from Beauxbatons,” announced Bagman.
Aya’s friends exploded in cheers again as they immediately knew Aya was in first place, the only question was with how many points. Beauxbatons though slightly disappointed made sure to clap loudly for their champion.
“And in first place is Aya Potter-Snape-Black with an astounding 118 points. Congratulations!” exclaimed Bagman as the crowd went wild, especially Hufflepuff but the rest of the Hogwarts houses were cheering as well.
“There were only two points deducted in regards to time, but otherwise a perfect score in efficiency and creativity. A truly astounding and amazing performance. It was a delight to watch you tame such a ferocious beast without even breaking a sweat.”
All four judges shook hands with Aya congratulating her in a similar fashion. The three headmasters joined them on the pitch as well.
Before they could leave, however, there was one more announcement. Bagman undid his Sonorus and gathered them in a circle.
“Before you go off and celebrate your achievement, the headmasters and I would like to inform you of an event that will take place on Christmas Day.”
“What event?” asked Aya.
“The Yule Ball, Miss Potter-Snape-Black,” replied Bagman. “It is tradition to have a Yule Ball whenever the tournament is happening.”
Aya tried to mask her horror at the news.
“Do we have to attend?” inquired Aya, hoping she would be allowed to skip the event.
“I’m afraid you have to, Miss Potter-Snape-Black,” said Bagman sympathetically. “The champions are required to open the Ball after all. Take this opportunity to relax a bit before deciphering the next task, which will take place on February 24th.”
Aya felt dismayed. It’s not that she didn’t like dancing, because she did, she simply didn’t want to do it in front of strangers who are going to assess her dancing technique, her posture, her dress, her hair, her make-up or lack of it. Not that she cared what others thought, but … Na-ah. She would much rather stay in bed sick, playing the newest instalment in the Tomb Raider franchise, than attend the Ball.
An idea occurred to her. She knew how she would dodge this bullet, and she knew the people who could help her with it. But for now, she pushed it out of her mind, and joined her family and friends at the edge of the Quidditch pitch to celebrate her first victory.
‘One down, two more to go,’ she thought to herself, grinning.
|
On their way up to Felicity, Lup, Taako, and Magnus explained to Barry that their fencing league wasn’t much—just some little tournaments held in high school gyms or community rec centers. Barry had done a few tournaments back in Neverwinter, and those hadn’t exactly been the big leagues, but this was smaller than anything he’d ever seen. He followed the others into Felicity High’s secondary gym and found it dotted with fewer than twenty teenagers, plus a handful of parents, coaches, and volunteer refs. Still, it had all the trappings of a fencing tournament—electrical tape on the floor marking out strips, buzzers and lights and wires set up to sense fencers’ scores. One of the buzzers was going off, loudly, even though no one was attached to it. A cluster of refs were gathered around it, trying to make it stop and failing, which felt intimately familiar to Barry.
The gym also smelled familiar. Barry never thought he’d be nostalgic for high school gym class, but that mixture of wood polish and rubber and sweat sent him right back: losing at dodgeball on purpose so he could talk to his friends, making up bullshit four-square rules, and yeah, failing at volleyball. It was a mixed bag, but whatever. At least today he wouldn’t have to exercise.
Lup, Taako, and Magnus dumped their bags on the ground. They were all already in their fencing knickers and white t-shirts with the word “Starblasters” hand-painted across the front. They sat on the bleachers to change their shoes, and Barry sat with them, surveying the room. It was a sea of white. Some of the kids had logos on their shirts, but the shirts themselves were regulation-white, along with the knickers and sneakers. The only colorful garments in the room were the socks. Fencers wear knee-length socks, and in fancier leagues those were white as well, but here they were every color, every pattern. Barry saw a boy in purple socks with little spiders on them, a girl in tie-dye socks, and an androgynous kid with red birds on their socks. His own friends were no exception. Taako had dark blue socks with glittering silver stars, Magnus’s were highlighter-green, and Lup’s were patterned with flames. She tucked them under the elastic knees of her knickers and sighed. “Either of you two want to be team captain today?”
Magnus and Taako blinked at her.
“That’s what I thought. Come on, Barold.” She stood and started off across the gym.
Barry scrambled to catch up with her. “Where are we going?”
“We’re getting the match list from the judges’ table, over there. I’m the captain by default, so I have to sign us in and get everything set up.”
“Why is that your responsibility?”
Lup shrugged. “Magnus has a million people to say hi to, and Taako’s going to go hole up with Ren—that girl there, with the silver hair—and talk about canapés or some shit until they have to go kill each other. I don’t really have any friends here, so it’s no big deal for me to deal with the details.”
Barry stared at her, stunned. It had never occurred to him that Lup might not have friends, or at least admirers, anywhere she was. Wouldn’t they all want to be her friend? But as they passed the other fencers, all of them ignored Barry and Lup in favor of messing with their equipment or waving to other folks across the room. Which should probably be a crime. How could you have someone as magic as Lup in your midst and ignore her?
Barry sped up a little so he was beside Lup. “Can I help?” he asked. “Take some of the load off?”
Lup looked at him, head tilted. “Yeah,” she said. “Actually, that’d be pretty chill.”
—
Magnus scanned the gym, looking for Carey. He was supposed to meet up with her so she could debrief him on what had happened between her and Killian after Amtguard last night (assuming anything had happened, which Magnus privately doubted). She didn’t seem to be here, though. He saw Rowan and Antonia with some little freshman he’d never met, the three kids on the Refuge team (Ren was waving to Taako), those absolute dickweeds on the Wonderboro team--
And then he saw the girl.
Magnus’s mom loved old musicals. They weren’t exactly his thing—he preferred his music noisier and a little more recent—but he didn’t hate them or anything. And just from living with his mom for sixteen-and-a-half years he had a bunch of them basically memorized. One of her favorites was South Pacific, a tragic story about World War Two soldiers and racism. The big centerpiece of the show was a song called “Some Enchanted Evening.” Even now, with his lower voice, he could barely hit its lowest notes.
When his eyes met the girl’s, he could feel the violins swelling in his heart. Some enchanted evening, you may see a stranger across a crowded room. She was tall and broad, the kind of curvy that old people called voluptuous, with light brown skin and dark brown hair and depthless brown eyes. She was smiling at something one of her friends had said, and it was a wonderful thing to see, warm and fierce all at once. That smile slipped a bit as she regarded him. He should have felt weird about staring at her, but it was hard to feel anything but amazement looking at her. And anyway, she was staring right back at him. The expression on her face was something like surprise. He lifted a hand, did a little wave—goddamn that was dorky, why did he do that?—and she waved back.
Then, suddenly, Taako was at his elbow. “Pick your jaw up off the floor, dingus.”
Magnus touched his face. His mouth was, indeed, open. He closed it and turned to Taako. “Who is she?”
“Other than your type? No idea. They must be a new team or something.”
Finally, Magnus properly noticed the other two girls standing with her. One was tall and slender, maybe Asian, with long black hair. She was perhaps the only person he had ever seen wear eyeliner to a fencing tournament. The other was a short white girl with curly hair and athletic build. They all looked a little uncertain, but not quite anxious.
“I’m going to go say hi.”
Taako rolled his eyes. “Magnus rushes in.”
“I’m just being friendly!”
“Whatever, Romeo. Don’t scare her too bad.”
“Do you—do you think I’d scare her?”
“If you go running right over there? Yeah, maybe.”
“I just want to be friendly!”
“Mmm hmm.”
Magnus rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You don’t even date girls; what do you know?”
“I literally share a bedroom with a girl, dumbass.”
“Right. Asked and answered.” Magnus put his hands up in a gesture of surrender.
“Listen. I’m not saying don’t talk to her, just maybe don’t charge at her like a runaway fucking train.”
“I wasn’t gonna—”
Taako gave him a look, and Magnus was forced to consider that actually, maybe that was what he’d been planning to do. So instead, he said, “Fine. I’m gonna go say hi to Rowan, who is already on that side of the gym, and then talk to her like a non-creep.”
Taako widened his eyes with mock pride. “What a moment of growth! I’m so honored I was here to witness the day when—”
“Fuck off.”
Magnus exchanged fist bumps and small talk with Rowan, but he kept glancing at the girl. He really, really didn’t want to be a creep, but holy shit, it was hard not to watch her. She was just tying her shoes, but every time she moved it was purposeful, confident. Plus, half the time he snuck a glance at her, she was looking at him. That must mean something. Did it mean something? God, this waiting around was torture. He had to talk to her.
So, he left Rowan with a promise to talk more during the lunch break, and picked his way around the edge of the gym until he got to the girl. He walked right up to where she was sitting, and she stood up. She was just as tall as he was—their eyes were perfectly level. There was a small mole on her chin that he hadn’t been able to see from far away. It moved as she smiled at him. “Hi?” she said, making it a question. Just that one word, but fuck, he could listen to her voice forever.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Magnus. I noticed you were new, and just wanted to welcome you to the tournament.”
“Thanks. I’m Julia.”
“Magnus.”
“I gathered,” she said, and one of her friends giggled behind her.
Magnus felt his face grow hot. “Right. Uh, where are you guys from?” That was a normal, non-creepy question, right?
“Raven’s Roost,” she said.
“That’s a long drive from here.”
She shrugged. “It’s not that bad. Especially when your friends think the speed limit is a gentle suggestion.” She shot a look back at the other two girls, who laughed. Magnus laughed, too, and Julia looked kind of pleased with herself. “Where are you from?”
“Faerun.”
“We drove right through Faerun on the way here! It’s such a tiny town, I’d never have guessed it had a fencing team.”
“Well, size isn’t everything,” Magnus said without thinking, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. Had he actually just made a dick joke in front of this very pretty and funny and cool stranger? Lighting should fucking strike him now.
But Julia laughed. And she didn’t just giggle—she threw her head back, sending a waterfall of dark hair down her back, and belly-laughed, loud and unapologetic. She was laughing like that because of him. His self-confidence had never turned around faster. As strange as it seems, the sound of her laughter will sing in your dreams.
Maybe those old-ass musicals knew what they were talking about.
———
In their first set of bouts, Lup and her boys absolutely destroyed the Phandolin team. It was not a difficult thing to do—they were all freshmen and seemed like they’d been fencing for fifteen minutes—but it was good for morale. And they were going to need every advantage they could if they were going to beat those Wonderboro fucks.
Brian was all right. He was a dick to them, but Lup always got the sense that was kind of a peer pressure thing, like if his teammates weren’t there controlling him he’d probably be chill. Plus, she and Taako could beat him about half the time, and Magnus had a decent shot at him as well. It was the other two they had to worry about.
Edward and Lydia. People were always fucking comparing them to her and Taako, just because they were fencing twins. It was bullshit. Okay, maybe they also had a flair for the dramatic that an idiot might mistake for being similar to the way she and her brother presented themselves, but fuck that. Lup and Taako were dramatic on the strip to make themselves look good. Edward and Lydia were dramatic on the strip to get away with hurting other people. They hit off-target on purpose to injure their opponents, to slow them down and make them lose focus. They aimed for people’s crotches, for their thighs and upper arms and even fingers if they could get them, and if anyone accused them of doing it on purpose they’d wail and carry on like they were being done some great injustice. Their coach, a deeply creepy dude who always wore suits, was one of the few coaches who actually came to tournaments, and he’d get himself involved, arguing with the ref until they just gave up.
The problem was that it worked. Team Wonderboro had come first in all but one tournament last year. Lup hadn’t ever beaten them. At the last tournament junior year, she’d been 4-4 with Edward, and he’d hit her so hard in her thigh that it left a welt. She’d fallen, he’d sworn it was an accident, and the ref decided she was too injured to continue. She’d been itching to get back at him all summer.
Unfortunately, Magnus was fighting Edward this time. The results were as awful as they were predictable. Edward loved to set traps, to hold his sword away from his body and invite his opponent to attach him. Fucker knew he was fast enough to parry anything, and suddenly his opponent was too close to escape. It was a completely legal thing to do, and Lup knew plenty of lovely people who used that strategy—hell, she’d used it herself—but something about the way he smirked when he did it made her blood boil. Also, Magnus fell for it every. Single. Time. He saw a clear target and just launched himself at it, giving Edward complete control of the space, of his body, of the whole damn bout. He lost, and it sucked.
Taako fought Brian next, and won narrowly but cleanly. When they shook hands at the end, Lup could almost imagine that it was comradely, like when they fought Roswell or Antonia or Noelle. But then Lydia whispered something to Brian, and he snickered and looked pointedly at Taako, and Lup considered hitting him in the head with her pommel.
She didn’t. Instead, she hooked herself into the electric system and faced Lydia. Lydia’s blade flashed rainbow through the air as she saluted. That was another thing Lup hated about Team Wonderboro—they had the literal coolest swords. They were all blue steel, nearly black but flashing blue and green and red when they caught the light, and just fucking gorgeous. They were also lightweight and zippy, and therefore strategically useful. Lup’s sword was borrowed from Davenport. It worked fine, and it was a pistol grip which meant it was a tiny bit cool, but the guard was dinged and scratched from years of use and the base of the blade was dark with rust that wouldn’t come off, no matter how much she scrubbed at it.
So yeah. Fuck Lydia.
Don’t fence angry. She could hear Davenport’s voice in her head, calm and sharp. He was right, but also, that ship had sailed. She was angry. She just hoped she could be angry and controlled at the same time.
Lup pulled her mask on and got in en garde position. The ref called for them to begin, and they did, advancing slowly until they were just out of each other’s range. Lup did a beat on Lydia’s blade, tapping it lightly once, twice, and then hitting it hard. As Lydia pressed hard to compensate, Lup slipped her blade and lunged, catching her cleanly in the stomach. Lydia had counterattacked—Lup could feel her blade punching her shoulder, heard both the buzzers sound—but that didn’t matter, Lup had gone first, she had—
“Priority left,” the ref said, holding his hand out to Lydia. Lup swore under her breath. She’d forgotten to threat before she lunged. Her elbow had been bent, and Lydia’s hadn’t, and so even though she hit first, she didn’t get the point. Davenport was always on her case about threating. She should have fucking known better.
Whatever. It was just the first point. She had plenty of time to catch up.
She did not catch up.
Lup didn’t lose as badly as Magnus had, but she didn’t win, and she definitely had new bruises on her shoulder and hip. She was aching, and it wasn’t even lunch time yet. When they shook hands, Lydia gripped her’s tight. “Good game,” she said, with a fake-sweet smile. “I know you tried your best.”
“You handle that thing well,” Lup said, nodding to Lydia’s sword. “One day you’ll be strong enough for a big girl sword, I’m sure.” It wasn’t Lup’s best, but Lydia’s face turned dark anyway, and she snatched her hand away.
Taako took Lup’s arm. “Come on, Lulu,” he told her. “Just one more match before lunch.”
|
Scaramouche
“Ah,” Childe said. “Just the man I wanted to see. Mind if I join you?”
It wasn’t really a question. Scaramouche looked up from the book he was reading, a scowl crossing his face when he saw Childe walking toward him. His frustration only grew when Childe lowered himself into the chair across from Scaramouche before he had a chance to answer.
Knowing there was little chance of avoiding whatever Childe wanted to talk about, Scaramouche put a piece of ribbon into the book he was reading and let it close with a defiant thud. “What do you want?”
“An explanation for this.” Childe pulled out a neat looking stack of papers and pushed them across the table. “You recently bought a house in Mondstat and you’re wracking up quite the tab at Good Hunter. You’ve spent over three million mora in the past three months. What’s going on?”
Scaramouche gave Childe his most threatening glare. “Nothing’s going on. Why don’t you mind your own business?”
“As the Harbinger overseeing our operations in Liyue, managing the finances of the Northland Bank falls under my care.” Childe crossed his arms over his chest. “If you are going to drain this many resources, I need to know what they are for.”
Blast him to the Abyss.
Scaramouche did not want to have this conversation. Not only would it make him look weak and vulnerable, it would give Childe leverage over Scaramouche that hr definitely didn’t want the blood crazed prick to have. Yet if he did nothing, it was possible that Childe might close these accounts. That would not be acceptable.
“Someone dear to me lives in Mondstat,” Scaramouche grimaced at the way that had come out. Surely there had been a better way to describe things than that. “I purchased the house to ensure she would not be evicted. And I keep a tab for her at Good Hunter because I know she likes their food and I don’t want her to starve.”
Childe tilted his head back and laughed. It wasn’t just a little laugh; it was a full on, body shaking chortle that threatened to make him audibly gasp. Tears gleamed in the corners of his eyes as they scrunched closed in mirth.
Scaramouche watched him in silent horror. What had he said that had elicited such a reaction? How much had Childe figured out, and just how badly had Scaramouche fucked up?
“Are you talking about Mona?” Childe asked, when he calmed down enough that he could speak. “I have loads of friends in Mondstat, and most of the people who live there have their lives fairly well put together. But that silly Astrologer… She’s on a whole other level of being out to lunch and then needing someone else to pay the check.”
“She fascinates me.” Scaramouche toyed with the cover of his book, trying to figure out how much he should actually tell Childe.
He had spent hours thinking about Mona. After getting over his shock that she had managed to foil his plans, his initial burst of anger had turned into admiration. It had started with a genuine curiosity over just how far her powers extended.
Gradually, over months, it had morphed into imagining what he would do to her if he ever got her alone.
Eyes like melted silver. Hair like someone had bottled lightning and somehow infused it into delicate strands of silk. Scaramouche’s fingers twitched as he imagined, for the thousandth time, what it would be like to run his fingers through those amethyst purple strands.
Fantasizing about Mona splayed out naked as he brushed kisses over every inch of her, eroding the fear he had seen in those stormy gray eyes, was almost as pleasurable a pastime as reading.
When someone wasn’t sitting next to him and watching his every move.
As much as Scaramouche enjoyed thinking about her, talking about her to anyone else was another matter entirely. That was risky. That could give them leverage over him, which was something Scaramouche could not afford. The element of surprise—both knowing what others wanted and keeping his own cards close to his chest—was often one of his most potent weapons.
Scaramouche knew all too well that he could receive an attack, or by wrapped in a scheme, from another Harbinger just as easily as he could from any other person. Trust was for fools, and letting people in always meant risking secrets getting out. As a master of subterfuge and knowing where to strike people—both mentally and physically—true intimacy was something he had always told himself he could not afford.
Until his thoughts had become consumed with her.
“How much do you know of my encounter with her during the meteor showers? How far have the rumors spread?” Scaramouche asked. Better that Childe share what he knew than for Scaramouche to give him knowledge he didn’t previously have.
“Only what you shared with us all publicly. That Mona was able to identify you as a Harbinger without any give or tell that should have tipped her off.” Childe shrugged. “She’s an Astrologer, and supposedly a very good one. Nothing about the encounter seems surprising.”
“She ruined my shot at assassinating the Honorary Knight.” Scaramouche paused for a second, trying to think of some way to soften what he had just said. Childe was giving him a death glare that made him want to put a wide berth between them.
How had he forgotten the idiot was dating said Honorary Knight, Lumine.
It wasn’t that Scaramouche was afraid of Childe. Rather, it was that he knew Childe’s strength lay in a direct, physical confrontation. Face to face. Man to man. Scaramouche preferred to plan his battles far more strategically. When he chose to strike an opponent, he wanted the victory to be decisive and final. Him standing triumphant, while his foe lay bloodied on the ground. A potent bolt of lightening singed into their skin, or the hilt of a dagger sticking out of their back.
“Call me crazy, but I enjoyed our battle of wits. Probably more than I should have.” Scaramouche tapped his thumb against the cover of his book. This conversation was getting far more personal than he was comfortable with. “So I’ve kept an eye on Mona. When my men reported some of the issues they saw her having, I intervened.”
“Does she have any idea you’ve been helping her?” Childe asked. His face was scrunched up in a puzzled expression. Like he was seeing some strange and foreign part of Scaramouche for the first time, and that new knowledge was in danger of breaking his brain.
Scaramouche couldn’t fully blame him. He had worked hard to build a solid reputation of being the most feared and reviled of the Tsaritsa’s chosen. If holding sway through fear and intimidation meant that even other Harbingers and Fatui despised him, so be it. It was power, not pleasing the unending waves of imbeciles that surrounded him, that ultimately won battles and rewarded him with glory.
So long as Scaramouche had the Tsaritsa’s favor, the rest of them could rot.
He was, and would always be, an outsider. A vagrant from Inazuma. But he had shown time and again that he could, and would, get results. Costs and consequences be damned. That kind of success was hard to argue with. Impossible to ignore.
But even Her Majesty had suggested to Scaramouche that he should find someone to truly open up to and confide in. She had made it clear that he had her support, but that in not having someone in his life that he trusted—someone he genuinely believed would have his back—that he was leaving himself vulnerable. There was an opening within him that someone would eventually exploit.
“No,” Scaramouche said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked down for just a moment, dreading the mocking expression he was sure he would see on Childe’s face. But then, quickly, he forced himself to school his features into a mask of calm and meet the other man’s gaze. “If she gets the slightest sense that I am near her, she turns into water and disappears.”
“Well, from where I’m sitting we have two options.” Childe said, rubbing his gloved hands together. A gleeful smile crossed his face, causing knots to form in the pit of Scaramouche’s stomach. Wherever this was going, he probably wasn’t going to like it. “Either I can report your current situation with Mona at our meeting with Signora and the others next week—”
“Absolutely not!” Scaramouche set his book down and finally turned to face Childe fully. “You’ve managed to get together with Lumine, even though she tried to compromise our mission in Liyue—”
“Spare me the bullshit,” Childe’s expression turned murderous and Scaramouche wondered if he had gone too far. “I was a fucking pawn during that entire thing, and there’s no way you didn’t know that. I should report to the others about Mona for that alone. You helped set me up.”
If Childe reported the situation as he had just described it, Scaramouche would never live it down. It could also place Mona in grave danger.
“I was aware of what Her Majesty and Signora were doing, but it had to be done that way.” Scaramouche sucked in a breath, hoping he could get Childe to see reason. “Zhongli had to believe that we were legitimately fulfilling our end of the contract. You are honest to a fault. If you had known all the details, you would not have been able to perform your duty.”
“Well, I’ll have no trouble performing it this time.” Childe said with a grin.
“Tartaglia, please.” Scaramouche wanted to gag when the word passed his lips before he could stop it. Solitude might lead to vulnerability, but fondness toward someone came with its own pathetic brand of weakness. “Aren’t you and Mona friends? And if you’re not, wouldn’t Lumine be upset if anything bad happened to her?”
“That doesn’t matter.” Childe had calmed, but there was still a glint of steely resolve in his eyes that was making Scaramouche want to vomit.
“But—”
“Whether she knows it or not, Mona has a debt to repay to the Fatui. And she will pay it, one way or another.” Childe’s expression remained deadly serious. Scaramouche was reminded, with a wave of dread, that the younger Harbinger enjoyed collecting such debts personally. “And I did say we have two options. I am willing to go with you to Mondstat and help you actually talk to her. Wouldn’t you like to find out if there is any hope of her actually liking you?”
“I know you think you’re the Tsaritsa’s gift to the ladies, Tartaglia.” Scaramouche rolled his eyes at the ginger-haired Harbinger. “But the last thing I want or need is you meddling in my personal affairs.”
“Very well. I will make sure to have my notes ready at the meeting.”
Childe started to get up, but Scaramouche reached forward and grabbed his wrist.
“Sit down.” Scaramouche didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. While Childe was annoying, he wasn’t an idiot. He once again took the seat he had forcibly claimed a few minutes before.
“I will go to Mondstat and I will take care of this.” Scaramouche’s hand clenched into a fist. He knew better than to do it, but at the moment he wanted nothing more than to punch Childe in the mouth. “One way or another.”
“Whoa, slow down.” Childe’s previously calm expression shifted to one of panic. “I’m not trying to get you to kill Mona or something. I do consider her a friend. I’m just concerned—”
“If Mona has a debt, her debt is to me.” Scaramouche stood and picked up his book. “I will deal with this.”
Without another glance, Scaramouche stormed away from the table. The last thing he wanted to do right now was lose his temper and fry Tartaglia like he was a shrimp. It might feel good for a moment, but such a loss of self control would only make every aspect of this mess a thousand times worse.
He had to figure out a way to get Mona to actually talk to him, and he had to do it soon.
Mona
The sky was a vibrant shade of blue. The faintest hint of puffy white clouds floated leisurely in the distance. It was a perfect day to be out in the woods, gathering Valberries.
At least, it would have been if Mona hadn’t been plagued by the sense that someone was watching her. She glanced around, turning from left to right in an attempt to spot what her gut instinct was telling her was right in front of her nose.
Yet there was nothing there.
She hadn’t been able to shake the feeling for almost a week now. And she swore that yesterday she had caught a glimpse of that scumbag Harbinger, Scaramouche, near Starsnatch Cliff.
But that was ridiculous. It had been five months since she had rescued Lumine and Fischl from that prick. What could he possibly be doing skulking around Mondstat now?
Letting out a hot puff of breath that lifted her bangs off her forehead, Mona picked the last of the Valberries on the bush in front of her and rose to her full height.
Starting a side business selling potions, ointments, and charms in accordance with peoples’ astrological readings had been a really great idea. She still spent way too much on the latest astrology-based gadgets in the various magazines she wrote for. But with any luck the products she planned to make and sell with these berries would cover her quickly mounting rent.
She was now four months behind. She hadn’t been able to resist an exquisite globe inlaid with each Archon’s symbol in their associated gemstone. It was limited edition. First come, first serve. But it had made her ability to pay rent just the slightest bit spotty. And she still had two more payments left on it before the vendor from Fontaine would send it to her home.
It was a miracle her landlord had yet to pay her a visit. She was pretty sure that streak of luck would not hold up if she missed a payment again. But if she missed a payment on the globe, she would forfeit everything she had invested in it.
This was a no-win situation.
So here she was, a basket of Valberries slung over one harm as she turned toward the highest point of the Stormbearer Mountains. She had to collect berries from one more bush. Then she could leap from the edge, let her glider carry her to the beach below, and walk with the ocean until the path turned north to guide her back to Mondstat city itself.
She was halfway through picking the berries off the final bush when the sound of approaching footsteps drew her attention. Looking up, her heart began to pound. She had been right about who she thought she had seen the day before.
Scaramouche was back in Mondstat.
Right now, there was less than ten feet between them.
He stared at her, his dark eyes as intense as ever. A shiver ran through Mona, setting every nerve in her body on edge.
Why was he just standing there? What did he want?
And why in Celestia’s name had she not started running?
“There. Finally got you alone. I—”
Whatever he was trying to say, he could share it with a half picked Valberry bush. Putting on a burst of speed, Mona allowed herself to turn into droplets of water, ran for the edge of the cliff, and took a leap of faith. Even if she messed this up, she was pretty sure that being broken on the rocks below would be better than whatever Scaramouche had planned for her.
There was no way he had forgotten how she had fucked up his assassination attempt on Lumine all those months ago. Nor did Mona expect him to have any concept of forgiveness. She needed to get away from him. Now. No matter the cost.
And it was costing her. The precious Valberries she had spent the early hours of the morning picking were falling behind her like a bread crumb trail. Giving that scumbag her exact location.
As exhaustion settled in and she fought with her glider, she let the entire basket fall from her arm, watching with a barely contained scream of frustration as it dropped toward the sea below.
There. Now he had ruined something that mattered to her, too. Would that make him happy?
Of course not. Mona was certain that Scaramouche would not rest until he found a way to break her completely.
Was that it, then? Was that why he had returned to Mondstat? To finish the job and destroy the one person who had ever been able to see past his fake-friend routine and call out the evil bastard lurking within?
Landing on the beach, Mona took care to stay clear of the water. She had initially thought she might run in it, flats and leotards be damned. But with someone as potent with Electro nearby? Someone who was likely looking to use that shit on her. She didn’t dare race in the waves now.
She stopped to regain her breath, her lungs aching like they were on fire. As she stood in the sand, she looked up to see if Scaramouche was still on the cliff. Instead, she found him standing a few feet from her.
“I’m getting tired of chasing you,” he said, his gaze meeting hers and holding her captive. “I just want to talk. Stop running away.”
Thirty seconds, then. He had thirty seconds to talk before she was confident she could catch her breath well enough to make a break for it.
“Why’d you throw away your basket?” he asked, holding the discarded thing out to her. Surprisingly, it still held most of the berries that had been in it when she had cast it aside. “You spent hours picking these. I watched.”
Well that’s not creepy…
Mona tentatively reached out to accept the basket. For a moment she was reluctant to touch it. Fearful that if their fingers met that he would use his powers to fry her like a piece of bacon.
Yet as she thought about that logically, the fear was foolish and losing the berries would be a waste. If Scaramouche was as powerful as her intuition had warned he was all those months ago, he could easily have struck her down at least three times by now.
But if her initial fear—that he wanted to kill her—was wrong, what in the Abyss did he want from her?
Wrapping her fingers around the basket’s handle, and taking great care not to touch Scaramouche in any way, Mona pulled the berries toward her when he finally let go.
“I became aware that I had attracted an unwanted stalker,” Mona said, doing her best to peer down her nose at him. Like he was something smelly that was clinging to the sole of her shoe. “In the moment, sacrificing the berries seemed like a decent trade off to get rid of you.”
Okay, that last bit might have been pushing things a little. After all, he hadn’t attacked her—yet, he had saved the berries, and he had given them to her without asking for anything in return.
He was just standing there, the vibrant red of his strange hat sitting on his head in stark contrast to his striking blue hair. It reminded her of the night sky and for a split second she wondered what it would be like to touch. A jolt of anxiety rippled through her body as sanity barged in on her thoughts, reminding her where she was and who was with her.
Yet still, he made no attempt to do anything. He just stood there, his gaze transfixed on her as if he had been hypnotized. Maybe he was winded from using his glider, too?
For the briefest of moments, when she looked at him, all she could sense was genuine sadness. Which made absolutely no sense. Since when did he give a shit how she felt? Why would be care whether she lost all of her berries? What was going on here?
Don’t let your guard down, she thought to herself firmly. It’s still possible he’s just looking for a chance to strike…
“You’re welcome, Mona.” His gaze became the sharp, penetrating stare she had long associated with him, and she gave an involuntary shiver. “You should be careful what you do with those berries, though. They can be dangerous.”
“Tell me something I don’t know, moron.” Mona rolled her eyes at him. Why would he think for even a second that she didn’t know every use for each part of the berries she was selling to the people of her new home town?
In alchemy, as in astrology, Mona was confident she could outsmart Scaramouche by a long shot. After all, even if they weren’t dating anymore, her lessons had come from Albedo. No one could match him when it came to turning things found in nature into useful concoctions to aid people in battle or in their daily lives.
Oh, shit. She had forgotten about Scaramouche. And she was still breathing. How was that possible?
After one last, lingering moment of silence, he gave her a parting scowl. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
As she watched him go, Mona’s stomach did a little flip.
“Hey, wait. I—” But the wind somehow swallowed the words, like the Anemo Archon himself had listened in and found the situation funny.
Ever since she had tried to read that stupid bard, Venti, she had become more and more convinced that the wind itself was pranking her. First, the wind had tried to tip her glider and send her into the water. Now, the breeze itself was laughing at her as Scaramouche walked further and further away.
Damn it.
Somewhere deep inside, Mona’s intuition told her she had just made a colossal mistake.
Childe
“If someone drinks this, will it make them so horny they’ll fuck anything?” Childe could tell that the directness of his question was making the Alchemist, Sucrose, uncomfortable.
A burning blush had just lit up her cheeks.
At the moment, he didn’t care.
His mind kept looping back to the confrontation he had watched unfold between Scaramouche and Mona. For once in his life, Childe actually felt sympathy for the sixth Fatui Harbinger.
Even if Mona wasn’t interested, there had been no reason for her to be so cruel. Scaramouche had been taking care of her for months, whether she knew it or not. More importantly, she had seen first hand that he had saved the stupid berries she had spent the morning collecting.
“Yeah, that’s the long and short of it,” Sucrose stared at him through fogged up glasses. “I don’t get why you’d need that, though. I thought you and Lumine were together?”
“We are,” Childe said, only half paying attention to what Sucrose was saying.
The nerve of Mona treating Scaramouche with such disregard—and getting to live after doing so—was still a bit of a shock. An insult of the magnitude she had committed was not merely an insult to Scaramouche. Not merely an insult to the Fatui or the Harbingers as a whole. No, what she had done this morning had bordered on being an affront to the Tsaritsa herself.
Scaramouche might not see it like that. But Childe had, and it was something he would not allow to go unpunished.
Not to mention the deadline he had given Scaramouche also happened to be Scaramouche’s birthday. Childe had overlooked that when he had set everything into motion.
Childe didn’t know whether Scaramouche normally did anything to celebrate living another year. If he was honest, he doubted it. It wasn’t like Scaramouche had any close friends. That Childe knew of, at least.
To be so callously rejected by Mona, on today of all days… It just didn’t sit right with Childe.
Childe realized, with a start, that he had only half answered Sucrose’s question. “The potion is not for me or Lumi. It’s a gift for a friend.”
Since when had he ever considered Scaramouche a friend? Childe scrunched his brow, trying to figure out whether what he’d just said was the truth or a lie. Not that it mattered. It had been a quick and easy answer. Much better than actually trying to explain the situation to Sucrose, who had no need to know or care.
All that mattered to Childe was that Sucrose was willing to sell him a vial of the shit. He was looking forward to making Mona swallow a bit of the pond scum she had been selling. Maybe she’d stop wasting her earnings to buy useless astrology junk, rather than looking after her more pressing real world obligations.
She was about to find out what happened when one owed a debt to the Fatui. This wasn’t the usual method Childe would use to collect payment. But at the moment, it was too perfect an opportunity to pass up.
Besides, he didn’t want Mona seriously hurt or dead. He just wanted her to feel what she had made Scaramouche feel this morning: utterly and completely embarrassed.
But just for a moment.
The fact that Scaramouche had been looking after Mona made it clear to Childe that he would treat her well. If he hadn't known about that, there was no way Childe would be doing any of this. When Scaramouche had kept his temper this morning, after Mona had treated him as little more than dirt on her shoe, Childe had become fully confident that, if nothing else, he should try and get them together.
Childe knew what he was doing was questionable. If Lumine ever found out, he would never hear the end of it. But if Mona would just give Scaramouche a chance…
The dolt seemed willing to keep taking care of her, asking nothing in return. If he was that good to her from a distance, wouldn’t things be even better, for both of them, if they got together?
Still… It did make him a bit nervous. This would likely be the last chance Mona would have to realize how Scaramouche felt and do something with that.
If this went wrong… If she rejected Scaramouche again, like she had this morning…
Childe didn’t want to think about that.
Shaking his head to try and clear his mind and conscience, he waited for Sucrose to prepare the potion.
He had to stop thinking about the morality of this or he was going to lose his nerve. This was definitely a situation where he knew he wouldn’t want Lumine to find out what he’d done. But he had already asked Sucrose for the potion. His plan was set and he was committed.
Scaramouche was about to have a night he would not soon forget.
And Mona?
She was going to get to live. And be extremely happy, if Childe’s gut was right about how much Scaramouche cared about her.
But ensuring she lived did take top priority. Childe was fully prepared to stay nearby--and intervene--if something, somehow went horribly wrong.
Because as mad as he was at her at the moment, there was still a nagging part of his brain warning him that if Scaramouche felt he had been well and truly rejected by Mona, he might try to end her.
Childe really didn’t want that, because he knew Lumine wouldn’t want that. And as much as he might feel for Scaramouche right now, there was no way the melodramatic shortstack was going to fuck up Childe’s love life.
“Well, here you are.” Sucrose said, handing over the vial and taking Childe’s mora. “Have a nice day!”
Waving good-bye to Sucrose, Childe headed toward the bridge that lead out of Mondstat. It was time to set up the next part of his plan.
He didn’t have to wait long. He had headed back to the city as fast as his glider could take him, and even still it was only ten minutes before Mona came into sight.
Shifting moods with no effort, he ran toward her, forcing her to stop.
“Mona! Thank goodness it’s you. I need your help.” Childe mustered up the most concerned expression he could.
“Hello Childe,” Mona started, her tone calm but firm. Until she saw the look on his face; just as he’d expected. “Is something wrong?”
Childe nodded. “Katherine, over at the Guild, just informed me that Bennett’s gone missing. You know how he is—”
“Yes… His luck is rather bad, regardless of what any star or constellation tries to say.” Mona frowned. “I’m assuming you’re worried he may have ended up trapped behind a seal again?”
“Yeah, the thought had crossed my mind.”
“Well, let me drop these off with Sucrose and we’ll go look for him together.” Mona said, stepping past Childe and heading into town.
Well, that was two times today that Mona had rubbed Childe the wrong way. If she kept this up, she might reach a point where he was fully looking forward to what he knew was about to happen. As it was, her blase attitude about Bennett going missing was making Childe consider other things he could do to enhance the plan he had already put in motion.
It didn’t matter that Childe knew full well that Bennett was perfect safe, off doing commissions with Lumine. The fact that Mona cared more about her Valberries than about one of their friends pissed Childe off.
“Sorry that took so long,” Mona said twenty minutes later. “I got chatting with Sucrose about how my sales are going. Apparently, someone bought a vial of actual Valberry Juice. Wow, someone is in for a night. I usually only sell the leaves in sachets or the juice diluted into an oil that is put on someone’s skin to enhance their attractiveness. Drinking that shit? No fucking way.”
Childe grinned at her as they left the city behind. “A bit too hot for you to handle, huh?”
Mona blushed. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had… well, you know…”
Oh, fuck. Was Mona saying she'd never had Valberry Juice, or that she'd never had sex?
He'd have to talk to Scaramouche before leaving them alone together. Warn him that Mona might be a virgin.
It was just one more reason that Lumine could never, ever know he had done this...
“Sorry, but who was it we’re looking for again?” Mona asked, blinking. “I got so distracted back there that I forgot.”
“Bennett,” Childe said, struggling to keep his light hearted expression.
For one split second his resolve had threatened to waiver. The fact that Mona was so focused on selling this herbal shit that she had forgotten who they were supposed to save had fixed that problem real fast.
If Mona cared that little about Bennett, why should Childe care whether she ended up hopped up on some kind of aphrodisiac for her first time? The longer he spent with Mona, walking toward the ruins, the less he liked her. Maybe this whole thing would teach her a lesson.
“Sorry if I seem distracted, Childe.” Mona said as they approached the entrance to the ruins where he had told her Katherine had sent Bennett. “I’m screwing up all my finances and it’s driving me a bit crazy. I’m kinda shit at making sure I take care of stuff like food and rent.”
“What’s going on with food and rent?” Childe asked. He wondered what Mona thought was going on, and wanted to compare it to what he knew was going on.
“Somehow, I’m four months behind on the rent. I honestly don’t know how I still have a place to sleep. That’s why I was so adamant about getting those berries to Sucrose.” Mona looked down, like she was legitimately embarrassed about this. “And I’m pretty sure most of my friends are avoiding me around meal time. There is a point where having a running joke that Mona can always be found if someone is about to have dinner is no longer funny. I think I’ve moved past that being a joke and on to me being a joke at this point.”
“But you’re featured in at least three Astrology themed publications every month,” Childe said. “Lumi was showing me one of your articles last week. Is the pay really that bad?”
“Oh, no! The pay is perfectly acceptable. I’m not bad at making mora.” Mona followed Childe down a long, narrow hallway that brought them deeper into the ruins. “The problem is that I’m too fond of spending my mora on certain…luxuries. There’s always some new thing I want in Astrology Monthly and I have a hard time telling myself no.”
They finally reached a round circular platform where the creatures protecting the petrified tree would soon be summoned to test their worthiness to obtain treasure from it. But there would be no need to deal with them today.
Childe waited for Mona to step ahead of him and move further onto the platform.
“Bennett!” she called out, her melodic voice echoing through the chamber. “Hey, Benny, are you here? It’s Mona and Childe. We’ve come to help you.”
For one final, fleeting second Childe again felt something knot in the pit of his stomach. Was he doing the right thing? Would this work?
She had made him think twice now that he understood what she had been going through.
At the very least, didn’t she deserve to be engaged in honorable, face-to-face combat? To be given the chance to at least stand her ground? It sounded nice in his head, but it made no practical sense whatsoever.
Mona wasn’t stupid. She had to know she stood no chance against him. At best, he would spend hours chasing her all across Mondstat while she relied on her water-sprinting to stay underground. At worst, the fight would turn ugly and she could be seriously hurt. Childe wanted Mona to wind up in Scaramouche's bed. Not being treated for injuries by Barbara at the Church of Favonius.
Plus, Childe was pretty sure that if he hurt Mona he would need to start sleeping with one eye open. Scaramouche wouldn’t attack him outright. But if anything truly bad happened to Mona because of him, Childe knew the shorter Harbinger would bide his time and make his retribution count.
So, a straight forward, honest fight was out.
Childe had made a decision and he had to stick to his resolve. If Mona and Scaramouche did not work things out by the end of the day, there was no telling what might happen between them the next time they met.
Racing forward, Childe summoned his daggers, allowed them to fuse into a spear, and struck Mona across the back of the head with the flat of his weapon. Catching her before she could crumple to the ground, he allowed his weapons to disperse and lifted her into his arms.
There. Scaramouche’s impromptu birthday gift had been successfully acquired.
Now Childe just had to get her back to Mondstat, take her to the suite Scaramouche was using at the Goth Grand Hotel, and ensure she was ready for Scaramouche's enjoyment when he got back.
I hope you appreciate this, Shortstack. Childe thought as he started the long trek back to Mondstat. I’m going to make this so simple that even a socially inept moron like you can’t fuck it up. When my plans for Mona are complete, she’ll be yours for the taking.
Mona
A dull throb pulsed in the back of Mona’s head, like the beat of a drum. Every breath she took seemed to make her skull vibrate. She lay still, keeping her eyes closed for fear that opening them would increase the pain.
What had happened? Where was she?
Think, Mona. She bit down on her bottom lip, trying to use another source of pain to clear her thoughts.
She had come back from gathering berries. She had ran into Childe. She had agreed to help him find Bennett—
Mona’s heart began to pound, its rhythm not matching the pain at the back of her head. Go figure.
Shit. She was supposed to be helping Childe find Bennett.
Where was Childe, then? Had they found Bennett? Was he okay?
A door clicked and then opened.
Crap. She hadn’t even opened her eyes yet. She hadn’t made a single move to figure out where she was.
“Hello…?” she called out tentatively. She was still not sure if she wanted her eyes to open. Would that add too much to the pain in her head? “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” Childe’s voice was unmistakable, and Mona let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. She felt a dip in the mattress she was lying on. Felt his fingers brush gently against where the pain was coming from. Mona winced, wondering how he had known to touch her there. “Damn. That’s still pretty tender, huh?”
Mona gave a slight nod, then wished she hadn’t. It felt like the entire world had just spun. “What happened? Is Bennett okay?”
“Benny’s fine,” Childe used his fingers to brush Mona’s hair out of the way. She felt something cool being pressed against her head. The pain seemed to lessen a little. “Can you open your eyes? How many fingers am I holding up?”
Mona opened her eyes slowly, preparing to focus on his hand and probably guess a number between one and five. But the moment she allowed herself to see, Childe’s hand became irrelevant.
He was sitting next to her on the bed dressed in his full Harbinger outfit. The black and purple suited him; made his auburn hair even more striking than normal. The red Fatui mask he normally let dangle from the side of his head was resting on his face.
A glimpse of something peach and smooth caught Mona’s eye. When she lowered her gaze she sucked in a breath.
“Why are you dressed like that and why the fuck am I naked?” Mona tried to sit up, wanting to put space between them. Cover herself. Something. But she didn’t budge an inch. Glancing to the side, she realized her wrists and ankles were secured in golden cuffs inlaid with dark purple gems.
I don’t need to see the sky to know this is officially not my day… Mona allowed her eyes to once again close. Maybe if Childe thought she had fallen back to sleep he would go away. Better yet, maybe the next time she woke up she would realize this had all been some twisted nightmare. Probably brought on because she had forgotten to have breakfast or lunch.
But then…
“Trying to just ignore me?” Childe gave a dark chuckle. “Wouldn’t recommend it. Let’s see if this gets your attention.”
As he finished speaking, Mona felt a finger brush against her stomach. It swirled around her belly button before slowly moving up in a zigzagging pattern until it was brushing against the underside of her breasts. Rubbing gently against her right breast, it began to move in a leisurely circle, inching closer and closer to being able to touch a nipple.
“Stop.” Mona’s eyes snapped open, her body on full alert. She glared at Childe, her hands curling into fists in the fancy cuffs that secured her to bed. What she wouldn’t give right now to have one of her fists connect with his face.
The fucker had the audacity to smile. He kept his hand where it was.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mona snapped. “I’m going to tell Lumine about this. I’m going to tell her you’re a disgusting pervert and—”
“You think you’re going to see Lumi again. Interesting.” He flicked a thumb over Mona’s nipple. It pebbled under his touch. “Don’t worry, I’m not going any further than a little teasing. Gotta make sure Scaramouche thinks you want him, right?”
Did the Harbingers do this often? Snatch people from their normal lives, cuff them to beds, and use them as their personal playthings?
And what the hell did Scaramouche have to do with any of this? Mona had no doubt he was capable of fucking—or mindfucking—someone if he wanted to. But this didn’t fit the two-faced assassin she had met during the meteor shower, or the guy who had returned her berries this morning.
Then again, if he was that comfortable switching how people perceived him, he could be capable of anything. This included.
Today was getting more crazy and making less sense the longer Childe sat beside her.
It was also exactly what she deserved. How had she let herself start thinking of a member of the Fatui as one of her friends? Let alone a Harbinger?
It wasn’t like Childe was her best friend… But they had done commissions together. He had taken her to lunch several times, with and without Lumine. He had known to ask her for help with Bennett, because it had been on a journey to rescue Bennett that whatever friendship they had shared began.
And this was where it ended.
Whatever friendship or trust she had thought they shared had clearly been totally in her head. Stupid gullible idiot. She knew better than to fall for something like this.
And yet it still hurt. Her bottom lip started to tremble, and a tightness formed in her throat.
She pressed her lips into a firm line and swallowed the lump that was trying to push free. She would not let Childe—No. Fuck aliases and code names, she would not let Tartaglia—make her cry.
“Bennett was never in any danger, was he?” Mona asked, her voice trembling with unshed tears. “You used that as an excuse to set me up.”
“Correct. Benny’s fine.” Childe shifted his attention to her other breast. Repeating the process of gently caressing his way to its nipple, he rubbed and tweaked until it, too, became firm under his hand. Mona squirmed, trying to press her legs together as she felt heat pool between them. Felt her body betray her completely. “He’s been out with Lumine, Fischl, and Diluc all day. So I knew he wouldn’t be around when I gave you a sob story about him going missing. I knew it would be an easy way to get you alone.”
Manipulative piece of shit… But this still made no sense. Childe was with Lumine. So, why was he dressed in his full Harbinger regalia with Mona cuffed naked to a bed. Sure, he’d done some stupid groping. But he seemed totally detached from it. He hadn’t even taken off his gloves.
Wait… Hadn’t he mentioned something about Scaramouche? This situation was so crazy that everything was blending together into a gigantic, irrational blur. After what happened this morning… If she was here as some kind of present for Scaramouuche, she was in big trouble.
“Alone for what? To bring me here?” Mona asked. Childe was no longer touching her, but Mona swore she could still feel his fingers on her skin. The memory of him touching her breasts was like a stain that was never going to fully wash off. “Where is here, anyway? And why am I here?”
“We’re on the top floor of the Goth Grand Hotel. You’re in one of the rooms we’ve started calling the Harbinger suites. This is Scaramouche’s bed, at the moment.” Childe smirked at his last statement, then made a waving gesture. They were in a nice looking room with a cherry wood table and chairs. A sitting area with a sofa, bookshelves and a fireplace took up another corner. “This probably comes as news to you, Mona, but you have acquired things through the Northland bank. As such, you owe a debt to the Fatui.”
“How the fuck is that possible?” Mona’s mind started to race, frantically trying to recall if she had ever taken a debt from someone she didn’t know personally. She kept coming up blank. Childe had to be wrong about this. Had to be. Because right now, Mona didn’t have two pieces of mora to rub together. “I know I was telling you I’m shit at managing money… But I’m not dumb enough to take a loan from you guys.”
“I never said you took a loan. I said you owe a debt.” Childe seemed very amused about this for some reason. “The other day when I was going through some accounts, I found a well hidden ledger that belonged to Scaramouche. It showed that he had purchased a house in Mondstat and that he had made a million mora payment to Sara over at Good Hunter.”
“Oh, no…” Mona’s stomach lurched. So she had heard him right. This was about Scaramouche. Damn him to the Abyss. Every time something bad happened, he was never far behind. “Are you telling me Scaramouche bought the house I’ve been renting?”
The one she had admitted to Childe she hadn’t paid rent on in four months mere hours ago. The one she had neglected to pay rent on so she could have some stupid fucking globe. Yeah, this was a disaster. If she ever got out of this—a shiver ran through her as she recalled Childe’s lack of certainty about that—she would get her fucking ducks in order.
She swore it to any Archon that might be listening, then silently prayed that someone was.
She had always aligned with the stars, not with any specific deity of any given nation. Fat lot of good any constellation was going to do her now. They might as well all be fake like Scaramouche thought they were.
“Yes.” Childe said, giving a single, curt nod. “He also gave Sara instructions that whenever you go to Good Hunter to eat that she is to put your food on his tab regardless of who tries to pay for you. Apparently he had people watching you and he became concerned you weren’t taking care of yourself.”
Unwanted stalker… Get rid of you… Mona didn’t remember everything that had happened when she had yelled at Scaramouche earlier that morning. But these two snippets from her barrage of insults were now bouncing in her head like a pair of juggling balls. A cold sweat broke out against her skin and a mild wave of nausea swirled in the pit of her stomach.
“Something troubling you?” Childe asked, a smug grin on his face as he looked down at her. “I was there this morning when he gave you back your berries. I was a few feet away, just inside a cave. You certainly let him know what you think of him.”
“I thought he was screwing with my head. Stalking me. Looking for a chance to strike.” Mona ran her tongue over her lips, debating whether to spit in Childe’s face. But, no. Cuffed down like this that would just invite trouble. She couldn’t stay completely silent, though. “Turns out it’s you I should have been watching out for.”
“He had a perfect opportunity to take you out if that was his goal,” Childe glared at her. “But the only person I saw showing any aggression on that beach was you. Scaramouche was surprisingly civil. He even saved your stupid berries. So now you’re gonna make it up to him.”
It was strange to see Childe so defensive of Scaramouche. On one of the few occasions she and Lumine had discussed Scaramouche after the meteor showers, Lumine had told Mona that she had heard he was disliked by many Fatui and even a few Harbingers.
Yet he had saved her berries. Had even tried to warn her of their effects, the damn know-it-all.
“Did he put you up to this because of what I said?”
“No, this is something I decided on my own.” Childe pulled a little vial of shimmery pink liquid out of his pocket. “Today happens to be Scaramouche’s birthday. Since you owe a debt to the Fatui, and I know you cannot afford to pay it in mora, I figure we can work something else out instead. For the rest of the day, you belong only to him. Open your mouth, Mona.”
Mona stared at the vial of Valberry Juice, fear making the roof of her mouth dry out. “Childe, if you give me a whole vial of that you’ll kill me. And you realize that all it—”
Childe allowed a few drops of the stuff to land on his finger, before stuffing said finger into Mona’s mouth. For a moment, Mona was afraid she was going to gag. He hadn’t exactly been gentle about putting his damn finger in there.
As he slid his finger free, Mona burst into tears.
“Really? Tears?” Childe sighed and pulled a kerchief from the pocket of his coat, then started trying to dry her eyes. “Do you really think waterworks are a bright idea knowing that Scaramouche is coming in here? I’m sure his mood’s going to be just terrific after your last encounter. Water and electricity don’t get on so well, you know.”
Childe wasn’t wrong about that. But Mona didn’t have time to give a shit about what Scaramouche might do to her, how pissed she was at Childe, or how horrified she was about what he had just forced her to swallow.
“I’d get the fuck out of here if I were you.” Mona said. A sudden, almost electric pull hummed in her belly, making her body feel like it was going liquid. He hadn’t given her a full bottle of Valberry Juice, bless the stars, but he had definitely overdone it. “You wanted to give me a potion to make me horny, right? Wanted Scaramouche to walk in here and have me begging him to fuck me.”
“Yes, that is the plan.”
“Well, you totally screwed that up.” Mona said, swallowing nervously as he made no effort toward leaving. “You needed to get a vial of Violet Grass Extract if you wanted that to happen. What you just gave me is undiluted Valberry Juice. People normally wear the berries inside a sachet or have them made into an oil to put on their skin.”
“Huh?” Childe blinked at her, like he was seeing her for the first time. His mouth curved into a genuinely lusty grin and he gave her a scandalous once-over that she hadn’t realized he had actually resisted until now. Shit. If he didn’t leave soon… “Sucrose said this would make you willing to fuck anybody.”
And that fucker Albedo had probably put her up to it. Mona thought, her hands clenching into fists. She dug her nails into her palms, trying to push down the rage that was starting to simmer inside her. I told him not to sell that shit to anybody, and he totally didn’t listen.
“Valberries are used to make someone become super attracted to you.” Mona let out a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Childe was to blame for ninety-nine percent of this current mess. But knowingly or not, Sucrose had given him the wrong potion. “Like, male dog realizes female dog is in heat levels of attracted.”
“What?” Childe shifted on the bed. Looking up, Mona could see a growing sense of horror spreading across his face. He grabbed the kerchief he had been trying to use to dry her eyes. “Mona, I feel really weird. Like, some part of my brain is trying to tell me you’re the most beautiful girl in Mondstat when I know that’s actually Lumi. No offense—”
Now he was worried about whether or not she was offended? Because he thought Lumine was prettier? Yet stripping Mona bare, fondling her breasts, and cuffing her to Scaramouche’s bed was a-okay.
The Fatui really were a bunch of fucked up weirdos.
“Out!” Mona couldn’t believe he was standing there trying to analyze this instead just shutting up and listening. “Move your ass! Get out of here, now! If you don’t, Scaramouche is going to walk in and find us together, naked, on this bed. I don’t want that. And I’m pretty fucking sure you don’t either. So move!”
With great reluctance, that would have made Mona laugh under different circumstances, Childe rose from the bed and headed toward the door.
“Don’t worry, Mona. I won’t let anyone but Scaramouche get in here.” Childe closed the door behind him with a soft thud, leaving Mona alone with her thoughts.
Oh, Archons… Childe had kidnapped her, drugged her, groped her and—had she not stopped him—had probably been about five minutes away from fucking her senseless thanks to the stupid Valberry Juice.
And now she was naked, cuffed to a bed, and waiting for Scaramouche—the most terrifying man in the whole of Teyvat—to…what? Rape her? Ravish her? Rescue her?
It was really anyone's guess what was about to happen, because Scaramouche shifted his moods faster than Mona collected astrology themed trinkets out of Astrology Monthly.
Childe was right. She really had to get these stupid tears under control.
What did she know about Scaramouche?
He was cunning, ruthless, unflinching, fearless… and according to Childe, her secret fucking sugar daddy.
Okay. Maybe there was a sliver of hope that she wasn’t about to die.
But her virginity? That wasn’t gonna see the sunset. It wasn’t a question of whether Scaramouche would take that from her. Rather, the potion Childe had just forced her to drink guaranteed that somebody was going to claim that today, whether she was ready or not.
Because the effect of Valberry Juice, drawing a suitable mate to the person who had ingested the juice, would not stop until someone had fucked Mona thoroughly and completely.
You should be careful what you do with those berries. There had been no taunt in the way Scaramouche had said it. Only genuine concern. Mona only hoped he wouldn’t start gloating when he found out he had been oh so fucking right.
Oh yes, this had been a day. And Mona was pretty sure it was a long way from being over. Ignoring the rumbling of her stomach—because of course she had been too stupid to eat anything, again—she let her eyes flutter closed, hoping to get some rest.
With the shit Childe had just made her drink coursing through her body, she knew she was going to need it.
Scaramouche
Scaramouche knew something was wrong the moment he opened the door to the hotel. There was a certain smell in the air that sent a tingle through him. A slight, prickling sensation that danced through his body right up until it reached his groin. Then it hunkered down and seemed content to linger, leaving Scaramouche uncomfortably aroused in front of the dozen people sitting in the front lobby.
Fuck. Someone here has ingested Valberry Juice. Probably purchased from Mona. He had tried to warn her about what she was carrying, but he hadn’t expected the shit to make its way here.
When he found out who had done this, in some insane attempt to get laid, he was going to show them how it felt to have a charged electro catalyst shoved up their ass.
Moving further into the lobby, Scaramouche took two flights of stairs up to the top floor where the suites the Harbingers had been using were located. As he went, the intensity of the aroma of Valberry Juice grew stronger.
For shit’s sake, had it been Childe? What in the Abyss would he and Lumine need that for? The Goth Grand Hotel was fairly nice, but Scaramouche had heard them through the walls enough times to know they didn't need any potions to encourage them to get naked.
“Over here,” Childe called out from a few feet down the hall. He rose from the chair he was sitting in. “We need to talk.”
“Damn straight we do,” Scaramouche walked over to him. “Why does the entire hotel smell like Valberry Juice?”
Childe grinned at him like he thought he had just fulfilled a mission for the Tsaritsa. “Because I gave some to Mona. And—”
“You fucking idiot!” Scaramouche grabbed Childe and slammed him against the wall. “What were you thinking? Do you even understand how that shit works? What it does?”
“Sucrose said it would make Mona super horny.” Childe looked at Scaramouche like a kid who had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. A sick feeling coated Scaramouche’s stomach as he wondered if that was all Childe had done to Mona. “Then Mona tried to tell me not to give it to her, but I figured she’d do that. So I ignored her. Once I used a finger to stick some in her mouth—”
Scaramouche’s fist connected with Childe’s jaw.
“Once she calmed down, Mona told me it’s used in some kind of ritual. That it’s most common purpose is to attract a suitable mate.” Childe rubbed his jaw where Scaramouche had punched him, but made no effort to retaliate. “So I told her I’d guard your room until you got here. But damn it, Scaramouche, I’ve got to—”
Scaramouche put a hand up to stop Childe.
Offering to protect Mona was probably the smartest thing he had done today, if Scaramouche had to make a wager.
Giving her Valberry Juice? Not so much.
Odds were good Childe thought he was going to get relief from taking a cold shower. Scaramouche took some pleasure in knowing that Childe, who had been in the same room with Mona while she was under the influence of the Valberry Juice, would not find relief until Mona was free from the concotion's effect.
If Mona agreed to let Scaramouche help her, he planned to take his time. In part because he had a feeling she would need that, and in part so that Childe could experience the joys of being under the thrall Valberry Juice for a good long while.
Scaramouche had encountered the shit several times throughout his long existence and built up a decent immunity. He was aroused and mildly uncomfortable, but it was nothing he couldn't handle. From the way Childe kept shifting the way he was standing, Scaramouche doubted he had the same advantage.
“Like most things people consume to enhance or control sex, you only need a tiny drop of Valberry Juice for it to do its job.” Scaramouche toyed with his hat, figuring Childe would not forgive a second fist to the face as easily as he had the first. “Further, it doesn’t do anything to arouse the person who drinks it. It’s meant to encourage anyone who smells it to fuck the person who drank it. In the bottle it’s odorless. But once it’s once it’s in someone’s body…”
“Let me guess,” Childe lowered himself back into the armchair he had been in when Scaramouche came up the stairs. “The more you drink, the farther the scent carries.”
“Correct.”
“I coated half of my finger with that stuff.” Childe looked down. “Is she going to be okay?”
“That explains why I could smell it walking into the hotel.” Scaramouche said with a sigh. “Valberry Juice won’t make Mona sick or anything. But the effect of smelling her will linger… We’ve got at least two dozen people staying here right now. It’s a miracle they haven’t started bum rushing the stairs and trying to break down the door.”
“There were a few idiots who came up here after I left the room.” Childe’s bow materialized and he stroked the weapon idly. Again, Scaramouche got the feeling that there was something Childe wasn’t telling him. “I told them they had the count of three to turn around, and that if they tried to touch the door I would be sending my condolences to their families. I promised Mona that the only person I would let in there is you. I always keep my promises.”
“You’re still not grasping how serious this is.” Scaramouche enjoyed the rare opportunity to look down at Childe for once, rather than looking up at him. “The only thing that makes the effect of Valberry Juice stop is having sex with someone. Mona’s going to be like this until somebody…”
A memory popped into Scaramouche’s head. A report from some of his scouts that Mona had been seen with a man having lunch. File after file, stacking up in his office in Inazuma. Crumpled with his bedding supplies as he traveled.
What had the fool’s name been… Alfredo? Alegretto? No… Albedo!
Yes, that was it. The esteemed head Alchemist of the Knights of Favonius. Scaramouche wondered, for a moment, what he thought of Mona’s fixation with the stars.
A surge of electro danced over Scaramouche’s skin as he imagined that bastard covering Mona’s body with his. Aligning their hips together. And then…
“Hey, Scaramouche!” Childe’s panicked voice pulled him out of his thoughts. “You have every right to be mad, but if you make an actual attempt to kill me I am going to fight back.”
Glancing down, Scaramouche realized that his arm was coated in an electro-infused sleeve from elbow to fingertips. Fuck. If he went into his room and Mona saw this she would probably have a heart attack and die. She had been so scared this morning. Far more than she had been the day they met.
Which was both understandable and ridiculous.
He had sought her out by herself, wanting to speak with her alone. But now that he thought about it, that had probably been a mistake. Letting her be with friends, and allowing her think she had the upper hand, might have made her less flighty.
Yet her unrelenting fear was so frustrating. If she kept running from him, how was he supposed to help her get past it?
The more that he learned about her, the more he wanted to entwine her life with his. The more he wanted to spend his days savoring her company and unraveling every detail about her like she was some elaborate mystery.
It wasn’t often that someone took Scaramouche’s fancy. Most people he could barely tolerate. Some people irritated him to the point that they got themselves killed.
Mona was different. Beyond beautiful and intellectually brilliant, yet shockingly clueless in the ways of the world.
Scaramouche wanted her, and he felt she needed him. If she would just stop being terrified of him, and give him a chance to show her how good things could be if they were together, he was confident he could make her his completely.
Today, he had wanted to ask her if she would like to have some lunch. He had read several articles about how an Astrologer’s ability to sense auras worked, hoping to make her stop thinking someone was going to die the moment she sensed him. He had done everything he could think of to exude an aura of calm for her to pick up on. He had even kept his temper when she called him a stalker and claimed she wanted to get rid of him.
“Until somebody fucks her?” Childe had his head tilted back, using the top of the armchair as a pillow. He had gone a shade paler than usual, if that was even possible.
Scaramouche blinked, realizing he had lost track of the conversation. What had they been discussing?
Wait. Valberry Juice. Right.
Childe looked down, like he thought his well polished black boots were the most interesting thing in Teyvat. “When we were clearing a ruin together earlier, she kinda implied that she’s a vir—”
Scaramouche put a hand up. “Stop while you’re ahead, Tartaglia. I’m going in to see my Mona now.”
“Your Mona,” Childe threw his head back and laughed. “Only because I stripped her naked and cuffed her to your bed.” Childe gave Scaramouche the carefree grin he tended to use when he received an assignment from the Tsaritsa. "Happy birthday, by the way. And you're welcome."
Fuck, how had he slipped and used that endearment— Wait, what?
Scaramouche stared at Childe in shocked silence. What had this idiot done to her? And what did kidnapping Mona have to do with Scaramouche being another year older? If Childe thought he was about to get thanked for this mess he could think again.
Honestly, he was lucky Scaramouche was too busy deciding how to help Mona right now. Otherwise, it would be a coin toss whether Scaramouche would be plotting the idiot's demise. The Tsaritsa had ten other Harbingers. If Childe had hurt Mona, he would not be missed.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that.” Childe gave him a devilish grin. “I’m not the one who had a set of electro-infused cuffs among his belongings. I figured those would work to keep Mona from doing her damned water-sprinting thing.”
“Is there anything else I should know before I go in there, Tartaglia?” Scaramouche’s hand clenched into a fist. If Childe’s answer displeased him, they might end up fighting here and now. “Did you lose all control and—”
“No!” Childe’s horror-stricken face made Scaramouche feel marginally better. “Mona’s my friend. I brought her here because I know you really like her, and I think you two would be good together. Lumi and I are making it work. Why shouldn’t you? Having someone you love is the only thing I’ve found that’s as good as a fight against a worthy opponent.”
Scaramouche’s lips twitched as he tried not to laugh. The way Childe had set this whole thing up had to have poor Mona thinking that anything but falling in love was in the cards. Yet Scaramouche could sense the sincerity in the younger man’s words.
Childe's voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke again. "I really fucked this up, didn't I?"
That was putting it mildly.
Fortunately, Scaramouche was used to working amidst other people's unending incompetence.
“You can go downstairs and coax the men to go outside the city and train.” Scaramouche gave Childe a good-natured slap on the back. It was obvious he felt terrible. There was nothing of value to be gained by making him feel any worse.
But fucking with him, just a little? That was fair game and Childe more than had it coming.
“You can go and take a cold shower and stop fantasizing about my Mona." Scaramouche used the endearment without hesitation this time, before giving Childe a mischievous wink. "Or you can sit here and listen to us, if that’s your thing. Regardless of what you do, rest assured that Mona will be safe with me.”
Grinning to himself as he turned away from Childe’s slack-jawed reaction, Scaramouche walked over to the door that lead into his room, opened it, and stepped inside. It was time to find the best way to help Mona deal with the mess she had unwittingly gotten herself into.
Scaramouche
The scent of the Valberry Juice was almost suffocating. Scaramouche’s cock hardened fully and he fought against a groan as he walked over to the bed. Blast this accursed concoction. If he had been anyone else, there was little doubt he would have ripped off his clothes and been on top of Mona in seconds.
Lucky for her, he was who he was. He had lived long enough to master self control and patience. When his subordinates inability to match him in these virtues didn’t threaten to drive him to madness, at least.
Fortunately, he and Mona were not on a battlefield. As much as Scaramouche might wish otherwise, he held no true authority over her. He would have to be careful not to order her around or expect instant obedience. Yet. He would have to at least try.
Still standing in the doorway, he removed his hat and hung it on a hanger he had installed the day he had claimed this room. He then carefully removed his shoes and placed them neatly below the spot where his hat hung. He took care to ensure that there was nothing catching on the long swatches of fabric that hung from the back of his hat.
Where was Mona’s hat? Her other things? He had half expected to see her hat hanging on the wall, waiting for his to join it. He would have to ask Childe what he had done with her things later.
His eyes adjusting to the room’s soft lighting, Scaramouche sucked in a breath as he drank Mona in. She was lying on her back, her hands held in place by electro-infused cuffs and her legs spread apart by similar, slightly larger cuffs that had been secured around her ankles.
Scaramouche was still having trouble accepting that Childe had stripped her naked. She was even more pretty than Scaramouche had imagined. But she looked so vulnerable; so small.
Was she afraid? A wave of disgust ran through him for even considering such a stupid question. Of course she was scared. What else could she be, lying here like this? For the first time in a long time—the first he could vividly recall, if he was honest—the idea of someone being afraid made him…sad. It was a strange feeling.
No matter. He was here now. Whether she knew it or not, Mona was safe.
As for Childe… So long as he hadn’t done this wanting to sneak a glance at Mona for himself—which Scaramouche doubted, knowing how much Childe liked Lumine—he could live. This whole situation was utterly debauched. But it was also one of the nicest things anyone had ever tried to do for him.
So, this is how Tartaglia thinks I want Mona? Scaramouche barely held back a laugh.
Given that most of the times Childe had seen Scaramouche with others involved yelling at stupid subordinates, Scaramouche couldn’t entirely blame him. But he was wrong about wanting Mona naked and pinned beneath him, just as he was wrong thinking that Scaramouche had any intentions of hurting Mona if she rejected him.
Having her naked like this was instant gratification; it took some of the fun out of it. This kind of submission was at its finest when it was truly earned. When the other person was offering their hand or foot to be cuffed. When it was accompanied with a a heated gaze, naked with desire, making it clear they were as eager to submit as Scaramouche would be to take control.
Would he love to get to that point with Mona? Of course. Was he stupid enough to think that was going to happen tonight? Absolutely not.
If they were going to be like this tonight, he would far rather have coaxed her into letting him slowly undress her like he was unwrapping a present. Playing with her hair after hanging their hats together. Nibbling her neck as he undid the buttons that secured her body suit. Kissing a path over her collarbones, around her breasts… Taking her nipples in his mouth and sucking them while she dug her nails into his scalp to hold him to her.
Fuck. He had to stop thinking about this or he would come undone here and now. That would be embarrassing. As for his fantasies? Another time, perhaps.
If he played his cards right, he was going to have many, many nights to explore every inch of Mona intimately.
Despite all that was bared to him, Scaramouche was disappointed to realize that Mona’s eyes were closed. His favorite thing about her—those luminous, silver eyes that pierced him like a pair of glistening twin moons—were trapped beneath pale lids and long black lashes.
Not wanting her to wake and find him gawking, he walked to the bed and sat down so that he was looking at her face. Reaching over, he pushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes.
She blinked.
Once, twice.
Then her eyes opened completely.
“How long did I sleep?” she asked, her voice soft and drowsy.
She sounded like she might be thirsty, and Scaramouche wished he had brought a pitcher of ice water or a bottle of wine. But then, he hadn’t expected to find her here until he had spoken with Childe. Let alone left on his bed like this.
“There are still a few hours until sunset.” Scaramouche said, wondering what Childe had told her when they had been in here together. It must have been something impressive if it was keeping her this calm.
Or maybe she hadn’t realized he was here yet? She had just waken up, after all.
“So, not that long then. Childe and I entered that ruin a little before noon…”
“Is that how this happened? Did the idiot kidnap you and bring you here?” Scaramouche asked, unable to hide his irritation.
With any luck Mona would realize he was mad at Childe, not her. But then, when it came to doing anything that involved her, luck tended to give Scaramouche the middle finger and bugger off.
“He told me one of our friends had gone missing,” Mona tilted her head and looked at him. Scaramouche could actually feel her trying to read him. Undoubtedly trying to figure out what in the Abyss was going on here. “For some reason, I couldn’t read his intent then any better than I can read yours now. One minute I was standing on a platform looking for our friend Benny. The next I woke up here with a massive headache. At least that seems to be gone now.”
Scaramouche sighed. Of course an idiot like Childe would think that bashing someone over the head was a smart way to take them captive. There were so many better, smarter ways. He would need to invite Childe out for lunch sometime and talk to him about that.
But right now? All he could think of was Mona, lying there looking up at him with surprisingly curious gray eyes.
“Do you know what today is, pretty girl?” Scaramouche itched to touch her again. To bury his fingers in her hair. To trace each curve and angle of her face until he committed every inch of her to memory. Yet he resisted the urge to do that, or anything else.
Perhaps Childe found something thrilling about binding a girl beneath him and bending her to his will. But that was all to easy, and all too short lived. A skim of the surface, shallow and ultimately empty.
What Scaramouche wanted from Mona was much deeper, and much more lasting than that. He didn’t merely want to have or take Mona. He didn’t even need her to beg for him—though she might, before they were finished here. He wanted her to give herself to him, of her own free will, utterly and completely.
“Childe said it’s your birthday,” Mona said. “He told me a lot of stuff I didn’t know. I’m sor—”
Quick as lightening, Scaramouche lowered himself over her and claimed her lips, stealing what he figured had been ‘sorry’ before she could finish saying it.
Her lips were softer than he had ever imagined. To his shock, they parted with ease when he traced his tongue against them. He started to explore her mouth, a shiver running through him when her tongue touched his.
Gentle. Cautious.
He slowly pulled away, giving her a chance to catch her breath.
Maybe there had been a point today where her apology would have been appropriate. But not here or now, knowing what his incompetence at getting her to talk to him had—and was yet going to—cost her. If anyone here was in need of forgiveness it was him. Because this, here and now, was in no way how he had intended for them to spend the day.
“No apologies,” he brushed a kiss against her forehead. “I messed up, you messed up, and Tartaglia totally fucked up. Trying to weigh out blame isn’t going to do any good, though. I’d rather focus on trying to make things better.”
“You tried to warn me about the berries,” Mona said with a sigh. “I’d been picking them for almost a month, though. And I told Albedo not to sell the Juice. But he either forgot, didn’t listen, or ignored me.”
“Nice guy,” Scaramouche didn’t bother hiding his smirk.
“You’re one to talk.” Mona somehow managed to sneer at him while she was lying naked and cuffed to his bed. It was kind of impressive, and made Scaramouche all the more eager to convince her she should let him help her fix this mess.
“At least Albedo has never tried to kill someone.”
“That you know of,” Scaramouche countered. “Given how crazy I’ve heard his experiments can be, I’d be willing to wager he has half a dozen bodies in his basement.”
Mona just continued to stare at him. Scaramouche wondered why she was defending the asshole who had disregarded her wishes and ultimately gotten her into this mess.
“I trust astrology, not half-basked rumors,” Mona rolled her eyes. “Besides, we’re not talking about accidents. We were talking about whether he has tried—”
If Mona defended Albedo for one more second, Scaramouche feared his control of his electro might slip. Which was not what he needed while trying to seduce a girl wearing four electro infused cuffs.
While he didn’t want to terrify her, perhaps it was worth reminding her who she was dealing with using words, before something could go horribly, tragically wrong.
“Pretty girl, I’ve done more than just try,” Brushing a kiss against the shell of Mona’s ear, Scaramouche let his voice drop to a whisper. “The day I met you is the only time I’ve ever failed to claim the life of a target.”
A shiver ran through Mona.
For a moment, Scaramouche wondered if telling her that had been a mistake. But then a distinct yet subtle scent filled the air, mingling with the smell of the Valberry Juice.
Sweet Celestia, had he just turned her on?
He could feel a slow, satisfied smile tip up the corners of his mouth. He wasn’t a man who gave a true smile often. It felt good.
“Do you understand what happens when someone consumes Valberry Juice?” Scaramouche asked. He was fairly sure she had some idea, but he wanted to be certain.
“Yes.” Heat spread out from Mona’s cheeks until she was doing a full body blush. “I tried to warn Childe, but—”
“Do you want Targalia’s help with this? Or Albedo’s?” Scaramouche grit his teeth as every inch of his body begged him to release the throbbing tendrils of electro popping and snapping just under his skin when he asked her this.
He had never considered himself a jealous man. Yet for some reason the idea that Mona might let someone else touch her was robbing him of sanity. The Valberry Juice only wished it were capable of stripping him of control like this.
He had to get that back. Now. If she did want someone else, he would not hurt her.
He had promised himself that the day he had allowed Childe to drag him into Mondstat last week. Before he’d had any clue Childe was plotting anything like this.
Was it fear of losing control like this that had stopped him from coming here before now?
“Of course not!” Mona’s body tensed, and Scaramouche held back a string of curses. He’d definitely messed something up here. “Tartaglia—gah, you’ve got me calling Childe that now, and I know he hates it from anyone non-Fatui except Lumi—is dating one of my best friends. Plus, he’s is the idiot who made me drink the Valberry Juice. I wouldn’t sleep with him if he was the last man left in Teyvat.”
She looked down then. Like she had thought something else just now, but had silenced herself and cut him out of part of the conversation. Scaramouche decided not to push. If things came up about Childe later, they could deal with them then. He was pretty sure today had already been more than overwhelming for Mona, and it was far from over yet. He would let her have this silence. For now.
“All right, that rules out Tartaglia.” Scaramouche began to knead his fingers against one of Mona’s shoulders. “And we agree he’s an idiot. I like that.”
Shit, she was so tense. He was right. He knew he was right. There was something going on. And he wanted to know… Oh, how he wanted to know what it was. But he knew he would could get more with gentle patience than with raw dominance right now.
He wasn’t questioning Mona to be a prick. He had to know if there was someone else she’d rather be doing this with. Someone she wanted here instead. Because the last thing Scaramouche wanted was for her to lay with him in his bed and think of another man while he fucked her.
If he ever found out that had happened, and who that man was, Scaramouche was certain he would fry the fool alive. Then he’d probably bury a piece of the unlucky bastard at the base of each of Mondstat’s statues of the seven.
“Albedo and I dated for about a month when I first came to Mondstat.” Mona went on, seemingly oblivious to Scaramouche’s raging thoughts. “Started out innocent enough. Lunch here. Do commissions together there. Get drinks at AngeI’s Share once in a while.”
“What happened?” Scaramouche asked, shifting his attention to Mona’s other shoulder and a tight kink he found in her neck. “Doesn’t sound like you’re with him anymore.”
“He tried to slip Violet Grass Extract into a drink from The Cat’s Tail one day when we were having lunch.” Mona’s left hand, still held in a cuff, clenched into a fist. “He thought he had discovered a love potion and figured I wouldn’t mind trying it.”
“How did you deal with drinking that?” Scaramouche’s heart skipped a beat when he realized he had asked her out loud. “Wait! You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to—”
Mona grinned at him.
“I spent several months living in Liyue before moving to Mondstat. So I knew what was in the drink the moment he handed it to me.” Mona made a soft, gasping sound as Scaramouche continued to work his fingers against her neck and shoulders.
At first he thought he’d screwed up bringing Albedo up. But maybe this was actually helping her. Had she ever told anyone else about this? Had she been too afraid to say anything? She had still been new in town and, from what he had read in reports, Albedo was a member of the Knights of Favonius.
“I waited until our food arrived, and then bumped the drink when Albedo was speaking to the waiter. I thought I did a good job of making it look like an accident.” Mona sighed. “But he was so upset about losing the formula that he came right out and told me everything. He kept going on and on about how his brilliant experiment was ruined.”
“You should have dumped the drink on his head,” Scaramouche said.
Mona laughed. The sound made any remaining tingle of electro in Scaramouche’s body vanish.
“I didn’t dump the drink on him, but I did break up with him.” Mona sounded almost as confident now as she had the first day he had met her. When she had defended the existence of the stars. “He tried to convince me that it was okay that he didn’t ask my permission. He said it would have compromised his research.”
“So the experiment was more important to him than you were?” Scaramouche definitely got that impression from what she was saying, but he wanted to know how Mona felt about it.
“That’s how it felt to me. There was no way I could tolerate that.” Mona’s eyes darkened like they were storm clouds. “No one disrespects me and gets away with it.”
“Is that a warning?” Scaramouche brushed a finger from the tip of her chin, down her neck, and over her collarbones. “Should I watch my back?”
“Of course not,” Mona’s lashes fluttered over her eyes and for a moment, Scaramouche considered ordering her to open them. “Childe told me what you’ve been doing for me. Tha—”
Scaramouche brought his finger up to her lips and pressed them closed. “No.”Right now he was not worthy of ‘thank you’.
Mona’s tongue darted out and ran the length of his finger. She parted her lips, wrapped them around his finger and sucked it firmly.
Fuck. Now he was imagining what it would feel like if she did that to his cock. If she didn’t stop he was going to cum fully dressed and sitting on his bed. Like some stupid, horny teenager.
“I didn’t help you expecting anything in return.” He gently slid his finger free of her mouth. “It wasn’t to cause a situation like this. I hid the ledger with the expenses I used to help you, but Tartaglia found it. Turns out there’s a reason, other than being battle thirsty, that the Tsaritsa keeps him at the Northland Bank.”
“He’s usually honest to a fault,” Mona stretched as much as the cuffs would let her, and Scaramouche wondered if they were spending too much time talking and not enough time getting rid of the effect of the Valberry Juice.
But he was enjoying listening to her, and she had yet to complain that the cuffs were bothering her. He wanted to keep them on, because he wanted her still and secure while he explored her body.
When and if she chose to let him.
“When I first woke up, I was convinced you put him up to this.” Mona’s teeth scraped against her bottom lip, making Scaramouche want to kiss her again. “I’ve never thought to try and read him before. Then, when I tried to read him when I woke up here…nothing.”
“You fell for his honorable knight act hook, line, and sinker.” Scaramouche made a tsk-ing sound of disapproval. “Tartaglia is good at getting others to lower their guard. Most of the time it’s safe. He’s pretty easy going outside of a fight. But he is a Harbinger. If he decides he wants something, there is nothing that will stop him from taking it.”
Scaramouche forced his expression to stay neutral as he watched Mona’s gaze lose focus and dart around the room, rather than staying on him where it belonged.
What the fuck did you do, Tartaglia?
“Lumine told me his family was poor before he became a Harbinger,” Mona said. “He probably remembers what that was like. You buying me stuff, when he knows I spend my own money buying gadgets for my astrology, must have pissed him off.”
Scaramouche shrugged. “As we’ve already agreed, Tartaglia is an idiot. Nor is it any of his business how I use my money. As for Albedo—”
“Can we please quit talking about others and focus on what’s happening between us right now?” Mona ran her tongue over her lips and Scaramouche held back a curse. How had he forgotten that he had figured she must be thirsty? “If I lay like this much longer I think my limbs are going to start going numb.”
“Are you saying you want me to help you fix this?” Scaramouche asked. He was tempted to make her clarify exactly what she wanted him to do to her. But if Childe was right and she hadn’t done this before, that would only put further pressure on her that she did not need.
“Yes.” She gave a quick nod. “I want you to…”
He stared at her, wondering what she wanted to say. Maybe she wasn’t sure how to tell him. It was possible she didn’t know exactly what she needed from him. It would be his job—and his pleasure—to figure that out. Scaramouche had always loved a good puzzle. Being offered one in the shapely form of a beautiful girl with with moon-glow eyes and silken hair was hardly something he was going to complain about.
“Take you? Own you? Fuck you? Possess you? Teach you? Please you? Love you?” He pressed quick kisses across her temples, against her cheeks, and on top of her nose as he made each suggestion.
“Yes. Please…” Again she paused, clearly struggling to find words for what she was trying to say. “I want you, Scaramouche.”
Mona. He stared at her, shocked at how quickly it had become his turn to be robbed of speech. At least, robbed of anything he could say that might help her right now. My beautiful Mona. I swear you won’t regret this.
Mona
Mona stared up at Scaramouche, her mind a haze of confusion, anxiety, and lust. This was not real. None of this could be real.
Scaramouche was a Fatui Harbinger. The ruthless would-be assassin who had meant to claim Lumine’s life while Mona stood idly by and watched. For all she knew, he had intended to end her and Fischl as well.
She had heard the saying keep your friends close and enemies closer, but this was absurd. What choice did she have at the moment, though? Even if she hadn’t been cuffed to the bed, the Valberry Juice guaranteed Mona was stuck here.
Until somebody…
She was going to have to ask Scaramouche for advice on how to kill someone before this was over. Because whether Childe knew it or not, he was a dead man. Sorry, Lumine.
By some blessing of Barbatos, Scaramouche and Childe had stopped the throng of men staying in the hotel from touching her. But Mona knew full well that their pursuit of her would not cease until at least one man had bedded her. Until, for lack of a better term, she had been mated. Never mind that she was not a Lupical and had no interest in the rituals associated with those who lived alongside the wolves.
Her heart raced at Scaramouche stared at her, his dark blue eyes too intense as they drank her in. Like he was a man dying of thirst. She had just placed herself in his care. No, she had placed herself at his fucking mercy, so long as she wore these cuffs.
What would he do now?
“Your situation with Albedo complicates things a little,” Scaramouche took a few strands of her hair between his fingers. As he spoke, he wound and unwound them like they were pieces of ribbon. “I think giving you a couple drops of Violet Grass Extract would make a good balance to what the damn Valberry Juice is doing to me. But after what you’ve been through…”
“My objection was to Albedo’s deception, and the fact that I had no idea what else was in the glass.” Mona said, pondering what he had just told her. “Violet Grass Extract in a small quantity can range from a relaxant to an aphrodisiac. I sell tiny vials of it, but only if I’m actually there to give a buyer full instructions on what it is and how it works.”
“I think a couple drops would help you,” Scaramouche trailed his fingers down from her neck until they were resting over her heart. “Your heart is racing so fast I fear it’s going to to leap out of your chest and into my hand. I glad we’ve finally had a chance to talk. I wish I had days, weeks, months to win you over. To make you genuinely trust me before anything else happens. But we both know we don’t have time for that right now.”
“I’ve never…” Mona couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Archons this was embarrassing. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Splendid,” Scaramouche’s eyes lit with mischief. “If I’m not dealing with novice Skirmisher and Agents on the battlefield, I’m deflowering a virgin Astrologer in my bed.”
Mona went the color of a tomato. She had been worried he might find her confession a nuisance; she hadn’t expected him to spell it out so bluntly.
“I’m sorry—”
“What?” Scaramouche’s expression shifted from amusement to panic. “Mona, I’m just teasing you. Trying to make you feel less nervous.”
Mona reached out, again trying to read him. For the first time in hours her powers actually worked. She distinctly felt the honesty of his words, as well as mild concern, racing through him. Was he really that upset that he had made her feel embarrassed?
There was something warm, almost intoxicating, about the way he was looking at her right now. If he didn’t stop it soon, Mona feared she might drown. Might lose herself completely.
“I feel honored getting to share something so special with you.” Scaramouche whispered, his breath tickling her ear.
His soft words, paired with the warm but intense way he kept looking at her, was making her heart soar. She was no fool—she knew there was darkness and rage lurking within him. But here and now he was hers, and she could feel the realness of it.
If she wanted to keep things that way, maybe she should tell him why she had misunderstood what he was saying a few moments ago. That would clear things up.
“Lumi and I were talking to someone at the Church of Favonius and he told us—”
“Mona, listen.” Scaramouche pulled a vial of dark purple liquid off one of several loops on his belt, holding it up for her to see. “I’m dying here. I’ve done everything I can to be patient, but if we don’t do this soon it’s going to break me.”
Mona’s mouth hung open, still in mid sentence. “Wait… With how you’ve been acting, I thought you were immune to Valberry Juice. Are you telling me you’ve been sitting here…”
“Hard? Barely able to think? One second from losing control when you took my finger in your mouth ten minutes ago?” Scaramouche’s thumb moved up and down the vial idly. He probably didn’t even realize he was doing that. “Yes. And me feeling this way is the easy part. We need to get you here, too.”
“Okay. I’ll let you give me that potion on one condition,” Mona gave him what she hoped was a sweet smile. “I want you to kiss me again. I don’t know what that potion is going to do to me. How real any of this is going to feel once I take it.”
“Don’t worry, I just want to give you a drop to help you relax. Nothing near what would be needed to make any of this feel fake or wrong.” Scaramouche gave her a gentle smile.
Everything about the way he was looking at her said trust me. Normally, Mona wouldn’t have dared. But she had already read him just moments before. Surely his sincerity hadn’t shifted that quickly?
It was a risk she was willing to take.
“All right,” Mona said. “I trust you.”
There, it was in the open. If he betrayed her, he would damn well know he had done it.
“Smart choice.” Scaramouche’s grin turned devious as he continued to toy with the vial. “Now, about your condition… Say that again,” Scaramouche said, lowering his head so that his lips were mere inches from hers. “Tell me what you want from me. Don’t worry; I’m happy to oblige. But I want to hear you—”
“Kiss me.” Mona said.
Scaramouche brushed kisses against her cheeks and forehead. A quick peck against the corner of her mouth. What in the Abyss was holding him back? If he was really as horny as he had just described, was this really the time to be playing games?
Mona wasn’t here to play around.
There was something about him. Something about the feel of his lips on hers that had been equal parts lightening flashing through her body, and something sturdy to anchor her.
She didn’t just want his kiss. She needed it.
Needed him.
“Come on, Mona. I know you’re smart. You can do better than that.” Scaramouche pressed a kiss against the tip of her nose.
It was a sweet kiss, yet it made her want to scream. She was craving his lips on hers, right now, with greater intensity than she craved Golden Crab every time she visited the Wangshu Inn.
Stars save her. No matter where she was, no matter what she did, her thoughts always came back to food.
“I’m asking what you want,” Scaramouche said. His lips were so close, yet so far away. Mona was certain that if she moved, if she tried to take the kiss from him, that he would back away. “Take advantage of that while you can, pretty girl. I don’t do it often.”
“Kiss me, Scaramouche. Please.” The words were barely a whisper. She couldn’t believe she was on the brink of begging him claim her lips with his. “Take my breath away. Kiss me until all I can taste is you.”
You’re all I can see right now. You’ve consumed my dreams for months. Why shouldn’t I let your kiss consume me completely?
His lips covered hers in an instant. A gentle pressure, warm and firm, spread between them as he pressed his lips to hers. Sealing them together; binding them as one for all that was to come. Mona’s nipples pebbled and heat pooled in her stomach as he branded her with his kiss.
She had dreamed of this, to her absolute mortification. Had wondered what it would be like to be with him on more occasions than she could count. Yet morning had always come, and truth along with it. Scaramouche was dangerous, and Mona’s nighttime fantasies were as far flung from reality as anything could be.
Yet laying here, her body turning to jelly as his lips claimed hers, her last stores of resistance against him melted. Butterflies swirled in her stomach. Her skin tingled with desire wherever he touched her.
His teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, and her mouth opened, granting him access to take her as he pleased. His tongue found hers and flicked against it quickly, like they had suddenly engaged in a battle to see who could make who come undone faster.
Then, like the sun breaking through clouds, his entire focus seemed to shift. He swirled his tongue inside her mouth, slowly brushing it against every inch of her that he could reach. Like he was some conquering force marking every inch of her mouth. Like it was territory that was now solely his possession.
He slid his tongue out of her mouth, his teeth tugging at one of her lips playfully. Once. Twice. Was he copying what he had seen her doing earlier? Silly habit, she’d been trying to break it for months.
“Stick your tongue out, pretty girl,” Scaramouche undid the stopper on the vial. “I would have preferred to put this on my own tongue and give it to you that way. But Archons preserve us, the last thing we need is for me to take any of this right now.”
If he could make her feel like this using nothing but a kiss, what in Barbatos’ name was he going to be capable of once he gave her the potion? A deal was a deal. Mona had agreed she would let him give it to her if he kissed her. So, she was about to find out…
Mona stuck her tongue out, trying to ignore the way it made her feel like she was five and teasing someone she vaguely figured was her mother. Waiting to feel something on her tongue before she put it back in her mouth. She waited, and waited, and…
“I told you I’m only giving you a couple drops.” He put the vial back onto his belt. “It’s there. Swallow it.”
Mona closed her mouth, a mild hint of sweetness lingering on her tongue. The tiniest bit of Violet Grass Extract slipped down her throat.
Without a word, Scaramouche began to guide his fingers down Mona’s body. He brushed them along her sides, the sensation so faint and gentle it almost tickled. He moved them back up, letting them flick over Mona’s ribs. She held her breath as she watched his eyes darken, ever so slightly, and prayed he wasn’t about to say something about her being too thin.
The shadow in his gaze passed, though. His hands moved higher, until they were cupping her breasts. Mona’s breath hitched as he swirled his fingers around her nipples, pinching them gently between fingers and thumbs. It reminded her of Childe doing that an hour or two before.
It took every ounce of her self control to keep her hands from flailing. From trying to free herself from the cuffs so she could knock his hands away.
Fuck. This was a problem she hadn't seen coming.
She couldn’t afford to think about this right now. One wrong expression and she was certain Scaramouche would figure out everything.
She had been kidding when she had thought of getting tips on how to kill Childe. Part of her still wanted to let her knee connect with his balls, but she didn’t want him to actually wind up dead. She was pretty sure that would happen if Scaramouche found out he had touched her.
And there lay the problem. Mona might have forgiven him, her body had its own ideas.
Her heart thumped wildly in her chest and a fine sheen of sweat coated her palms. She almost reached for the water that constantly pulsed within her. Was desperate to find some way to regain control of the sudden panic sweeping through her At the last second she stopped, remembering that the cuffs she wore were infused with electro.
Fate preserve her, that would have been a disaster. Needless injury and revealing one of her most closely guarded secrets to Scaramouche—who might be handsome, but whom she still trusted about as far as she could throw Stormterror—in one fell swoop. That was a hard pass all the way around.
But she had frozen up. Gone numb. Freaked out.
Yeah, this might be a problem…
“Hey, are you okay?” Scaramouche’s brows were knit together, a look of concern sharpening his features. “Mona? I said your name three times. You zoned out on me.”
Mona wasn’t thrilled that Childe had touched her breasts. But she hadn’t expected it to cause a problem like this for her now.
If you tell Lumine I’ll kill you.
How had she forgotten about that? She wondered if, just maybe, it had been as empty a threat as the thought she had entertained about getting assassination lessons from Scaramouche. Maybe. But it was too big a risk to take. There was no smart way to find out.
Mona sucked in a breath, her answer dying on her tongue. Childe hadn’t said anything about not telling Scaramouche what had happened. But if Scaramouche learned everything, what was to prevent him from doing something that would allow Lumine to find out?
Mona closed her eyes, trying to collect her thoughts. She had to act normal or he was going to figure out that something was wrong.
“I guess I’m still a bit nervous.” Mona gave him the best smile she could manage. The irony that it was her wearing a mask now, instead of him, was not lost on her. She hoped he wouldn’t see through it. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” His gaze had yet to leave hers, making Mona’s stomach swirl with uncertainty.
“When are you going to take these cuffs off me?” Mona gave him a genuine pout. For some reason, she felt it would be easier if she could touch him, too. But explaining that without telling him what had happened would be pretty hard. “I want to touch you.”
“If I wasn’t dealing with Valberry Juice they’d already be off.” Scaramouche gave a low chuckle. “But someone just had to pick that crap and bring it into Mondstat. Someone didn’t listen to me.”
He smirked at her, making Mona wish her feet weren’t cuffed down. He deserved a swift kick in the rear for acting so insufferable.
“There are consequences when people disobey me.” He pressed his lips to her neck, working his mouth against her skin in a series of licks and kisses and nibbles that Mona was certain would leave a mark. Which was probably the point. “I like you, pretty girl. But if we’re going to be together, you need to learn you’re no exception to that rule.”
We’re going to be together.
Whoa, whoa, whoa. Someone was getting ahead of himself.
Mona was relieved that Scaramouche seemed almost normal as he tried to help her deal with this crisis. But when had she ever agreed that she would be his?
Right now wasn’t the time to think about that. She had cuffs on, and he held all the cards. Her best bet, for the time being, was to try and stay calm and get this Valberry Juice disaster sorted out.
His words did beg the question, though… What would it be like to date Scaramouche?
An exasperated part of Mona’s brain cackled with hysterical laughter that she did not dare let slip past her lips. Today had officially reached a point where she was starting to wonder if she was losing her mind.
By the time this was all over would there by any part of Mona that Scaramouche had not possessed completely? And if that ended up being the case, would it really be such a bad thing?
Mona wasn’t sure. She did know she was about to share herself with him in the most intimate way two people could be connected. It both thrilled and terrified her.
Scaramouche
It was obvious to Scaramouche that Mona was hiding something.
He didn’t know what it was. He didn’t know how if she was keeping it from him on purpose. But it was clear she had a secret.
Scaramouche had long ago mastered the art of shifting his mood. Of altering how he carried himself, and how others perceived him, as he pleased. Mona was doing a decent job. But Scaramouche had done this so well, and for so long, that most people around him had no idea who he was. What he was really like.
Sometimes he questioned how well he knew himself… But no, he was there—he was who he was—the same as always. Constant, eternal, ever and yet never changing.
Mona might have been able to fool someone less skilled at hiding their true self. But Scaramouche? Not a chance. He knew something was off.
He also knew that now was not the time to press the issue. Whatever was bothering Mona, it was clearly very personal. Right now, his only goal was to get her past the fear and tension he had sensed when he touched her.
He could—and would—discover its source later.
Refusing to take his eyes off her for a second, he slowly moved his hands down her body until they again found her breasts. Keeping his touch feather-light, he brushed his fingers over the soft swell of them, savoring their satiny texture beneath his hands.
She was nibbling her bottom lip again; she was probably nervous. There was definitely something about this that was setting her off, rather than getting her off.
Continuing to tease her nipples, hoping she would relax, Scaramouche lowered his head and began to press kisses against her neck. This seemed to go better; Mona rewarded him with a slight, appreciative sound that that vibrated against his lips as he kept them pressed against her.
It figured. She seemed to like anything that involved kissing.
Keeping this in mind, he slowly kissed his way down her neck, against her collarbones, and then over her heart before shifting his position on the bed so that he could more easily lean over her.
Using a hand to cradle one of her breasts, Scaramouche slowly began to tease her nipple with his tongue.
“Mm…” Mona made a throaty little sound as he continued to play with her nipple. That simple snippet of sound wrapped itself around Scaramouche, warming some long forgotten part of him and urging him on. “What…?”
He only half payed attention to her random mumblings. Instead, he kept the majority of his focus on the taunt little bud he had taken claim of. After slowly rolling it between his lips, he took it fully into his mouth, swirling his tongue against it in slow lazy circles.
He chuckled against the nipple he was sucking, enjoying the way that Mona was pressing her breast up toward him, silently begging for more. This was what he had expected from the beginning when he had touched her.
Which meant she had likely had some crap experience at some point. They could work past that.
Had Albedo fumbled his way around, copping a feel? Or had it been Childe—
Fucking idiot. He had probably done it thinking it would make Mona look like she wanted Scaramouche.
At least Scaramouche could console himself in knowing whichever of them it had been, it had not been something he had done. If it had been Childe, though… Mona was probably going to need help dealing with more than consuming Valberry Juice—
He felt Mona’s leg bump against him, the hint of contact between them pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts.
Releasing her breast from his mouth, he glanced down to see what was going on. Mona’s hips shifted against the bed’s silk sheets as much as the cuffs on her ankles would let them. Her leg was absently rubbing against him as she responded to what he was doing to her.
Damn Valberry Juice and damn my pride. This would probably work better for her if I uncuffed her. Especially if his hunch about why she had frozen up earlier was right. But if he did that and she started touching him, he knew he was going to lose it. Far better for her to squirm under his touch than for them to have to start the whole thing over from zero.
“Having trouble staying still?” Scaramouche asked, moving his hand down and running his fingers lightly against the curve of her hip. “Good thing you’re in those cuffs. This is no time for you to start teasing me.”
She made the most endearing face, her eyes widening slightly and her mouth forming a little ‘Oh’ of surprise when she realized he had caught on to her reaction.
That’s it, he thought, a sense of delight coursing through him. Bit by bit, pretty girl. Come apart for me. Don’t just say you want me. Show me that you do.
“What have we here?” Scaramouche let his fingers glide from the outside of her hip, along the seam of skin that attached her leg to her stomach. HE stopped just as he reached a patch of slightly purple curls. “Is there something you want, Mona?”
A flash of worry crossed her face. For a second she looked like a pigeon that had just noticed someone invading its space. Had he pushed too far?
“I want… need… I…” Her hands, still enveloped by cuffs, were grasping at the air.
“Do you want me to touch you? ...here?” He moved his fingers quickly, tracing the length of her slit. Far enough away that he wasn’t actually touching her without consent, yet close enough that she was probably imagining what it would be like if he did.
At least, he hoped that was preoccupying her thoughts right now. Not whatever or whoever had made her so scared earlier.
Mona gave a quick nod.
Oh, no. Scaramouche stayed where he was, giving her a slight smirk. You don’t need to tell me what to do to you. But you are going to ask.
When he didn’t budge, she added, “Please?”
Had anyone ever touched her here before? Had Mona ever touched herself?
Scaramouche slipped a finger inside of her, moving it slowly up and down, stroking from her entrance to her clit. He savored the slick wetness of her, and grinned when he remembered what had brought her to this point.
“There’s something I’ve been wondering,” he said, swirling his finger gently around her clit. “Which is it that turns you on: The fact that you knew I could destroy your friends in a blink, but won't because I want you? Or the fact that you were able to help them escape before I figured that last part out?”
Mona lay still, her mouth slightly open. Scaramouche didn't need an answer here and now. He was more interested in getting Mona to think about that as he touched her.
Her expression shifted as he slipped another finger into her wet folds and redoubled his efforts to make her body unravel. Instead of words, he got breathy mewling sounds from her as she writhed against the sheets.
Damn it. Now he wanted to know what was going on inside the pretty little head lying on a pillow in front of him. How had he fooled himself into thinking he could accept silence for even a moment?
Scaramouche slowed his pace, determined to get an answer but not willing to deprive her of his touch completely. It was obvious she was enjoying it. Enjoying what he was doing to her. “There’s no need to be shy. I read that the highest goal for an Astrologer is to seek out truth. Be honest, my Mona.”
Fuck, he hadn’t meant to let the endearment slip. His brain was only half functioning today. Probably because some moron had forced Valberry Juice on the prettiest girl in Mondstat and then placed her in his bed. All the blood meant to be up north had migrated down south.
A pretty flush came over Mona’s cheeks and she lowered her lashes for a moment. Again, she was hiding something from him.
When she opened her eyes, they glistened like molten silver. “I hate you so much right now…”
For a moment, he paused. But it was merely a flicker; then he was laughing. There was no bite behind her words. Not weight or conviction. They were drenched in a lusty tone that made it clear the only thing Mona hated was that she had to admit she liked what he was doing to her.
“I’ve thought of you… of us… when I’ve done this before.” The words came out as barely a whisper. If he hadn’t been giving her his full attention, there was every chance he might have missed them.
Given how she ran from him at every turn, this admission went far beyond anything Scaramouche could have hoped for. It almost seemed too good to be true. But from the slickness greeting his fingers, he had no choice but to believe her.
“I can't believe you got me to say that. It's embarrassing. Scandalous. I’m not supposed to.. Oh!” Mona’s words shifted into a rather loud cry as Scaramouche began to rub against her clit in quick, unrelenting circles. “…Not supposed to get tied down in things like this—”
Scaramouche’s lips twitched at the unintended pun. He knew what she was trying to say, but given their current situation it was hard not to see some humor in it.
As he moved his fingers faster and faster, Mona’s tried to lift her hips off the bed. It was only the cuffs that secured her ankles that kept her from losing control completely.
Scaramouche silently thanked Childe for taking the time to put them on her.
It had been morally wrong… But then, they were Harbingers. They was no stranger to that. If these cuffs were giving him the chance to make Mona feel this way, how could he really complain?
“Nonsense,” Scaramouche gently cupped one of Mona’s breasts, teasing a nipple as he continued to bring her closer to coming undone. “Sex, love, passion… Sharing the most intimate part of yourself with another… Isn’t that one of the most fundamental truths of what it is to be human?”
“But it’s…” Mona gave a breathy little gasp that made Scaramouche’s cock twitch in his pants. Fuck, he wanted her now. But he knew he had to remain patient. “Obvious.”
Despite anything she was saying, it was obvious from her reaction to him that she was into this. None of the fear or worry he had seen in her eyes when they had started remained there now.
“Scaramouche, I… This is…” Mona’s random mumblings turned into a series of gasps and cries, her legs tensing and her sex clenching around Scaramouche’s fingers as her orgasm claimed her.
He watched intently, a sense of smug satisfaction pouring through him as she lost all control and then slowly descended back to the bed from wherever in Celestia his touch had just sent her.
Scaramouche rubbed his fingers, still slick with the evidence of Mona’s need, together before slipping them into his mouth.
“Exquisite,” his lips curved into an impish smile. “The next time we do this I'm using my tongue.”
Mona’s face went bright red, which only made him want to laugh.
He wanted five minutes alone with whoever had made her this cautious about sharing her body with another. Though whether it would be more sensible to thank or throttle the person he hadn’t yet decided. On one hand, she was taking more coaxing than he was used to. On the other hand, that person had ensured that she would belong to Scaramouche and Scaramouche only.
Not missing a beat, Scaramouche moved up the bed, brought his lips down on Mona’s, and slipped his tongue into her mouth. Her eyes widened for a second, and then she relaxed, melting into the kiss as she had every other time their lips had met.
“See what I’m saying?” Scaramouche pressed another quick peck to her lips as he parted from her. “I’m not going to try and tell you I don’t lie. That would waste both our time. But I wouldn’t lie about something like this.”
Your taste is perfect, just like everything else about you. Perfect for me.
“So, shall we get those damn cuffs off of you?” Scaramouche slipped down to the bottom of the bed and took one of Mona’s feet in his hands.
He traced gentle circles against the sole of her foot. With a press of his finger against the cuff’s deep purple gem, the cuff fell off and he tossed it aside. Scaramouche pressed a kiss against Mona’s foot where the top of her foot met where the cuff had rested.
“You know,” he tickled the bottom of Mona’s other foot, causing her to giggle. “I’ve had a bone to pick with you two stubborn things for a while now. You keep running from me.” He removed the cuff from Mona’s ankle and kissed the same spot on this foot that he had on her other. “Stop that.”
Glancing up at Mona when she laughed again, he found her pressing her lips together in a failing effort to keep a straight face.
“What? It was worth a try, wasn’t it?” he asked.
She laughed again, the sound weaving itself around him like a series of musical notes. He couldn't remember the last time he had made someone genuinely chuckle.
Normally, he wouldn’t be caught dead teasing someone like this. His humor was usually much more harsh and malicious. More in line with the persona he had built for himself as the Sixth Fatui Harbinger.
But in front of her he felt comfortable lowering the wall he kept around himself. Neither being the terrifying force most in the Fatui viewed him as, nor the mild-mannered vagrant from Inazuma he often cast himself as when he didn’t want to draw attention.
He was both of those things and more, and he wanted to share everything he was with Mona. Whether that entailed him looking awe inspiring, calming, sketchy, terrifying or, as he felt at the moment, like a lovesick fool.
He moved back up the bed, sitting where he had when he had started talking to her after entering the room. Reaching up, he removed the cuffs that were holding her wrists. He took her left wrist into his hand and brought her hand to his mouth.
Pressing a kiss against her palm, he was surprised to find tiny beads of moisture on her skin. To smell the scent of an tropical ocean spray. Wherever Childe had put her vision, it wasn’t in this room. Nor could the scent on Mona’s hand be mistaken for sweat. He could sense hydro energy pulsing just beneath her skin.
What in the Abyss…? He had never come across anyone who could do that without being an Archon, or at least a god. And Scaramouche was confident Mona was neither of those things. He would know if she were.
Yet another secret for him to discover.
You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, pretty girl?
“Well, only one thing in our way now.” Scaramouche said, standing up. “Give me a minute to take care of it.”
Cursing the fact that lifting his shirt over his head would temporarily obscure his view, he started taking it off anyway. He had spent a good while drinking in Mona’s beauty. It was only fair that she finally get to have a good look at him.
Scaramouche had never had trouble finding women who found him attractive. But this was different. This mattered. He was about to undress for Mona, and he wanted her to want him. Not because she needed help with Valberry Juice. Not just this one time.
He wanted her adoring and insatiable. Needing him like she needed water. Gazing at him the way she gazed at the stars.
Scaramouche knew he had one thing over the twinkling lights hovering in the false sky: he was real. And so was what he felt for Mona. He would find a way to show her the truth of that.
It was time to claim the girl who had stolen his every fantasy five months prior. While it was not a decree from the Tsaritsa, Scaramouche considered this one of—if not the—most important mission he had ever undertaken. He had never failed a mission before, and by Celestia he wasn’t about to start now.
Mona
Still riding a wave of bliss from the orgasm Scaramouche had given her, Mona stared up at him as he began to pull off his shirt.
Getting out of bed that morning, she had welcomed the day as she would any other. As a day full of possibility, hope, and discovery. As a day to make some quick mora, if she wasn’t lying to herself. She had not expected it to shape up like this.
Yet here she was, lying naked and exposed on silken sheets. Hair a mess, arms still tender from being in cuffs for a while. Every inch of her skin tingling with over-sensitivity; like the very air filling her lungs was on the verge of turning electric.
Not in a bad or scary way. Scaramouche looked like he wanted to claim every inch of her, but his gaze was lit with desire.
He had been nothing but kind from the moment he had entered the room.
Genuinely kind. Honest, even.
Short hours ago she would have protested that there was no way either of those things could be true.
But now...
Not many men would have the balls to admit they were an assassin while trying to take a girl to bed. And then not take advantage of the cuffs and situation to simply do with her what they pleased.
Yet while Scaramouche had admitted to his own ruthlessness without hesitation, his words had been the only thing about him that held any hint of bite. On the whole, even those had been gentle.
Scaramouche was being shockingly real. He was not hiding beneath some fake persona, or some giant hat, as he had the first time they met all those months ago. He claimed to care for her, and his every action backed that up.
Mona wasn't an idiot. She knew full well he was capable of shifting moods as swiftly as a sky cold turn from sunshine to rain. But some quiet inner part of her seemed convinced he wouldn't do that here and now.
Seemed sure that she was safe.
The part of her that had always set off some internal, intuitive alarm whenever he was near was calm. Tranquil. It reached out, filling her with an odd sense of peace that moved through her in stark contrast to the fear that she was about to do something she had never done before. The fear that if she somehow screwed this up, she was going to screw it up in front of Scaramouche, of all people.
She hadn’t been able to take her friends far from where they had first met him. She had heard every word as he had mercilessly belittled his men when they questioned his command. It was the only time—outside of a time Childe had been injured fighting a particularly nasty Mitachurl—that Mona had ever felt sympathy for a member of the Fatui.
Scaramouche had a tongue that could be honeyed or pierce like a hail of flaming arrows. Mona had no interest in being on the receiving end of his ire if she messed something up here. It was already more than enough that she was here with him like this to begin with. The longer she remained in his company, and the more she actually found that she liked him, the higher the stakes were raised. The more scared she became to make a mistake.
One of the blessings Mona had found in keeping most people at a distance was that people could only make you feel bad if you let them. By not letting many in, Mona was able to protect herself from that. But little by little, Scaramouche was bringing down her guard.
Prior to today, that would have been the sort of thing nightmares were made of.
Now, she wasn’t quite sure. Which, in its own way, was even more unnerving.
It was awkward gawking at him while he took off his clothes; but she couldn’t resist, gazing at him shyly through half-closed lashes. He wasn’t as big or bulky as some of his men. Wasn’t as muscled as she imagined a multi-weapon fighter like Childe might be.
But there was a clear definition of abs now that his shirt was gone. A graceful yet powerful shape as nicely built arms turned into elegant hands.
Deft fingers which, a few moments prior, had shown Mona a very different set of stars. A set she was willing to wager Scaramouche would not be so eager to discredit.
“Like what you see?” he asked, his voice soft and teasing. He dropped his shirt on a chair sitting behind him, then started to pull his shorts down.
Abyss take her, what was she supposed to do? Watch? Give him privacy?
His shorts landed on the floor and he stepped out of them, a trim waist tapering into narrow hips and…
Wow.
Mona’s face felt hot as her gaze seemed to magnetize itself, locking on and staring point-black at Scaramouche’s cock. Mona wasn't sure if she wanted that to be the result of his desire for her or Valberry Juice, but something had done its job.
Archons, just put a nice new portal right on this bed and let me disappear. Mona thought, mortified by her inability—or unwillingness?—to look away. I am never going to be able to look at him the same way after this. Never.
How long had he been like that? How had he sat and had a rational conversation with her for at least a good half hour?
Mona’s brain was frustratingly foggy on the exact details of when Valberry Juice started to effect someone and how rapid or severe the effect was. But it had definitely done its thing to Scaramouche. She might still be working her way through getting ready to have sex with him, but he was there.
Mona took a quick gulp of air, the room suddenly feeling too hot.
What would the Old Hag think if she saw Mona laying here and staring at Scaramouche like this? Mona’s embarrassment redoubled its efforts, her heart thumping against her chest. A pulse beat just behind her ears as the horror of what that situation would entail enveloped her. Never mind that the Old Hag was a week’s journey away, somewhere in a village in Fontaine.
The very idea of her learning about this sent a shiver down Mona’s spine.
“Hey,” The mattress dipped slightly as Scaramouche sat down. It continued to shift slightly as he scooted across the bed.
When he put an arm around her, helping her reposition herself so she was resting against him, Mona smiled. It felt good, just resting against him like this. Skin to skin, her head resting against his chest, one of her legs lifted up and entwined loosely with both of his.
Mona felt his arms wrap around her; felt lips press a kiss against her neck.
“I don’t know who or what you’re thinking about right now, pretty girl, but it can shove off." He gently nibbled the lobe of her ear. "Right here, right now? You’re mine.”
It was nice, this closeness between them. Feeling his heartbeat when she turned to place a random kiss against his chest. Then instantly wondering if that was normal. If that was something people did. If she had just messed something up.
It any of that were true, he didn't complain.
She pressed close against him as he continued to kiss her neck, her chin, her shoulders.
Anything he could easily reach.
He likely thought he was keeping her busy. Distracting her from his hands.
But no… She was fully aware of everything he was doing.
She said nothing because she didn’t want to say the wrong thing. Didn’t want to risk doing anything that might make him stop.
One of his hands now cupped a breast, teasing a nipple. His other had moved lower, and was busy working careful fingers against her clit. Heat slowly began to spread through her; not as quick or intense as it had the first time. But it was gentle, and steady, and there. It matched the patient, skillful way his fingers were moving. Like she was an instrument he wanted to tune. Like he was both trying and not trying to bring her to the edge again.
“Mona, listen... I know you’re nervous. I understand if you’re pissed off, too. But you’re doing great.” Scaramouche had found a spot where her neck met her shoulder that he seemed to particularly like. If he kept kissing and nibbling there he was going to leave a mark. Damn it, maybe that was what he was trying to do? Mona wouldn’t put it past him. “Try to relax. Let me take care of you.”
There was something in the way he said her name. Something in the way he was whispering to her, like he was afraid that if he made one wrong move he might break her completely. Mona lay still against him and closed her eyes. Took a slow breath and let it out, trying to sort through everything that had happened. Tried to wrap her mind about what was inching closer and closer toward them.
What would you think of this, Old Hag? Mona mused as Scaramouche moved his fingers away from her clit. She missed the feel of his fingers against her, but then felt a sense of relief rush through her as he slipped them inside of her, beginning to move them gently in and out. Making her ache with a need she had never felt before. Exposing an emptiness that somehow, in some way, desperately needed to be filled.
She began to move her hips against his fingers, not sure if she was helping or hindering him. She was sure that unless he wanted to cuff her down again, she couldn’t help moving. The feel of his fingers carefully exploring her felt right. Like they were suppose to be there. Like he was supposed to be there.
“Does that feel good?” he asked.
If his smile was any indication, he was already pleased by her reaction.
Mona pondered how best to answer him. How to explain what he was doing to her. How it felt. But her mind was still preoccupied with dark thoughts. With anxiety and doubt that continued to weigh her down.
She could only imagine the infuriated scowl her master would have if she saw what Mona was doing right now. If she was in the room she would probably try to drag Mona out of it by her hair.
Though, if Mona was honest, it would be a coin toss to see who would win if there were a confrontation between her master and Scaramouche. While he was young and handsome, the power Mona had sensed the day she met him had felt timeless, ethereal. It did not match his appearance at all.
His strength may exceed mine by a hair’s breadth… She was no stranger to the many lies people told themselves and others in the name of seeking comfort or peace or feeling better. Telling Lumine and Fischl that her powers could hold a candle to Scaramouche’s had been one of the few times she knew she had dabbled in such shameful deceit.
Mona had ran, and had kept running, for good reason. She knew she still had a long way to go before she would reach her master’s skill.
She had beaten down her curiosity over what, exactly, had seemed so special about Scaramouche’s capabilities. After the mix up with her master's box and the fiasco reading Venti, Mona was in no hurry to stick her nose into the business of anyone capable of their level of havoc again any time soon.
Mona was certain Scaramouche was on their tier. He would be able to give the Old Hag a run for her money if they ever crossed tomes. If he didn’t defeat her outright, leaving nothing but a set of dark green glasses and a tuft of gray hair behind.
“Hey Mona, you still with me?” Scaramouche nipped her shoulder. His tongue followed, taking away the sting.
Mona jumped slightly, started to have been pulled from her thoughts by the person she had been thinking about. Surely, there was no way he could know...
Shit, that bite was definitely going to leave a mark that would have people asking her what she’d been up to. And double-shit, she had zoned on him again. Was that two times or three in the span of time they had been in this room together?
She was probably getting on his last nerve by now…
Which was a shame—she was starting to like him.
Starting to question if Childe had done not only Scaramouche, but also her, a favor. Fucker still shouldn’t have groped her, but that was beside the point.
Scaramouche was actually pretty amazing, if the guy in bed with her right now was him. Mona would never have figured this out on her own. She would have kept running. Possibly forever.
And there it was: the truth. It was time for her to stop running.
Time to get rid of this fear, this guilt, this shame. There was nothing wrong with seeking truth via the power of the stars. But there was equally nothing wrong with seeking truth by going through the day by day existence of living it.
Scaramouche was staring at her like she was the key to unraveling the mystery of the stars. What did he— Oh! She still hadn’t said a thing…
“Yeah…” Mona again wanted the bed to swallow her whole when she heard herself say that word.
She couldn’t just leave Scaramouche hanging forever. He had been surprisingly patient throughout this whole situation, but she wasn’t fool enough to think he had no limits.
Still... she hadn’t meant for her answer to come out quite as breathy and full of need as it had. If nothing else, it was honest.
As she fought to vanquish the specter of her master from her mind, a still cautious part of her warned that she was jumping from a frying pan into a fire. That she might well be trading learning from her master for something every bit as consuming as their time together had been.
It felt like she needed Scaramouche more with each passing second. Not just inside her, but in her life in general. She had never wanted closeness like this with another person before. It was risky. But it was just as likely that she was overwhelmed and scared.
She genuinely liked the man sitting on the bed right now, gently touching her and drinking her in with his dark blue eyes. Was this the real Scaramouche? Was there such a thing as the ‘real’ Scaramouche?
Mona wanted to find out. Acknowledging this made a shiver run through her.
Somehow, in the span of an afternoon, she had gone from running away in terror to wanting Scaramouche inside her. She glanced up at him, her tongue moistening her lips as she considered the fact that she wanted to kiss him. Not just be kissed by him, but actually take his lips with hers. Claim him the way he had claimed her. Make him want her the way she now wanted him.
Not yet. She didn’t want to disrupt what he was doing to her. But soon.
Soon, soon, soon…
Again, her mind flashed an image of the disappointment that would line her master’s face if the truth of this ever got revealed. She barely held back the little ‘hmph’ that vibrated against the tip of her tongue as she considered how she might tell the Old Hag to mind her own business.
Not like you didn’t spend your share of time lying naked in a lover’s arms. That was an image Mona didn’t need, but remembering that her master was human—that she had once been young and that she had, indeed, lived—helped to steel Mona’s resolve. Erase her doubts. Mend her courage. Not like I can ever return to you, anyway. If you had any idea what I’ve seen? Yeah, that’s not happening. I like living. So… That being the case, why shouldn’t I live my life as I chose? Why shouldn’t I let my heart lead…just this once…and see where it takes me?
A flash of something crossed Scaramouche’s face, but whatever it had been it only lasted a second. He seemed to realize she was dealing with something and, in contrast to how she had seen him behave with other people, he seemed willing to give her the time she needed to sort it out.
Further proof that they might be good together. Or he just wasn’t done teasing her yet. Time would determine the truth of it, if Mona allowed herself to remain with Scaramouche long enough for time to take its course.
Opening her heart to Scaramouche would grant the possibility that he might break it. But it wouldn’t strip Mona of her skills, training or heard-earned experience as an Astrologer. Her master was living proof of that.
‘Scaramouche,” Mona took a breath, trying to steady herself for what she was about to ask him. It was time to put her heart and her pride on the line. “I want you…”
No, that not it, damn it.
“I want to be yours.” She paused, trying to find the right words to make him understand what she was saying. He was going to think she was crazy. “Make love to me. Please?”
Scaramouche
Most days, Scaramouche would do anything to get a moment of peace and quiet. There was little better than a plush chair, a hot cup of tea, and a good book. Provided reading it wasn’t being interrupted by idiotic subordinates racing up and shouting ‘my Lord’ when they couldn’t figure out the most routine of things. Or worse yet, when they tried to act above their rank while under his command.
Since the Tsaritsa found some strange humor in having him train new recruits, both of these situations were of common occurrence.
Lying with her face angled toward him, her silky purple hair swaying erotically against his chest, Mona was presenting him with the opposite problem. It was like she was a new book he was desperate to read and someone had either written it in code or used some strange potion to hide the letters on each page from his view.
She was quiet. Too quiet. There was no logical reason for a girl to be so quiet while his hands were roaming her body. The silence was almost scandalous. It was outrageous. It was—
Patience. He was running low at the moment, his need for Mona swamping him with thoughts and desires that defied all of his usual self control and common sense. Ironically, it was that idiot Childe who came to mind as he pondered just how to deal with the situation.
It had been one of the rare times the two had been stationed together. They had traveled together to a meeting being held in Natlan, since it was a more centralized location for the Harbingers attending it to get to. The rain had been coming down in sheets and Childe, no surprise, had been agitated and restless.
“Must be hard for you, being among all of these people and yet having no one to fight,” Scaramouche had mused, head tilting up and a smirk playing across his lips.
Childe had not been Tartaglia for very long at this point. Scaramouche and Signora were both convinced he was going to do something stupid and be discarded of like a disobedient house pet.
Oh, how they had been wrong…
“Fighting is like ice fishing,” Childe had given a casual shrug. “Both take patience and determination. Would I love a good battle to sink my teeth into? Absolutely. Will I be a fool and compromise our meeting? Of course not.”
“Then if this isn’t about finding a fight, what has you so antsy?” Scaramouche had asked.
He had figured he had Childe backed into a corner. That the younger Harbinger would have to come clean. Maybe, if he admitted to Scaramouche’s superior intellect and insight, Scaramouche would humor him with a spar to ensure the meeting did not get screwed up.
“I was thinking of my father,” Childe gestured toward the window, where the rain was sloshing down the glass in rivets. “He’d say this was perfect weather for fishing.”
“And he would be a fool to say so,” Scaramouche had grumbled, preparing to return his attention to the book in his hand. “It’s raining so hard out there that the sky might as well be bleeding.”
“True enough. It’s a bit more extreme than what I’d normally recommend. But rainy weather is a sure sign that it’s a perfect day to go fishing.” Childe’s expression had softened, and Scaramouche again gave the fool his attention. With an expression that vulnerable, there could be some value in what he was about to say. “The rain scares them away, but once it stops they’re yours for the taking.”
“Scares the fish, you mean?” Scaramouche noticed that Childe’s gaze kept flickering between him and a pretty redhead serving drinks. If the conversation had started out being about fish, he was less than convinced that fishing was what Childe was thinking about by this point. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your father was giving you advice on how to approach a girl.”
Childe’s face scrunched up in confusion for a moment, then turned red. Scaramouche just kept smirking at him, knowing that Childe had likely figured out that he had seen Childe eying up the girl.
“Now that I think about it, you might have a point.” Childe paused for a moment, taking a sip of the glass of juice sitting in front of him. The battle-crazed pest was still too young to consume alcohol, praise the Archons. “We Harbingers have wealth and power, but to most people we can be rather intimidating. We must be like the rain, knowing when to come and go, if we want to draw our desired catch closer. Reel them in.”
Scaramouche’s brows shot up slightly. It had merely been the way that Childe had spoken about catching a fish that had made Scaramouche tease him about an underlying meaning. Now that he was thinking about it and speaking further, though, it did seem like Childe might have a point.
Perhaps it was because Childe’s family had not held high status before he earned his title. Perhaps, in some way, Childe spoke from some level of experience.
“You’re good at playing nice when you want to.” Childe went on, apparently oblivious that Scaramouche was done with the topic. “But that’s all it is. A rouse. If you are the rain, your target is simply under an umbrella. Someday, someone’s going to come along and see through that. See through you.”
“So you think I am incapable of actually being nice?” Scaramouche couldn’t decide whether to be sad, amused or offended. “Not that it matters. If someone saw through my act, they wouldn’t live very long. No one has before.”
“Shame. A girl smart enough to outsmart you is the only kind of girl I can picture you with.” Childe’s gaze fell away from Scaramouche again. “Someone seeing through you doesn’t mean they are automatically out to get you.”
Glancing over, Scaramouche could see that the pretty redhead’s hips were swaying slightly as she leaned against the counter waiting for an order of drinks. Oh to be young and foolish again..
“I like to think of the various ways I present myself like they are a bunch of muscles or fighting styles.” Childe pushed his empty glass away from him, clearly trying to draw the attention of the serving girl. “It’s important to use them regularly, otherwise you risk them getting rusty or out of practice.”
The idiot didn’t know how right he had been.
Scaramouche held back a sigh as he continued to work his fingers between Mona’s legs, carefully rubbing, teasing, stretching… Determined to make sure she would feel ready when they took this to its next logical step. Determined to make this hurt as little as possible, because for the first time Scaramouche could remember he didn’t want to hurt someone.
Any minute now, the Violet Grass Extract would take hold and do its thing. Any minute now, Mona would fully relax under his hands, snap out of whatever haze her mind was currently in, and give herself to him completely.
Unless he had screwed up the dosage. Unless the stupidity or kindness—was there really much of a difference between the two?—she brought out in him had allowed him to make a mistake and give her too little.
A mistake that she would ultimately pay for. He was convinced this situation would be too much for her without the Violet Grass’ help. How could it not be? Childe had intended for him to seduce Mona.
If she had rejected him, Scaramouche would have let her go. He wasn’t sure how he would have found the will to do it. But Archons preserve him, he would have…
Because I—
A wave of pure terror rushed through him and he tried to fling the wayward thought aside before it could fully materialize.
I think I love her. The words bounced around in his head like they had turned into bolts of his own lightening and the accursed things were now chasing him.
At least, he loved the idea of her. The her he had pieced together using months of intel provided by his agents. He was growing dangerously close to thinking, from what he had seen of her this afternoon, that the real Mona measured up pretty damn close to the one he had created in his head.
There was no sense in trying to pick his feelings apart here and now. With Valberry Juice coursing through Mona’s body, all rationale and common sense was out the window. The only path available to either of them was forward. But…
I want to make this right. Scaramouche lowered his head, brushing a kiss against Mona’s neck. As expected, she shifted closer to him. Made a soft, throaty little sound that threatened to turn him inside out. How the fuck do I fix this?
“Scaramouche,” Mona’s soft voice cut through the silence, as if she somehow sensed that he was at his breaking point. He waited, heart racing, to see what she was going to say. “I want you.”
They had established that already. Well before he had made her clench around his fingers as she orgasmed or had taken off her cuffs.
She shook her head slightly, her expression narrowing. It was like she was as frustrated with her statement as he was. What was going on here?
The dazed out look in her eyes cleared. She looked at him with clarity and purpose. It was about as far from where she had been a few minutes ago as a person could get.
“I want to be yours.” Mona said.
It’s the Violet Grass, Scaramouche repeated to himself over and over again inside his head. Don’t fool yourself for a second, asshole. Its the fucking Violet Grass.
“Make love to me.” Mona’s voice was soft and slightly timid; like she wasn’t quite sure if this was what she was supposed to be saying.
But her gaze was smoldering. It was clear that her only doubt was how she had said what she wanted. Not what she wanted itself.
She idly scraped her bottom lip with her teeth. Whatever had caused her drawn out silence was still chasing her, and likely wasn’t far behind. If Scaramouche didn’t take the opportunity to draw her attention to him, and keep it there completely, there was no guarantee he’d get a chance like this again.
“Please?” Mona spoke the word so softly that Scaramouche feared if he said or did the wrong thing that they were both going to shatter.
Her, because this whole thing should never have happened. Because she deserved better than this. He would give her better than this, if by some miracle she actually did want to be his.
Him, because he knew what this was. Knew that he was letting himself become enveloped in a lie. Knew there was little and next to no chance this could possibly end well.
Why wouldn’t she want him here and now, when he was doing everything in his power to please her? He could—and would—keep it up a little longer. He would make sure she got through this if it broke him completely.
But the constant upkeep of gentility and kindness felt foreign to Scaramouche. Like he was breaking in a new pair of dress shoes. It was a second skin, pressed too tight against him. It left him with too little space to breathe.
No matter how he cared for Mona, this softer, gentler part of him was no more all he was than the harsher, colder part of himself that he usually flung out into the world.
He was too weak, too desperate, and too selfish not to give in. He had fed Mona the means to his own undoing. Had watched the stuff land on her tongue. Had made sure she swallowed it.
Today, she would be his. Today, he would revel in the fantasy of it.
So close, and yet so far away.
Because Mona had only been half right. Violet Grass Extract in a large quantity was a potent aphrodisiac. But in a tiny quantity, like Scaramouche had given her? It wasn’t a relaxant. It was a stimulant that freed the one who consumed it from doubt, fear, or shame. It pushed past all the bullshit and let someone live unrestrained.
Mona claimed that her highest ambition was to seek out the truth? Well, the truth he was seeing right now was that Mona wanted him. More than that, she wanted to be his.
Shifting them so that she was laying on her back, and making sure her head was properly supported by the bed’s multitude of pillows, he pressed a slow, lingering kiss against her lips.
Then, kissing a trail that started at her lips and fluttered across her cheek, he finished by giving a final playful bite to the lobe of her ear.
His heart raced in his chest as he stared down at her. Struggling to sort through what she was doing to him, by simply being there, he whispered. “As you wish.”
Mona
Sprawled out on sheets of silk, and surrounded by a mountain of pillows, Mona stared up at Scaramouche. Her heart raced wildly in her chest. A tsunami of emotions—joy, fear, rage, confusion, lust—swirled in her mind like a whirlpool, threatening to grab her and pull her under. They had finally reached the last leg of this journey. This was where everything would change.
This was where Scaramouche would claim a part of her completely.
Losing her virginity would have been daunting enough on its own. Losing it to Scaramouche—whom she had thought wanted her dead mere hours ago—was on a whole other level. Despite everything she had learned in the last few hours, something about this seemed reckless. Almost forbidden.
For the first time in her life, that didn’t give Mona pause. Didn't make her want to consult her books. Didn't tempt her to try and read into the situation. Instead, she saw the events of the day as a challenge.
Bring it on. She thought, taking a breath to steel her nerves. If you’re going to keep a memory of me, Scaramouche, it won’t be that I was afraid.
Even if, in some small crevice of her heart, that was the truth.
While she had come to terms with it—while her body was practically crying out for him to take her now—there was still a tiny portion of her brain silently shrieking. Archons preserve me, I’m about to have sex with Scaramouche.
She took a moment to really drink him in as he gently guided her legs apart, kneeling between them. His dark gaze was inquisitive, as though he was watching her every bit as much as she was staring openly at him.
A ghost of a smile crossed his lips, curving them up at the edges.
She already found him incredibly handsome. Yet this simple smile, this faintest hint of warmth, drew her in like a moth to a flame. Made her want to press him close against her and not let go. Tempted her to hold onto him like he was the one thing that could anchor her in the midst of what was happening right now.
“Try to relax, Mona.” He lowered his head so that they were almost touching noses. “Put your arms around me. Don’t let go.”
For a moment, she continued to stare at him. She had told him she wanted this. Was ready for this. And yet her body was acting like it was paralyzed. What was wrong with—
“Are you smarter than a Fatui Agent?” Scaramouche asked, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Of course I am, scumbag. It was the first time she had insulted him, aloud or in her mind, since he had entered the room. But he deserved it. Was she as smart as a Fatui Agent. The nerve of him!
Her mind flashed back to watching Scaramouche berate his men on the beach the first time she had met him. The last thing Mona wanted was to piss him off while she was lying beneath him, naked and vulnerable.
He had done nothing since entering the room to make her think that he was going to hurt her. But he had also spent all of that time painfully erect because she was desperate for cash and had been dumb enough to sell Albedo and Sucrose Valberry Juice. Given that she knew he was capable of losing his temper, the last thing she wanted to do was call his bluff.
Fortunately, his words seemed to shatter whatever had held her back. The fear that had momentarily engulfed her receded. Her outrage died as quickly as it had been lit. Mona laughed and brought her arms up, wrapping them around him.
Leave it to Scaramouche to help her past awkwardness and fear by saying something stupid to piss her off. He probably didn’t realize it yet, but that prickly quality about him was actually something she found endearing. Refreshing. Real.
Mona knew she was no delicate flower in how she spoke to and interacted with others. Her master had been much the same. Mona had learned, with time, to give as good as she had gotten. There was no barb Scaramouche had flung that had stopped her from liking him yet. The crack about the agents was no exception.
Damn it, he was doing that thing with his eyes again. Drinking her in until all she could see was him.
He was close. Oh so close. Wait! Hadn’t she wanted to—?
Lifting her head slightly, she pressed her lips against his. She doubted she was as skilled with her tongue or lips as he was, but what she lacked in experience, she hoped she made up for in enthusiasm. Having started the kiss, she relaxed into it when he parted his lips, his tongue finding hers. The exquisite battle of need that always happened when they were like this began, enveloping them in a slow spiral of touch and taste and need.
She let her hands slip into his hair. Ran the fine navy strands between her fingers. Gently massaged her nails against his scalp. His hair was as soft and smooth as she had imagined. Despite her naivete, the gentle circles she was working against his head made his eyes flutter closed.
“That feels nice,” he said, a slight sigh escaping him. “Maybe you could do that for me the next time I have thirty new recruits all asking me a bunch of stupid questions? Might make me yell less. But it’s not what we need right now.”
Mona paused her efforts to massage his scalp. I guess the good news is that he’s telling me he would let me take off his hat to do this. I’ve always figured that would be a bad idea for most people.
Right now, telling him where she had learned to give a scalp massage was probably the mistake to watch out for. He did not need to know she had learned to do this while she was with Albedo.
The thought of touching Scaramouche in front of his men, even if it was to do something as innocent as massage his scalp, did something to Mona. Reminded her she was not alone. That they were now a we, an us, a pair. She was his and, by logic, that meant he was hers.
The thought sent a spark of something warm shooting through her. A ping of excitement, a wave of joy that settled in her chest and encircled her in some strange, invisible embrace.
Her eyes widened slightly as his cock brushed against her thigh. Sweet Celestia, this was real. This was going to be real. She was going to… He was going to… They were going to—
“So tell me,” Scaramouche shifted slightly. Mona’s heartbeat sped up as she felt the tip of his cock at her entrance. “When we’re done here should I kill Childe or just maim him?”
A quick spasm of pain shot through Mona as he moved forward, his length filling her. But his words caught her so off guard that the gasp ready to slip past her lips deflated into a peel of laughter.
Scaramouche’s expression softened for just a second, a spark lighting his dark blue eyes with something that looked suspiciously like concern. It went as fast as it had come, though, and he lowered his head, stealing her laughs with a kiss.
Mona pressed her lips against his, returning his kiss eagerly despite the fact that his question had her mind racing. That had been a joke, right? He wasn’t really thinking of hurting Childe, was he? She was mad at the idiot for setting this up without her consent, but not enough to want him to be seriously harmed or killed.
All concern for Childe’s wellbeing faded as Scaramouche continued to gently move against her. The initial discomfort of him filling her was gone, and in its place desire blossomed in Mona. With each careful stroke inside her Scaramouche was lighting a fire.
Mona arched slightly, lifting her hips to meet his. She’d be damned if she was just going to lay here and let him take her. She had never done anything with such pathetic passiveness before. Abyss take her, she wasn’t about to start now.
“The idiot touched you, didn’t he?” Scaramouche cupped Mona’s breasts in his palms. He brought his thumbs against her nipples, swirling gentle circles against them. “Here and here? Come on, Mona. That ought to cost him a finger from each hand at least.”
Mona just stared at him as an invisible tether of need seemed to cut a line straight from her nipples to her core. She dug her fingertips into his back, trying to somehow anchor herself against everything he was doing to her. Trying to get herself to think clearly.
If you tell Lumine I’ll kill you.
Mona knew she should tell Scaramouche the truth, even if she was pretty sure the threat was empty. Not out of a need for vengeance toward Childe. That was silly. But any risk that Scaramouche might think she was lying to him? Keeping secrets? Mona had a hunch that would be so much worse…
But she also knew that if she told him here and now there was a good chance that he would bolt from the bed and leave her here. An aching, needy mess. Just because she was willing to give Childe the benefit of a doubt didn’t mean Scaramouche would.
So for now, that was not happening. She was committed to what was happening between them. She wanted Scaramouche with every fiber of her being. If something happened now, she might lose her nerve. Right now, that would be so much worse than anything Childe had done.
“Everything he screwed up, you’ve fixed.” Mona brushed kisses along Scaramouche’s neck until she reached his ear. Nipping his earlobe, she added, “Story of your life, isn’t it?”
Instead of an answer, he reached up and cupped her face with his hands. Turning her head, he claimed her lips again, ignoring her question.
Mona didn’t mind. She held his gaze, her tongue sweeping against his as the pace at which their bodies moved together became more frantic. It was reaching a point where Mona wasn’t sure where he ended and she began.
Her nails dug into his back in earnest as she felt herself tensing up, ready for another orgasm. Her eyes widened slightly as the first ripples of pleasure began to course through her.
He broke the kiss and she took in a deep breath of air. Her back arching as her orgasm took her completely, she tilted her head to look at him.
“Scaramouche!” she cried out, her face flushing as she heard his name pierce the room like it was an arrow. Holy shit, that had probably carried down to the lobby.
Scaramouche’s eyes fluttered closed. A strange sense of peace came over Mona, despite her embarrassment, as she felt him shiver as he joined her climax with his own. He wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up to rest her head against his chest as they both rode out the intense sensations racing through them.
Then, guiding her back onto the bed, he gently rolled them over so that they were lying on their sides. Heads resting on pillows and faces almost touching nose to nose.
“You realize every man in this hotel probably heard you, right?” he grinned at her. “Half of them probably think we’re doing this; half are likely making a counter bet that you’re dead.”
The blush that had started in Mona’s cheeks spread. She could feel it going down her neck and moving through her body. While she thought it had been loud, she hadn’t been serious in her guess about how far the sound had carried.
He couldn’t be serious, could he? Mona searched his eyes for any hint that he was kidding, but no… He looked absolutely serious right now. Which meant Childe… and possibly Lumine… had heard that, too. Fuck.
“One girl dies while we’re screwing around, when my men knew we were trying to find and capture her, and suddenly they think that happens any time I—” He stopped mid-sentence as Mona’s eyes crinkled and she fought to hold back a laugh. “Are you laughing at me?”
“So, this is what you’re like when you’re not putting on an act, huh?" Mona put a hand to her mouth to muffle the giggle that was tickling her throat, but it was no use. She started to laugh and put up a finger, hoping he would take a hint and let her catch her breath. "You have no more filter than I do. Still not sure how I feel about knowing you’ve intentionally killed people of the battlefield, but—”
“It doesn’t happen that often.” Pulling her toward him, he pressed a soft kiss against her lips. “It probably sounds far worse than it is. I spend ninety-five percent of my time training idiots like the ones I had with me when we first met.”
“Were you serious about people hearing me?” Mona asked, just to be sure.
“Yes.” Scaramouche brushed another kiss to her lips, followed by kisses against the tip of her nose and then her forehead. “No reason to be ashamed about that. You just made my day.”
Considering that this was his birthday, Mona decided to try and let her embarrassment over her outburst go. “Well, the day is far from over. How shall we spend the rest of it?”
“Bathe, get dressed, go have dinner?” He didn’t miss a beat listing off what he wanted. “The bath across the hall from this suite is unlike anything you’ve probably ever seen. I’d love to have a long soak with you. Have a few more minutes alone before I have to share you with other people.”
“I hear you there. Sometimes people just make me tired. But you… You make it look so easy,” Mona said, thinking back to the day she had met him. “Yet listening to you now, I get the feeling that’s an act.”
“A deduction befitting the astrological genius of the century.” He gave her a playful wink. “I’ve had a ton of practice. You’re right, though. It can get very tiring.”
“I couldn’t do that to save my life,” Mona shook her head as much as her position on the bed would allow. “I open my mouth and words pop out. The end. I’ve got no time for bullshit or keeping up appearances. I can often see through it when others try that crap on me, too.”
“What crap?” His expression shifted to the supposedly innocent expression he tended to wear when trying not to intimidate people. “All I did was say hi and ask if I could join you guys.”
“I wasn’t talking about meeting you. And knock that shit off, you sound ridiculous.” Mona said, pausing to figure out how best to put what she was thinking. “When I sensed who you were… That was…different. You got near us and I swear every hair on my body stood on end like I was a cat. I’ve never had anything like that happen before or since. Nor am I stupid enough to try finding a way to repeat it.”
“Did someone try to convince you to...” Scaramouche frowned at her. He traced his finger across her cheek and down her neck, drawing little circles against her skin. "It was Albedo, wasn't it?"
“Unfortunately… He wanted to help me recreate that sensation so we could study it. Which I told him was insane.” Mona rolled her eyes. “He didn’t like that very much. But given how our day has gone, this topic is really fucking weird. So… how are we going to get across the hall without potentially traumatizing someone for life?”
Scaramouche stood up and went over to a shelving unit with several rows of shelves as well as a tall pair of armoire doors. Opening the doors, he pulled out a pair of fluffy white robes.
“These should do the trick,” he said, slipping one on and handing one to Mona. “I’ll head across and set up the bath. Pull that on, then come across the hall and join me. It’s the door right across from this one.”
“All right.” Mona sat up and grabbed the robe he had laid out on the bed.
It was even more plush than it looked. She took a moment to enjoy its cozy texture, running her fingers over it, before slipping her arms into it and smoothing it down so that it hit just above her ankles. Positioning it so she was covered, she tied its included cloth belt around her waist to hold it closed.
Did I actually save Lumine and Fischl? Mona kept twisting and turning what Scaramouche had told her around like it was a puzzle cube in her head, examining it this way and that. If she understood him correctly, he had known exactly where they were. He had chosen not to pursue them.
She had thought the distance they had covered was decent, but if he had heard her talking to Lumine, Fischl, and Oz, she hadn’t carried them as far as she had thought. Unlike Scaramouche, Mona and her friends hadn’t been yelling.
He probably saw another meteor and changed his plans. Mona shrugged, trying to clear her head of the questions trying to take over her thoughts. There would be time to examine what she had learned later. Right now, she needed to focus on this day. This moment.
The last thing she wanted was for Scaramouche to somehow change his mind about her. Or about them being together. Especially when she was pretty sure he used electro, and water was about to be involved. She wanted to trust him. Wanted to put their past fully behind her. But the fragile bond forming between them was only hours old, and Mona was smart enough to realize that moving on completely was going to take some time.
Mona
Opening the door that led into the bath, Mona found Scaramouche already sitting in a gigantic marble tub. Steam rolled off of the water, creating a heated mist. Windwheel Aster petals floated on the water’s surface, and jars filled with Qinxing and Sweetflowers, along with a variety of fragrant candles, were set about the room, giving it a soothing atmosphere.
After ensuring the door was shut and locked behind her, she pondered how any of this was possible as she slipped off her robe. From the corner of her eye, she spotted clear pipes in the wall that connected to the tub under thick slabs of glass flooring. Inside the thick cylindrical structures, one pipe had hydro slimes, one had electro slimes, and a third had pyro slimes.
“This is quite impressive,” Mona said, lowering herself into the tub. “You were right. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”
“Smaller versions of this are fairly common in Snezhnaya,” Scaramouche said, crooking a finger in a beckoning gesture. “Join me, Mona. You probably still feel stiff after being cuffed all afternoon. The water should help take that away. What it can’t fix, I will.”
Wondering just what he was planning to do with her, Mona scooted over so she was next to him. A sigh escaped her as the steamy water’s heat wrapped itself around her.
“Here,” Scaramouche handed her a delicate glass filled with Dandelion Wine. Picking up a second glass once she had taken hers, he brought his glass up and clinked their glasses together. “To new beginnings. I’m sure it feels like everything around you is changing faster than you can blink. But there’s no need to be afraid. Change being sudden doesn’t mean it isn’t good.”
Mona took a sip of the wine, savoring its flavor as it soothed her parched throat. Somehow, wrapped in Scaramouche’s arms, she had forgotten that she was thirsty. She took another tentative sip, not foolish enough to just guzzle down the elegant beverage, but enjoying the feel of it against her tongue.
“Thank you,” she said, one finger tapping lightly against the glass as she held it.
He arched a brow at her. “What has you so nervous all the sudden?”
Mona smiled at him, hoping to counter whatever had tipped him off that being in the tub with him was making her slightly anxious. “Me? Nervous? I’m not nervous. Why would I be nervous?”
“Why indeed?” Scaramouche asked, allowing a single spark of electro to dance on the tip of one of his blessedly dry fingers.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Mona’s heart skipped a beat as she watched him. “Knock that off. You’re going to fry us both! …Wait, where the heck is your catalyst? Your vision? Um…”
The spark of electro vanished as easily as it had formed. Scaramouche brought the finger it had been on against Mona’s cheek. A shiver went through her as a pulsing vibration fanned out across her skin.
“I could ask you the same.” Scaramouche moved his hand down, sweeping it against the pulse of her neck, letting it circle a breast, and then finally swirling it gently against a nipple. Mona sucked in a breath, not wanting to make another sound that could be heard in the lobby. The sensation that Scaramouche’s touch was causing against her skin was different, but it felt good. “You had droplets of water on your hands when you were cuffed, yet I have no idea where any of your things are.”
“I don’t need a vision to control hydro. I’ve studied Hydromancy for years under a famed astrological master.” Mona allowed a tiny ball of hydro to form in her hand and held it out for Scaramouche to see. “A vision and catalyst can help, but I’m fairly capable of most things without them. I use them to prevent unwanted questions.”
Mona allowed the ball to become pure water, watching it slip through her fingers to join the water already in the tub.
“Famed astrological master?” Scaramouche gave a low chuckle. “There are people other than you that buy into this nonsense as an actual form of study? I’ve seen the books. I’ve actually read some of your columns—”
“Huh?” Mona’s face felt hot when he said that. Part of her was flattered; part of her felt like someone had just stolen a peek at her diary. Which was silly, considering her articles were meant for public consumption. “But you said the stars are a lie—”
“And I stand by that.” Scaramouche grinned at her, putting a fragrant floral soap on a wash cloth and starting to rub it gently across her chest. “It didn’t stop me from grabbing anything I could find with your writing in it. I’ve got at least a dozen of your articles clipped out of things like Astrology Monthly and The Steambird.”
“Well, I can’t fly up there, grab a star, and show it to you to prove otherwise.” Mona sighed as he continued to rub the wash cloth against her.
Part of her was thrilled at the close contact between them. Part of her was drawn back into a memory; of her mother doing this when she was small. It was only the sensation she recalled, though. Her parents faces had long since blurred and vanished. It was only certain sounds and smells that allowed her any bond to them at all.
She let out a slow breath, trying to push the lingering sadness and shame their fading memories filled her with. Scaramouche didn’t need to be bogged down with that shit right now.
“How did you end up studying to become an astrologer?” He asked, finishing with her stomach and dipping the wash cloth low, its slight texture rubbing against one of her thighs.
Fuck. She had been trying to think of a way to steer them away from her darkest memories, yet he was unintentionally guiding them toward a whirlpool that would pull them in and make them drown if Mona wasn’t careful.
“It’s not a warm and fuzzy tale,” Mona warned, her breath hitching slightly as Scaramouche gently washed away any trace of what they had done in bed. “Are you sure you want to know?”
“I want to know everything about you.” Scaramouche pressed a kiss against her neck. “Tell me what you can. If it becomes too much, we can stop and wait for another time.”
“I was raised in a village in Fontaine,” Mona began, closing her eyes. “When I was five my father was murdered by Treasure Hoarders.”
She began to fidget with the wine glass again, but Scaramouche took it from her and guided her fingers around his hand instead. She rubbed her thumb against one of his knuckles.
“People wondered why my mother was so calm. She didn’t cry. She didn’t start accusing neighbors of being part of the Treasure Hoarders, as I’ve seen some people do as I’ve traveled. Instead, she would take me outside, we would stand on our front lawn, and we would look up at the stars.”
A single tear slipped down Mona’s cheek. She felt, rather than saw, Scaramouche catch it with a finger. “Mona—”
“She would stand beside me, holding my hand. And she would tell me that we need not grieve that father had passed on.” Mona sucked in a breath, forcing it past the lump in her throat. “She told me that he was right up there. Just beyond the moon. And that so long as there were stars, I would always be able to find him or anyone else I loved.”
“An interesting tale to comfort a grieving child,” Scaramouche squeezed her hand.
“I’m just getting started,” Mona opened her eyes to look at him. He was looking at her, his dark gaze pensive. “Two years later, a plague swept through the village. They called it the Sleeping Death. Very few who were struck with it survived.”
“No.” Scaramouche buried his face in her neck. “Mona, I—”
“My mother and I both caught the illness. I woke up. She didn’t.” Mona blinked rapidly, fighting tears that were pooling at the edges of her eyes. “My master found me looking at the stars. Drawing images of my parents in an old journal with a half dried bottle of ink. Tracing the constellations and making up names for them, like there was a connection between my family and various shapes in the sky.”
“What did she think of your mother’s story?” Scaramouche asked.
“She never really said. She used it to convince me to stay with her, which was a good thing. I had a home again. Food, a place to sleep.” Mona reached up, pushing her bangs out of her eyes. “She promised to teach me to navigate the stars if I agreed to be her apprentice. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized she couldn’t help me do that in a way that would physically reach my parents.”
Scaramouche guided her hand to his mouth. Brushed a kiss against her knuckles. “Were you mad when you found out?”
“For a while. But by that point, my old journals were lost to time.” Mona’s hand clenched into a fist. “The old hag told me that if I couldn’t remember my parents, there was no point in being sad that I would never be able to find them. That my purpose should be to seek the truth in all things, not to cling to a stupid childhood lie.”
“Careful,” Scaramouche wrapped an arm around Mona, pressing her against him. “You’re making me want to pay her a visit. I could bring a nice bottle of wine and tell her all about what I saw during the meteor showers. I bet that would go over swimmingly.”
Mona’s mouth curved into a delicate smile, her eyes regaining a bit of their sparkle. As she looked at him, his expression making it clear he was dead serious about what he was saying. A little laugh slipped out, breaking the tension that had built up inside her. It instantly made her feel better. Pulled her back to him, to them, as they soaked in a large tub of steamy water.
“Our relationship is complicated,” Mona said, picking up a fresh wash cloth, lathering it with soap, and beginning to wash Scaramouche. “The old hag never tried to be a parent. She always saw me as her prodigy, her successor. As a vessel to pour her knowledge into.”
“I love how you call her master and old hag interchangeably.” Scaramouche shifted, giving her easier access to wash his back. “Does she know about that?”
“Of course not!” A flash of panic went through Mona, causing her heart to race. “You’re not going to—”
“Tell her that her apprentice is wandering Teyvat, besmirching her good name?” When she finished with his back, Scaramouche turned to face her again. His eyes sparkled with mischief. “I can only imagine how frustrated she would feel. Not much different then when my men—”
“You’re messing with me, aren’t you?” Mona asked, wanting to curse as her teeth scraped against her bottom lip. A dead giveaway that he was getting to her. “You wouldn’t really…”
“I might. If I thought telling her would get me some piece of valuable information. Some advantage.” Scaramouche caught the wash cloth when Mona threw it at him. “If you wish to ensure my silence, a kiss would work far better than throwing something at me.”
“You’re such a jerk.” Mona tried to sound stern, but she could help the silly smile that tugged at her lips. Tilting her head up she gave him a lingering kiss.
Scaramouche wasted no time. Placing his arms around Mona, he dipped her under the water with their lips still touching.
Eep! She brought her arms up, clinging onto him like he was a lifeline. It took a minute for her initial shock at what had happened to pass, before her natural affinity for the water kicked in. Why the heck had he…?
He lifted them up, using one of his hands to push Mona’s hair out of her eyes.
“Had to get your hair wet if I'm going to wash it,” he said, reaching toward a bottle filled with shampoo. “Figured I’d have some fun along the way. After all, I am a jerk. Or was it scumbag? I can never quite remember.”
So he had heard that. And despite what he was saying, he had remembered.
“I just… You can’t… I thought we were going to drown!” Mona said, finally catching her breath.
“I know.” Scaramouche undid the lid on the shampoo bottle and the scent of a lovely blend of berries and flowers filled the air. “The look on your face was priceless. And I’m not done messing with you yet, just to be a little bit fair. I want you to give me a reading while I wash your hair.”
Mona
“What?” Mona stared at him in disbelief. He wanted her to… “Why? You don’t believe in the stars.”
“Do I need to have a reason?” Scaramouche held the shampoo bottle still, waiting to pour any of its contents onto his hands. “I’m curious to see what will happen. It should be…interesting.”
There was some kind of strange, underlying challenge in the way he spoke. Did he know something she didn’t? If so, how was that possible? A shiver went through her as she remembered that way her body had reacted at merely sensing him. Reading him might be even more intense.
“Or is it all a bunch of bullshit?” Scaramouche’s tone turned mocking, making Mona want to smack him. “Far harder to come up with some pre-conceived destiny for me than it is for a common farmer or merchant, right?”
“I do not make up stories for my clients.” Mona summoned a globe of water into one of her hands, then reached out to touch one of his. “Fine. I’ll do a reading for you. But be warned: I’ll hold nothing back, Scaramouche. Whatever the stars tell me, you will know.”
“I’m counting on that.” The smugness that clung to his words made Mona shake with pent up fury. He had shifted from teasing her, to challenging her, to goading her, and she didn’t like it. “You want to punch me right now, don’t you? You have this cute, scrunched up expression. I get the feeling that pushing all your buttons is never going to get old. Figuring out every why, what, when, and how of getting you to react to me.”
Mona got the feeling that Scaramouche did this to everybody. For most people, it was probably the reason they couldn’t stand him. Mona realized that most of the time, it didn’t phase her. This was just a little different because it was connected to her family. It was her life’s work. For all intents and purposes, her skill as an astrologer was the core of who she was.
I’ll show you, scumbag. Closing her eyes, she focused on him. Tried to summon forth his constellation. It took a moment for a series of stars to appear. Then Mona turned her attention to them, trying to make out any message or sign they might give her about Scaramouche.
“Well?” His shampoo coated hands began to rub against her head gently, building up a lather. “What do you see, genius?”
Mona sat still, enjoying the feel of his fingers working the shampoo through her hair. It was distracting. That was why nothing had shown up yet. He had set it up this way on purpose.
“Well…?” Scaramouche drew out the word. “What do you see?”
Okay. This was getting weird now. The stars had not budged an inch. No images had filled her head. No strange, glowing letters had spread out across the surface of the water globe in her hand. Nothing. What was going on here?
“Impossible,” Mona’s brow wrinkled with concentration as she looked at her water globe. “There’s nothing here. I’ve never had this happen before. I don’t understand…”
“Relax,” Scaramouche gently massaged the shampoo against Mona’s scalp, mimicking what she had done to him a short while ago. “Instead of chasing the reading, trying to force it to appear, try letting it come to you.”
Scaramouche made doing an astrological reading sound like it should be similar to coaxing a stray dog using a piece of sausage. But his suggestion was worth a try. Concentrating on a reading with the intensity Mona was focusing with would only result in a headache.
As she sat still, allowing her attention to be claimed by the deft movement of Scaramouche’s fingers through her hair, a soft voice began to fill her mind.
He was born with a face fairer than any other. Destined to a long life and a hollow will.
So, even the ethereal beings of the astral plane found Scaramouche attractive. Okay. That was an ego boost he totally didn’t need. But that second part was interesting. And confusing. What the heck did it mean to have a hollow will?
“You are destined to a long life and a hollow will. Your guess is as good as mine about the second half of that.” Mona said.
She paused, waiting to see if the voice in her head would tell her any more.
A transcendent being, divinely created. But cast aside like worthless dross. Yet due to an error that cannot be known, he roused himself from slumber and began to wander the mortal realm.
Mona’s stomach did a little flip and her mouth went dry.
Oh, no. Not this shit again.
“You set me up.” She glared up at him, her shoulders tensing as she pondered what she had just heard and what to actually repeat. “You know everything I’m about to say here before I can even say it. Don’t you?”
Scaramouche dipped his hands into the water, washing the shampoo from them.
“Are you all right, my Mona?” he asked, wrapping his arms around her. When he moved closer to give her a kiss, Mona closed her eyes. “Ah, I see you know what’s coming. That’s my pretty girl, smart as ever.”
He dipped them under the water and Mona let his words wash over her as much as she allowed herself to be immersed in the sudsy contents of the tub.
“Start from the beginning, Mona.” Scaramouche again pushed bangs away from her face when they resurfaced. “Go slow, leave nothing out.”
“It’s similar to when my idiot friends convinced me to read Venti…”
Scaramouche stared at her in disbelief. “Who did what?”
“Lumine, Diluc and Jean came to have readings and brought him with them.” Mona looked down. “They kept insisting that I read him too, and eventually I went along with it. I figured he was just nervous. I had no fucking idea he was…”
Scaramouche cradled her against him. “What happened?”
“At first, everything was blank. Kinda like what happened when I started trying to read you.” Mona rested her head against his chest. “Then a gust of wind surrounded me. Sent my hat flying. Started ripping my freaking clothes off until I dropped my scryglass. And every one of them—Jean, Lumi, even Diluc—they laughed. Not sure if you’ve ever met Diluc, but I’d be willing to bet a hundred people get a vision between each time he has laughed in his life.”
“Oh, he sounds fun.” Scaramouche kissed the top of Mona’s head. “Maybe you should introduce us? …But not right now. Right now I’m your client and you are supposed to be giving me a reading, my astrological genius.”
“You can turn anything into an insult, can’t you?” Mona closed her eyes, returning her attention to what she had learned from the voice that had visited her.
“It’s an art, and I’m a master.” Scaramouche slid his hand under the water. Slipping his fingers between Mona’s legs he began to rub her clit. “Perhaps this will motivate you?”
“Okay, from the beginning, then. First it told me you have a face fairer than any other—”
“Do you agree with that assessment?” Scaramouche moved his fingers slowly, stroking the length of Mona’s sex. “Is it me making you so silkily needy despite the fact that we are surrounded by water? Because from what I can feel, you are wetter than the water is.”
“I thought I made that obvious when we were talking earlier.” Mona’s face felt hot as she considered what he had just said.
“Yes, but you also dated that alchemist, Albedo.”
“That just…happened. Like I told you: we were friends, and one thing lead to another.” Mona couldn’t believe he was bringing Albedo up when her globe had essentially just told her that Scaramouche might be some kind of god. Priorities! “Anyway… Then it told me the destiny thing I already said to you. Long life, hollow will—whatever the heck that means.”
“I’ll explain that to you once you finish the reading, and…” He rubbed a finger against Mona’s clit, swirling it around in lazy circles and grinning when she clenched against him. “I think you get the idea, yes?”
A soft, mewling sound left Mona’s mouth and she pressed her lips firmly together, not wanting to make another embarrassing scene. Clearly wanting the opposite result, Scaramouche pinched one of Mona’s nipples firmly between the fingers of his other hand.
Letting out a shallow breath, Mona continued to tell him what she had heard. “A transcendent being, divinely created. But cast aside like worthless dross. …I’m still confused as to why I’m telling you stuff you already know.”
I’m also finding it harder and harder to keep talking in full sentences. Mona squirmed as Scaramouche continued to work his fingers against her clit, her legs tensing as she got closer to another orgasm.
How it was possible that she might have another in such close proximity to the first two was almost…almost…as interesting as what the voice in her head had told her.
This is so unprofessional. She sucked in a breath, trying to keep her composure.
“When my sister became an Archon, her ascension came with an interesting side effect.” Scaramouche’s fingers began to vibrate and pulse, electro rippling just beneath his skin as he continued to pleasure Mona. Her mouth dropped open and a throaty moan slipped out, the sound filling the room. “Good girl, let’s keep you doing that so anyone listening hears you and not what I’m saying, hm? I’d rather not have to kill any of my men. I snap at them a lot, but I do care about their survival. I hope I don’t need to say this, but don’t ever tell anyone that.”
“Scaramouche, I can’t—” Think, function, stay quiet… Mona’s body quivered under the gentle splay of his fingers, the tingling sensation of them against her clit building up an increasingly intense crescendo of need that was making it hard to grasp a thing he was saying. “Oh!”
“We’re twins,” Scaramouche scraped his teeth gently against the lobe of Mona’s ear, his voice dropping to a whisper. “When she became an Archon, I became a god, too. She didn’t exactly like that. So…”
“She tried to…” Mona’s face flushed with shame at her inability to shift her thought into words. Had the Electro Archon tried to kill Scaramouche?
“Kill me? Yes.” Scaramouche held two of his gently pulsing fingers against Mona’s clit, a smirk of satisfaction crossing his face when she started to lift off of the tub floor as her orgasm began to take her. He gave one of her nipples a final firm tweak, then brought his arm down to help anchor her. “It didn’t work. From the way you’re writhing around my fingers right now, I’m pretty sure you didn’t need astrology to figure that out.”
“Hah…no,” Mona gasped, slowly coming down from the heady, actually electric feel of him touching her. Slumping against him as she regained her senses. Trying to remember what the hell the voice had told her so she wouldn’t look like an idiot.
“What’s the matter, pretty girl?” He splayed his hand across her stomach, letting her see the fading swirls of purple on his fingertips. Proving, beyond all doubt, that she hadn’t imagined what he had just done to her. “Are you falling asleep on the job? Will I need to find this master of yours and file some kind of complaint?”
Mona sat up like he had shocked her. If her master realized she was dawdling in Mondstat for no reason she would want to know where her box was. And if she ever found out what Mona had seen? Not happening.
“Yet due to an error that cannot be known, he roused himself from slumber and began to wander the mortal realm. There. That was all of it.” Mona let out a slow breath. “I’ve got no idea what to make of half of this. I can’t tell you whether a harvest is going to be good or a lover is going to deceive—”
“You’d better not deceive me, Mona Megistus.” Scaramouche grabbed Mona’s hair, scooping it up like he was going to put it into a ponytail. Giving it a firm tug, he forced her to look up at him. “I’ll put it this way: I hate being deceived as much as you claim to love the truth.”
“Ow! My hair is attached to my head, Scaramouche.” Mona winced at the firm tug, fingers itching to rub the spot where her hair had been yanked by its roots. “It was just a stupid example, okay? Telling the truth is the core principle I base my life on. Of course I wouldn’t lie to you. Not on purpose, anyway.”
“A decent answer.” Scaramouche let go of her hair, his fingers sinking into the wet strands and beginning to rub gentle circles where it had been tugged. “Care to guess how Baal—that’s my sister, just so you know—tried to off me? There is a clue in the lines. Something you should be able to figure out.”
What was he talking about? The voice had made clear now one knew how he had woken up...
Wait. That was it. That had to be what he was getting at.
Was he saying that he...?
“Are you trying to tell me that she somehow used the Sleeping Death on you?” Mona arched a brow. The voice had claimed that what happened to him was unknown, so their earlier conversation about her mother was the only answer that made sense. “But that’s a randomly occurring plague. No one knows how it comes about or what causes it. Let alone how to safely control it.”
“Wrong.” Scaramouche wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight against his chest.
Like he was afraid she might jump up and flee. Like whatever he was about to say was going to be so much worse than someone yanking her hair. Mona covered his hands with hers, linking their fingers together. The air in the room pressed down on her, growing heavy with pent up anxiety—his and hers—that made gooseflesh form on Mona’s arms.
“The Sleeping Death is made from the leaves and pollen of Crimson Poppies—”
“What the heck are those?” Mona asked. “I’ve never heard of them—”
“Good. They’re beautiful to look at, but are one of the most vicious plants to have ever been created by the hand of Dendro. An efficient and effortless killer.” Scaramouche buried his face in her hair.
Mona felt something hot and wet slip down her neck. Surely it was just the bath water. It was getting a little cooler, but surely. She let a hand touch the water, then closed her eyes. Had she felt tears?
“On their own, they spread their pollen to other plants and make them lethal. That pollen can stick to animals, peoples shoes or clothes…anything, really.” Scaramouche eased his grip on Mona slightly and she remained still, equally horrified by and curious about what he was telling her. “People pick plants that would normally be harmless and bring the Crimson Poppy pollen into their towns, cities, or villages that way, too.”
“How is this not everywhere, than?” Mona tried to fight a tremor of fear that was making her fingers tremble. Stars above, she hadn’t known any of this, despite the fact that she had come into contact with its end result.
“Crimson Poppies are extremely rare. They are seldom found in the wild, and when it happens… Well, what happened to your village? Do you know?” Scaramouche nudged Mona gently. “I think we should get out, don’t you? The water’s getting a bit cold.”
“My master moved us to a different town shortly after she found me. I didn’t learn the truth from her.” Marveling again at how easily he could shift between topics, Mona nodded and let him help her step out of the tub. “I was told that the village, and the surrounding forest, had burned. I learned it from people in the streets. I also heard a new word for the first time as I listened to those people. Though I wouldn’t understand it until I was a little older.”
“I’m pretty sure I know where this is going,” Scaramouche said, sighing as he held a towel open for Mona to wrap around herself.
“Whenever they spoke of my village or the fire, I would hear them whisper about the Fatui.” Mona rubbed the towel against her skin, using it to dry off. “For years I thought that was the name of a monster living in the woods. Some malevolent force that might snatch me in my sleep if I disobeyed my master.”
“Did she tell you that?” Scaramouche’s voice was laced with the slightest hint of amusement. Mona felt a pang of relief. She didn’t like the thought of him being sad over something old and unalterable.
“No. Far as I know she had no clue I’d ever heard that word before.” Mona lifted the towel away from her body and used it to start drying her hair. “I made the mistake of saying it to an old lady I was making a delivery to and she beat my ass with a broom. Said that if she heard me say it again the mayor would cut out my tongue.”
Scaramouche picked up the robe he had worn to come across the hall and slipped it on. “Charming.”
“Fear makes people do stupid--and often cruel--things.” Mona picked up her robe and slipped it on as well. Her stomach made a loud growling sound. Damn thing couldn’t wait ten minutes… “I’m sure you can understand why, at seven, that kind of reaction would lead me to the conclusion I reached.”
“Did you try telling her who you were? That you survived the Sleeping Death?” Scaramouche asked, opening the door.
“My master made me promise to never tell anyone about that. Ever.” Mona followed him out of the room. “You’re the first I’ve ever told that story to.”
“You know, I never did get to explain the term hollow will to you,” Scaramouche pulled her against him, seemingly unconcerned that they were in the middle of a hallway. “There are three things you need to know about me. One: I am a human who surpasses all others—often misnamed as a god. Two: even the Gods daren’t meddle in my fate. If Venti sees me, his green clad ass is going to look the other way. Three: neither mortal, nor God, nor fate itself is qualified to be my judge.”
Fate preserve me, what am I supposed to say to that?
“Hey, don’t just stand there.” Scaramouche cupped her face with his hands. “Say something.”
“Are you sure you want me to?” Mona shifted from one foot to her other, part of her brain screaming Run!
“What would be the point of telling you otherwise?” Scaramouche asked.
“Your ego is massive. If it were unfolded against the night sky there would be no room left for the stars.” The moment Mona finished speaking, her stomach rumbled for a second time. “Doesn’t phase me, though. My ego is huge, too. It has to be. How else could I look people in the eye and tell them what has been decreed by fate?”
“How indeed.” Scaramouche opened the door that led into his suite.
“Did you knew that me reading you wasn’t going to work?” Mona asked, following him inside.
“Absolutely,” Scaramouche said, taking her hand. “But let’s forget that for now. We need to get dressed and get you something to eat. Before someone comes up here thinking something feral has broken into the hotel.”
Scaramouche
Once the door to his suite was securely locked behind them, Scaramouche guided Mona to the bed. “Have a seat. I’ll grab us some clothes so we can go downstairs and join the others.”
“Umm… We don’t know where my clothes are, remember?” Mona asked, cheeks flushing.
“I don’t know where the things you had on when you got here are,” Scaramouche agreed. “But I… bought some things for you when I was in Inazuma.”
“O-kay…” Mona said, the word dancing on her tongue.
Really? Was she going to be more shocked that he had picked out clothing for her than she had been five minutes prior? When he had essentially told her he was a god?
Scaramouche took a couple minutes to find the clothes he wanted them to wear, as much because he was looking for the boxes they were in as because he needed a minute to get a stupid smile her off his face. She didn’t need to see him like that. Not too often, anyway. He had no desire to lose his edge.
“Here we are.” He brought several boxes over to the bed and started opening them. One was a fresh version of the clothes he generally preferred. A black shirt and shorts with a bunch of intricate detail work in red, purple, and gold.
The other boxes all had things for Mona. The first contained black silk lingerie—a pair of sexy but tasteful panties and a lacy black bra that would cover and support her while allowing a hint of her cleavage to peek out at him when they were alone together.
“Not something I’ve ever thought I’d want someone to buy me,” Mona mused as she put the bra and panties on. Totally oblivious to the way Scaramouche’s insides felt like they were turning to liquid watching every slow, fluid movement of her hands and legs as she did this. “You actually have good taste. This is nice.”
“Already forgotten that I have a sister?” Scaramouche gave her an easy smile, despite the tiny twinge of sorrow that always squeezed at his heart when he thought of Baal.
It wasn’t that he would ever be fool enough to lower his guard in front of her at this point. She was actually the catalyst for much of his cunning and ruthlessness. But there was no denying that she was his sister and, once upon a time, he had loved her very much.
“We weren’t children when she claimed the Electro Gnosis.” He went on without hesitation. “I’ve seen more than one thoughtless idiot get electrocuted for bringing her a thong or some garter belt number or dominatrix gear.” He winced as he recalled the last one. The unlucky bastard’s eyes had popped like a pair of fried mushrooms. They had dangled from his eye sockets until sundown, when buzzards had plucked them out of his skull, which Baal had stuck on a pike. “I don’t know you well enough to know what you like. So, simple, comfortable, and well made were the three things I focused on.”
“Well,” Mona flipped her hair over her shoulder, now that the bra was clasped. “The thing I’m curious about is how you knew any of this would fit.”
“Do you want the truth or a pretty lie?”
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Mona reached over, running a hand up his arm. Scaramouche paused his efforts to pull on his shirt, enjoying the way her hand felt against his skin. “Let me guess: you had one of your agents tail me, figured out where I shop, and paid someone a ridiculous amount of Mora to get my measurements?”
“Pretty much.”
“Clever, but not illegal. I’ve done something similar when buying gifts for Lumi and Fischl for their birthdays.” Mona reached toward another box. “This one next?”
“Yes, that one has your dress.” Scaramouche paused, a troubling thought only occurring to him now. “You do wear dresses, right?”
“Dresses are nice.” Mona began to undo a rich purple ribbon on the large white box. “I wear bodysuits and leggings when I fight because they work better with my hydromancy. I doubt we’re fighting a Pyro Regisvine this evening, so a dress should be a fun change of pace.”
Scaramouche waited for her to open the box with baited breath. His heart pounded in his chest and sweat covered his palms. He had not realized, until just now, how much this moment meant to him.
“Oh, wow.” Mona reached down, her fingers running over an intricate pattern of white, pink, and red petals that covered the blue-black dress. It was knee length, with wide sleeves and a dark purple bow at the waist. “This is gorgeous.”
“That dress is more than pretty,” Scaramouche stood up, lifting it carefully out of the gigantic box which had ensured it would not get wrinkled. “The colors are those of my family line. And on a more personal level, it was when I saw this dress that I knew what I wanted to do with you.”
Mona stared at him like he had grown a pair of horns. She had said she wanted truth, and yet the minute he gave it to her she was looking at him like he was a demon. Too bad for her. She needed to hear this just as much as he wanted to tell her.
“Don’t you remember what I told you, Mona?” he asked, helping her slip into the dress and ensuring that she was wearing it properly. He suspected it was a little different from what she was used to. “I’ll come for you when I’m good and ready. I never specified why or for what; but I knew our meeting on Musk Reef would not be our last.”
“I thought you were talking to Lumine,” Mona said.
“There are eleven Harbingers. Plenty of us to deal with the Honorary Knight of Mondstat if the need ever arose.” Running his hands down the sides of Mona’s body, and letting them splay at her hips, he whispered into her ear. “No. You became the one that consumed all my thoughts as I sailed toward my homeland. Your memory haunted me for weeks after I got there.”
“I can’t believe what you said about the sky. It would destroy everything I’ve spent my life trying to achieve. But I'll admit I spent weeks cross-referencing books and magazines to find information on the false sky,” Mona said. “Sources on that are sketchy at best.”
Scaramouche nodded, wanting to ensure Mona knew he was listening. But he went on with his own story, determined to prevent an argument between the two of them on a topic he knew neither would be willing to budge on.
“Anyway… I was walking through an upscale trading district and a seamstress had a bunch of dresses on display. When I saw this one in my family’s colors I immediately imagined you wearing it.” Scaramouche guided Mona backward, pressing her into him like he was a wall. “I scoffed at the idea at first. Thought it was crazy. But when it hadn’t let me be for a week straight I had to admit my plans for you had changed. I went back and I bought it immediately.”
Reaching down, he opened the lid on another box and pulled out a pair of white socks and black sandals with red and purple bows attached to the strap that went across each foot.
“I’ve run off every time you tried to approach me.” Mona sat down when Scaramouche patted the bed. He ran a finger along the arch of her foot, then started putting one of the socks on her. “That time I went to Liyue with Lumine where we ended up in the same bookstore.”
“Did you ever end up getting the book you were looking at when I entered?” Scaramouche asked.
“Funny you should mention that,” Mona’s face turned a pretty shade of pink, her lashes veiling her eyes for a moment. “When Lumine came back to our hotel room she had the Masters Edition of the book, along with ink, quills and a journal that would have probably taken me three months of column writing to afford. That was you, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Scaramouche finished putting the other sock on Mona, then watched as she slipped her feet into the sandals.
"Thank you seems kind of inadequate the more I find out, but--"
"You're more than welcome. I like buying you things." Scaramouche glanced up, wondering how she would take hearing that. He didn't want to push too far. He could tell at a glance that Mona had pride and receiving things from others was likely uncomfortable for her. “When I realized there was a better version of it, I decided to buy that. Then I figured you would need things to keep notes on what you were reading since that thing was thicker than some catalysts.”
“Lumine said the package had arrived at the front desk and she was asked to bring it upstairs.” Mona shook her head. “We had dinner with Childe that night. He kept teasing me and saying I had received a present from a secret admirer. He had Lumine so mad I was afraid she was going to throw something at him.”
“Lumine knew it was from me. It never went to a front desk. I told her to give it to you.” Scaramouche opened a final, smaller box. Inside a black box lined with velvet, were a golden choker with a purple moon and two red stars, and a pair of red and purple petaled floral hair clips. “I said it was to prove that I was sincere when I said I would guide her to Inazuma if she defeated Childe in that stupid duel they had. Of course, that was a lie.”
“You wouldn’t have helped, or that wasn’t the reason?” Mona sighed as Scaramouche took a brush and began to run it through her hair.
“Both.” Scaramouche gently separated Mona’s hair into her usual pigtails, securing the jeweled clips he had bought to keep them in place. “If Lumine went to Inazuma without having some link to the Fatui, I would stop her from meddling with anything there. I’m not on the best of terms with my sister, but that is my home. I have no desire for some damned outsider to step in and try to shift the nation’s course. Only the Tsaritsa may lay claim to that blessing.”
“Interesting… I’ve heard rumors that you do not get along well with the Fatui? That even some Harbingers—”
“Yes.” Scaramouche slid the choker around Mona’s neck, his fingers pulsing with a slightly electric tingle as he worked to fasten the clasp. He took a breath, determined not to lose control. Reminded himself that Mona meant no harm with her questions. “As I’ve made clear, I do my own thing. That doesn’t always lend itself to being the most well liked person in the room. Among the Fatui, only Her Majesty can sway me. Even then, it’s only if she asks nicely.”
Stepping back, Scaramouche waited for Mona to stand. When she did, he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close to him. He breathed her in, the scent of an ocean spray mingling with the floral shampoo he had used to wash her hair.
“I suppose we should get going,” he said, pressing soft kisses to her neck and cheek, before finally brushing a lingering kiss against her lips. “I’ve kept you to myself long enough. It’s time we step out into the night and mingle with the others.”
“Yes, we’d better go now.” Despite her words, it felt like Mona was melting against him. Every curve of her body was pressed against his, her fingers reaching up to toy with his hair. “As much as I’m looking forward to dinner, we’re going to end up taking all these clothes back off before we can step out the door if we don’t go now.”
Mona’s stomach gave another rumble of protest, pulling Scaramouche’s thoughts back to where they should be: dinner. Rather than where they had momentarily started to wander: imagining Mona shivering with need as he removed each article of clothing he had just helped her dress in. But twice as slow, so he could take his time kissing and caressing every inch of her along the way.
Later. he thought to himself. There would be plenty of time for that later. Unless...
Opening the door that led out of the suite, Scaramouche offered Mona his hand. When she took it without hesitation, her delicate fingers linking gently through his, he found it hard to tear his gaze away from their linked hands. From the wave of—what?—the simple gesture sent through him. At the sudden sense of awe he felt, recalling her fleeing from him in Liyue, or this morning, in contrast to the trust she willingly gave him now.
I’ve done many great and terrible things. I regret very few. Scaramouche placed his hat on his head, a slight smile crossing his face when he noticed that its brim covered Mona as well when she walked beside him. But if you give me a chance, once that potion wears off, I’ll prove that I can be good to you.
Childe
“I know she’s here, asshole.”
Childe winced as he heard Lumine’s fist connect with Luke’s face. The front door guardsmen wasn’t the brightest candle in the candelabra, but Childe knew from first hand experience that taking a fist to the face from Lumine was no picnic. His girlie was small, but she was a far cry from a pushover.
What confused Childe was that Lumine had said she. Normally, a scuffle between her and Luke would be over Childe being in a meeting. Yet it seemed that something else had brought her here today.
His mind wandering to what he knew was going on upstairs, a feeling of dread started to knot in the pit of Childe’s stomach. If Lumine was here about Mona…
Her Majesty preserve him, he would never hear the end of it.
Not wanting Luke to take another knuckle sandwich for no reason, Childe walked over to the hotel’s front door.
Luke was lying on the ground like a sack of potatoes. A dark bruise was already forming around his right eye. Ouch.
Lumine hadn’t been messing around. Childe wasn’t about to scold Luke for staying down. The last thing either of them needed was for Lumine to actually draw her blade or start slinging gusts of anemo.
“Hey girlie, we weren’t supposed to meet for dinner for another half hour.” He gave Lumine his most charming smile, hoping to distract her. “I’m glad you missed me. But did you really need to take it out on poor Luke here?”
Lumine gave him a scowl that could peel paint off a wall. There was something dark in her gaze. Instead of liquid honey, her eyes looked like swirling pools of gold that she might pour on a man, turning him into a statue, if she could.
Somebody had pissed her off. Childe had a sinking feeling he was about to find out that it had been him.
Had she made plans with Mona for today? He could have sworn she had said something about tomorrow, but now he wasn’t entirely sure.
“Where is Mona?” Lumine stepped on Luke’s stomach, causing him to give a painful oof. She stormed past him and Childe, making her way into the Goth Grand Hotel.
She clearly didn’t give a shit that Childe and several squads of Skirmishers were there. Which was partially his own fault. This wasn’t the first time she had been here in the five months they had been dating.
Scaramouche had warned him a thousand times that he let Lumine get away with far too much. That she saw herself as his superior. That she neither respected him as her boyfriend, nor as a Harbinger. As she strutted through the Goth Grand Hotel like she was the Tsaritsa herself, Childe had to consider that Scaramouche might have a point.
There was a first time for everything, he supposed.
“Why would Mona be here?” Childe gave a casual shrug. “You know how she is about the Fatui. She barely tolerates me.”
“Rubbish,” Lumine had come in wearing a frown, and it had somehow managed to deepen. “You’re probably her best friend, aside from me, since that break up with Albedo.”
They had gone on quite a few commissions together. Sometimes with Lumine, sometimes without. Childe liked the fact that Mona had been such a good and true friend to her. But he had always found Mona a little quirky and scatter-brained whenever she was engaged with anything other than Astrology.
Given what he knew about her current situation, the idea that Lumine even thought Mona might value him that much… It took every anxious feeling that had been building up inside Childe and made it ten times worse.
I did the right thing. He reminded himself firmly. Scaramouche cares about Mona. He’ll figure out a way to make this turn out okay. He’s as good at manipulating people as I am at fighting with tons of different weapons. If anyone can fix this mess…
“Hi Lumine,” Ekatrina waved at them from the table where Childe had been sitting before all the ruckus had started. “Care to join us for a drink? If you tell us why you think Mona might have been here, maybe we can figure out where she ended up.”
“I’m not sure a drink is going to do me an ounce of good if everything I’ve heard turns out to be true,” Lumine gave a long sigh, but started to cross the room. “I suppose that’s as good an idea as any, though. A glass of cider would be lovely. I don’t want alcohol. One of my friends is missing—I must keep my wits about me.”
In that moment, Childe would have kissed his assistant if he wasn’t already with Lumine. Ekatrina had potentially just stopped a war from breaking out in the lobby.
“So, how did this mess get started?” Ekatrina asked, handing Lumine a glass of cider.
“Mona and I were supposed to meet for lunch and she never showed.”
“Wait…” Childe’s brow wrinkled as he listened to what she was saying. “Weren’t you out adventuring with Bennett today?”
“No,” Lumine said, taking a careful sip of the cider. Like she wasn’t quite sure if she trusted anyone here. Or maybe it was just Childe’s guilt making him think that. “We were planning to do that tomorrow, once you left for your meeting. I wouldn’t plan something like that the night before you were leaving for a week. You know Benny. One wrong turn and we could be stuck inside a room for three hours.”
The fact that she had centered her plans around him going away made Childe smile. But the fact that Bennett had not been with Lumine?
That was a problem. And it was getting worse by the minute.
“Bennett found me waiting for Mona. Told me he had learned something interesting while he was talking to Timmie down at the bridge.” Lumine’s fingers were tapping against the table, a telltale sign that she was either scared or furious.
Given that she tended to get along with Ekatrina, and that she had no reason to be afraid of Childe, he was betting on the latter option. Which might lead to the former, if she reached the wrong conclusion. Lumine was strong, but when she lost her temper she wasn’t always the best at thinking things through. If she decided Mona was here, and that a rescue was needed, two dozen Skirmishers and a Harbinger would not deter her from making an attempt.
Most of the time Lumine’s fearlessness was something Childe loved about her. Right now, the possibility that it might cause her to engage in a conflict that could hurt everyone here, and that she definitely would not win, was making him sick with worry.
Scaramouche and Mona could not be disturbed under any circumstance. The situation was awkward enough as it was. The more people who got involved, the worse it would be.
“He told Benny a really interesting story,” Lumine went on, reaching up to toy with one of the long wisps of golden hair that framed her face. “Timmie told Benny that he was glad you were wrong about Benny being trapped in one of the ruins.”
“That was the commission I received from Kath—”
“You think I didn’t speak with Katheryne next?” Lumine had brought her cider glass half way to her mouth, but now lowered it to the table with a defiant clunk. “Do you really think I’d come here and start shit for no reason? I’m not one of your brain dead minions, Tartaglia.” Lumine spared a quick glance to Ekatrina. “Present company excluded, of course. I’m sure you’ve had no part in this, Katy.”
Fuck. If she was using his actual title and they weren’t naked, something was definitely wrong here. Damn it! He had been careful to use a side gate when he had brought Mona back into the city.
He had told a few people that Mona had been injured. That he was taking her to see Barbara at the cathedral. But…
“Of course,” Ekatrina gave Lumine a polite nod. “That said, I’ve got some work to finish up, so… I think I’ll leave this between you two.”
Childe glared at Ekatrina’s hastily retreating form. He couldn’t really blame her, but damn had she just hung him out to dry. Then again, he spent ninety percent of their time together telling her not to do things. It wouldn’t be fair to hold it against her for high-tailing it the one time he could have used her help.
“I ran into Mona out near the Thousand Winds Temple,” Childe said, sticking as close to the truth as he could. Hoping desperately that Lumine would buy what he was about to tell her. “She took the flat of a mitachurl’s axe to the back of her head, so I carried her back to town.”
“And left her where, exactly?”
Before Childe could begin to consider an answer, three things happened in quick succession.
A loud whistle of admiration came from one of his men.
A glass shattered on the hotel lobby’s marble floor.
And as Childe turned to find out what had caused the first two interruptions, a wave of pure horror swept over him. Mona and Scaramouche were walking down the sweeping spiral staircase that led to the upper floors.
Grabbing his Kamera, Childe snapped a shot of them. Scaramouche was staring at the gathered Skirmishers, daring anyone else to say or do something stupid. Mona wore a rather dreamy expression, her head tilted slightly toward Scaramouche like the two were sharing some silly inside joke.
“Why the fuck is she dressed like that?” Lumine’s voice was barely above a whisper, but the glare she was giving Childe made her eyes look like a pair of golden flames. He was tempted to put space between them, in case she decided to douse him with her drink. “What the hell is going on here?”
Oh, no. She was using words that were from one of the other worlds she had visited. It wasn’t something she did often. To see her slip here, in front of a room full of Fatui, made it clear to Childe that Lumine was definitely upset.
“Pay up, dickhead,” A hydro gunner shouted from the table next to the one where Childe and Lumine were sitting. He pointed a chubby gloved finger at the pyro gunner sitting across from him. “I told you she wasn’t dead.”
“Oh, shit. Lumine!” Mona’s shout carried across the room. His attention returning to her and Scaramouche, Childe watched with the slightest hint of awe as she turned toward the shorter Harbinger, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and said something that sounded like, “Hold on a minute.”
Then, moving like she had no fear of the multiple tables of Skirmishers that filled the room, she walked over to the table Childe and Lumine were at. But where Lumine had stormed through like a tornado, Mona moved like mist. Waiting a moment to let a waitress get by. Pausing to speak to an Anemo Boxer and waiting for him to step out of her way.
Once she reached them, she accepted a chair that Childe pulled out for her. Then, giving him a quick nod before ignoring his existence—which he guessed he deserved, given all that had happened—she turned her attention to Lumine.
“I missed our get together for lunch.” Mona clasped her hands together. “Lumi, I’m so sorry. Today has been— Oh, it’s too long a story to get into right now. But lunch totally slipped my mind…”
“I don’t care about lunch,” Lumine said, rubbing a thumb and finger against the stem of her glass of cider. “Why are you here? With the Fatui? With Scaramouche, of all people?”
It was then that Childe realized Scaramouche had followed Mona over. He had his hands splayed across her shoulders and was kneading his fingers against them gently. The Harbinger Childe had always known to be the most concerned with keeping up an appearance of abject terror in the presence of his men didn’t seem to notice they were there. Or at least, didn’t seem to care what they might think of him right now.
“A pleasure to see you again, Lumine.” Scaramouche gave her a mocking smile that would have pissed Childe off on most days. Given that Lumine had been acting like a little shit from the moment she arrived at the hotel, he figured he would let her deal with Scaramouche on her own, unless things got totally out of hand. “I hope our hospitality is to your liking. It should be, considering how often you stay here.”
Clever bastard. Scaramouche was mocking Lumine and pointing out to Mona that she shouldn’t feel awkward all in one go. Childe could mingle with a crowd, but when Scaramouche decided to bring his A-game—to butter someone up or break them—there were few who could touch him.
Mona looked visibly more relaxed. She leaned back, melting into Scaramouche like they were a single entity. If this was what they were like when Mona wasn’t afraid that Scaramouche wanted to kill her, Childe was glad he had put his plan into action.
Lumine looked the slightest bit sheepish, rather than like she owned the hotel. Scaramouche had managed to deflate her ego, just a tad, without needing to land a physical blow.
“Excuse you, I’m speaking,” Lumine’s momentary bewilderment left as fast as it had come. “I’ve been given quite the run around trying to track you down, Mona. Never imagined I’d find you—”
“She’s been tied up with me all afternoon,” Scaramouche smirked at her.
Lumine had just taken a drink of cider when Scaramouche cut her off. Now, she looked like she was about to choke on it. It was obvious she hadn’t missed the not-so-subtle hint about what he and Mona had been up to.
Mona’s face went red, like she had just gotten pelted by a pyro slime.
Scaramouche had clearly noticed it, too. He brushed a kiss against Mona’s neck, whispering something Childe had no hope of guessing into her ear.
“Listen,” Mona looked like she wanted to be anywhere but in the middle of a potential sparring match between Scaramouche and Lumine. Childe didn’t blame her. “Scaramouche and I were about to go and have dinner. Why don’t you and Childe join us?”
“Sounds good.” Lumine stood up. “We were planning to head out in a few minutes anyway. Why not all go together?”
“I suppose I’m all right with this, if it’s what Mona wants.” Scaramouche made no attempt to hide his disdain for Lumine, though his expression softened when he said Mona’s name. Taking her hand in his, he turned toward the door. “Shall we?”
Childe got up, offered Lumine his own hand the way Scaramouche had just done to Mona, and got his palm smacked as Lumine walked off without him.
Yeah, this was far from over.
Childe just hoped Lumine wouldn’t ruin the entire meal for Mona and Scaramouche. They seemed to be getting along well, just as he had hoped. Better than he and Lumine were, at any rate.
Leaving the hotel, Childe followed his friends through the streets of Mondstat. The sun had began to dip below the horizon, turning the sky into a wash of pink, orange, and purple. Eventually, the four made their way to Good Hunter and managed to find a table.
“Why don’t you two sit here and catch up, while Scaramouche and I go and get the food?” Childe asked, once Lumine and Mona had sat down. “No need for all of us to stand in that line.”
And there was a line. Good Hunter was the most popular eatery in Mondstat, and today was no exception.
Mona and Lumine gave quick nods of agreement, and Childe grabbed Scaramouche by the arm, half dragging the shorter man along with him.
“What was that for?” Scaramouche asked once they were out of the ladies’ earshot. “I didn’t get a chance to ask Mona what she wanted.”
“I did it on purpose,” Childe said with a grin. “If you ask that silly astrologer what to get, she’ll pick a salad and she’ll be hungry again in an hour. If we pick something, she’ll eat it, be happy, and not be hungry by the time we go back to the hotel.”
“You’ve known Mona a while, haven’t you?” Scaramouche asked.
“Yes.” Childe moved forward as another person left Good Hunter’s front counter, allowing the line to become one customer shorter. “I just hope she knows me as well as I think. I said something stupid earlier, and I’m a bit worried she took me at my word.”
“I’m not entirely sure what you did,” Scaramouche’s glare made the icy that had settled in Childe’s stomach feel even colder. “She wouldn’t confirm anything. But you definitely upset her.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Words are a waste.” Scaramouche wasn’t even looking at him. His focus was obviously on the Good Hunter menu. “If you want to make something right, you do something. Like, tell me what I should order for Mona. Because I don’t know what half of this shit is.”
The last person ahead of them moved out of the way, and Childe stepped up to the counter. After ordering a mountain of Good Hunter’s best specialties—steak, satisfying salad, pile ‘em up, flaming red bolgenese, mushroom pizza, sticky honey roast and hashbrowns with jam—he headed over to the end of the counter with Scaramouche to wait for things to be ready.
“I had to give her Violet Grass Extract,” Scaramouche said, once they were finally alone again.
“Wait, so she wasn’t into you?” Childe asked, arching a brow.
“Not a bunch of it,” Scaramouche rolled his eyes. “Just a tiny drop. It dissolves someone’s inhibitions, lets them express how they truly feel without fear or doubt. Mona knows she took it. But...”
Childe breathed a sigh of relief. “Okay. So she was into it. Why do you sound upset?”
“Violet Grass Extract has a pretty intense potential side effect,” Scaramouche said, reaching up to adjust his hat. “There’s a chance that Mona may wake up tomorrow with no memory of today. I'm not entirely sure she knows that's a possibility, either.”
“Shit.” Childe rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Is the memory loss permanent?”
“It depends on whether the person starts trying to get those memories back.” Scaramouche lowered his voice as a waitress started bringing platters of food to where Childe and Scaramouche were standing. “If they don’t, the memories will stay hidden like they never happened. If someone starts trying to remember, it is possible to reclaim some or all of what has disappeared.”
“And we definitely want Mona to remember that she likes you, huh?” Childe slapped Scaramouche’s right arm. “She looked pretty happy, as long as Lumi wasn’t trying to play twenty questions.”
“I want to thank you for today. Before it’s over. Before she…potentially…forgets.” Scaramouche turned from Childe, picking up one of the platters of food. “You were a bit of a blockhead in how you set this up, but it’s turning out to be one of the best days of my life. I won’t forget this.”
But Mona might.
Childe’s heart squeezed as he considered what Scaramouche was telling him. This was how Mona actually felt? The two actually, truly cared about each other, and yet there was a chance they might wake up tomorrow and all her memories of it might vanish?
Not while I’m around. Childe thought, his hand idly tapping the Kamera in his inner jacket pocket. I put my ass on the line to get these two together. I won’t let some stupid plant screw it up.
Childe knew full well that Lumine was furious with him. That she did not approve of this match between Scaramouche and Mona. That if Mona said the wrong thing—or if someone had said it already, Childe included—that Lumine might dump him on a minute’s notice. But as he considered the situation further, he had a sinking feeling there was no one to blame but himself.
If you tell Lumine, I’ll kill you.
The words echoed in Childe’s head as he carried a platter of food beside Scaramouche, heading back to the table where Mona and Lumine were waiting.
Aside from me, you’re probably her best friend. Lumine’s words made his own stupid threat twist inside his gut like a dagger.
Scaramouche had a good point. Sorry wasn’t enough. Childe would watch and see how the two of them were together. If Mona was truly happy. And if the potion went haywire, screwing with her memories? Childe vowed he would move Celestia and Teyvat to make things right.
|
"Haven't you heard? Master Skywalker's out in the Gardens!"
The whispers start in Jula's Navigation class, jumping from padawan to padawan until everyone in the class has heard it at least three times. Apparently Leshi had heard it from Isde, who heard it from Aalani, who heard it from a padawan in saber class who heard it from a padawan who had just gone meditating.
"Psst!" Leshi elbows her, whispering under her breath. "Can you believe it? We might be able to see Master Skywalker!"
Jula doesn't think anyone in the class has actually ever seen the man before—even if the Temple wasn't as large as it was, apparently the war hero is notorious for rarely leaving his quarters. Not like Master Yoda, who's always around the younglings, or Master Windu, who both Jula and Leshi have caught glimpses of every now and then.
"Only if class finishes quickly enough," Jula whispers back, "and only if we're quiet about it. Can you imagine how embarrassing it would be if he realizes a bunch of padawans invaded the gardens just to stare at him?"
Leshi bites down on her lip— "Good point." —and the teacher heads over to shush them. "Those star charts better be perfect if you two have the time to stand around and gossip."
"Of course, Master, sorry, Master," they mumble, and turn back to the work at hand, even as the other padawans continue to whisper.
A couple minutes later, Leshi leans over again. "But we're totally going to the gardens after this, right?"
"Totally." Jula says with a grin.
* * * * *
"Master!" Jula rushes into her quarters after the endless-seeming Navigation class, slamming the door open with a thud . "Master, all of the padawans are medidating in the Gardens today after classes, can we go too? Please?"
Master Katooni startles and drops the tea cup she's holding, snatching it up with the force before it can hit the ground. "Peace, padawan." she grumbles, bending down to wipe up the spilled tea. "And you owe that door an apology."
"Sorry, door." Jula mutters, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "So, can we go?"
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the rumors I've been hearing, would it?" her Master says, placing the tea cup back on the table. "About Master Skywalker leaving his rooms for the first time in years?"
"In years ? Really?"
Master Katooni laughs. "That was an exaggeration, Jula. I don't think anyone could survive trapped in a room for years on end."
"Oh. Anyways, can we please go? All the padawans will be there, and Leshi and her Master too!"
Katooni grins at her and grabs her robes "How could I ever say no to making you do more meditation?"
"Yes!" Jula shouts then quickly backpedals. "Uh, I mean—thank you, Master."
Master Katooni just laughs.
* * * * *
When they enter the gardens, they make for her master's favorite spot by the featherferns, dropping to sit crosslegged by one of the fountains. Jula spots Leshi and her master a couple fountains over, and a couple other padawans from her class chatting, meditating, or pretending to meditate while sneaking glances across the gardens. Leshi gives her a little wave and a grin.
"Now," Master Katooni says, closing her eyes, "open yourself to the Force; release your worries, your doubts. . . "
She lets herself fall into an easy breathing pattern, arms loose and hands folded in her lap. Jula, for her part, breathes in tandem with her, but soon she remembers the real reason she and the other padawans were so adamant on coming today—Master Skywalker.
She turns to look for him, not even bothering to disguise her curiosity. There! He's at the edge of the uneti tree, eyes closed and deep in some sort of meditation. He's human, so his hair is turning silver-y—she tries to imagine Leshi with silver hair and shudders—and he has a jagged scar running down one eye.
"I sense that you're distracted, padawan." Katooni says, and Jula jumps.
"Sorry, Master."
She opens herself to the force, and tries to float above it all, letting the room's various presences flow through her. That's Leshi's joyous figure, and some of the other padawans from Navigation, and there's her former crechemaster, and there's the Knights from saber class, and there's—a deep, deep sorrow.
Is that Master Skywalker?
Jula opens her eyes.
"Master?" she says, tugging on Katooni's sleeve. She opens her eyes and gives her a quizzical glance. "I—it's just—"
"Ask, padawan."
"He seems. . . sad." Jula says, gazing at Master Skywalker from across the gardens. Master Katooni follows her gaze and a glint of understanding passes her eyes. "Why is he so sad, Master?"
"Ah," Master Katooni clicks her tongue softly. "How much do you know about the end of the Clone Wars, padawan?"
Jula frowns. "Only what we learned in class. The Jedi Council discovered that Chancellor Palpatine was a Sith Lord, and Master Skywalker, Master Windu, and. . . some others managed to defeat him." She looks up at Master Katooni. "I don't remember all of them. But the Separatists surrendered after that, right?"
"Yes." her Master says, folding her hands in her lap. "One of the Masters in the battle was Skywalker's Master, Obi-wan Kenobi. He was killed by Sidious."
Oh. Jula thinks with a pang. She doesn't know what she'd do if she ever lost Master Katooni. She can't imagine a life without her warm wisdom and teasing laughs. "Many Jedi lost their masters in the war, right?"
Katooni nods with a faraway gaze. "That wasn't all for Skywalker, though. Only a few days later, Senator Padme Amidala died in childbirth. He lost his master, wife, and child all in the same week."
"Wife?" Jula claps a hand over her mouth. She hadn't meant to shout. She sneaks a glance over at Master Skywalker, at the far end of the Gardens—thank the force sound doesn't carry too far in the courtyards.
"It was a big scandal at the time," her Master says, gazing off into the distance, "But after the way that battle ended, and after Senator Amidala and the child were lost. . . well, there wasn't really anywhere else for him to go."
"Oh," she says softly. "That is sad." She turns away from him and back to her Master and suddenly she wonders. "Did you know him?"
Master Katooni puts a finger to her chin and slowly shakes her head. "I don't remember if we ever met. His padawan saved my life though, once. Me and a whole host of younglings, on our first trip to Ilum."
"He had a padawan?" She tries to imagine being apprenticed to the Chosen One—the sheer pressure sounds exhausting. Although she supposes that sort of thing hardly would have mattered, in wartime. Everyone would have just been trying to stay alive. "Who?"
"You wouldn't have heard of her, padawan." Katooni smooths a hand over her lekku. "Her name was Ahsoka Tano. She left the Order about a year before the end of the war. She was very brave, though. Kind, and clever. I imagine you would have liked her very much."
Ahsoka Tano. Jula turns the name over in her head. It's a very pretty name, she decides. Kind of badass. From her master's description it sounds like Padawan Tano was definitely badass. She wonders vaguely why she left. Probably something to do with the war.
"Hey," she says impulsively, glancing downwards. "Master. Do you think Master Skywalker would like a featherfern?"
"Like. . . a featherfern?" Her Master raises an eyebrow. "You want to give him a flower?"
"Um." Suddenly Jula feels quite embarrassed. "Maybe? I don't know, it always makes me feel better when you bring us flowers for our quarters."
"Padawan." Katooni puts a hand on her shoulder. "I think it sounds like a lovely idea."
So she picks a featherfern, and heads over to the other side of the greenery, stepping carefully around stray roots and branches. She comes to a stop in front of Master Skywalker, who's still meditating with his eyes closed and face taut.
"Um," she says, trying not to lose her nerve. "Master Skywalker?"
The Jedi in question blinks opens his eyes blearily and focuses on her in surprise. He opens his mouth to speak—to ask what she's doing here, maybe, or maybe even tell her to leave him alone—but she beats him to it.
"You seemed kind of lonely," she says matter-of-factly, "so I brought you a featherfern. They're my Master's favorite type of flower."
"Oh." says Master Skywalker in surprise. His voice sounds sort of croaky—Jula imagines he doesn't really talk much. There's a long pause. He looks up at her, then down at the flower, then up at her again. "Thank you, padawan."
"You should come to the gardens more." Jula says impulsively, then wishes she could take the words back. Ugh , she sounds so stupid.
"Really?" he says. She's relieved to find that he seems amused more than anything. "And why's that, young one?"
"It's nice here!" she says defensively. How anyone would need a reason to come to the Room of A Thousand Fountains is beyond her. ". . . I guess if you don't want to, you could always just keep the featherfern in your room. They're very resilient, you know."
"I didn't know that." he says, and gives her a small smile. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." she says.
They exchange a few more awkward words before she excuses herself and heads back, leaving Master Skywalker to his meditation. He seems a little. . . less sad now, she thinks. Or maybe she's just being too hopeful.
Still, as she's heading back to her master, she imagines the force feels a little bit lighter.
Behind her, a featherfern blooms.
|
The storm seeped sea drips through the cracks in the stone. They had cleared out the silverfish in the walls, leaving empty crevasses that echoed dully with every crashing wave of the world above. The blotched room smells of the bitter tang of half molten rock and moon dust. In the slimy wet light of half snuffed torches, eyes blink and whimper like ripped maps, searching and incomplete.
The gaze is smothered with a cracked, incomplete palm and rolled until the blinking iris is faced with the void of the dip it is sheltered in. The soil wedged in the bared windows makes everything taste like rot - the kind of old sour rot nestled away in the dirty dishware of forgotten cities. Technoblade has forgotten what it had felt like being in touch with the Creator.
He shames Dream with almost embarrassed disappointment for letting his End Gateways decay to this point. The once illuminated eyes rest dull against their grainy frames. Frames dusted and stained with time. Technoblade no longer has any interest in the machinations of other gods but the gaze weighs heavy in his pocket.
The void beckons with heartbreaking familiarity.
He will use this place as a meeting ground, to fight tyranny with the humanity he was gifted. But for now, the room remains empty and dead, its beauty ruined by time and neglect. He does not turn to address the half-man that ducks into the echoing hallway.
"Relax Dream, we have no desire to reach The End," Technoblade does not let the dread creep into his voice, keeping it closed, neutral, and most importantly unafraid. He lets his hand fall to his side with casual admittance; he does not hide his nostalgia.
Dream does not say anything, a shadow flickers and something on his countenance changes. The casual confidence he holds himself with becomes accusatory, vibrating with a low threat. Fickle with his emotions, like all young gods are. Techno holds his tongue, reminded yet again that this is not his land. Dream is no longer his ally.
The question comes with ill fitted surprise, "You haven't been obeying my rules, Technoblade," his name is spat out, like some vile gunk that accumulated in the back of Dream's throat. "Did you really think that I'll just let you have this room without some form of penitence."
Technoblade had made an error in underestimating the extent of power that the young god held. A mistake that Dream fully expects to reap the rewards of.
Techno cocks an eyebrow, spreading his arms to encompass the room around them, "What do you want for this then?" The purple staining his pockets glimmers with dull light as cloth shifts to strangle the wakening gaze. "What do I have that you could possibly want for this?"
The quiet ring that notifies his communicator permeates the thick silence with solemn deliverance.
The weather-worn stone under his rain stained boot rattles with relief as Dream takes a step closer. Techno retreats back, bumping into the sudden presence behind him as he crowds himself against the portal frame. Techno's gaze is sharp when he flicked his attention between the doll behind him and the ever-approaching visage of Dream. He turns until his back is facing the lifeless steps.
XD looms beside him, the refracted light off the tag embedded in its ear sends sharp, hungry lines across the smooth veneer of its face. It consumes Technoblade's attention more than the half-man to his right and Dream was a
god
. He takes in its green hair and lifeless skin - cracked with earth - and something tugs at the back of his mind, the quiet murmur of a rumor that had made its way up the supernatural grapevine until it rested at the feet of the upper pantheon gods.
Wisely, he does not reach for his sword.
Dream pressed closer, close enough to press his palm against the curve of Techno's cheek. The fluttering beat of Dream's veins vibrates uncomfortably against his skin. Warmer than he thought; more human than he expected.
Averting his gaze, Techno swallows down a hard ball of debilitation when Dream reaches up to undo his mask, shifting the empty smile aside to rest against his temple. The smooth expanse of freckled skin flickers with the torchlight, like a desert mirage - human in appearance. Dream curls his fingertips behind Techno's ear, watching the minute tremble that shivers through it.
He leans in, close enough for Techno to taste the ash on his tongue, "I want you," he murmurs.
The glassy sockets embedded in Dream's face don't blink when Techno pushes his hand away, casual hope curls his fingers, "Nahhhh, I was thinking more materialistic things." his lips quirk up into a grimace, they both know his say in this doesn't matter, "You want diamonds? Netherite?"
The hand against his cheek maneuvers him until his back presses up against the loose robes that XD donns; a childish rendition of the bleak satin robes Techno himself donned during the First Great Celestial War - almost identical if not for the fact it was colored in the most horrid shade of green that he's come to associate with it's godly owner. Techno clamps down on the instinctual flinch that rattles through his bones when XD moves to trap him with arms around his waist. If Techno strained his ears, he could hear the quiet undulation of pistoned joints.
Technoblade’s eyes smolder in the wet light, a challenge and indignation rolled into one. There was not a single young god who could not recount the Blood God’s ascension - who blazed through Elysium to take his ill reputed place as the Empress’s favorite. The sight sends shivers down Dream’s spine, the memories of a war torn realm scars deeply in his soul.
But the Blood God is but a distant, painful memory; and right here before him is a man.
“Does my choice matter here,” exhaustion is lined by the flickering highlight on a pale cheek and resignation sinks red clad shoulders.
“Your choice here technically does matter, but do you want me to want Phil? He was there with you,” Something in Dream’s chest flickers with annoyance, he reaches out to grasp the gold embroidered chain connecting Techno’s cloak - pulling him closer by the neck. “Or even Ranboo, don’t you think I’ve forgotten his little stunt with the spawners.”
“No.” against his will, his voice came out as a horse whisper. Being human means that he has too little to gain and everything to lose. Technoblade sags against the loose hold Dream has him in.
Dream lets the gold lined chain slip from his fingers, thread slithering like hot sand back against Techno’s chest. He leans back and lets himself drink in surrender from a man who has only known victory. “I’m glad we can come to an agreement Techno,” he meanders and takes in sallow eyes and an even paler face, “You can strip now.”
Hollow light glances manicured fingernails, in the damp air of the ruin the gold of the chain paints shaky hands a filthy yellow as they reach up to unclasp his cloak. With a sour taste in his mouth, Techno hands the draping cloth to Dream’s expectant hand, who then with a flourish, smoothes out the fabric over the portal frame.
Incredulity flat lines his voice, “You can’t be serious.” the cloak would make a better trophy, he’s known superior gods that would have
killed
for the blood god’s cape, turned red with godly blood and stitched in lost magics. “You’re doing this over the portal frame.”
To Techno’s muted disbelief Dream laughs, “I’m not a
savage
you know.” he was right - the quiet presence of XD to Techno’s back is enough proof.
Savages don’t mould gods out of clay.
Mutely, the rest of the fabrics slide like water off the sunken ridges of Techno’s joints and drip quietly off dust-blanketed fingertips. The hollow of his clavicle dips with every shallow breath and his eyes struggle open against the noiseless tremors of his skin. Technoblade doesn’t blink even as XD scoops him up to gently seat him down in it’s lap, on the cloth covered frame.
The portal is cold even through the protective fabric of his cloak and the chill settles on the back of his fingertips, wedged captiously underneath his nail beds.
Techno’s gaze flickers towards Dream when he clamors up next to him, harsh violet bruised under his eyes make the blue veins underneath the thin skin of his eyelid apparent when Techno blinks.
XD flickers like a shade, all soft cloth and dark shadows when it slides a bottle of oil into Dream’s waiting palm. The lavender liquid sloshes against the long curved neck of the vial, darkening the cork with contact.
"You knew the rules and wanted the portal anyways, didn't you?"
"Only for a table," Techno grits out, his indignation curled into the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, his legs spread open against XD’s hold. "Nothing more, I swear."
He jolts against XD’s hollow chest when Dream slides his oil stained fingers down to palm at his flaccid dick - and fuck that felt good. Techno’s hands scrabbles against the smooth expanse of XD’s arms, tiny particles of clay accumulating uncomfortably under blunt nails.
“You - you don’t-” swallowing thickly around his dry tongue, “Just hurry up and get this over-” Techno snaps his jaw shut with a click to lock the noise behind his teeth as Dream slides his other hand down to massage the individual knobs of his tail.
The unpleasant sensation burns a little too close to pleasure and his cock jumps shamefully at the friction.
The void between Dream’s teeth cracks his face open when he grins, almost noncommittal, “I’m not that cuel Techno, you should feel good too.”
Being stabbed would be more enjoyable.
Hair bunching against the cloth of XD’s collarbone, Techno’s breath shudders when Dream pushes a finger in, slick and invasive. There's a crack in the roof above him, if he squints he can see the tiny beads of moisture lining the erroaded crevices - jagged and rough from silverfish quills and ragged tides. Dream curls his fingers, sliding it out and back in with a sickening squelch. XD’s grip tightens in almost anticipation but Techno remains lax in its hold, no further reaction other than the twitch of an ear and a flick of his tail.
If Techno strains his ears past the stuttered beat of his own breath and the quiet crumble of oil soaked wood, he imagines that he could hear the quiet burbling of water trapped under ice. Past the sweet slide of fingers pressing inside of him he could hear gentle snow and the soft staccatoed sound of Phil’s laughter.
He blinks and a speck of ash dislodges from pale lashes to trail gentle fingers down the sloping curve of his cheek.
Dream muscles another finger into him.
It doesn’t hurt as much it should, the wet slide of oil turning the invasive digits into saccharine heat. Techno has to turn and bury his face into XD’s bloodless neck to stifle the noise that threatens to escape his teeth when Dream very purposefully ruts the pads of his fingers against his prostate.
Like a child ripping the glimmering wings of a helpless butterfly, Dream too delights in tearing the finely honed control lashed in the sinew of Technoblade’s limbs. Delighted in the tremble of Techno’s collarbone when he exhales and shame inching red veils down his throat as each teasing skim against the gland has his cock jumping in shameful arousal.
Techno almost sighs in relief when Dream’s interest in teasing pleasure out of him wanes in favor of actually stretching him; slipping a third finger into his feverish hole, the stretch burning just under his skin. Techno could get used to this. If he tilts his face up to the botchy ceiling with his vision only partially blocked by the platinum strands of XD’s locks, he could pretend that he's not as impaled and he feels.
A pseudo peace that is only shattered upon Dream opening his mouth. “You’re awfully tight Technoblade. "Am I your first?" Dream asks, dark with possessive promise. Firsts matter in a long line of forevers.
Mutely, Techno nods. Bluffs would only be detrimental when he's quite literally stripped bare in front of Dream, and Technoblade has fought enough wars to recognize a loss.
The eager glee that flickers through Dream’s ashen cheeks makes Techno wonder if lying would have been a better option.
Halos are not made for broken gods and mud made monsters.
“Ten thousand years and your sweet little hole has never taken cock,” Dream marvels as he caresses a long stroke up Techno’s shaft, thumbing absentmindedly against the slit. Wordlessly Techno’s hands spasm from where they are pinned against the blood red fabric of his cloak and he trembles with a strangled shudder.
With an foreign eagerness reflected in the deep groves of XD’s face, its hands slide underneath his shoulder blades, pushing Techno up into a position that allows it to join its fingers inside his overstretched rim alongside Dream’s. Techno struggles between them, his hand coming to a rest against Dream’s nape, fruitlessly tugging him away from where he dips down to mouth at a nipple. The other grasping for purchase against the soft velvet of his cape as his body instinctively fights against the intrusion.
Dream definitely knows what he's doing, between the suction against his nipple and the dragging pressure against his walls, Techno’s arousal churns sticky and demanding in his core when he trembles between their holds. The unfamiliar heat that laden his limbs and trembles his fingers forces panic down his throat to splinter jagged cold down his sternum.
“Behave, Techno,” Dream warned, teeth scraping mercilessly against the over sensitive nub, his jaw flexing with an obvious threat. “Don't forget who you’re here for. You wouldn't want Phil or Ranboo involved in this wouldn't you.”
“Don’t- ” Techno gritted out between pained teeth as XD wiggles his fingers further inside, scraping harshly against his walls with poisonous friction. “Don’t bring any of them into this,” he huffs, finally going limp in Dream’s arms, fingers curling with angry resignation, “This is between us only.”
Dream kisses him when he retracts his fingers from Techno’s loose hole, spread open still by XD’s porcelain digits. He hoists a leg over his shoulder, fingers warm and wet against the cold skin of Techno’s thigh and pries his mouth open with his teeth to hear the punctured groan that spills forth when he finally bludgeons his cock into that velvety heat.
The sudden shift from XD retracting its fingers out of his overfilled hole to drop Techno back onto its lap sends him reeling at the abrupt change. The motion disintegrates his balance, leaving him slack and dizzy against the doll’s torso, cold seeping through the thin fabric made even more apparent by the droplets of sweat sapping away at his heat.
Finally, there’s the stretch of Dream’s cock sliding into him to override even Technoblade’s determination to focus. He clenches his teeth on the shudder of reaction, keeps his eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the dusty paths of the speckles of dirt that rain down. Techno keeps his gaze unwavering as Dream thrusts into him, holds himself in that focus even as his body flushes hot with the ache of the sensation.
The numb haze that envelops his conscientiousness at the intrusion unaccompanied by the flash of pain reminds him of when he plunged his bloody hand into his chest to rip out the god from the man. Foreign to his will yet his body accepts it readily.
His blood roars, static in his eardrums.
“I should just devour you,” Dream taunts, a promise dark between his teeth; voice ballooning high off the exalted joy of having the Blood God’s surrender. “No land needs a god that abandoned their duties to a devout people.”
Dream moves, each angle of his hips coming in slightly deeper, until Techno’s jolting with bursts of heat too close to pleasure for him to keep his breathing steady. He loses control of his throat, too, his exhales coming out like whimpers until Dream laughs, the sound convulsing the fall of his breast, his fingers sliding down to brush against Techno’s hot-flushed cock. His hands are freezing against the heated skin.
“Your people should know the truth, that you aren't a god, that you're just a sow, being bred at the stocks.” Laughter follows its wake glee twisting into empty eyes like beady eyed snakes. XD’s shoulders shaking with reflected mirth, and Technoblade grits his teeth around the expectant taunt. “When you birthed them, were they worms, crawling out of your needy, slutty hole?”
His tongue lies heavy against the roof of his mouth, swallowing rhythmically. When the heat scorches under Techno’s skin like a brand, does he wraps his teeth around a retort, “Do not slander my people Dream. Unlike your’s, mine are at least happy.” Techno’s been around long enough to see the prince and the pauper in Dream’s twisted little fairy tale dancing along the strings of a hungry god.
Dream snaps his hips forward and the subsequent sound rings high pitched and wounded. XD’s hand snaps up with mirrored anger, clamping harshly over his neck - palm flat and nails digging into arteries - cutting off his breath. “You do
not
have the right to speak of my people like that. How happy can your people be living in a dead land abandoned by not only the world, but their one and only god.”
Dream leans down, cold breath stroking the juncture between his throat and collarbone, effectively bending Techno in half as the hand that once sent sparks up his spine tightens around Techno’s cock in an unforgiving grip. When the teeth come, Techno should be disgusted with the relief that surges forth because this-
this
he was at least familiar with.
He's far too familiar with the tender ritual of gods. He yearns for it, yearns for the escape it may provide.
The tenderness in which Dream pressed his lips against the meat of Techno’s chest sends him reeling, soft with the firmness of teeth just behind the surface. The temptation of power is like a knife, that may either cut the meat or the throat of a man; it may be his creation or his destruction.
Gods die young. Young and bright like galaxies coalescing stars.
Death as a means of retreat is a temptation that Technoblade has not given into much in his long conquests of life, it rattles him how much he wants it. But he won’t die here; Dream values the moment too much to let him escape. So Techno holds his breath, lets Dream suck the meat of his chest into his mouth, biting down and twisting until he tears a gaping wound into his collar. Pain is expected but his eyelids flutter when the pain forces his body to clench down on Dream’s cock.
Far too many years of violent history has Techno’s free arm instinctively jerking through the motions of a punch before XD tears its nails off his neck. It slams his hand down onto the patterned surface of the eye. White hot agony lacing up Techno’s arm from the force before XD relents to settle its hand against his wrist like a cuff.
Behind him, XD stands an unfeeling monument against his trembling shoulders, the steel grip clamped down on Techno’s wrists does not lessen. Dream swallows and silver blood trickles down his chin. He stares at the wound, at the blood rolling steadily down a scarred chest and leans down to lap at it, hearing the sob that wracks the half god above him.
“What use is a god who chose a body weak enough that such wounds would scar for a human lifetime,” He punctures his snarl with a sharp thrust against Techno’s prostate satisfied with the way Techno arches into him. Sweat running bloody rivulets as Techno instinctively fights back against the cruel hold XD has him in.
Each cry Dream wring out is painted by tight lines around Techno's jaw. The thin wispy noises that escape his throat are marked by the whistling exhale of clenched teeth.
Aside from the taunting jeers that Dream throws every now and then, he falls mostly silent when he fails to incite a response; directing his focus in driving his cock deeper into Techno’s body. Techno closes his eyes and shudders when Dream tightens his grip and strokes in tandem with his trusts, leaving no space for
him
in his own body with the blistering heat curling up his spine and down his ribs.
His orgasm crests upon him much too fast, catching Techno off guard with the force of it as he breathes harder, capitulating to the demands of the instinct he can’t avoid. He keeps his eyes open, keeps his thoughts as clear as he can make them, even through the convulsive ripples of orgasm. Dream comes second, laughing that weird breathless chuckle as he pulses hot inside Techno, but that’s unimportant too, as pointless as everything else about this exercise in humiliation.
Dream presses a feather-light kiss against Techno’s boney shoulder, feeling the way the joint sags in almost relief. Despite Techno’s apathetic countenance, he can’t quite hide the flicker of naive optimism that is hidden behind the loathing, behind fluttering lashes as Techno shudders around the spill of fluid inside of him.
He pulls out, slowly and deliberately and in a way that the white liquid froth around the flaccid head of his cock and spills onto the red fabric in steady waves. Ebbing with every clench of Techno’s hole. Techno’s face flushes from the sensation.
“Are you finished,” Techno croaks out, his voice ragged and wet from the force of his repressed cries.
In response to the obvious plea, XD scoots back to press a mechanical hand to the back of Techno’s head. Threading the salmon locks between its fingers and forcing his head down against the cloth covered portal frame; leaning its body weight against Techno’s back as it hikes his hips up to grind against its clothed crotch.
“Wait-” Techno gasps out, ruby eyes filled with a horrible realization as he scrambles to push himself up on sluggish, post-orgasm limbs. His defiled cloak deforming into hills and valleys as his fingers grapple for purchase. Twisting his head against the harsh hold, an eye peaks up at Dream from where the owner’s face was forced against the portal frame, “You can’t be serious.”
Dream chuckles, breathless from his orgasm and shuffles to keep Techno’s torso pinned under a heavy knee. Pushing XD back to help it shuck off its robes. “Don’t be absurd, Techno, it's rude to blue ball someone.”
“It's not a person.”
“Well according to Tommy, neither are you.”
There's an audible click as Technoblade clenches his jaw hard enough for the light to illuminate the hard tendon connecting his jaw to his collarbone, trembling with barely repressed anger. His grief bleeding out, pooling out of his chest in sticky macabre waves from where Dream shredded his skin. It sticks and dries and clogs in thick sheets into the cracks of his skin and Techno - Techno can’t - can’t untangle his own pain from the wires scraping under his skin, splitting him in half to hang his guts up for display, for people to grieve over a friendship that never was.
XD drapes its form over the taunt skin of Techno’s back, the ghost of its presence freezing the droplets of sweat. The abyss lies heavy at his feet and the mantle of the divine forces Technoblade’s head down under unwilling aniconism.
It's cold, it's very cold. Techno’s fingers twitch to suppress the shivers of shaky nerves as XD lines his cock against his hole. Even in this position, Techno can tell it's going to be much bigger than Dream’s. Quietly he hopes it hurts, it hurts enough to break him out of this unwanted stupor.
It was bigger by a sizable amount and it pressed spongy and insistently against Techno’s loose hole. Between Dream’s cum and the stretching that was already put into him, it was only a matter of time before his walls swallowed up XD’s broad cockhead. XD’s cock burns a chill inside of him as it grinds its way in, almost like a soul torch with the flash flicker of fear through his chest. The friction has his cock twitching from where it hangs limp between his legs.
The first thrust punches the cry out of him. It doesn’t hurt, from the wet slide of Dream’s cum and the oil, XD’s dick slides against the walls almost painless. Techno’s teeth remain clenched around the throaty cries pulled out of the empty cavern of his mouth, the way XD’s cock spears his insides open, changing him, deforming to his servitude burns acidic behind his eyes.
XD’s hands are on his hips, forcing him back onto its cock from where his legs would have given up otherwise.
For Phil
, he reminds as a particularly hard thrust against his prostate drags a keen out of his lips. Dream curls his fingers behind his head as he pulls Techno up for a kiss, savoring the noises that slip out.
“Look at you Techno,” Dream curls a loving hand around his cheek, almost fond when he rolls Techno’s name in his mouth like a
prayer,
“Already hard for us again.”
Techno doesn’t have to look down to confirm Dream’s truth, the rough friction inside of him sparking into the same unwelcome heat. The same heat that burns his nose with the effort of keeping his eyes open and dry. It pulls his nerves open, bleeds him raw until blood rushes against his skin to paint his throat and chest scarlet with the heaving effort of reluctant cries.
“Come on Techno,” gleefully eager, Dream slaps his flaccid cock against the dim lit line of Techno’s cheek.
Shiny and slick with potion fluid and white froth, Dream grinds his pelvis against the clenched seam of Techno’s lips. The tense shutter that runs Techno through when XD scrapes it’s engorged cock head against his forcibly loosened walls is not lost on Dream.
“You made a mess so you should help me clean up,” the hand in his pale locks tightens to a painful degree, jerking his head forward, the strained arch of his neck presents a pretty sight, “Or you know, I could go to Phil.”
Reluctantly, Techno dips his head forward, the hand in his hair loosens enough for him to tentatively press his lips against the sloppy tip, clumsily taking the head into his mouth. He chokes down the instinctive gag against the bitter tang of semen and himself.
Techno gives into the acidic burn in his eyes.
A crystalline tear rolls down his face, tracking a white line down his age sodden cheeks. His lashes shutting under the sloping weight of his tears.
Dream moans at the sight, digging his thumb into the groove of his cheek before swiping it up to taste Techno’s misery. Satisfied, he grinds his pelvis into Techno’s throat. Dream thrusts forward the same time XD snaps its hips into Techno. He's bleeding, blood rolling down his lips; split open on Dream’s pelvis, trying to struggle back for air. The grip in his hair renders him immobile to Dream’s wild thrusts, slamming his broad cockhead into his soft pallet, bludgeoning his way into Techno’s throat. Keeps Techno in this suspended state until salty blood dribbles down his chin and his hands slacken from where they were fisted in the dark fabric of Dream’s trousers.
When he comes for the second time, it’s quiet, the noise choking out of him as his throat struggles to open around Dream’s dick before the solace of darkness swallows him up.
-o-
Fortunately, Techno is alone when he jerks awake, immediately rolling to the edge of the portal to heave onto the dusty floor. Nothing comes up between the thin strands of stained saliva weighing his tongue. His mouth feels burned and heavy when he prods at the split lip with his tongue. Everything is a little too dry when he swallows.
His jaw hurts.
There are sigils painted into his torso, blood flaking off them when he shifts to scrub them away. His nose is clogged with the smell of ash and the metallic tang of his own blood. A solemn reminder for those that break the fickle laws of Dream’s childish fable. Techno is not looking forward to the next time.
Techno gives himself a couple more minutes, just to lie there and collect himself, piece together enough to trust his limbs to not immediately give out on him when he slides off the portal frame. And they don’t, Techno leans his body against the walls as he shuffles awkwardly to where his clothes were thrown haphazardly into the corner. Face flushing at the mortifying sensation of half dried cum dribbling out of him, it splashes specks onto the stone floor.
Oddly enough, he feels betrayed by all of this. There had been no faults in Dream’s logic, he
had
broken one of the rules, and he
should
be punished for it, ex-god or not. His body was the payment, nothing more, nothing less.
At least he got the table.
He’d like to meander a little more before returning home, his skin doesn’t feel right against his bones. Like paying Dream dislodged some part of his soul only to be put back together with haphazard stitching; but Phil and Ranboo must be worried, it’s not like him to stay so long out, especially if he didn’t bring a bell.
He can clean himself off in the sea, he can cover the wound with his clothes. It's fine, it’s fine. They don’t need to know.
|
Stiles coughed as a yellow powder exploded in front of his face, mixing into a weird sticky paste as it settled on his rain streaked cheeks. He swiped at his face, wiping the weird substance onto the palm of his hand.
“I
told
you to stay in the fucking car,” Derek growled, as Stiles turned dusting his hand against the leg of his pants. His nose crinkled as he sneezed, rubbing roughly at his nose. Derek was in beta-shift, his face all hairy and his eyebrows gone under a thickened brow bone.
“What you think some pollen’s gonna kill me?” Stiles replied, brushing past Derek. His eyes watered as his nose crinkled up again, preparing for a sneeze that never came. “I survived a hell of a lot worse, so I doubt a runny nose is what’s gonna finally do me in.”
Derek grabbed at his arm, pulling him to a stop. Stiles turned back to him with a glare, made less threatening by the raindrops catching on his long eyelashes. “That’s not just pollen, dumbass. It’s faerie.”
“Fairy,” Stiles’ eyes glowed, a teasing smile pulled out from his face. “What? You think I need to be scared of Tinkerbell, now?”
“Not fairy. Faerie.”
Stiles shrugged, his eyes shifting to the side as he squirmed his way out of Derek’s hold. Despite the rain, a low heat had started to spread through him, and he began to wonder if he was starting to catch a cold. “What’s the difference?”
Instead of answering, Derek just growled and shifted back into human form, his eyebrows pulled together as he began stalking in the direction of the jeep. Stiles called out after him, following his eyes before he began stumbling after him. It had seemed that ever throughout all his time running with literal wolves, he’d never lost his clumsiness.
“Wait, if it’s not pollen what is it?” Stiles called out, tripping over something and almost sending himself to the ground. Derek didn pause on his rampage through the forest. “Derek!”
Stiles strayed behind, Derek pulling ahead while still being in eye sight, as he maneuvered his way around fallen tree limbs and large. A strange heat had settled low in Stiles stomach, something that felt oddly familiar and different at the same time. Rain continued falling through the sky at a steady pace, drenching his clothes and making his hair fall into his eyes.
I should really just buzz it off again
, Stiles thought as he pushed the wet stands off his forehead. They fell back almost immediately and he held back a groan. He almost paused when he felt a thrum of heat pass through him, from the top of his head to his toes. His vision blurred slightly, though he didn’t know if it was from the strange sensation or the rain splattering against his face.
He blinked to clear away his eyes, stumbling over a large tree root camouflaged with green moss. He yelped, and would have hit the ground had it not been for the strong grip on his bicep that stopped him. He let out a noise of confusion, eyes flitting up to meet the scarlet reds of Derek’s.
Derek pulled him up, eyes returning to their normal color as heat flipped in Stiles abdomen. His cock jumped in his pants, turning hard in almost an instant, and he had to swallow the lump that appeared in his throat.
Derek’s nostrils flared, and he pulled his hand away. “ Just get in the car.”
Derek turned, leaving Stiles mildly stunned before he stared after Derek towards the jeep that was just viable through the thinning trees. Stiles rubbed at his nose once again, before pushing his hands up his face to clear it of water.
Derek was already standing at the passenger side door, when Stiles reached the drivers side and pulled out his keys. Or attempted to pull out his keys. The tight pants that Lydia made him buy already made it a difficult task, but being drenched with rain made it almost nearly impossible.
He bit back a groan as his dick twitched in his pants, almost as if sensing the warm palm of his hand nearby. He nearly did groan as he adjusted himself, and then almost jumped out of his skin when Derek growled from the other side of the car.
Finally, he grabbed hold of his keys and unlocked the door, pulling himself into the semi-warm, dry interior of the jeep. He sighed as he settled into the drivers side seat, pushing his hair back off his forehead once again. On the other side, Derek slammed the door shut, ignoring the glare of contempt Stiles sent his way.
The two sat in silence for a moment, the sound of hard rain pattering against the roof of the old Jeep being the only sound to fill the void. Despite the temperature drop from the rain, Stiles still felt overly heated. A sensation that only escalated as time went on. Just like the — ahem—
situation
going on in his pants.
Silence chance a quick side eye at the grumpy wolf sitting next to him, quickly averting his eyes when they fell on the posture of extreme annoyance. Derek was sitting almost ramrod straight, arms crossed defensively in front of his chest, and it looked as though he was attempting to stop breathing.
“So eh— you said it’s not normal pollen?” Stiles asked, hoping for more of an answer than just a simple
No!
or growl this time.
“No.”
Stiles rolled his eyes, his head falling back on the seat as he stared up at the ceiling. Stiles groaned in annoyance, rubbing his hands against his face as he dick twitched once again in his pants. A sudden flare of heat burst to life in his stomach, and Stiles groaned once again.
“Am I dying?”
Derek turned to him, teeth gritting in a scarily attractive grimace. “Because of the pollen? No. Because you followed me out there when I
explicitly
told you to
stay in the fucking car
? Yes.”
The way Stiles squirmed in his seat had absolutely nothing to do with the way Derek's voice went all hot and growly. Definitely nothing to do with that. “How the fuck was I supposed to know that I was going to get a face full of faerie magic shit?”
Instead of responding, Derek just growls baring his teeth. Which, okay, is definitely about the only response you’ll ever get from Derek anyway.
“Seriously, what was that stuff?”
Derek rolled his eyes. “You should already be feeling the effects of it by now.”
“Really?” Stiles looked down at his hands, then pressed them against this face before turning back to Derek. “I don’t feel any different.”
Derek gives him a pointed look, which Stiles responds to with a shake of his head, his eyes widening in question. Agains, Derek just stares at him, before his gaze ever so slightly drifts lower. Stiles follows his line of sight until he’s met with the hard lines of his cock tenting his jeans.
His eyes widen for a completely different reason, before he turns back to Derek with mouth agape in horror. A million thoughts run through his head, until he finally just thinks it back against the headrest.
“Sex pollen,” he whispers, droppping his head between his hands. “Of all the things for those websites to get right, it just
had
to be
sex pollen
.”
A moment of silence passed between them, until Stiles finally lifted his head from his hands. For just a moment his own gaze drifted over to Derek’s jean covered crotch.
I wonder what else those websites got right?
Derek clears his throat, snapping Stiles attention back to his face. “Hmm? Oh— so is this um— a
now
situation or do I have time to get home and ah—“
Stiles mimics jerking with his hand, before quickly letting it fall when Derek glares at him.”Judging by the way you are rocking into your seat, I’d say more of a now situation.”
“I’m not—“ Sure enough when Stiles looked down, his hips had already begun rocking back and forth in his seat, subconsciously straining for any type of friction he could get on his dick. He glances back at Derek, red staining his cheeks. “Can you um—“
“What?” Stiles eyes flick to the passenger door behind Derek, silently asking him for some privacy. Derek turns, before glaring at him once he catches his meaning. “No, it’s raining. Just get it over with so we can tell Deaton what we found.”
“But—“ Stiles starts to protest, before Derek gives him a pointed look that has him scrambling for the button of his pants. It’s only moments before Stiles has his hand wrapped around his dick, wincing at the rough feel of his dry palm.
After a few slow tortuous strokes, he gave up and just spits into his palm before wrapping it back around his dick. His eyes flick over to Derek without thought, catching the disgusted look that passes over the man’s face.
“It’s dry, asshole.” Stiles complains, before turning his head up to the roof of the Jeep. The spit helped to make the strokes lend more towards the right side of pleasurable , though it was far from comfortable. A few more strokes and Stiles was gasping, his hips rocking into the ring of his fingers. Through his slitted eyes, he could see the fog over taking his windshield, blocking out the view of the forest outside.
Little huffs came out of his mouth, moans that he wouldn’t allow to fully form, heating the inside of the car even more. Once again, his eyes flicked over to the wolf, or more specifically the dick hidden behind Derek’s pants.
Wonder if he’s got a no like all those websites say. God, I hope he’s got a knot.
The nail of Stiles’ thump tipped into the slit at the head of his cock, his hips jerking out of the seat. A loud moan sounded bounced off the inside of the Jeep as he came to the image of himself bouncing on Derek’s thick knot.
A moment passed, the sounds of Stiles heavy breathing and the thick rain filling up the silence in the car. When Stiled had finally gotten his breathing under control, he began to look around for something to whip his hands on. Instead, his eyes focused back into his dick, which was still dribbling cum and was very much
still hard.
“Um—“ Stiles drifted off, turning to look at Derek with wide eyes. His quickly drying cum was still covering his hand, already starting to stick to the skin. A moment later, something hit him across the face, and Stiles looked down to find one of his old lacrosse hoodies. Mumbling a thanks, he quickly wiped his hand off on the material, streaking the red material with pearly white cum. He quickly tossed it back in the back seat, before turning his attention back to his dick. Which still twitched against his stomach.
“I— um— I don’t think that helped at all.”
Derek growled, making Stiles' attention snap to him immediately. Derek’s eyes were already on his, not quite glowing red but Stiles could almost see the intent behind them. “Tell anyone about this, and I’ll rip your throat out. With my teeth.”
“Wha—ohhhh“ Stiles started, his head falling back and breath whistling through his teeth as Derek’s hand wrapped around his dick. The cum already coating his dick made the glide of Derek’s right hand a little easier, but the rough calluses still scrapped against some areas making it just on the right side of painful.
Stiles’ looked down, ready to ask Derek just what in the hell he was doing, when he felt the pointed caress of a tongue dipping into the slit of his cock. Looking down, he could see the dark tresses of Derek’s hair tickling the lower back of his abdomen. His hips jerked once and Derek glanced up at him with a glare before fully wrapping his lips around Stiles’ cock.
“
Holy shit
,” Stiles moaned, slipping his hand into Derek’s hair. The wolf responded by hollowing his cheeks as though he was actually trying to suck Stiles’ brain out through his dick.
Derek came up for air, sucking in a deep breath before swelling Stiles down again, this time his nose brushing against the sweaty pubic region on Stiles’ groin. He breathed in deep, inhaling the musky scent and Stiles fingers tightened in his hair.
Stiles’ groaned as he felt the coil of heat grow deeper in his stomach, tightening like a spring getting ready to release. He had some forethought to warn Derek but the only thing that could pass through his lips were needy sounding moans.
His hand gripped around the hair in his hand, attempting to pull the wolf away from his dick. Derek just growled around the cock in his mouth sending a whole new round of shivers down Stiles’ spine. The fluttering of Derek’s throat muscles sent Stiles over the edge as he came one again, his load getting swallowed down as fast as it came out.
Finally, Derek sat back, letting Stiles’ soft cock fall from his mouth. He licked his lip, swallowing thickly as he tucked the younger man back into his jeans, his dick finally, blessedly spent.
Chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, Stiles finally blinked his eyes open to stare at the side of Derek’s face. A moment passed between them, until both men were reaching for each other, mouths crashing together in a hard kiss.
Stiles’ hands went straight back into the wolf’s hair, fingers scratching down against the scalp and pulling low groans from the man. Derek groan, detaching himself from Stiles’ lips and continuing to leave sloppy wet kisses across the man’s cheek, neck, collar bone, everywhere he could reach.
A moan worked its way through Stiles’ mouth as soon Derek bit into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Holy shit, that feels so — FUCK!”
Stiles screamed, knocking Derek back away from his as a knock sounded against the passenger window, a bright flashlight cutting through the fogged up window.
Shit, shit, shit
, ran like a mantra through Stiles’ head as Derek rolled down the window.
Please be Jordan! Or anyone other than—
“Sherriff.”
“Derek.” Stiles squinted as his dad shined the flashlight over in his direction. “Stiles.”
Stiles responded with a tiny wave, shrinking back in his seat as if it would swallow him whole.
“Do I want to know what you boys are doing out here?” Thought the look on the Sherriff’s face was one of pure professionalism, Stiles could see the glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Derek , need I remind you how old my son is? And that
you
have made sure that I have a nice, big supply of wolfsbane bullets?” ”
“
Dad!
” Stiles growled out, his eyes narrowing as he watched his father settle a hand on the gun holstered to his belt. “I’m
nineteen
, you can’t threaten people any—“
The Sheriff’s gaze swung back towards Stiles, a half-hearted glare directed his way. “I never caught you making out with anyone when you were in high school. Let me have my fun.”
Stiles sighed, stooping down in his seat as the Sheriff's attention shifted in Derek’s direction. “I expect you at dinner tomorrow night, son. And I’ll see you for your shift at nine am sharp.”
Derek nodded, his body relaxing slightly. “Yes, sir.”
The Sheriff took a step back, letting the flashlight fall as it pointed toward the ground. “Stiles, I’ll see you at home?”
“Yes, Dad.” Stiles mumbled, his eyes squeezed shut as he resented his face in his palm.
“Actually, he won’t.” Derek corrected, causing Stiles to look up in confusion. A large hand landed on Stiles’ thigh, sending tingles down his spine. He stared at Derek with his mouth open.
The Sheriff chuckled, “Okay, then.”
|
In the city of Musutafu rested U.A. High School. Some would argue it was that the city was the crown jewel of the hero community. Given how many known heroes graduated from its halls.
And despite the school’s connection to so many top heroes. Musutafu still had a part of town that was ‘unsavoury’ and attracted the ‘worst of the worst. At least according to its citizens.
In one of the apartment buildings located right in the heart of the area was where a certain cremation villain lived. At first, Dabi had yelled at Giran for putting her in place so close to the heroes. The information broker had just grinned behind his unlit cigarette. He told Dabi that if you were going to hide a tree, what better place than in the forest.
So Dabi having no where else to go kept her head down and stayed quiet inside her apartment. Diving headfirst into her job, only going out when necessary. Even if this meant she up at the crack of dawn. Or out late at night to just before stores closed. It was all worth it if it meant avoiding any of the city’s hero’s population.
Giran was less than pleased after hearing about Dabi’s attempts to stay under the radar by one of his many spies. He and had strongly recommended that she meet someone that he knew before he called the League.
Since Dabi wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to Shigaraki or fend off Ujiko from playing doctor, she reluctantly agreed.
This is how Dabi now found herself sitting tensely at the kitchen table well Folken. A tall man whose hair reminded her of Tomura stared at her with unseeing eyes as he placed two cups on the table.
“So,” Folken spoke, pouring a cup for Dabi and sliding it over to her. “Will we be talking this week? Or just enjoying a nice cup of tea?”
Dabi grunted at the therapist. Technically, the cremation user was supposed to have started her meetings with him a couple of weeks ago. But never one to trust people, Dabi had skipped the first meeting.
When nothing happened, paranoia set in. Dabi spent most of the day of her second meeting breaking in and rummaging through the man's apartment. On the lookout for anything, she could use to blackmail him with. Dabi had been so focused on her destruction that she barely noticed Folken return until he asked who she was.
That’s how she figured out the Folken was blind. If police ever questioned him Folken could get away with saying he had no idea who he was actually talking to. For all, he knew Dabi was a person suffering from delusions of grandeur.
Watching the therapist take a sip of the tea Dabi took a small sip herself, surprised with the pleasant taste. Tea was always more Fuyumi’s drink of choice rather than hers.
Shaking her head at the thought of her sister Dabi focused back on the amber liquid instead and how it seemed to be helping her nerves settle.
“My mother actually used this brand when she was pregnant with my younger brother for morning sickness. And my sister-in-law swears by it,” Folken explained as if reading Dabi’s mind. “Any trouble with it yourself?”
Dabi snorted. “If I’m not sleeping or working, I’m puking.”
Folken gave a small smile. “I think that’s the first thing you’ve said to me that wasn’t immediately followed by a threat.”
“Listen, if Giran’s going to be holding the apartment over my head and force me to come to see you. Better not rock the boat with death threats,” Dabi hissed, releasing some of her pent-up killing intent. “Doesn’t mean that I still can’t kill you if you piss me off.”
Folken, instead of being scared or even nervous, just nodded. “Giran is a strange man.”
Dabi now couldn’t help but feel curious. Even veteran heroes responded to her killing intent, yet the therapist sat there like it was nothing. “You don’t seem like the type to get mixed up with him. How’d you two meet up anyways?”
“Work not surprisingly,” Folken answered, surprised that it had taken the woman this long to interrogate him. He had honestly been expecting a knife at his throat during their first meeting. “I used to work for a company that handled, how should I put this, delicate areas of quirk health and safety. Giran aided us in finding volunteers for our projects.”
“Volunteers?”
“We were looking for people who suffered from severe mental quirk imbalances,” Folken explained.
Dabi looked at the man with disbelief. “And Giran helped you find villains to what? Cure them?”
“Far easier to find the real villains underneath once you weed out those who can be flipped with shiny coin,” Folken clarified. Recalling the information broker's own words when they first met. “Officially, our work wasn’t approved by the government. So we had to take our volunteers where we could find them.”
“Your quirk must be pretty powerful,” Dabi said, looking interested and wondering if she could recruit the man into joining the League during their sessions. Having a therapist with a powerful quirk on hand might be almost as good as having a doctor when interrogating people.
“Oh no, it’s a rather simple empathy quirk. I can still see people's emotions as a colour,” Folken looked at the green outline of the woman in front of him. “And before you ask, no, I won’t join the League.”
Dabi’s green aura cooled from green to blue with some red woven inside. After years of practice with his quirk, Folken knew this meant that the woman, although not happy about being turned down, was calm if not slightly annoyed.
“As a scientist, I and worked on a machine that would slightly alter a person’s emotions whenever the cause of their imbalance was introduced. Rather than stealing a piece of jewelry, they might ask to see or buy it. No longer feeling the compulsion to have it right there and then.”
Dabi whistled, impressed by the invention. Having worked with a few villains in the past whose own needs and desires often put her at risk. Yet here was someone saying he had found a way to stop that. Or at the very least curb the desire.
“How is this not something being used already?”
Folken gripped his teacup a little tighter. “My machine never worked for long periods of time. So, it was scrapped, and I was moved onto another project."
"Bullshit.” Dabi replied noticing the way the therapist had a stranglehold on the mug.
“You really are just as smart as Giran said you were. It's true officially, the project was terminated, but unofficially it continued. I don't often tell people this next part, though, but I think you’ll understand,” Folken spoke seriously. “And perhaps maybe you’ll do me a small courtesy."
“A courtesy?” Dabi asked, raising an eyebrow.
“If you or your friends ever come across a man named Dornkirk, I want you to know exactly who you're dealing with," Folken spoke bitterly. “A man who kidnaps and exploits children. Some who hadn’t even gotten their quirks and twists their minds. Trying to make them loyal to him and only him."
Dabi but her hand where her baby rested and wasn’t sure what she would do if someone stole her baby from her before she had a chance to hide them. “I don’t work with child abusers Doc, I kill them.”
“And I destroyed the company I worked for when I discovered it,” the therapist responded, taking a sip of tea to try and quell his anger. "I called Giran when the project was scrapped to thank him. I found out that they were still using the people he sent them to. With a little snooping, I found out what Dornkirk was up to and asked Giran what he felt was in his best self-interest."
“Sounds like Giran,” Dabi snorted, wondering if the broker had some sort of secondary cockroach-like quirk. The man was just about as hard to kill as the insect and would probably survive all of them. “Always looking out for number one.”
“Of all the crimes Giran can be accused of, human trafficking isn't one of them," Folken hummed, glad that going to the broker hadn’t led to a bullet between the eyes. “I gathered all the evidence I could find quite that very day well. Giran placed an anonymous tip into the heroes and police later that week. By morning almost everyone involved was arrested.”
“Except for you.”
"Except for Dornkirk and me," the therapist recalled coming home a few days later the raid on Zaibach. Only to find Dornkirk waiting for him with a bottle of acid and a knife. If not for Giran sending someone to watch his apartment Folken was quite sure he would be dead. “That’s why when Giran asks me to look after someone, I do so without asking questions.”
“Must have surprised you when he asked you to look after me,” Dabi grunted, knowing how the public saw her as a monster. “Didn’t you hear I’m the villain who kidnapped that kid from U.A. And I attacked the top two heroes with a scary monster"
“That boy was fifteen, hardly a child in my book. And given what I just told you about my past, I can't judge you for yours,” Folken dismissed. He was a part-time psychologist for villains. If he was going to judge every person he saw, then the number of patients he saw would be cut in half. “Changing the subject back to you. How would you indulge me in an exercise?”
“What for?” Dabi growled, not wanting the man to treat her like she was crazy. This was supposed to be a simple chat to get her out of the apartment, not an actual therapy session.
“I’ve been told that pregnancy is a very stressful time in a woman’s life. I would like to help you handle everything. Especially since you are doing this alone,” Folken explained, remembering when his sister-in-law had been carrying his nephew, she would cling to anyone within reach. "It's a straightforward exercise. I will say a series of words, and you will answer them with the first word that pops into your head."
"And how exactly does that help me process this," Dabi said, looking down to her slightly bloated belly.
“It doesn’t help you exactly. It gives me an idea of who you are and what boundaries I should and should not push with you,” Folken explained, pulling a small item from his pocket. “Now, are you ready?”
Dabi shrugged a little. “I guess.”
“Alright then,” Folken said, clicking the button so that he could start recording. "Pregnant”
Dabi leaned forward. “Life”
“Test”
“Vanguard”
“Baby”
“Protect”
“Mother”
“Victim”
“Father”
“Bastard”
Folken frowned and made a mental note to see if Dabi meant her own father or the babies.
“Villain”
“… Necessary”
“Hero”
Dabi clenched her hands tightly as Endeavor’s face coming to mind.
“Killer”
Folken paused slightly. “Dabi”
“Revenge”
“League of Villains”
“Fam- Idiots”
Folken nodded. "Alright, I think that’s enough for today. You can go home if you wish. Or we can continue enjoying our tea.”
“That’s it?” Dabi asked skeptically, looking at the clock and realizing there was still half an hour left in her session. “There’s still time left.”
“This isn’t a race Dabi, it’s a marathon. Sometimes you need to slow down a little to make it to the end," Folken said, finishing up the rest of his tea, surprised at the woman's interest in continuing. If anything, Giran had told him about Dabi was true. She should be running out of the door like All Might himself was on her heels.
"I don't do marathons, so just do your shrink thing so I can get Giran off my back.” Dabi insisted, knowing that Giran would no doubt have a spy close by to snitch her if she left early. And if she spent the rest of the time drinking more tea, the cremation user knew she would be up all night going to the bathroom.
Folken sighed. “Alright, let’s talk about how you found out you were pregnant.”
“Not much to say,” Dabi shrugged. “I took the test, and a plus appeared instead of the negative.”
“Surely that’s not everything," Folken pressed, turning the recorder back on. “How did you conclude that you needed a pregnancy test in the first place?”
Dabi flinched slightly thinking back.
*Flashback*
Dabi glared hatefully at the black bag in Giran’s hand. The broker claimed he had brought her painkillers. Still instead, all Dabi found inside was a cruel reminder of something she could never have inside instead.
“Why the fuck did you bring those things with you?”
And for once, Giran wasn't smiling. "Just humour me, alright."
“Why? We both know it’s impossible. Even your back-alley quacks said so,” Dabi hissed. Glaring at the bag with such hatred that the broker was surprised it hadn’t already burst into flames. "I just overdid it with my quirk, is all."
“This feels different,” Giran insisted, not back down. “You’ve already snapped at Spinner three times today already. Nearly killed Himiko for her Pocky. And you keep complaining about how tired you are.”
“Ok one, Spinner was being an idiot. Two, Crazy had already eaten like four boxes by herself,” the cremation user argued back, holding up a third finger. "And three, we're all tired. It comes from healing after fighting off some pompous dicks to save your greasy ass.”
Giran sighed and rubbed the bridge of his still healing nose. "Listen, if you take all of them, not only will I shut up and never bring it up again.”
"You shouldn't have brought it up at all." Dabi hissed.
“Would you just please just take the tests.” Giran persisted, just wanting the shake the woman for being so stubborn. As much as he hoped he was wrong, Giran also knew that if he wasn't. If Dabi lost another baby ... well, that wasn't a pleasant thought given what she turned into because of her first miscarriage.
“Fine,” Dabi snapped, grabbing the bag from the broker's hand. “If it’ll make you shut up.”
Walking to the closet bathroom, Dabi slammed the door shut. Dumping the tests into the sink rolling her eyes when she realized that Giran had brought her six different kinds and an alarm. Grabbing the two closets to her, Dabi made quick work of her pants before sitting down on the floor and wondering how she could use the other four to piss off Shigaraki.
*Beep, Beep* *Beep, Beep*
Grabbing one of the tests, Dabi immediately dropped it like it was on fire at the tiny blue plus sign. Hoping this was one of those false positive horror stories she had heard about, she grabbed the second one and saw another plus sign. Fear now coursing through her, Dabi grabbed all the tests and started praying to every god, devil and demon who might be listening that she wasn't pregnant.
*Beep, Beep* *Beep, Beep*
Reaching a shaking hand towards one, Dabi shut her eyes and took a deep breath, opening them to see another positive in front of her. Feelings of nausea immediately rose in the villain. She moved to what passed as a tub in the abandoned house heaving into it.
*Flashback End*
"Stupid bastard said he wouldn't have even thought to bring me the tests. One of his damn prostitutes left her baby book in his office, and he read through it," Dabi recalled feeling mentally drained at the memory.
“I see," Folken said, pouring Dabi another cup of tea. "Aside from fear, did you feel anything else?
“Angry.”
Folken nodded, having heard something similar from a woman he had treated who found out she was pregnant after a one-night stand. “Children can bring up complicated feelings. Given your …. career, having to look over your shoulder for the next nine to ten months would make anyone cranky.”
“That’s not why,” Dabi said, shaking her head. Once Giran had calmed her down, Dabi remembered feeling a strange sense of peace she hadn’t felt in years. “Everyone’s always told me that having children was impossible. That my fire messed me up to badly on the inside that I could never carry to term.”
Folken observed Dabi’s emotions as they started fading from angry red to sad blue. They kept darkening until they were nearly black.
“I gave up on having any and focused on my career, as you called it. Came out of nowhere, and suddenly in less than a year am a B-ranked villain to be feared. Then I met the idiot who knocked me up, and suddenly everything I’ve worked for takes a backseat to make sure this kid stays alive. And the worst part is that as much as I want to kick him in the dick for getting me into this mess, I also want to kiss him.”
Folken raised an eyebrow. “So, then who are you angry at?”
Dabi slammed her hand on the table, her aura flaring a bright red. “Myself. I fought well pregnant. I know I’m a reckless fighter. I don't care how much my quirk hurts me. But … but I could have killed them and I wouldn’t even have known it.”
“But you didn’t. Just like you didn’t know you were pregnant,” Folken explained, holding one hand up so that Dabi couldn't interrupt him. “Just listen for a moment. From what you've told me, you wouldn’t even have known about them unless Giran hadn’t forced you to take the test. As for your child, I think your body already knew and tried to adapt and protect them. They appear to have just as strong a survival instinct as you do.”
“But I don’t want a strong baby," the cremation user spoke. The words made Dabi’s skin crawl as she thought about Endeavor and what he had tried to accomplish with her and her siblings. “I just want a healthy and alive one.”
“So, you intend to keep the child?” Folken asked, eyebrows raised slightly in surprise.
“God no,” Dabi laughed. “I’m giving them up as soon as they’re born.”
“I see,” Folken said emotionlessly. Though he supposes he couldn't blame Dabi for giving up the child. But something about her laughter sounded forced. “Why is that? Why not raise them as a villain?”
“Because I don’t intend to keep living in this world and screwing them up like I was. As soon as this kid is born, I’m taking their existence to the grave.”
|
“Oh, I love the view from up here!” Your excited voice sounded through the huge room and down to the two men, currently grinning very widely while looking up to you, the bubbly blonde woman, leaning on the wood and glass railing of the open gallery. “This would be a perfect place for some lounge chairs and a coffee table, don't you think?” With a happy giggle, you whirled around and spread your arms, showing them the places you referred to.
“Sure baby. Whatever you want.” The taller one said calmly, his eyes sparkling with joy, seeing his wife that happy.
“Oh, you just love to spoil her, don't you, Joon?” The other whispered with an amused smirk, gaining himself a playful nudge in his shoulder and a bright giggle from upstairs.
“I hear you Tae-bear and it is true.” You leaned back on the railing, your long, blonde hair falling around your face and gently sawing with your motions, your eyes beaming brightly. “My Joon loves to spoil me and surely will spoil the little bean to all our annoyance when it is here!”
Taehyung started to laugh really loud, throwing his long hand over his mouth and glancing amused over to his boyfriend. “You don't know how true you are, love. Joon already bought a huge amount of tiny, little clot- -”
“Shut up Tae!” The panicked man beside him hissed quietly.
“Oh, does your wife not know about your obsession?” He wiggled with his eyebrows and threw him his best boxy smile.
“I…Uhm…” Namjoon mumbled while blushing furiously.
“Oh, darling, don't worry. I do know about this.” With a grin, you winked cheekily at both of them. “I stumbled over this little treasure chest of yours while cleaning some weeks ago. Love it, but I do think bean is propped up for the first few years now.”
The amusement in your mind grew, as you watched the reactions from both of them to your words. Namjoon just stared at you for a long second, then he turned around and walked in the direction of the studios and future gym, leaving a giggling Taehyung behind.
“Oh, babe. I think he is really embarrassed. You teased him too much.”
“What?! I wasn't the one to start!” With mock indignation you gasped and straightened up, just to fall into bright laughter some moments after.
“Anyway.” He ruffled his long, dark hair and straightened the creases in his orange, casual suit , looking around with a smile, his eyes wandering over the empty, unfinished room slowly. “This looks very good, don't you think?” He reached out to the thin wooden poles, creating a division between the living area and dining area. “I like that they used regional and recycled wood.”
“Yeah. Me too.” Satisfied you looked over the large living area and smiled. You almost could picture the finished house and all the beautiful furniture, that would go there. The enormous couch, fitted for all the boys, you, and future new family members. The big wooden, extendable dining table and the matching vintage chairs, propped with cozy, velvet cushions. The cozy fireplace, waiting for cold winter nights and extensive cuddle sessions in front of it. And all the beautiful art, the boys had collected over the years, hung up on the high walls.
“Hey Y/N. Wait there. I will catch Namjoon and then let's talk about the bedroom situation. The construction workers needed some more information where to put electricity and what colors the bathrooms should be tiled with.” Taehuyng called out, already heading in the direction Namjoon disappeared before.
“Yeah. Sure. I wait here.” You waved at him, happy about the little air kiss he threw you, and watched him walk down the big hallway, out of your sight. For some moments you just stared out of the large glass wall, pulling along the whole backside of the room. The warm August sun was standing on its highest point of the day, beaming into the room and painting it in the most beautiful shades of yellow and white. Luckily someone thought of shading them so that it wasn't hot like a greenhouse in here. And the view from up here was breathtaking. Looking down on the spacious terrace with pool, the sprawling meadow running down a gentle hill, the foundation for the fire pit and open kitchen area, and in the distance even the small lake and the spot for Yoongis camper.
“Oh, bean.” You mumbled absent-mindedly, softly rubbing the small bump on your stomach. “This will be a proper home for you and all the little siblings you maybe will get in the future, I promise.”
“Hm…” Suddenly a pair of lips wandered down your neck and over your shoulder, tracing the little patches of naked skin, shimmering past your oversized, white shirt. Shivers ran down your spine, the pleasant surprise firing up the subtle burning in your body. “Can't wait to fulfill this promise, love. I am so eager to pump you full of me and make sure, the next one is definitely mine…”
“Holy shit, Tae. You are really filthy sometimes.” Another voice added with a wry chuckle. With a slightly clouded expression, you tilted your head and spotted a cheekily grinning smaller man with fluffy purple hair walking up from the house's extension, wearing a simple black shirt and puma trainers. “Oh, I learned from the master, baby.” The man mumbled amused, still busy peppering your skin with hot kisses.
“If you mean me with that, then I am not even mad.” Jimin giggled, his eyes turning into these beautiful crescents, you loved so dearly. “Though, maybe save this for later. We have to talk about the bedrooms now. And if you go on like that we end up not talking at all.” With a grin, he nudged Taehyung to the side and snatched your hand, dragging you gently behind him. “Let's go. I am sure Joon is waiting.”
He dragged you past the upper hallway, elegant wooden doors running along with it and a set of slightly curved, modern stairs, connecting the floor with the other downstairs. The hallway opened up at this point, creating a very bright and nice lounge area with a set of huge windows and a direct view of the house's main entrance. Mentally you quickly took some notes, maybe to add a vintage chaise-longue or a combination of fluffy chairs and a coffee table.
Jimin suddenly stopped in the middle of the second part of the hallway, splitting into a closed-up branch with more rooms, guiding to the second extension of the house, and a gallery branch, overlooking the living room from the other side.“I think they are in Tae and Jin's future bedroom.” With a grin, he looked down the gallery branch, in the direction of a large double-winged black door. “Have you already seen mine and Kookies room? It is so awesome! I think Joon wanted to spoil Kookie a bit and gave him the best view.”
“He has a thing for him, am I right?” You chuckled.
Jimin bursted out into loud giggles, rippling through his body and you felt his hand squeeze yours. He looked at you amused and nodded. “Yeah. For someone who was so unsure at the beginning with this whole poly and being bi thing, Namjoon collects boyfriends and love interests like freaking pokemon.”
You blinked, one moment of silence gracing the empty, unfinished hall of your future home. Then it was your turn to break into roaring laughter. “Hahahah! Jimin!” You let go of his hand and squatted down, trying to catch your breath. “So…cheeky…today…” You pressed out. “This pun could have been from Jin. Really.”
“Hey, I am not wrong!” He said with a giggle. “I mean he already has Tae, Yoon, Jin, and you under his spell. Now he is out for my husband and not long after the rest will surrender to his hulk body and cute dimples too. I bet my life on it.”
“E-even…you?” Slowly you straightened up again, your eyes still beaming brightly, the corner of your mouth curled upwards.
With a shrug he held out his hand, tilting his head cheekily, smirking. “I wouldn't mind being pounded by his enormous dick … if you mean that.”
“Jimin!” With a mocking gasp you slapped after his hand, but he quickly snatched yours and pulled you close.
“What? You asked.” He whispered. “And you got an honest answer.” With a chuckle, he bit down on his lip and eyed you closely, his expression soft and warm. “Don't get me wrong, baby, I love Joon. But not … like this. Not like you or Tae or the others love him.”
“So it is more like … sexual attraction?” You asked with a smile, lifting your hand and gently caressing over the smaller man's cheek.
“Yeah. I think so.” He returned your smile, equally gently. “I think it is a bit like you and Hobi. Or maybe Kookie and Tae? There is a very deep connection, a close bond, that will never break between us. And I feel very attracted to him. But I don't know if this could be called romantic love. Something other than that, but much more than a friendship or being just brothers.”
“Hmm…” Slowly you nodded. “I think I get that.” For a moment your eyes wandered through the dimly-lit hallway, along with the doors, and over the stairs. Then they quickly snapped back to the gently shimmering ones of the vocalist, your face turned into a playful expression, your eyebrows wiggling with amusement. “And do you think big daddy Joonie would like it to pound into you, Chimmy?”
When this particular pet name left your lips, the man in front of you flinched slightly, his hands tensing around your back and his breath visibly hitching for one split second. And you knew perfectly well, why.
“Hmmm …” He mumbled, his cheeks tinting in very pretty pink, his eyes slowly sliding down your body. “H-hope so.”
It was cute, how quickly he could change from the playful, giggly Jimin into a stuttering mess, just by hearing this name. Chimmy. Many of the others used it on daily basis and Jimin wouldn't react. But somehow, since you started to have threesomes with him and his very sexy husband, since this very first time back in the dorm, this pet name in combination with your voice, burned into the beautiful vocalist's mind and flipped a switch, every time you used it. And you were very careful, only using it when it was absolutely necessary. Maybe this was one of those moments since you enjoyed the sight, him being slightly embarrassed and squirming under your touch, maybe a little too much. Could be the hormonal mess, the little bean triggered in you. But it could be the fact, that you started to really enjoy seeing him like that, along the way. Though, dominant Jimin was also a sight to behold. And he certainly was the most creative, when it came to your intimate moments.
“Hey … baby. Where are you?” A cheeky voice whispered in your ear, sending a row of shivers down your spine.
Oh, daily Jimin was back. That was quick.
“Oh, nowhere.” You said with a wide grin, your eyes searching for his.
“Sure, baby.” He answered plainly, shaking his head with amusement and tapping your nose playfully.
“Yah, Jimin!” A deep, roaring voice sounded over to you from behind. “Didnt you want to very quickly search for Joon or was this only a pretext to snatch my sexy fiancee away from me, Jimin?”
The named vocalist turned his head to the man, who was elegantly walking up to you and stuck out his tongue with a wink. “Hm, what do you think, Tae-bear?”
“Well…” Your fiancee stopped next to the two of you, wrapped his long arms around your bodies, and leaned his chin on the blonde's shoulder, pressing a quick kiss on his neck. “I think you are a massive cockblocker and you enjoy every second of it.”
Jimin answered with a giggle and nuzzled his nose into the dark curls of his boyfriend. “Yeah. You got me, boo.”
“As always.” The younger man answered amused.
“Yeah.”
“Hey.” You started to wiggle out of both men's grasps and eyed the one door, standing wide open at the end of the hallway. “You are really cute, my loves. But Joonie is waiting for us. And I don't want to be on the wrong end of a stressed and unnerved Mister Kim.”
They both nodded and grinned.
“Yeah. Future miss double Kim is right.” Jimin said with a smirk. “Let's go.”
Luckily Namjoon had cooled down a bit. Especially after you immediately walked up to him and pulled him into a very long, very loving kiss. He melted into your embrace, instantly throwing his arms around you and pulling you as close as he could. You loved the effect you had on him. Not particularly the power or that he basically would do anything for you. No. You sometimes had to even make him remember his needs and wants, which was okay. But you were in awe over his raw love, his endless trust in you and his other partners. He made you feel special, like the most precious thing in the world. And you felt the same about him. In many ways, you were quite similar. Very intuitive, very emotional, and very open to other people's needs. But where you were quite extroverted, very structured, and focused, he was a bit more fluid, adjusting to new situations, not too focused or uptight on plans. You completed each other like a colorful puzzle, your soul resounding in one another in the best way possible.
After you finished the little make-out session and your husband had this beautiful smile back on his face, he started to talk you through the planned placements of sockets, light switches, and the general light concepts for the rooms. You only listened to him with one ear, Tae taking over the arrangements for his and Jins room anyway, and slowly wandered around the room. It wasn't too big. You all had agreed you wanted the bedrooms to be a bit smaller than one would think in a house this big. And there even was this initial idea, that everyone would have his own bedroom. But after one moment of silence, one moment of locking eyes with everyone, this idea was discarded uniformly. You had planned individual studios and workrooms anyway, so you didnt need another room to retreat to. And you all liked to share the bed with your loved ones, no matter if it was out of friendship, sexual desire, or love. So you settled on a very loose division, just like you had in the dorm. The rooms would be decorated more in tune with the ones assigned to them, but in the end, everyone knew this division probably wouldn't last more than one night.
With a smile, your eyes wandered from the large windows, overlooking the mountains, main entrance, and the small cottages, over to the smaller door, leading to a bigger shared bathroom with an open shower, double sinks, and, Taes individual request, a whirlpool bathtub, big enough for several people. Well … after all, one thing you quickly noticed after living together with all of them: Tae was indeed a big lover of orgys. In the end, you knew, he just loved seeing his partners being pleasured, no matter if he was the reason or someone other. And he truly had lots of love to give.
“What about the room we will share the bathroom with? Its empty, right?” The man you just thought about, asked.
“Yes. Well … I think for now we can use it as a guest room or a lounge room.” Namjoon answered calmly while looking down on his tablet computer and the floor plans the architects had sent him. “It is one of the rooms, planned for our future kids, our growing family.”
Your heart skipped a beat and a happy smile showed up on your face. Our family … what beautiful words. This was truly what happy should feel like, you thought to yourself, softly caressing your little bump on your belly.
“Ah. Okay.” A raspy, deep voice said. You looked up and observed the tall man with the boxy smile closely. “Good...good…” With a smirk, he glanced over to you and you instantly knew what he was thinking about. This mischievous glint in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. But you didnt seem to be the only one.
“Oh, bear.” Jimin's wry voice pierced through the room. “I can hear those filthy thoughts over here. Stop it.”
“Sorry…sorry….” The dark-haired man mumbled slightly embarrassed, glancing at Jimin and Namjoon shyly. “It's just … seeing our love getting more pregnant every day, glowing like that … it makes me go crazy a bit.”
“Sure.” A wry chuckle left your lips. “If you mean my severe mood swings, this very annoying flatulence, and my boobs feeling like they will burst any time with this … glow … yeah. Then I am glowing as fuck.” You said mockingly.
For one momen the three men looked at you in silence and then they all started to chuckle, hearing your funny words.
“Aww, baby. You just don't know how hot you look and how sweet you are, despite all those things you listed. I mean, even your little farts are cute. And those mood swings aren't that bad.”
“Especially the being horny part.” Taehyung mumbled with a smirk.
“Yeah. Or the mood, where you are practically attached to us, only want to cuddle the whole day. This isn't bad at all.” Your husband added lovingly, tuning off the tablet computer and putting it back into his elegant leather bag.
“Sure. For you it is easy.” With a sigh you walked over to the windows, looking out to the beautiful landscape, dipped into bright sunlight. You played with the hem of your white shirt, your thoughts wandering over those crazy past weeks. “You don't have to experience all that shit. You can take turns, hand me over to Yoongi, if I am being too irritable, or leave me with Kookie or Hobi, when I have too much energy again. But I experience all of that, being exhausted from my sex drive, being exhausted from my constant tiredness. Exhausted from being so emotional….” You closed your eyes, your body suddenly feeling heavy and worn out. And your stomach slightly protesting with faint pricks of pain. Ohhh, how tiring to feel happy in one moment and so sad in the next. If it only would stop….
“Love…”
“Baby…”
“Darling…”
They all started to speak at the same time, quickly walking over to you. Before you know it you was squeezed in between them, Namjoons chin laying on your head, Taes nose buried in your neck and Jimins forehead pressed on your temple. It was warm and cozy. A feeling of relief washed over you.
“We are here for you. Don't forget that.”
“Jiminie is right, love.” Taehyungs voice was endlessly soft. “If you are feeling overwhelmed or if this is too much for you, talk to us. Anytime. We are your family after all!”
“We will stay by your side and we will try to make you feel better, darling.” Namjoon talked quietly, his lips pressing soft kisses in your bright hair. “Holding you, listening to you, caressing you, ….”
“...fucking you ….”
“TAE! God damn it!” Jimin cried out while Namjoon groaned behind you.
But this was exactly what you needed now. A smile crept on your face and you cuddled closer into the bodies of your loved ones, a giggle erupting from your throat.
“Oh, baby is happy again.” The smallest man whispered quickly. “I take it back. Good job, bear.”
“Yeah. Good job, Tae. Aish…. You three idiots never fail to make me feel good again.” You mumbled with a smile, your hands caressing over the soft skin of the three pairs of arms, wrapped around you.
“It is our duty, Y/N.” Your fiance answered calmly. “It was from the moment we all met you in this small cafe. The moment you smiled at us and we knew, we would never be the same.”
“Yeah.” You felt someone softy turn you around and within seconds you faced the tall man with those endearing dimples, looking gently at you. “It was similar from the moment we all were together the first time as BTS. The moment we all sat in that small dance studio, knowing we would accompany each other for a long time now. We just knew … this was special. That we belonged together. And when you came into this room, we all felt it. One way or another.”
“Destiny.” Taehyung whispered, his eyes wandering over you and the other men, loving and full of adoration.
“Yeah. Or just luck. We will never know.” His oldest boyfriend answered. “But most importantly, we know one thing. We will never let you go, dear. No matter what.”
And with that your husband leaned forward and captured your lips into a loving kiss, gently nibbling on your lower lip, losing himself in you. Your mind shut off and you clenched your hands into his grey-patterned loose shirt , pulling him closer. His fluffy, freshly-washed hair tickled your forehead and his hands found the little patch of uncovered skin on the small of your back.
“Oh, I want to kiss too….” A deep voice grumbled behind you. “...come here Jiminie!”
Now the room was filled with small giggles, kissing noises, and the ruffling of different fabrics. After some moments, you felt a back bump into yours and a head lean on your neck. And two hands, not only caressing the person behind you but your hips and waist too. It felt so good, your mind slipping into dangerous waters, the kisses you exchanged with the boys leader getting deeper and more hungry. Up until…
“What the fuck is happening here?! Are you really going to have a foursome in the middle of a fucking construction meeting?”
This voice was unmistakable. A bit grumpy. A bit mocking. A bit amused. It only could be…
“Yah Yoongi! Standing in line for cockblocker of the day, hm?” Tae mumbled with a grin, while slowly backing off from Jimin.
“Sorry. But in contrary to you, Kim, I want to get shit done here and move in as fast as possible. This camper down at the lake is calling me, you know.”
You giggled and backed off of your husband too, giving him a last loving peck and happy glance, until you turned to Yoongi with a beaming smile.
“Yoongs. Sorry. They just tried to comfort me.” You walked up to him and took one of his hands in yours. “I almost had a little breakdown, so they only wanted to help me.”
“Oh.” His eyes widened and he tilted his head, looking at you pensively. “Are you okay now, kitten? Did they do their job well?”
You nodded and smiled. “Yeah, they did.”
“Good.” The smaller man gave you a quick smile and then looked over your shoulder, his eyes searching for someone. “Ah, Joon. We have to talk about some studio-related issues. Could you please come to the extension with me, you know? The one where the big recording room will be?”
“Sure, jagiya .” The tall man answered softly. “I think we are done here anyway. I have marked all the spots for the light switches and sockets. And Tae talked with Jin and they settled on sandstone mixed with slate for the bathroom.”
“Ohh, that sounds so cool!” With wide eyes, you looked at your fiancee and he gave you a small nod.
“But ours will be very pretty too, darling.” Namjoon said softly. “Love the idea of old recycled porcelain tiles and traditional clay walls. And all the warm wood details.”
“Ohh, this is so different from Hobis and Yoongis or mine and Kookies!” Jimin exclaimed surprised.
“What did you choose, Yoongs?” You asked with an attentive smile. He just chuckled quietly and scratched his neck, his eyes locking with yours softly, his black hair falling on his forehead. “I let Hobi choose the style. And I was very lucky that he kept in mind, that I don't like too much color. So he chose dark marble, dark wood, and only some colorful accents, like smaller patches of mosaic tiles or stained glass.”
“Aww, Hobi is so whipped for you, Yoongles!” Jimin giggled brightly, walking up to the rapper and patting him gently on the head. “I am almost a bit envious.”
“Yah! Don't forget our little, cute maknae is head over heels for you .” He answered, scrunching his nose cutely and trying to wiggle away under Jimins petting, a slight blush running over his cheek.
“Oh. You are right. Luckily we pretty much have the same taste in the interior, so our bathroom will be very modern, with glass, metal, and open concrete walls. Maybe with some smaller wood elements.”
“Sounds very good. I mean, after all, you are the ones, having the best room in the house.” You grinned at your purple-haired boyfriend. “It is almost like a conservatory, with all those big glass walls and the breathtaking view of the meadow and forest.”
“We can spy on Yoongles from up there!” Jimin added with a cheeky smile.
“Don't you dare, brat!” The rapper slapped his bandmate playfully on the shoulder. But the little smile and shy glance towards him, didnt go unnoticed by you. “Anyway. Let's get going Joon. We have a lot to talk about in the studio.”
And with that, he turned around and walked down the hallway, without looking back. Your husband just chuckled lightly and followed him close after.
“See you in a bit, darling. Bye Tae, bye Jimin!”
And away he was, too.
“Sooo…why don't we check out the little beans future room, Y/N?” Tae said, wagging up and down excitedly, looking like a cute little puppy.
“Oh! Yes! I want to hear what you have planned for this one, baby!” A bright smile showed up on Jimin's face, as he pointed to the door.
“Sure. We can do that.” You said calmly and shrugged. “Though, the room looks quite a bit plain at the moment. I think Joonie said, that the painters will come earliest in the next month.”
“No problem, love. We have a good imagination. Let's go!”
Tae snatched your and Jimin's hand and started to walk into the hallway again, dragging you in the direction of your and Namjoons room, near the area you looked down from before. As you tried to follow his quick walk and heard that happy laughter, coming from all three of you, your mind started to wander off. It was curious, how this man, so eager to marry you, even if you were already married, so eager to start a family with you, even if you were already pregnant, could maintain his cheerful, sunny demeanor and never let you feel lesser or sorry for it. Tae had supported you from the first second, from the moment you all heard the news of your pregnancy, in that hospital room. But he never put himself to much in the spotlight, letting Namjoon have his special moments with you, letting him experience this beautiful, new situation to the fullest. But when your husband was too tired or worn out to help you with your urges or your concerns about the pregnancy, he was there. He massaged your feet while you watched a show in the tv, he prepared you warm baths and all of your favourite snacks. He made sure you never forget an appointment or skipped a pregancy class, you wanted to take. He was always there. Always at your side. And you knew why. It wasnt only because he wanted to be in Namjoons situation, wich was surely true. But he was just a genuine, loving human, wanting to support his loved ones, you and Joon, with the best abilities he had. And Namjoon had so much on his back. He managed the construction of the house, he had to meet with managers and CEOs, tend to his tasks as a leader. So having Tae, was truly a blessing. And made you a million percent sure, that you shared his vision, having a family together with him soon, too.
“Okay. I think this wall will be colored in teal or sage green, and on this one will go a wonderful wallpaper with trees or a forest.”
“Sounds beautiful.” Taehyung stated with a satisfied nod. “And a good choice, especially since you don't know the gender of the little bean just yet. Are you excited? When are you going to know?”
“Hm. I had my first examination yesterday. It was a bit difficult for my doctor to get a clear picture, so she promised me to look at the results a bit more closely and send me over her thoughts today.” With a small sigh, you looked outside the window. “To be honest, I was a bit nervous that she couldn't tell right away what was going on, but she said that this could happen in the earlier stages of the pregnancy. And that there was definitely a strong heartbeat, so I had nothing to worry about.”
“Good. Don't worry baby. Everything is going to be just fine.” Jimin walked over to you and leaned his chin on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you. “You know what. I can't wait to live here with all of you. I talked with Kookie about it yesterday, when we were in bed, and we are both so excited.”
“I know. I know.” You chuckled, leaning into his embrace. “Mee too, Jiminie, me too.”
At that moment you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. Surprised over the sudden interruption, you took it out of your bag and checked the caller ID with a frown. When you realized the name on the display, your eyes widened and your heart started to beat very quickly. “Oh, god. It is her! My doctor!”
“Huh? Did we have summoned her or some shit?” Taehyung answered while looking at you with his boxy smile.
“Ohhh! Exciting!” Jimin clapped in his hands and took some steps back to give you space.
“Y…yeah.” You mumbled, still staring at the screen. Your mind was suddenly in chaos, the situation suddenly feeling very real and very intimidating.
“Y/N! Pick up the damn phone! Don't wait until she hangs up!” Taes voice was a bit tense but you knew he was just very excited and eager to know what gender the little bean would be.
“Oh, damn. Yeah. You are right!” You quickly shook your head, shoved those feelings in the backof your mind, pressed the green button, and lifted the phone to your ear. While you talked with the doctor, you slowly walked along the huge windows, letting your eyes wander over the wonderful view and the sun, very slowly moving on the sky.
“Yeah….okay. Hm…”
The two men had a hard time, just standing there and watching you talk calmly on the phone. They observed every movement, every flinch in your face, hoping to get some kind of answer, what the result of the examination said. But they got … nothing. You had managed to put on a perfect poker face.
“Oh! Okay. Yeah.” With a slight smile, you glanced over to them, enjoying having the upper hand in this far too much. “Hm. Thank you, doctor. Yeah … I will. See you on the next appointment. Okay …. Bye.” And then you ended the call and put your phone back in your bag, very casual, without even batting an eye to them. After that, you straigtehend some creases in your shirt and pushed back your long hair with a smirk.
“Alright. Where were we? Ah, the paint- -”
“Y/N! YAH! TELL US!”
“COME ON BABY! YOU CANT DO THIS TO US!”
Both men immediately started to lament very loudly, walking up to you with hecticly waved arms and strained faces. But you just laughed, putting your hand up to your mouth, your eyes gleaming at them amused.
“Hehe, sorry, my loves.” With a grin, you tried to fend them off softly, nudging them in the chests playfully. “I would love to tell you, but I do think the real appa should hear the news first, don't you think?”
That stopped them in their tracks and they looked to their feet, a bit embarrassed. “Hm…yeah…”
“You are right … baby …”
“Oh, don't pout that cutely, guys.” You cooed at them, softly caressing over their shoulders, a smile on your lips. “I don't think I can handle cute, pouty Vmin for long. So let's find my husband as quickly as possible. Then I will tell you, okay?”
Both nodded eagerly and before you could you knew it, you were on the way to the studio extension. When you left the main house and walked past the glass bridge, connecting both buildings with one another, your eyes got stuck on the little details, you and the other planned for so long. The small balconies and patios, attached to every studio, to supply the person working there with a cozy spot to retreat to on fresh air. And the movable, wooden shades, protecting the sensible equipment from the burning summer sun. Or the small roof garden, settled on the quadrangular two-story building, overlooking the whole property, perfectly fitted for relaxed dinner parties and business events. The boys had the clever idea to place their private studios on the first floor and all the bigger ones, where others would come to, on the ground floor. They were only connected by a password-coded elevator and some safety stairs so that no one could disturb their privacy. The upper floor was connected with the main house through the glass bridge you currently walked on, so they could easily switch between their workspaces and their living spaces. The ground floor had a separate entrance for employees or business partners.
You walked through the double-winged glass doors of the extension, past a set of white doors with frosted windows, and temporarily hung up signs for the construction workers, informing them over the owner of the studio and the special installations, that had to be done there. When you arrived at the end of the hallway, you opened another, slightly smaller door, leading out to the metal safety stairs. Carefully you climbed them down, the steep steps turning out to be a bit difficult to manage, especially in that August heat and in your condition. But you had two very loving men at your side, helping you down safely. Lucky you.
“I think I hear them over there.” Jimin said when you entered the ground floor hallway. You listened into the empty, wide room, two faint voices audibly in it.
“I hope they really did discuss details about the studio and didnt start to fuck along the way.” Tae mumbled with a grin.
“Oh. As if you would mind, if we did walk in on them, bear.” You rolled your eyes, while you approached the opened metal door in the middle of the hallway.
“True.” He answered with a cheeky wink.
“He probably would just join them. Or sit down quietly in one corner, being the sexy voyer he enjoys to be.” Jimin grinned widely and tickled his boyfriends playfully on the sides. The taller man shrieked and quickly pushed past you, practically running into the studio room.
“Yah! Don't tease me with something, you thoroughly enjoy too, Chimmy!”
“Hahaha, no!” The small purple-haired man giggled and chased after the other. You only shook your head, walking into the room with a wide grin. You looked around, trying to find your target. The area you currently stood in was empty. It was the room with those huge mixing panels and the big glass wall in the middle. The recording area was empty too, so you started to approach the door, Jimin and Tae ran through. You came into another room, a bit bigger and without the glass wall. This was probably a studio for instruments and when they wanted to experiment with more people and artists. And there you spotted all four men, standing in one corner, laughing softly, while looking out to the garden.
“Hey. There you are.” You said, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, while approaching them.
“Oh, darling.” Namjoon turned around and walked up to you with a beaming smile. “The others told me, you've got a very important call just now, that you wanted to talk about with me?”
“Yeah.” You glanced over his shoulder scoldingly, eying the two men grinning at you and giving you thumbs up. Yoongi stood next to him and just shook his head amused. “Yeah, I did. And I wanted to tell you first.”
Namjoon took your hands in his and smiled at you attentively. “I am here. I am listening. What's up?”
Oh, it was almost too cute, how clueless he was at this moment. Your insides bursted up in love for this kind and loving man, but you tried to get it together, give him the best, calm smile you had.
“Okay. First, let me ask you something. You have met my family, right?”
“Yeah. Your parents are lovely. And your siblings are so nice.” He nodded with a smile. “I loved this little trip we all took, visiting Elias in Japan, especially after this exhausting time with the breakup and all…”
“Yeah…” You nodded slowly, bad thoughts clouding your mind for one split second. But you quickly remembered what was important now and smiled again. “So, you know my family. And you know my siblings. But you don't know, that there is one thing, that runs in the family since … well. Forever.”
“Hm?” What do you mean, Y/N?” Namjoon tilted his head confused, his hands tensing around yours slightly.
“Ah, you see. My father also has a brother and my mother does have several siblings. And their parents too. And all of them are … twins. Or even triplets.”
The room fell into silence and the eyes of the man in front of you widened slowly, but steadily. “So … you want to say …?”
“Well. Seems this little … gift … is very strong in our family. And I didnt know if this would affect me that much, but … it did.”
“Ohhh! Joonie!” Taehyungs overjoyed voice sounded through the room, mixed with Jimins high-pitched squeals.
“S-so … t-twins?” Namjoon whispered, almost reverent.
“Yeah. Twins.”
- - - -
"Rock bison!" 😂✨
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The more Toms spoke the more a chill crept through Technoblade’s bones. The voices did not help.
"-nned me down, yelling at me that no one could be trusted and he- he got this funny look on his face... He didn't seem himself."
Not again.
Uh oh. BLOOD!!! Hmm, like brother like uh, younger brother. HISTORY REPEATING POG!? Tommyinnit insanity arc? Technoscared. BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!! Technoprotect!! Save brotherinnit!!!!
The voices screamed blocking out Toms and Phil completely.
SAVE BROTHERINNIT!! TECHNOPROTECT
For once they actually all agreed on something. If only they weren't so loud about it. He closed his eyes as a fear ran through him at the thought of Tommy following in the steps of his brother. He remembered Pogtopia when he'd hear Tommy and Wilbur yelling and how he'd turned a blind eye on what Wilbur had been doing. He told himself it wasn't his problem-
Was it even his problem now?
No. Tommy had been his brother once. He could let what happened to Wilbur happen again.
NOT AGAIN, NOT AGAIN, NOT AGAIN-
"Not again," Techno whispered out loud.
SAVE TOMMY
Techno threw out his hand to stop himself from falling over at the loudness of the voices and the sheer force of their words.
Phil was watching him with concern in his eyes. "What are you talking about?" He asked. "What don't you want to repeat?"
Of course. Phil never knew what really happened in Pogtopia. Only he and Tommy knew.
"It's Wilbur," he said quietly. "It's just like it."
"Mate, you're not making much sense," Philza said worriedly. Even Toms looked confused.
Techno stared Phil dead in the eyes.
"What Toms said sounds almost exactly like what Wilbur was like in Pogtopia before he blew up L'manburg." Techno deadpanned.
Phil blanched and Toms eyes widened.
Phil stepped forward seeming angry. "No! That's got to be wrong!! He seemed alright! Maybe angry, but not- not unstable!”
Techno just sighed and turned to Toms. "But you said he won't trust anyone? And he lashes out at you?"
Toms paled. "H-he's probably just stressed!" Toms exclaimed, looking panicked. "Besides, I provoked him..." Then he shook his head. "Whether or not he's like Wilbur, you're his family, and nothing should have ever changed that."
All three of them were silent after that. Phil seemed lost in his head, his eyes staring into the distance.
Techno did his best to block out the voices screaming to help Tommy. He would help his brother- Tommy this time. He didn't want to lose what was left of their broken family like Theo's Technoblade had.
He stood up abruptly, surprising the other two. "Well?" He said. "What are you two waiting for?" He glanced at Toms. "Or do you want to wait till he notices your gone?"
Suddenly the door burst open for the second time that night, and a tall man with a white streak in his matted blonde hair burst through the door.
"I think it's a little too late for that," Tommy said scathingly.
__________________________________________________
Tommy trudged through the snow watching the sky lighten as he got closer to Technos cabin. He felt betrayed. He'd told Toms that Phil and Techno simply couldn't be trusted. He'd learnt that lesson the hard way.
He'd just been trying to keep the kid safe! When he planned to force Dream to revive Tubbo the three of them were supposed to be happy together. Now it seemed, he would be alone again. Everyone always left him didn't they? It was almost laughable at this point.
Tommy reached the front door and sighed to himself. Well, He'd wanted to confront Techno anyway. Maybe get a punch or two in. Or maybe the Blade would kill him. He laughed humorlessly at the thought.
Then anger filled his stomach. He heard voices from inside the cottage. They were speaking about him.
"-waiting for? Or do you want to wait till he notices you're gone?" That was Technoblade. Tommy snorted and burst open the door, his eyes flashing.
"I think it's a little too late for that," he said scathingly. "Anyway," Tommy exclaimed, his gaze landing to Phil. "How's the party?" He glanced at Techno. "Thought I was just going to let you feed you’re crap to Toms did you?"
"Tommy?" Techno asked, almost hesitantly. Tommy glanced sharply at him. "You are our Tommy right?"
Tommy rolled his eyes and smirked spinning in a small circle, his scarred and burnt arms outstretched. His ripped and dirty T-shirt along with his slightly bandaged face made quite the entrance. "What, have I changed too much for you to remember me, Big Brother? That’s what happens when you blow up my home and forget about me for a year."
"Tommy please be reasonable, you know why we did it-" Techno tried to explain, sounding a little annoyed.
"Shut up!" Tommy snapped. "Just say why he's here." He was frustrated, angry, and he wanted Tubbo back. He'd done his best to bury his grief, but the emptiness that it left made him feel strangely tight and twisted inside.
"Tommy, they want to help you." That was Toms. Tommy whipped around to see his younger part sitting on the couch looking uncomfortable, but also staring at him with something that looked too much like pity.
"How can you say that!?" Tommy yelled. He ignored the way Toms flinched at the loudness of his voice. "After what they did to me!? How can you come here, behind my back, and ask them to what, help me save Tubbo? Feel better? Heal?"
"No, Toms! That's not the way it works! I just can't believe you'd betray me like this."
Toms eyes were wide and he had pushed himself against the couch as Tommy had gotten closer. One part of him screamed at him to make him understand, while the other half yelled at him to apologize to the younger. Tommy ignored both, and took a deep breath and slowly backed away from the couch.
Stop, just stop.
Techno was up in his face in an instant, glaring at him. "Tommy!!" He yelled. "Look at what your doing to him!!"
"Doesn't this remind you of someone?" He asked forcefully, his eyes flickering with red.
Now it was Tommy's turn to back up, his turn to feel unsettled. He didn't want to think about that.
But did it matter? Who cares if I’m like Wilbur. It's not like I’m gonna ask them to kill me.
He scoffed. Tommy was tired of being afraid. Tired of running. Tired of betrayal and loneliness.
Tired of hiding in corners and cowering against walls. He didn't want to be tired or afraid anymore.
Tommy's eyes hardened and he pushed himself away from the wall. He advanced on the Blade, letting himself go. Techno seemed startled by the sudden change and backed up.
A part of Tommy screamed at the shock in his so-called brother's eyes. The part that seeped out of the crack that his exile, death, revival, Ranboo's betrayal, and Tubbo's death had grown larger and larger.
"You know what Techno? Maybe I don't care!" He laughed, not bothering to hide the slight manic in it. "Maybe I don't give a bloody piece of crap if I'm like Wilbur!"
Tommy took a rattling breath, raking a hand through his hair. "Is that a problem for you, Techno?" Tommy asked him, his voice cracking slightly. "You didn't care in Pogtopia, when Wilbur did even worse to me, and now I yell at Toms once and suddenly you act all protective. Where did that go, huh!? Is it because he's young and untouched? Is it because he's not yet broken by this hope destroying world?"
Toms eyes widened in and Techno glared at him. "Tommy, just listen I-"
Tommy wasn't listening. "You know, I think I see it now. What Wil saw. When I used to beg him to let me ask Phil to come with us to the ravine. I used to think you would help us, I really did! But Wilbur, Wilbur knew. He knew you didn't care."
Tommy grinned at Phil. "That's why you killed him right?" He laughed again, a high strained thing. "You couldn't deal with such a broken and messed up son, so you gave him the easy way out! I wonder sometimes Phil," Tommy paused. "When you'll think I'm too much. When I'm just a little too broken. When you think I'll need the easy way out."
Philza blanched. Perhaps if Tommy had been thinking clearly, he would have seen the shock and fear in all their eyes and stopped. He wouldn't have gone down to the dark place where Wilbur had tread. But he wasn't thinking clearly, that was the problem.
"Tommy, please," Philza started, looking pained. "We just want to help you!"
"What? Like you helped Wilbur?" Tommy laughed. "You know, I wanted that once. I used to lay in that wretched tent in exile, and then in the beginning days of that hard empty prison cell, and think, 'You know, if Phil came to see me, even if it were to kill me, I'd be happy! Just to see his face!' But I think- I think being dead made me realize somthing. You didn't come to save me. I died, Philza Minecraft. Alone, and without a family. That's when it finally hit me that none of you ever cared."
"Tommy listen to me," Techno said roughly. "Please, don't do this. Unlike Wilbur, we won't let you make the mistake of going it alone. I won't make that mistake," he added quickly.
"Oh come on Techno," Tommy scoffed. "Don't kid yourself. You didn't care then, why should you care now?" Tommy sounded slightly hysterical.
"I know Tommy," Technoblade said gruffly. "And it was one of my biggest mistakes. I'm sorry. I should have been there for you and Wilbur. I wasn't. But I want to be now."
Tommy froze slightly at those words. Techno- Techno wanted to help him. The part of himself he'd burried after he left this place last December cried out, longing for a family again, to be held, to be taken care of.
Then reality came crashing back and he glared. Techno and Phil had there chance. Tommy had his chance. And they had both failed.
"I'm sorry Blade, but it's too bloody late," Tommy spat, shoving it all down. "I may have needed you then, but I sure don't need you now."
Tommy was breathing heavily, his shoulders shaking with anger as he stood in silence, slightly out of breath. Toms got up and walked over to Tommy. He stood there silently for a moment. Tommy stared back.
"Well?" He asked finally. "Are you staying here, with them, or going to help me bring back Tubbo?"
Toms looked at him sadly. "Tubbo wouldn't want this, you know," he said. "You're throwing this all away. You could have a second chance."
"Well I wouldn't know what Tubbo would have wanted do I?" Tommy whispered back quietly. "Besides, I think we passed second chances years ago."
That much was very true.
"Why can't you just get your head out of your behind and see that you have a family who wants to help you!?" Toms yelled, his patience dying.
"Just because you have a family in your world doesn't mean I have one here!!" Tommy spat back, his eyes flashing as he stared Toms up and down. "My family abandoned me!! My family abused me!! If my family gave a one crap about me, then they should have been there when I needed them, not because they finally have the decency to feel an ounce of guilt!!" Tommy yelled, rage coursing through his veins like stinging fire.
For the first time since Tubbo’s death he felt emotion creep up his throat, pricking at his eyes.
No.
"And you know what!?" He continued, struggling to keep his voice steady. "I was beginning to see you as family too!! Guess I shouldn't have. Anyone I care for either dies or betrays me. So stay here, stay here and play happy little family with them. See how fast they turn on you like they did to me.
He turned to the man who failed to be a father. "I hope you have a good time with your new, normal, not messed up Tommy, Philza Minecraft."
Tommy glared at them all one more time before turning around and slamming the door behind him. He closed his eyes as he trekked through the snow. He didn't need them.
Toms voice rang through his head as he left the cottage behind.
"Tubbo wouldn't have wanted this."
"Your throwing it all away."
It wasn't Toms fault his family were a bunch of cowards and traitors. Including himself. He wasn't an idiot. As much as they had betrayed him, and hurt him, he knew he wasn't any better.
He was Tommyinnit, the cause of everyone's problems and the source of all bad things on the server. There was a reason everyone he cared about died or betrayed him.
Tommy left behind the small cottage in the snow, left a grieving father, a brother who was too late, and a teenager with a broken and withering yellow rose in his pocket.
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“Felix?”
Mercedes knocks on his door, and waits. To the silence that greets her she says, “I’m just going to leave some dinner out here by your door, okay? Make sure you eat something.”
She makes her way back to the dining hall. To her allies seated at the long table by the door, anxiously awaiting her response, she shakes her head.
“He’s still not eating?” Annette says, brows drawn together in worry. “It’s been three days already…”
“I know, Annie,” Mercedes says, joining them at the table. “But you know how he is. We can’t make him eat, or talk to us. I’m afraid we’ll just have to wait until he’s ready, and be there when he is.”
“I wish there was more we could do,” Ashe says, his voice thick with regret.
Bernadetta fidgets anxiously with the hem of her shirt. She wishes there was more she could do, too, but…
When she had tried to find Felix after the last battle, after the fateful incident that both ended Felix’s father’s life and somehow returned King Dimitri to his senses, he hadn’t been in his room. He hadn’t been in the training grounds, the old knights’ hall, or any of his usual spots around the grounds.
When Bernadetta had finally tried his room again, it was locked tight.
“Felix?” she called, knocking on the door. “Are you there? I’m…” What to say? He wouldn’t want to hear that she was worried. He wouldn’t want pity. “I’m here,” is what she settled on.
After a silence long enough that Bernadetta was convinced he wasn’t in his room after all, she heard his voice. It was rough and haggard. How strange it was, to be on the other side of a conversation through a closed door.
“Bernadetta,” Felix said. “I’m sorry. I… can’t right now. I want to be alone.”
Bernadetta swallowed the rejection and hurt along with the lump of bile that rose in her throat. It wasn’t about her right now. It was about Felix, and if anyone could understand the desire to be alone, it was Bernie. She supposed there wasn’t really much someone like her could do for him anyway.
“Okay,” she replied softly. “I’ll be here when you need me, okay?”
She hasn’t knocked again since then. She doesn’t want to be a bother.
“He won’t respond to me either,” Sylvain says, leaning forward on the table. “What about you, Bernie? Any luck?”
She startles at the mention of her name, but quickly looks down and shakes her head.
Sylvain heaves a long sigh of concern for his friend. “I don’t know, I think you should try again. He might not be willing to listen to the rest of us, but I think if there’s anyone he would want to see right now, it would be his girlfriend.”
Bernie shifts uncomfortably. “T-Technically we’re not…” She doesn’t know what they are. They never said. He did tell her he loves her, but… She doesn’t know if that means they’re a couple. If that gives her the right to intrude on his solitude. She says, “Anyway, he didn’t want to see me.”
“I actually think Sylvain is right, for once,” says Dorothea, managing to keep too much irony from creeping into her voice. “Anyone with eyes in their head can see how important you are to Felix. I really think that if he would allow anyone to comfort and take care of him, it would be you.” Everyone around the table nods.
Bernadetta feels so inadequate. Surely if she loves someone as much as Felix, she should know how to make them feel better! But she has no idea, and she’s let down not only Felix but everyone else as well. And then she feels guilty for pitying herself when she should be trying to help Felix.
“I just… He said he wants to be alone,” Bernie says.
“It’s like Mercedes said,” Sylvain responds. “You know what he’s like. He’s probably the most stubborn guy in all of Fódlan, and he’d go to the ends of the earth for his loved ones but would never let them do the same for him. He’s proud too, but I think he’d be able to let his guard down for you.” He smirks ruefully. “You might have to make him, though. Be a little stubborn, too.”
Bernadetta looks around the table, at all the encouraging glances. Dedue nods his head, and Anette smiles at her.
“Why don’t you go give it another shot, Bern,” Dorothea says. “It’s a job only you can do.”
Bernie gathers her resolve and stands. “All right,” she says, determined. “I’ll do my best.”
She leaves, and the rest of the Lions excuse themselves shortly after.
“Do you think they’ll be all right?” Dorothea asks Sylvain when they’re the only two left.
“I think so,” Sylvain says, leaning on his elbow to look at her. “Despite being the two worst communicators I know, they possess the extremely rare quality of really, truly being in love with each other. So I think they’ll figure it out.”
Dorothea tilts her head. “Do you really think true love is that rare?”
Sylvain shrugs. “Sure,” he says. “I’ve never seen it, Felix and Bernadetta not included. Not that I ever really had a chance, though. All those girls I go round with? They don’t care about me. All they care about is my money and my crest. Not exactly the stuff of romantic fairy tales.” He takes a swig of his drink still sitting on the table. “Aren’t you pretty much the same though? Just looking for a rich husband to take care of you?”
Dorothea looks at him more tenderly than she has before, but curls her lip at the last comment. “Not exactly. I mean, you’re not completely wrong - after living on the streets once, I’d rather not do it again. But we’re not that different, as it turns out.” At Sylvain’s raised eyebrows, she continues. “When I was in the opera, I had no shortage of suitors. But not one of them cared to know me as a person; they just saw my pretty face and pretty voice, and some of them were honestly brutes, you know. There’s a reason we all learned self defense.” She sighs. “But anyway; my looks and my voice, I won’t have them forever. I want to find someone to love, who will love me my whole life, even when I’m old and look like a wrinkled old toad.”
They’re silent for a moment, searching each other’s eyes. “Oh, I’d also be okay with a rich wife to take care of me, so don’t assume,” Dorothea jokes, and it has the intended effect of making Sylvain laugh through his nose.
“It seems like I misunderstood you, so I’m sorry about that,” Sylvain says.
“Me too.” More silence, this time filled with smiles.
“To wrinkled old toads,” Sylvain says, lifting his nearly empty glass in a toast. Dorothea’s is empty, but she clinks it to his anyway.
“To wrinkled old toads,” she says.
Sylvain finishes the last mouthful of his drink, sets it down, and leans in toward Dorothea. “So, can I take you out for dinner some time?”
—
Felix listens as Mercedes’ footsteps retreat down the hallway. He’s not in much of a mood for eating, and much less of a mood for speaking to anyone.
Ever since… Well, since after the last battle everyone has been coddling him, trying to handle him as if he were some fragile thing made out of glass. It makes him angry, but worse than that is that Felix has the feeling that if he lets them, their worried eyes and careful voices will uncover something buried deep inside himself, something wrapped up tightly and packed away because if it was let loose, it would shatter.
So until this storm blows over, Felix is either in his room, or training outside the monastery walls long after everyone else has gone to sleep. Better to be alone, better to stay angry.
The boar has returned to some semblance of normal. Perhaps he should be happy about that, despite the cost of this new development. But for all he knows, it’s too little, too late. In any case, he’s still not the boy he grew up with. That kid died a long time ago, leaving Felix alone, just like –
Felix drops to the floor and starts drilling out one-handed pushups. If there’s anything he needs to be doing, it’s not moping and crying and whatever else his former classmates want him to be doing. It’s getting stronger. To make it sure he makes it through the next battle. And to make sure everyone else does too.
He’s not going to get picked off like his stupid old man –
No. He’s not going to die, and he’s not letting anyone else get hurt either. Not Sylvain, not Ingrid, not even the boar, and definitely not Bernadetta.
The thought of Bernadetta sends a pang of guilt through him that pushes him to further intensify his exercise. He hasn’t seen her since… before the last battle. He’s barely spoken to her through the door, to tell her he wanted to be alone.
She’s probably blaming herself, or wondering if Felix even likes her anymore, and Felix feels terrible about it. But he can’t let her see him like this, because he’s sure that with one little “Are you okay?” she’d send him unraveling. And there isn’t time for that. One gentle touch from her would bring up everything he’s pushing down, and it’s just so much easier to keep pushing his body, keeping his mind occupied to keep the mountain of
feelings
buried deep because if they overtook him, Felix doesn’t know if he could keep from drowning in them–
Felix loses his balance, bowled over by his turbulent thoughts, and crashes into his desk. Old letters from years ago jolt from their unruly resting spot and slide down the back of the furniture, landing unceremoniously on the floor.
Not moving from where he lies on his back, Felix reaches out and grabs one.
Felix Fraldarius
, it’s addressed on the front, with his father’s seal on the back. All those letters Felix had ignored during his school days, and now there would never be any more. It would be pointless to open these and read them now. Maybe he should have back then. Maybe he could have squeezed a little more out of his relationship with his father before the old man had thrown it all away.
O-kay.
That’s enough sentimental thinking for now.
Felix tosses the letter back on the floor, jumping to his feet and throwing on a shirt. It’s still lighter out than he’d like, but he can probably avoid seeing anyone if he takes the back way out of the dorms. Right now, he just needs to swing a sword around and clear his mind. Right now, he just needs to be out of this room. He wrenches the door open –
And in tumbles Bernadetta, who had apparently been sitting in the hallway with her back against the door. She falls backward with a yelp, and for a moment both she and Felix make eye contact, Felix with his hand still on the doorknob and Bernadetta flat on the floor, both surprised to be in this situation.
Bernadetta scrambles to her feet and picks up a basket covered with cloth, presumably whatever food Mercedes had left behind earlier. “Um, hi,” she says.
“Hi,” Felix says back, releasing his hold on the door. After avoiding her for so long, he feels guilty and awkward.
“Can I… come in?” Bernadetta asks timidly.
Felix had been in a rush to get out of these four walls, but after seeing Bernadetta face to face, he can’t turn her away. “Sure,” he says, and steps aside.
Bernadetta closes the door behind her and sets the basket on the desk. “I brought your dinner,” she says quietly. “Well, I guess Mercedes did, technically.”
The silence is so heavy. So thick. Since when had Bernadetta become so shy around him? Had she ever been this shy in the first place? Probably, but Felix could hardly remember it anymore. Being together had always felt so natural, and now they’re acting like they barely know each other. It’s Felix’s fault that they’re like this now. If only he knew how to open up to her, if only he was strong enough to just be normal and be there for her instead of pushing her away. She deserves better than a loser like him.
Felix sits heavily on the bed. “I’m not really hungry,” he said.
Bernadetta fidgets with her fingers before trying again. “Um, but, I heard you haven’t eaten anything in three days! That’s not– you have to eat something. Just a little bit. Please.” She holds out the basket and pulls back the napkin cover.
What she said isn’t entirely true; he did stop by the kitchens in the middle of the night, when the hunger pangs cut through the numbness. He wasn’t so stupid to completely starve himself. But he also knows that logically, if he wants to get stronger, he should be getting better nutrition than that.
He knows this, but there’s a lump in his throat growing rapidly when Felix sees the concern in Bernadetta’s eyes, the tension in her shoulders, the crease between her eyebrows. She’s been worrying about him. Felix adds another layer of guilt and says “I’ll try.” He takes a bread roll out of the basket before Bernadetta’s worry can overwhelm the part of him keeping his buried feelings in check.
He takes a bite while Bernadetta hovers beside him, but the bread is like dry cotton in his mouth, and it’s a painful swallow past the lump in his throat.
He only manages one more bite before dropping his hands in his lap. He hangs his head. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s not sure if he’s apologizing for not eating more, or for not speaking to her for the last several days. Maybe both.
“H-Hey, it’s okay,” she says.
Felix can practically feel her trying to think of something to say in the silence that follows. He’s got nothing either, though. All he can seem to do is feel pathetic, as all the feelings he was trying to run away from moments ago encroach on all his forcefully constructed barriers.
“Why don’t we… do something else then,” Bernadetta says. She takes the partially eaten roll from Felix’s hand, and returns it and its basket to the desk. Bernadetta seems to spot something else on the desk though, because she says, “Oh hey, you do have a hairbrush! I knew it.” She digs through some clutter, feigning cheerfulness, before pulling out an old hairbrush which Felix had frankly forgotten about. “Can I brush your hair? It… kind of looks like it needs it.”
It’s true, Felix looks like crap and he knows it. Felix nods his head, and Bernadetta clambers behind him on the bed where she begins to work in silence. She removes his hair tie as gently as possible, although it’s still a bit of an effort with how matted his hair has gotten. Her cool fingers brush against his neck as she begins the process of de-tangling, a balm to all his ragged edges, and summoning forth all the parts of him that crave comfort. All the weakness. Everything he had wanted to hide from her.
They sit in silence, only the sound of bristles moving through hair filling the space of Felix’s room, the space which he had not allowed anyone else to enter. He should not have allowed Bernadetta to enter either, says the part of him still desperately holding on to the last of his defenses. But the rest of him just wants to turn around and hold her tightly, bury his head into her shoulder and hide away from the rest of the world.
Bernadetta puts down the brush and runs her fingers through Felix’s hair. “There,” she says. “All done.”
“I’m sorry,” Felix bites out, nearly interrupting her. “For not speaking to you.” His voice is mostly even, if a little thick, but he can’t stop the tears from spilling out over his cheeks, onto his lap.
Bernadetta scrambles to sit beside him, looking up at him, but Felix won’t make eye contact. Can’t. “Hey, it’s okay,” she says soothingly. The part of him that would normally chafe at that is too weak now to resist her pity. No, not pity. Love. Care. Concern. When had Felix stopped knowing how to receive these things?
“I understand,” she says, and takes one of Felix’s hands. “I know what it’s like to want to be alone. But I’m sorry I didn’t check up on you sooner. ‘Cause I also know that sometimes it’s better to have someone beside you. You taught me that.” She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back hard.
He feels like he should say something, do something, but he’s frozen, rendered powerless by the overwhelming emotion coming forth. There’s so much of it he can’t even put a name to it. Tears just keep streaming down his face.
Slowly, tentatively, Bernadetta lets go of Felix’s hand, and turns toward him to gently slide her arms around his back. He collapses into her, all his energy to fight and stay strong completely sapped. She strokes his greasy, untied hair with featherlight hands while he cries painful tears into her shoulder. He’s such a pathetic mess, but he can’t do anything except cling to Bernadetta like a boat to its tether in stormy waters.
They stay like that for a while; exactly how long Felix has no clue. But when they eventually pull apart, the small room is dark.
“Feeling any better?” Bernadetta asks softly.
“Uh,” Felix rasps and clears his throat. “Not really.” He feels like a wrung out rag. But he feels a bit less heavy, now that he has shared the weight with someone else.
Bernadetta half-laughs. “Yeah, I… guess that makes sense.” She keeps close to Felix, the contours of her face barely visible in the dying light. “It’s gotten pretty late. Do you want to sleep?”
“I…” Felix licks his lips. He doesn’t know what he wants, except perhaps for this whole war to have never started. “I don’t want you to go,” he says.
She squeezes his hand again. “I can stay, and you can sleep.” She moves to lie down, and Felix follows. “Maybe I can sleep too,” she says, when they’re facing each other on the pillow.
“Sounds good to me,” Felix mumbles, and wraps his arms around Bernadetta again as she snuggles into his chest. Has he already asked the goddess what he’s done to deserve her? Because by all the saints he can’t figure it out.
Bernadetta hums contentedly, the sound vibrating in Felix’s chest. He wishes he could keep her this close always, to keep her by his side and protect her so no harm would ever come to her.
“Bernadetta?”
“Mm?” she hums in response. They keep their voices low, as if not to disturb the darkness.
“Why did you come back?” Felix asks.
“Come back?”
“To Garreg Mach.”
“Oh, well Dorothea and I were in hiding in the Alliance and when we heard all our classmates were gathering we wanted to come here too. We were worried about everyone! And there’s strength in numbers, too.” She shifts to look up at Felix’s face. “Why do you ask?”
“I… Why do you fight, though? You hate fighting. No one would think badly of you if you decided to stay back and help with other stuff.”
“Hmmm… You’re probably thinking I should stay at the monastery and keep out of danger, right?” Felix stiffened; he’d been caught. “Mhm, thought so.” Her playful tone turned into a sigh. “Honestly, I’d love to just hide in my room and stay safe too, but… Everyone else is out there fighting. Including you, obviously! And if something happened to anyone while I was just being a scaredy-cat… I’d always wonder if maybe I was there, maybe it would have made the difference and they’d still be alive. So until this war is finally over, I’m going to keep fighting, even though it’s terrifying.”
Felix’s grip on Bernadetta tightens subconsciously, as though if he just held her tighter, she could never disappear from his grasp. He swallows thickly.
“I just… I can’t bear to lose you too.” His voice fades into a whisper.
Bernadetta hugs him back. “You won’t! I promise.”
Felix buries his face in her hair. He knows it’s the kind of promise you can’t keep, not when it really comes down to it, but it makes him feel slightly better nonetheless. “I’ll make sure of it,” he says.
“Hey! You have to promise that I won’t lose you either, okay?” Her teasing tone tugs a ghost of a smile onto Felix’s face. He knows that the lightness in her voice is only a front for something more serious, but it’s a lifeline to lead him back to something more normal. A conversation he can navigate.
“Okay,” Felix promises. He’d never been the type to be reckless with his life, but now he had even more reason to keep living right here in his arms.
“Good,” Bernadetta says. “We’ll both have each other’s backs so we’ll have double the chances to stay safe!”
“Sounds good to me,” says Felix. He lets out a heavy breath, as though he’d been holding his breath for hours. He runs his hand up and down Bernadetta’s back. “Have I told you that I love you?”
She snuggles in closer. “You have, actually. And I’ve been meaning to tell you that I love you too. Very, very much.” She leans in and kisses him softly. It eases his pain, if only a little.
They drift into silence again, this time a much more peaceful one. Felix can feel his breathing even out and is almost asleep when Bernadetta speaks again.
“Oh yeah. Felix?”
“Mm?”
“Are we… a couple?”
He squints. “What do you mean?” he says sleepily.
“Like… Am I your girlfriend?”
Oh, was that all?
“Yes,” he says, before he drifts back to sleep. “Please.”
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