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CHAPTER 3
Charles and Alice Bishop sat in Heathrow awaiting the arrival of their second born and his guest. Their minds filled with memories of the last girl Ashton brought home the last time he returned to London.
Alice cringed mentally and physically when she thought of that fiasco. The woman was the most annoying, condescending snob Alice had ever met.
The way she tried to order their house servants around set Alice's nerves on edge and took everything within her not to tell the woman how she felt about her and order the cow out of her home.
"I hope he isn't bringing that idiot for another visit," Alice said looking over at her husband.
"He said he was brining someone new," Charles replied. "I'm quite sure he would've told us if he was bringing Ka...."
"Don't say her name," Alice said. "We agreed we would never mention her name again."
Charles chuckled at his wife. Ashton's last guest left a really bad taste in her mouth.
"If he was bringing her I'm sure Ashton would've told us," he said to his wife. "He knows we hate surprises."
"I would prefer that he brought a rabid dog rather than that cow," Alice said. "You can get a shot for rabies, there isn't anything you can do about stupidity."
Charles tried to contain his laughter but he couldn't. Whenever Alice went off on one of her tangents he always wound up laughing out loud and almost rolling on the floor to the amazement of those around him and knew him.
Charles Bishop CEO and founder of Bishop Digital Services was the image of what one would expect to find when one thought of a British businessman straight laced, stuffy and all business.
An image he was able to maintain unless he was in the company of his wife. Alice was a free sprit in every way. The way she dressed, the way she thought and the way she spoke her mind. Charles didn't know what she was going to say in any situation which was what he loved about her.
The woman had away of snatching him out of a bed mood or a tense situation by bringing him out of himself with on of her off the cuff remarks.
Her last remark had Charles laughing so hard people around him were staring at him.
"It's not funny Charles," Alice said. "There should be a law that stupid people aren't allowed to walk around unsupervised and if they are found to be out without proper supervision they should be forced to be chained to someone stupider than they are so they can see what the rest of us go through dealing with them."
Charles was really drawing attention now he was laughing uncontrollably with his hand over his face to hide the tears that were falling from his eyes.
"Alice please," Charles pleaded as he shook with laughter. "I can't take much more, please stop it."
"You'd better get your black suit pressed Charles you're going to a funeral and I'm going to jail."
Charles stopped laughing when he heard the coldness in his wife's voice as she spoke. He looked up at her and saw Alice staring at something.
When he looked in the direction of her stare what he saw surprised him. Ashton was walking towards them holding the hand of a very pretty black woman.
"Don't get excited Alice," Charles said rubbing his wife's back to calm her, "it might not be what you think."
"It had better not be what I think," Alice said her teeth clinched together. "Because if it is what I think it is our son will be riding home in the boot of the car."
Charles quickly covered his mouth praying that the laughter lodged in his throat wouldn't escape through his mouth but Alice kept talking.
"I'm going to cut his balls off, flambé them and force feed them down his throat," Alice said as she pasted a smile on her face and went to greet their son and his guest.
Charles turned his back to try and gain control of himself but he couldn't contain the laughter that escaped his throat. The image of his wife doing what she said burned into his mind. Charles made his way to the restroom because he didn't want people seeing him rolling around on the floor laughing like an idiot.
Ashton and Chevonne watched his father race towards the restroom.
"I hope my father is alright," Ashton said a look of concern on his face and in his voice but secretly happy to see that his father's reaction was worse than he expected it to be. He almost jumped for joy at the tight tense smile he saw on his mother's face as she approached them.
Ashton smiled, released his hold on Chevonne's hand and spread his arms to greet his mother but the look he saw in his mother's eyes as she came closer to them said that if he touched her he would be taking his life in his hands so he put his arms down to his side and retook hold of Chevonne's hand.
Alice wasn't happy and an unhappy Alice was a dangerous Alice. Ashton fortified himself by thinking of the reason he was doing what he was doing. So that he could marry Katrina and his family would accept her, support their marriage and be happy for him. It was all he wanted.
"Hello, mother," Ashton said swallowing the uneasiness he felt and smiling.
"Who do we have here?" Alice asked ignoring Ashton's greeting and giving Chevonne her full attention.
"Chevonne Michaelson, Alice Bishop, my mother," Ashton said.
"It's a pleasure meeting you Mrs. Bishop," Chevonne said extending her hand out to shake Ashton's mother's hand.
"None of that Mrs. Bishop stuff," Alice said ignoring the hand Chevonne held out and breaking the hold on the hand Ashton was holding and pulling Chevonne in for a hug, "the only people I have call me Mrs. Bishop are people I don't like. I like you love so I would appreciate it if you would call me Alice."
"Alright," Chevonne said, "Alice it is."
"You and I are going to get along just fine," Alice said taking Chevonne by the hand. "Ashton go get your father out of the loo so the two of you can collect the luggage."
"What's wrong with dad?" Ashton asked.
"He had another laughing fit," his mother replied.
That bit of news made Ashton smile. His father only had one of his laughing fits when his mother went on one of her tirades and she only did that when she was angry.
"There's no need to send him for me, I'm right here."
Everyone turned to see Charles standing behind them.
Chevonne and set her gaze on Charles Bishop. Handsome didn't began to describe the man. Ashton went over to greet his father but there was a look in Mr. Bishop's eyes that said he wasn't at all happy with his son. Chevonne wondered if her coming to London with Ashton instead of Katrina was the reason for Mr. Bishop's look.
She took the opportunity to compare the two men as they stood side by side. They both stood six feet tall exactly. Charles Bishop weighed about two hundred-fifteen pounds. Ashton weighed exactly two hundred pounds.
Both men had brown eyes, strong jaw lines, straight Anglo-Saxon nosesand jet black hair. Charles wore his short and stylishly cut there were hints of grey showing around his temples.
Ashton wore his long and it came to rest on his shoulders. Just like his father handsome didn't come close to describing him.
"Dad I would like to introduce you to Chevonne Michaelson," Ashton said introducing his father to Chevonne. "And Chevonne I would like for you to meet my father Charles Bishop."
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Chevonne," Charles said reaching out and taking hold of one of Chevonne's hands.
"It's nice to meet you too Mr. Bishop," Chevonne said.
"My family and I are going to make sure you enjoy your visit to London," Charles said as he gently patted the hand he was holding.
"I'll try not to be a bother," Chevonne said.
"We're glad you're here and entertaining you will be our pleasure," Alice said. "So don't you worry about being a bother to us. We want you to just enjoy yourself."
"Thank you," Chevonne said.
"What do you have planned for us, mother?" Ashton asked.
Alice turned and gave her son a look that said she was thirty seconds from tearing his head off, she didn't answer his question.
"You must be tired from that long flight," Alice remarked turning her attention back to Chevonne.
"A little," Chevonne said. "That was my first time on a plane and I was too nervous to sleep."
"Well we had better get you back to our home so you can get some rest and freshen up," Alice said. "Charles you and Ashton go fetch the luggage so that we can head home and Chevonne can rest."
Charles and Ashton went to fetch the luggage as they were told.
"I'm going to assume from the way mother is acting that she's angry with me," Ashton said as they near the luggage carousel.
"You would assume right," his father replied. "I'm highly upset with you too.
"Is it because of Chevonne?" Ashton asked.
"Yes," his father replied.
"I'm in love with her father," Ashton said deciding now was the time to put his and Katrina's plan into action, "and I'm going to ask her to marry me."
Charles turned towards Ashton and smiled at him.
"You are?" he said. "I'm so proud of you son. Your mother and I were thinking the worst of you. We thought you brought Chevonne here to use her to force us to accept that twit Katrina. But you brought her here because you really love her and you want to marry her and you wanted our blessings. Well, you have my blessings and I'm sure your mother will give hers. I can't wait to tell your mother she's going to be so happy that you're finally settling down."
"But dad ..."
"No buts," his father said cutting him off, "we have to go tell your mother the wonderful news."
Ashton and his father piled his and Chevonne's luggage on a dolly and made their way back to where his mother and Chevonne were waiting for them.
Ashton tried repeatedly to stop his father from repeating what he said to his mother, but there was not stopping him.
Charles ran up and hugged Chevonne then he hugged Alice. As Charles hugged Alice he whispered something in her ear.
"Follow my lead," he said. "Ashton has something very important to ask Chevonne," he said out loud.
"What is it?" Alice asked truly confused about what was going on.
"Go ahead Ashton," Charles said nudging his son forward, "you've flown all the way over here to get our blessing, you might as well ask her now."
"Ask me what now?" Chevonne asked very confused and wondering what was happening.
Her eyes grew big as she watched Ashton take her hand into his. He was sweating and looking like a deer caught in the headlights of a car. Chevonne couldn't figure out what was wrong or what he was about to do until he started to speak.
"Chevonne I know we've only been dating a short time ..."
"Do it properly son," his mother said finally figuring out what was happening, "this usually only happens once in a woman's life and it should be something she'll remember the rest of her days.
Ashton did as his mother instructed.
When Ashton got down on one knee some of the people in the airport started staring at them and some started taking pictures of them with their digital cameras, and recording them with video cameras and their cell phones. As Ashton spoke the people started gathering around them.
"... will you marry me?"
That was all Chevonne heard because she had mentally blocked out everything around her except Ashton getting down on one knee before her. he mentally screamed for Ashton to get the hell up off his knee.
She looked down into his eyes and studied his facial expression and saw that he was begging her to say yes.
Chevonne looked away from Ashton, her eyes looking around the airport. She saw Eric, his eyes were begging her to say no.
She noticed that everyone around them was quiet waiting to hear what her answer would be. Chevonne knew she should say no but she couldn't bring herself to embarrass Ashton with a crowd of people around them staring at her waiting to hear what her answer would be.
She gave him the only answer she felt she could given her situation.
"Yes, I'll marry you," she said.
Everyone around them started cheering and congratulating the happy couple.
"Welcome to the family," Alice said giving
Chevonne a heart felt hug.
"Thank you," Chevonne said as she thought of all the ways she could kill Ashton wondering which one would allow him to die the most painful death.
"Don't you have a hug for your future father-in-law?" Charles asked his arms wide opened.
Chevonne walked over and gave him a hug.
"Can I get a picture of the happy couple kissing?" a man asked. "I want to publish it in my newspaper."
"Sure," Charles said easing Chevonne towards Ashton.
Ashton put his arms around Chevonne, brought her body close to his and slowly brought his lips towards hers.
The look he saw in her eyes as his lips approached hers told Ashton that he was a dead man. As he kissed her the crowd o-ohed, a-ahed and cameras flashed around them.
"What're your names?" the newspaper reporter asked.
"Ashton Bishop," Ashton said.
"Chevonne Michaelson," Chevonne said.
"Would you spell your name please," the reporter asked.
"C-h-e-v-o-n-n-e," Chevonne said.
"And your last name?" The reporter asked.
"M-i-c-h-a-e-l-s-o-n," Chevon said.
"Do you two know when the big day will be?" the reporter asked.
"We just got engage," Ashton said answering the reporter's question. "We're going to have to take some time and discuss when the big day will be."
"Would you call my newspaper and let us know when you set the date?" the reporter asked holding out one of his business cards.
"I don't kn..."
"Of course we'll call the paper," Ashton's father said stepping in and answering the question before Ashton could. "We want everyone in London to share in the joy we fill for our son marrying the woman he loves."
The crowd started cheering again. Alice took Chevonne by the hand and lead her out to the parking garage to their car. Ashton and his father followed.
"Well son you're almost a married man," his father said patting him on the back. "How does it feel?"
"It feels great dad," Ashton replied as he ran what had just happened through his mind trying to figure out how things got so messed up.
It wasn't suppose to turn out this way. He had to call Katrina and tell her what happened before it was broadcast on television or published in the papers.
One thing for sure Ashton knew that he was a dead man. Chevonne was going to kill him because she was forced into a situation she didn't ask for and Katrina was going to kill him because this was not the way they planned things to turn out.
Ashton turned his eyes up towards the sky praying that God would get him out of this situation. But something told him he was going to have to straighten this mess out himself and he didn't know how he was going to do it. But he knew it was something he had to do.
CHAPTER 4
After the ride from the airport and they reached the Bishops' home Alice lead Ashton and Chevonne to the room where they would be staying.
Chevonne tried to tell Alice, she wasn't comfortable sleeping in the same room as Ashton in her home but Alice shot down all her arguments by saying she knew how modern relationships worked and that she was fine with her and Ashton sleeping in the same room together.
Chevonne gave up after realizing it wouldn't do her any good to argue with Alice.
"I'm sorry about all of this," Ashton said after he and Chevonne were left alone in the bedroom.
"What did you tell your father?" Chevonne asked her the tone of her voice angry and her hands on her hips.
Unable to come up with a ready lie Ashton told her the truth. He told her about the plans he made with Katrina and what they were planning to do.
"You...you..."
Unable to speak Chevonne balled her hand into a fist, drew it back and brought if forward slamming it into Ashton's jaw knocking him to the floor.
"You worthless piece of shit," Chevonne said standing over him.
"Chevonne, I..."
"You what motherfucker," Chevonne said her head and neck in full soul sister mode. "What're you going to tell me? How you and that bitch Katrina laughed about how foolish I would feel when I realized how you used me."
"Chevonne if you would just let me explain..."
"Go ahead Ashton," Chevonne as she paced back and forth in the room, "explain to me how you thought it was okay to use me. Explain to me how two useless pieces of shit like you and Katrina decided it was okay to use people for your own purposes."
Ashamed of himself and what he'd done Ashton turned away from Chevonne. He knew when he and Katrina put their plan together that it was wrong of them to use Chevonne to accomplish their goals but her feelings didn't matter to them at the time because all they could see was the end result.
They would be together. But now he was face to face looking at the pain he caused Chevonne and it was hard for him to see.
"Chevonne, I..."
"Did it live up to your expectations?" Chevonne asked.
"Excuse me," Ashton said.
"My reaction," Chevonne said, "my display of emotion. Was it black enough for you? That is the way you and Katrina expected me to behave when I found out what you had done isn't it?"
"You knew what we were planning?" Ashton asked stunned by the thought of her knowing what they were planning and going along with it anyway.
"Yes," Chevonne said. "You didn't think I bought that lame ass excuse about your mother being upset if you came home alone did you? I'm not that stupid."
"Why?"
"Because I wanted to see if you would really do this," Chevonne said fighting the urge to punch Ashton in the jaw again. "When I first met you I thought you were different from the type of men Katrina normally dated. I thought you wouldn't be drawn into Katrinaland where the only person who mattered was Katrina. I didn't think you would be the kind of guy that would sink to that bitch's level."
"You're talking about the woman I love and intend to marry," Ashton said his body tensing at Chevonne's words.
"No," Chevonne said smiling at him, "I'm the woman you love and who you intend to marry. You just told the whole world that and it's going to be in the newspaper tomorrow."
"It wasn't suppose to turn out this way," Ashton said.
"No, it wasn't," Chevonne said. "You and Katrina were suppose to go off and live happily ever after and I was suppose to go off somewhere and lick my wounds."
"You were getting something out of this too," Ashton accused.
"You weren't going to give me a job," Chevonne said, "because you wouldn't expect me to take it after finding out what you and Katrina did."
She was right, he wasn't expecting her to take the job.
"What do you want me to do?" Ashton asked.
"I want you to marry Katina and I hope all the bullshit you're going to go through by marrying her is increased tenfold. I want to wish that everything you hope for out this marriage never comes true. But I won't do that because I'm better than that. So the only thing I want you is for you to stay the hell away from me."
Chevonne looked around the room for her carryon bag and her purse. She spotted her purse on the bed and made her way towards it. Ashton beat her to it.
"What're you doing?" she asked as he picked her purse up off the bed.
"Where are you going?" Ashton asked.
"I don't need your fake concern for my well being," Chevonne said, "I just need for you to give me my purse and to get out of my way."
"I brought you here Chevonne..."
"To use and humiliate me," Chevonne said. "You've used me, I won't let you humiliate me by pretending you care about what happens to me."
"I'm not going to let you leave," Ashton said.
"How are you going to stop me?"
"Like this," Ashton said taking Chevonne's purse and running out of the room. Chevonne took off after him calling his name and demanding that he return her purse back to her. She had almost caught him by the time they reached the top of the stairs where they ran into his parents.
"What's going on?" Alice asked.
"I'm just teasing Chevonne," Ashton said reaching out and pulling Chevonne against him.
"Why are you teasing her?" his mother asked hitting him on the shoulder. "Didn't you hear her say she hardly slept on the plane? She needs to get some rest."
"Yes, mother," Ashton said taking Chevonne by the hand and leading her back to the room his mother had prepared for them.
"What're you doing?" Chevonne asked him pulling her hand out of his grasp after they entered the room and the door was closed.
"I want to talk to you," Ashton said.
"You and I have nothing to talk about," Chevonne said reaching for her purse. "I want to leave here so that I can get away from you."
"I know you want to get away from me," Ashton said holding the purse over his head to keep it out of her reach, "and I can understand that. But if you leave my family will be humiliated and embarrassed if the reason for you leaving gets out."
"That isn't my problem," Chevonne said jumping up trying to reach her purse. "You and Katrina are the ones that created this mess."
"I know," Ashton said still holding her purse up in the air, "and you're right none of what has happened is your fault, but my parents didn't do this either. Like you said the blame for all of this lies with me and Katrina. My parents didn't have anything to do with hurting you, so please don't hurt them because you want to get back at me."
Chevonne hated to admit it but he was right. His parents weren't responsible for what he did and hurting and embarrassing them for what he did wasn't something she wanted to do.
"Alright," Chevonne said, "I'll stay for two weeks."
"They're expecting you to stay two months," Ashton said.
"Don't push your luck," Chevonne told him wagging her finger at him. "Besides when Katrina hears about the proposal she'll probably call you as she's boarding the first plane to London demanding you put and end to this farce. What're you going to do then?"
"You're probably right," Ashton said, "but I can't worry about Katrina and what she wants. My first priority right now is making sure my parents aren't hurt or embarrassed by something I was stupid enough to do. So I'm asking you to give me at least a month so we can work out a way to end our engagement that won't publicly embarrass neither you or my parents."
"Two weeks is long enough for us to be seen around London together and to mutually decide to end our engagement."
"My mother really likes you Chevonne," Ashton said. "She sees something very special about you."
"How do you know that?" Chevonne asked.
"She insisted that I propose to you properly," Ashton said. "My mother is very picky when it comes to her children. She has disliked every woman I've ever dated. None of them were good enough for me as far as she was concerned. But when she met you she hugged you and she only does that to family members or very close friends. For her to welcome you that way she must consider you to be a very special person."
"I don't know your family Ashton," Chevonne said , "and they don't know me. So how can I be special to your mother? She has been nice to me which is why I'm willing to stay here two weeks. I don't think I could stay here longer than that."
"Would you at least think about it?" Ashton pleaded.
"I'll think about it," Chevonne said, "but it'll depend on how you handle Katrina. I won't tolerate her trying to start anything with me. My response to her trying to step to me won't be one she would like."
"Let me worry about Katrina," Ashton said. "She's my problem to deal with."
"I'm going to assume that she has met your family and it didn't go well."
"That's an understatement," Ashton said as he thought about the fiasco of the first time his parents met Katrina. "My mother disliked her the first time she set eyes on Katrina."
"Did she say why?"
"She simply said Katrina wasn't the one for me."
"She knew that just from looking at her?"
"Yes."
"Your mother sounds a lot like my mother," Chevonne said chuckling as she thought about her mother.
"Most mothers are like that when it comes to their children."
"We need to discuss what we're going to tell your parents about this," Chevonne said bring their conversation back to the matter at hand and kicking herself for telling him anything about her family when it was clear she shouldn't and couldn't trust him.
Ashton saw Chevonne withdraw from him back behind the wall of protection she decided she needed to keep him from hurting her or getting close. He didn't know which shamed and pained him more, what he'd done to her or telling his parents the disgusting thing he'd done to her.
He was still thinking about his parents' reaction to the situation when his mobile phone began to vibrate indicating that he had a call coming in. He looked at the screen and saw that it was Katrina.
"Hello," he said answering the phone after stepping out of the room where Chevonne was and heading to his boyhood bedroom.
"What the hell happened?" Katrina asked her voice tight and tense.
Ashton took a deep breath and told her what happened at the airport. It made Katrina angrier.
"Why did you ask her to marry you in front of all those people?" she asked fighting the urge to start yelling at Ashton.
"Because I had just told my father I loved her and was going to ask her to marry me," Ashton replied, "and his reaction wasn't what I thought it would be. He was thrilled at the thought of me marrying Chevonne. So when he suggested that I ask her right there in the airport I didn't feel I had a choice. My father put me on the spot and caught me off guard."
"How did your mother react?" Katrina asked.
"My mother was the one who insisted that I get down on one knee," Ashton said. "She said I should propose properly to her."
"That bitch," Katrina said.
"Excuse me," Ashton said not believing what he heard.
"That bitch Chevonne better not think you're going to go through with this proposal and marry her," Katrina said hoping Ashton thought she was talking about Chevonne and not his mother.
"Chevonne had nothing to do with this, Katrina," Ashton said. "She had no idea what was going on."
"She said yes pretty quickly," Katrina remarked, "and why in the hell did you kiss her?"
"Because everyone expected us to," Ashton said.
"I don't know if I'll ever be able to kiss you again after seeing where your lips have been," Katrina said.
"She's a human being," Ashton said, "not a frog."
"Yeah, but there's no telling what's been in her mouth," Katrina said waiting to hear Ashton laugh at her remark about Chevonne.
He didn't. The remark would've been funny and made him laugh out loud twenty-four hours ago, but now he couldn't even raise a chuckle. Now it reminded him of what he did to Chevonne, he hurt her and used her. Now it wasn't funny.
"Ashton!"
"Yes," Ashton replied coming out of the fog he had been in.
"You think I should come to London?" Katrina said excitedly.
"No," Ashton said.
"But you said yes."
"I was responding to you calling my name," Ashton said. "Your coming here wouldn't be a good idea. I think spending time with your family is the best thing for you to do right now. At lest until this situation has settled down a little."
"Are you going to tell your parents about our plan and our desire to get married?"
"No, I don't think I should," Ashton said. "We'll explain everything together after the story about me and Chevonne dies down in the papers."
"This is going to cause your mother to dislike me even more," Katrina remarked.
Silence.
"She's going to blame all of this on me," Katrina said. "She's going to think I lead you astray."
"My going along with this isn't your fault," Ashton said. "I knew what I was doing and the possible consequences when I became involved in this."
"I've got to go," Katrina said. "I'm going out to dinner with my folks."
"Give them my regards," Ashton said.
"I will," Katrina said, "I love you."
"I love you too," Ashton replied.
"How is your friend?" Martin asked putting the tray of food he was holding down at the foot of the bed so he could pull Katrina into his arms.
"She's still having problems with her family," Katrina said. "I feel so sorry for her. That's why I'm staying in touch with her, she needs my support."
"You're such a good and caring person," Martin said leaning down and kissing Katrina gently on the lips. "Everyone should have a friend like you."
"Thank you," Katrina said batting her lashes at him. "I try to treat people the way I want to be treated."
"Oh, really," Martin said tightening his hold on Katrina.
"Yes, really," Katrina said resting her head against Martin's chest.
"So you want your children to back out of a family get together at the last minute and lie about why they're doing it," Martin said..
"No," Katrina said, "but I would want them to spare my feelings. I couldn't tell my parents I couldn't go with them because I wanted to spend a week with you knocking boots, could I?"
Martin laughed at her use of what she called hip-hop slang. She didn't use the latest slang but she was trying.
"You trying to sound like me?" he asked smiling at her.
"I guess it was bound to happen if I got enough chocolate in me," Katrina said pushing him over on his back and straddling his his chocolate colored body."
"Please tell me I'm not going to develop a taste for country music," Martin pleaded laughing at what she said.
"You might," Katrina said leaning down and kissing him on the lips. "You just might."
CHAPTER 5
After talking to Katrina, Ashton headed back to the room where Chevonne was waiting for him. He tapped on the door and didn't get an answer.
He slowly opened the door and saw Chevonne lying on the bed asleep. He quietly entered the room and made his way over to the bed.
Ashton eased himself on to the bed next to Chevonne. He looked down at her and saw a hint of a smile on her face. He wondered what she was dreaming about.
Ashton took the back of one of his fingers and gently stroked her hair. The feel of it wasn't what he expected at all. It was soft, very soft and silky. The texture reminded him of cotton.
'I thought you were different.'
Chevonne's words floated back into his mind. She thought he was different from the other men Katrina dated.
Getting involved in this plan surprised Ashton the same way it surprised Chevonne. He never considered himself to be the type of person that would use another person in such a manner.
He considered himself to be a very caring person. Someone who went out of their way not to hurt others. How or why he did this to Chevonne he couldn't answer if he his life depended on it.
It was seeing and feeling Chevonne's anger that made him realize how wrong what he was doing was. The sock she gave him to his jaw also helped.
Now things had gone from worse to worser. Everyone now expected a wedding and for him and Chevonne to be the bride and groom.
How was he and Chevonne going to end their engagement. The situation was made worse because there was a newspaper reporter there when he proposed to Chevonne and he knew it would be in the papers tomorrow morning.
The Bishops are a prominent family in London and a twenty-four hour engagement would cause reporters to question what happened between them and dig deeper into his and Chevonne's relationship (which they're going to do anyway). They might find out about how he and Katrina planned to use Chevonne.
Luckily he and Katrina had a publicly broken up before they put their plan in motion just in case his parents questioned whether he and Katrina had really stopped seeing each other, so the idea of him and Chevonne being engaged would appear to be real.
It was a good thing too that no one else knew about the plan but him and Katrina. He didn't have to worry about Katrina telling anyone else about, but Chevonne was another matter. If she told anyone else about it, it would be an embarrassing situation for his family.
His mother and father would be rightfully ashamed of him if they knew. Their shame could be no greater than what he felt but it would be harder for him to bear.
He removed his finger from Chevonne's hair when she began to stir. She didn't awaken she only changed her position. Not wanting to waken her Ashton eased up off the bed, walked over to door, quietly opened it and left the room.
Ashton went downstairs and found his parents in the family room. His father was working on his laptop and his mother was talking on the phone. The moment she saw him walk into the room she ended the conversation. She walked over to him and game him a hug.
"We're so happy for you," she said tightening her hold on him, "Chevonne is a lovely girl."
"Thanks mom," Ashton said. "She's a lovely person on the inside and the outside."
"I have something for you son," his father said reaching into the pocket of his pants and pulling out a small box and passing it to Ashton.
Ashton knew what the box contained and it didn't make happy as it should've. It made him feel terrible.
"You shouldn't have dad," he said taking the box opening it and looking at the two carat flawless pear shaped diamond engagement ring that once belonged to his father's mother.
"Why not son?" his father asked. "My father left this ring in his will to be given to you when you've found the woman who has captured your heart and whom you ask to become your wife and Chevonne is obviously that woman."
"She is dad but..."
"But what son?" his father asked.
"Nothing," Ashton replied pushing the urge to tell his parents the truth to the back of his mind. "I just never expected you to give this to me. I've been engaged once before you know."
"I know," his father said smiling at him and placing an arm around his shoulders, "but you were only twelve and I didn't think you were too sure of yourself then."
Father and son laughed.
"Do you think Chevonne will like it?" his mother asked.
"It's beautiful just like her," Ashton replied, "she'll love it."
"I'm so glad," his mother said giving him another hug. "I wish I could be there when you give it to her."
"I think I want to be alone with her when I give this to her," Ashton said.
"You're right," his father said, "this should be a private moment between you and Chevonne. But we're hopping to see her wearing it on her finger real soon."
"I'll see what I can do," Ashton teased.
"Where is she?" his mother asked.
"She was was sleeping I left her upstairs," Ashton replied. "I think she's dealing with a combination of jet lag and not getting enough sleep."
"How soon do you think Chevonne will want to get married?" his mother asked.
"We haven't discussed it yet mother," Ashton said chuckling at how excited his mother was about getting him married. "We've only been engaged a few hours."
"Wouldn't it be nice if the wedding happened before she headed back hom to the states," his mother said sighing dreamily.
"That isn't going to happen mother," Ashton said, "Chevonne wants her family and friends around her when we get married. Besides she hasn't even told them we're engaged yet."
"Son pictures and videos of you proposing to Chevonne have been broadcasted on the telly for the last two hours," his father said.
"Oh my," Ashton said making his way towards the stairs. "I'm going to see if Chevonne called her parents and gave them the good news. I'm sure she wants to be the one to tell them and not have them hear about it through news reports."
Charles and Alice chuckled as they watched their son rush up the stairs to speak with Chevonne.
"Why didn't you ask him about the bruise on his chin?" Alice asked her husband.
"I didn't want to put him on the spot," Charles replied.
"I wish I could have seen Chevonne punch him," Alice said imagining her son falling flat on his bum.
"Hearing it was enough for me," Charles said. "Chevonne is just what Ashton needs. He won't be able to depend on his good looks to get his way with her. She isn't impressed by those things. He's gong to have to work to get her and to keep her."
"Because of the way he used her, he may not stand a chance with her," Alice said. "I almost fainted when she said she wanted to return home."
"I got a little dizzy when I heard that too," Charles said, "but I knew Ashton would find away to get her to stay."
"Lets go up and see what's gong on," Alice said.
"No," Charles said, "we were almost caught listening in on their conversation the first time. I don't think we should risk it again."
"Your suggestion that we turn around and pretend to be going up the stairs was brilliant," Alice said. "There was no way we could've explain running down the stairs to Ashton and Chevonne."
"It wasn't my idea," Charles said. "I remember seeing it done in a movie I was watching on the telly."
"Well it worked," Alice said. "Chevonne and Ashton never suspected a thing."
"How do you think he'll get the ring on her finger?" Charles asked.
"He'll probably tell her it'll mean so much to me and that we expect her to see it on her finger," Alice said.
"Do you think that will work?"
"She'll argue that putting on something that was meant to be worn by the woman he loved and intended to marry is taking things too far," Alice said. "But she'll wear it."
"You're so confident about how this is going to turn out," Charles remarked.
"Our son is like most men," Alice remarked stroking Charles' jaw, "when it comes to woman and love he's as blind as a bat. But I saw the way Chevonne looked at him as they walked towards us. There was something in her eyes almost pleading with him not to let her down. I also saw the hurt and anger in her eyes when you rushed over to us with the news that Ashton was going to ask her to marry him. Aston really hurt and disappointed her and that kind of hurt and anger can only be caused by someone that you're in love with."
"Maybe Ashton isn't in love with her," Charles said.
"Remember when he brought that little twit to visit?" Alice asked referring to Katrina.
"Yes," Charles replied chuckling when he thought about how badly the visit went.
"Ashton went on and on about how boring her roommate was, how she spent the majority of her time with her nose buried in books, how he wondered if she ever wore anything besides jeans and sweatshirts."
"I remember that," Charles said, "but I never thought mush of it."
"Ashton said that she and Katrina stayed in the same room but the weren't close and whenever he went to see Katrina, Chevonne disappeared into her room."
"And?" Charles replied wondering where his wife was going with the conversation.
"And Ashton could only know all the things he knows about Chevonne if he was paying attention to her, observing her habits, the way she did things and the clothes she wore."
"That doesn't mean he loves her," Charles pointed out.
"That doesn't," Alice agreed, "but the way his eyes lit up after he kissed her at the airport and the way she looked into his eyes after the kiss, said I love you."
Charles had to agree with his wife after giving the situation some thought and replaying what he saw at the airport in his mind between Ashton and Chevonne.
"Do you think he'll accept it?" he asked.
"He's a man," Alice said, "and he probably didn't expect the kiss to have any effect on him at all and when it did he probably found a way to rationalize it and push it temporarily to the back of his mind."
"You could be wrong."
"I could be but I wouldn't bet money against it."
Ashton stood outside the door of the room where Chevonne lay sleeping looking down at the ring box he held in his hand. He was tempted to put an end to the whole fiasco by going downstairs and telling his parents the truth.
It was picturing and facing the disappointment, hurt and he would see in their eyes about what he'd done that stopped him.
Now he had to get Chevonne to wear the ring. He knew it wouldn't be easy but he had to try and get her to agree to wearing it. He took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
The knocking on the door awaken Chevonne. She looked down at her watch and saw that she had only been asleep thirty minutes. She took a pillow and put it over her head as the knocking started again.
'Maybe he'll go away if I ignore him', Chevonne thought to herself knowing that it was Ashton knocking on the door.
The knocking started again.
"Come in," Chevonne almost screamed.
The door slowly opened and Ashton entered the room. He found Chevonne still lying n the bed this time with a pillow over her face. He stood by the door waiting for Chevonne to remove the pillow from her face.
"What is it Ashton?" she asked the pillow still over her face.
"I would like to speak with you," Ashton said.
"Speak, I'm listening," Chevonne said.
"Would you remove the pillow from your face please?"
Chevonne removed the pillow from her face but her face was now covered by her hair.
"What is it," she almost growled her hair still covering her face.
"My mother gave me something to give to you," Ashton said walking toward her with the box containing the ring hidden behind his back.
"What is it?" Chevonne asked.
"This," Ashton said brining the ring from behind his back and presenting it to Chevonne.
"I can't take that," Chevonne said jumping back from the box as if Ashton had given her something covered with mud and gunk.
"You have to take it," Ashton said sitting down on the bed, "if we're going to pretend to be engaged you have to take it Chevonne."
"You bought this ring for Katrina," Chevonne said. "It wouldn't be right for me to wear it."
"I didn't buy this ring," Ashton assured her.
"Where did it come from?"
"It was left to me by my grandfather," Ashton said opening the box and showing Chevonne the ring. "He gave it to my grandmother when he proposed to her."
"It's beautiful," Chevonne said looking down at the ring. "But I can't wear it. Your grandfather left the ring for you to give to the woman, you're going to marry and that woman is Katrina."
"I haven't asked Katrina to marry me yet," Ashton said. "We talked about it but I never asked her. So you can wear the ring."
"I don't feel right about it," Chevonne said. "What if I lose it? I'll never forgive myself and I'll never be able to replace it or pay for it."
"You're not gong to lose it," Ashton said removing the ring from the box and slipping it on Chevonne's finger.
The ring slipped onto Chevonne's finger with no trouble at all. It fit perfectly like it was bought specifically for her hand, her finger.
"I trust you to take care of it and not to lose it," Ashton said still looking down at the ring and how beautiful it looked on Chevonne's hand.
"Ashton we can end all of this by telling your parents the truth," Chevonne said bring his attention back to her.
"It's too late for that," Ashton said. "Katrina called, she saw the proposal on television."
"Please say you're teasing me," Chevonne pleaded.
"I wish I could," Ashton said, "but I can't. The rest of my family and friends must know about the proposal by now. We're going to have to pretend to be engage and then break up for this to come out alright."
"I don't know if I can do this," Chevonne said. "What will I tell my parents? Things weren't suppose to go this far."
"Tell them the truth," Ashton said. "That we're engaged to be married."
"That isn't the truth," Chevonne pointed out.
"You're wearing my grandmother's ring, Chevonne," Ashton said. "I'd say that makes us an engaged couple."
"This isn't the time to be joking," Chevonne said smiling slightly at Ashton's remarks. "Your mother has been nothing but nice to me and I don't like lying to her. She's going to be very upset with both of us when she realizes we've been lying to her."
"I know," Ashton said. "But if we work things neither my mother nor your mother will ever have to know that we were never actually engaged."
Chevonne was about to ask Ashton a question when her cell phone started ringing. She looked at the screen and saw that it was her mother calling her. For the first time in her life Chevonne was sorry she took steps so that her mother and she could still talk to each other.
Chevonne knew that she was in serious trouble if her mother saw the news broadcast of Ashton proposing to her at the airport. Sarahh Michaelson didn't play. It didn't matter to her that Chevonne was old enough to make her own decisions, she was still mama. She opened her phone up and spoke to her mother.
"Hello," she said tentatively.
"I'm in the Bahamas enjoying my vacation, snuggling with my man, your father when guess what shows up on the television screen?" Sarahh Michaelson said to her daughter. The calmness of her mother's voice sent a chill through Chevonne's body and caused her to start shivering.
"Hi, mom," Chevonne said sounding and feeling like a little girl five years of age.
Silence.
"Are you and dad enjoying your cruise?" Chevonne asked.
Silence
Chevonne started silently quoting the Lord's Prayer because she knew she was in serious, deep, stink, stank trouble.
"You know what I want to hear?" her mother said after Chevonne remained silent too long.
"We'll talk about it when you and dad return home," Chevonne told her mother.
"You damn right ..."
Sarahh Michaelson cut herself off. "Girl you're going to make me forget my religion. I want to know what's going on and I want to know right now."
"I'm getting married," Chevonne said swallowing the bad taste that developed in her mouth as the lie left her lips. "Ashton surprised me by proposing to me at the airport. I thought he was just bringing me over to meet his parents I didn't know he planned on proposing."
"You never mentioned you were seeing anyone named Ashton," her mother said. "How long have the two of you been dating and when did it turn serious?"
"I'll explain everything to you when you return home mom," Chevonne said, "we'll sit down and I'll tell you everything. I promise."
"Chevonne, I know when you're lying," her mother said. "You know that don't you?"
"Yes, mom," Chevonne said.
"Call me when you're ready to talk alright?" her mother said.
"Yes, ma'am," Chevonne replied.
"I love you," her mother said.
"I love you too mom," Chevonne replied.
By the time Chevonne hung up the phone tears were streaming down her face. Ashton put his arms around her and apologized for creating their current situation.
CHAPTER 6
Ashton held Chevonne as she cried. He reached over to the night stand next to the right of the bed and pulled out a couple of tissues and gave them to Chevonne. She took them and wiped her eyes.
"Chevonne, I'm so, so ...."
"Don't say you're sorry," Chevonne said wiping the tears from her eyes. "You're not responsible for the lie I told my mother."
"But you did it because of me," Ashton said.
"You asked me to do it," Chevonne said, "but the decision to lie to her was mine so that makes me responsible for any hurt my mother is or may feel because of it."
Ashton couldn't believe the woman he was holding in his arms. She was refusing to let him shoulder any of the blame or guilt for what had just happened between her and her mother.
He couldn't believe that she was willing to shoulder all the blame. He knew that if Katrina had been in the same situation he would've been putting a major dent in his credit card trying to get her to forgive him.
Katrina would've been playing the martyr to the hilt for days. Milking it for all it was worth.
But with Chevonne he was pleading to share some of the blame and she wouldn't let him.
"Are you going to call your mother back?" Ashton asked.
"Yes, but not right now," Chevonne said. "I sent them on that cruise to enjoy themselves and that is what I want them to do."
"You sent them on a cruise?" Ashton asked amazed at what she said.
"Yeah," Chevonne said smiling when she thought about the look on her parents face when she presented them with the tickets the day she graduated from college. "From the first day I attended college I made up my mind that when I graduated in four years, the same day I received my diploma that I would give my parents a gift for having faith in me and supporting my dreams. I knew exactly what it would be because my mother has talked about it for as long as I can remember. She has wanted to go on a cruise around the world with my father. I went looking for a job the next day and I found one. I took the first paycheck I received and every check after that and put it in the bank and I promised myself I wouldn't touch that money for any reason. I managed to keep that promise and when I graduated I had more than enough money to send my parents off on the dream vacation they wanted."
"You don't have any siblings?" Ashton asked.
"Just my brother Martin," Chevonne said. "He's older than I am and he graduated college five years before I did so my parents didn't have to worry about someone to take care of us because we're old enough to take care of ourselves."
"Are your parents retired?"
"No," Chevonne said moving out of Ashton's arms.
"My father has his own business and my mother says that her job is to keep him in line."
Ashton broke out laughing. "Your mother does sound like my mother."
"I think they would get along very well if they ever met," Chevonne said.
"Sounds like your father could've taken your mother on that cruise without your assistance," Ashton remarked.
"He could've," Chevonne said, "but I wanted this gift to be from me. Something I earned and did on my own. To show them how much I love them and that I listened to the things they tried to teach me about hard work, being independent and self sufficient. To seek help if needed and to give it when I can and it's deserved."
"I bet your parents were surprised when you handed them the ticket for and around the world cruise," Ashton remarked.
"Yes, they were," Chevonne said smiling again when she thought about the look on her parents faces when she presented them with the tickets. "The look of surprise and pride on my parents faces and in their eyes made everything it took for me to give them the gift worth it."
"You're an amazing daughter," Ashton said.
"No," Chevonne said. "I have amazing parents. Believe me when I say they more than earned the cruise and more. It wasn't easy for them to have me for a daughter."
"I don't believe that."
"Until I graduated from high school I was the vein of my parents existence. I made good grades but I also got into trouble for doing some pretty stupid things."
"We all did that," Ashton replied. "I bet the things you did would be small compared to what I put my parents through."
Chevonne laughed imagining the man standing before her as a child and she had to agree with him that what her parents went through with her probably would be considered small compared to the things he put his parents through.
"Let me take you out to dinner," Ashton said abruptly changing the subject.
The thought of going out to dinner made Chevonne cringe. She wasn't in the mood to deal with the public and the news reporters she knew had to be lurking about outide waiting to take pictures of her and Ashton or waiting to bombard them with questions.
"I don't think so," Chevonne said to Ashton. "I don't want to have to deal with the press or the public right now."
Ashton was about to try and change her mind when his mobile phone began to vibrate. He looked at the caller ID and saw that it was his older brother Spencer calling him. He answered it.
"Hello."
"Please tell me you didn't go through with that ridiculous plan you and Katrina dreamed up to get mom and dad to accept the two of you getting married," his brother said without returning his greeting.
"It's nice to hear from you Spencer," Ashton said ignoring his brother's question.
"Answer my question you arse hole," Stephen said his anger at his younger brother coming through in his voice.
"Yes," Ashton said taking a deep breath and pushing it out. "We did."
"I can't believe you," Spencer said anger mixed with shame moving through his body. "How could you do such a thing? How could you use another person in such a manner. How do you think she's going to feel when she finds out what you're doing?"
"She knows," Ashton said looking over at Chevonne letting her know he was talking about her. "She knew before we left the states."
"And she went along with it anyway?" Spencer asked. "Why?"
"She wanted to see if I would go through with it," Ashton said shame now filling his voice.
Feeling uncomfortable listening to his conversation Chevonne stood to leave so he could have some privacy. Ashton's hand reached out and grabbed her wrist. He told his brother to hold the phone.
"Where're you going?" he asked Chevonne.
"Downstairs," Chevonne told him.
"Promise me you won't leave," Ashton said needing her reassurance she would be there when he finished talking to his brother.
"I promise you, I won't leave," Chevonne said not understanding his sudden need for her reassurance.
Ashton released her wrist and continued his conversation with his brother.
Chevonne went downstairs and fund Ashton's mother discussing what they would be having for dinner with the cook.
"Would you like anything special for dinner Chevonne?" Alice asked. "I'm sure Mavis could prepare anything you would like to eat."
"No," Chevonne said. "I'm not sure I'll be eating dinner."
"Why won't you be joining us for dinner?" Alice asked a hint of concern in her voice.
"I think, I have a touch of jetlag," Chevonne said rubbing her stomach. "My stomach is a bit queasy."
"Why didn't you say something earlier?" Alice said walking over and taking hold of Chevonne's hand.
"I could've given you something to help you feel better."
"It's not that bad," Chevonne said. "I can deal with it."
"Are you sure?" Alice asked, "because I do have something you can take for it."
"I'm sure," Chevonne said. "I think I'll be alright by morning."
"Where is your fiancé, our son?" Charles asked.
"He's upstairs on the phone with someone named Spencer," Chevonne said.
"I knew his brother would call when he saw the news reports on the telly," Alice said a smile breaking out on her face. "He's probably reading Ashton the riot act because he didn't tell him, he was going to propose to you."
'I don't think so', Chevonne thought to herself thinking about what she heard Ashton say to Spencer before she came downstairs.
"Would you like to go sit out in the garden or watch the telly?" Alice asked Chevonne.
"Sitting out in the garden would be nice," Chevonne said, "I think the air would be refreshing."
Alice led Chevonne through the house out to the patio and the garden.
"Would you like something to drink?" Alice asked.
"No, thank you," Chevonne replied.
"Well, I have to go check on dinner," Alice said, "let me know if you change your mind about wanting something to drink or if you get hungry."
"I will," Chevonne said.
Chevonne had been sitting in the garden and gotten comfortable by relaxing on one of the chaise loungers with her eyes closed when a shadow fell over her blocking out the sun.
She opened her eyes and looked into eyes that mirrored Ashton only they were more serious. She assumed the man standing over her speaking on the cell phone was Spencer, Ashton's brother. Her assumption was confirmed when the by the next words he spoke into the phone.
"What is your fiancée wearing Ashton?" Spencer asked.
Ashton must've asked why because Chevonne heard him tell Ashton, he was in the garden with a woman who had to be a Princess or a Queen from Africa because the woman was too beautiful to be anything less.
The word 'player' immediately flashed into Chevonne's mind as Spencer spoke.
"Ashton said to tell you he's on his way down," Spencer said to Chevonne his eyes traveling up and down her body like she was a chocolate dessert laid out just for him to enjoy."
"Thank you," Chevonne said.
"I'm Spencer by the way," Spencer said introducing himself to Chevonne and extending his hand out for her to shake. "Ashton's older and more charming brother."
Chevonne looked up at Spencer. He stood about six and half feet tall, she put his weight at about two hundred or two hundred and ten pounds.
His hair was long hanging past his shoulders, which he wore in a pony-tail. He was dressed casual wearing a shirt and a pair of denim blue jeans. Chevonne looked down at his feet and saw that he was wearing a white Nike basketball shoes.
She wondered if he played. He definitely spent time in the gym, his muscular body was a testament to that.
"I'm glad you didn't include modest in your description of yourself," Chevonne said shaking Spencer's hand. "I'm Chevonne Michaelson, Ashton's fiancée."
"That's not what I heard," Spencer said his voice teasing and gifting Chevonne with his most devastating smile.
"That's the line we're going with," Chevonne said her tone absent of teasing.
"I didn't mean to upset you," Spencer said noting the tightness in Chevonne's voice.
"I'm sorry," Chevonne said realizing she was taking her feelings out on the wrong person, "you didn't upset me. I'm tired and I'm not having a very good day and I'm taking it out on you. Which I shouldn't do because my mood and my bad day aren't your fault."
"I understand," Spencer said sitting down on the chaise lounger next to Chevonne, "and I forgive you."
Chevonne smiled at him and went back to trying to relax and enjoying the garden. Spencer eased back into the lounger where he was sitting, never taking his eyes off Chevonne.
"The image would last longer if you took a picture brother dear," Ashton said as he stepped out on to the patio into the garden and saw his brother staring at Chevonne like she was a meal he couldn't wait to dive into.
"I don't need a camera dear brother," Spencer said his eyes still trained on Chevonne, "this image is forever burned into my memory.
"I'm gong upstairs to my room," Chevonne said standing and heading back upstairs not wanting to deal with the tension she was feeling between the brothers. "If the two of you are going to talk about me as if I'm not here I might as well not be here."
"What're you doing?" Ashton asked his brother when they were alone in the garden.
"Just getting to know my future sister-in-law," Spencer said finally turning his attention to his brother after Chevonne entered the house. "She is beautiful."
"Yes, she is," Ashton said, "and everyone thinks that she is engaged to me so that means she is off limits to you."
"I don't think that is your decision to make little brother," Spencer said standing and stretching. "I believe Chevonne is the only one that can decide if she is off limits to me."
"Spencer, you can't try to bed Chevonne while everyone thinks she and I are engage," Ashton warned his brother.
"I have a feeling that Chevonne isn't going to continue to allow you to use her for your little charade," Spencer said. "I don't think she's going to continue to let you disrespect her the way you're doing. She doesn't appear to me to be the type of woman that will to allow this to continue."
"Whether she does or not isn't your concern," Ashton said walking over to confront his brother, "and you will stay away from her. She is not to be used as one of your little female dolls and thrown away when you tire of her."
"Do you like or care for the lady, little brother?" Spencer asked.
"Don't challenge me on this Spencer," Ashton said his voice cold and hard.
"Stay.....a.....way....from.....Chevonne."
Spencer watched his little brother left the garden. He smiled because Ashton hadn't realized that he was attracted to Chevonne.
He knew this because his brother had never threatened him before when it came to a woman. Not even when he brought she-who-shall-not-be-mentioned-by-name to meet the family and he told him, he thought he could do better.
Ashton's response was to give him a dirty look but he didn't verbally threaten him. His parents were right Ashton has a thing for his guest and it was up to the family to make him acknowledge his attraction to the lovely Chevonne and he would do all he could to help.
Spencer knew he was going to enjoy making Ashton jealous with all the attention he would be heaping on Chevonne, he couldn't wait to see his brother turned red with anger as he tortured him. 'Yes, brother dear, I'm really going to enjoy myself', he thought to himself.
"Where is your brother going," Charles asked his eldest son joining him in the garden.
"He's going upstairs to warn Chevonne to stay away from me, I believe," Spencer said.
"I hope he doesn't do that," Charles said, "because if he does it's only going to cause Chevonne to defy him and flirt with you just to show him, he can't tell her what to do."
"It'll only make him angrier," Spencer said. "It might even help him to realize that he has feelings for Chevonne."
"You're right", Charles said to his eldest child.
"It might help him realize he has feelings for Chevonne to see her flirting with you."
"But we're not sure Chevonne is interested in him," Spencer remarked, "we might be doing all of this for nothing."
"Do you really believe she would leave the states and come all the way over here to see if he would go through with this ridiculous plan if she didn't have feelings for him?" his father asked. "She came all this way because she had to see for herself if she was wrong in her opinion of him. You don't do something like that if you don't care for a person or if you're not attracted to him. Oh, no son, she has feelings for him. She might be on the isle of denial like your brother but she does care for him."
"What're you and mom going to do about she-who-shall-not-be-mentioned-by-name?"
"We're going to pray that she stays wherever she is and out of our way," his father replied, "but if she does become a problem I think your mother will come up with away to handle her that doesn't require anyone in the family to go to jail."
"Are you sure you want to leave mum in charge of that?" Spencer ask laughing at the thought of what his mother might do to keep Katrina from ruining their plans to get Chevonne and Ashton together.
"I trust your mother."
"How did you and mum know that Ashton was attracted to Chevonne?"
"Your mother knew as soon as she saw the two of them walking down the ramp at the airport. She said there something in Ashton's eyes, the way he held Chevonne's hand. She said it was confirmed for her when he proposed to Chevonne in front of all those people in the airport."
"He could've done because he felt trapped," Spencer said.
"When have you ever known your brother to do something because he was trapped?" his father asked.
"Never," Spencer said.
"So, if he proposed to Chevonne he...."
"did it because he wanted to," Spencer said finishing what his father was about to say.
"That's right," his father said.
"I want you and mum to promise me that you'll never do anything like this to me," Spencer said. "I don't need you and mum to help me realize that I have feelings for someone."
"We would never do anything like this to you son," Charles said to Spencer.
"Thank you," Spencer said happy with his father's answer.
"We've reconciled ourselves to the fact that you'll never settle down and get married," Charles said as he headed back into the house."
"That's right," Spencer said. "Hey, wait a minute," he said going after his father. "What do you mean by that statement? What makes you think, I'll never get married? Are you saying I can't find someone to marry me? Come back here dad, you have to explain yourself."
Charles kept walking a smile gracing his face.
|
Damian scowled as he trudged up the stairs to his penthouse apartment in Downtown Gotham. He was beyond done with the day. It was supposed to rain all morning, but Mr. Freeze decided to turn it into snow
the first fucking thing in the morning
. And Father, with his old ass, could not wake up to save his life. So that left Robin to save the lives of the citizens of Gotham
and
kick Mr- no wait-
Dr
Freezes ass, then
drop him off all the way to Arkham
because the damn roads were frozen over. Then come
all the way back
without breakfast or an umbrella for back to back WE meetings. WE meetings that run through
lunch
, and then Father comes back and flips, what Damian thought, a well proceeding meeting by implying that a potential business partner was embezzling from his own company. (He was, but Father wasn’t supposed to say it to his
face.
) By the time he straightened everything out (when was he the one that had tact and a careful tongue?) It started to rain. His father had already left with Alfred, leaving Damian to walk home, in the cold (he
hates
the cold) and the rain, only for the elevator to stop working in the complex.
It had not been his day.
Fuck, it hasn’t been his
week
.
Ever since Jon went off to some deep space mission with his father, Damians week just went into the shitter.
Damian fished out his phone and his keys as he neared his apartment, and checked the date on his phone.
Two more days till Jon comes back.
Damian pouted as he pocketed his phone and he rounded the corner to
finally
get home. He laid his aching head on the door as he weakly put his keys into the lock. Damian swore that he heard one of Jon’s favorite country songs play on the other side.
You’re delirious and hungry, Wayne, not to mention love sick.
He chastised himself as he walked in.
It seems fate had some mercy on him for once in his life.
There was Jon, in his glasses and a fitted white button down, with his pressed slacks; looking as if he just got home from the Planet.
Jon turned and gave him a big smile “Well don’t you look like a hundred bucks?”
Damian’s brain didn’t even acknowledge his aching legs sprinting towards his lover and pouncing on him.
Jon laughed, his sweet, innocent, musical laugh, as Damian wrapped his arms around his neck and legs around his waist. He clung to him like a koala bear and breathed in his honey sent that he missed so much.
“I’m guessing you didn’t miss me much.” he heard Jon say. Damian lifted his head and kissed him, relishing the feeling of Jons warm lips sliding against his, the way his strong arms were securely wrapped around his back, ensuring that he wouldn’t fall or slip away.
Jon was the one to pull away first, but rubbed their noses together.
“You didn’t close the door, Batboy.”
Damian didn’t bother responding to the nickname they gave each other in their childhood, he just kissed Jon again, as the younger boy carried him to close the door.
“You were gone for too long.” Damian grumbled, tilting his head going in for another kiss.
“Sorry.” Jon whispered as Damian peppered kisses across a warm cheek. Damian felt Jon moving them again, and he
hoped
it was to the bedroom. He missed Jon for far too long to wait a second more. But, it wasn’t what he wanted, Jon wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and walked back to the dining room. Damian whined as he nibbled at Jons earlobe.
“You feel like ice, you know that right?” Jon asked, forcing Damian to look into his eyes.
“Bad day, busy week.” Damian said glumly, resting his head on Jons shoulder. Jon pressed a kiss to his temple.
“Well, do you want to eat first, or do you want a hot bath? Cause both are ready for you when you want them.”
“Well, I want
you
right now,” Damian purred, his lips tracing Jon’s neck, “are
you
ready for
me?
”
Before Jon could answer, Damian’s stomach roared in protest.
“I’m
always
ready for you baby, but right now you need food and a hot bath.” Jon smiled.
“And after that?” Damian smirked, as Jon set him down on a chair.
Jon blushed and walked into the kitchen.
Oh innocent farm boy, how I loathe you.
Damian was fed a lovely dinner and Jon cleaned up while he took a hot shower. (A shower that Jon refused to take
with
Damian, no matter how much he tried to persuade.)
Now Damian was dressed in his comfiest pajamas and he was pouting profusely on the couch. He
refused
to get into bed without his boyfriend. Or at least without pushing him
into
the bed, crawling on top of him, while he-
Damian’s fantasy was cut short as the lights dimmed and Jon sat next to him, still in his work clothes and glasses.
“You’re cute when you pout.” Jon smiled, taking Damians face into his hands and kissing him. Damian eagerly returned the kiss. Jon pulled away and took off his fake glasses, allowing Damian to witness the twinkle in Jon’s ethereal blue eyes. He caught himself swooning as Jon placed them on the coffee table beside Damian, connecting their lips again.
The kiss was slow, passionate, full of desire and an unspoken ‘I missed you’. Usually that type of kiss would make Damians toes curl and make him feel like he’s floating, but tonight he wanted to
speed things up.
He
needed
to hear Jon screaming his name, feel his body sliding
deliciously
against his own, he needed Jon’s thick tangled locks in his hands as he pulled on them while he took him from behind, taste the sweat on the nape of Jon’s neck as he left a mark. He needed that
now.
Jon broke the kiss again and Damian almost screamed.
“You’re being more bashful than usual, beloved. Everything okay?” Damian sighed, quelling his impatience.
“Yeah! It’s just.... This planet that we went to... they uh... gave me some ideas and I wanted to try them with you. To make up for your bad week and everything.” Jon blushed as he looked up at him with impossibly gigantic blue eyes.
Damian resisted the urge to rolls his eyes, internally cursing his weakness to that
damn
puppy dog look, and he nodded his head. Jon beamed and pressed his lips against his, straddling his lap.
THIS is more like it!
“Although, I’ll make this a challenge, because I know you love those.” Jon panted in his ear, a moment later, as Damian pressed kisses down his jaw. Damian hummed in response, only
now
registering that there’s music playing through the bluetooth speakers throughout their apartment.
The mood is set
So you already know what’s next
“Try not to touch me.” Jon whispered, his mouth quirking up into a small smirk as he pressed his lips back onto his.
Damian furrowed his brows in confusion, but broke the kiss and took his hands off of Jon’s hips, setting them against the cushions of the couch. He looked up expectantly at Jon, and he immediately wished he hadn’t.
Jon was on his knees, looming over him, his dark fringe was hanging in his lidded eyes, pupils blown and dilated. Points of his pearly white teeth gleamed in the dim light as he bit into his plump pink lips. He was staring down at him ravenously and Damian’s breathing picked up.
Jon slowly,
tragically slowly,
untucked his button down shirt from his pants, and removed his belt, letting it fall to the floor with a clang.
Oh God. Oh fucking
God.
He’s doing a strip tease. Oh fucking
Hell.
Jon closed his eyes as he raked his hand through his soft strands, swaying his hips to the sultry beat.
No teasin’ you waited long enough
Oh the fucking
irony
. Damian thought as Jon’s hips grazed against his hardening member. His arms twitched, and he caught Jon’s lips turn upwards into a teasing smile, practically screaming
Nuh uh uh! We said
no touching!
Damian clenched his teeth and ignored the heat rising to his cheeks.
Jon undid his pant button, unzipped them and shimmed them down to the tops of his thighs, giving Damian and perfect view of Jon’s hardening crotch through his boxer briefs.
Jon placed his palms on either side of Damian’s head, and hovered over his face. Damian choked on his spit.
“Guess this is why the strippers have those tear away pants, having to take your pants off fully isn’t all that sexy.” Jon grinned, still slowly moving his hips as the pants fell further, then finally to the floor.
“Well, you’ve just made it sexy.” Damian all but moaned out.
“Thanks!” Jon beamed.
If Damian wasn’t
absolutely
turned on right now (or had some blood circulation to his
brain
), he would have laughed at the reappearance of Bright Bubbly Jon.
Softer than the others, boy I know you wanna touch
Want you to feel it now
Jon was merciless now, encasing Damian’s lap with his long muscular legs, moving his hips in a circle above the
obvious
tent in his pajama pants, softly brushing against it and sending
violent
tremors through Damian’s body.
Jon, the evil beautiful tease, was slowly undoing the buttons on his button up and singing the lyrics of song in a breathless whisper.
“Don’t hold back, you know I like it rough
You know i’m feelin’ ya, you know you likin’ it”
Damian’s eyes rolled to the back of his head as he heard the words in Jon’s downright
sinful
voice.
Jon laid on his chest, shirt fully unbuttoned, but still on. On arm resting behind them and another on his jaw.
Damian felt Jon’s lips graze over to his ear, his hand slowly trailing down his neck.
“
Relax
.” Jon’s hot breath fanned over his ear and Damian had to bite his lips down to keep a moan in.
“Im... totally relaxed. Just trying not to... cum in my pants.” Damian panted out, grabbing the couch cushions so hard his knuckles were white.
Jon chuckled, soft and seductive, Damian whined on the spot, instinctively raising his hips.
Suddenly, Jon pushed off the couch and Damian’s head snapped up. Jon was still in Damians lap, but only Damian was facing his back.
Jon threw a smirk over his shoulder and pulled off his shirt, allowing Damian to see Jon’s back muscles move
deliciously
under his skin. Jon rolled his hips, and let his head fall to the side showing off his long neck, letting his shirt fall to the floor.
He was showing off the places that Damian loved to bite and mark. And Damian would love to do
nothing more
than to grab him by the hips and start trailing hickies down his spine.
Jon quickly began to grind his ass right into Damian’s throbbing member. Damian moaned loudly, and his body jerked forward, allowing Jon to rest his head against the older boys shoulder, grinding into him with the beat of the song.
All im in is just skin, no jeans, take them off,
Wanna feel your skin
Damian moaned and whined, lifting his hips to rub between the cheeks of Jons beautifully sculpted ass. Damian squeezed his eyes shut as he felt Jons hand caress up his bare stomach, rolling a nipple in his fingers.
“Oh,
fuck,
Jon.” Damian groaned.
Jon withdrew his fingers and slid both of his hands down Damian’s arms
Im loving your skin
Jon wrapped his hands around Damian’s wrists and brought one towards himself. He looked up at Damian, making sure his eyes were glued to him and inserted Damian’s middle finger into his stove hot mouth and
sucked
, his eyes fluttering shut.
Damian practically
screamed
.
Jon bobbed his head, swirling his tongue around his finger, leading Damian’s other hand to his stomach. Damian thrusted his hand down and wrapped his fist around Jon’s dick.
Jon’s jaw became slack as me moaned wetly around the finger in his mouth, allowing for Damian to stick his index finger into his mouth. He immediately began to suck on the added finger as he bucked against Damians calloused hands, and grinded on the dampening spot of Damian’s pajamas.
Damian withdrew his hands and pulled Jon flush against his body, laying Jon against the cool leather cushions of their couch. Jon pulled his boxers down and tossed them aside and Damian did the same with his pajamas.
Damian slowly loomed over Jon’s back and kissed and bit down his shoulders. Jon wiggled his ass into Damians soaked penis. Damian slapped his ass and Jon moaned.
“That was
naughty.
And here I was thinking that you were just being
shy
.” Damian grinned, spanking Jon again.
“I’m glad you liked it.” Jon mewled, bucking against him.
“That was so fucking
hot
and I can’t
wait
to fuck you.” Damian groaned, running his hands all over Jon.
“Then
fuck
me!” Jon pleaded.
“No way, you teased and tortured me. Now it’s my turn.”
It was a lie, the biggest lie Damian has ever told besides “My father is not The Batman.”
Damian was
not
about to wait a
second
longer, and teasing Jon would take more time than he wanted. Damian trailed kisses up Jons spine, leaving small pink marks in his wake, as he slowly kneaded Jon’s hips. Jon grabbed a seat cushion and muffled his moan into it. Damian grabbed the offensive thing and tossed it away.
“Let me
hear
you Jon. Let me hear you moan and whine, scream my name. I need to hear your voice.” Damian ordered as he left a harsh hickey into the dip of Jon’s neck and shoulder.
Jon moved his head to the side and whined out a “Yes sir”.
“Yeah, habibi, just like that.” he kissed Jon’s cheek and went to grab the lube.
Damian’s eyes widened.
Fuck. Of all times!
“Wh-what’s wrong? Why’d you stop?” Jon groaned under him.
“Um, we don’t have lube.”
Jon sat up and gave Damian an annoyed look over his shoulder.
“What! I just-”
Jon sighed in irritation, and thrust his hand between the couch cushions and pulled out a bottle. Damian kissed Jon deeply, taking the bottle from his hands, slowly laying him back down.
“Don’t happen to have condoms in there, do we?” Damian asked cheekily.
Jon gave him a smirk that practically made him cum on the spot.
“Let’s try something new.” Jon purred, arching his hips up so that his ass was in the air.
“Fuck, i’d call you an angel if you weren’t a walking
sin.
”
Jon only laughed and Damian slapped his ass again. “Back to business then.”
Damian coated his fingers in lube and slowly pushed a finger in hearing Jon hum in content. He slowly thrusted in and out, watching Jon like a hawk. The way his cheeks reddened, small golden freckles disappearing in the sea of crimson. The way his eyes shut and he let and open mouth gasp, biting down on his swollen pink lip. The way he grabbed fists full of the sofa, his hair messy and tangled.
“Damian, more.” Jon moaned
Damian added another digit and thrusted them in and out. Jon was gasping and panting, practically rocking himself back on Damians fingers.
Damian spanked him, and he stopped rocking in favor of moaning out.
“You bad boy, were you trying to fuck yourself against my fingers?” Damian sighed, adding a third finger, making scissoring movements to ready Jon for him.
Jon gasped out a “
Yes!”
Damian tutted as he trusted his fingers deeper into the whimpering boy. Damian’s other hand traveling from Jon's ass cheek to his hip, to grabbing his throbbing cock.
Jons moans became a grable of words that mainly revolved around “Fuck!”, “Yes!”, and Damian’s personal favorite, “
Damian!!”
“Yes beloved? You called?” Damian asked coyly, moving his thumb around Jon's head and smearing precum down the sides of his shaft, while thrusting his fingers, to his knuckles, into Jon’s entrance.
“Damian,
please.
I need you
now.
I need you in me. I need to feel the way you fill me.
Please
fuck me Damian!”
Damian almost moaned at Jon’s words. The way they sounded so
broken
, the way that he was
begging
for him.
Damian withdrew his hands and hovered over Jon, placing his lips against his ear, pressing his throbbing cock right in between Jon’s cheeks.
“Now how can I say no when you
asked so pretty?”
Damian spread Jon’s ass and slipped in with a single smooth thrust.
Jon screamed and Damian’s whole body shuddered.
“God, beloved, you’re so
tight
and
hot
.” Damian moaned, slowly moving his hips.
“I love the way you stretch me, Damian. I love the way you feel in me. I want to feel you cumming in my hole. I wanna scream my voice raw to only your name.” Jon cried out from under him.
Damian’s head swam and his gut coiled. He responded to Jon by speeding up his thrusts, angling his hips for that spot that makes Jon go-
“OH
FUCK
! YES!
DAMIAN!
YES! THERE! RIGHT THERE, FUCK ME THERE
PLEASE!
”
There it is!
Damian smirked.
“
Please
Damian!
Please
fuck me
harder!”
Damian moaned and grabbed a fist full of Jon’s hair, yanking it back. He was slamming into his hips. Damian glanced down and saw Jon’s eyes shut tight, mouth open in the perfect O position. He ran his tongue along Jon’s, flicking it against the sharps of his teeth, pressing it to the roof of his mouth, swirling it so far down Jon’s throat, he could
taste
his moans. Moans so wet and hot, so filthy and
erotic
, Damian figured this is what heaven tastes like.
Damian felt the pressure in his stomach building to a breaking point. He flinched away from the kiss.
“J-Jon, i’m
so
close!”
Jon cut him off with another kiss, and Damian reached down and pumped Jon’s slick cock in time with his thrusts.
Jon tore his lips off of Damian’s and arched into his hand, screaming out his name. Something inside Damian snaps and his vision blurs as he cums deep inside Jon, pressing his forehead against Jon’s shoulder blades as he growls. Jon doesn’t last any longer as he cries out Damian’s name once more, spilling into said boys fist.
Both continue to ride out their orgasms until they collapse on the couch, trying to catch their breath.
Damian reaches under the sofa and pulls out the baby wipes they store there, usually to give themselves a quick clean after patrol and before the showers. He quickly wiped Jon down and gave him a peck on the lips.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself” Jon smiled lazily.
“How was your mission?”
Jon gave him a look and started to laugh.
“Out of curiosity, did you
actually
miss me? Or did you miss-” Jon gestured to his whole body.
Damian laughed, and kissed all over Jons face. “Oh beloved, you have no idea just
how
much I missed you.”
“I think the soreness in my hips gives me a pretty good idea.” Jon laughed as Damian kissed him. Jon brushed his nose against Damian’s, “I missed you too.”
Damian’s stomach flips and fills itself with butterflies. He wraps his arms around Jons waist and kisses him deeply again.
“What kind of planet did you go to that taught you
that
?!” Damian asked pulling away.
“Well, I was talking to someone on Drax as to what to give to you as a sorry for being away for so long, and they gave me these tickets for a-”
“Strip club?” Damian chuckled, jealousy slightly bubbling in his gut
“No! It was like a lounge! It was like a blanket fort with a bunch of people sitting around and then one person goes in the middle to dan- you know what, I think it may have been a strip club.”
Damian laughed at Jons flustered face when the realization dawned on him.
“How do you not know a stip club when you see one?!”
“I’ve never been to one! And I figured they were dark and had dudes everywhere and, oh my god Damian.”
Damian could not stop laughing as Jon buried his blushing face into his shoulder.
“Aww, there there Jonathan. I’m
so
sorry that the
Evil Alien Planet
took your
innocence.”
Damian cooed as he pet Jons sweaty strands.
“I hate you.”
“Happy to hear it.”
Jon extracted himself from Damian and rolled off the couch.
“Where are you going?” Damian pouted, as Jon dressed himself.
“To the bedroom, we don’t both fit on the couch.” Jon laughed, pulling on his white button down.
“Round 2 then?” Damian purred, wrapping his arms around his beloved, resting his head on his shoulder.
Jon tries to suppress a smile but Damian already saw it. He jumps off of the couch and hauls Jon over his shoulder.
“Damian!” Jon yelps.
“Yelling my name already? Beloved, you are too much.” Damian smirks as he swats Jons ass, heading to the bedroom. A perfect way to end an awful week.
|
Peter, who has a lot of experience at this, has fought the pain and the boredom of the following few hours by meditating, counting clouds, fantasizing about Chris rescuing him like some damsel in distress, fantasizing about ripping Alpha Korhonen apart and stealing his alpha spark for himself...in short, fantasizing about every possible version of “I’m not dying here like a dog” when the place bursts alive with activity, the betas flying out of cabins to follow the alpha down to the parking lot.
A sinuous, silver Mercedes roadster glides up the driveway into the parking lot and stops right at the feet of the alpha, who is standing with his hands on his hips. There are two heartbeats in the car, and Peter is shocked when Lydia steps out of of the driver’s side, followed by Chris unfolding himself from the passenger seat. These are the last two people he expected to see here, now. His gut churns a little, knowing what it means that neither Scott nor Stiles decided to show up for negotiations, but he’s confused at to why Lydia would bother.
The betas all shift back from Lydia, but the alpha does not twitch. He motions for the emissary to go to the car, presumably to search it for anyone who might be cloaked and hiding inside it. Lydia rolls her eyes but dutifully clicks the key fob to unlock it and open the tiny trunk.
Chris glances at Peter with disinterest. He looks less like a hunter this time and more like the high-level executive he is, dressed in a dark charcoal three piece suit. This one is more conservative than the lighter colors he usually wears, and his shirt is a classic off-white with a silvery patterned tie. He could be working for the FBI if it weren’t for the fact that it is obviously tailored to fit him, or if everything about it and his bearing did not scream “power, money, and prestige.”
The alpha eyes him warily but turns his attention back to Lydia, who looks over at Peter then moves toward him. The Alpha holds out his arm, blocking her way.
“If you think this negotiation is starting without me verifying who is in that cage, you are mistaken,” she snaps at him, walking right around his arm with Chris dutifully at her back. A few betas gape at the blatant insubordination but she ignores everyone.
She’s dressed to impress. Peter has seen her in all of her guises, and this one might best be described as “Queen Bee” — a sharply tailored burgundy suit that hugs her curves but is conservatively cut, the skirt hemmed at her knees and the jacket allowing her room to move. Her jewelry is likewise impressive, to anyone who can recognize the quality. Nothing is ostentatious save the bulky, almost gaudy bangle bracelet hanging off her right hand, although that is made up for by being encrusted with rubies. Her lustrous hair is in a tight chignon with a few strands falling artfully lose to soften the look. Even her shoes (which Peter knows are Labuton) are understated, the heel not quite as high as she normally prefers.
Peter understands, if no one else present does, that the entire ensemble is her opening shot. He’s just not sure who she’s aiming at.
Chris continues to look indifferent, his posture relaxed.
She stops in front of the cage and for a brief moment horror flashes in her eyes. It’s touching, but Peter is still wary. Then she pulls out her phone from her overly-large tote bag and smirks at Peter. “Smile!”
He bares his fangs as best he can with a cracked jaw but makes sure to look at the alpha with his one good eye so it doesn’t ruin the shot. She taps at the screen and then huffs in satisfaction.
“I’m keeping that photo forever.” She flashes it at Chris with a grin, who just raises an eyebrow. Chris’s poker face is a thing of legend, and he’s very much letting Lydia drive the proceedings. He doesn’t even look Peter in the eye.
“I suppose you’re the one in charge?” She says sweetly, turning to face the alpha who has walked up next to her. The rest of his pack are still keeping their distance.
“I am Alpha Randolph Korhonen, eldest of my line. It is an honor to meet the youngest Martin Banshee.” He bows like a gentleman. “Your magnificent reputation precedes you.”
Lydia preens at what is, Peter knows, hardly enough praise to satisfy her ego. She’s laying it on thick and he almost wants to laugh, except that would hurt his face a lot.
“However, it is unexpected to see you again, Elder Argent.” The alpha scowls at him.
“He is
my
guest,” Lydia says, snapping the words. The alpha merely tilts his head in acquiescence, although it is short of any kind of submission.
“So this is my dowry?” She nods toward Peter, and his brain stalls.
What
?
“It is my pleasure to offer you the life of your mortal enemy.” Alpha Korhonen bows again.
Peter suddenly realizes that any chance he might have had to come out of this alive just evaporated. They told the Korhonens that Lydia is free to choose which pack to align with, and Alpha Korhonen decided to find the lure she might want more than any other: revenge on Peter.
Lydia bats her eyes. “It is true that Alpha McCall was far less understanding of my, shall we say, displeasure at having
him
as a part of the pack.”
“Does Alpha McCall know you have taken me up on my offer?”
“Of course. He respects that it is my decision, though, which is why he never returned your calls.” She rolls her eyes, as if all of the drama is beneath her.
“So he will not retaliate?” The alpha glares at her.
“That’s why Chris is here.” She motions for him to step forward. He does, taking off his jacket as he does so. It makes a few of the betas and the emissary tense up, but again, the alpha does not twitch.
He drapes his jacket over his left arm and casually unbuttons the right cuff of his shirt. “Peter was not lying when he told you that the choice of which pack to align with is Lydia’s. Alpha McCall would not infringe on her freedom to that extent, even to keep a valuable ally.” He rolls up the sleeve and Peter knows, without a doubt, what he will
not
see when Chris’s forearm is revealed. Chris holds it up and both the alpha and emissary frown at it. The bare skin is testament to Peter’s abandonment.
“Our emissary is exceptionally powerful,” Chris says, lowering his arm. “He created a fake bond between Peter and myself in order to represent the Hale-McCall pack. Hold up, listen to me,” he says firmly when the alpha begins growling. “That’s on you. Your antiquated rules made it necessary. The reason Lydia asked me to tag along after Emissary Stilinski unforged the bond was as proof to you that the Hale-McCall pack will stand down from any retaliatory action based on her decision. You can go to war with us over this white lie and get a lot of ‘wolves on both sides killed, or take your new-found banshee and leave.”
Peter glances at his own arm, where the mate mark is still dark and vibrant, even from under the blood caked on his skin. He wonders exactly what magic Stiles used to release Chris but not him.
“And you? You have no investment?”
Chis shakes his head slowly, a smirk cutting through his expression. “If I did, I would have gotten out of the car shooting.” He juts his chin out, toward Peter. “Everyone here knows his history. Despite that, he’s been useful to the pack so Alpha McCall wanted him around. Now he’s a liability.” His heart doesn’t stutter at all and he finishes with a shrug. Peter’s will to live, as useless as it is given the circumstances, breaks a little bit more.
The silence holds between all parties while Alpha Korhonen considers the matter. Finally he lets out a whoosh of breath. “So be it. The deceit will be a matter for me to settle with Alpha McCall at another time, through proper diplomatic channels. Tell him so,” he adds, glaring at Chris, who has rebuttoned his sleeve and put his jacket back on.
Lydia steps forward again. “I am here to take what you promised me, and give what you asked,” she says formally.
The alpha looks surprised at the traditional statement of intent for such negotiations. Peter figures Derek probably coached her. Another nail in Peter’s coffin.
“I am honored to complete the bargain.” The alpha pulls a brutal looking knife out of a sheath on his thigh. “It looks old, but that is only the handle.” He displays the knife to Lydia, who is genuinely interested. As she should be, Peter thinks. The handle is probably elk horn, engraved with a series of runes, and radiates both age and power. Even Chris looks impressed.
“The blade, though, is modern. My blacksmith forged it from the steel of an ancient but unusable blade, and electroplated silver into the fuller.” He points at the blood groove along the foot-long blade. “Deadly to human, fae, and werewolves alike.” He turns the knife around and holds it gently by its blade, the handle directed toward Lydia.
She eyes it warily. “You’re giving this to a banshee?” She raises an eyebrow.
“If you align with my pack and my power, you will have my life in your hands. If I do not trust you now, when should I?”
It’s...it’s unfortunately a pretty solid argument. Peter starts growling because that is about all he’s got in him, as far as resistance goes. The emissary re-opens the cage and a beta reaches in to pull him out. He can’t do anything but go limp, the pain radiating out from everywhere as he is artlessly dragged to lie flat on his back between Lydia and the alpha. Chris looks down at him impassively, and Peter hates himself for how much more that hurts then his actual broken bones.
He focuses on Lydia with his one good eye. “Finn’ly gettin’ your due?” He says, trying to move his jaw as little as possible. As if it matters.
“Long past due, I believe. And it is not as if Scott or anyone will care once you are good and dead. What’s done is done, I believe is the saying?” She smiles again, this time with ruthlessness shining in her eyes, the sunlight reflecting off her brilliant hair, the rubies on her wrist sparkling like living things. He always did admire her so much, perhaps this is his most fitting end after all. Under an Argent’s gaze, no less.
She reaches out and grabs the knife. It’s heavy and drops in her hand for a moment before she takes the handle with both hands, holding it in the air over Peter’s chest.
“As slow or fast as you like,” the alpha says, as if offering her the option is the epitome of being a gracious host. Peter feels like he’s in a scene from the tv show
Hannibal
and wonders if the alpha is planning to eat his heart. Seems like that would be a thing for
Viking berserker werewolves
, anyway.
“I don’t want a bloody mess on my shoes.” She eyes the knife in her hands with displeasure, but the move is too coquettish, even for her. Peter knows her well enough to know when she’s serious and when she’s not. Her heart is a steady metronome of beats, not giving anything away, but Peter knows her in ways even he prefers not to think about. She’s acting, but Chris is standing near her, unfazed.
It’s not enough for Peter to hang any hope on.
Lydia is still toying with the knife with a moue of displeasure. The alpha steps forward.
“Would you prefer that I make the killing blow in your name?” He makes the offer deferentially.
Lydia pretends to consider it, but Peter knows that was her intention all along. She sighs. “Do you need my blessing? Or?” She hands the knife over.
“Not at all. That a banshee has held the blade with intent is enough,” The emissary (Shasta! Her name is Shasta, and Peter hates himself for remembering that
now
) says politely from her place several yards away. Peter wonders what the hell kind of information the Korhonens have about banshees that no one else seems to know. Chris has the same question, if the thoughtful head tilt he makes is any indication.
With a feral grin, the alpha steps up over Peter, holding the blade aloft. “With this death, we bind the powers of the Korhonen pack the Martin Banshee line!” There is a roar of approval from the crowd, and Peter feels they have moved from
Hannibal
to
Gladiator
. Are they not entertained?
“We shall be the most powerful pack on the continent again!” More howls and roaring. Chris looks intensely bored, while Lydia checks her nails and fiddles with her bracelet. “I will be the alpha of alphas! The power of the ancestors will be
ours
! We shall—”
Peter tunes out the histrionics and looks one more time at Chris—because why not?—before closing his eye against the man’s complete indifference.
Somehow, Peter always knew it would end for him like this: helpless, unwanted, unlamented.
He escaped the fire, but he cannot escape his fate.
|
One.
The first time it happened was actually during history class. Izzie was seated by her side, smiling and laughing before the teacher came into the room and then the brunette groaned as soon as the woman said they were watching a movie. Casey didn't understand, a movie is always better than class isn't it?
But then the teacher said they had to write an essay about the movie afterwards and she found herself groaning along with Izzie.
"Can we sit in the back?" The older girl asked, already grabbing her stuff and looking at Casey with a small smile in her face.
"Uh...Yeah, sure." She got up and grabbed her own stuff before following her friend, sitting at one of the back tables, with Izzie by her left side.
Their teacher asked them to be quiet and started the movie, which was about Civil War. Casey took her notebook out of her bag and started writing on it, just in case she forgot something while doing the essay later. The girl actually liked what she was watching - she was really found of history - that is... Until she looked at Izzie and saw the girl with eyes closed, arms above the table and her head resting in them. She looked peaceful, the most peaceful Casey had ever seen the girl.
While Izzie had always been easy to be around and easy to talk to – after they sorted things out obviously, she was terrible before. – Casey could always sense how the girl seemed to worry about things all the time, how there was always a small crinkle in her forehead, worrying about school and her family.
And maybe she should wake her, maybe the movie was important – not maybe, it was definitely important – maybe the teacher would be mad if she saw it. But Casey didn't have it in her heart to do it. She looked so at peace.
She would make sure Izzie had the details of the movie later and she made sure to be between the older girl and the teacher’s eyesight, so the woman couldn't see her friend napping, and she continued to take notes.
Izzie only woke up at the end of the class, smiling sleepily at Casey and thanking her for sharing her notes, which made her feel warm inside, but she didn’t paid that much attention to it.
Two.
The second time it happened was a few days after the first one. Casey had asked the brunette if she wanted to hang out after practice, too tired of her parents’ relationship problems and too tired to have to deal with Sam’s independence talk right now. She just wanted a little more time away from home. Preferably with one of her best friends.
"I have to study." The girl said, smiling apologetically while cleaning her locker. Casey found herself feeling a little disappointed, she was already looking forward to spend more time with her new friend. She could call Evan, ask if he wanted to hang out. "But you could come over. There's no one there today, we can study for a while and then watch a movie or something?"
Casey smiled again, nodding her head while following Izzie out of the school and into the girl's car. No need to call Evan.
They studied for a couple of hours before Izzie called quits, groaning and dropping her head at the table.
"I can't do this anymore can we please watch something now? Anything. You can choose.”
She didn't need to say anything else before Casey closed her books and nodded, glad that Izzie felt the same way about studying. She wasn’t the best at staying put for too long studying something and if she was honest, she had already given up an hour ago, just doodling while Izzie was reading her books.
“So what do you want to watch?” Izzie asked, sitting on the couch.
Casey shrugged, not caring too much, she was just glad to be out of her own house and in Izzie’s company. The older girl chose some random movie and laid herself down on the couch, using Casey’s legs as a support for her feet. Casey only rolled her eyes at her and smiled before turning her attention to the TV.
Turns out the movie was actually terrible and about forty minutes into the movie, Casey was bored to death. She turned to Izzie, ready to judge her for her movie choices just to find the girl asleep, mouth slightly open, one of her hands falling off the couch and the other hidden under one of the pillows.
Casey rolled her eyes and, trying not to wake her, grabbed the remote that was dropped on the floor, she couldn’t handle that movie much longer. Placing Izzie's legs above hers again, she smiled when she heard the girl mumble incoherently in her sleep.
Izzie was still out when Elsa texted, asking Casey when she was planning on getting home. The younger girl groaned loudly, waking Izzie up. The girl sighed and opened her eyes, confusion taking over for a couple of seconds before she looked at Casey.
“Oh shit, I'm sorry Case, I didn’t mean to sleep.”
“It’s okay, tho you really should’ve given me the remote before, the movie sucks.” Casey smiled when she saw the other girl do the same. “I have to get home, my mom's freaking out.”
“Oh, okay.” Izzie seemed disappointed for a second before she smiled again, getting up from the couch to guide her friend out.
Three.
The third time, Casey couldn’t believe it actually happened.
Izzie had texted her, asking if she could meet up. Another big fight with the older girl’s stepfather, she didn’t want to stay home. Casey had immediately agreed to meet her at a dinner close to the brunnete’s house. She texted Evan, cancelling their plans because “Izzie needs me. It’s important.” And promising to reschedule as soon as she could.
It took Casey fifteen minutes to get to the place. She held her arms open for Izzie as soon as she saw her, the girl melting inside then the minute they touched. Casey could see her eyes shine with unshed tears, but she didn’t comment on it, just dragged her inside so they could eat something.
Izzie told her everything that happened and Casey could feel her blood boil, already hating a person she hadn’t even met. They spent almost an hour there, and the younger girl could see how tense Izzie was at the thought of going home.
“You wanna go to the movies?” Casey asked and as soon as she saw the smile at her friend’s eyes, she knew she made the right choice. Izzie simply nodded.
Casey chose the movie, still not trusting her friend’s taste. She ended up enjoying a lot, it has been a while since the last time she went to a movie theater. It was only at the last few minutes that she looked to her side, finding Izzie’s head resting uncomfortably on the back of the chair with her eyes closed. The younger rolled her eyes, already used to it.
“Hey Iz, wake up.” She whispered as soon as the movie ended. The brunette jumped, startled for a second before turning back to Casey, smiling sleepily and laying her head in the back of the seat again. “Are you even going to watch a whole movie with me and not fall asleep?” Izzie shrugged, blushing slightly. “We need to go.” Casey said, looking back and finding out they were the only ones still in the room. Izzie’s smile faltered and it broke Casey’s heart. “You can stay over at my place if you want.”
And there was the smile again.
Four.
To say Casey was freaking out was an understatement. She was on the verge of a nervous break almost.
Izzie was coming over.
Izzie was coming over and they would be alone.
Izzie was coming over, they would be alone and all Casey could think about was kissing her.
It has been a month – almost two – since their talk in Doug’s car, and after some thought, Casey decided to end things with Evan, owning him that much, she wasn’t like her mother, she wouldn’t be, and owning to herself to explore her sexuality, to let her heart and her instincts lead her.
And they both led her to Izzie, she craved her and every minute she was by her side and wasn’t touching her, or kissing her, it felt like torture.
So Izzie was coming over, and they would talk, and everything would be okay.
That was what Casey was telling herself for the past hour, and she kept on repeating it until she heard the doorbell ring.
The nervousness disappeared as soon as she opened the door and saw the shy smile in Izzie’s face. The girl pulled her in for a hug and Casey felt like everything was okay, she sighed and gave the girl a squeeze before letting her go and into the house.
They went to Casey’s room and sat on her bed, quietly staring at each other for what felt like ages, both of them feeling nervous. Izzie was scared of what Casey had to say, and Casey didn’t know how to say it.
“You –” Izzie started, not being able to take the silence any longer, but a pair of lips in hers quickly cut her off. Oh. She closed her eyes after the initial surprised, grabbing both side of Casey’s face, and kissing her back softly. And it was even better than she had imagined, and she had imagined a lot.
Casey pulled away, letting her hands fall to Izzie’s legs and looking back at the girl, who still had her eyes closed.
“I didn’t know what to say so… I guess it was better to just do it.”
“You were right, it was great.” Izzie smiled, finally opening her eyes.
“Yeah, it was.”
“Yeah…”
Izzie pulled her back, catching her lips and quickly deepening the kiss.
When they stopped, both of their lips were swollen, but it was the most amazing make out Casey had had. Izzie’s lips were soft, and she was delicate, her hands caressing Casey’s legs made her feel things she hadn’t felt before. It felt amazing.
“How about I make us something to eat and we can watch a movie? Or half of one since you’ll fall asleep.”
Izzie pushed her and rolled her eyes, following her out of the room.
It took them half an hour to decide on something to watch, but they finally did. Casey sat on the couch and for a moment, things were awkward, but then Izzie curled up to her side, arms circling Casey’s waist and head resting on her chest.
“Is this okay?” Izzie looked up, meeting Casey’s eyes and all the younger girl could do was smile and nod, while grabbing a piece of the black hair and playing with it.
Everything felt so different with Izzie, and everything felt so good. It was such a simple thing, watching movies while cuddled up, but it meant the world to Casey, it felt right.
Casey woke up hours later, confused about how hot she felt and why did her back hurt? The TV was off and it was dark outside. She looked down and smiled at the girl still curled up to her, snoring softly, and sighed, trying to remember why were they still there. She remembers finishing the first movie, remembers starting another one, remembers Izzie obviously falling asleep halfway through it and then nothing. She must have fallen asleep too. There was now a blanket covering them and Casey figured her parents must’ve gotten back.
She felt her back complaining about the position she was in, and for a moment she thought about waking Izzie up and head to bed, but then the older girl mumbled and squeezed her tighter and Casey decided she could handle some backache, Izzie looked comfortable, and that was good enough now. |
Magnus is just about finished with his workday when Dot announces that Alec has arrived. Feeling inordinately happy, Magnus closes his laptop, ignoring the rest of his emails and motions for her to send him in.
“Hi, Magnus,” Alec walks in in his usual, somewhat graceless manner. He’s tall and it feels like he never really got used to it for some reason. He rubs the back of his head, making his hair stick up again. Magnus wants to smooth down the mess and run his fingers through it, both at the same time.
“Why hello, Alexander,” he greets, standing up and reaching for Alec’s hand to go in for the usual formal handshake. Surprisingly, Alec forgoes it for a very brief hug instead, leaving Magnus flustered.
“Please, take a seat,” Magnus mumbles, trying to recover from the feel of Alec’s body pressed against his, even if for the tiniest of seconds. “Would you like something to drink? Tea, coffee, water, some whiskey, perhaps?”
“No, I’m good,” Alec says politely, sitting down in the chair across from Magnus’s desk and looking curiously at the mess on his desk. Magnus is a little behind on work today, having spent the morning texting Alec, but he’s not going to admit to that unless Alec asks about the piles of paperwork everywhere. Thankfully, he doesn’t do much other than raising an eyebrow at it.
Magnus produces the updated contract from a drawer to distract him. “Here you go,” he says, handing over the two copies of the document to Alec, “I’ve already signed them and initialled each page on both copies. Do go through it once again before you do the same.”
He clears up more of his desk as he waits for Alec to finish reading, watching him surreptitiously as his eyes scan each page thoroughly, his expression softening when he reads over the clause he’d suggested.
With a flourish, Alec finishes signing his name on each document and looks up with a blinding smile. “Done. We’re officially doing this now,” he sounds just a touch nervous, just like Magnus feels.
“Great,” Magnus takes the contracts from him and skims through each, handing one of them back to Alec. “Here’s your copy. Keep it safe.”
Alec accepts it and fiddles with the edge. “So, what’s next?”
“I have some things for you,” Magnus claps his hands together and gets up. On the last shelf of his bookshelf, there’s a long, rectangular box that he’d wrapped just a few hours ago, going all out with a ribbon and everything. Embarrassed at the effort he’d put in, Magnus furtively gets rid of the ribbon and stuffs it into his pocket. He doesn’t know what he was thinking.
“I don’t know what sort of laptop you have right now, but this is the latest MacBook,” Magnus removes the lid of the box and takes out the slim computer. “I use it myself and it works like a dream.”
“Whoa, Magnus,” Alec opens and closes his mouth, speechless. Magnus holds up a finger near his lips and raises an eyebrow, effectively shushing him.
“I also took the liberty of getting you a new phone. I couldn’t help but notice yours is quite old,” Magnus continues. “My number is already programmed in there,” he adds with a wink.
Alec’s smile makes Magnus’s heart do cartwheels in his chest.
“Here’s the credit card we talked about. When I pay the bill for it, I will do so blindly, without looking to see what you’ve spent it on,” Magnus hands him the card and then closes the lid of the box. The last gift is not a tangible one.
“And last but not least,” Magnus runs his fingertips across the smooth edge of the phone still in Alec’s hands. “You’ll see another number programmed into the contacts, Roy Porter. He’s one of my drivers and he’s going to drive you anywhere you need to go. Just call him up whenever you want and he’ll be with you in minutes.”
“This is a –” Alec starts but Magnus cuts him off.
“Don’t say anything, it’s my pleasure.”
Alec nods, murmuring a quick ‘thank you’ before he actually leans in and brushes the smallest of kisses across Magnus’s cheek, effectively short-circuiting his brain. Unaware of the reaction he’s caused, Alec put his gifts back into the box as Magnus tries to get his heart to beat normally again.
“Um, yes, so, any other, uh, questions?” Magnus asks, feeling like he needs to sit down.
“Well, I did have something important to discuss, actually,” Alec’s expression turns serious as he takes a seat across from Magnus’s desk and clasps his hands in his lap.
“I’m all ears.”
“It’s about my mother,” Alec starts. “I don’t know if you know of her –”
Magnus holds up a hand, smiling a little sadly. “Forgive me for doing so, but I did google you, Alexander. I know all about your parent’s divorce and I know Maryse Lightwood comes from old money so I can understand how much it must have hurt when the man she gave up her life for ran away with someone else.” He notices how Alec’s knuckles go white as he grips the armrests of the chair, how his mouth tightens, and wishes he could smooth out those worry lines on his forehead. Unfortunately, this is an ache Alec and his family have to suffer alone.
Alec takes a deep breath before continuing, though he looks a little relieved that at least he doesn’t have to hash out the backstory first. “Yes, well, she has a lot of time on her hands now; time that she spends interrogating us about our lives. If we thought the micromanagement was bad when we were younger, well.” He laughs dryly. “I’m pretty sure she’ll find out about this,” he gestures between the two of them with a flick of his hand, “within days and I don’t really want that.”
Magnus nods understandably. The arrangement is to be discrete, it’s one of the clauses in the contract too, and with the exception of Alec’s siblings and Catarina, neither of them are willing to share the details with anyone else. “Should we discuss a cover story of sorts?”
“That would be great.”
Magnus leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other, thinking. “We could say you’re my PA. It’s a mostly informal position that doesn’t draw attention to whether you’re with me outside of the office as well, or if you’re coming over to my apartment.”
“That solves most of the problem,” Alec’s tone is apologetic, his brow furrowed. “But my mother will be quite disappointed when she learns my internship at Bane Inc. is nothing more than fetching your dry-cleaning or getting you coffee or all the other mundane things a PA usually does.”
“Don’t worry,” Magnus assures him. “You can tell her I took a liking to you and am personally grooming you. By being a PA, you’re getting to see the day-to-day running of the firm and a peek into the life of a CEO.”
“When you put it like that,” Alec’s face lights up. He scrubs a hand over his cheek, looking embarrassed. “She’s just very –” he trails off, unable to find a suitable enough word, but Magnus nods, getting it anyway.
“It’s okay. Hopefully this will work,” Magnus says kindly. He waits a beat, then in a lower voice, asks something he’s been waiting to ask for a while now. “When will I see you next, darling?”
Alec looks up, looking a little flushed at the casual term of endearment. “Um, I think I’m free this weekend.”
“Lovely,” Magnus gets up, pours some whiskey into two glasses. “Shall we drink to celebrate the start of our arrangement?”
“Cheers,” Alec murmurs as the clink their glasses together, Magnus leaning against the desk, next to Alec’s chair, in the almost exact position they’d been in when Magnus had first proposed the arrangement.
Tentatively, Magnus reaches out with a hand to smooth out the lapel of Alec’s jacket, earning himself a sweet smile. His hand lingers at Alec’s shoulder for a second longer than necessary before he pulls back. “I’d like to take you shopping for a new wardrobe this weekend, and then perhaps we can have dinner afterwards?”
“I’d like that very much,” Alec replies.
“Please text me to confirm.”
Alec nods, handing his empty glass back to Magnus, who pushes himself off of the desk and returns it to the drinks table along with his own.
“So, um, I’ll call Roy then, shall I?” Alec asks, taking out his new phone.
Magnus pauses, looking at Alec. “Well, I was just about to head out too, so I can give you a ride, if you’d like.” He winks cheekily to make the innuendo clear, resulting in a pretty blush spreading over Alec’s cheeks.
“Oh, um, okay, sure,” Alec mumbles, getting up.
Magnus collects his things, turns off the lights and motions for Alec to go ahead, relishing the chance to stare at his ass again.
*
Having dropped Alec off, a little disappointed that he said goodbye only verbally, Magnus walks into his penthouse, toeing off his boots and unbuttoning his jacket. His butler appears, hot at the heels of the housekeeper and within minutes, Magnus is sitting comfortably at the dining table, a piping hot plate of stew in front of him, his glass filled with wine. He thanks his staff and dismisses them early, wanting the place to himself for the night.
Eating by himself is one of the loneliest things in the world but he’s used to it by now. Plus, he’s behind on his work emails, so at least he has some company. Sort of.
With everything but a particularly pesky client sorted out, Magnus powers off his laptop, washes up his bowl and glass carefully and wanders into his bedroom. His phone is lying on the dresser and he picks it up, thumbing through his extensive contact list for the one name he wants.
He’s almost about to press the call button before he realizes it might not be a good time. He types out a text instead.
[To: Cat, 11.10 p.m.] I signed the contract today, with Alec.
Magnus sighs, knowing his friend’s busy schedule enough to know that she probably will not reply for a while. He feels exhausted and decides to draw himself a bath. The urge to pamper himself is too strong and he tips a bit of the half-empty bottle of sandalwood scented bubble bath into the tub. That particular scent has been discontinued and this is his last bottle. He tends to save it for the really bad days and even though today is not one of them, he still feels a little nostalgic and antsy.
His phone lights up as he gets in, champagne glass in hand, feeling the warm water ease his tense muscles a little. Perhaps he should get Dot to schedule him a massage.
[From: Cat, 11.24 p.m.] I’m happy to hear that.
Magnus bites his lip and responds a little petulantly.
[To: Cat, 11.26 p.m.] Are you really, though?
[From: Cat, 11.30 p.m.] Magnus, don’t pick a fight with me. You asked me for advice and I gave it to you. My feelings about this arrangement are inconsequential now and you know I really do care about your happiness, so if this makes you happy, then I’m happy too.
Magnus feels guilty. Catarina has been his best friend for so long and if she won’t call him out on his bullshit, then nobody would. He really is grateful for her.
[To: Cat, 11.32 p.m.] Sorry for being so snippy, Cat. I love you and your opinion matters a lot to me but I really do feel this is the right thing to do.
[From: Cat, 11.34 p.m.] I truly am happy that it’s working out. Plus, I never said I couldn't be wrong. Perhaps this is exactly what you need.
Magnus smiles. He knows she doesn’t actually believe that but he appreciates that she’s supporting him at least.
[To: Cat, 11.35 p.m.] I hope so. Alexander is just so charming, I can’t wait to see him again soon.
Magnus stretches out in the tub, feeling a soft glow envelop him as he thinks back to Alec’s smile as he’d adjusted his jacket, the tiny kiss he’d pressed to Magnus’s cheek, the way he’d flushed when Magnus had called him ‘darling’. To say Alec was charming was an understatement, if Magnus was honest.
[From: Cat, 11.36 p.m.] When do you see him again?
[To: Cat, 11.37 p.m.] Hopefully this weekend. I told him I’d take him out shopping.
[From: Cat, 11.39 p.m.] Don’t scare the poor boy by foisting glittery and shiny things on him, Magnus.
[To: Cat, 11.40 p.m.] I would never. I am offended, Ms. Loss. I’ll only buy him whatever he feels comfortable in. I’m not interested in creating a mini me.
[From: Cat, 11.42 p.m.] Just joking, babe.
Magnus grins fondly. He really misses Catarina and her teasing.
[To: Cat, 11.43 p.m.] When can you meet me again? It’s been so long since we talked in person.
[From: Cat, 11.46 p.m.] Sorry, I know I’ve been incredibly busy but the adoption papers are finally coming through and it looks like I’ll be Madzie’s new mom really soon so I’ve just been super caught up in baby proofing the house and setting up her room.
Magnus reads Catarina’s text with mixed emotions. On the one hand, he can’t think of a person who deserves this more than she does. She’s always wanted a child but fertility problems, as well as the fact that she was asexual and couldn’t exactly go out and find herself a husband or partner to parent with, had caused a lot of issues. Magnus is so happy that she’s finally figured out things, but he’s also the tiniest bit sad. Catarina has been so busy already; with a child to look after, she’s bound to become even more so. Magnus feels lonelier than ever.
[To: Cat, 11.50 p.m.] That's an excuse I would never begrudge you for, darling. When do I get to meet my new goddaughter? I am her godparent, aren’t I?
[From: Cat, 11.51 p.m.] I wouldn’t have it any other way, you know that. You can meet her as soon as she's settled in.
[To: Cat, 11.52 p.m.] I would love that.
Despite his cocktail of emotions about the adoption and what it’ll mean for their friendship, Magnus is genuinely looking forward to meeting the kid. He’s always had a soft spot for children.
[From: Cat, 11.53 p.m.] Talk later? My shift is about to start in a few minutes and I just remembered I haven’t had dinner yet.
Magnus shakes his head. Typical Cat, he thinks, always putting others before herself. He doesn’t doubt in the least how good of a mother she’ll be.
[To: Cat, 11.53 p.m.] Please take care of yourself, Cat.
[From: Cat, 11.54 p.m.] You too, Magnus. Love you.
[To: Cat, 11.54 p.m.] Love you too.
He sets his phone on the wide lip of the bathtub, feeling pensive. The silence of the apartment is unsettling. He takes a sip of his champagne but it tastes disgusting now that it’s gone lukewarm.
His phone chimes with another text, startling him.
[From: Alexander, 11.59 p.m.] I checked and I’m free this Saturday evening, if you still want to go out.
Magnus grins, feeling oddly excited.
[To: Alexander, 12.01 a.m.] Of course I do, Alexander. Shall I pick you up at five?
[From: Alexander, 12.02 a.m.] Sounds perfect.
Magnus’s grin feels like its permanently stuck on his face. It’s frankly ridiculous that he’s getting this worked up over a couple of texts, like a teenage boy.
[To: Alexander, 12.03 a.m.] Sleep well, darling.
He puts his phone back and leans back in the tub with a content sigh. It’s only four days until Saturday. |
***
Time, did in fact, seem to fly with peace and no threat of war looming over people’s heads. Before Izuku could even fully comprehend it, he was in the Great Hall and celebrating Kento’s second birthday. The young prince was, as Izuku had always known he would be, spoilt beyond belief - both from within Yuuei’s borders and beyond. He was every part Izuku’s opposite, from his loudness that mirrored Toshinori, to the blond hair that was blessedly straight and something Izuku was mildly jealous of every time his own curls gave him grief. In their eyes though was the similarity, green and bright and full of kindness.
Two years had also done more than age a prince. Kento been officially announced one year prior on his birthday, with visitors from both within and beyond the borders coming. Izuku and Hitoshi were much the same, their wedding announcement constantly put on hold and Izuku knew that with every season that passed, Hitoshi grew more hopeful that they would never have to announce it publically at all. Outside of Yuuei, Endeavour was opening more and more trade routes and people were becoming bold enough to cross the border. There were even rumours of a township being born on a river that divided the two; a town that was neither Yuueian nor Endeavan.
But that was neither here nor there for now as Izuku was jogging to his parent’s chambers. The summon was not unusual and he was honestly glad to be relieved of his duties regarding preparing the Kings’ Summit Yuuei was holding some four months hence. Pushing open the door, Izuku grinned as excited calls came from the bed.
“Izu’, Izu’!”
Izuku was beside the bed in seconds, whisking Kento up and burying his nose in his neck. “Hello young sir. You seem well.”
“A little too well,” came the teasing remark from Eri, Kento’s nurse, as she plucked him from his arms. She gave Izuku a short bow, Kento waving as he was carried away.
“Bye Mama, bye Papa, bye Izu’!”
Izuku was still smiling when he turned to his parents, both of them in chairs by the fire. Inko drew him into a hug when he was close enough, Izuku holding her tightly. He then swapped to his father, leaning down to meet him in his chair, eyes sliding closed when Toshinori’s nose brushed against his. Pulling away, Izuku took in the arrangement once more before plopping onto the hearth rug, ignoring Toshinori’s stammered offer of a chair. Inko waved her husband away, sharing a soft smile with Izuku.
“Papa?” Izuku asked, when it seemed no one else would speak.
Toshinori jumped minutely before sending Izuku a strained smile. That was when his back straightened, alarm bells going off. “Izuku, drop that face,” Toshinori chided, Izuku chuckling guiltily. “What I have to say is not bad, at least not in my opinion, but I would like to know your thoughts.”
Izuku frowned, glancing to his mother but getting no hints. “What Papa?”
“Izuku.” His father’s hand found his, gripping it tightly. “Provided you do not raise violent objections, I should like to abdicate at the Kings’ Summit.” Izuku froze. “I am hardly in good health and I think it’s time an old man like me stepped aside. Yuuei would be in more than capable hands should I pass the throne onto you. What say you, my boy?”
Two years ago the question would have come as a surprise, a shock, but now? While yes, the question had taken him off guard, Izuku couldn’t say he had not seen it coming. Gone were the days of All Might parading Yuuei in all his glory. These days Toshinori was lucky to hold his muscular form even past an hour. It didn’t make a king, Izuku knew, but his eyes also trailed to the door that connected to Kento’s chambers. If given the choice, Izuku knew where his father would prefer to spend his time, where his gaze and attention lingered.
“Izuku?”
“Toshinori, give him a minute. This is-”
“Yes.” Izuku’s voice cut through his parents’ hushed whispers, his gaze determined. “Yes, I will take the throne.”
“My boy, are you sure?” his father pressed, shifting to kneel in front of him.
Izuku nodded firmly. “In a way, it almost makes things easier for me. No longer do I have to confer with Shouto and Eijirou as a messenger; I would be their equal. Together us three would not be swayed and we would make peace easily. And besides,” he added with a smile. “I know your heart lies with your family, not with your kingdom and politics as it once did. Harder to not think about when they are not constantly at your side.”
He’d meant it as a joke but Toshinori flinched, Izuku hastily reaching for him. He was breathing out apologies even as his father was hushing him, large hands smoothing down his hair calmingly. “I know what you meant,” his father assured. “And I know you hold me no grudge. But Izuku...for Kento to have what you did not, it is alright for you to feel jealous.”
“Papa,” Izuku laughed, kissing his cheek playfully. “He is but two. Our circumstances are different. And regardless, I have Hitoshi.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Toshinori mused, tucking him close. “But I would not have held it against you.”
“I had Mama all to myself,” Izuku pointed out. “If anything, Kento should be jealous of me.”
“Izuku!” Inko scolded jokingly, making him giggle and bury himself back in his father’s chest.
“Come now,” Toshinori said with a grunt. “This old man can’t take the strength of you anymore Izuku. Four and twenty,” he breathed when Izuku pulled away, reaching out to take his face in his hands. “How did you grow up so quickly?”
Izuku smiled sadly. “I wish I knew.” He then frowned, something that caught both of his parents’ attention. “I have...there is something though,” he admitted, “That I should like to have looked into.”
Toshinori nodded instantly. “Of course Izuku.”
“I have...I have looked at it before,” he said, brow furrowed. “But the law is unclear. Before now, before Kento, there were never two heirs. Yuuei is not like Endeavour; the heir was the heir, there was no need to...produce the strongest, I suppose.”
“That’s true,” Toshinori mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “My mother and her father before her were all only childs.”
“But that’s not a question Izuku,” Inko nudged gently, bringing him back to her and combing his hair, admiring the tiny plaits Hitoshi had weaved through it.
“No,” he agreed. “But my request, if I may be so bold, is this: should the event come that I pass, the throne must go to Kento, not Hitoshi. My husband he may be but he has no desire to be king nor would I put that pressure upon him. Although...I don’t know if he ever would be.”
“I don’t know myself,” Toshinori admitted. “I always thought what would happen in younger years had I lost you. I never thought about what would happen if I had fallen first.”
“I would not have taken your place Toshinori,” Inko said firmly. “I never would have.” She thumbed Izuku’s cheek. “Let us keep the throne amongst family; I’m sure this will not be hard to do.”
“I understand,” Izuku replied, smiling and getting to his feet. “I only asked because of their age difference. There is over twenty years between them. Kento cannot have the throne at two years of age.”
“And are you intending for that to happen?” Toshinori challenged, Izuku gaping before flushing. He reached out his hands, Izuku taking them and letting himself be pulled down, smiling when their foreheads met. “You will live Izuku. We have peace in our time; these things need not concern you.”
“I...yes Papa.”
“Now go,” Toshinori ordered. “I know you have made arrangements to see your friends. Go, and have fun. Promise me that Izuku, for when you return, you will be king and there will be no escaping your duties.”
Izuku sobered at that. He nodded just once, kissing them both swiftly before heading to his chambers and starting to pack. King. He shook his head. He doubted he would ever get used to the title.
***
Perhaps naturally Izuku’s first destination was Uravity. It was closest to Yuuei’s capital and he missed Ochako dearly. Hitoshi teased him about that daily on their journey there but Izuku had just blown him off, making him all the more eager to tease. Hitoshi was a part of his company - obviously - and there were four more, who acted as guards. One was Fumikage. He was...taking some getting used to; not because of his quirk but because of his connection to Touya and while Izuku knew that determined no part of Fumikage’s personality, he was still erring on the side of caution.
It went without saying that Hitoshi had been informed of All Might’s intentions and Izuku’s consequent rise to the throne. He’d taken it with merely a raised eyebrow. Honestly, Izuku hadn’t expected anything more. He had, however, gotten a momentary splutter when he’d lied and said he’d insisted on having Hitoshi rule in his stead should the worst happen. He’d then laughed and Hitoshi had tackled him onto the bed, Izuku squealing.
“Do you think,” Izuku asked casually as they reached the outskirts of Uravity’s capital, “That I can coerce another Yuueian to marry a foreign royal?”
Hitoshi snorted. “You try your luck. There is certainly no one suitable for Ochako in Yuuei.”
“No one?”
He was met with a roll of the eyes. “Ochako has people enough around her and few compare to the beauty of the Urati. Plus, her standards are higher than yours.”
Izuku leant over to pinch his arm. “I have the very highest of standards!”
“Fine,” he agreed grudgingly. “But perhaps your tastes do not align with hers in the most important way.”
Izuku’s mouth opened and shut a few times before frowning. However, before he could pry further, their party arrived at the palace gates and were announced with great fanfare. Ochako was already waving from atop the steps. Izuku waved back, dismounting and hurrying over. He bowed to Seiten and Himawari before letting Ochako clasp his hands, Hitoshi following at a more leisurely pace and bowing.
“Ah, Izuku! It’s been so long! I was telling Papa not last month how I could not wait til the Kings’ Summit.”
He grinned. “Then you need not wait, for I am here!”
“And you, Hitoshi?” Ochako asked, bouncing on her toes but not bothering to offer to shaking his hand, well aware of Hitoshi’s dislike of physical contact. “I trust you are well?”
“I am,” he said amiably, offering a smile. “Though I admit Izuku has talked my ear off on the journey over. Would it be rude to request a place in which to rest?”
“Of course not,” Ochako chirped before smirking, Hitoshi freezing. “Yuuga, please show Hitoshi to his chambers.”
“Ah, of course m’lady!” Yuuga exclaimed, bowing theatrically.
Hitoshi sent Izuku would he could only describe as a cry for help...which Izuku very much pretended to not see. Once they were gone, he and Ochako giggled, Ochako leading him to a private parlour so they might have tea. As it was a social call, Ochako’s parents left them with little more than a bow as the pair took seats around a low-set table. Tea was poured and food provided and then they were left on their own. Izuku flumped back onto his pillow, gaze roaming the ceiling.
“Did you...When we were children, did you ever think it would be like this?”
He felt the cushion move as Ochako came to sit beside him, eyebrows knitted together in worry. “Like what Izuku?”
He shrugged. “I can’t explain it. Just...how it is. Maybe I never truly imagined growing old.”
Ochako hummed, settling in beside him. “Or maybe your view is skewed? You grew up in a tiny village. Knowing you are to rule a kingdom and then witnessing what that takes are two very different things. I am sure a child could not imagine all the stress that comes with it.”
“Nor the paperwork,” Izuku grumbled, Ochako groaning.
“The paperwork! I am sure my arm will fall off before I am thirty purely from letter writing alone!”
Izuku poked his tongue out. “Do not exaggerate! I have seen the muscles you possess. If you cannot make it past thirty, then I am certainly doomed.”
Ochako wrapped a hand around his bicep, Izuku squawking. “You are not so unfit yourself. You merely rely on your quirk too much,” she advised.
Izuku shook his head in disbelief. “To think; once upon a time I did not even possess a quirk. And now to be accused of using it too much.”
“I hardly accused you!” Ochako scoffed. “Now, tell me...have you any news?”
“And by news I assume you mean gossip?” Izuku challenged, Ochako not even phased and just smiling sweetly. “I have none,” he admitted. “You see Hitoshi and I are doing well. Tenya admits to having no interest in courting yet. Eijirou is as content with Kacchan as ever. Shouto remains as closed off as always. There is only you, I suppose.”
“Me?” Ochako squeaked.
“Yes, you. You are not immune from scrutiny, Ochako.”
She pouted. “You’re so mean Izuku.”
He snorted. “Hardly. Now tell me, have you any news?”
Ochako sighed deeply, reaching out and interlacing their fingers. “Perhaps soon. Should I gain the courage.”
Izuku pounced. “Uraraka Ochako! You mean to tell me you have had feelings for someone and not shared them with me? And to think, I called you my friend!”
“You are! Stop it, you.”
He did, but only after kissing her forehead. “You know I love you. Whatever your feelings are, you can share them with me. And, if you wish not to share them, that is also fine. You will always have my support.”
Ochako gave a traitorous sniff, flinging her arms around him. “Why must you always say exactly the right things Izuku?”
Izuku’s nose scrunched up. “I am sure I can find example of many times in which I haven’t. But still…” He pulled away, waiting until their eyes met. “You truly are alright? May I offer help or…?”
She shook her head. “Thank you but I think...I have had the support of you and the others from childhood...I...I think I would like to prove to myself that I can do this alone. Does that sound silly?”
“Not at all,” Izuku said. “In fact, it makes the most sense.”
Ochako drew him back in once more. “Thank you Izuku.”
“Always.”
“In a way,” she murmured, “I feel I need to do this myself because of you.” When Izuku frowned, she elaborated. “You have always done what you felt was right, despite the consequences and purely on your heart alone. Though we know it now, you proposed to Shouto as a commoner. And then as prince, you married a commoner. Someone...in your own service. I...You are forever ahead of me Izuku.”
“I do not mean to be,” he whispered, shifting over and letting his hand rub her back sympathetically.
“Oh hush you,” Ochako admonished. “I did not mean for you to apologise!”
Izuku sniffed haughtily, making her laugh. “Fine, then I shall drop the subject and pry instead.” In that moment, Hitoshi’s words came back to him, the proverbial coin dropping. “Ah, Tsuyu then?”
“Izuku!”
***
“Tenya!”
Tenya looked almost surprised at his appearance, though Izuku knew he had scheduled his visit long in advance. He brushed all that aside, embracing his friend. Tenya returned it heartily before making apologies and returning his attention to the Ingeniun people he had been talking to. Izuku didn’t mind, jumping up onto a low wall and swinging his legs serenely, head tilted back to enjoy the sun and the breeze coming off the sea. He was currently on one of the smaller islands, having left his party back in Ingenium’s capital. Hitoshi settled in at his side, squinting against the harsh sunlight.
“Ah, my apologies,” Tenya said as he jogged to their side, straightening his glasses.
Izuku shook his head gently. “No need. It was us who interrupted you.”
“You are alone?” Tenya asked, peering around them curiously. “No guards?”
“Is Ingenium so dangerous?” Hitoshi drawled, cackling when Tenya spluttered indignantly.
“Come now Hitoshi, that wasn’t funny!”
Hitoshi looked to Izuku, who merely shrugged. “Perhaps not,” Izuku finally agreed, jumping down and looping arms with Tenya. “But we are here alone regardless. So please, show us the islands under your jurisdiction?”
“There are currently four,” Tenya relayed as they began walking, Izuku waving cheerily at whoever stopped to stare at them. “Though I admit the fourth is unpopulated and the third barely so.”
“Even so, they deserve to be acknowledged as much as the larger islands.”
“Indeed!” Tenya boomed. “I learnt that from you and I have been making sure to make myself both known and helpful to them. And as a result, their communities are quickly improving!”
Izuku’s head cocked to the side before making an understanding sound. “You were able to provide them with ways they and other islands could be mutually beneficial?”
“Yes, that’s right! It’s amazing how much people can achieve when they work together and step outside their comfort zone. Why, I’m sure before I came, some had never even left the island.”
“Most are content to not disrupt their way of life,” Hitoshi pointed out. “Even if doing so aids them.”
“People get grounded,” Izuku added, reaching out and taking Hitoshi’s hand, interlacing their fingers. “And it’s okay to do so. I can never imagine Kacchan’s parents leaving Shizuoka, even though Kacchan would help them move wherever they asked. But in this case,” he continued brightly. “I think you’ve done these people a great service Tenya! They’re lucky to have you!”
Tenya’s eyes clouded over briefly. “I...Thank you for saying so, Izuku.”
Izuku pulled them to a stop, concerned. “Tenya?”
“It is nothing; let us con-”
“Tenya.”
His friend huffed, a hand chopping quite quickly. “I have met your mother but a handful of times and already I know that is a mannerism of hers. For someone so sweet, she strikes me as also capable of being terrifying.”
Izuku couldn’t help but laugh there, Hitoshi joining in. “She is; Papa and I both agree. Papa’s manservant once suggested we send her against King Enji.”
“I-Izuku!” Tenya coughed, doing his best to disguise a laugh. “That is highly inappropriate.”
“And yet you laughed,” he replied with a wink before dropping his jovial attitude. “But please, my words just now...they hurt you. Please tell me why, so I can avoid it next time.”
“You’re too kind,” Tenya muttered, awkwardly wrapping an arm around Izuku’s shoulders while trying not to dislodge Hitoshi. “It is just...As you say, maybe these people are lucky to have me. But a part of me always wonders, would they have been happier, or better off, with Tensei to lead them?”
“I think,” Izuku said severely. “That we will never know. These are not Tensei’s people now Tenya - they are yours. Don’t rule them how he would. Rule them how you do.”
Tenya stared at him, dumbfounded. “How do you-”
“It is something I was once told, while in this kingdom even,” Izuku suddenly remembered, glancing up at his husband. “Your father, I think. That is why it came to me just now, I guess. It is good advice. I think you should listen to it, Tenya.”
Tenya chuckled. “I will. I feel as though every time I listen to you, I find the solution quicker.”
Izuku flushed, quickly looking away. “S-stop it. That is...You are plenty wise yourself.”
His friend just tutted. “Even then, I am better for having known you.”
Izuku grinned shyly, hiding behind his hair. “And I you. Now!” Izuku said, clapping his hands together. “Come, show me more. Also, I have heard...well, Hitoshi has heard-”
Tenya’s lips pursed while Hitoshi grinned smugly because they both knew what that meant; unsavoury connections and spies in high places.
“-that Ingenium has built a new fleet of trireme! I would love to experience one.”
“O-of course that can be arranged!”
Izuku beamed, letting Tenya walk a few steps ahead before tugging Hitoshi down. “This time, you will not be able to weasel out.”
Hitoshi paled. Oh gods no.
***
Izuku couldn’t lie: the ride to Riot’s capital had been one of his favourites simply because he knew who was waiting for him on the other side. Unlike the others, Eijirou was prowling the city gates for him, face lighting up the second their caravan came into view. Katsuki was nowhere in sight but Izuku was sure he was busy, holed up in some meeting somewhere. Not that Izuku had much time to think on it before Eijirou was crushing him in his arms; quite literally almost, the prince certain some of his ribs starting creaking ominously.
“Do I need to ask you to unhand him?” Hitoshi drawled, which thankfully was enough to have Eijirou letting go, Izuku hacking into his hand. The king just gave him a hearty slap to the back.
“You’re stronger than that Izuku!”
“I am strong but my bones can still break,” he countered, cheekily grinning when Eijirou’s jaw dropped.
“You’re a menace,” he grumbled, scooping him up once more but far gentler this time. “Come, come! I’ve been so excited for your arrival!”
Izuku couldn’t half tell, his hand being snatched up. He gave a helpless wave to Hitoshi and let himself be led away, his husband looking far too relieved at being spared. Riot’s capital was booming as always, children screaming in the streets and the royal dragons roaring as they flew overhead. Everywhere Eijirou went, people shouted greetings at him, which he always returned. Izuku was meeker but did his best to come across as friendly.
“Your people seem well,” Izuku remarked as they crossed another square and entered the castle proper.
“Thank you!” Eijirou said, grin luminous. “Peace has done our kingdom good! People are more at ease and focus more on each other and their families than preparing for the worst. It’s a relief, for them.”
Izuku nodded, bouncing on his toes before he could hold it in no longer. “Where is Kacchan?”
Eijirou laughed loudly, wagging a finger at him. “Two minutes longer and I would have won my bet. It’s a shame Brimstone knows you so well.”
Izuku gaped indignantly. “You bet on how long it would take me to ask after him?!”
“Naturally,” Eijirou said with a wink. “But come, he’s very busy at the moment but also has one of the things I wish for you to see.”
Izuku blinked, perplexed. Still, he followed Eijirou faithfully, weaving through the palace and heading out a door which Izuku knew all too well. It led to the bridge that connected the palace to the dragon stables. He’d long lost his fear of heights and was able to make the crossing unaided, pausing at the door until Eijirou gestured for him to go first.
“K-Kacchan?”
It didn’t help that the stables were near bathed in darkness, the dragons kept inside only of a nighttime.
“Deku.”
Katsuki’s voice came from further to the left, a small patch of light appearing as explosions danced in his palm. Izuku’s smile grew impossibly, jogging forward and throwing his arms around his childhood friend. Katsuki grunted and grumbled but an arm did eventually return the hug, if only for a second. He was then pulling away and Izuku could see what two years had done to him. His hair was shorter, his arms full of swirling ink, and a grizzly scar wrapped around his right side. Izuku breath caught, tracing the scar in horror.
“Kacchan…”
“My fault,” he said with a shrug. “Got too close before they were ready.”
Before Izuku could ask who, two small creatures flung themselves at Katsuki’s legs and oh. That was what Eijirou had wanted to show him. New palace dragons, only a few months old. The pair hissed at Izuku fretfully before scaling Katsuki and tucking themselves over his shoulders.
“They’re beautiful,” Izuku breathed.
“Camdyn and Marcail,” Eijirou introduced, taking one easily and scratching it between the horns.
“Do they...have they gone outside yet?”
Eijirou shook his head. “Another week or so. Then their wings will be ready.” He then lowered his voice. “You did not hear this from me but Katsuki did his damn best to encourage them to be ready to fly for you.”
“I did not!” Katsuki snapped, folding his arms petulantly but allowing Eijirou to pull him in and kiss his temple. “They will leave when they’re ready.”
“Yes they will,” Eijirou agreed. “Now leave the nest Brimstone and come eat.”
Katsuki took two steps before, “Tell me you left your irritating husband behind.”
“Hitoshi?” Izuku asked sweetly. “Of course not! He’s been looking forward to seeing you again.”
Katsuki made an inarticulate sound of rage before storming off. He yelled something about bathing before joining them, Eijirou watching him with a fond sort of exasperation. “I don’t think my husband the type to mellow with age.”
Izuku burst out laughing, Eijirou nudging him in the ribs warningly. “He is not! He wasn’t mellow even as a child. Kacchan’s personality is what it is.”
“Good. Because it’s what I love about him.”
Izuku’s laughter left, swapping to something softer. “I am always glad Kacchan found you; you understand him Eijirou.”
“He didn’t find me,” Eijirou reminded, starting to lead them back. “You forced him upon me.”
“Does Kacchan seem the type to be forced into anything?” Izuku shot back.
“No, he does not.”
Eijirou went strangely quiet for a moment before shaking the thoughts away. Before Izuku could ask what was bothering him though, they had reached the castle and there was already yelling from inside. Izuku groaned when he recognised Hitoshi’s voice. He and Katsuki got on like oil and water and riling Katsuki was his favourite thing to do. Every meeting between the two ended disastrously. Up until the pair had met, Izuku had thought it impossible for Katsuki to hate someone more than he hated Izuku. How wrong he’d been.
It also didn’t help that Hitoshi took immense pleasure in stirring Katsuki up. He was just so easy to do so, he’d once told Izuku.
“Huh?! You want to repeat that you-”
Izuku swore at the sudden stop in Katsuki’s voice, bolting forward and slamming a hand over Hitoshi’s mouth. “Whatever it is you want to make him say, don’t. Remember, we are both of us, princes.”
Hitoshi didn’t answer but he flicked two fingers, dropping his control and allowing Katsuki to resume his yelling once more. Eijirou managed to calm him but the look on Izuku’s face was enough for Hitoshi to apologise, now matter how unfelt it was. It was enough, their food being served in the gardens so they could recline on the grass. Or on each other, apparently, as Eijirou propped himself up on Katsuki and Hitoshi lay down with his head in Izuku’s lap. They remained together for the duration of their meal and once it was done, Katsuki sought out a sparring partner. Seeing that Hitoshi had since fallen asleep, he moved onto Fumikage instead, leading him further into the gardens. Izuku watched in fascination as Katsuki - dare he say it - gently ushered some children away, assuring them they could come back soon.
“You wanted to ask,” Eijirou suddenly said, Izuku’s attention snapping back to him. “At the stables, you thought there something wrong and wanted to ask.”
“I did,” Izuku admitted, though he added in a shrug. “But not everything is my business.”
“It is if I choose it to be,” Eijirou returned before sighing heavily. “I...Katsuki and I met near nine years ago. We have been each other’s seven years, long before we were even married. I suppose...when you are together so long…” Eijirou’s gaze dropped to his lap. “There are things perhaps you ought to talk about. A natural progression of things, some would say.”
Izuku frowned. “You…” The light suddenly went on. “Ah. You are thinking of children.”
Eijirou went red. “It has...crossed my mind. I-...Izuku, he’s just so good with them!” Eijirou exclaimed, Izuku giggling. “Katsuki is soft and gentle and I have seen him with your own brother. There is something nurturing about him.” He chuckled. “Sometimes I feel he worries more over Camdyn and Marcail than their parents.”
Izuku pondered that, racking his memories and finding Eijirou was right; Katsuki treated Kento as though he was made of glass, such a contrast to how he had treated Izuku. “You have talked with him about this?”
“...no. How do I bring up such a topic?”
“How did you bring up marriage? How did you bring up Katsuki to take the throne should you fall?” Izuku asked back. “However you did it, that is how you ask this.”
Eijirou stared at him before bumping their fists together. “Yes! Of course it is; you’re absolutely right! And since we are on the topic, let me tell you of some names I’ve thought of! Because, I was thinkin-”
***
It was a week or so before they arrived at the gates of Endeavour’s palace. The guards gave them a courteous nod, servants rushing to take their horses as Momo took it upon herself to welcome them. Shouto was apparently deep in a meeting, Izuku assuring them it was fine. As Momo went to report their arrival, Kyouka took them all to their chambers, Izuku conversing with her as long as was considered polite before making for the bathroom attached to their chambers. Hitoshi watched in amusement as he set about filling the bath.
“Do not look at me so,” Izuku scolded. “We are all filthy. That route is hellish.”
Hitoshi agreed, wincing when he pulled his own shirt off and found his skin caked with dirt and grime. “Truly. Next time Izuku, you will not persuade me. I prefer places that are green, not deserts and rugged cliffs.”
Izuku softened, coming up on tiptoe to kiss him sweetly. “I know. I am thankful you’re here.”
Hitoshi smiled against his lips, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before stepping away. “Bathe. I’m sure Shouto would rather your company than mine.”
“Stay though?” Izuku requested, Hitoshi nodding and sitting on the windowsill.
They chatted back and forth as Izuku washed, Hitoshi helping him dress when he was done, taking infinite care in doing his buttons for him. Izuku shivered at the intimate touch, swallowing thickly. “H-Hitoshi…”
Hitoshi glanced down at him slyly, fingers running over his collarbones coyly. “Yes my prince?”
“I-”
There was then a knock outside on the door to their chambers. “C-coming!” Izuku called hastily, beating down the flush on his face and sending Hitoshi a grumpy look. “I am not through with you!”
“You mean, I am not through with you,” Hitoshi corrected wolfishly, Izuku’s blush coming back full force.
He slammed the bathroom door with a little more force than necessary, pulling open the outer door with a harried look. Shouto stood on the other side because of course he did. He looked as immaculate as always, eyes raking over Izuku’s frame critically before his eyebrows shot up. “Was I interrupting?”
“No!” Izuku yelped, a little too loudly and a little too quickly. There was laughter from the bathroom and Izuku scowled, slipping on his boots and grabbing a coat from atop his clothing trunk. “Please let us go Shouto.”
Shouto looked a tad confused but did as asked, leading the way to what Izuku knew were his chambers. They took an armchair each, Izuku tucking himself in tightly while Shouto slung a leg over one of the chair’s arms. “You look well,” he said with a smile.
“As do you,” Izuku replied. “You seem...less stressed then when last we met.”
“I have made changes to the council,” he explained. “Not all of them but enough. It has...helped a great deal. Natsuo is on it,” Shouto added, watching Izuku smile. “The council do not know what to make of him, nor I to be honest. If I had to describe him, he is as loud as Eijirou but as stubborn as Katsuki.”
Izuku laughed loudly. “By the gods! Even I do not know what I would do with such a person. That is a horrible mix. But maybe it is what you need.”
“I think it is,” Shouto said, nodding solemnly. “We have also lowered taxes throughout the kingdom and done away with mandatory conscription into the army. It is...a start.”
“Shouto…”
“And of course, the abolishment of the law that puts those without quirks to death. That was my first decree as king.”
Izuku couldn’t help it, launching himself across the space between them and hugging Shouto fiercely. “Shouto, you...this is...You are wonderful Shouto.”
“Hush,” Shouto scolded, though his face was bright red. “You are being ridiculous.”
“Hardly,” Izuku retorted, poking his tongue out. “It is what you deserve.”
Shouto made to argue but then clearly thought better of it. Izuku counted that as a win, going to return to his chair before Shouto caught him by the wrist. Looking down, Izuku froze when he saw how uncertain Shouto looked, very much avoiding eye contact. Without hesitation, Izuku dropped to a crouch, meeting his gaze. “Shouto?”
Shouto let his hand fall away, bouncing a knee nervously. “I...I do not...We have a good friendship, you and I now. I do not wish to damage it.”
Izuku’s brow pinched. “And how would you damage it Shouto?”
“I...We disagreed vehemently once on marriage and how one...chooses a partner.” Izuku stiffened, though Shouto didn’t seem to notice. “There is...I admit my attention has been caught but your words stick with me. I know I ought to marry a noble and he is a noble but you were right; there is no fault in marrying a commone-”
“Shouto.”
Shouto froze, eyes flying to Izuku.
“Are you honestly asking if I would be upset that you are interested in someone of noble birth?”
“Are you...not?” Shouto hedged.
Izuku groaned, kneading his forehead in exasperation before slapping him upside the head, Shouto yelping. “I swear Todoroki Shouto, you are an idiot! I said I think people should marry for love regardless of rank. If you love a prince, marry one! If you love a noble, marry them. If you love a pauper’s son, then again, marry. I only ever meant that love was the deciding factor, not rank.”
“Oh.”
“And so…”
“So what Izuku?”
“Who is he?”
Shouto went scarlett right to the tips of his ears. “Do...do not ask me such things! I...Advances have not been made yet.”
“Shouto,” Izuku whined, tugging on his hand petulantly. “At least introduce me! Or point him out!”
“You embarrass me!” Shouto hissed, snatching his hand away but standing, gesturing for Izuku to follow. Izuku did so without delay, coming to stand by Shouto at the window. Shouto pointed down into the courtyard where Natsuo was talking with some servants, a large man at his side. “He…” Shouto cleared his throat. “Inasa hails from the north, near Riot’s border. His family were the ones put in charge of caring for mine. When my mother and siblings came to the capital, he followed. I think...I think he was worried that I would be like my father.”
“Inasa,” Izuku repeated, watching the man with interest. “And now? Have you changed his view of you?”
“...I think so.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about, Shouto, King of Endeavour. He would be lucky to have you.”
“I...Thank you, Izuku.”
***
The first day of the Kings’ Summit came, Izuku standing at the entrance to Yuuei’s palace confidently and proudly. His father stood to his left, Hitoshi to his right. Beside his father was his mother, Kento in her arms. He watched his friends, rulers from other kingdoms, enter one by one, a smile stretched across his face. Hitoshi’s hand was a comforting weight on the small of his back.
After everyone had entered and Hitoshi made to follow, Izuku grabbed him, pulling him back gently. Hitoshi raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“You once said to me that if we were to marry, we would never be happy but we would be content. I think, this once, you were wrong. I am...very happy.”
Hitoshi blinked before hastily looking away, the faintest blush on his cheeks. “Well, this time, I am glad to be wrong. For I am happy too.”
Izuku smiled up at him. “Good.”
“Good.”
***
|
Wright’s associate had taken to smiling it her from across the bench. It was distracting, not least because she kept trying to catch Franziska’s eye, which completely threw her concentration during the cross examination. Foolish girl. It was probably a plan concocted between the two of them, to throw her off her game so Phoenix Wright could swoop in and get some insignificant piece of testimony admitted to the court record. She would not fall victim to it. She glared at the spirit medium next time she tried smiling, and the girl looked genuinely disappointed. Ridiculous.
*
Maya Fey insisted upon running up to her after the trial, a trial that she had lost, to give her congratulations.
“I lost,” Franziska said, and couldn’t Maya tell that her voice was loaded with fury? Why didn’t she step away, out of whipping range?
“Well, you win some, you lose some. You were good out there. Gave Nick a run for his money.”
“Nick,” she repeated, trying the word out on her tongue. She meant Wright of course, but what a foolish nickname, “You call him ‘Nick?’”
“Uh, duh,” she said, “and you’re Fran, if you’re up for it.”
Something jolted in Franziska’s chest. She’d never had a nickname, not even Miles ever called her anything other than ‘Franziska.’ “Nicknames are foolish.” she sniffed.
Maya rolled her eyes, “Oh come on, we’re all allowed to be foolish sometimes.”
*
“Thank you,” said Maya, resting a tentative hand on Franziska's good shoulder.
“It was my little brother who saved you,” she said, “by trusting that defence lawyer. I was the fool who foolishly got shot trying to-“
“Accept the thanks,” said Maya, “Nick told me about the trial. If you hadn’t burst in with Gumshoe’s evidence…”
“Hmph,” said Franziska, “I suppose.”
“You should go easier on Edgeworth,” said Maya, “he and Nick have some history, that’s why they trust each other like that.”
“He’s ridiculous.”
Maya shrugged. “Maybe you don’t have to look at the defence attorneys as enemies?” Franziska scowled, but she continued, “I mean, you have to work together after all.”
*
“No, there’s no way I’m attending,” she said, crossing her arms.
Miles sighed, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He’d insisted on driving her back from the courthouse which was, of course, unnecessary. “We’re both invited, and I know Wright will be expecting you to be there.”
“Who invites their work colleagues to a birthday party, anyway?” asked Franziska, “It’s uncivilised.”
“In case you’ve forgotten, I happen to be close personal friends with the — ah — birthday boy.” Miles’s lip was curled, but his expression was far too soft. His expression was always far too soft, these days. She would have to attend, if only to make sure her younger brother didn’t embarrass himself around that idiotic defence attorney of his. Plus, Wright seemingly never went anywhere without Maya, who seemed to have decided that she and Franziska were friends. It’d be rude to her not to attend.
“I’ll go.”
“That was surprisingly easy.”
“Yes, well. If Phoenix Wright insists upon foolishly celebrating his birthday, then it’d be rude to decline the invitation.”
Miles glanced away from the wheel to look at her quizzically. “It’s got nothing to do with the fact Ms Fey will be there?”
Fransiska shook her head, “We’re not all as sentimental as you, brother.”
Miles didn’t say anything else, just looked back at the road with a smile, which was more frustrating than if he just said what he was thinking.
*
YOU’RE AWESOME.
Who is this?
How did you get this number?
its maya, i nicked edgeworth’s phone when he wasn’t looking
Delete it immediately.
i promise not to contact u unless it’s important.
How is “you’re awesome” important?
idk i thought u might like to know
*
“No, don’t leave just yet, I’ve gotta show you at least one episode of the Steel Samurai.”
It was ten o’clock, and according to the invitation she and Miles had been given that was the end time of this get together. She and her brother were the only two left, and she said as much.
“Yeah, but we only settled on that to make sure the lame people left on time, right Nick?”
Wright, engaged in a murmured discussion with her foolish brother across the room, did not answer. This was enough for Maya, apparently.
“See?” she said, “You have to stay, your ride is staying.” It was true that Miles showed no signs of finishing his conversation.
“One episode,” she said, wondering how this girl always managed to get her way, “That’s it.”
Maya punched the air and dragged her by the hand to the scruffy sofa only recently vacated by Scruffy himself. She pushed Franziska down, leaving her uncomfortably winded for reasons she didn’t want to dwell on, and busied herself setting up the DVD.
Miles and Wright’s conversation didn’t let up as the opening track played, which showed immense restraint on her brother’s side. Eventually, the two left the room, and she could hear hushed conversation in the kitchen. Why they insisted on acting as if their relationship was something secret, she would never understand.
She and Maya ended up watching an entire disk of the blasted Warrior of Neo Old Tokyo. After the first two, she stopped trying to get up when the credits rolled. It had nothing to do with the show — frankly the writing was bad and the score was migraine-inducing — but a lot to do with the way that Maya relaxed against the sofa, at ease. She wasn’t used to people being so comfortable in her company.
It also had a lot to do with the way that Maya kicked of her sandals somewhere around episode number three and laid her legs over Franziska’s lap.
Her nature was to squirm away at the intimacy of it all, but instead she just tutted and rolled her eyes at Maya’s too-innocent smile.
*
Franziska’s life since working with Interpol had become long days and even longer nights. She didn’t mind, however, since the work was useful and it was nice to something that her father would have raised his eyebrows at.
She was still up and working when the clock on the wall of her Berlin apartment read 1AM, and jumped when her mobile began to ring. Her caller ID read Maya Fey, which made sense considering the time difference between Germany and the US, but did not account for the fact she and Maya had barely talked since the latter had travelled back to Kurain to work on her training.
“Maya Fey?” she said curiously, picking it up, “It’s past one in the morning.”
“Fran?” Maya sounded like she’d been crying, and Franziska sat up a little straighter, previous irritation gone, “Sorry I just — I had to call someone and I don’t have a lot of… people. To call.”
She found that hard to believe. “What about Phoenix Wright?”
This was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Immediately, the girl on the other side of the line burst into tears. “You heard?” she said, with a disgusting sniffing sound, “I just can’t—“
“Maya,” she said, as firmly as she could, “I have not heard. Tell me what happened.” Her firm tone seemed to calm her down, Maya’s next words sounded a little less hysterical.
“Nick’s lost his badge.”
Franziska wanted to ask why that should be a concern of her’s, but she stopped herself. It was a enough of a concern of Maya’s that she called Fransizka of all people for what? comfort? Franziska was highly unskilled in giving it.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said stiffly.
“Yeah,” said Maya, sniffing again. The phone in her hand must have been disgusting, “Yeah, he said they got him on a forged evidence claim.”
“Phoenix Wright forged evidence? That was foolhardy.”
“No!” said Maya loudly, and Franziska winced. “Of course he didn’t! He was set up!”
Franziska should probably have pointed out that even if he’d been given the evidence by somebody else, he likely could have done a far better job at checking for its validity before admitting it to the court record. Once again, she found herself holding her tongue.
“I’m sure my brother will do everything he can to get him reinstated,” she said, which was true.
Maya sniffed on the other side of the line again, “Yeah, I hope so.”
“What about you?” asked Franziska, “What will you do?”
The long pause on the other end of the line told her Maya had not thought this far ahead. “Train, probably. Become the best medium I can, see if I can help Nick when he gets his badge back.”
She didn’t know what made her say it, even as the words came out of her mouth she didn’t know why she was saying them. “If you ever need a break, you’re welcome to stay in Germany with me.”
On the other end of the line, she could hear what sounded like voices. It hadn’t occurred to her that Maya might not have been alone, might have decided to make this personal call from a communal area.
“Maya?” she said, when the pause had gone on long enough she was no longer sure the other woman was on the line still.
“Sorry,” said Maya, “That’s uh— unexpected of you, Fran. You sure?”
No. “Would I have offered otherwise?”
“Oh, I guess not. I’m not sure I can take you up on it, though. Like, plane tickets are pretty expensive and I can barely pay the fair to see Nick on my own…”
“Nonsense,” said Franziska, “I can pay for you.”
“You sure? I mean, it’s a lot—“
“Of money that I have readily available and would happily use to pay for my friend to visit me.”
“We’re friends, then?” she said, and she sounded a little less deflated.
Had she hideously misread this? “I assumed so.”
“Friends! No takebacks,” said Maya, “I gotta tell Pearly.”
Franziska listened with growing amusement as the young woman on the other line did just that, and then Maya’s phone was back at her ear and she was saying, “God, I should probably leave you to sleep, right?”
“I was working.”
“Not anymore you’re not. Go to bed,” said Maya, her tone commanding, “And I’ll call you tomorrow with updates on Nick.”
Maya hung up without a proper goodbye, and Franziska returned to her documents. But her eyelids were drooping, and when she raised her hand to her mouth to yawn she realised with horror she’d been smiling dopily ever since the call.
*
did you mean it about me visiting??
Of course.
shit thats so cool of u i’m glad we’re friends.
*
Maya called her. A lot. Franziska couldn’t say she minded. Maya would call her with updates on how Wright was doing (poorly, now with a daughter); on her training; on life in Kurain.
Often, she’d call for no reason at all, but stay on the line for up to an hour anyway, chattering on about this and that and asking Franziska about her day and genuinely caring about the answer.
*
“Are you getting enough sleep? You went to bed after we hung up yesterday, right?”
“I- ah. I worked for a few more hours.”
“Fran!” she said, and only Maya could fit that much exasperation into such a childish nickname, “You promised!”
Her voice was loud enough that Lang looked looked over at the phone in alarm. She waved a hand in his general direction — they were collaborating on this case against her better judgement and she’d been finding him increasingly annoying throughout the investigation.
“I promise at lot of things.”
Maya huffed down the line, “Well, how do you expect to be perfect on less than six hours sleep?”
Perfection — and Franziska’s slow realisation of her own lack of it — was something of a touchy subject, as a rule. But there was no genuine malice in Maya’s tone. If anything, she sounded fond.
“You take that back, Miss Fey.”
Maya laughed, and Franziska smiled at the sound. Her calls from Maya Fey, though frequent, unprofessional and foolish, were often the brightest moments of her day.
They chatted on for a few minutes more, Maya saying something about Trucy Wright and the younger Miss Fey having hit it off, and Franziska mostly just listening. Eventually, Maya sighed.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, “the elders are up my butt at the moment, I’ve already been away too long.”
“I’ll call you when I get home,” said Franziska.
“You better. Get some rest, ok?”
“I will.”
“Promise on something important. Promise on… perfection.”
“I promise on perfection,” she said, “talk soon.”
Maya squeezed in one last goodbye before she hung up the phone. She turned back to face the crime scene she’d been ignoring in favour of Maya’s call, and immediately bristled at the look Lang was giving her.
“What?” she said sharply.
He shrugged, “Nothing. That your girlfriend?”
“Try to remain professional,” she said, folding her arms.
“So that’s yes, then?”
“That’s a no, not that it’s your business anyway.”
Lang whistled. “Wow, you’ve got it bad.”
The whip did a better job of silencing him than a sharp tongue did.
*
“Franziska!” shrieked Maya, rushing up to her with more enthusiasm than the situation really warranted. She dropped her bags to the ground and enveloped Franziska in a huge bear hug that left her topknot tickling Franziska’s nose.
She drew back a moment later, beaming. “You’ve changed your hair,” she said.
Franziska ran her gloved fingers through the sharply cropped pixie she’d adopted since working at Interpol. She liked her hair like this. It was more womanly, less daddy’s-little-girl. “I have,” she said.
“I love it,” said Maya, “Man, it’s been so long since I’ve seen you in the flesh. Should this be awkward? I feel like it should be awkward.”
“Why’s that?” asked Franziska, picking up Maya’s abandoned travel bag from the airport floor and handing it back to her. She’d changed, too, in the year or so since Franziska had last seen her face-to-face. Her hair and clothing were the same — she was going to freeze in the German spring weather —but her face was a little rounder, her figure a little softer. It was a good look on her.
“Eh, I don’t know,” said Maya, “Only we normally only see each other when somebody has died.”
“Phoenix Wright’s birthday party,” countered Franziska, walking by Maya’s side as they weaved through the terminal. “Nothing died there, unless you’re counting my brother’s common sense.”
Maya shot her a quizzical glance, and she elaborated, “Miles got rather drunk that night and spent a lot of time locked in the kitchen with that foolish defense-“ she stopped herself, “With Phoenix Wright. I have no doubt he said some things he regrets.”
“Aw, loosen up, Franny. They’re friends, they’re allowed to be sappy sometimes.”
“A Von Karma doesn’t let their emotional guard down like that.”
“Gee,” said Maya, “way to make a girl feel welcome.”
Franziska glanced at her out of the corner of her eye, “Of course,” she said, “I have ended up letting my emotional guard down every time I’ve picked up the phone, recently.”
Maya punched her on the arm. “That’s the spirit. Admit it, you love me.”
Fransizka’s stomach leapt into her throat, but apparently Maya didn’t find her lack of any kind of response to this command odd.
“Do you know any good burger joints?” is what she said instead, “I’ve never been to Europe, I wonder if burgers taste different here?”
Franziska sniffed, “German burgers contain actual meat, not processed rubbish, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Sounds fancy,” said Maya, striding on ahead, “And I’m starving, plane food sucks. First stop on my magical European tour is definitely going to be a fancy burger date.”
*
The view from the Oberbaum bridge at night wasn’t anything particularly remarkable by Franziska’s standards, but Maya was transfixed.
She lent against the railings, staring across the water, dressed to the nines. Franziska wasn’t aware the spirit medium even owned clothing aside from her acolytes robes. But, hearing they were going to a fancy restaurant, Maya had emerged from the spare bedroom in a floaty purple dress and shawl, hair gathered up on top of her head in an elegant bun.
She’d looked unbearably gorgeous, and Franziska immediately felt more confident to treating her guest to a meal where burgers were not on the menu.
Now, the loose strands of Maya’s hair whipped around in the evening wind, and she’d pulled her shawl tightly around her. Franziska stood back, looking at her rather than the view.
She’d never noticed before, but Maya had a constellation of moles breaking up the smooth skin on the back of her neck. They were just under the hairline, half-covered by the wispy baby hairs that didn’t quite make it into her topknot.
Franziska knew she was staring, and was grateful her guest was too busy enjoying Berlin at night to notice the way her host’s eyes flickered across her neck and down her back.
She hadn’t been joking, when she’d told Maya she’d let her guard down around her. A Von Karma never did anything by half, which is how she knew this wasn’t just some fleeting attraction she was feeling.
Maya turned away from the water, catching Franziska’s eye and grinning broadly. Franziska was in far, far too deep.
*
Franziska sat at the sidelines as Miles and Maya talked animatedly about Wright and his new daughter. Apparently, Miles had been planning to ask Wright to Germany to help him with some of the cases he was working on (as if Miles needed Wright’s legal “aid,” honestly) and wanted to check that his adopted daughter, Trucy, would have a place to stay.
“Oh hell yeah, she can stay with me. She and Pearly love each other. And it’d be good for Nick, I think, to keep on lawyer-ing.”
“Franziska,” asked Miles, turning to her, “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“You are a competent lawyer, little brother. You don’t need Phoenix Wright’s insight.”
Maya rolled her eyes, “Ok, Fran, but maybe Edgeworth just wants Nick here because they’re buddies.”
Miles looked scandalised. “I would never invite Wright here under false circumstances-“
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. And Franziska invited me over for my spirit channelling skills.”
Franziska blushed as Miles smirked.
“Point taken, Miss Fey,” he said.
*
Apparently, Maya Fey had no sense of what was proper in regards to staying at somebody’s apartment as a guest. That was the only explanation for why she had disregarded the guest bedroom so completely and was no standing in the doorway to Franziska’s own bedroom, pyjama-clad and laptop in hand.
“No,” said Franziska immediately, “Whatever foolish idea you had can wait. I am using the time off I booked for your visit to catch up on sleep, as you very well know.”
“But Franziska,” said Maya, drawing out her name in a whiny manner, “You promised.” Maya held up the battered laptop meaningfully, and Franziska sighed. Because yes, she had promised, in a moment of weakness when Maya had called during a swamped work hour and she was agreeing to whatever had gotten her off the phone.
“I will never understand the fascination you and my brother share for this childish show,” she said. Maya’s grin grew.
“No way, Edgeworth watches the Pink Princess? I knew it.”
“Yes, well,” said Franziska, “I’m afraid I don’t have a DVD player so-“
Maya shook her head, moving further into the room. Franziska drew the covers closer around herself protectively. Her nightgown was perfectly tasteful, of course, yet the idea of Maya seeing her so exposed left her a little uncomfortable.
“We can watch it on this,” she said, brandishing the bulky laptop, “No need to move, we can watch it on the bed like I do with Pearly.”
Somehow, Fransizka found herself being chivvied to the side of her bed to make room for a woman in her early 20s dressed in what looked like boy’s pyjamas, complete with little superhero emblems Franziska neither understood nor wanted to.
The instance that Maya get out, now, couldn’t make its way out of Franziska’s throat and, oblivious, Maya wormed her way under the covers (with a respectful distance between the two of them, thank God) and propped the decrepit laptop on her knees.
“You know,” said Maya, as the opening titles played, “I’ve missed this.”
Franziska wanted to ask what she meant, for the two of them had most certainly not shared a bed before. But she thought she knew, really.
Franziska had missed it too. The optimism with which Maya Fey approached life, the feeling of letting one’s guard down with a friend, the warm heat of Maya’s thigh as it pressed lightly against Franziska’s own under the sheets—
It wouldn’t do to indulge in such thoughts.
*
The last day of Maya’s stay came too soon. Franziska drove her to the airport and walked with her to the terminal, translating the German over the speakers for her and enjoying the weight of Maya’s arm linked with her’s.
“You know,” said Maya, as they reached the departure gate, “I’m really glad I called you that one time I was freaking out about Nick.”
“So am I,” said Franziska. Maya’s eyes were fiery, her chin up and her gaze steadily matching Franziska’s. She was wearing her channelling gear again, with the addition of a thick, ratty hoody that she classified as “travelling clothes.” She still looked completely gorgeous.
“Mind if I try something?” she asked.
Franziska’s throat was dry, “Of course.”
Maya raised a hand to cup the back of Franziska’s neck, and she let her face be guided down to Maya’s eye level. Maya swallowed.
“Um… feel free to— uh— stop me. If I’m reading this wrong.”
Franziska wasn’t sure she was even breathing anymore. Maya’s eyes were closing. She leant a little further forward, closing the gap between them and brushing Franziska’s lips with her own.
“Ok,” said Maya, pulling away and studying Franziska’s face. “I read that wrong, clearly. Sorry.”
“No,” said Franziska. She felt like she’d just had the wind punched out of her. “No, you didn’t.”
She ducked down, kissing Maya firmly. Maya grinned at her. Overhead, the automated voice called for Maya’s flight number. Franziska stepped away.
“Go,” she said, “we’ll talk about this later.”
“Ok,” said Maya. “holy shit,” she murmured, and Franziska wasn’t sure she was meant to hear that. “I’ll - uh, call you in the layover.”
“Do,” said Franziska, pulling up the handle of Maya’s suitcase and handing it to her. She kissed her cheek, feeling giddy.
Franziska stood and watched as Maya handed her passport and flight details to the woman at the desk, turning and waving one last time at Franziska before she turned the corner to join the queue for the security.
The security guard at the gate, who had seen the whole exchange, smiled knowingly at Franziska as she gathered herself together. It was a testament to just how wrong-footed Franziska felt that her fingers didn’t even itch for the whip at her side.
*
i’m at layover but signal’s rubbish xoxox
fran?
Idk if these r even sending
whatever. fun fact: ur awesome.
i cant stop thinking about kissing u
like holy shit
*
They called each other regularly, of course. The first time Franziska picked up the phone she was nervous, but nothing had really changed except that she could now tell Maya just how beautiful she was to her face. Or rather, to her disembodied voice on the other end of a line.
Occasionally, they Skyped. But the wifi in Kurain was terrible, apparently, and Franziska would much rather have only Maya’s voice perfectly crisp than a pixellated image and terrible audio.
*
“Miles Edgeworth,” growled Franziska, tugging on her whip, “Are you telling me that, after insisting I come to help you with this case, you have also employed Phoenix Wright as legal aid?”
He at least had the decency to look somewhat abashed, “I thought it needed as many legal minds as possible.”
Franziska didn’t spare a glance for Wright himself, standing next to Miles with his hands in his pockets. “You do not need this foolish ex-attorney to win this case, little brother.”
“But I could use his insight, Franziska, as well as your’s.”
Franziska was fuming. She had driven four hours to be here at her brother’s request, and now her legal expertise was going to be sidelined by the ridiculous logic and turnabouts of Phoenix Wright. Who shouldn’t even be practising law.
“Friendly as ever, Franziska,” said Wright cooly, “I barely know why I’m here either, to be honest.”
“You’re here because you are useful, and I wanted your company,” said Miles. His expression was sickeningly fond. “Franziska, I’m sorry I didn’t warn you, but I’d be grateful for your assistance, as well. Now, for the sake of my sanity, would you be civil?”
Hmph. Franziska could always be civil. She stuck out a hand for Wright to shake. He took it wearily.
“How’s Miss Fey?” she asked.
Wright raised his eyebrows. “You can probably answer that better than me.”
Infuriating man. “I have not seen her for months, thank you.”
He was still smirking, “Trust the visit went well?”
“Very well.”
“I can imagine. Maya seemed… pleased when I spoke to her on the phone.”
She was not about to discuss her romantic life with this lowlife, dressed as he was in a tracksuit and beanie. She folded her arms and looked away.
“Miles, I require briefing on the case.”
*
so what are u wearing?
Maya, I refuse to do this with you.
should i tell you what I’m wearing???
… If you must.
Well i’m wearing nothing…
excePT FULL CHANNELLING ROBES PHYCH IVE GOT A CLIENT IN LIKE TEN MINUTES!!
You’re ridiculous.
aw fran no need to be so disappointed
*
“I miss you.”
They’d had this conversation what felt like hundreds of times already. Franziska would never say it, because she knew it would make Maya feel guilty, but it was wearing her down. There wasn’t all that much she could do.
“I apologise.”
“Urg,” said Maya, and Franziska could picture it, the way her cheeks would be puffing out in frustration, how she’d flop down on the nearest surface. Franziska didn’t know Kurain all that well, but she thought she could picture it. The image wasn’t perfect, which was frustrating.
“Where are you right now?”
“My room?” said Maya, puzzled, “Why?”
“Humour me,” said Franziska, “explain the layout.”
“Oh-kay,” said Maya, “uh, well it’s pretty sparse. I’m sitting on the futon, there’s a wardrobe-“
“Where in the room is your futon?”
“Uh, opposite the door, kinda. Not quite against the wall but not not against it. And the wardrobe is across from me, and my TV - did I tell you the elders went nuts when I bought me and Pearly a TV? - the TV is set up on the floor next to it. And next to that is my DVD collection.”
“On a shelf?”
“Nah, just lined up along the floor.” Of course they were.
“What else?”
She could hear Maya shifting on the end of the line. “I dunno, it’s pretty boring to be honest.”
Franziska sighed, “I hate that I can’t picture it perfectly. You know my living room by heart and I have nothing—”
“You’ve seen Kurain before.”
She shook her head, feeling foolish. “I didn’t pay enough attention. I was — I was so focused on getting you that guilty — Maya, I am so sorry —“
Maya made a shushing sound, “Come on, Fran. Chill. You know I don’t care about that.”
Franziska scrubbed the back of her hand against her eyes.
“Franziska…” murmured Maya, “What’s this really about?”
“I apologise,” said Franziska, sitting up straight in an attempt to pull herself together. “I suppose I just… miss you too.”
“Weird to think we’re never even been on a real date or anything,” said Maya.
“True.”
“And that we’ve only kissed — what — twice?”
“And that was—“ Franziska counted in her head, “Approximately seven months ago.”
“It’s almost like you should invite me back to Germany or something.”
Franziska slumped back against the settee. “I would love that. Unfortunately, from what you’ve told me the Kurain elders would not.”
Maya’s groan was comically drawn-out. “I hate this.”
“I know. I do too.” Franziska bit her lip, “I suppose I could—“ she should really think this over more before suggesting it, and yet… “—Look into transferring back to the States?”
Maya said nothing for a long moment. “You can’t do that for me.”
“Nonsense. It wouldn’t just be for you.”
“Franziska.”
“I miss you. I find myself regretting not spending more time in the American court system, understanding it better. I’m yet to defeat Phoenix Wright.”
“Nick’s not a lawyer anymore, remember.”
Franziska coloured. “Well, the others are still true.”
“Fran, you can’t.”
“I can do as I wish.”
“I don’t see this issue. I’ll keep this apartment, of course. Miles has already returned, I could stay with him until I find a suitable rental. I could drive up to see you frequently.”
“You can’t uproot your life for me.”
Franziska blinked. “But I want to?”
“Well, I don’t want you to,” said Maya firmly, and she hung up the phone. Franziska stared at the phone’s call ended screen for a long moment. Did that count as their first real fight?
Irrelevant. She pulled her laptop towards her and opened it. Fingers shaking, yet defiant, she began looking up apartments in the Los Angeles area.
*
She didn’t move. She thought about it. She genuinely considered it, but it was illogical and reckless, and a Von Karma was neither of those two things. She did book a flight, though, took a few more weeks off work.
*
Franziska struggled to pull her suitcase out from the trunk of the cab she’d taken from the station. The driver, who’d grumbled the entire way about the obscurity of the destination, declined to help.
The wheels of the case clacked against the cobbled road outside what appeared to be the entrance to Kurain Channelling Hall. She fished her phone from her pocket.
Maya picked up on the first ring. “‘Sup, Fran? I was just going to call you.”
“Where are you?”
“Kurain?”
“Yes, clearly. But be more specific.”
“Channelling chamber,” she said, tone blasé.
“You’re with a client?”
“Oh, nah, just replacing some of the candles. Where are you? I can hear the wind through the phone.”
“Oh,” said Franziska, keeping her tone level, “I’m outside.”
“Like at a crime scene?”
“No. I’m outside the Channelling Hall.”
“Wait,” said Maya, “I think I misheard.”
“No, I don’t think you did.”
“No way.”
“Come outside.”
“No way,” repeated Maya, then, “hold on.” She hung up the phone, and Franziska did as she was told, her case by her side.
She heard Maya’s wedged sandals, clacking against the cobblestones, before she saw her.
“Ho-ly shit,” said Maya, enunciating the syllables and pressing her hands together in delight. “Franziska, this is crazy.”
“I-“ she stopped herself from responding defensively, “I am aware.”
Then Maya’s face fell. “You didn’t move, did you?”
Irritation twinged in the back of Franziska’s mind again. Why was the idea of her living in LA - being far closer to Kurain - so repulsive to Maya?
“No,” she said, stiffly. “This is a visit.”
*
Maya’s futon was built for one. Of this, Franziska was painfully aware. Despite that, she, Maya and Pearl Fey were all currently sitting on it. It was so close to the ground that squatting might have offered more back support, and her knees were raised to be level with her chest. This was not ideal, considering the tailoring of her pencil skirt.
Maya and the smaller Fey were completely at ease.
“OK, this is my favourite part,” said Maya, clutching her forearm and gesturing to the minuscule television, “The Pink Princess is about to unveil her signature move.”
“Super Sparkle Spinning Kick!” piped up Pearl, punching her small fists in excitement.
The words meant nothing to Franziska, who had zoned out some time ago and was, in truth, composing an email to Miles about the upcoming court dates of an Interpol investigation in her head.
“I need some air,” she said, leaning over to murmur the words in Maya’s ear.
Maya nodded vaguely, eyes fixed on the screen, where the woman in lurid pink and impractical armour was spinning surrounded by glitter.
Franziska got up and left the room. Outside, she adjusted her skirt and walked quickly out into the courtyard, glaring at a young medium who seemed poised to ask where she was going as she passed.
What was wrong with her? She’d been so sure that coming to Kurain was the right thing to do, that seeing Maya again would be some ridiculous, romantic moment. And Maya was certainly happy to see her, but no more than Maya was probably happy to see any new face in this minuscule village.
She sunk down on a bench, pulling her phone from her pocket. The reception wasn’t too bad but the internet connection was abysmal, so she settled for drafting the email to Miles. And then another to Lang, enquiring for updates on the Borginian smuggling case she considered as much her own case as his.
The clack-clack of sandals made her look up from her phone.
“So I’m guessing me and Edgeworth failed at getting you hooked on the Steel Samurai franchise, then?” asked Maya, standing over her so that she was haloed by the setting sun.
Franziska shook her head, moving along the bench so Maya could sit down.
“Sorry, by the way,” said Maya, “For that last phone call. LA, huh?”
Franziska sighed. “I’m not moving.”
“Thank God.”
“But can I ask why the idea of me being nearby is so hideous?”
Maya took the spot next to Franziska, sitting sideways as to better look her in the eye as she spoke. “When I first met you, I thought you were, like, years older than me.”
Franziska didn’t say anything. She’d spent most of her teenage years cultivating that exact effect.
“Which is why,” she continued, “it’s so weird to have to act like the grown-up right now. We’re barely even a thing; this is still really new even if it doesn’t seem like it a lot of the time. I really like you, and — God — I really think this could, you know, be something.”
Franziska flushed. She wasn’t used to being made out to be the irrational one. “As long as it’s not that you just don’t want me here-“
Maya cut her off by putting her hands on Franziska’s shoulders. “I want you here. I think you’re awesome and ridiculously hot and better off staying in Germany until one of us caves.”
“Until one of us caves?”
“Meaning if I wasn’t still training to be Master and could speak even a little German you’d be hard-pressed to stop me from moving in with you. But I think that’s the kind of decision Nick would tell me off about.”
Franziska bit back a smile. She should have realised this whole thing came down to Maya trying to be sensible. But then, Maya so rarely was.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” said Franziska. Maya raised her hand to stop.
“I see your romantic courtyard kiss, and raise you: Pearly’s not in my room and we could make out super hard on the futon.” Maya waggled her eyebrows. Franziska laughed.
“Do you invite many women to —uh— ‘make out’ on your futon?”
“Nope. It’s a make out virgin. Up for it?”
Franziska assured her that she was, but she kissed her in the courtyard anyway. What could she say? Maya was turning her into something of a romantic.
|
In the end it had taken both Davos and Sansa to convince Stannis to ride with Robert.
“Stannis, you took some hard hits, you’re strung out, you’re in no shape to drive. Satisfy the public safety officer in me and just go with your brother.”
“I am perfectly capable of driving.”
The last thing he needed was another weakness for Robert to hold over his head. He could hear the boasting now - I’ve driven a hundred miles after drinking all night, had no troubles at all.
Stannis had been on the verge of grabbing his keys and his girl when Sansa herself gripped his arm.
“Stannis, please?” Sansa’s shaky voice brought Stannis to a standstill. Her worried blue eyes pleaded silently - she feared for his own safety in spite of the ordeal she had just gone through.
To hell with Robert and his boasts. Sansa needed him more than he needed to show his strength. That could wait.
“I’ll ride.”
Once in the back seat Sansa whispered “Thank you” in his ear, quiet enough that only he could hear it. He held Sansa close for the rest of the drive, focusing only on her warmth which eased the ache in his battered ribs. For once Robert kept his mouth shut.
It was mid-afternoon by the time they pulled into Robert’s huge circular driveway. Stannis didn’t scoff at the high solid fence, the guarded gate, or the long driveway leading to the secluded mansion. He didn’t sneer at the the gaudy facade of the enormous place, or insist on carrying his own luggage when Robert’s doorman came out to greet them. Instead, he just gave Sansa his hand and escorted her inside.
Ned arrived shortly thereafter, having been given a ride to the café by Davos where he retrieved his own vehicle.
“Your mother is going to insist that you come home.”
“I know Dad, but right now I want to stay here with Stannis. Please try to get her to understand?” Sansa pleaded with her father.
Ned nodded and kissed his daughter on the forehead. “I will. And I’ll be back as soon as I can with your things.”
Robert, distracted by a phone call, left them in the care of his full-time butler, a retired army officer who now managed Robert’s household. He led them upstairs to a vaguely familiar set of rooms.
“Weren’t these Renly’s rooms?”
“Renly’s old rooms?” Sansa whispered to Stannis. “I’m not so sure…”
The butler gestured for Stannis to precede him into the suite. “The suite was fully renovated at Ms. Lannister’s orders after Renly moved out. It was to be for Mr. Lannister’s use.”
Stannis nodded, pleasantly surprised with the rooms’ minimalist decor. He made short work of examining the bathroom, bedroom, sitting room, and closets, as much for Sansa’s peace of mind as his own. “This will do.”
While Sansa explored the suite, Stannis spoke with the butler, making sure he knew exactly where to get the soup Sansa liked so much, and protein shakes for himself. His sore jaw would keep him from eating anything solid for several days.
“Is there anything else, Mr. Baratheon?”
He reached automatically for the familiar tin in his pocket, but came up empty handed. Damn. The only tobacco he had brought was in the red can, packed safely away. And if it truly was - compromised - as Davos had suggested, then now was not the time to test it - or himself. He blew out hard to try and dispel his cravings, then gave the butler the details for his regular tobacco.
“And one more thing. Tell my brother not to disturb us - Sansa and I need some rest.”
As soon as the latch clicked Stannis returned to the bedroom. He removed his shirt as the room felt oddly stuffy. He couldn’t quite fathom how Sansa could stand wearing the heavy sweatshirt, but she appeared comfortable in it. He took her hand and of one accord they stretched out on the bed. Sansa immediately laid her head down on Stannis’ chest. He didn’t want to admit it directly to Robert, but he was exhausted. And he knew Sansa was on her last legs as well.
Neither of them spoke, instead just took quiet comfort in each other’s presence. Stannis relaxed as Sansa swirled her fingers lazily through the hair that insisted upon growing on his chest. As the motion slowed, so too did his thoughts. He gave in to the beckoning oblivion of sleep and closed his eyes, drifting off with the pleasant warmth of his girl lying alongside him.
Stannis awoke with a jolt to a rapping on the door.
“Sansa? Sansa, it’s Mom. Can I see you?” Catelyn’s muffled voice still managed to convey annoyance. Had she been knocking long?
Sansa lifted her head off Stannis’ chest and sat up quickly. “Yeah Mom, just a sec.”
Stannis had barely managed to sit up when Catelyn came in and promptly started to cry when she saw Sansa’s bruised face. She hugged Sansa tight, whispering ‘my girl, my girl, what did those monsters do’ over and over again. Sansa held on tight to her mother as well, and kept on trying to reassure her with ‘I’m ok’, but she too had tears streaming down her face.
He stood up stiffly, torn between wanting to stay with Sansa and getting away from one distraught Catelyn Stark.
Catelyn turned towards him. “Stannis, will you give Sansa and I some time, please?” She wiped the tears from her face with one hand while holding tightly to Sansa’s hand with the other, as if she were trying to keep Sansa from slipping away. Her knuckles turned white from the tight grip.
In truth, Stannis did not want to leave Sansa alone with Catelyn. He knew the incident would just bolster her opposition against him. But Sansa sensed his hesitation and gave him a little nod.
Stannis stumbled downstairs and followed the sound of voices to the kitchen, where Robert, Ned, and Davos were discussing the timeline of the morning’s events. He ignored them in search of water and ibuprofen. His ribs had started aching again. He stared for long moments out the window, watching the shadows lengthen across the yard as the sun set while thinking nothing at all.
“Damn, Stannis, you look like a Mack truck ran you over.” Davos’ uncharacteristic exaggeration jerked Stannis out of his reverie.
“Huh? Oh.” All three men were staring at his bare torso - in his haste to get clear of Catelyn he’d forgotten to put on a shirt. Bruises covered half of his ribcage and abdomen. And by the way his spine felt, his upper back was probably black and blue as well. As if the marks on his face did not already give testament to the beating he’d received.
“For all the hits you took, Stanny, it doesn’t look like you managed to connect in return. Was he too much for you?” Robert scoffed as he picked up Stannis’ arm to look at the unmarred knuckles. Stannis snatched his wrist out of his brother’s grasp with a barely concealed snarl.
“Dammit Robert…”
“Leave off, Robert. Stannis saved my daughter. The how isn’t important.” Ned waved a beer bottle in Robert’s face, effectively distracting him and keeping him out of Stannis’ reach. The two men wandered into Robert’s enormous living room, leaving Stannis alone with Davos.
Stannis sagged against the counter and regarded his old friend wearily. “I assume you have an update, or else you wouldn’t be here, no?”
Davos glanced towards the door, making sure no one overheard him. “I found out how backup showed up so quickly. It wasn’t my call to dispatch, but an anonymous 9-1-1 call.”
Stannis frowned. “How? Who?”
“You’re not going to like this.” Davos paused. “I got the number traced. It was that blond kid, Harry Harddyng.”
“What!” Stannis exclaimed, then quickly settled when Davos shushed him. “That punk knew it was going to happen. Have you found him?”
“Not yet,” Davos shook his head. “I put an APB out on him though. If he’s seen, we’ll take him in for questioning.”
Female voices carried from hall, alerting Stannis to Catelyn and Sansa’s approach. He held Davos back.
“Don’t tell Sansa.” Davos nodded his assent, but also gave Stannis a warning.
“You can’t go after him. Leave that to us. I couldn’t protect you from the legal ramifications if you did, no matter how justified you think you are.”
Stannis fumed. He could stuff Harry’s body into one of the crab traps that permeated the backwaters of the bay, and no one would ever know... Then Sansa spoke, breaking him clear from his daydreams of vigilante justice.
“Here, I thought you might want this.” Sansa handed Stannis his shirt.
Stannis glanced over to the far corner where Cat and Ned were in the midst of a quiet but intense argument. They spoke too low for Stannis to understand their words, but Ned’s aloof stance and Cat’s wagging finger told him all he needed to know - they were at odds about something. Next to him, Sansa sighed.
“Everything alright with your mother?” Stannis wished she would go away. Soon. He had never been comfortable in Catelyn’s presence; even less so now that he was dating Sansa.
“She insists that I come home with her. But I don’t want to. At least Dad understands.” Sansa tugged at her hair. “Ugh! I wish she’d just - loosen up - a little, you know? I’m a big girl now, and I can make my own decisions.”
“You’re still her daughter, and with everything that has happened, I can understand why she wants to take you home.” Privately Stannis did not understand. If he was not strong enough to protect Sansa, how could Cat and Ned possibly do so?
Stannis guided Sansa back to the massive sofas to sit with Davos. They spoke for a few minutes on what would come next in the investigation. That included both Sansa and Stannis going to the station on Monday to review suspect photos and talk to a criminal sketch artist, in hopes of identifying the intruder who got away.
The whole time they talked Davos had been fiddling with a heavy ring on his hand. Something about it looked familiar.
“Davos.” Stannis gestured to his friend. “Let me see that.”
Stannis studied the ring for a moment, turning it back and forth. When he spoke it was matter-of-fact, as if he were just discussing the weather. “The man that nearly ran me over today wore a ring like this.”
He started to hand the ring back to Davos, but Sansa nearly jumped off the sofa.
“Wait! Stannis, what do you mean, man who almost ran you over? Are you alright? Did you see him?” He marveled at Sansa’s ability to dismiss her own trauma, even if just for a moment, in her concern for him. Stannis did not want Sansa to worry about him. That was just one more stressor.
Stannis shrugged. “It was nothing. I ran into traffic without looking. Like a damn fool.”
“Can I see it?” She too, much like Stannis had, turned the ring back and forth in her hand. “I’ve seen a ring like this before. Lothor...yes, Lothor wore a ring just like this too.” Sansa spoke quietly, and huddled up closer to Stannis.
“Who is Lothor?” Stannis all but growled the name.
“Petyr’s head of security.” Sansa looked down, not meeting anyone’s eyes. Stannis wrapped his arm around her shoulders once again.
Ned spoke up. “Petyr? Sansa, do you mean Petyr Baelish?” She nodded, but wouldn’t look at her father.
This time Stannis did growl. Davos shot him a warning look and a gesture. The information the two men shared could not be revealed, not yet. Secrets had a way of cascading out of control.
“Sansa, can you identify this man?” Davos showed Sansa a picture on his phone.
She nodded. “Yes. That’s him. Lothor Brune. But I don’t see what this has to do with him.”
“Probably nothing. I knew him once, is all. He was a dirty cop - got kicked off the force several years ago for corruption.”
Davos’ dismissive attitude did not fool Stannis. Thanks to Sansa’s attacker they now knew that someone still on the police force was eavesdropping on Davos’ conversations and activities. Brune might be the link to that unknown spy.
Stannis racked his brain, but he could not recall seeing the ex-cop at any of his fights. Regardless, he studied Lothor Brune’s image carefully, committing it to memory. As Baelish’s security chief, Brune would be privy to the Mockingbird’s secrets and schemes. Which meant he probably was aware of Stannis’ alter-ego and his participation in the circuits. A man to be on the lookout for.
Cat sat next to Sansa and took her hand. She pointedly ignored Stannis even though only three feet separated them.
“Sansa, all this talk of Petyr Baelish has me concerned. I need to know why you chose to intern with him without telling me or your father about it. We had a plan, an agreement for your career path.”
Something about Catelyn’s voice set Stannis’ teeth on edge. Controlling, aggrieved, put out - when had she decided that it was a contest between her and Stannis as to who had more right to Sansa’s company?
“That’s just it, Mom. The we part of the plan is really just your part. It’s like I didn't get a say in it. So when that internship opportunity came available, I jumped at it. It was a chance for me to prove myself. And I wanted you and Dad to be proud of me for doing so.”
Stannis clenched his teeth to keep from yelling at the insensitive woman. Couldn’t she see how she had stifled her daughter’s growth and independence? From everything he had heard over the years, Sansa had been the model child. Beautiful, smart, capable, talented. And now that he had gotten to know and fall in love with her, Stannis could see all that, and so much more. Yet she still had felt the need to prove herself to her mother.
“From now on you need to keep us informed of these things ahead of time, dear. If we had known, we could have prevented -”
Sansa’s phone chime interrupted Cat’s lecture with an incoming message. She looked, then dropped it to the floor and scooted to the back of the sofa, face as white as the carpet on the floor.
“Gods, he was right! He was right.” Sansa cried and shouted and mumbled all at once. She rocked back into the corner of the sofa, mumbling ‘Petyr was right’.
“Sansa?” Moments ago, Sansa was fine - relatively speaking - and now she was bordering on the hysterical.
A photo was displayed on the phone, a photo of Sansa seemingly asleep on a couch, wearing only her underwear and bra. Stannis felt hot and cold all over. Who had seen his girl like this? Who had dared take her picture when she was so vulnerable?
He snatched it up, but the text swam before his red-hazed vision - it made no sense. It was Davos that read the words out loud.
“I told you the world didn’t deserve to see you. Now look what happened. I would have kept you safe. Better than he can.”
Growling, snarling, raging. It wasn’t until Davos shook Stannis that he realized that the animalistic sounds had come from his own throat, the shattered glass beneath the window had been a tumbler thrown from his own hand. Everyone stared at him. Everyone except Sansa. She did not react.
Davos sat next to Sansa again. Cat sat close by, calling her daughter’s name, to no avail. Sansa still did not respond.
Stannis could not sit - his arms and legs tingled, no - itched - but the itch came from within, the kind that no scratching could alleviate. He paced even as Davos spoke to Sansa.
“Sansa, can you tell us anything about this photo? When it was taken, or where?” Davos spoke quietly, without judgment. His even manner steadied Sansa. After a few moments she scooted forward again and studied her phone, only the paleness of her face betraying her frightened state.
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen this picture before. I don’t remember being like this. I don’t remember this room. I don’t understand how this is even possible.” Her voice continued to rise with each passing sentence, until her last words were nearly incoherent.
Sansa’s breath came rapidly, and her eyes cast about the room searching for something, anything, yet seeing nothing. Stannis knew what she felt - he had experienced that same panic last night in the opera house, when he had lost sight of her and had received that heart-stopping anonymous text. He’d thought she’d been taken from him. Now, her privacy and sense of self-security had been violated, and she didn’t know how to anchor herself. But Stannis did.
He choked back his rage and knelt before her, captured her face gently between his hands. Catelyn spoke but he tuned her out. Only Sansa mattered now.
“I got you, girl. Breathe, nice and slow, with me.” He leaned forward so that their foreheads touched, and all she could feel or see was him. “In and out, that’s it. I got you.” Soon Sansa’s breaths steadied out and the panic faded away.
Stannis gave the back of her a neck a little squeeze, a gentle massage under her hair. “You with me?”
Sansa sniffed and nodded. “I’m better now, just...today has been a little much, you know?”
“That it has, but we can get through it together.” I swear it.
Sansa straightened up, and reached for her phone. “Let me see that again. Maybe if I think hard enough I can remember something.”
Cat, forgotten on the couch, spoke up again. “Honey, are you sure? You don’t even know who sent this picture. Maybe someone Photoshopped your face onto it.”
“Baelish is responsible for this, Catelyn, I am certain. The words in that text are nearly identical to what Sansa related to me the night after she and the Tyrell girl were attacked.” Stannis held Cat’s gaze with his own. “You know what he is capable of.”
Catelyn sucked in her breath. “How do you know?”
“Mom? Know what?” Sansa looked to her father for guidance as well. “Dad?”
Cat sighed, but cast a sour glance at Stannis as well. “I suppose you might as well learn why we would have opposed your internship with Petyr. He lived with our family at Riverrun for a time while we attended school - his family was too poor to afford private school tuition, so our father let him stay with us as a favor to his father.”
“That explains how he knows you.”
“There’s more, Sansa. Petyr raped Lysa, and attempted to do the same thing to me, but Brynden stopped him. He is not a good man.”
Sansa gasped. “I didn’t know that! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I never would have taken that internship if I’d known.”
“It was so long ago, and your father and I didn’t think any of you kids needed to know that. Some things are better left behind. And the chances of you ever meeting Petyr Baelish were too remote to warrant it. Or so we thought.”
Sansa nodded, but it was clear she wasn’t happy with Cat’s explanation. She looked back at the photo of herself, sprawled unconscious in an unknown location.
“Those are my underthings, so I don’t think this was Photoshopped. I just don’t remember ever falling asleep anywhere in Petyr’s company…” She paused, deep in thought. “Wait. One of the last times we had dinner together I fainted. I remember being light headed after drinking a bit of wine, then nothing. But when I woke up I was fully dressed, lying on the floor in the dining room. Petyr said I had passed out, but only out for a minute at most. I think he must have drugged me.”
Davos spoke up, quietly. “Sansa, I need to know something. When you came home that night, did you feel that you had been physically violated in any way?”
“You mean raped?” Sansa shook her head, face turning red. “No. I wasn’t...there wasn’t...nothing happened like that, I’m certain.”
“Did he say anything to you, anything out of the ordinary?”
“Beyond being his usual creepy cryptic self? No...Yes. There is one other thing I remember about that night. I didn’t understand it at the time, it was so strange. Petyr said that only he could keep me safe and whole. He said, ‘Your soul is too pure for this world. And I could not stand to see that purity sullied by the world and all its filth. ’”
Stannis snarled. “I should have wrung that little maggot’s neck last night when I had the chance.”
“What do you mean, last night?” Sansa looked at Stannis in alarm. “Stannis?”
“I didn’t want to worry you. Petyr approached me in the lobby while you were using the ladies’ room. We exchanged...words.”
“What else? What aren’t you telling me?”
Stannis showed her the photo that had been texted to him the night before, the one taken of Sansa from behind, alone in the hallway.
“Is this why you were so panicked in the lobby?”
He nodded.
“But why? What made you think something had happened to me last night?”
Stannis exchanged a look with Ned, one that Sansa did not miss.
“This wasn’t the first time, was it? Tell me, Stannis. I deserve to know.”
He wiped his face, wondering where the sweat had come from so suddenly. “First time was the night after I took you to lunch at that Italian restaurant.”
“That long ago? And what do you mean, first time?” Sansa stood up and walked decisively away from Stannis, moving instead towards the stairwell.
“I received another anonymous Snapchat text after we went to that music festival. I asked Davos what could be done. He said there wasn’t enough evidence for the police to act, but advised me to inform your father, which I did.”
Sansa leveled a baleful look at her father. “So you knew too?”
Ned started to walk towards Sansa but she held up a hand. “Sansa, honey, we were just trying to look out for your best interests. I didn’t want to worry you and neither did Stannis. It was my call.”
“After you finally told me about Lyanna I thought you were done keeping secrets. I can’t believe neither one of you told me I was being stalked! Do you know how unfair that is?”
“That’s it. I’m taking Sansa home with me right now. Honey, let’s get your things.” Catelyn barged straight up the stairs past Sansa only to be stopped by an unfamiliar word.
“No.”
Sansa stood at the bottom of the stairs, arms wrapped defensively around her body. Stannis ached to go to her, but she refused to even look towards him. She faced her mother straight on. “I’m staying here, Mom. I just need some time by myself.”
Cat descended the stairs, cupped Sansa’s cheeks. “Sweetling, you’ve had a terrible ordeal today. And you’ve learned some unpleasant truths. I know you’re hurting and scared. Trust me, I’ve been there, and I know what you need right now. Let’s go home, shall we?”
“No!” Sansa pushed her mother’s hands away and retreated a few steps up the staircase. “I’m sick and tired of everyone treating me like a child, telling me only what they think I ought to know, keeping from me what they think I don’t need to know, assuming that they know what’s best for me.”
Sansa finally turned her gaze towards Stannis, although her words were more sad than angry. “Even you, Stannis. I thought you were different. I thought…” She reined in whatever she was going to say, sniffled, and wiped her teary eyes.
“Sansa, sweetling...”
“Not you too, Dad. I don’t want to hear it. All of you, just leave me alone.” Sansa turned and resolutely walked up the stairs and out of sight without a backward glance.
Stannis turned as well, intent on going out back, outside where he might find some solitude, but Cat’s scathing voice stopped him.
“Just a minute, Stannis. I have words for you. A man in your position should have known better than to encourage a young girl’s infatuation.”
She stepped right in front of him, shaking her finger in his face. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself at your age, chasing her for a piece of tight young ass! She’s not your mid-life crisis. You never should have even looked at my daughter. If you had done the right thing this never would have happened!”
“She is far more than just a - ” Stannis bit back on his anger, bit back on what he wanted to say.
“Sansa means everything to me, Catelyn. Everything.”
He sidestepped around Catelyn and marched stiff backed through the mansion to the sprawling patio beyond. Like Sansa, Stannis had no desire to see anybody at the moment. Except for her. But right now even that was out of the question.
He didn’t know how long he sat out on the deck, sitting, chewing, ruminating on everything and nothing at all. The nicotine fix calmed him down but did nothing to help him solve the dilemma of how to make amends with Sansa. Or if he even could. The first stars had come out in the evening sky when familiar footsteps approached.
“I assume the Starks have left?”
Davos’ quiet affirmation did nothing to tell Stannis what he really needed to know. What he feared finding out.
“And Sansa too?”
“You don’t give that girl enough credit, Stannis.” A faint stirring in his heart. “No, she didn’t leave with her parents. She rather publicly told them off, if you recall.”
“I was included in that ‘telling off’, if you recall.” Squash that stirring now. While it’s small, before it takes hold.
A sigh in the dark, a clap on the shoulder, a rustling as Davos stood up. “You’re going to insist on sitting out here by yourself. Fine. Just don’t wallow too long, old friend. That young lady needs you more than you need your self-pity.”
“I’m not-” Stannis stopped speaking, as the back of his departing friend wouldn’t likely answer anyway.
He sat a little longer, remembering all the times when he had been alone as a teenager, wishing someone would come to him, yet knowing that no one ever would. Sansa didn’t deserve that. That got his feet moving, taking him back to the upstairs hallway almost without conscious effort.
Stannis knocked on the door, unsure if he should walk in unannounced. When he didn’t get a response he clamped down on his panic - maybe she was just in the bathroom - and entered anyway. The sitting room was empty. It took all of his willpower to not barge through the suite yelling her name. Instead he calmly opened the door to the inner bedroom, telling his racing heart to settle down lest it wake her if she should be asleep.
Sansa was not asleep. She sat on the end of the bed, struggling to lift her hand holding a hairbrush above her head. She looked across the room to see her reflection in the mirror, where her bruised face framed with tangled tresses stared back at her.
She dropped her hands to her lap and started speaking, but Stannis wasn't sure if she was addressing him or the empty room.
"Last night was magical. I mean, twenty-four hours ago I was walking the red carpet to the opera house, getting my picture taken by dozens of photographers, looking like a movie star, treated like a queen. Every girl's fairy-tale dream come true. And then this morning happened."
Sansa still didn't look at Stannis, just hugged her body while she continued. "Why would anyone want to kill me? I don't understand. I've never hurt anyone, never done anything wrong as far as I can tell. Why?"
"And now here I am, sitting on Tywin Lannister's bed in a mansion. How bizarre is that?" She gestured to the mirror. "If it weren't for the bruises on my face, I could almost believe that the past day was just a freaky nightmare." Stannis' heart constricted. Did she really mean to include their time together as part of that 'freaky nightmare'?
The hairbrush flew across the room until its flight path was interrupted by the heavy golden drapes. It fell to the carpet with a dull thud.
“What difference does it make?” Sansa pulled the hood of her baggy sweatshirt up over her disheveled red hair and hugged her knees to her chest. Her face had turned red and blotchy, and she used the sleeve to wipe her nose.
Stannis recovered the brush, stifling a groan when he bent over, and moved to sit across from Sansa.
“I can help with that, if you want.”
“Like I said, what difference does it make.” Sansa spoke in a monotone, much like Shireen had been wont to do when she was younger and frustrated with some situation or another. “I’m not going anywhere, and it looks like these bruises aren’t going anywhere either. I still won’t look like - or feel like - me.” She gripped her legs even tighter.
Tread carefully. “The first time I got hit, I was barely a teen, alone at boarding school. I remember looking in the mirror and thinking that I wouldn’t be the same, nothing could possibly be the same. But then a week or two passed by, and I found myself wondering where those bruises went. They were gone, but I was still standing. And so will you.”
Sansa didn’t say anything, but she lifted her head and peeked out from under the hood. She reached out, avoiding his current cuts and bruises to brush her fingers instead across his brow, over the recent scar he’d acquired in the fighting ring.
Stannis closed his eyes and leaned into the fleeting touches dancing across his face. The caresses both asked questions, and accepted as a forgone conclusion that he could not answer them, all at once. She is a gift...
He brushed the backs of his fingers across Sansa’s bruised cheek, ghosting across her soft pale skin, now turned purple from the awful blow.
“They will fade, aye, and soon enough you’ll not know exactly where they were. And then, when you look in the mirror you’ll see what I see right now, that you were right here all along. And so it does matter, Sansa. It matters that you take care of yourself, and let us - let me - help you to do so, when you don’t feel quite up to it.”
Sansa nibbled on her lip, mulling over his words. Stannis waited silently. She had to be the one to ask, now. After just a moment she pulled her hood down and handed the brush to Stannis.
“Will you brush the tangles out? Please?” Her fingers brushed across Stannis’ right hand, the one that had been bothering him so much. Soft and fleeting, still the touch told Stannis what he needed to know - she would not reject him.
Stannis never thought that the simple act of brushing someone’s hair could be so soothing, relaxing, hypnotizing even. He fell into a semi-trance, just concentrating on the soft, smooth texture as he ran the brush through her hair over and over again. All other thoughts faded away - there was just the repetitive strokes and silky sensations as his hands went through her hair again and again, until Sansa spoke, breaking through his daze.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Sansa’s voice was no longer accusing, just genuinely curious.
Stannis continued to run the brush through her hair in long, slow strokes as he considered his answer. Anything less than the truth was unacceptable.
“I wanted to - needed to - protect you. And that includes protecting you from unnecessary fears.”
“I’m not a child.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, silently begging to be affirmed as an adult, as an equal.
How do I explain?
“I hate to see you hurting. Or afraid, or worried. I would do anything to keep those fears from ever crossing your path.”
“I’ve always believed that loving each other means trusting each other enough to share our problems and worries, not keep them bottled up. Even in families. Jon and I talk all the time. You’ve had someone to confide in like that, right?”
“Grow up, Stanny. Men don’t whine like little bitches about their problems. They stand up for themselves. If you can’t handle a simple bully then how the hell can you ever become a man? Oh, I almost forgot. You’ll be spending the summer at school. Between Cersei and the company I won’t have time to deal with you.”
Robert drove off, leaving Stannis standing alone in front of the old stone-faced dormitory, mist clinging to his coat and hair. Soon the car disappeared in the thickening fog. Stannis would not see it, or his brother, for three years.
“A long time ago I learned that people didn’t want to hear about any problems, mine or otherwise. I keep quiet and deal with whatever comes along by myself. It’s habit now.”
“I’m not just ‘people’. I love you. So promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“I am in charge of my life, not my parents. But I can’t make the best decisions if I’m uninformed. If it concerns me, I have a right to know. Promise that you won’t keep me in the dark ever again. Please?”
Sansa held his gaze with a resolve that belied her earlier resignation and hopelessness. Stannis could not look away from those gorgeous, determined blue eyes. His hands stilled, slackened, dropped the now-forgotten brush.
“I promise, Sansa.”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
She leaned forward and he gratefully accepted her invitation, sealing the promise with a gentle kiss.
Sansa pulled back after a moment and wrinkled her nose. “I think I want a bath. Help me?”
Stannis gladly helped Sansa out of his - now her - big sweatshirt and ran a bubble bath for her in the spacious bathroom. He unclasped the pearls - miraculously unscathed - and studied them for a moment.
“You don’t have to keep these, if you don’t want to. I understand if they remind you of what happened.”
“No.” Sansa gripped his wrist tightly. “Those monsters won’t win. They don’t get to take last night’s magic away from me. I’m keeping these pearls and I will wear them whenever I want.”
“Good.” Stannis put the pearls safely away, then helped Sansa into the tub and washed her hair. Just like brushing it earlier, he found the repetitive motion hypnotic and surprisingly intimate. More importantly, the gentle scalp massage appeared to relax Sansa.
After he rinsed and wrapped her hair in some weird hair-turban thingy - he accepted her explanation that towel-drying long hair would cause damage, even if he didn’t understand it - Stannis proceeded to gently wash Sansa’s back. She turned back and forth, clearly enjoying his tender ministrations. But she remained quiet for quite some time. Something still bothered her.
“I overheard my mom, when she lashed out at you in the hall. I’ve never heard her speak like that before. What she said to you was so...so ugly. Is that what she really thinks of me, of you, of us?”
He hadn’t wanted to hold this conversation, but putting it off wouldn’t make the underlying issue go away, either.
“That’s the default assumption of anyone who sees us together. Stereotypes exist for a reason.”
“I don’t want to be a stereotype! We’re people, not clichés!”
Sansa slapped the water in time to her last words, sending soap bubbles flying all over the sides of the tub and herself. Her reddened face was framed with white suds, and through them bright blue eyes blazed with youthful resolve. In spite of the situation Stannis could not hold back a smile.
“What? Why are you grinning? This isn’t funny. I don’t want people to see us that way.”
“I’m not laughing at you. I admire your spirit, your courage, your drive for independence. You amaze me, every single day. Today even more so.”
She looked back down at the suds. “Why? I’m just a girl. I haven’t done anything with my life yet. Not like you.”
He tilted Sansa’s chin up with two fingers, so that she would meet his eyes again.
“You are not ‘just a girl’. You’re my girl. And far, far more than that, you are your own person. You have talent, strength, and a sense of self that many people twice your age lack. Do not sell yourself short. I don’t.”
“You’re just saying that.”
Stannis snorted. “Hardly. I’m certainly not going to tell you something that I don’t believe.”
Whatever Sansa had intended to say was interrupted by her big yawn. Stannis stifled another grin and helped her out the tub and get dried off. She didn’t want to take the Valium pills prescribed by the Stark family doctor - Ned had brought the prescription over - but gave in when Stannis nodded his encouragement.
“It’s not weakness, Sansa, and you won’t become dependent on them after just one or two nights. If anything, getting sleep now will make sure you don’t require them later.”
Like earlier, they snuggled in bed of one accord, Sansa once again laying her head across Stannis’ chest. She fell asleep almost at once.
His sleep came slowly, and when it did it was punctuated by dreams, fragments of past nights paying him an unwelcome visit.
In the closet, a small locked chest. Battered pickup truck. A gym by the docks.
Anticipation.
‘I promise, Sansa.’
Thumping rave music. Dank tunnels. Energetic crowds. A boxing ring, mat stained with blood.
Exhilaration.
‘I promise, Sansa.’
Dark, fog-bound alleys. The hunt. Young punk squirming, helpless, beneath him.
Power.
‘I promise, Sansa.’
Blood samples...tested positive...Spike...aggressive, “jonesing”.
Shame.
‘I promise, Sansa.’
‘Stannis Baratheon or Stefan Esterman? It’s so hard to tell.’
Rage.
‘I promise, Sansa.’
“...tired already? ...forget to spike your Wheaties?”
Defeat
Stannis woke suddenly, his pillow soaked with sweat. Sansa slumbered on, undisturbed by his movements as he got out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom.
He splashed cold water on his face, trying to dispel the unpleasant remnants of his dreams. Except they weren’t dreams, but reminders of his double life that continued to play tricks on him.
And why was he sweating so? His hands shook, his skin itched, his eyes burned from the too-bright bathroom light. The bruised and haunted image staring back at him from the mirror looked both contemptuously familiar and completely foreign all at once.
Stannis shut off the light.
He used the filtered moonlight to navigate his way back to Sansa’s side of the bed, and studied her sleeping form. She had tucked one hand up under her face, and hugged an oversized pillow with the other. Her breaths came slow and steady, punctuated with the occasional sigh that seemed to declare ‘I’m still here.’
He gently swept a lock of hair back from her face so that he could see her profile more clearly. So young, so innocent, so vulnerable. She turned and mumbled in her sleep, but he was certain that she would not awaken. Stannis quietly left the bedroom for the front sitting room. It was up to him to protect her.
He opened his suitcase and dug deep down inside for a second, smaller leather kit bag within. Inside that bag sat a set of keys with ‘Ford’ inscribed on them, and a red tin of tobacco.
Stannis stared at the contents, and they stared right back at him. Who would win? Was it even a contest?
“...forget to spike your Wheaties?”
Yes, he had. But no longer. He wouldn’t get caught flat-footed, unprepared, weak, again. Not where Sansa’s safety and security were concerned.
Stannis grabbed the red tin of tobacco and left the bedroom suite, silently closing the door behind him. He waited until he was out in the far recesses of Robert’s acreage before opening the tin and giving in to his craving, satisfying the itch and the drive for adrenaline. And something else.
‘I promise, Sansa.’
A promise, to keep her safe. By any means necessary.
|
Six and a half years later . . .
Harry looked over at the Slytherin table where his friend and longtime rival, Draco Malfoy, was already seated, and wished that he could have already been sorted too.
"Snape, Harry!" Minerva called out then.
The hall broke out in whispers as he made his way up to the front.
"Can you believe the greasy git actually reproduced?" Seemed to be the caliber of most of them; eliciting more than a few well placed growls on Harry's part as he passed them.
He gave a small smile to his father as he passed the professors and made his way to the small stool that was always put out for the Sortings. Minerva—er, Professor McGonagall—handed him the Sorting Hat with a smile and he put it on carefully. Secretly, he hoped that no one would see how badly his hands were shaking.
"Ah Mr. Potter-Snape! What a pleasant surprise to find you sitting under my brim," the hat chortled out loudly into his ear almost immediately.
"It's just 'Snape,' but thanks though," he answered quietly within in his mind.
"It was just Potter to begin with. You mustn't forget that," the hat admonished.
"Yes well, can we just get on with it please?"
The Sorting Hat chuckled in his ear before continuing, and Harry tried to fight back his increasing anxiety with a few well placed deep breaths.
"Let's see here then, down to business and all that. I can see that you have a great deal of loyalty to your father; making Hufflepuff simultaneously a good and horrible choice, am I correct?"
Harry didn't respond. It was hard enough just remembering to breathe.
"And quite intelligent too, I see that as well. They may have to move you up a level or two in some of your classes when they see exactly what you understand."
"Then I'll learn to hide it better," was his unthinking response.
"Oh, your father wouldn't be happy about that, I daresay."
"I just don't want to be a freak," he admitted very very softly; his mind automatically going back to his earlier memories. He still remembered calling his father a freak and being so very afraid at how the man—his Tall Man—would respond.
"Come now, none of that. He didn't get angry at you and he wasn't even your father then. Being a Ravenclaw would allow your natural intelligence a place to shine."
"They're too concerned with book smarts though," he countered logically, secretly wishing the hat would hurry up. People had started whispering within the Great Hall over the length of time that it was taking him to get sorted. He could hear them.
"And you're a survivor, aren't you? There's more to intelligence than just knowledge, isn't there," the hat replied; thankfully without any additional side comments.
"Yes." Harry was far more aware than most of how much truth there was to that statement.
"Strength of character means that you would fit in well in Gryffindor, but perhaps not in the long run. They don't think like you do."
"I'm not an idiot," he scoffed derisively.
"Hardly. Well, I suppose there's only one thing to do."
"And that is?" Harry prompted when the Hat didn't continue.
"Well, to place you in SLYTHERIN!" The last word shouted aloud, effectively shocking the hall into silence for a split second. Harry managed to get the hat off of his head before the Slytherin table broke into cheers.
"We got Snape!" He realized Draco was shouting, and he let a small smile grace his lips as he walked over to the table.
. . .
Although Severus had told himself that he would be proud of Harry regardless of where he was sorted, he was secretly relieved when the Hat had called out "Slytherin." A Slytherin son he could handle; he wasn't as sure that he could have handled a Gryffindor one. Certainly, Gryffindors did have their uses; after all, Lily had been one, had she not? And even Minerva, for all of her annoyingly chivalrous actions and honorable notions, had still proven herself to be a formidable ally and friend to both him and his son throughout the last six and a half years.
Six and a half years of being Harry's father; he shook his head in slight amusement. It was a wonder that he wasn't entirely white haired yet. Speaking of being white haired though, his eyes slid automatically over to the headmaster. He certainly respected the old man a great deal more than he had when Harry had first come to live with him.
His thoughts turned to the petite, thirteen year old child currently seated to his employer's right. Wrapping his mind around the idea of raising his enemy's son was hard enough, but it was nothing compared to the convoluted relationship that existed between Ariana and Albus. Not for the first time, Severus found himself thanking the fates that he was an only child. Merlin only knew what would have happened had there been another Snape child running around the household when he had been growing up.
He stole another glance down towards that end of the table and fought back a smirk. This Ariana had come to them as a six year old and therefore had never been tortured by angry muggle boys. This Ariana did not remember the death of her mother, let alone the arrest of her father. As a result, this Ariana had no fear of magic, and actually was a prodigy of sorts; more often than not giving Albus a run for his money. She had only retained a few memories of her previous life and for all intents and purposes really was starting over.
The child had started out as a typical Hogwarts student—sorted into Hufflepuff, of all places—but soon had risen far above her peers, especially in Herbology. In fact, arrangements had been made over the summer for her to be taken on as an apprentice by Pomona Sprout at the beginning of this term, Ariana's third year.
It was odd how the existence of the child had made such a distinct change in the demeanor of the headmaster. Then again, he thought ruefully, Harry did much the same thing to me.
. . .
Harry and the other first year Slytherin boys were getting ready for bed later that night when Draco started in on him.
"What is that?" The blond haired boy had pointed disdainfully at his bed.
"You already know," he answered calmly, staring darkly at his friend.
"If it was stupid when you were four, then it's idiotic now, Har'."
Harry made a face. He hated Draco's nickname for him.
"It wasn't any stupider than Merlin the Dragon," he tossed back, grinning widely as the pale faced boy turned slightly pink.
"Yeah, but is he here now?" Draco countered, quickly regaining his equilibrium. They had an audience now and he had to make sure he came out looking good.
"I don't know. Have any of the rest of you seen a stuffed purple dragon anywhere?" Harry asked the other boys with a smirk of his own.
The group of eleven year olds snickered around them and Harry crossed his arms menacingly, silently daring Draco to push him just a bit farther.
"At least it wasn't a stupid pink bear!" Draco scowled back at him, crossing his arms too.
"Pink?" Nott asked with a chuckle of his own, peering past Harry to where his old pink friend still lay.
"My dad made him for me," he answered, silently daring them to say anything against their head of house.
"Still though Harry, you're eleven. You don't need a stupid stuffed animal to sleep with anymore," Draco said derisively, the other first years nodding their heads in agreement.
"He's not stupid," Harry answered defensively. "Bears are the best animals in the world."
Most of the boys openly scoffed at his statement, but Draco was the only one to actually respond.
"Yeah, and why do you think that, huh?" Draco asked; a small smirk already present on his face.
"Well, for one, their sense of smell is seven times stronger than a bloodhound's," he threw back quickly, stepping right up in Draco's face.
"So what?"
"And they can also do this," he said smiling widely before turning himself into a bear and growling loudly at the entire room.
Silence was the only reaction, and then screams could be heard up and down the hallway as Nott and the other first year boys quickly ran away from him.
Harry quickly morphed back into his human form and glared at Draco. He hadn't run and instead was smirking in a very self-satisfied manner back at him.
"You're a dope, you know that?" Harry pointed out exasperatedly.
"Yeah, but the look on their faces, Har'? Priceless!"
. . .
It wasn't any surprise to Severus to learn that he was needed in the Slytherin dorms that very first night. He knew that his Slytherins were sneakier than all of the other houses combined. He was used to that. On the other hand, he also knew that some of his students bore closer watching—Marcus Flint came to mind offhand, and he was sure that Draco Malfoy would be included in that group soon enough.
"Come on, Uncle Sev! It was really funny!" His godson tried arguing with him after he finally got the truth out of him.
"Mr. Nott," he said by way of answering, turning to look at the thin boy to his left. "Did you find it 'really funny?'" Severus asked in a very dry voice.
"Not particularly, sir," was the small boy's serious response.
Severus watched in closely guarded amusement as his godson's face took on a distinctly pouting expression.
"What do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Malfoy?" He narrowed his eyes in warning at the boy.
"Why are you so angry at me? Harry's the one at fault!" Draco blustered.
"And you were the instigator of such fault. I believe we've had this conversation before, and I doubt that it is the last time, given your history," he let a small sneer come across his face. "Detention tomorrow, Mr. Malfoy. And Mr. Snape?" He turned to his contrite looking son. "A word in private, if you please."
He turned on his heel and led his son to the bathroom. After casting a silencing spell, he put his hands on the boy's shoulders and kneeled in front of him.
"What have I told you about letting your temper take away your control?" He asked calmly, looking into his son's vibrant green eyes.
"I know, I know dad," Harry answered calmly, if not a bit tiredly. "He really can be an arse, you know?"
"You should also know better than most how he has been raised," Severus answered softly.
"Yeah, I have had a better role model," his son said with a small laugh.
Severus found himself smiling back.
"No doubt you remember our agreement?"
"Yeah dad, I do," his son answered slowly. "Any unsupervised animagi transformations," he answered in a bored tone, "will result in a loss of flying privileges for the rest of the week," Harry sighed and rolled his eyes. "But dad, I wasn't unsupervised. I was here, in Slytherin. You have wards all over this place. If I had wanted to be unsupervised, I would have dismantled them first. It's not as though I don't know how," his son argued. "Or I could have cast a silencing spell," he added.
"So why did you not?" Severus asked, just the slightest bit intrigued.
"'Cause I didn't want to go to sleep without doing this first," his son answered mysteriously before engulfing Severus in a hug.
Severus wrapped his arms around his son's back and pulled him closer to his chest.
"What a sneaky little Slytherin you've been!" he remarked proudly into his child's ear. Harry only responded by turning his head and pressing a small kiss to his cheek.
"Will you be okay without me tonight Daddy?" His son whispered to him.
"I believe I will be now," Severus answered with a small grin.
"Good," his child said, letting go of his neck finally and taking a few steps backwards. "Goodnight Professor Snape," he added formally before heading back to bed.
"Goodnight son," Severus answered softly to the empty room. |
The following morning when Wei Wuxian awoke, the feeling of only bare sheets beneath him was not a welcome one. The smell of sandalwood still lingered in the air, but it was fast fading. Taking a deep breath, he deduced it must have been a few hours since Lan Wangji left judging from the weakened remaining scent.
The sunlight from the small window poured into the room despite the wintery conditions outdoors. In the stream of sun light Wei Wuxian could see the dust particles dance across the room, swirling around in the light in contrast to the silence and emptiness of the outdoors. Lan Wangji had this habit of leaving the window cracked open in the mornings to let in the fresh air. Wei Wuxian had not minded it before when he had first arrived, but now winter was truly upon them. The cool breeze brushed against his skin, hairs standing on end and had him longing to be back curled against Lan Wangji’s warm side.
Forcing himself to look out of the window instead of burying himself back under the welcoming embrace of the sheets, the haze of sleep finally began to clear. A smile slowly spread across his face. Lan Wangji had promised to bring A-Yuan outside today. After all this time, has was finally getting to see him. He was finally able to see with his own two eyes the only family member that did not wish him dead. Jiang Cheng may hate him for defecting, Wen Qing and her brother may have gotten themselves killed for him and he may have accidentally killed his sister’s husband, but at least he had someone. Amongst all the death, there was a small ray of hope left. And that ray of hope was a three-year-old radish. A reminder that he was still capable of good after all. Thoughts of returning to sleep forgotten, he shot up out of bed and almost dashed towards the adjoining room to wash. He did not clean his face as carefully as Lan Wangji would have liked, and he definitely was not careful enough to avoid large puddles on the floor.
Lan Wangji isn’t here, he doesn’t need to know.
He realised as he yanked the white GusuLan robes around his frame, in a hurry to escape the cold breeze that filled the room, that they had not even organised a time. He did not know when Lan Wangji would bring the Lan Yuan or if it was even possible to.
What if something goes wrong?
What if he can’t come? What if Lan Zhan gets caught up in something else?
He took his place by the open window. Even if he had to sit and wait for hours, even if he had to sit there all day, he would trust Lan Zhan and would not move until he had seen his A-Yuan.
On the opposite side of the Cloud Recesses, Lan Wangji knocked against the locked wooden door. The door opened, revealing to those inside the tall figure waiting patiently in brilliant white robes, hair perfectly groomed and styled and a large sack slung over one shoulder. Most of those inside stood still, a little apprehensive, on edge, even. It was not every day the nephew of the Sect Leader stood at the door. But then a small force was racing forwards, feet thumping across the floorboards until it collided with said nephew’s thigh. Lan Wangji did not budge on impact. He was a wall of muscle, of calm, and would not be taken down by a toddler. Physically, at least. His blank expression did not waiver despite the small hands pulling at his robes. His thigh was being hugged, short arms wrapped around the limb, squeezing it tightly.
“Lan Yuan!” the young minder scolded, making her way towards the door. “Do not run!”
Lan Wangji resisted his urge to smile down at the young boy that he realised he had not seen in a few days now. He was in front of his sect members, many of whom knew little of him other than his status and reputation as a cold yet reliable presence. Lan Yuan did not look particularly sorry for the rule break, hanging from his leg and beaming, eyes half-crescent moons. Some things do not change.
Each time Lan Wangji saw the boy, he could not help but feel a sense of pride. Since he had arrived in the Cloud Recesses the difference was night and day. Lan Yuan’s hair today was neatly tied back away from his face, unlike the tangled mess it had been when he had been found. The strands that had hung over his face, that once stuck to his cheeks in his illness were groomed back. In every aspect of his new neat and uniformed appearance, he was unmistakably a Lan. A healthy glow in his cheeks revealed his improved state of nourishment and energy. Any signs of malnutrition or weakness left over from the Burial Mounds was long gone.
Lan Wangji could only thank the heavens that he was still only young.
It was conflicting. Lan Wangji hoped that he would not remember the atrocities from the Burial Mounds and even more from before then. He hoped he would continue to grow as a healthy and normal child, far away from danger and protected by GusuLan. Protected by him. But he knew that if he wished those things, for him to forget it all, it would also mean that Lan Yuan would not recognise nor remember Wei Wuxian. He could not wish to replace Wei Wuxian so easily, nor did he want to. He just wanted the child safe. It was why he had not yet asked Lan Yuan much about if he remembered much from before. He did not know if he was familiar to Lan Yuan because he had been the one to bring him here, or because he remembered that day they first met so long ago. As the child swung on his leg it took a great deal of self-restraint to stop himself bending down and taking him into his arms to go and play, to take him to the market and spoil him with armfuls of toys like he most assuredly deserved. No, not today. Today they had something important to do.
Instead of lifting the boy, Lan Wangi stuck out his hand for Lan Yuan to grab onto. Once Lan Yuan had grabbed it, a small hand managing to take hold around Lan Wangji’s thumb, he stood straight and proper. Looking at their joined hands, Lan Wangji was aware it may look as though he was playing favourites. Deep down, of course he was, but he would enjoy it whilst the child was still young. The young minder watched, an eyebrow raising.
“Hold tight,” Lan Wangji told Lan Yuan sternly. “The weather is cold. There may be ice.” It was not technically false. There wasn’t, as far as he was aware, but there could perhaps be somewhere. It seemed to satisfy the young woman out of any distaste for Hanguang-Jun and the child hand in hand. Hanguang-Jun had trained disciples for some time now, and he had never so much as smiled at them. It was surely an unsettling sight.
“We will return at supper,” he told the minder with a nod, “I would like to give him some extra tuition today, I have not seen him for a while. I apologise.”
She nodded, insisting it was no issue and entered into a polite bow as the two of them left. He had not expected any opposition to his plans even though he was sure that most people here did not like him too much. They respected him, but to like and to respect were not the same. Still, he was to keep up appearances.
Lan Yuan walked at his own regular pace as they made their way towards the other end of the Cloud Recesses which was several times slower than a comfortable walking speed for Lan Wangji though he did not protest. He wanted to pick him up, to walk faster so they could arrive, but they were passing the Main Hall. Too many eyes. If he did something as simple as carrying a child, he would soon be bombarded by officials asking what was going on, if the child was hurt. There was no practical reason for him to be carried otherwise. He had to be careful.
He was sure that Wei Wuxian must have been awake by now. He had waited a few hours between waking and going to collect Lan Yuan. He hadn’t spent too long lying in bed upon waking up. It was inappropriate to do so in the mornings, Wei Wuxian was already asleep and did not need Lan Wangji there at that time. He was only required during the nighttime. It was a reminder that allowed him to peel himself out of bed, out of the grasp of his sleeping bed-mate.
It was mid-morning now, and most disciples would be practicing with their swords in the courtyards or studying diligently in the library. Both were far away from the Jingshi and where Wei Wuxian was waiting. He could go unnoticed.
They were no ice patches yet but judging from the colour of the sky it was likely that snow may fall. Excuse of possible ice patches gone; he still did not release Lan Yuan’s hand. The Cloud Recesses was so beautiful when it was covered in a blanket of snow, Lan Wangji could not wait for Wei Wuxian to see it. Perhaps the new sight would provide him comfort, having stared at the same four walls for such a long time.
They turned a corner, away from the main teaching halls and the Yashi until they could see the outline of the surrounding forest in the distance.
“Gege,” said Lan Yuan, stopping in his tracks. “Cold.”
Lan Wangji released his hand and bent down to the child’s eye level. A cloak was around the boy’s shoulders, but in his excitement to leave and get to their destination, the fact that it wasn’t fastened had gone unnoticed. Lan Yuan’s lips trembled in the cold, the tip of his nose pink. Lan Wangji carefully pulled the white fur cloak further around the young boy’s shoulders, adjusting it so that it adequately covered his chest and collar and neatly tied the ribbon so that it hung delicately down the front. “
Here,” he said, satisfied with his work.
Lan Yuan smiled and then, a moment later his eyes flickered. “Thank you, Gege!” he rushed out, having seemingly remembered the all-important manners.
Lan Wangji hummed, pleased as Lan Yuan stood still, waiting. Huge brown eyes locked on his, still glimmering in excitement. Seeing how lovely Lan Yuan appeared, how happy his grin was, he wanted Wei Wuxian to see as soon as possible. To see how well his A-Yuan is doing, now all clad in the GusuLan white robes, well behaved and progressing in every way. But Lan Yuan had never been to this area of the Cloud Recesses before. His smile dropped when he glanced over Lan Wangji’s shoulder towards the thick rows of trees. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth in worry.
“Where we go?” he asked, attention now focused on the background scenery rather than the Lan cultivator still crouching.
“To study,” Lan Wangji answered. “Today we study in a quiet place.”
His lip quivered. “Far?”
Lan Wangji shook his head and placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He visibly relaxed. He tried to put as much reassurance in his voice as he could.
“Not far. It is close to my room.” His voice sounded the same. He had tried.
Lan Yuan finally looked back at Lan Wangji, eyes crinkling in joy once more. “Gege’s room! I want to see!”
Thank goodness children get distracted so easily, he would not have been able to tiptoe around some questions without lying, leading to a major ethical dilemma and subsequent breakdown in front of a child. Most inappropriate.
“Not today.” He stood back up, letting Lan Yuan take his thumb once again.
The pair continued to walk in silence until they were just outside of the rooms in which Wei Wuxian was hidden. It was eerily quiet around these parts; Lan Yuan was correct to be a little worried despite it being perfectly safe. Seemingly abandoned buildings and silence had an atmosphere that wasn’t what Lan Wangji considered welcoming. Especially for a child. People seldom came to this end of the Cloud Recesses, after all. It was not that the place was haunted or in disarray, it was just unused. Everyone in the Lan sect had their own quarters and living arrangements, there was little need to come to the bare and far away guest buildings. Even worse, they were next to Hanguang-Jun’s room. Who would dare disturb Hanguang-Jun at night? Even when pupils came to study in Gusu, the far away buildings with the unevenly heated washrooms were no one’s first choice.
In front of their building, Lan Wangji told Lan Yuan to wait to one side whilst he set up. He made sure to say it louder than he usually would as he passed by the window he had left open that morning. If Wei Wuxian had been waiting for a signal, that was it. From the large pack he had been carrying across his shoulder, he removed a large woven mat to place on the forest ground. It would not do to dirty both of their clean white robes. After getting the mat, the books and producing an earlier prepared warming talisman, Lan Yuan bundled over, taking a seat by his side. His face lit up in surprise once he got settled on the mat which was a far warmer temperature than the outside conditions. He was now far too well behaved, for the most part, to question Lan Wangji’s choice to stay outside or complain. But with the cold weather element of it all removed, he would surely be willing to join Lan Wangji long enough for Wei Wuxian to be satisfied.
As Lan Wangji organised the books they would study that day, Lan Yuan was clearly trying to keep his expression from breaking out into a look of pure boredom. Once again, his training in social etiquette was paying off. Unlike Wei Wuxian, Lan Yuan hid his distaste for tedious activities. Lan Wangji’s chest bloomed in pride, but he too was an expert in such poise and, as a result, his expression was equally as blank.
He finally glanced up towards the open window, having them both settled and in clear view of the rooms. He managed to catch a flash of red ribbon by the window frame from the low angle at which he sat. Wei Wuxian was watching them and could finally see Lan Yuan. It was a wave of relief for Lan Wangji, not only that Wei Wuxian had the chance to see them, but in a much more practical sense, that he had not slept through it like Lan Wangji had feared he would. After his small panic incident the night prior, Lan Wangji did fear that Wei Wuxian may sleep until an hour far too late for his liking.
Looking back at Lan Yuan, who was opening the first book with his tiny clean hands, he briefly wished that Wei Wuxian could join them outside. But he didn’t know how much Lan Yuan remembered, nor could he guarantee the safety of any of them should something go wrong. If Lan Yuan saw Wei Wuxian, there was no guarantee that he wouldn’t go around telling his minders about the new interesting face he saw hidden by Lan Wangji’s rooms. No, he could not. He was a child after all, he could not give such a young child the burden of classifying such sensitive information. For now, at least Wei Wuxian could see him like this. Lan Wangji hoped that was enough.
He desperately wanted to know, what did Wei Wuxian think? Was he proud of how Lan Wangji was teaching him? He knew that he would probably grumble about the colour of white robes on such a playful child, as if that could be helped. He’d probably say that Lan Wangji was corrupting Lan Yuan, turning him far too obedient for his own liking. But it would be laced in pride, the words having no venom behind them in the slightest. He could almost hear Wei Wuxian saying it in his mind.
He decided to ask Wei Wuxian later. Perhaps, if Wei Wuxian had suggestions on how to teach the child it may prove useful. He had known him longest out of anyone there, after all.
And so, they sat, Lan Wangji reading and slowly articulating each rule for Lan Yuan to repeat. It was dull and unexciting training but highly important to any Lan.
“Do not fear the strong,” said Lan Wangji, eyes trained on the bundle of white before him.
“Do not,” Lan Yuan paused and then smiled sheepishly at his elder. “Flea… the strong.”
“Do not fear the strong,” he repeated.
“Do not fear… the str-ong,” Lan Yuan enunciated carefully and nodded to himself, either in understanding or completion – Lan Wangji was not sure.
“Do not bully the weak.”
“Do not bully weak.”
“Do not be picky with food.”
Lan Yuan pouted at that one. “Do not pick the food,” he mimicked. “But what if tastes bad?”
He shook his head. “Forbidden.” Then, remembering that Wei Wuxian was watching, he continued, “Even turnips. You must eat them.”
Poor Lan Yuan looked as though his favourite toy had been stolen. At the child’s wide eyes and jutted out bottom lip, Lan Wangji decided that turnips would be henceforth banned from his meals. Banned from the Cloud Recesses if he got a choice in the matter.
“Continue,” Lan Wangji said, turning a page. “Do not flatter.”
“Do not fatter.”
…Good enough.
“Very good, A-Yuan.”
The boy grinned and looked back at the book, ready for more. So eager to learn. But after about an hour, it was clear by the look on his face and the droop in his shoulders that he was getting tired. Usually, Lan Wangji would take him back to let him rest when this was the case, but with Wei Wuxian so close, how could he leave so soon?
“Lan Yuan,” he said, closing the book. “Are you tired?”
Lan Yuan shook his head, “Not tired,” he insisted, but he was leading to one side.
Lan Wangji patted the space in front of him. “Come,” he said, reaching out for the young boy who crawled over, settling in front of him in his lap. Adjusting them both into a comfortable position against the still warm mat, Lan Yuan leaning back into Lan Wangji as if he were a chair, he picked up a new book to try and get some more teaching done. He opened the book of basic characters, pointing at each one and letting A-Yuan tell him what they were.
“Sun… Tree…. Man!”
Only when Lan Yuan really did appear as though he was going to fall asleep right there on the floor did Lan Wangji decide it was time to go to eat. He just hoped it had been enough for Wei Wuxian.
It had taken longer than Lan Wangji had intended to return to their rooms that evening. The guilt of not seeing Lan Yuan for a few days had broken down his usually stoic façade and he could not resist taking the young boy to play with the rabbits at the Back Mountain. He had buried him in a pile of rabbits as they had played, reminded of Wei Wuxian’s own story the day before of burying him as though he were a turnip. He had watched the young boy squeal in delight, Lan sect rules be damned at that very moment, and just wished Wei Wuxian was there to see it. He wanted him to see that he would still carry on such a thing, for him at least.
“Do you enjoy the rabbits, Lan Yuan?” he asked, watching the child carefully to make sure he was safe. His short legs were entirely covered in the white and fluffy creatures.
Lan Yuan beamed. “I like!”
And then he felt that familiar pang in his stomach. He was taken back to his own childhood. Strict, cold and monotonous. He had not considered it to have been so terrible to grow up in such a way until he had fallen asleep in the arms of Wei Wuxian. Wei Wuxian who had gone through losing his own family, much like Lan Wangji had all those years ago. If he had had someone there for him, to simply hug him and tell it was okay when he needed it, how much different would he be? He clenched his fists, trimmed nails digging into his palm and turned his attention back to Lan Yuan.
“You behaved very well today, Lan Yuan,” he said. “Lan-gege will come back to see you soon. Until then you must behave and work hard.”
Lan Yuan’s eyes lit up at the sudden wave of praise. He nodded frantically. “Will work hard!” He clapped his chubby hands together, scaring a rabbit or two away.
Something cold suddenly hit the tip of his nose and Lan Yuan squealed. “Snow!”
“It is cold,” said Lan Wangji. “We will leave.”
Lan Yuan did not protest. It was extremely cold despite the warm robes he wore, they had used all of the warming talismans up earlier. He could not play outside for much longer if he did not wish to fall ill. He lifted his arms above his head, a clear invitation for Lan Wangji to scoop him up. Which he did, huddling the child to his chest and protecting him against the chill. Lan Yuan gripped onto the other’s shoulders as he was carried, but was still able maintaining straight posture.
Lan Wangji noted that it was completely different to how Wei Wuxian acted when he was held. Wei Wuxian just slouched. Lan Yuan was clearly more mature, in that respect. He carried them out of the way of the rabbits and placed Lan Yuan back onto the forest path to walk by himself once he was no longer at risk of tripping over any of the white creatures.
Lan Yuan’s good mood dampened slightly once Lan Wangji had returned him for dinner but a promise to come back soon avoided any unnecessary tears. Luckily, he was quickly distracted when he saw a group of boys around his age sat at a table in the hall. The young woman who was watching them all, making sure they kept silent and ate properly, had saved a seat for Lan Yuan. She waved him over. Lan Wangji straightened out Lan Yuan’s hair with his palm, flattening out any strays that the wind pulled out of his ribbon, and let him toddle off to his group.
After watching him settle, he quickly hurried back to the rooms behind the Jingshi as fast as he can go whilst still technically walking. The last thing he needed was for a group of young disciples or worse, his uncle, to see him breaking rules now that things had finally smoothed over. He doesn’t let himself smile in satisfaction that they day had gone to plan.
Almost two months had passed and no one suspected him of anything. Not that they would suspect Lan Wangji, the Sect Leader’s nephew, anyway. Why would they? The only person who had ever spoken to him of Wei Wuxian was his brother, and after the slaughter of the remaining Wens, he had seemed to avoid the topic. For the first few days, as Lan Yuan was recovering from his fever, his brother had watched him over dinner with something like sympathy in his eyes. If he was not mistaken, Lan Xichen had given Lan Yuan the same look as he laid in the infirmary riddled with fever. But Lan Xichen was not one to oppose Lan Yuan living in the Cloud Recesses. He would never be. They knew too well what it was like to lose parents, how could they uphold their morals of a just law whilst shunning an innocent child?
By the time he was almost back, after grabbing some food and a pot of tea from the kitchen, the snow was ankle deep. But if Lan Wangji thought the cold was going to be an issue for him, he had another problem waiting behind those warded doors.
It was warm. So, so uncomfortably warm. It was like being in bed with Lan Wangji, but there were hundreds of him, all huddled together at once and covering him in a layer of sweat. But he still shivered.
In the excitement of the day, the joy that had washed over him, Wei Wuxian, had, at some point, fallen asleep by the window. He had watched Lan Wangi and Lan Yuan the entire time they were outside. He could not tear his eyes away. He was overcome with happiness but, at the same time, he could not believe that it was the same child.
He is like a mini Lan Zhan! How did they get him so clean, so quiet? If that was me he would have already ran away!
He weirdly didn’t mind the resemblance to his senior sect member. It was welcomed, even. He let the image of the both of them sat side by side pouring over a book fill his brain as he pressed in further into the uncomfortable heat around him. His surroundings were so warm but he felt as though his skin was ice. He was so cold that he ached.
And then there was more ice, this time laid across his forehead.
He whined, “No, take it off me.”
“Wei Ying.”
Ah… Lan Zhan.
He cracked an eye open, finding Lan Wangji, as he often was these days, looking at him laying in bed. The ice that laid on his forehead was none other than Lan Wangji’s palm.
Why is he so cold?
“Your hand is too cold, take it off!” he whined.
“I was outside.”
That’s why.
Lan Wangji frowned and moved his palm away. Wei Wuxian didn’t feel any warmer. “You have a fever.”
“Mm,” Wei Wuxian hummed, “I guess so. Ugh.”
Lan Wangji did not look happy. It was that frown again that Wei Wuxian had always tried to remedy but right now he couldn’t think of anything except that he was horribly sweaty and freezing. Lan Wangji moved to go and close the window, mumbling something about how Wei Wuxian was foolish as he did so.
Well, he’s not wrong.
Outside the window, the snow fell in heavy thuds. The soft and gentle fall that had begun earlier was now a fight between earth and a layer of white as the blizzard began. He caught a last look at it before Lan Wangji was blocking the view of the closed window, even pulling a curtain shut. He had not even realised they had curtains. Why was he just realising this now?
“Curtains,” he grumbled.
“I brought some to block the cold,” came Lan Wangji’s response. Of course he did. Of course he was still taking care of Wei Wuxian without him even knowing about it.
Wei Wuxian had never seen that much snow before today, especially against such scenery. The Cloud Recesses may have been a place of discipline, boredom and isolation but it had to be said that it was beautiful. Even after Lan Wangi and Lan Yuan had departed, Lan Yuan getting drowsy after some time in Lan Wangji’s lap, Wei Wuxian had stayed by the window watching the scenery change. There was no way he could go back to sitting inside, reading the same book he had been reading for days on end now, when he was bearing witness to the outside world change before his eyes.
Today had been everything he had hoped for. He had not let himself hope for much. He would have been satisfied to see the boy for a few moments as he walked past but of course Lan Wangji had outdone himself. His heart was put at ease seeing Lan Yuan with his own two eyes, even though he had believed Lan Wangji wholeheartedly when he had repeatedly told him of his progress. But seeing him, healthy, repeating the silly Lan sect rules despite not fully understanding their meaning yet… If he did not know the child himself, he would have no problem believing he was in this sect since birth.
Lan Wangji has done so well.
He hoped that somewhere Granny, Fourth Uncle, Wen Qing, Wen Ning and the others would forgive him, that they would be able to rest peacefully knowing their youngest family member was protected and living a far safer life than he could ever have imagined back at the Burial Grounds.
At the end of a perfect day, as he admired the forest and the sway of the trees whilst replaying the fresh memories of Lan Yuan, the snow had begun. Today was truly a day of new beginnings, even the weather wanted to celebrate. It was freezing, of course, but he had not minded. If he allowed himself to think about the past, he missed Yunmeng and its much warmer climate. Even in winter, it was rarely cold enough to need any thicker layers. But Gusu was much colder than he expected. He could easily have moved, have closed the window and warm up his numbing toes and hands under the blankets. However, seeing the ground outside transform from luscious deep greens and browns to a land of white, how could he look away?
“It’s just a small cold,” Wei Wuxian smiled. “I’ll be fine.”
He didn’t know when Lan Wangji had walked around the room, when he had left the window, but he was suddenly passing Wei Wuxian a cup of steaming liquid.
“Tea. Drink.”
Wei Wuxian smirked.
“Oh Lan Zhan, even when I am sick from my own stubbornness you insist on taking care of me? I am such a bad influence.”
Still, he accepted the tea. He propped himself up in bed and took it, gratefully. It was light and floral, probably some rare and expensive tea that only those as elegant as Lan Wangji would be able to source. But he drank it, his sinuses singing in relief.
It’s just a small cold. I’ll be better after a bath and rest. Who cares? It’s not like I’m going anywhere.
And perhaps now Lan Wangji could read his thoughts. Because he had disappeared into the washroom, preparing a bath and filling the room with the scents of various herbs and oils. He wanted to cry out, to tell him not to waste such luxuries on him for such a stupid thing, but he did not.
“Are you going to bathe me too, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian teased as the other entered the room once again.
Lan Wangji blinked, mouth in a tight line. One day Lan Wangji would surely beat him for his inappropriate comments, but it would not be whilst he was mildly sick.
“Come,” he said instead. “It is ready.”
If Lan Wangji was going to be nice, Wei Wuxian could do the same.
“Thank you, Lan Zhan.”
The bath did help. He spent far too long soaking in the infused water, letting it thaw his limbs until the water was lukewarm and his skin pruned. His mind was a little foggy from the dregs of his cold lingering in his system, but he knew he had to get out of the tub at some point.
It was terrible.
The warmth that surrounded him before was gone, and his limbs ached as he tried to get dressed properly. He blamed the boring Gusu food having bored his immune system enough that it wanted to give up at the sign of a little cold. It was most definitely not his own stupidity falling asleep by an open window. Of course not. Once he had dried himself off and had gotten changed, he was pretty sure his robes weren’t on properly, but nothing was revealed out into the open, so he let it be.
Of course, Lan Wangji scolded him about his hair again. But it was nicer than yesterday, a simple tut and the word, “Hair.”
“Do it for me,” Wei Wuxian whined, throwing himself back down onto the bed. Lan Wangji had straightened up the bed sheets whilst he was bathing, for some reason.
How stupid.
We’re about to sleep, what is the point?
Who even cares if the bed is made? We’re not expecting any guests.
He said the last one out loud and was met with a particularly harsh tug of the comb against his scalp. He let out a yelp.
“That was uncalled for,” he grumbled.
“Cleanliness is important.”
Wei Wuxian huffed, “So is not ripping the hair out of my head! How could you purposely make such a handsome guy go bald? Have some mercy, Hanguang-Jun.”
Lan Wangji must have complied at least partially, as his hands carefully brushed through the ends of Wei Wuxian’s hair - even though to most people’s eyes, the hair was already perfectly groomed by this point. Gentle fingers smoothed the hair down, patting down any fly away strands and he examined his handiwork. Wei Wuxian relaxed into the touch of soft fingers dancing across his scalp, Lan Wangji’s hands hot against the chill that had returned into the room.
“I’m tired,” he groaned.
Lan Wangji nodded and, to Wei Wuxian’s horror, stood up.
“I will bathe.” And then he was heading out, leaving Wei Wuxian alone on the wide bed. The white sheets only made it feel colder.
Stupid Lans, what good is white in winter?
“Hurry up,” he mumbled, not even sure that Lan Wangji heard.
As always, as he dragged his heavy body up into a better sleeping position, sleep would not come until Lan Wangji returned. He would consider the future implications of this when he wasn’t sick from irresponsibly exposing himself to the weather, as Lan Wangji had called it between combing sections of his hair. Wei Wuxian just claimed that being unaccustomed to Gusu winters was his excuse, which stopped at least half of Lan Wangji’s unamused glares to the back of his head.
As Lan Wangji prepared to sleep himself, now clad in the thin inner robes and hair still damp at the edges, Wei Wuxian’s mind drifted back to the first night in these quarters. His mangled mess of an arm, the agony, the tension radiating from Lan Wangji. Perhaps it would always be Lan Wangji left to clean up after his own messes, to nurse him back to health, to save him when no one else wanted to.
His head was propped up by a cushion as he watched Lan Wangji wordlessly pull a small table to beside the bed. On top lay a jar of water, a small cloth and what appeared to be a small vial.
“Medicine?” Wei Wuxian asked. He was not that sick. “I will be fine by morning.”
Lan Wangji nodded in agreement. “Yes. Just in case.”
Lan Wangji is… worried about me?
He had definitely noticed a pattern. He paused.
“Lan Wangji. When I’m at my strongest, you are always there scolding me. When I am at my weakest, you are always there to protect me. Is that right?”
Lan Wangji stopped his organisation of the table, looking up and locking eyes with Wei Wuxian. “Yes.” He spoke clearly, “I protect Wei Ying.”
Something in Wei Wuxian’s chest hurt seeing the way Lan Wangji looked at him. Lan Wangji stood still in that moment. The Second Twin Jade of Lan, whose name was famous amongst young cultivators as being the most unattainable man on earth was staring at him. Was protecting him. At night was when Lan Wangji’s guard was let down the most. It was when he got the most conversation out of the other cultivator, when the stern frown wavered, and his eyebrows lifted slightly in almost curiosity as he watched Wei Wuxian tease him in whatever way he saw fit that evening. He stood there, in his under robes with that damn forehead ribbon still not out of place, staring at the Yiling Patriarch and preparing medicine for him. Wei Wuxian’s chest was definitely starting to hurt again, and he did not think it was from the cold.
Wei Wuxian’s response was a whisper, “And who protects you, Lan Zhan?”
It shouldn’t have hurt that much when Lan Wangji did not reply.
Did not reply. Was not able to. The same thing.
He didn’t say Wei Wuxian’s name.
He’s right. I have not protected him.
When the Cloud Recesses burnt down, I was not here.
When his leg was broken, he would not let me near him.
When he tried to protect me from permanently injuring myself when I arrived, I threw him on to broken china.
Wei Wuxian wanted him to say that he could protect Lan Wangji, but what right did he have? He wanted Lan Wangji to say it. He bit the inside of his cheek, unable to think too deeply of it with chills racking through his body. Lan Wangji also did not move. Whatever warmth was in his eyes before was now obliterated, a blank stare took its place.
It’s my fault for asking.
Wei Wuxian shuffled to one side, eyes fluttering down to the sheets pooled around his waist. “I’m cold. Come here now please, I think I should sleep off this cold.”
“…Mn.” Lan Wangji walked back over, pausing at the foot of the bed. Wei Wuxian felt weirdly exposed with Lan Wangji peering down at him. He was looking at him in a rather strange way. His ears were flushed red.
It must be from his bath. Lan Wangji was always too warm. No, not too warm.
It was a warmth Wei Wuxian yearned for at that moment as he laid there freezing. But Lan Wangji didn’t move to get into bed.
Wei Wuxian would blame his impatience on his cold. He reached over, grabbing Lan Wangji by the sleeve and pulled him down until the Lan cultivator was hovering over the other. His knees were either side of Wei Wuxian’s hips, long hair falling and tickling his collar and then Wei Wuxian pulled down again, until Lan Wangji was almost in his lap. Wei Wuxian had not only caught him off guard but continuously pulling on the thin material of the the sleeve had exposed a bare shoulder. The heat radiated from the unmarked skin, and Wei Wuxian would have wanted to shoved his face into it had he been any sicker than he was.
“I’m cold,” he repeated, letting go of Lan Wangi impatiently.
Lan Wangji’s ears were scarlet. He shifted himself off from the top of Wei Wuxian, laying on his back as he always did. But he did not wait for Wei Wuxian to huddle up to his side, face in his neck as per their routine. He grabbed Wei Wuxian’s sleeve, mirroring Wei Wuxian’s boldness earlier. Wei Wuxian was laid on top of Lan Wangji, in a way that he was sure couldn’t be comfortable for the other. His chest was pressed against the other, head using Lan Wangji’s entire shoulder as a pillow. A warm, sandalwood scented pillow. Lan Wangji’s hand was a light pressure on his back, holding him still as the other hand snapped its fingers, extinguishing the candles.
“Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian’s nose brushed the other’s throat as he spoke. “What are you doing? Isn’t this rather uncomfortable? You’ll get my cold.”
“Nonsense. Sleep.”
“I’m going to hurt you if I stay like this… You will suffocate.”
“Wei Ying said he was cold.”
“W-well, yes. But this is a bit ridiculous even for me, isn’t it?”
“…Ridiculous.”
“Yeah, exactly.” Wei Wuxian tried to move, but the hand against his back was holding him in place. “Come on, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, too.”
“Not uncomfortable. Sleep.”
Wei Wuxian’s stomach twisted.
Lan Wangji does not lie.
He wanted to reach up, to smooth the frown that had been marring the other’s face since he asked such a stupid question earlier. He wanted Lan Wangji to feel protected, even if all he could do was hold him at night. He knew he could do it, could reach and smooth out those frown lines and Lan Wangji would not say anything. But his arm stayed still. He had no right to. He would not read into their arrangement as being more than it was.
“Let me,” Wei Wuxian whispered, sliding his legs off of the other carefully. “Let go.” The firm pressure against his back loosened, and he climbed off the warm figure that had cushioned him. His body did not have time to let the cold back into his bones, because he laid back on his side as if to sleep in his usual position, hand against Lan Wangji’s hip. But then he pulled the hip towards him in a sudden sharp tug and Lan Wangji rolled onto his side until their chests were once again pressed together. Their faces were too close together. He was dizzy from the heat of Lan Wangji’s breath and the now overwhelming smell of Lan Wangji, the sandalwood, the herbs from the bath, all of it. Lan Wangji’s calm and collected breaths brushed Wei Wuxian’s eyelashes.
“Arm around me, Lan Zhan,” he breathed. “It's still cold.”
Hesitatingly, Lan Wangji snaked one arm underneath Wei Wuxian’s neck, the other coming back to rest against his back as it had done before, holding him close. If there was a sheet of parchment between them, it would be unable to fall. Wei Wuxian hoped that Lan Wangji could not feel his hammering heart through their touching skin and robes. He shivered, it was just because he was feverish that his body was behaving in such a way.
“Is… Is Wei Ying warm?” Lan Wangji sounded as though he did not know if he should speak. In this position it must have been as if this was someone other than Wei Wuxian, someone who deserved to be held like this. Wei Wuxian could be selfish for one night. He would have Lan Wangji hold him like this, a ghost of the affection found that he craved constantly these days. Whilst Lan Wangji was still able to provide, he would take it. He forced those thoughts away. He would not think about Lan Wangji in the future. With his perfect life inside Gusu, away from these rooms and away from Wei Wuxian. He would be selfish. Just for now.
“Mm,” he said, “I think this is what I needed to get rid of my cold. I think I shall need to stay like this until morning for the treatment to be effective.”
He was so glad he could not see Lan Wangji’s face. But he felt his nod as his cheek brushed against his own. His chest hurt until sleep took him.
“Wei Ying.”
He was being shaken awake. It must have been barely five in the morning, judging from the tiredness behind his eyes as he cracked his eyes open to the still dark room. But he was not cold. To his surprise, he was still nestled in the other’s arms. Perhaps Lan Wangji could not get free, perhaps he-
“I must leave for a few days.”
Wei Wuxian’s heart hit his stomach. A wave of nausea threatened to rise.
No, no, no. He can’t leave me.
“No,” he said out loud, the shock of those words rendering him suddenly far more awake than he should be at this hour. “No, Lan Zhan… How will I be able to…” He couldn’t say it out loud. “Where are you going? When will you be back?”
“Koi Tower. I will return as soon as I can.” It was too early to know if Lan Wangji actually did tighten his hold or if Wei Wuxian had imagined it in his early morning haze. “Wei Ying, I am sorry.”
It wasn’t Lan Wangji’s fault. Not his fault that Wei Wuxian couldn’t cope here without him. He had to leave for not one day, but several. Wei Wuxian’s newfound selfishness did not erase Lan Wangji’s responsibilities to his sect. He would have to cope on his own. It was a sickening thought. Wei Wuxian had almost broken down two days ago when he had been apart for mere seconds, how could he survive for days?
No, this is what it will be like eventually. Lan Wangji and I will eventually part ways, and this will be my future. I’m just getting an early dose of it.
But he will come back. He will.
Until he leaves again- No.
He couldn’t think about it.
Lan Wangji’s hand rubbed down Wei Wuxian’s spine. “I will… try. I shall prepare enough food before I leave, and I will bring you new reading material.”
Wei Wuxian shuddered. “But… at night. You know that I… You know.”
“I know.”
Selfish. Wei Wuxian pressed his face back into where Lan Wangji’s neck met his broad shoulders. Beneath his cheek and the thin robes he could feel the sharpness of the other’s defined collarbone. Strong. Steady. Real. There.
Lan Wangji is beside me.
For now.
|
Severina made it to her room before she broke down in tears. She was mortified and she agonized over how Potter might abuse his discovery.
No doubt he would tell his friends. She imagined their laughter and sneers. She imagined his handsome face twisted in cruel humor while he mocked her.
She was so ashamed of herself. Embarrassed that she even thought he might have been flirting with her in the library. Of course, Jame Potter wouldn’t flirt with her! She’d been so stupid to think he had been staring at her for any other reason than to find fault in her.
He hadn’t meant to brush his leg against hers under the table. He hadn’t meant for his hazel-eyes to look so soft and inviting as he stared into hers. She must have only imagined it. He must not have smiled when she blushed, for any other reason than he was laughing at her.
Severina curled in on herself and cried until fatigue slowed her tears and softened her whimpers. Sleep welcomed her with comforting arms.
That night, Severina dreamt a dream she would not remember in the light of day. If she could remember, maybe she would have thought on it and wondered if it had some secret meaning or insight to her life and to the decisions she’d be forced to make, while she was yet too young to make them.
She dreamt that she was running through the woods. She wore nothing but a thin white slip, her figure silhouetted through the fabric. Her feet were bare and dirty but unfazed by the rough ground that she tread. She ran as agile as a deer, bounding through the thick forest. She never tired as she continued to run steadily down untrodden paths, neither did she slow.
The warm glow of morning light warmed the dew of the forest. The woods were alive with wisps of steam. The sun's light broke and dispersed through the trees, making rows of translucent, silvery glow. She ran through it in ecstasy. Rays of light flickered as she passed through sun and shadow. She, the only movement in that life-filled forest.
In the horizon, to which she ran parallel, she saw the silhouette of a young stag. He stood tall and imposing upon a hill, far from the direction in which she was running. She did not stop her own path but she admired his beauty from afar. How well suited he looked, standing watchful over the woods. His antlers branching out like a crown, like a symbol of his regency over the forest.
The stag watched her with careful eyes and just as she nearly passed him by, he reared up and started towards her in a gallop. He was beautiful, strong, and confident in his strides. When he caught up with her, he turned with her and ran alongside her. She looked over and laughed with joy- free and flying. They ran together for some time, simply thrilled with their own little race until the stag let out a great grunt and stopped abruptly, cutting off their trajectory.
He blocked her bodily and his hazel-eyes seemed to warn and beg her all at once. She didn’t understand but she reached out her hand and stroked his velvety nose. She looked passed him and saw a darkened path, black as pitch. She could not see where it lead but a cold breeze blew from it, chilling her. She shivered.
The stag nudged her hand and made a whining noise in the back of his throat. She looked down at him and stroked his neck, running her fingers through his thick mane.
Another breeze, this time stronger, blew through her from the darkened path and in the breeze, a voice- a hissed whisper, “Severina.” The voice filled her with terror and yet it tantalized. It entranced her and compelled her toward it.
The stag stomped his front hooves, shook his rack, snorted and grunted in desperation. She tried to calm him and move around him at the same time. They danced around each other, neither gaining any ground.
And that was how her dream ended. Not that she remembered.
Severina woke early for breakfast with an empty stomach, having missed dinner. She determined that she would avoid the Marauders as much as possible today. It hadn’t been the first time she cried herself to sleep because of James Potter and she doubted it’d be the last.
It was for the best really. She needed to get over her crush and focus on her OWLs so she could make something of herself. If she was going to get a decent potions apprenticeship, she needed impressive marks and recommendations. If she could get a sponsor, then all the better. She didn’t have time for a childish crush on a stupid boy who cared more about pranks and goofing off than about taking life seriously.
No, she wasn’t going to be destroyed by this and she definitely wasn’t going to starve over it.
She left early for breakfast, intending to be one of the first to arrive. So, it was no small surprise when she spotted Potter waiting by the stairs, alone. He looked up at her like he was expecting her and tucked a folded piece of parchment into his satchel. He adjusted the strap on his shoulder and cleared his throat,
“Uh, hi. Umm. Can we talk?”
Severina was too shocked to move at first and certainly not to reply. Potter must have taken her silence as a form of ascent, however, because he approached her with a charming smile. He stopped just in front of her, close enough to touch. She could almost feel the heat of his body. She definitely felt the heat in hers rising and she couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat.
A bit flustered and annoyed that her body was betraying her, she answered with a bite of venom, “What are you playing at, Potter?”
“Nothing. I’m not.’ He adjusted his glasses and ran his fingers through his hair- a nervous habit, ‘I just wanted to, I don’t know, maybe eat breakfast together? I have quidditch practice later, you could come watch.' His words were quick and stumbled. 'We could meet up to just hang out or study or whatever you want. It’s a Hogsmead weekend. Would you like to go? With me? Together... a date? I mean, I guess what I’m getting at is... Severina, would you be my girlfriend?”
Somewhere in the middle of his ramblings, Severina thought she must still be in bed. She wondered if this was a dream. She never dreamt anything like this before. Why would she? It was folly to dream of something so impossible.
It was too good to be true.
That’s why she didn’t believe him. She didn’t for a moment, even entertain the hope that he might be sincere.
She turned her eyes to the ground between them, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing a tear passed her lashes and letting it fall on her cheek. She shook her head from side to side in disbelief.
She spoke to the floor in a heartbroken-hush, “You’ve done and said a lot of horrible things to me over the years, Potter; but pretending you like me? Knowing how I feel about you and throwing it in my face like this? This is the cruelest thing you’ve ever done.’ Her voice cracked; a second tear joined the first and she begged him, ‘Just leave me alone.”
She walked passed him; kept her head down. She kept her head down all throughout breakfast. She kept her eyes off him throughout the classes they shared. More importantly, she kept her mind off of his words and the images they had conjured. |
Tanjirou has always been an early riser, but he still struggles this morning to pull himself out of bed. The sun has not yet risen, and the mourning doves who like to come and call out to Chuntaro and Matsuemon have not begun their songs. The air is already quite chilly for late September, and this high up in the mountains he expects that snow will come within the month. But underneath the quilts he is warm and comfortable, and the body curled close to his side is breathing quietly.
This is the reason he is up — this soundly sleeping boy who sighs as he dreams, his choppy blond hair spilled out across the pillow beneath his head. Zenitsu has never been tolerant of cooler weather, and when the temperatures start to dip he abandons his own bedroom in favor of sleeping beside Tanjirou, who always runs warm and keeps him from shivering. Tanjirou watches him for a moment, just to make sure he hasn’t been disturbed, then slips carefully and quietly out of the futon.
Zenitsu whines a bit at the loss of warmth and rolls into the empty space that Tanjirou has left, settling with a small smile when Tanjirou tucks the covers more securely around him. If all goes well, Zenitsu will sleep long into the morning and Tanjirou will be able to surprise him by returning before he’s awake.
He’s going down into the village this morning to buy the last of this season’s peach crop. They’d been down the week before to start selling more charcoal and some of Inosuke’s pelts as autumn began to settle into the region, but had arrived too late. The fruit stand had been all out of peaches, and the orchard owner regretfully told a disappointed Zenitsu that it had been the last of that year's pickings. Zenitsu had brushed it off with a smile and selected some apples instead, promising to bring down some tarts next time they were in town.
Just before they were going to head home that day, the fruit seller had pulled Tanjirou aside with a conspiratorial smile. “Why don’t you come down early next week,” he told Tanjirou in the quietest whisper he could manage, for all the villagers knew of Zenitsu’s hearing, “I think I’ve got one more crate worth of peaches that you can have.” Tanjirou had thanked him profusely, and all week he’d been counting down the days until he could go down and get them.
Everyone else is sleeping too, so Tanjirou makes his way quickly through the house, stopping to grab a piece of bread from the kitchen and an empty charcoal basket to carry on his back before stepping out into the misty morning air. He greets his family, brushing a few leaves from their stones, and then makes his way down the familiar path into the village.
The dim morning light and the cover of trees make it difficult to see where he’s walking, but he knows every dip and hill, every spot where a tree root pokes from the ground. This is a road he knows like the back of his hand, has walked it in rain and shine and snow. If Zenitsu had come with him, he would have tripped and stumbled, and Tanjirou would have had to lend him his arm so that they could reach the village safely. The thought makes him smile and walk a bit faster.
By the time he reaches town, the sun has already crested the mountain and burned off the morning fog. People greet him as he goes and he smells their curiosity at the sight of him with nothing to sell and neither his usual companions or his sister at his side. Today, he has a mission. They will bring their wares another day.
The fruit seller spots him and gives him a wide smile and a wave, beckoning him over to the stand where he is still setting up for the day. “Good morning! I hope I’m not too late…” Tanjirou says worriedly, although there is almost no one in the market.
“Of course not, Tanjirou,” the man says cheerfully. He slaps him heartily on the back and then stoops over to rustle around in the back of his cart. “Even if you were, these peaches are just for you. I wouldn’t have given them to anyone else.” The crate he pulls out is larger than Tanjirou had been expecting, full to the brim with gorgeous ripe peaches that smell almost as sweet as Zenitsu himself. Tanjirou starts to pull his sack of coins from a pocket in his pants, but the man waves him off. “Please, these are a gift.”
“It’s too much!” Tanjirou cries. The fruit seller shakes his head fondly and reaches for Tanjirou’s basket to begin loading the peaches carefully into it, placing them so that they won’t bruise on his trip back up the mountain. Once he’s finished, Tanjirou bows so lowly that the whole basket almost tips over the back of his head. “Thank you so much! I am very grateful!”
“Hey, I know what it’s like,” the man brushes him off with a chuckle, “Happy wife, happy life, right?” Tanjirou’s not sure how that saying applies to the situation, but he nods anyway and thanks him a dozen more times. He practically runs all the way home, the weight of the peaches on his back only spurring him faster on his journey.
Although he’d hoped that Zenitsu would still be sleeping, the blond is already halfway across the yard when he reaches the clearing where the house sits, his face twisted in mixture of anger and relief.
“Where have you been?! You could have at least left a note, I looked for you everywhere,” Zenitsu scolds him, meeting him halfway to tug on his cheek as punishment. Tanjirou laughs, and Zenitsu’s pinching fingers quickly fall away into a soft, smooth palm rubbing the reddened spot.
“Sorry, I had to go into town early and I didn’t want to wake you,” Tanjirou explains, watching fondly as Zenitsu pouts at him.
“All the way into town? And that’s what you wore? You’re going to catch a cold, you dummy,” Zenitsu frets, pulling Tanjirou’s yukata tighter across his chest. Tanjirou uses his good hand to catch the blond’s fingers and squeeze them. Zenitsu sighs in frustration and turns on his heel, tugging him quickly back into the house.
Before Tanjirou can start to tell Zenitsu about his surprise, or even get the basket off of his shoulders, he’s shoved down underneath the kotatsu. Zenitsu takes the basket and sets it aside, not even pausing to inquire about its weight, and drapes a quilt over Tanjirou’s back.
“Nezuko, can you please get a bowl of soup for your idiot brother,” he calls into the kitchen, bustling about without giving the redhead a chance to even open his mouth. He’s rushing around, closing the shoji to the garden and stoking the wood stove in the corner of the room, mumbling to himself about fevers and hypothermia and getting lost in the woods. Tanjirou wants to interrupt him, but watching him fuss is a treat in and of itself, so he selfishly indulges in Zenitsu’s worried fingers raking through his shoulder length hair and tying it up so that it won’t keep the light sheen of sweat on the back of his neck from drying.
Nezuko eventually slips into the room with two steaming bowls of miso soup and rice, her lips pressed thin as she hides a smile. “Thank you, Nezuko,” Zenitsu sniffs, glaring at Tanjirou from the corner of his eye, “I’m certain your brother hasn’t had a bite to eat since he left this morning.”
“I had some bread,” Tanjirou argues through the rice he’s already shoveled into his mouth. He
is
quite hungry, he realizes. Zenitsu throws his hands up in exasperation, but the corners of his mouth twitch like they’re threatening to pull up.
“I’ve got to go take down the laundry before Inosuke does and leaves it all wrinkled,” Zenitsu sighs after a minute, moving to stand. Tanjirou takes hold of his sleeve.
“Just sit with me for a bit, please,” he implores.
“Fine…” Zenitsu doesn’t even try to look put upon by his request, sidling up close and happily accepting the mouthful of rice Tanjirou offers him. Tanjirou finishes his breakfast in comfortable silence, Zenitsu drowsing against his shoulder and occasionally taking bites of his food even though he’d surely eaten not long before.
“Hey,” Tanjirou says, nudging the crown of Zenitsu’s head with his nose, “Can you check inside my basket? I think I left my coin pouch in it.”
Zenitsu smacks his knee for making him get up, but goes off without complaint, tossing open the lid and getting ready to scold Tanjirou for his negligence. When he sees what’s inside he gasps, turning to look from Tanjirou to the peaches and back again almost four times.
“I thought — there weren’t any,” he says, fingers twitching above the heap like he’s afraid to touch.
“The fruit seller saved the last of them for you.”
“Oh,” Zenitsu says. He doesn’t cry as easily these days. His books will sometimes set him off, or a particularly bad nightmare. But people don’t really make him cry anymore. His eyes fill with tears now though, and they drip onto the fuzzy peach skin unbidden, like Zenitsu hasn’t realized that they’re falling. “That’s very kind.”
“Come here,” Tanjirou says, and Zenitsu folds himself small into his arms the way he did when they were young and alone on long missions, tucked away in cold abandoned homes or tents haphazardly erected in the woods. He lets Zenitsu do his breathing exercises, smoothing a hand up and down the knobs of his spine in time with the counts of his breath.
“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” he mumbles finally, into the quilt barely hanging onto Tanjirou’s shoulders. Tanjirou shakes his head and, unable to help himself, presses a quick kiss to the side of Zenitsu’s head. The blond’s fingers tighten on the back of his shirt.
“Doing something for you is never troubling,” Tanjirou assures him, “When you’re happy, I’m happy.”
When you’re sad, I want to cry with you. When you’re angry, I’m burning too. When you sing, my heart sings back.
Nezuko watches him closely that evening when they’re having their nighttime tea on the engawa, while Zenitsu is in the kitchen showing Inosuke how to lay peach slices onto the tarts so that they’ll look pretty when they’re done baking. Tanjirou puts up a good fight, trying not to show how unnerving her stare is, but in the end gives up and turns to face her.
“You seem troubled,” she says lightly. She’s always done this, even when they were kids; saying something cryptic to make Tanjirou admit to his thoughts on his own, rather than asking him outright. It never annoyed him, nothing his younger siblings did ever grated his nerves, but tonight he feels the slightest glimmer of irritation at her gentle, teasing tone, because truthfully, he’s not sure what’s troubling him himself.
“It’s just the weather,” Tanjirou assures her with a thin smile. Not a total lie. When the air got colder he would always start to remember that morning, no matter how hard he tried not to. And nowadays the shifts in weather would make his arm and his right eye ache, which didn’t help his mood. Nezuko sighs, twisting to lay across the porch and place her head in his lap, like she always used to. Tanjirou brushes the fingers of his good hand through her long hair, wishing he could braid it just one more time.
“You should talk to Zenitsu,” she suggests, apropos of nothing. Tanjirou scratches the side of his nose, a nervous habit. He thinks of Zenitsu in the kitchen, cheeks ruddy from the heat of the oven and from shouting at Inosuke, of the way his hair is probably dusted with flour, and how his fingers would be shiny and sticky and sweet with peach juice, the shape of his bite on the plush pink skin of a peach, round with two notches at the top where his front teeth are just a little bigger than the rest.
“I will,” he promises. But how can he tell Zenitsu all of that?
The next morning the scent of damp earth fills his nose. He wakes to a sharp ache in his left arm. It shoots down past his elbow into his withered, thin fingertips, the numbness there somehow compounding the ache and making it radiate back up. Zenitsu must hear his pained intake of breath, because he shifts beside him and scoots closer.
Just outside it’s raining lightly, a soothing sound on the leaves and the roof. Tanjirou’s thankful that Inosuke had thatched it earlier that month, so they won’t have to worry about leaks. He sees Zenitsu, or really just the hazy outline of him in the darkness, rubbing his eye and lifting himself onto an elbow.
“Your arm is hurting?” he asks quietly, sweetly, still obviously half asleep. Tanjirou wants to light a candle, or pull the sun up fast, so he can see Zenitsu’s face clearly. He wants to see his half-lidded eyes, the wrinkles of the pillow on his cheek, the slick inside of his lips from drooling all night.
“Mmmn,” he mumbles in response, unable to lie outright and say no, but not wanting to worry him. “It’ll be fine.”
“No,” Zenitsu says grumpily, as if Tanjirou has asked him to get up and do some early morning chore. He reaches across and pulls Tanjurou’s limp arm toward himself, adjusting to lay right up against Tanjirou’s side, his head pillowed on one shoulder. Tanjirou can smell him so strongly now, sweet and honeyed like he is in the morning, with a little staticky tang from the frizz his hair gets whenever it’s humid.
Zenitsu starts to massage his withered arm, starting at the shoulder and working his way down, all the way to his palms and fingers. He touches him tenderly and carefully, digging in with just the right amount of pressure, even though Tanjirou knows that if Zenitsu were to stab a blade through his palm just then, he’d hardly feel it at all. When he presses his thumbs into his palm, forcing his fingers by reflex to open, and rubs along each one, Tanjirou isn’t sure if what he feels is just the memory of warmth, of if he can really feel Zenitsu’s skin against him there, ever so faintly. Either way, it soothes the ache – every ache. It feels so nice that he starts to fall asleep, but Zenitsu just continues massaging him.
“Feels better,” Tanjirou slurs, almost dreaming now, tethered to consciousness by Zenitsu’s touch. “Thank you, darling.” He thinks he feels Zenitsu stiffen for a moment, but can’t worry about it when he’s distracted by the sound of Zenitsu’s breathy laughter in his ear, the last thing he hears before he’s asleep again.
As much as Zenitsu claims to hate winter, and it’s a claim that he’s shouted ceaselessly over the years, he is the most excited of all of them for the little winter solstice festival that the village holds each year before Toji. “I hope they do a play again like last year,” the blond chatters happily, his breath billowing in thick clouds before him as the four of them make their way down the mountain.
Beneath layers of thick coats and pelts, everyone is dressed in their finest clothes. Zenitsu has forgone his usual yellow attire to wear a deep green haori that matches Tanjirou’s, which makes the blood thrum in Tanjirou’s veins whenever he looks at him. Zenitsu, as if sensing that Tanjirou’s attention is on him, turns from where he’d been racing ahead of the group in excitement and smiles, a brilliant slash of white and red across his pink face. He slows down until Tanjirou has caught up with him and holds Tanjirou’s hand the rest of the way, even though the thick blanket of snow makes for a smoother and slower path.
There are many more people in the town than there were when he and Nezuko were children, and people from smaller villages nearby come for the festival as well, so the whole place is buzzing with activity. Inosuke darts off right away to find games and snacks, while Nezuko spots a few old friends and tells them she’ll return later, leaving Tanjirou and Zenitsu to wander at their leisure.
Rather than drop Tanjirou’s hand, Zenitsu leans closer to Tanjirou and hugs his whole arm, smiling and nodding to townsfolk who greet them. The fruit seller, standing with his own wife and children, smiles and winks at him, leaving Tanjirou a little flushed. In fact, many of his friends catch his eye and nod approvingly at the pair of them, as though Tanjirou has brought Zenitsu along as a treasure to show off. Zenitsu certainly feels like a treasure, warm and buzzing with happiness beside him, feeding him bites of his dango and catching snowflakes on his tongue.
Midway through the afternoon, all the school aged children in town put on the play they’d been working on over the past few months, a sweet little story about a girl who meets a capybara at the hot spring, who turns into a prince and marries her. Zenitsu and Nezuko, delighted and impressed by the children’s imaginations and their acting skills, hurry over after the show ends to praise the kids.
“I never met a capybara that turned into a human,” Inosuke snorts, “What are they teaching these kids?” Tanjirou doesn’t argue with him, just smiles indulgently until Inosuke gets bored with him and goes off to find something to entertain him more.
“He’s good with kids,” a voice startles Tanjirou from his idle thoughts. He turns to see an old friend, a woman named Meiko who lives on the edge of town. She and his mother had been good friends, and because her house was the first they’d come across when coming into town, she always had snacks ready for Tanjirou and his siblings. In Tanjirou and Nezuko’s time away, she and her children made monthly trips up the mountain to lay flowers at his family’s graves. She smiles at him and points with a nod toward Zenitsu.
He’s sat within a circle of children, a young girl on his lap watching reverently as he tells them a story. Tanjirou realizes that the play they’d put on had likely been an adaptation of another story Zenitsu had told them at some point before, since he always made sure to have a new one ready whenever they were in town. The children would run out as soon as they heard his voice and demand to hear one.
“Plan on having any yourself soon?” Meiko asks with a grin, bumping her elbow into his side.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Tanjirou says awkwardly. He hasn’t thought about having children in a long, long time. When he was younger, he’d imagined it sometimes. Now that boy seems so far away, somewhere that Tanjirou can never get back to. Even if he did want children, he is in no position to have any anytime soon, with no romantic prospects (or desire to find one) in sight.
“Really?” Meiko asks, sounding genuinely surprised. “But you’ve been together for some time now already!”
Together?
Tanjirou thinks.
She must mean since the four of us moved back here.
“Yes, almost three years,” he tells her. She whistles, hands on her hips, and wags a finger toward him merrily.
“That’s plenty of time. My husband and I had Natsuko after two!” she laughs. “Your Zenitsu looks like he was ready to be a father
yesterday
. You should talk with him about it, seriously! I know an orphanage a few towns over that’s got a couple of kids looking for homes.”
“Ah,” Tanjirou says, just to show he’d been listening. He can’t wrap his mind around her words, partly because she speaks quickly, but also because what she was saying doesn’t quite make sense. What does him having children and Zenitsu wanting to be a father have to do with each other? Zenitsu looks over at them and waves, cheek squished against the top of the little girl’s head as she continues to occupy his lap. Tanjirou waves back, his heart stuttering in his chest.
“Y’know, I had half hoped that you and my Natsu would end up together, when you and your sister returned to us,” Meiko says thoughtfully, watching Tanjirou’s face. Tanjirou tries to imagine it. Nastuko is a nice girl, beautiful and kind. There’s no reason Tanjirou shouldn’t want to be with her, or at least someone like her, and start a family. No matter how hard he tries, though, he can’t imagine a future without Zenitsu in it by his side, in the most literal sense. Sleeping beside him each night, eating meals with him, reading with his feet in his lap.
“Well, that hope lasted about ten minutes,” Meiko laughs, following Tanjirou’s gaze to Zenitsu, “I can see how much you love Zenitsu. I’m so happy for you, Tanjirou. I know Kie would be too.” She pulls him into a tight hug, the tender type only a mother can give, and Tanjirou thinks he might cry.
Once she’s gone, he watches Zenitsu play with the children, making drawings in the snow and little snow people to stand guard over them. One of the kids whispers something in his ear, and Zenitsu tosses his head back and laughs, the kind that bursts forth from deep inside you when you haven’t been expecting it. His eyes squeezed shut and his mouth opened wide, grinning up at the sky.
He is so beautiful,
Tanjirou thinks.
“Hi! You look like you’ve seen a ghost, are you alright?” Zenitsu asks a few minutes later, having finally herded all the kids back to their own families. He tugs Tanjirou’s coat tighter, a reflex, and Tanjirou
loves
him. He nods dumbly, afraid that if he speaks he’ll say too much. “Is your arm hurting again? This stupid weather…Let’s go home, alright? The play is what I really wanted to see, anyway.” Zenitsu leaves no room for argument once he’s made up his mind, waving Nezuko over.
“I’ll stay here for a while longer,” Nezuko tells them, “It’s barely mid afternoon, and Inosuke won’t want to go yet. You two get home safe.” She smirks at Tanjirou as they’re turning back toward the mountain road, and through his embarrassment he’s grateful that she’s got so much more emotional intelligence than him.
The whole walk back he feels hyper aware of Zenitsu, the smell of his hair when he leans his head on his shoulder, the feeling of their fingers intertwined, the way Zenitsu says his name like a sigh one minute and like a song the next. How had he not seen, after all this time, how much his own happiness was entangled with this golden sunrise of a boy?
“Hey, Zen,” he says when they’re finally home, shedding winter layers in the genkan, “Will you take a yuzu bath with me?” Zenitsu’s cheeks go pink, but he nods.
Tanjirou washes his hair for him, well practiced even with just one hand. They’ve taken baths together many times over the years, but tonight things feel more charged than they ever have before. The smooth lines of Zenitsu’s bare skin thrill him, and he’s careful not to let his eyes linger too long no matter how badly he wants to sit and stare his fill.
In the tub Zenitsu sits a respectable distance away, spinning a yuzu in the water in front of him, only the tips of his red ears and the top of his head visible to Tanjirou through the steam. Tanjirou worries that he must sound like a storm, that Zenitsu must be able to hear his desire roaring.
“Zen, come sit closer to me,” he requests gently, “please.”
“Tanjirou…” Zenitsu whines. Still, he wades closer, until the edges of their knees are touching beneath the water. Every point of contact feels electric. Tanjirou watches him so intensely that he can feel himself blushing. Zenitsu tilts his head into his shoulder and splashes a bit of water at him. “Quit staring.” Tanjirou puts his palm over his left eye and grins. He can’t see Zenitsu’s face anymore, but hears him laugh.
“You looked upset earlier, when Meiko was talking with you,” Zenitsu says quietly. Tanjirou hears the water shift before he feels Zenitsu beside him, his toes slipping against his ankles.
“She was saying that she wanted me and Natsuko to get married.”
Zenitsu doesn’t say anything for a long time. He feels his limp arm moving, the faintest touch of Zenitsu’s fingers circling its wrist, twisting it around and around like a clock, which he does when it’s aching.
“That made you upset?” he finally asks, voice small.
“The fruit seller called you my wife,” Tanjirou says instead of answering.
“Tanjirou.” God, he loves when Zenitsu says his name. Any way he says it, angry or frightened or teasing. Even then, when it sounded like tears.
“Can I look at you?” Tanjirou asks. Soft, slick fingers tug at the palm covering his eye. The pale, misty light of the bathroom fills his vision for a moment before Zenitsu’s face becomes clear, flushed and shiny with bathwater and tears. “I wish you’d told me,” Tanjirou sighs, so happy to see him again, even if it had only been a moment.
“Told you what?” Zenitsu asks, his voice trembling. Tanjirou reaches up and brushes some wet hair away from his temple, cups his soft cheek.
“That I was in love with you.”
Their first kiss is warm and wet and tastes like lavender and yuzu.
“Done?”
“Not yet, hang on,” Tanjirou says. He noses at Zenitsu’s temple as he reads, savoring the sweetness of the contentment in his scent. Zenitsu holds the book at a better angle in one hand, the other holding Tanjirou’s arms around his waist. When he finishes the page Tanjirou hums and Zenitsu flips to the next one. He loves how Zenitsu traces his finger along his arm to match his pace as he reads, always a bit faster than Tanjirou can manage. When he glances sideways he can see Zenitsu’s lips moving faintly, mouthing along to the words, and can’t help but lean forward and kiss him. Zenitsu huffs a laugh and tilts his head back to kiss him better, dropping the book into his lap.
They jump when Nezuko lets out an honest to god scream across the room, her sewing lying forgotten across her knees. Truthfully, they had both forgotten she was in the room at all. “Inosuke!” she shouts, the man already barrelling into the room, “they kissed! For real!”
“What?!” Inosuke stomps his foot like a child throwing a tantrum and glares at Tanjirou and Zenitsu. “I seriously missed it? Do it again!”
“What the hell?” Zenitsu kicks Inosuke’s hand away when he points angrily at them. “Are you both
crazy?”
“Since when have you been kissing?” Nezuko demands.
“S-since Toji,” Tanjirou tells her.
“Four months?” She puts her head in her hands, and even Inosuke looks dumbfounded. “How did we miss it, Inosuke?”
“They act the same,” Inosuke grumbles. He gropes around the room for something, eventually grabbing a stray cushion and lobbing it at Zenitsu’s head. Tanjirou expertly intercepts it, placing it neatly on Zenitsu’s lap.
“This is ridiculous,” Zenitsu hisses, his face beet red, “Tanjirou, say something!”
“Um…” Zenitsu watches him expectantly, pouting and adorable. “I love you?”
Zenitsu throws Tanjirou’s arms off and stomps away up the stairs, Tanjirou following him like a puppy, the book held tight in his hand. Zenitsu may be mad at him now, but Tanjirou will hold him and tell him silly jokes until he’s smiling again. And then, tucked away in their bedroom, Zenitsu will let him lay in his lap, and he’ll read out loud to him, kissing him between chapters.
|
“Here, this is for you,” Toni says as she hands Shelby a poorly gift wrapped lump. “For Christmas,” Toni adds when Shelby stares at her blankly.
“You got me somethin’?” Shelby can’t mask the surprise in her voice.
“I happened to see it at a store when I was home and figured I’d get it for you.” She shrugs and tries to play it off like it’s not a big deal.
This was the last thing Shelby expected when she invited Toni over tonight. Toni’s finally back on campus after visiting home and Shelby only had enough self restraint to wait one whole day before asking her to come over.
Shelby sits on her bed and excitedly unwraps it. She loves the act of gift giving and has always thought of it as a way to see how someone feels about you. She’s had to fake smile her way through many Christmases spent receiving bad gifts from family members who clearly didn’t know her at all.
When she’s done peeling back the layers of patterned gift wrap, she’s left with a pink cowboy hat, that’s almost identical to the one she used to own, in her hands. She immediately breaks out in a toothy smile and goes to put the hat on her head. She checks herself out in the full length mirror on her closet door.
“I can’t believe you got me this.” Shelby’s genuinely touched and regrets not finding something to gift Toni.
“I mean I’ve been really torn up for you ever since I heard the tragic story of what happened to your last one,” Toni jokes. She’s clearly pleased with herself.
“I’ll try not to throw up in this one. Now I feel bad that I didn’t get you anything,” Shelby says.
Toni grins at her. “You can repay me by keeping that on and taking everything else off,” she flirts as she walks up behind Shelby, who’s still looking at herself in the mirror, and wraps her arms around her waist. She ducks her head and kisses at Shelby’s neck as she dips her fingers under the waistband of Shelby’s pants. Shelby lets out a quiet moan as she shifts her hips back into Toni’s body.
Toni’s eyes stay glued to Shelby’s in the reflection of the mirror. Her fingers gingerly drag the zipper of Shelby’s pants down and she pushes the fabric down her legs. Shelby reaches her hand behind her head and urges Toni’s head closer to her neck again. She gets the message and starts sucking on her neck hard enough to leave marks later. While Toni’s doing that, Shelby works on unbuttoning the white top she has on. Toni only stops to shift back and pull the shirt off of Shelby’s body. She makes quick work of Shelby’s bra and soon she’s left standing there with just a cowboy hat and her underwear.
“I’m so wet,” she mutters to Toni, wanting her to work quicker. Toni bites at her ear and moves one hand to pinch at her nipples and dips the other into her underwear.
Shelby can’t help it when her eyes shut and she drops her head back to rest on Toni's shoulder. She rocks her hips into Toni’s hand and grabs at Toni’s waist with one hand. She hears Toni grunt disapprovingly into her ear.
“Watch,” Toni commands. Shelby’s eyes flutter back open as she looks back in the mirror. Toni looks so focused as she presses two fingers into her. Toni’s still fully clothed, and Shelby’s hat has fallen off of her head, it stays dangling around her neck by the string that runs under it. Toni quickly uses one hand to position it back on Shelby’s head.
It’s so intense seeing her own reflection like this. Normally, she’d feel way too shy to ever look at herself like this, but Toni’s whispering how fucking gorgeous she is and it’s all so hot.
Shelby’s practically writhing in Toni’s hands as she moves against her fingers rhythmically.
Toni brushes her lips against Shelby’s back and kisses her shoulders. “I want you to watch yourself come,” Toni whispers roughly into her ear.
She almost loses her balance when she comes. “Yes, fuck, Toni,” is all she can manage to pant out. It’s so intense she feels like her vision is blurry for a few seconds afterwards.
They move onto her bed after that.
Shelby is too in her head. She’s caught up thinking about her feelings and her body has stopped responding to whatever it is that Toni’s doing. Her mind is caught up wondering what this darn cowboy hat means. Maybe Toni didn’t mean anything by it, she could’ve easily just come across it and not put any thought into it. What Shelby doesn’t know yet is that Toni went to four different stores looking for a pink cowboy hat before finding the right one.
It takes a second for her to register when Toni moves away from between her legs and sits up.
“Is this still okay?” Toni checks in. She places light kisses to the tops of Shelby’s bent knees.
Shelby lifts her head off the pillows to look at her. “Oh, uh yeah, just keep going.” She tries to brush it off, willing her body to cooperate.
They’ve done this enough times now for Toni to know that it’s taking longer than usual to get her off. The first one had been quick, not unusual considering it’s the first time they’ve done this since before winter break. Shelby can usually go again, but now that her body has gotten what it wants, her mind is taking over and she’s over thinking. She went into tonight intending to tell Toni how she feels, but she’s still not sure how to broach the subject. She doesn’t even know exactly what she wants to tell Toni yet.
“Do you want me to do something different?” Toni asks. Shelby shakes her head. “You sure? It just felt like…like you weren’t into it…” Toni trails off nervously.
“No, it’s fine, keep touchin’ me,” Shelby reassures her.
Toni nods and strokes the back of Shelby’s legs. “Tell me what feels good.” The eye contact Toni makes with her feels so intense. Toni settles back down between her legs and slowly licks against the inside of Shelby’s thighs.
Shelby tries to quiet her mind and lets herself get worked back up. She gets close but stays frustratingly on the edge, unable to let go.
“Toni?” Shelby murmurs. Toni keeps up her movements but makes a questioning noise in the back of her throat in response. “Can we stop for a second?”
Toni immediately backs off and eyes Shelby with concern. “Yeah, sorry, was I-”
“You’re fine,” Shelby quickly cuts her off. She sits up and reaches her hand behind Toni’s neck, pulling her in for a kiss.
She decides she’ll get Toni off one last time before trying to talk to her about those pesky feelings she’s been having lately. She moves her hand over Toni’s abdomen and trails it lower until it reaches where Toni is wet and ready. Toni picks up on what Shelby wants and lets her take the lead.
It works better this way.
Shelby glances over at Toni after, sees her red-faced and panting, and decides there will never be a perfect time for this. “Toni?” she whispers.
“Hm?” Toni keeps her eyes closed, and for a moment Shelby thinks she might be falling asleep.
“Can we talk?” Shelby asks nervously.
Toni’s eyes open and she turns her head to face Shelby. “What’s up?”
She closes her eyes and braces herself before asking, “Have you been with anyone else, since we started…?”
Toni stares at her before looking down at her hands. She fidgets with the blanket on the bed. “No.” Shelby exhales sharply and opens her eyes again. “Have you?” Toni’s eyes flicker back up to meet Shelby’s.
“No,” Shelby admits. Toni’s chest rises as she takes in a deep breath. “What are we doin’?” Shelby asks quietly.
“What do you mean?” Toni’s voice is practically a whisper.
“C’mon Toni, don’t play dumb.”
Toni licks at her lips and her eyes can’t seem to meet Shelby’s. “I don’t want to mess up what we have.” It’s clear Toni doesn’t want to talk about this as she sits back up. She moves to start putting some of her clothes back on, like being naked for this conversation makes her doubly vulnerable. Toni’s back stays turned away from where Shelby is still laying on the bed.
“Can we just talk about this?”
“What is there to talk about?” Toni deflects.
She’s been slowly piecing together an image of Toni in her mind over these past few months. The Toni Shalifoe in her mind is passionate, and funny, but she’s also defensive and emotionally unavailable.
Shelby sighs. “I don’t think we should do this anymore.”
Toni finally turns to look at her over her shoulder. “What?”
Shelby bites her lip nervously and sits back up, she draws her knees up against her body as if to shield her. She swallows thickly before saying, “I thought I could do the whole no strings attached sex thing but…I don’t think it’s, it’s just not working for me anymore.” It’s not a full admission of her feelings but if Toni reads between the lines it’s there.
Toni looks at her for a long moment and furrows her eyebrows like she’s confused. “I don’t know what you want from me Shelby.”
“I know you’re not looking to date anyone, and…I don’t want to push you to do anything you’re not comfortable with…”
“Oh.” Toni looks at her with raised eyebrows. “The last time I dated someone…I think we set ourselves up for mutually assured destruction. We ruined each other.” Toni sighs. “I ruin things and I’m tired of making promises I can’t keep.”
Shelby thinks it’s funny really, because the whole friends with benefits thing was always bound to implode. She thinks about her past and the people she’s hurt and knows how Toni feels.
She swallows thickly, and thinks maybe she isn’t ready to date anyone either. She worries that she’s skipped too many steps with Toni, and has fallen all too easily, just like she had with her first girlfriend. She had been so excited to have the attention of any girl at all when she first met Jamie, especially after faking it for so long with her high school boyfriend. She thinks maybe she needs some space from Toni.
“I think we should just be friends,” Shelby finally says.
Toni takes a second to process this. “Okay yeah…so we should stop having sex?” she looks at Shelby with uncertainty.
“Yeah, we should stop having sex,” Shelby confirms.
. . .
They don’t stop having sex.
Shelby’s new catchphrase might as well be “This is the last time,” considering how many times she says it. Shelby doesn’t ever mean for it to happen, but somehow she finds herself pressed up against Toni in the backseat of her car and then in some bar bathroom and again in her own bed. She can’t tell if she’s weak or if she simply likes Toni that much, maybe it’s both.
It’s not exactly helping either of them sort through their feelings. Shelby thought she was doing the mature thing with setting boundaries or whatever, but no, she just made it so that now she feels a little guilty every time they do sleep together.
They hang out with their friends and usually slip away early to get some alone time. Shelby likes to think they’re sneaky about it but Fatin makes it known that she knows they’re still sleeping together.
“Don’t even try to deny it Shelby. I’m practically a metal detector but for orgasms. An orgasm detector,” Fatin tells her. Shelby’s already blushing. “I thought you were going to talk to her? Now you guys are always acting weird when we all hang out.”
It’s true, apparently “just friends” means avoiding each other around their friends and then going off and having secret sex.
“We did talk…kind of? I said we should just be friends for now.”
“And how’s that working out?” Shelby looks away as Fatin rolls her eyes at her. “Are you in love with her?”
“Love?” Shelby says with alarm. She knew she liked Toni, but love? That’s a bit much, right? “No, I don’t think-we, it’s not
love
.” Shelby practically chokes just saying the word.
Fatin starts grinning. “Oh my god,” she says knowingly.
The more Shelby thinks about it, the more she realizes maybe the way her heart races and her palms get sweaty around Toni aren’t purely caused by scientific reasons. She thinks about how some of her favorite moments with Toni are when they’re merely talking to each other and laughing together. So maybe she’s at least falling in-
This wasn’t the plan at all.
She was supposed to be in control of this. So she puts her foot down. She finally means it when the words “last time” come out of her mouth.
She can feel Toni’s eyes constantly on her when they’re together, like she’s waiting for Shelby to slip up, but it’s different now.
The last time they’re in bed together, Shelby whispers, “I really like you,” in her ear and Toni shudders underneath her but doesn’t say anything back. She doesn’t think Toni is ready for love, but she hopes she might be.
. . .
Not having sex is making the tension between them unbearable.
It’s so obvious that Toni doesn’t know how to act around her. Shelby was hoping Toni would try talking to her, but now instead of avoiding each other they keep bickering when they do end up seeing each other. There’s so obviously an elephant in the room that they need to address, but both have too much pride right now to do so. So instead they take it out on each other by arguing over meaningless things, like what restaurant to eat at or what movie to watch.
It’s making Shelby feel petty. So when they both end up at Fatin’s party one weekend, and Andrew comes up to her, she entertains his attention longer than she normally would. She’s not even fully listening to whatever it is he’s droning on about. Her focus is on someone else entirely.
She can see Toni’s silhouette in her peripheral vision. She feels her eyes on her every now and then. So what if Shelby laughs a little too loudly when Andrew makes some joke, just to see if she’ll feel Toni’s eyes on her again. When she can tell Toni’s looking, she places an innocent enough touch on Andrew’s arm.
She can feel Toni staring daggers at her. She doesn’t care, in fact she hopes Toni is getting a good look at just how infatuated Andrew is with her. She knows this is immature and so not what she should be doing, but the opportunity presented itself so who is she to not take it.
“Hey, so, uh could I get your phone number?” Andrew asks.
Shelby’s attention snaps back to him, and she doesn’t want to lead him on anymore so she quickly mutters something about refilling her drink and walks off to the kitchen. Toni notices and follows her.
“What are you doing?” Toni asks sternly, the judgment radiating off of her.
“Gettin’ a drink. What does it look like I’m doin’,” Shelby replies innocently.
“It looks to me like you’re leading some poor guy on,” Toni accuses.
“It’s called makin’ friends, Toni. I don’t see the harm in that.”
“Oh please, like you’re not loving the attention. It’s kinda pathetic to use a guy like that.” Toni clenches her jaw.
Shelby glares back at her and feels her breathing pick up. Her eyes drop to Toni’s lips for a second, and she hates how badly she wants to just push Toni up against a wall and kiss her. She wants to grab Toni by the wrist and drag her to the nearest bedroom.
“If you’re trying to make me jealous, it’s not working,” Toni whispers bitterly.
“If I were tryin’ to do that, don’t you think I’d go hit on a girl? You’re so freakin’ full of yourself,” Shelby bites back.
Toni exhales harshly through her nose. Her grip on her drink tightens. “Whatever, Shelby,” she says before stalking off.
“Okay Toni, real mature, just walk away,” Shelby calls out after her, her tone condescending.
She lets out a frustrated sigh and pours more alcohol into her cup. She doesn’t see where Toni goes off to and ends up sitting on the couch, drinking her feelings again and hoping Andrew doesn’t come find her. It’s funny, this whole thing started so many months ago on this very couch, and here she is back on it, wondering how it got to this point.
Shelby’s had too much to drink. She stumbles to find the bathroom when she spots Jamie talking to Toni of all people. Her stomach churns and she manages to get to the toilet in time. Of course in her rush, she doesn’t get the chance to lock the door behind her and she vaguely hears the door opening as she stays hunched over the toilet bowl.
“Shelby? Fuck,” she hears that frustratingly familiar voice call out behind her right as she throws up again.
“Go away Toni.” Shelby really is pathetic.
Toni kneels on the floor next to her and goes to rub at her back. “Are you okay?” Shelby hates how much it sounds like Toni actually cares about her.
Shelby hates getting angry. It feels like such an ugly side of her that she’s always repressed, but she can feel it happening now. She’s mostly mad at herself for letting Toni see her like this.
“What does it look like?” Shelby asks angrily.
“Let me get you some water,” Toni says softly as she moves to get up.
“Why were you talkin’ to Jamie?” she asks before Toni can leave.
Toni hesitates and she nervously rubs at the back of her neck. “Let’s talk about this later. When you’re feeling better.”
“No,” Shelby demands. “I wanna talk about it now.”
Toni seems torn but eventually gives in. “She asked me if there was anything going on between us.”
Shelby stays quiet. Her head is swimming and she wishes she didn’t drink so much tonight.
“I think she wants you back,” Toni finally says.
Shelby frowns and furrows her eyebrows. “What did you say?”
“Shelby-”
“What did you say to her?” Shelby repeats.
Toni stares back at her before admitting, “I told her the truth.” They keep staring at each other. Shelby feels herself holding back tears. “I said I really like you. Now I’m gonna go get you some fucking water, okay?”
All Shelby can manage is a weak nod. Then, she’s suddenly alone in the bathroom and her heart is racing at what Toni’s finally admitted to her.
|
Venti’s warm hands sliding up your thighs couldn’t distract you from the bold request he just uttered.
You stuttered, staring at him, and sputtered out the first words that came to your mind. “Y-Your face? You want me t-to sit.. on y-your face?”
Venti’s half lidded eyes glittered dangerously as he smiled at you. “You heard me, didn’t you, windblume?” The teasing lilt in his velvety, higher-toned voice sent heat straight to your now dripping core. “I didn’t stutter.”
If your face wasn’t red before, it definitely was now.
Venti’s hands slid up your back slowly, tracing your shoulder blades underneath your thin gown. You were getting ready for bed—but now you were very much awake. Your panties were already starting to feel wet and sticky.
“I-I don’t want to suffocate you—”
“I want you to suffocate me.” Venti murmured, almost growled, against your mouth. “I want you to wrap your thighs around my head and take the very breath from my lungs.” His fingers sank into your back, drawing a gasp from your delicate lips. Your hesitance was fading.
“Oh.. w-well… if.. if you’re sure…” Your voice wavered against his cheek, against the dimple that formed there when he smiled at your response.
“I’m certain. Let me help you out of your gown, windblume.” Venti pushed up your thin linen gown and pulled it over your head gently, tossing it aside as if it were nothing but a wrapping keeping him from a most desired gift. He did the same with your panties, leaving your body entirely bare and on display for his hungry gaze.
Soon his own clothes joined yours on the floor, save for his white briefs. His markings glowed in the dim light, the very tips of his braids starting to pulse with magic as well. Your eyes wandered down his frame to the prominent tent forming in his underwear.
Venti didn’t let your eyes linger for very long. He pushed you down into the sheets, his hand behind your head as it made contact with the pillows. Before you could catch your breath from the change, Venti’s mouth was on yours. You made a little noise—but Venti simply—and quite literally—breathed life into you. He filled your lungs with his own air, relieving the ache in your chest and allowing him to positively devour you without distraction.
Your hands absently slid down his chest, causing him to shudder and pull away. You managed to swoop down and lick a thick stripe up the center of the mark on his sternum before he pulled you away by the hair, growling softly yet playfully against your ear.
“Tonight isn’t about me, my humble maiden, no. So eager to serve me, are you~? Well.” Venti’s hand smoothed down the center of your back and paused at the dimple near the bottom of your spine. “Serve me by allowing me to serve you.”
You whined, but Venti silenced you with a kiss which you gladly returned. The smack of his lips parting from yours came all too soon, but before you could process his pulling away, he rolled over onto his back. He took you with him—you were now a heap on top of him. You could feel every rise and fall of his smooth chest, every strain of his godhood against your thigh.
“Mmmh, will you let me see how wet you are for me, windblume~? I want you gushing before you get on top of me, I want to feast upon the essence that trails from your—ahhhnnn~” Venti cut himself off with a groan as his middle finger parted your soft, plump lips. His finger was welcomed by your body with another gush of your arousal, drawing a gasp from Venti’s perfect lips. “Ohhh, by the four winds.. you’re so wet for me already, windblume~ but I know that’s not all you have for me.”
You trembled atop the Anemo Archon as his middle finger found your clit, rubbing circles on it. It was like electricity was sparking through your bloodstream—something about his fingers made you feel so damn good, you almost couldn’t stand it.
“Mmhmm? How’s my windblume~?” Venti teased you softly, making your face flush a deeper shade of red. The empty hunger you felt was getting overwhelming. You reached down to pull out his throbbing dick, but he stopped you. “No, cecilia, if you take it out I won’t be able to control myself. You’ll cum before my face ever even gets close to you. You don’t want that, do you~?”
You whined quietly, but didn’t press. Venti’s finger pushed inside you, so even if you wanted to answer you wouldn’t have been able to, not with the high-pitched moan he drew forth from your lips. You heard your heat squelching as Venti pistoned his finger inside, and felt arousal gush out around his knuckle. A low rumble emanated from his chest. He felt it too.
His whole hand was glistening by the time he pulled away, and every movement you made caused arousal to trail down the insides of your thighs. Venti was still on his back, but he guided you forward until you could feel his breath against your folds.
“Hmm—face the other way, so you can lay on me, windblume.” Venti suggested, and you turned around to face his body.
Your thighs on either side of his head, dripping heat hovering mere inches above his face.. no place in Teyvat or, dare he say, this side of the cosmos could compare to where he found himself now. He didn’t realize he was tugging your hips down until his mouth finally made contact.
It was like a lightning strike. Venti’s tongue had no trouble gliding from your clit back to your entrance, pushing your thick essence into his mouth. You heard him swallow—and noticed his dick straining even harder in his underwear.
Your thighs quivered around his head as he continued to slurp at your gushing pussy, his nose pushed against your taint. You had trouble forming coherent thoughts as his tongue soon found your swollen clit, a sound of delight from Venti sending vibrations through your sex.
“A-Ahh—Venti—fuck—I’m gonna c-cum if you d-don’t slow down—” You choked out the warning, but Venti’s tongue showed no signs of stopping. Your hips started to move against his face, almost bouncing as he played with your clit. Right before you could orgasm, though, Venti’s tongue retracted completely from your heat. The sudden emptiness dragged you back to reality. “F-Fuh.. ck? Why d-did you.. oaHh~!” He swept you up again in a perfect storm of pleasure.
..!! CONTENT WARNING UNTIL END !!>........
Your eyes landing on his straining cock, you suddenly had an idea. Straightening and reaching forward, you reached into his briefs and pulled his aching dick and swollen scrotum out of the fabric, earning you a gasp from Venti, who was still smothered beneath your sex. Impatient and desperate, you immediately gathered saliva on your mouth and spit a fat globule of it onto his blood-engorged tip. It ran down the underside, causing his flesh to twitch in your hand before you stroked it earnestly. You watched, mesmerized as the loose skin towards the end pushed up and over the ridge of his head before pulling back with your strokes.
Venti was moaning against you now, which in turn caused you to groan against him, creating a vicious cycle of vibrations and ecstasy. You started to bounce your hips lightly again as Venti began sucking your clit. Feeling yourself getting closer, you fought off the pleasure, immersing yourself in tasting him. You managed to swallow his entire length on the first try—a loud mewl from him sent pleasure surging up your spine. His hips stuttered, giving little thrusts up into your face as you slowly shook your head. Your hands kneaded and massaged his aching scrotum.
You wished you could see the look on his face as you pulled off to the tip, sucking hard and stroking, twisting your hand with each pump. You wished even more that you could see his face when you managed to take his entire length again—right down to his balls.
“Fuck—fUck~!” Venti’s voice was muffled, but you could understand what he was saying. You could sense why he was saying those words, too, because his hips thrusted up into your face twice before he managed to pin them back down to the bed.
You pulled off him fully this time, coughing against the base as you opted to pump his length with both hands. Your entire core was throbbing, head foggy as Venti’s hands gripped your ass and hips, guiding you to grind down on his face and tongue. His nose pushed up against your entrance, his tongue lapping fast and hard at your pearl. He knew you were close. But you knew he was close, too.
Mustering all your will, you submerged half of his length in your mouth again, sucking on the portion in your mouth and stroking the other with one hand while the other massaged his filled scrotum. As your vision went white from the immense pleasure of your orgasm, you felt Venti’s godhood seize and twitch violently in your hands and mouth. You heard his broken cries of ecstasy, and you tasted the seed he offered your mouth. It painted the roof of your mouth a milky white, the first few shots hitting the back of your throat. Sucking off every drop, you popped his member out of your mouth. It twitched a little, deflating slightly, before hardening once more.
Venti’s tongue lapped at your pulsating petals, making your eyes roll back into your head. Your hips moved against his face slightly, but he stopped you, lifting them off his face. You turned and collapsed on him, his hard flesh knocking against your thigh.
You both lay there in blissful silence for a long moment, before Venti giggled softly. You looked up at him with an arched brow, but cracked a smile at the stupidly adorable grin on his face. He drew you up for a deep kiss, hesitating to pull away from it.
His tongue ran over his lips, as he processed your taste. “..this is what I taste like?”
You smiled at him. “Weird, huh? Tasting yourself?”
He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile. “No. If I’m honest..” He kissed you again, deeper this time.
“…tasting myself on you is something I’ve dreamed about for a long time.” |
The drag of soft fabric against his skin brings Tony back once again, no less tired and no less miserable. He twitches experimentally and sits up slowly. Apparently someone has come and covered him with a blanket.
That’s nice, Tony thinks. He winds it around his freezing fingers, it’s warm. Tony sniffs in some chilly air and wraps it firmly around himself. Then he curls up again and tucks himself into the armrest again. It’s cosy, and it’s no less comfortable than a bed. Satisfied, Tony allows himself to stretch out a bit, and when he closes enough he can almost imagine arms around him, wrapping him in tight and warm.
It’s a test, something murmurs in the back of his mind. Don’t fall for it.
He shakes his head stubbornly. It’s not a test, they did it because he was freezing, he really was, really, they’d believe him if he tells them, right? It could only be a test if they wanted to see if he were selfish and take the blanket for himself even if it’s not his. But the couch isn’t his and he’s still on it. What does the blanket matter? He looks up at the ceiling, then at the blanket, then back up.
Tony’s not selfish. He tries not to be. It is a test, it is, from Barton, to see how much he was intruding on them,why wouldn’t it be? Tony wants to cry. He really is cold though, he really is. They’ll believe him, they will, they know it’s cold and Tony is cold but he can’t be selfish either. He wants to keep the blanket so bad.
“Really cold,” he murmurs, barely awake, into the couch. “Please believe me I’m really cold, not selfish just cold.”
He wishes Barton had never brought the blanket out. To his horror he can feel wetness sliding down his cheeks. He’s so tired (weak) and he’s so cold (weak) and he just wants to lie down in his own bed with the window closed, not on some couch God knows where in the house of people who hate him. He’s been here before, has fallen asleep here before, and they’ve never treated him terribly. They don’t mean to make him feel bad. He should just go to sleep with the blanket.
But Tony knows humans, normal people. They like to make tests, see what kind of person you are, if you’re normal and nice like them or disgusting and selfish. Tony is pathetically grateful that Barton didn’t stick around to see what happens because he’s freezing and crying and clutching at the blanket and all his walls are knocked down by the chill. It’s so fucking cold. “Don’t wanna,” he says quietly, scrubbing at his tears. “Don’t wanna, I’m really cold. So cold.”
He holds the blanket for a while more, sorry to part with it, then trudges wearily to the dining table and folds the blanket neatly on one of the chairs. Hopefully Barton won’t hate him as much now. But then again maybe he’ll realise Tony has figured out its a test and acted on it, so he’s actually selfish
and
desperate for attention and approval, to name a few.
Shivering, he slips back onto the couch and wraps his skinny arms around himself. He wishes Barton had just left him alone, but then all of them have always been cruel to Tony. Sleep does not come easy.
She detects Clint before she’s fully awake. At some point at night he’s moved to the bed and she sighs contentedly to the feeling of Clint wrapping himself around her like an octopus. He’s warm and familiar, but she remembers that someone else- Tony. “Tony?” she mutters, almost at herself.
“On the couch,” Clint answers. She hopes he doesn’t take offense that she asks about Tony first thing in the morning. “I knew you’d be sleeping when I came back with takeout,” he adds. “So I bought the Chinese noodles Brucie likes. I’ll heat it up for us all.”
Nat scoots forward to give him a sleepy kiss on the cheek, then flops back into the pillow. She hears Clint chuckle and feels him get up, stretch; and then he’s gone, shuffling into the bathroom.
An indefinite amount of time later he’s back. Nat looks up, feeling more awake, and Clint is lowering Tony onto the bed with a frown. She looks at Tony, looks at his flushed cheeks and the strange pallor of his skin and she reaches out instinctively for his forehead, which is, predictably, burning. His cheeks are stained with dried tears.
“Why-” she begins, already instantly awake and ready to snap at Clint.
“I don’t know,” Clint says miserably. “I don’t know, Nat.”
She gets her elbows under her and gets out of bed, pulling her hands through her messy hair. It’s too early in the morning for this, and she lets Clint off with a scowl as she trudges into the bathroom. “The noodles are ready, by the way,” Clint calls, and he really does sound helpless and Nat believes him, but it’s still too early and she grumbles under her breath, leaning on the counter and staring in the mirror at her own unappealing appearance.
Ten minutes later, she’s wearing something warmer and seated while Clint slides a bowl of noodles over the table to her. “Explain,” she says curtly, tucking into her food. She didn’t eat dinner last night and she’s starving.
“Tony woke me up in the middle of the night,” Clint says, head tilted to the side as it always is when he’s thinking. “He told me to go sleep on the bed with you… I thought it’d be okay, because he was obviously uncomfortable sleeping with you and he’s smaller than me so he can fit better on the couch. I, I accidentally grabbed the blanket with me on the way in because I wasn’t thinking.”
“So he was afraid to ask-”
“No,” Clint interrupts immediately. “I suddenly had the thought and woke up, slipped out to give it to him. I did give it to him, too. Covered him with it.”
Nat looks thoughtfully at the edge of the tabletop. The only reasonable explanation is that Tony kicked the blanket off in his sleep, but it was neatly folded and placed so far away too. She frowns. “You sure?”
“Unless I dreamed the whole thing, but I really don’t think so.” Clint is sure.
Nat frowns at her food and keeps eating.
“Nat, why did you sleep with the poor boy?” Clint asks. “I didn’t expect - I didn’t know what the sleeping arrangements would be, but I didn’t think, I didn’t think he’d be comfortable with that.”
Nat drags her hand over her face wearily, trying to blink the sleep from her eyes. “He didn’t,” she answers. “He wasn’t. He wasn’t comfortable with it, but I like to think he needed it. Do you know what he does when you touch him? That tiny little noise and the small movement, shifting closer to you? I wanted him to feel comfortable like that.” She looks cautiously at Clint after her unintended outburst. “I don’t feel anything for him like - like that. Like this. You and I. Clint?”
“I know,” Clint says hastily. “I trust you, and he’s not your type anyway.” Nat has to smirk a little. “I’m not offended. I don’t know what happened, with the blanket thing. I - I’m sorry, I guess.”
“If anything, it’s Howard’s fault,” Nat says heatedly, suddenly remembering. “I’m gonna fu-”
“Yeah, kill him slowly.” Clint throws her a glance. “We both know that’s not gonna happen. We only have Tony’s word against Howard’s money-hungry lawyers, and I’m not even sure he’ll give that.”
“Tony. He doesn’t know we know,” Nat says. “I want to see what kind of excuses Tony and Howard have been using the past few years.” Past few years, she realises what she’s said. Has it really been going on for that long? How has she not noticed? Why on Earth doesn’t Tony speak up about it? “We can’t push him, either,” she muses. I don’t know what to do, she wants to say, but she didn’t know what to do yesterday and today morning and that’s going to change for the rest of this situation. It’s past time Nat got her thoughts sorted out into a plan of action. She needs to get back in touch with Pepper.
He dreams that he’s back in the Cabinet, and for half a moment he almost thinks it’s real, that the Natasha and Clint thing was the one that was a dream, but then the Cabinet door opens and it’s his Mama.
“Antonio.” She’s disappointed. Tony’s stomach gives an impressive lurch and he has to fight the bile rising in his throat.
“Mamma,” he tries to say, but nothing comes out.
She’s frowning, twisting her features into something so unpleasant and unkindly. “What did you do?” she says. I skipped school just to get a rise out of Howard, Tony thinks, hanging his head in shame. Somehow she hears it, because now there’s real exasperation in her eyes. “Really? You, Antonio?”
Tony wishes he could get swallowed by the darkness again. He hates it, hates disappointing his Mama, hates disappointing Pepper and Mr. Rhodes and everyone who’s tried to be kind to him. Can you please touch me? he wants to say. Then he wishes he hadn’t thought it, because she hears it.
“No,” his Mama says, turning her head away almost haughtily. “No, I don’t think I will.” When she looks back there’s so much sorrow in her face that it’s almost like a punch to his chest, and then the dream decides to actually make it a punch to his chest and he’s falling, down and deeper into the Cabinet and his Mama’s face is swimming, blurring ahead. Mamma, he’s screaming soundlessly, and of course he wakes up then, starting up all of a sudden and realising he’s terrified, hungry, cold and very, very cold - did he mention that already?
Shivering, Tony draws the covers up to his chin and slides under into his bed again. He blearily brings a hand up to feel for his forehead. It’s burning. Brilliant. Tony groans, turns over and buries his face in the pillow, half-hoping that he’ll choke. Where were we in Tony’s inspirational sob story, he wonders drily.
Slowly he realises that he’s not, in fact, in his bed, but someone else’s bigger double bed. He pulls himself to a sitting position, heart hammering. Clint and Natasha, he remembers. But - but yesterday he went out, yesterday night. To get Clint back on the bed. And the blanket, the blanket test-
“FU-” Tony clamps a hand over his mouth before he can shout obscenities like some mobster under the roof of someone who’s been nice to him. Those are rare, he thinks with a bitter smile. But he’s gotta explain. That he wasn’t here, not when he fell asleep. He was outside, with no blanket, that’s important too, because he has to prove that he’s not selfish. God forbid, did he sleepwalk? Was he that desperate for affection that he’d climbed out of the couch and stumbled his way to their bed -
their bed
- and wedged himself between them? God no, please, Tony begs, struggling out of the comfy, comfy bed. His bare feet on the floor is a mild shock and he idly -
panicking
- wonders what time it is. Has he slept well into the afternoon?
He all but bursts out into the living room- then freezes in his tracks as two heads turn his way. Clint and Natasha - Barton and Romanov - Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanov? - are seated at the dining table, eating breakfast. The haphazard thought that he should just backtrack right back into the bedroom and pretend that nothing happened flits across his mind.
“Tony,” Natasha says, and she sounds genial enough. “Good morning.”
“Good mor - mor- ning,” Tony stammers, managing to sound like a complete weirdo.
Barton raises an eyebrow at him. Natasha says, “How are you feeling?”
Feverish and cold. Hungry and miserable. “Fine,” Tony answers. He takes a careful step forward, weighing his options. There is a third carton of takeout on the dining table. Could it be for him? What are the chances? “I - Look,” he says with a burst of courage, “I didn’t mean to. To. Ah, uh. I swear, I’ll swear on, I swear I was on the couch when I fell asleep. I may have, sleepwalked. I’m sorry, please. I didn’t mean to.”
“That’s okay.” It’s Barton who answers him. Tony shifts his weight on his feet nervously. “I brought you to our bed,” Barton continues. “Because you were burning up, after sleeping without a blanket. God knows why.” He narrows his eyes at Tony.
Tony’s heart sinks slowly into his stomach. He should’ve known. Tests like this have no right answer. If you’re selfish, they call you out for being selfish. If you make the sacrifice to be a better person, they call you out for rejecting their generosity. He opens and closes his mouth uselessly, and finally settles on “sorry.” He wonders if they’ll let him go now, or kick him out now. Either way, getting out is a very welcome option, preferably not through the window like last time.
“Why didn’t you sleep with the blanket, Tony?” Natasha asks, and he has no idea how to answer.
“Ah, uhm, I - I was ungrateful,” Tony mutters, taking a wild guess as to what they want to hear.
Clint leans back in his chair. “I’m so confused,” he says quietly to Natasha, and Tony’s not supposed to hear so he keeps his head down and says nothing. Nat stands up then, comes nearer. Tony fights his natural reflex to scramble for cover.
“What about the scratches on your back?” she asks. She’s a little taller than him. He’s really short. No, not short. He’s young. He’ll grow. He has to, or he won’t be able to see over the super tall podium in the auditorium and Howard will be angry, angry, angry.
“I scratched myself,” he says, because it’s the truth. “On some sharp edges. It’s nothing to worry about, really.”
“And you were locked in a cabinet in a garage. Why?”
Tony looks down at the floor, at his bare feet. He thinks, in some faraway corner of his mind, that he might just start panicking.
|
“So you’re going to crash at Winchester’s house?”
“Yes.” Castiel managed to answer as he painstakingly scribbled out the entire alphabet. He’d been ridiculously happy when Jack had told him the Z was the last one.
“Huh.” Jack twisted out of his chair, nervous energy leaching from him as he walked around the room. “Nice of him.”
Castiel paused halfway through the M to look at Jack’s expression; just to check if he was being sarcastic or not. Jack had a tendency to say things that weren’t actually true for fun.
“Yes it is, Jack. I’m grateful to be given a home so quickly.”
“My mom and me are getting protective custody.” Jack slumped against the wall. “And yeah, I’m glad we’re going somewhere safe and I’ll be with her which is awesome- but I wanted to go home.” He turned puppy dog eyes on the one person who could not understand his plight nor help him. “See my room. My friends. Get pissed at the neighbors and their yappy dogs. You know?”
“Not really.” Castiel had no choice but to be honest. He looked back down at his whiteboard, adding the last leg to the large M.
“Right. You don’t remember. Sorry.”
Castiel shrugged. He couldn’t remember a time where he remembered his past, so why did it matter? You couldn’t miss what you didn’t know.
“You just build up this fantasy of how it’ll all be when you finally manage to get out and then- it’s not the same. Tastes a bit bitter- and it shouldn’t, you know?”
Castiel raised his eyebrows and curled his O into a nice neat circle. He liked the O, it was simple.
“I just feel bad for wanting it to be different.” Jack fiddled with the door to Castiel’s bathroom. “If they hadn’t raided the mansion I’d still be there and- you- you’d probably-” Jack slid down the wall, curled his arms around his legs and hid his face between them. “You’d probably be dead.”
The slave smiled sadly at that. It was the truth, and they both knew it. “I probably would be dead, yes. I couldn’t have hidden my leg for much longer.”
Jack made a strangled sound. “And I want it to be
better
.”
Uncaring about how his letters looked, Castiel hurried all the way through to the end. “I think I’m done.” He offered gently, turning the board towards his friend turned trainer. “All the way to Z.”
It forced Jack to look up from his knees and gave the kid an excuse to stop thinking.
“Ok. Let’s see.” Jack’s eyes were wet, but Castiel was glad to not see tears. He’d finished just in time. “Looks good, man.” Jack sniffled, dragging an arm across his nose. “Now you can start learning actual words.”
Castiel smiled, even though he could feel his own fear pulse deep within his chest. There were thousands upon thousands of words. There were more words than he could ever learn let alone
write
. If he’d been this slow at picking up individual
letters
… there was little hope for him remembering full words.
“We’ll start with something that’s super important.” The kid wiped a cloth across the board in firm strokes. “You’re going to have to sign papers to get out of here, yeah? Well, you’re going to sign them with your name.”
Jack sounded so sure of himself, and the order was so clear cut Castiel forgot to feel dread.
“Ok.”
“You just use the letters you already know. Start at the beginning of the word, or- well- name.”
“Cas-tee-el.” Castiel said, running through the letter and the sounds Jack had told him about. Only one of them made sense. “K?” He hedged, unwilling to outright say what he thought was correct - that would be foolish - but still scribbled an awkward K on his board.
“Ah, yeah that’s a tricky one. It’s actually a C.”
Very confused, and very slowly, Castiel wiped away his one letter and wrote a C instead. He believed Jack, of course, but he couldn’t figure out how Castiel started with a C. It sounded like a kuh, not a see.
“I know, it’s weird. When you say just the letter it’s see, and kay. But words that start with a kuh sound often use a C. I don’t know why.”
If even Jack didn’t know, Castiel was doomed to fail. Why did they even bother with the letters if each word used them willy nilly?
“Like, king starts with a K, but cat, or car, or cake all get written with a C. And Castiel is the same. I checked on your chart.”
“Ok.” Castiel nodded. He stared at the board, thinking hard about letters and sounds before adding an A. He looked at Jack expectantly.
“Yeah! An A. Nice.”
The S seemed logical, and once again he received praise. Writing wasn’t so bad after all. The T followed just as easily, but his choice of E was wrong.
“Yeah, so it’s pronounced kas-tee-el, and the E sounds logical. But it’s actually an I and
then
an E.”
Castiel blinked- this made no sense.
“If you had two Es you’d say kas-teel. So the I is there to make sure people know how to say it right. So c-a-s-t-i-e, and then?”
Breathing deep, Castiel added the two letters, and finished with an L. Thank God that one wasn’t bound to some strange rule.
“And now we practice.” Jack smiled.”The more you write it, the easier it becomes.”
Jack hadn’t lied. With every repetition it became easier to spell out his name. Especially the first three letters came easily. C-A-S Cas.
“You up for some other words too?”
Giddy with his success, Castiel nodded. If Jack went slowly enough he might just be able to do this.
“Ok, so just one letter can make a ton of difference. Try writing your name again, but only the first three letters. Now erase the S and write a T instead. What does that say?”
Castiel stared at the new word, sounding out the individual letters. Cee-ah-tee. No. Kuh-ah-tee. K-ah-t.
“Cat?”
Jack beamed, and Castiel was pretty sure he’d read any word ever just to make the kid this happy.
Three days later, Jack was clinging to Castiel and weeping against his shoulder.
“I don’t wanna leave you here.” Jack sobbed, pretty much crawling into Castiel’s bed as nurses and guards watched from the doorway. “What if I never see you again?”
Castiel brushed a soothing hand down Jack’s hair and back. “It’ll be ok.” Soft and private. He stayed far away from promising visits. While Winchester was very kind in taking him in without extra training there was no reason for the man to go out of his way to schedule visits for his slave. “You’re going home, even if there’s a side stop first. Winchester promised.”
“What if they find me again?” Jack confessed in a hushed whisper, face buried deep in Castiel’s neck.
There were tremors running down Jack’s back, and Castiel understood his fear. He’d been taken once, and barely survived. The chance of that happening again had to be paralyzing.
“What if the next time you’re not there to save me?” Jack was gasping for breaths, words wet with tears.
“No one is taking you again, Jack.” Castiel felt sure of it. Stroking Jack’s hair he tried to soothe the young man. “Agent Winchester is sending you and your mother somewhere
safe
. He swore you’d be safe where you’re going. He’ll protect you- and he’s the one who rescued everyone.”
Jack nodded, still curled close. “But I still won’t see you again.”
Castiel wasn’t sure why Jack was so hung up on seeing him again. He wasn’t anything special.
“Maybe you will.” He offered up.
“You’ll have to write me!” Jack ordered; voice stern. “You’ll have to practice your writing and send me letters.”
“If I have time,” Castiel promised, wrapping protective arms around his free friend. “I will practice as much as possible.” There would be other chores waiting for him at Winchester’s house. And he was bound to please his owner first and foremost, but if he worked hard enough he could perhaps ask for paper and pencil as a reward.
“You can keep the whiteboard.” Jack sniffled, looking up from Castiel’s clavicle to stare unblinking. “It’ll be easier to practice on that. The markers last a long time.”
“Thank you, Jack.” Castiel’s voice cracked. He’d never received a gift like this before. Masters might hand him pretty jewelry or toys, but those were things they enjoyed seeing on him. The blankets he earned with obedience and devotion were never taken along when he was sold again. This board- Jack was not his owner. “I’ll keep it safe.”
“I’ll miss you, Cassie.” Jack mumbled, ducking down once again and hard to hear above the ruckus in the hallway. Someone was shouting.
Castiel looked up, uncaring of the tears he realized were running down his cheeks - a slave held no shame in front of an audience - and saw Charlie herding everyone away. It was a kindness to Jack, who really shouldn’t have to put up with people gawking at him anymore; only slaves got stared at freely. Jack deserved privacy.
“You were the first person who tried to help.” Jack confessed, hiccoughing away a sob.
Castiel didn’t bother correcting him. Not a person. But it didn’t matter here, not in this room.
“Gave me advice and shared your food when they starved me.”
The hug grew tighter, but Castiel bore the twinge from his ribs with ease.
“You gave me hope, man. Kept me sane when that maniac waltzed around with his knives. Like, he wasn’t my first owner but Jesus he was the craziest.”
Castiel kept up his soothing strokes, willing his hands to push out the anxiety. He remembered that day. A new slave brought in, drugged from travel yet somehow still so high strung he’d barely obeyed direct orders. He’d been happy when Jack had been put into the kennel beside his own. The kid had exuded stress and fear, and no matter how pretty he was he’d have been taken for punishment very very quickly if somebody hadn’t intervened. Scared slaves were one step away from panicked slaves, and panicked slaves didn’t listen.
Slaves that didn’t listen… He hadn't wanted to watch anyone else get taken apart.
“You were scared and alone, how could I not have?” He’d chalked Jack’s behavior and needs up to youth and bad training in the past, but he knew better now. “You weren’t supposed to be there.”
Bright teary eyes stared into Castiel’s soul. “You didn’t deserve to be there either.”
Castiel almost smiled. It was a lovely sentiment. For a slave to deserve better. But masters chose their slaves, and slaves rolled with it or they were torn to shreds as an example to others. And even if that wasn’t true- what other purpose would he have had? No master to serve- he’d have been all alone in the world. He’d been lucky-
Still, it was nice to have someone believe you were worth more. He met Jack’s eyes evenly.
“Thank you.”
Castiel swallowed thickly, emotions clogging his throat. It was a dream, but Jack wanted him to be free so badly that he wanted the whole wide world outside of this room to change just so he could have Castiel be something more. That was more than any master had ever given him.
“I mean it.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
No one had ever tried to have him be more.
“How long till you get out of this bed?” Jack changed the subject, dragging a hand across his cheeks to make room for more tears. “It’s too small.”
“Three days. Agent Winchester wants to be sure everything is in order before he tries to move me.”
“Are you going to be bored? That’s three days without me.”
Castiel huffed a little laugh, sniffing and wiping his nose on the back of his hand. “I’m sure there will be plenty of things to do.” He gestured at the crutches. “I still can’t walk right with those things.”
“You’re better than the first couple of days, and you’re improving every day.”
Castiel nodded.
“But I need to get even better. There won’t be nurses to bring me food once I leave here.” Charlie and master Singer had been preparing him for the move; teaching him how to walk and sit and reach. What he was allowed to do, and what he certainly under no circumstance was to try. How to change his own bandages and which medication to take at which times. Of course, Castiel knew he’d have duties other than basic self-care. While Winchester looked to be an amazing owner, no master allowed a slave to sit around lazily. “And I’ll have my board.” He smiled. His. Truly
his
. “I’ll practice a lot.”
Jack nodded, and they sat huddled close in silence for a while. Each with their own thoughts and worries. It was Jack who broke the quiet, whispering a question into Castiel’s shoulder.
“What’s his house like?”
Castiel cleared his throat around a laugh. Jack was so curious, but this was something he was actually excited about. It made the words flow like water.
“He showed me a picture on his phone.” It had been lopsided and grainy, but- “It doesn’t have big gates and walls to get in, and there’s trees all around it, and there’s windows! Jack, there’s so many windows.”
The windows were the most exciting part to Castiel. Unless agent Winchester forbade him from looking outside he’d get the see trees every single day.
“He said you can see the sunrise from the kitchen. I can’t ever remember seeing one, but his face lit up so it must be nice, and there’s birds outside and you can hear them in the morning.”
“Sounds nice.”
Castiel nodded emphatically, it truly, truly did. Most masters had songbirds and other strange animals to entertain them, but these would be
free
birds. Wild birds.
“I don’t know where we’ll be going.” Jack broke in; voice wavering, not with tears, but full of fear. Slaves never knew where they were headed, but Jack had not lived his life like that. Free men, even young ones, they knew where they were going. They made choices. Castiel pulled the boy close.
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home.”
Castiel laughed. “Except home.”
“Somewhere nice, I suppose.” Jack snorted. “Though once you’ve had to sleep in a fucking kennel it puts motel beds into perspective.” Castiel nodded, unsure of what a motel was but happy to have Jack talking. “I- I just want to be able to get up and open the door and walk out without anyone trying to stop me. I don’t even care if it’s cold or warm or wet or dry. It just
needs
to have doors that open, and places I can walk to.”
“That does sound nice.” Castiel offered, even as his own heart shuddered at the thought. Opening a door- walking through it- choosing where you went. Those were people things.
Perhaps Winchester would take him on a walk one day, after his leg had healed.
There was a knock on the door, and Jack tightened his hold. A child unwilling to leave. Not wanting their moment of closeness interrupted.
“Jack?” Charlie stuck her head through the door. “Your mother’s here.”
The door swung open, revealing a single woman. With Jack curled against him, Castiel was the first to see her.
Purse clutched tightly to her chest and eyes wary as if she expected to find a trap instead of her son. Castiel saw the similarities in her face through the pained lines. He nudged Jack, just a tiny bit, of course, encouraging him to look and see.
“Mom!”
Castiel’s ribs twinged again, protesting Jack’s sudden movements, but he bore it with dignity. He’d been a placeholder. Someone for Jack to cuddle till his family arrived, and now they’d arrived.
The woman made a non-human sound, arms open to catch her son as he barreled into her. Castiel would have been blind not to see that she’d missed him just as much as he’d missed her. The way she clung to him, dragging Jack further into their embrace than seemed humanly possible- she’d been looking for Jack ever since he’d been taken.
Castiel wondered what that felt like. Missing someone that much, loving them to the point of obvious agony. Or the other way around. What did it feel like to
be
loved like that? You wouldn't sell someone you cared about like that.
It looked like it
hurt
. More than knives or floggers or marble stairs and your owner's polished shoes digging into your throat or kicking you down the stairs.
Perhaps he was better off not knowing. Better to have never loved that much than to live with a hole that big in your heart.
There was no such hole in Castiel’s life.
No heart torn to pieces.
Not like that.
He’d never loved someone like Jack and his mother did.
Loving an owner was asking for trouble. They already controlled your body and your actions, giving them your heart could never end well. Loving a fellow slave was stupidity. It would just give a creative master another way to punish either of you.
Plus, once you were sold there would be even more pain to cope with. Not just unwanted and passed on, but heartbroken.
Castiel watched Jack and his mother sink to the floor, unwilling or unable to let the other go. Wailing wordlessly in happiness or anguish. Perhaps both. He looked up to find Charlie crying as well; tissue clutched in her hands. He didn’t bother to feel his own face.
Emotions were contagious.
He wouldn’t want anyone to feel like that on his account, Castiel decided. To have someone looking for him for years; how long had he been a slave now? The doctors had estimated he was around 24 years old. If he hadn’t been born this way-no- no he couldn’t start thinking like that.
He’d entertained the idea to please Jack, but Jack was leaving now, and Winchester would take him to his new home in three days. It was time he focussed on reality rather than children’s tales.
|
When Brienne pulls the car into the garage, Ronnet’s body sunk by now to the bottom of the harbour, Jaime is standing in the corner, waiting. She gets out of the car and walks over to him, slips her arms around his waist, hooks her chin over the crook of his neck.
“We’ll need to clean the trunk,” Brienne mumbles. It’s the only thing she can think to say at first. “Tear out the lining and replace it. That’s probably the safest thing to do.”
“I have a guy. He’ll do it, no questions asked. I’ll bring it over to his shop tomorrow after I drop the kids off at school.”
She wasn’t planning to tell him anytime soon, but there’s something about his voice—the way it hums through his body and into hers.
He should know.
“Jaime, I… I want to tell you about what happened. The whole story.”
“You’re sure?”
Brienne steps back and slides her hand into his. “I’m sure.”
She leads him back into the house, to the living room, to the couch. She hugs her legs into herself, and tells him everything. It feels silly now, going back over it—the bet, the name-calling, Gods, I agreed to sleep with him in the first place, and now it feels like nothing more than schoolyard bullying—and she says as much to Jaime.
“Don’t do that,” he snaps, then softens. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”
“It’s okay.” She pillows her cheek on her knee and forces herself to look at him. “Don’t do what?”
“Don’t… dismiss it. Make it seem like it’s fine, like you always do.” He has his left hand wrapped around her ankle, and slides it up towards her calf. “It’s not fine. What happened last night—in the shower. That wasn’t fine.”
Brienne doesn’t know what to say. It all comes natural to her—the dismissal; the burying; the walls and the boxes. She never thought she could be anything other than fine. She never thought not-fine might be good. If there’s someone else around. Someone who would hold her in the shower to stop her from scrubbing off her own skin with her bare hands.
“Can I ask you something about last night?” Jaime asks.
“Okay.” She circles her hand around his left wrist, absently presses her fingers into the tendons there.
“Why did you get so upset when… when I was about to call you my wife? Does it make you uncomfortable? I can stop if—”
“No! No. I don’t mind.” The heat is spreading on her face already. “It’s… complicated. You started calling me that as—as a joke. When it wasn’t… real. And I just, I felt the full weight of it last night, and the full weight of—of me trying to deny it. And it… scared me, I suppose. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“It’s not a joke,” Jaime says, matter-of-factly. “You know that, right?”
Brienne picks at the fabric of the couch, her other hand still wound around Jaime’s wrist. “But I’m not really a wife to you, am I? Not in… every way.”
Jaime looks at her with some combination of alarm and earnestness. “I’m not trying to, to pressure you into anything, by calling you that. It just feels right to say it, that’s all.”
His expression is almost… child-like. She’s never considered this before, but now she finds herself wondering exactly how much growing up he had to do in his life, at a young age. How much growing up he couldn’t do as a result.
“I know you don’t mean it like that. And I don’t mind, really.” She heaves a sigh. “But—Jaime, I… I’ve never known what it is to be desired, before—before you.” Somehow, it’s only in this moment that she feels able to admit to herself that she is desired by him. “The only time someone told me he wanted me, it was a lie. He told me he wanted me, because he didn’t want me. Then, he came back into my life and… I realised how hard it is for me to believe that anyone—that you could want me, because you want me. That desire can be… that simple. True. Real. For me.”
“It’s real,” Jaime says, quietly. “I think you’re—I think you’re magnificent. I’d say it more, if I thought you’d believe me.”
Magnificent. She likes that word, its openness, the breadth of its meaning. If Jaime had called her beautiful, she would have bristled at it. But magnificent—even she believes that about herself, sometimes.
“I’m trying.” She thinks of all the parts of her body she’s given Jaime permission to touch. “I’m learning.”
Jaime relishes the time they have, during the week or so of the blackout. They check in with a few of their agents, but that’s about it. Otherwise, there are no meetings. No disguises. No dead drops. No surveillance.
No other lives but their own.
On a whim, he decides to bring Brienne to the museum, just the two of them. He finds she doesn’t care much for paintings, or sculpture, but armour? Weapons? She looks at them so intently that he can practically visualise her thoughts, how she imagines herself wearing them, wielding them.
Or maybe those are his fantasies.
They’re standing, his hand in hers, in front of a glass vitrine encasing a suit of armour, its metal a unique and compelling blue. He thinks it would fit her well. Matches her eyes.
“It feels strange,” Brienne mutters under her breath.
Jaime looks over at her, but her gaze is fixed on the armour. “What does?”
“Not working.”
He watches her eyes travel to the sword strapped at the suit’s hip, with a golden lion’s head for a pommel.
“I think it feels nice,” he replies. “When do we ever get a break?”
“Hmm. Still feels strange.”
“Maybe strange can be nice.”
She intertwines her fingers with his. “Maybe.”
That night, just as he’s about to drift off to sleep, he feels Brienne turn towards him.
“Jaime,” he hears her say.
“Mm,” he grunts back, only half awake.
“I think I’m ready.”
“For what?” He’s been getting better at reading her mind, but he’s not lucid enough to manage it at the moment.
“You know. Ready.”
Jaime’s eyelids fly open. Oh, he’s extremely lucid now.
“Right now?”
“Not right now. You’re barely awake.”
“Brienne, I can be wide awake right this second if you want me to be.”
Brienne brings her hands up to shield her face, as if he doesn’t already know how red her skin is under there. “Gods, Jaime,” she says into her palms.
“That’s definitely a line I’d expect you to use.”
She pulls the covers over her head and groans.
“Alright,” he laughs, “I’ll stop.”
“Saturday,” she says, from under the covers. Jaime pulls his side over his own head, so he can look at her.
“Even if we get a call from the Centre tomorrow?”
“Even then. Unless there’s an emergency. Unless… you need to meet Pia.”
“No. I already left her a message to say I can’t meet her this week.”
“Okay.” He can tell Brienne is trying not to look pleased at that.
“Let’s go out for dinner,” he suggests. “A proper date night, for once. We’ll get one of the neighbours’ kids to babysit.”
“Okay,” she agrees. “But nothing too fancy.”
Jaime was thinking of the best restaurant in the city, actually, though he realises that it’s probably one of those places that’s booked up months in advance. And he’s just Jaime Lannister, here; he has no strings to pull to get them in, unlike back home. They’re supposed to be ordinary. Nothing too fancy then.
Brienne brings her hand up to his face, runs her thumb over his stubbled jaw. He usually has to stay clean-shaven—it allows for more flexibility, with his disguises—but he’s let a tiny bit of a beard grow in, just for these few days. “I like this,” she says. It’s a simple compliment, but Brienne offers them so rarely that he feels a bit like blushing, too.
“The kids think it feels funny,” he deflects instead.
“Well, it looks good. Wish you could keep it.”
He wishes he could, too.
By Friday morning, Brienne already regrets setting a date. She thought she would have preferred the certainty of planning for it, just like she does with everything else, but in this case, it’s given her too much time to think.
“What restaurant did you pick for dinner?” she asks Jaime. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, watching him as he reads the paper in the armchair in the corner of their bedroom. He never reads the paper. Too much time to think.
“I told you, it’s a surprise,” he says, from behind the newsprint. “And no matter how many times you ask me it will remain a surprise.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
“I know, but you’re going to have to compromise just this once, because I’m not telling you.”
“I hope I won’t have to dress up.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
They sit in silence for a while. Brienne wraps her fingers around her toes. Then, gingerly, she asks: “Is there… is there anything I need to do to… prepare? For… after dinner.”
“Like what? Protection?” He flips a page. “The Centre… requested I have a procedure done, before we moved here. And I always use a condom, on the job.” She notices how he rushes through that last part, even as he’s trying to be offhand about it. “Which this isn’t.” He flips a page again.
“Oh. They—the Centre had a device put in me anyway. Just in case. But that’s not what I mean.”
Jaime folds down one corner of the paper to meet her eyes. “... Do you want a step-by-step battle plan? Because I’m pretty sure that will take the fun out of it.”
“No! I just mean, should I… shave? Down there.” Brienne winces as she says it. On principle, she doesn’t think she should, but she wants to ask anyway. One less thing that will be on her mind.
“Do you want me to shave?”
She hadn’t thought that was an option. “... No?”
“I’m going to choose to ignore the hesitation there, and say fair’s fair.”
“Okay. Good.”
Jaime thinks for a moment. “Do you want to get a hotel room for the night? I’m sure we can get the sitter to stay—”
“No.” The idea makes Brienne recoil a little. Too many unknowns. “No. I want us to be here. In our bed.”
“Okay then.” He folds up the newspaper and gets up from the armchair. “I’ll go get the blueprints to the house.”
“What? Why?”
“I’ll mark out each spot in this room where I’m going to put every candle, and every flower petal—not roses, don’t worry—and I’ll submit it to you for prior approval. Just so you’re prepared.”
She throws a pillow at him. “Fuck you, Jaime.”
“Oh, that’s what I’m hoping will happen.”
“You’re insufferable. And don’t do any of that, please. I don’t want… theatrics.”
“I know, Brienne. I was kidding. It’ll just be you, and me, in all our naked glory.”
“Gods, Jaime. You’re making me reconsider—”
“No!” He drops the paper and practically launches himself at her, holding her face between his hands. She forgets sometimes that he’s a decade older than she is. She wraps her arms around his neck and smiles up at him as innocently as she can.
“Don’t do any reconsidering,” he pleads, “I’ll stop.”
Maybe setting a date was a good thing. Brienne quite likes having this power over Jaime.
In the early hours of Saturday evening, Jaime sits on the bed, pretty much dressed, and watches Brienne walk to the closet to pick out her clothes. She opens the closet door and freezes; bends down to pick up the two boxes he snuck in there just now.
“What’s all this?”
“I had Donyse buy you something. A dress. And shoes.”
Brienne brings the two boxes over to the bed and sets them down.
“You sent one of our agents shopping?”
Here we go.
“She likes doing these things, Brienne. She was happy to do it for you.”
“She’s working undercover as a septa and you sent her shopping.”
“She’s not locked up in the Sept, wife. She can disappear for a couple of hours to buy you a dress. See?” Jaime holds up a dark blue tie. “She even bought me a tie to match. I didn’t ask. She’s bored and she likes shopping.”
“This is a misuse of our resources.”
This woman is going to be the death of him.
“Try on the damn dress, and you can tell me if you still think it’s a misuse.”
“Fine.”
Brienne opens the smaller box first, revealing a pair of elegant navy leather flats. Jaime doesn’t miss the way she strokes them just a little as she puts them on the floor, and can’t help but smile to himself. Then, she removes the lid of the larger box and lifts up the dress. It’s a short-sleeved shift, in a deep blue silk like his tie, but this fabric somehow also shimmers cobalt and turquoise at the same time. The cut is simple and modest enough that Brienne won’t feel self-conscious wearing it, though the dress probably cost more than her entire wardrobe combined. Not that she needs to know that.
“Try it on,” Jaime encourages. He expects her to bring it to the bathroom—and she does cast a brief glance towards the bathroom door—but then she sets the dress down and just… takes off her t-shirt.
And then her jeans.
This is new.
Brienne is wearing her bra and underwear, but Jaime swallows a gulp nonetheless, though he’s seen all of her already, and will see all of her again in a few hours. She unzips the dress and steps into it, pulls it up the length of her body. “Zip me up,” she says, and Jaime immediately scrambles to his feet and complies.
Then, she steps away from him and—okay, maybe the dress is not so modest. It would have been modest on a woman of average height, but on Brienne, it’s short. Jaime’s eyes travel the pale line of her ankles to her thighs. She doesn’t seem to notice its length or lack thereof, or doesn’t mind. She slips her feet into the flats, turns to look at her reflection in the mirror and simply comments, “It’s comfortable. The dress and the shoes.”
Trust her to reduce it to that.
“Well, I think you look amazing,” Jaime declares, reverently. He resists the urge to make a comment about the length of her legs, and how he’s currently imagining them wrapped around his waist.
To his annoyance, Brienne just rolls her eyes.
“Seven hells, Brienne. Will you learn to accept a compliment from your husband? For example, I will now say, ‘Blue is a good colour on you, wife. It goes well with your eyes.’ And you will simply say, ‘Thank you.’”
At least she has the courtesy to blush this time. “Th-thank you,” she stutters, and smooths her dress down. That gratitude doesn’t last long, though, because she follows it with: “I feel like this outfit needs a full face of makeup to go with it. I only have one tube of lipstick that I barely know how to apply.”
It’s Jaime’s turn to roll his eyes. “Put on the lipstick, and I’ll just say inappropriate things all through dinner so you’ll keep blushing.”
Brienne stifles a laugh as she turns to help him with his tie. He watches her expression turn serious again as she weaves the lengths of fabric over and under.
“Jaime?”
“Yes?”
“Did you ever sleep with Donyse?”
Shit. Well, better to be honest. “A couple of times, at the beginning. Sometimes it just… makes things easier. That was long before I introduced you.”
She pushes the knot of his tie up into his collar and puts both hands on his chest. “Okay. Will you—will you promise me something?”
“What is it?”
“... Never mind. I don’t know if this is even possible.”
“Just say it, wife.”
Brienne inhales, deep. “Whoever it is you are when you go to their beds… don’t bring that person to ours.” Immediately, her hands fly up to cover her face. “I’m—I’m sorry, this doesn’t make any sense.”
“No. It makes sense. Okay. I won’t.”
Brienne looks at him from between her fingers. “That’s it? It’s that easy for you?”
Jaime shrugs. “I suppose I’m actively trying to be a different person, with them. I know I won’t be doing that with you.”
He doesn’t even need to promise, not really. He told her, once, that she can’t be anyone but herself. Now, he realises he can’t be anyone but himself, too, with her.
It’s not that it’s easy. It just is.
The babysitter rings the doorbell just as they’re about to make their way downstairs. The twins burst out of their bedroom and are about to hurtle down the stairs themselves, when they stop dead in their tracks and just… gape. Brienne knows the kids have never seen them dressed like this before. Definitely not her, anyway.
“You look pretty, Mummy!” Myrcella exclaims. Tommen nods his head vigorously in agreement.
“Thank you, Myrcella.” And the twins run down the stairs.
“Oh, so it’s all perfectly fine if our daughter compliments you,” Jaime whispers in her ear. “But I get the eye rolls.”
“Jealousy is not a good look on you, Jaime,” she whispers back. “Especially when you’re jealous of your own child.”
“I don’t know, Brienne. I think we need to face the truth. Almost everything is a good look on me.”
It’s at times like this that Brienne wonders how she even tolerates him. “Watch your step. Don’t trip over your own ego.”
He smirks as he holds her right hand up with his left, and sweeps his prosthetic dramatically towards the stairs. “My lady. Your carriage awaits,” he announces.
Just as they’re stepping out the door, Tommen runs up to them.
“Why can’t we go too?” he asks, standing in the doorway with his most pitiful expression.
Jaime squats down and taps Tommen’s nose with his finger. “This is just for Mummy. So she can feel special. Besides, we’re going to a boring place for boring grown-ups. You won’t like it.”
“Is it Mummy’s birthday?”
“No, but it’s a special day anyway.”
“What kind of special day?”
Brienne clears her throat before Jaime can dig himself into a deeper hole.
“It’s a secret,” Jaime decides to say. “And it’s very very important to Mummy that I keep this secret.”
She wants to smack the back of his head. The man is making it worse.
Thankfully, and to Brienne’s bewilderment, Tommen seems to accept this explanation. “Okay then. Bye-bye Daddy. Bye-bye Mummy.”
“Bye, baby. Don’t stay up past bedtime.” Under her breath, she asks Jaime, “You did lock the basement, didn’t you?”
“Of course I locked the basement. What little faith you have in me.” He walks to the car and opens the door for her.
“Just checking,” she says, as she gets in.
“Now will you forget that we’re spies for the next two hours so we can enjoy our dinner?”
“Fine.”
“Thank you.”
When they pull up in front of the restaurant, it’s—damn it. Brienne whips round to face Jaime. “I thought I told you, nothing fancy.”
“This is not fancy.”
“They have a valet!”
“We’re in the middle of the city. Every half-decent restaurant has valet parking.”
“Well, this is definitely the fanciest place I’ve ever been to.”
“Good thing you’re dressed for it, then.”
“I didn’t ask for you to dress me.”
“You are an extremely difficult woman, do you know that?”
He grabs her by the shoulders then, and kisses her right on the lips, as if that would rearrange her thoughts (it does). “Listen to me. Tonight is the night for new experiences. We are going to go in there, and have a great three-course meal, one glass of wine each because I need to drive and you have the alcohol tolerance of an ant, and then we’re going home to our very comfortable bed and I’m going to fuck your brains out the way I’ve been wanting to for the past year. Okay?”
“O-okay.”
Jaime has such a manic look in his eyes that Brienne has to suppress the urge to laugh. She reaches over to wipe her lipstick off his lips with her thumb.
The food is great. Brienne might not have had the opportunity to develop much of a palate in her life, but she can tell a great meal from an average one, though she refrains from making any comments about the prices for Jaime’s sake. Unfortunately, they soon realise there’s not much they can talk about in such a public place. They talk about the kids, or the rare happy moments in their respective childhoods, and she has to kick Jaime under the table when he makes some of the inappropriate comments he promised—but it’s difficult to speak about anything else. Brienne thinks about all the parts of her life that she can share with him and only him, and how she can’t even do that in a room full of strangers preoccupied with their own meals and conversations. By the time the server hands them both the dessert menu, she thinks she might miss Jaime already, though he’s been sitting right there across the table from her this whole time.
Then, Jaime says, “Third from the top.”
She looks down at the menu and her eyes widen. “No. They serve that here?” It’s a dessert from back home. She couldn’t have it very often at all, but it’s one of her favourites. It’s been so many years since she’s tasted it.
“Only place in the city that does it. Old family recipe, I heard.”
They order one portion each. When Brienne takes her first bite, she’s overwhelmed. Her life back home might not have been all good, but it’s still home. And this is a little piece of that.
“It’s good, isn’t it? Maybe not quite authentic, but it’s close enough.”
Brienne nods and smiles into her dessert. “It’s close enough.”
The twins are, thankfully, sound asleep in their own beds when they arrive back home. Jaime spots how Brienne almost drops the cash while paying the sitter, before sending her off.
“Nervous?” he asks, as he shuts the door.
“You know I am.”
“Me too.”
Brienne scoffs at that. “You must say that to all the girls.”
“Yes, because it’s very sexy to admit to a mark that I’m nervous.”
Brienne looks faintly pink, and Jaime thinks maybe she does find it sexy. Interesting. He holds out his hand to her: “Shall we?”
On the way to their bedroom they open the door of the kids’ room a crack, just to check on them. “Hope Tommen doesn’t get one of his nightmares tonight,” Jaime murmurs as he closes the door.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. He just climbs into bed with Myrcella anyway, these days.”
“I don’t know. I don’t trust them.”
“Don’t be so paranoid.”
“Look who’s talking. Anyway, I just don’t want to be interrupted,” Jaime replies, as he leads Brienne to their bedroom. “I plan on taking my time.”
He feels her let go of his hand once they get to the doorway, just as he flicks on the lamp next to her.
“I’m scared,” she says, honestly. “I’m—I’m ready. But I’m scared.”
“Do you trust me?” he asks, as he walks over to her side of the bed to switch on the lamp there, too. There won’t be any fumbling in the darkness, tonight.
“Of course,” Brienne replies, though her voice trembles.
“Then close the door and come here.”
Brienne does exactly that. She curls her fingers into his waistband, and presses in close.
“I won’t be any good,” she whispers, her nose touching his.
“You don’t have to be anything. You just have to feel good.”
Jaime’s lips find hers as her hands move up to his collar to loosen his tie. He locates the pull of the zip on her dress and breaks the kiss just as he starts dragging it down.
“Rules?” he remembers to ask.
“No rules,” she answers, lifting the tie over his head and letting it fall to the floor.
“That’s dangerous, Brienne.” He feels the zip dislocate tooth by tooth.
“Not with you.”
“Just tell me if—” but she silences him with another kiss, deeper and deeper, as her fingers work their way around the buckle of his belt, undoing the clasp beneath it too. Jaime slips her dress off her and it pools on the ground, and as he parts from her to catch his breath he looks down and thinks, nonsensically, that her feet are an alabaster island in its ocean of fabric. She is unbuttoning his shirt now, movements frantic and delicate, freeing it from where it was tucked in and pushing it down his shoulders. Jaime eases himself out of it and is about to rid himself of every other piece of extraneous clothing that’s on him right now, and her, when Brienne grips his forearm, around the straps of his prosthetic. Right, he remembers now that she doesn’t like him wearing it, when it’s just them. He’s reaching over to get it off, but she holds his left hand back and says:
“Wait. I have a question.”
“My cock in your cunt, is the general way this goes. Other places and parts to be negotiated.”
“I’m—I’m aware of that, Jaime.” She looks like she can’t decide whether to laugh or to punch him, and this might be his favourite Brienne, he thinks, but his brain can’t adjust the rankings right this second.
“Do you remember the first night we shared this bed?” she says, as she removes his prosthetic for him, excruciatingly slow.
“You want to talk about that now?” His cock is starting to strain against his pants that, for some unknown reason, he is still wearing, and Brienne wants to take a walk down memory lane.
“I thought you said you wanted to take your time.” There’s a hint of teasing in her voice, and he is absolutely convinced that she’s torturing him on purpose.
“When we’re naked. Go on then, what’s your question?” Oh, thank the gods, the prosthetic is off. He’s reaching around to her back to undo the clasp of her bra when she asks:
“Why did you ask me if I would mind? About you taking off your prosthetic?”
He pauses. “You remember that?”
Brienne grasps his stump as the fingers of her other hand trace the muscles on his abdomen. “I’ve always wondered why. It was like you were… asking for my permission.”
Jaime really doesn’t want to have to bring up Cersei right now, but he has no other choice. “My cousin—she always wanted me to wear it. To bed. So she could… pretend that I was still whole. I just—I wanted to be sure. So I asked.”
Now it’s Brienne’s turn to pause. “Oh. Even though we were just… sleeping next to each other?”
“Yeah.” There’s an anxiety rising inside him, and he’s not sure where it’s coming from, so he pushes it down. “And now I know you don’t want me to wear it, anyway, so I won’t.”
Brienne looks at him sharply.
“It’s not because I don’t like it. Is that what you think?”
Jaime has no answer. He’s never really given it much thought until now. “That time… after we met her. On the couch. You removed it. I just thought…”
He thought she removed it for the same reason Cersei wanted him to wear it.
“Jaime, listen to me.” She brings his stump up to her chest. “I took it off because I know it’s not comfortable for you. Not because of—of any other reason, or preference.”
He feels, all of a sudden, exposed, which is a strange thing to feel considering he’s still half-dressed. He feels like Brienne just found some festering wound he wasn’t even aware existed. Like she’s been—nursing him all this while, without either of them knowing. It makes him want to say—
“I love you.”
And that was definitely the worst possible response he could have come up with.
“... What?” Oh shit, he doesn’t want her to panic, not right now.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“Are you… taking it back?”
“No! I just, that wasn’t how I wanted to say it, and—”
Brienne silences him with a kiss, again, his stump nestled between their bodies this time. When they part, just a fraction of an inch, she whispers: “I do too. Love you. But I think you already knew that.”
She can’t look him in the eye, can’t even say the three words in their conventional order, but it doesn’t matter.
“I suspected.” He brushes his thumb across her cheek. “It’s still good to hear you say it.”
She smiles, lets go of his stump, and moves back from him. She releases her bra and lets it drop; pulls her underwear down and steps out of them, hesitantly. When she straightens, Jaime can see her struggle to keep her arms down by her sides, to not wrap them around herself. He lets her stay there, defiant, bare as she chose to be, while he sheds the rest of his clothes, even as he struggles a little with his one hand.
Then Jaime walks towards the bed, and waits for Brienne to come to him.
For once, Brienne isn’t overthinking. She’s barely thinking at all. The only thing on her mind right now is Jaime’s lips on her skin, tracing the arch of her neck, across her collarbone, from one breast to another—she gasps as he closes his lips around each nipple, feels his tongue navigate their circumference—moving to the ridges of her ribs, the expanse of her stomach, the dip of her navel, down, down… down?
“Jaime,” she breathes, “where are you going?”
“Nowhere,” and she regrets asking him a question already, she wants his lips back on her body, “Everywhere.”
And now he seems very far away, his stubble is tickling the inside of her thigh, and his mouth feels so good on her skin but he’s very far away, and she brings her hands up to her breasts, desperately trying to substitute his tongue. She senses the press of each finger of his left hand on the flesh of one thigh, his stump smooth and rough at the same time on the other, and he’s pushing her thighs apart and then—
he traces his tongue, achingly slow, from the base of her seam to its apex, and captures the bud there between his lips.
“Shit.”
Jaime lifts his head. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” And she’s back to thinking again, she wants to go back to not thinking. “That—that feels good.”
“Thank you. That’s the idea.”
“Shut up, Jaime.”
And oh, he does. The entire world has been reduced to his mouth on her folds, to all these unholy sounds and touches, and he’s doing things down there that lips and tongues have no right to be doing, or every right, and she wants it to last forever, this choreography. I plan on taking my time, he’d said; please do, she replies in her mind, too late. She’s so focused on all the attention his mouth is giving to her clit that she almost doesn’t notice that his fingers have inched themselves closer, that they are parting her, and then he’s slipping one finger into her, first, just one and not too deep and it already feels like too much, then he adds a second, and how could she have dared to think that one was too much? There are so many different sensations assailing one single part of her body and they all feel so strange, strange and more-than-nice, much better because it’s Jaime, and she can’t even feel embarrassed at how much she’s writhing beneath him, she can only feel herself getting closer and closer and then it’s a flood and a void all at the same time—
“Seven fucking hells.” If that was stepping off the edge of a precipice, she wants to climb back up again and again just so she can keep flinging herself off.
“You’re welcome.”
She’s still breathless as she feels Jaime make his way back onto the bed to lay beside her. Gods, his mouth is glistening with her.
“Was that your first? Orgasm, I mean.”
“Of course not,” she replies, too quickly.
Jaime glances at her with interest. “Oh really? Do tell.”
“No!”
“Why not?”
“That’s, that’s private!”
“Ah.” His eyes travel down to her neck, her chest. “The blush spreads.”
Brienne doesn’t need to look down at herself. She can feel the heat travelling all across her body, and she knows Jaime can read in the colour of her skin all those awkward, secret moments in the bath when her own fingers roamed downward as she thought of him, of golden and beautiful Jaime, of unattainable Jaime, though he shared her bed each night. The same self-satisfied, smug, naked bastard lying beside her right now, after having licked and sucked and caressed her into—whatever the hell that was, that seemed so fundamentally different from the quiet pleasure she had allowed herself in the safety of the bathroom, even at times when she knew he was just on the other side of the door.
She needs to change the subject. She sits up, Jaime still reclining on the bed like the fucking god that he is, far too proud of himself. Brienne rearranges her legs so they point towards the other side of the bed now, intensely aware that Jaime is watching her every move.
“What are you doing, Brienne?”
“... Strategising.”
“What f—”
And his half-question ends in a moan because she’s reached out and wrapped her hand around his cock, and she’s never done this before but maybe if she remembers every single detail of how Jaime’s mouth danced on her cunt, she can figure it out from there. So that’s what she does, as she takes him into her mouth, as she draws her tongue across and around the tip, along the shaft, tentative at first, then faster as she experiments, one hand still at the base of his cock, the other splayed across his belly. She’s not sure which one of them she’s stabilising with that hand, her or him; she can feel the tension in his body where he’s resisting the urge to thrust up into her, the low jolts as he pants his gratification.
“Fuck. Brienne.”
She looks up. “Is this fine?” she asks, as if the entire sequence of events up till now had been completely innocuous.
Jaime doesn’t speak, or can’t, instead he just wraps his left hand around her own and guides her speed, and pressure, and she observes and tries to learn, then he manages to exhale, “Your mouth,” and oh, she forgot about that part. Just before she can resume she feels, not fingers on her folds this time, but a soft and deep compression, and she looks over to see Jaime’s stump between her legs.
“You’re distracting me, Jaime.”
“Just work through it, wife.” He groans as he slides both of their hands up his cock in the meantime. “Multi-task.”
So she does, she concentrates every single cell in her body on feeling him and being felt by him, and eventually Jaime gasps, “Almost,” and she realises she didn’t strategise for this part at all, she doesn’t even know how things like this usually end. The best thing she can come up with is to release him from her mouth and continue to stroke his cock—he’s let go of her hand by now—and run her thumb over his opening, until she brings him over the edge.
While Jaime lies there, catching his breath, Brienne gets up to grab a towel from the bathroom. She wipes off her hand as she walks back to the bed to join him again.
“Sorry,” he says, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she cleans him.
“Why?”
“Now we need to wait. I thought I’d be inside you by now.”
She folds up the towel. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
“I don’t know. It felt good. I was… impatient.”
“It’s okay. We have all night.” And the rest of our lives, she thinks, boldly, though she tells herself to discard the idea.
“Did you…?” Jaime motions vaguely with his stump.
“Is that… possible?” Brienne didn’t realise it could happen so soon after the last.
“Of course it is, for you. I guess you didn’t, if you had to ask.”
“No. But it’s okay.” She leans over to kiss him. “Later.”
“Mm. Later.”
When Jaime next opens his eyes, he finds Brienne lying on her side, staring at him, with her back against the pillows and her head propped up on one hand. He’s glad she’s resisted the temptation to hide herself under the covers. He sweeps his gaze over every inch of her bare body, with its faint scars from old injuries and a couple of healing bruises from their sparring. He has a suspicion that she might have indulged herself in gazing at his body too, while he slept.
“You dozed off,” she murmurs, “I didn’t want to wake you.”
“Has it been long?”
“An hour, maybe. Probably less.”
“I think I dreamed of you.”
“... Oh. What was I doing in your dream?”
“Can’t remember. You were wearing something far too distracting.”
“Like a frilly pink dress?”
“That would be distracting, but no. Like... nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“You weren’t wearing anything.”
“So you had a dream about me exactly as I am right now.”
It’s true, but— “It was still a nice dream. And the best part is, I can relive it, every single morning, afternoon, and night for the foreseeable future.”
He brings Brienne in close, aligning his torso with hers, slotting one foot between her legs as she winds her arms around his neck. His cock is already hardening between them.
“Is that how often you think we’ll be doing this?” she teases. “Do you think you can handle it, old man?”
“How dare you call your husband old?”
“It’s just a fact. As I recall, you said the general way this goes is for your cock to be in my cunt. You fell asleep before that could even happen.”
“Oh, I’m awake now,” and then Jaime is crushing his lips into hers, letting his stump graze across her back. Without breaking the kiss, Brienne slips her arm between them and works at his cock, tending it. He is suddenly very annoyed that his left arm, the one attached to his fingers, is trapped beneath him, and he pulls back to say, “Other side.”
“Huh?”
“Other side, wife, or your crippled husband won’t be able to touch you in all the places he wants to touch you.”
He had initially intended only to reverse their positions, but as Brienne attempts to roll over him, he finds himself flat on his back and her above him.
“Stop. This is good.” He can tell she’s about to protest, so he says, “And if you give me any of that ‘I’m too heavy’ nonsense, I swear to the Gods I will never give you another orgasm ever again.”
She bends over him and plants her hands on either side of his head. “Are you sure you can live with that?”
“Are you sure you can?” he challenges, as he reaches between them to find her sex. Jaime runs his fingers over the bundle of nerves there, his eyes never leaving Brienne’s face while she arches and moans above him. She’s already wet and ready for him, but he’s desperate to bring her to her peak the way he wasn’t able to before, and so he keeps going, his thumb rotating on her clit, his fingers curling into her entrance, again and again, refusing to let up until he finally feels her buck and shake on his hand. The fabric wrinkles around his head as she digs her fingers into the sheets, into the mattress.
“I don’t think either one of us can live without that,” she pants, and Jaime just smirks as he brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean. There’s a look in Brienne’s eye now that tells him she wants to give as good as she got, and Jaime wants to see exactly what will come of that.
Soon, her breaths more stable now, he finds that his cock is already back in her hand. Then, she just—doesn’t move. Jaime looks up into Brienne’s face to see eyes glazed over. He moves to sit up, holding her in his lap, wraps his right arm around her waist and lifts his left hand to caress her cheek.
“Hey. Look at me. It’s me. It’s just you and me.”
“Okay,” she rasps, and then he thinks maybe it was too much to ask for her to be on top, their first time, and he gently lays her down on the bed.
“Are you okay? Do you need to stop?” Jaime asks, as he strokes her hair.
“No. I’m ready. I… I want you inside me. But—slow.”
“Okay. Just talk to me. Tell me what you want.”
Brienne nods, and lifts her head up to capture his lips in a solitary kiss. Then, Jaime positions himself at her entrance, and as she sucks in a breath, he pushes into her, slow like she wanted. She’s warm, all around him, and safe, and it’s Brienne, and he wants to stay here for all eternity.
“Good?” he checks, and she nods again and shifts her hips. He withdraws and pushes back into her again, driving into her with all the tenderness he can manage, losing himself in her eyes but never straying from them either, mumbling sweet words into her ear, declarations of love infinitesimal and infinite. She doesn’t make any requests of him, though he told her she could. She just gazes up at him, accepts him into her, and he listens to her whimpers and sighs softly intermingling with his moans.
At one point he feels Brienne’s walls pulse around him, and watches her eyelids flutter. Jaime is surprised by it; she had given him no indication that she was close besides a slight quickening of her breath. He dips his head to nuzzle and kiss her neck, brings his left hand to her breasts, to help her along as she deepens their embrace, their joining. Not too long after, he finds he is close, too, and this time his mouth insists on locating hers, parted already in a sigh, their tongues intertwining as he speaks his unintelligible pleasure into her, and she must know he’s nearly there because—because they are one and the same being. Her hands are moving down along his back to pull him in, fold him within herself, amidst his hastened and eager thrusts. Even when Jaime finds his release, he thinks he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t ever want to be released from her.
Later, his cock softened and slipping from her body, Jaime gathers Brienne into his arms, lets her rest her head on his chest. They lie there in silence; sated, soothed.
“Jaime?” Brienne asks, after a long while.
“Yes, wife?”
“When you said you had the procedure done. Is that… permanent?”
Jaime can feel her tracing his navel with her finger. He realises he’s been drawing circles on her shoulder too.
“According to the doctors, no,” he says, to the ceiling. “But I doubt the Centre would ever allow me to… reverse it. And I can’t go to a doctor here. So I suppose it’s permanent in that sense.”
Brienne’s finger stills. “In a different world. Would you have wanted more children? With… with me?”
“Hmm. It would have been nice, wouldn’t it? To have a docile blue-eyed baby to go along with our green-eyed twin terrors?”
She shifts herself up so her head is on his bicep, now. “They’re not terrors, Jaime,” she replies, indignantly, looking up at him.
“Oh, they’re perfectly well-behaved around you, but they bully their poor old dad when you’re not looking.”
“That is not true at all.”
He composes his most serious expression. “You wouldn’t know. I am the only witness to their crimes.”
“Jaime. Don’t be mean to our kids.” She pokes his side to emphasise her point, and he grabs her hand before she can take it away.
“Well, how about you? Do you want more children?” He presses his fingers into her palm. “You’re still young. You could still have your own, even when you’re my age.”
“I won’t have more if they’re not yours too,” she says. Brienne just—said it so plainly that he doesn’t think she realises what she just implied, with this declaration. Or maybe she does. He knows, of course, that if all goes smoothly, when she’s his age they should theoretically still be raising the twins, teenagers by then. And they should theoretically not be having more children. But, that's just—the logistics of the job. That’s not exactly what she meant.
Maybe to her, those words were just the logical conclusion of—I do too. Love you.
“Anyway,” she continues, as if she hadn’t just made his heart stop, “I never thought I was going to be a mother. Even before the Programme. The Centre made that decision for me.”
“You could have said no,” Jaime suggests, a lump still in his throat. “My father demanded this of me, but it wasn’t an order, was it—for you? It was just one opportunity. You could have picked another assignment.”
“Yes, I suppose I could have,” Brienne muses.
Then, she reaches up to cup his face.
“But I’m glad I didn’t.”
Jaime leans into the cradle of her palm, the way he remembers doing the night she had first kissed him.
“Me too.” |
"Wrong..." You pressed the piano keys in your electric piano as you heard a wrong note coming from Adrien. You sighed, maybe he needs to relearn his basics before going for a duet. "Take a break and walk around, we'll resume later."
"We can try this again, I-" You cut Adrien off as you motioned him to be quiet.
"Breaks are good, and you're not in trouble so don't worry."
"Okay..." He slouched a bit as he exited your room.
"You're a tough teacher," Nathaniel's voice caught your attention, you gave him a tired smiled and joined to sit with him.
"Am I? I'm more worried that he has to play in front of his father this week to show his progress." It was making you grow more grey hairs as you thought of Mr. Agreste being angry that Adrien couldn't play to his standards. Resting your head on Nathaniel's shoulder you saw some of the sketches he made during your fencing practice. "Ooooo!"
"Now you're pulling my leg, they're not that good."
"Nope, they're amazing! Picasso who? I only know Nathaniel Kurtzberg."
"Maybe you're just that good of a muse..."
There he goes again, Nathaniel had a habit of making you blush on the smallest things. You looked over the drawings once more, there was something about being his focal point that made you happy.
"Maybe you're just the best painter I have set my eyes on..."
Adrien somehow made his way into the garden, it looked like a formal English Garden but he could see influences from other cultures making their way to be something different.
"What's on your mind, Adrien?" Plagg came out to accompany Adrien in his walk.
"Y/N is on my mind..."
Plagg groaned, first it was Ladybug now it's Y/N. "You seem to have a thing with girls who don't notice you."
"I don't like Y/N, my heart belongs to Ladybug."
"Yeah, okay. I'm just saying the truth, plus you'd have a better chance with Y/N."
Adrien furrowed his borrows, Plagg was right that he was interested in you. But for now he just wanted to be your friend, and if he could become more than that... His thoughts were cut off by his phone buzzing.
"Did you get lost?"
It was a text from you, re quickly replied that he was indeed very lost.
"I'll go save you then...
"
And for once, Adrien didn't mind getting save by someone other than Ladybug.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
"Marinette your friend is here to see you!" Mr. Dupain yelled from the kitchen table that you were currently sitting by.
'Can't run from this one Marinette...'
Truth was this was the only way to cage her in and having her speak rather than run behind Alya. If anything you didn't mind her friends but you did mind when people didn't have the guts to face you head-on.
"Alya di-" Marinette froze on her way down as you gave her the kindest smile.
"Y/N came by and she was showing us these amazing photos!' Mrs. Cheng spoke, causing you to smile as she praised you. "Now tell me how did you learn Chinese?
"I was taught by many families who worked with my parents, they were educators who worked on publishing Chinese-English textbooks."
"And how did you learn French?" Mr. Dupain interjected.
"By reading classical French literature." You took a sip of the tea Mrs. Cheng served you as you smiled sweetly.
"Mom, Dad I'll take Y/N upstairs then!" Marinette said in between nervous giggles as she dragged you upstairs.
Once inside Marinette locked the door, her room was so pink that you almost confused it for a barbie room, and to your surprise, she had pictures of Adrien in one of her walls.
'Jackpot!'
You quickly lined your camera and took a picture, Marinette didn't seem to notice so you decided to leave the camera on record in case you need to do so you can press the button.
"Seems like our fathers are good friends, apparently they meet somewhere before we were both born..." You took a seat by her desk as Marinette looked at you with a shocked and horrified face.
"W-what?!"
"Yup, my father tried to be a baker but let's just say it was only a pastime." You mentally made a note to thank your father for that story and the needed information.
Marinette tried to register what you told her, indeed her father said about an old friend who resurfaced after a long time. But she didn't believe it could be your father of all people!
"So because our fathers are friends..." You strode to her and she slowly backed away, if anyone saw the situation unfold it looked like a prey going in for the kill. "I want to know why the hell you give me the stink eye?" Your voice deepened, as you stated the question.
"What no I don't w-" She was getting tongue-tied, you saw the same reaction when she tried to talk to Adrien at school.
"Marinette you're a really bad liar, so why don't I start off first!" You turned around and sat down once more, holding your head high as your smile was laced with venom but to others it looked like you were just being polite, you hit the record button. "I have an inkling you don't like me very much..."
Marinette looked at you with disbelief, was she really that easy to read? What was more worrisome is that you knew about her crush on Adrien.
"Fine, I don't like how Adrien likes to hang out with you, Nino told me how much time Adrien spends with you and that you even take him to various places." Her raised voice signaled that you hit a nerve.
"Adrien is just a friend. Sure his father likes me and all, but there are other things to worry about, such as where to go when Paris has another villain or something like that. But maybe next time you shouldn't hesitate on telling me to leave and I'll gladly do so." You got up to unlock the door and head downstairs, "Ciao Bella!" you exited the room leaving an angry Marinette.
"Tikki can you believe that girl!" Marinette asked her kwami who looked at her with a sad expression.
"Y/N was right, you don't really like her so you just needed to be upfront with her. She was the bigger person this time, and she's not interested in Adrien at all!"
"Did I judge her too quickly? Can I go back to fix it? Argh!" Marinette's panicked voice resonated in the room.
"Y/N leaving so early?" Mr. Dupain asked as he saw you downstairs in the shop.
"Yup, gotta head out to do some errands!"
"Say hello to your father for me, and tell him he should come over to play some videogames like in the old days."
"Sure thing, have a nice day!"
Exiting the shop you decided to look at the best shortcut to the shopping district, maybe looking around you could find what to buy Ms. Bustier. Taking the alleyways seem like a good way to get there faster, so you headed over, but that was cut short by a loud noise.
"Help! Thieves!" An old man in a Hawaiian shirt yelled as two figures tole the suitcase he was wearing.
"Sir are you okay? Stay here I'll get your stuff back!" You aided the old man in standing up before sprinting to catch the to assaulters.
The didn't make it far, there was a dead-end up ahead from what you could remember. Grabbing an old pipe you closed in the two figures who cursed at their current predicament., you quickly pulled your scarf to hide your appearance.
"Alright, I'm going to need the suitcase back boys!"
"Go to hell girlie!" One of them said, only to be met with the pipe hitting mere centimeters from his face.
"That's no way to treat a lady, so hand the case back."
Being driven to a corner the second man tried to knock you out only to be knocked unconscious at your roundhouse kicked him in the face.
"Two against one isn't fair, even more with a lady." The voice said, as they stepped into the light you saw who it was, everyone's beloved Chat Noir came to help you out.
"She ain't no lady!" The figure went into sucker punch you, dodging his fist you punched in the stomach causing him to fall on the ground.
"No hard feelings..." You pressed a finger on his neck and he quickly fell laid down unconscious as well. You grabbed the suitcase and tied the two thieves together.
"You're a tough cookie aren't ya?" Chat Noir spoke, earning him a smile from your part at the comment.
"And you're a sneaky cat, thanks for having my back." You gave him a kiss on the cheek causing Chat Noir to blush and stutter.
"N-no problem! I'll put these two in the hands of the law." He grabbed the two robbers as he looked at you smiling nervously.
"Thanks, sweetheart, bye-bye!" You waived as you ran to deliver the suitcase to its rightful owner.
"Sir! I got it back in one piece!" You were out of breath, the old man smiled as you open the suitcase to reveal a jewelry box inside.
"Let me check if everything is inside," As he opens the smaller box he saw nothing was missing, though you couldn't see what was in it you could imagine it was something very valuable to him. "Everything is in one piece."
"Good, let me take you home then."
"No need for that I can do that as well!" Chat Noir's voice resonated once more in the empty alley.
"I don't know, I rather see this out for myself."
"Can't have a lady like yourself do that..." Chat Noir's confident voice betrayed his posture as he walked next to you.
"Don't worry miss?" The older man asked as he looked at you.
"Y/N L/N, if you insist on Chat Noir escorting you home then I can rest easy."
"Then he shall escort me home Ms. Y/N but please tell me where to find you so I may repay you back.
"No need to repay me, but if you ever need something I could help you out if I can." You told him where to find you if he needed something. "Well then, I'll leave you in good hands."
Once Chat Noir and the old man made sure you left they looked carefully into the suitcase.
"Nothing was stolen, right Master Fu?" Chat Noir spoke to the old man who nodded as he saw nothing was swapped for fakes.
"That young lady jumped headfirst into danger, tell me, how did she get the Miraculous box back?" Master Fu asked, intrigued by how a civilian was able to fend off two thieves and not get hurt.
"Y/N is a tough cookie, never seen this side of her. She grabbed an old pipe and threatened the two robbers, I was able to see everything from afar. She quickly knocked-out the other one my doing this weird thing on his neck, the other wasn't lucky enough to get the same treatment."
"A girl her age doing that without a miraculous, tell me more about her at my apartment." Master Fu signaled it was time to go and Chat Noir quickly followed suit.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
"Marinette you should come to my apartment, I have matters to speak to you about." Master Fu voicemail stated, making Marinette worried that something happened.
Not an hour later she found herself knocking at the door to announce her arrival.
"Master Fu is something wrong?" She couldn't help but worry, the voicemail sounded ominous.
"I need to know more about Y/N L/N, I heard she's a student in your school."
"Where to start..." Marinette sighed as she started to explain everything about the girl who came to her house to set things straight. After finishing, Tikki manifested and looked at Master Fu.
"Master Fu was is this about?" Tikki asked.
"Y/N saved the Miraculous box from being robbed, going into danger without thinking about herself worried me a lot. But I was more interested in how she got it back, to be able to handle two robbers by herself is astounding."
"Well we're really not on speaking terms, I misjudged her and she seemed really mad about how passive-aggressive I was with her." Marinette added.
"Yes it was wrong, but to be able to pull something like this is very interesting. And her thoughts on Ladybug and Chat Noir are also interesting from what you told me."
"Are you planning on giving her a miraculous?" Wayzz interjected, causing Tikki and Marinette to stiffen.
"For the time being I won't, I must know more about her before I entrust her with a miraculous. That's why I must ask this from you Marinette, become her friend and tell me what you find out."
Becoming Y/N's friend was the last thing on her list, but now that Master Fu wants to know more she accepted to his request.
|
Wanna Rock 'N Roll?Live In Brighton– The MARAUDERS –
Live show this SUNDAY January 26th
~~~
“That band is becoming more and more popular everyday,” said a red head woman while looking at a promotional poster of a music group called The Marauders, just outside the window where she was sitting. “They probably like living on edge, I never see any security around them. Oh well, you know how those rock stars are, always seeking a rush of adrenaline, and that's when it's not a rush of something else more illegal.”
She seemed unperturbed by the lack of response of her best friend and colleague eating breakfast in front of her, a stack of paper separating them. They were sitting in a cozy little restaurant with relaxing colors near their flats' building. “You reckon they'd be interested in us? ...Remus?”“The question is, are we interested in them? You make them sound like trouble,” Remus replied after a beat.“Well, we have enough staff to cover for another band, what with Jorja now staying overseas. We lost our biggest client, Remus.”“Don't remind me.” Losing their contract with Miss Smith had been a big blow to Cerberus Security, their company. Well, it was technically his company, but Lily was such an important part of it that he didn't think he would be able to run it all by himself.He felt his mind twitch, feeling suddenly lost, as if he had missed something.“Remus, is this a bad day? We can do this later,” he heard Lily as he opened his eyes, seeing her small hand looking even smaller in his large one. He couldn't remember taking her hand. He couldn't even remember closing his eyes.He felt a headache starting at the back of his head as he spoke slowly. “I... yeah, sorry... I-I’m trying a new medication and it’s t-taking some time for me to get used to it…”“It's fine, don't worry about it. This month's report can wait. Take a day off and go home, yeah? I can take care of the business today.” She put the scattered papers back into neat folders. “Are you okay on your own to go get Padfoot? They must be done grooming him by now, and you obviously need him.”“I'll be alright, don't worry,” Remus said, standing up after he felt sure he wouldn't risk falling in the near future. He didn't have much time though; he could feel it. Luckily, they had decided to eat breakfast and make their monthly report in a restaurant just a couple of meters away from the pet grooming place. “There's a chance you'll hear from me soon enough though. I'm sorry–”“Don't you dare apologize for that, Remus John Lupin. You know I'll always be there, gladly,” she said fiercely, her green eyes shining. “Now go rest, I'll take care of this,” she added, motioning to the table at their unfinished meals.“Yes, mum,” he teased while giving her a hug. “Be safe.”“You be safe, I'll be fine.” She waved him off.Remus got out in one of the many busy roads of London, his long legs allowing him to arrive at the grooming shop quickly. He looked at the window and saw Padfoot, his big black dog, looking right back at him from inside the salon with intelligent eyes, his tail wagging frenetically.“Well well, you look just dashing now, don't you?” He entered the shop and kneeled to pet Padfoot, who licked his fingers in return.“He was a good boy, as usual. Such perfect training. Did you achieve that by yourself?” said the cashier agreeably, smiling.Paying for the services, he evasively replied, “I had help.”“Well, feel free to come back as soon as possi— um I mean, as soon as needed be,” said the cashier, her face getting red.“Thank you, have a nice day!” replied an oblivious Remus.“I swear to God, this man is what dreams are made of. His shoulders alone!” whispered the cashier to another worker after the man had left the shop.“Yes, and so mysterious too. I think it's the scar, it really makes him intriguing," replied the worker while swooping the floor. “Too bad he doesn't swing our way.”"How do you know that?"“He came here once with another man, and you could tell they were more than friends, if you know what I mean.”The cashier put her chin inside the palm of her hand, leaning on the counter. “Oh well,” she sighed, “a girl can dream...”
~~~
Sirius felt like he was floating, a ray of sunshine creeping through the large window in his bedroom, hitting both his shoulders just right. He kept his eyes closed as he slowly left the comfortable arms of Morpheus in exchange for the vice grip of the real world. He would never admit it to the guy, but James had been right: a good night sleep had been long due. He hadn't felt his mind that clear in days, and he felt ready to tackle on whatever would be coming at him.His eyes opened slowly at that thought, a yawn spreading his lips. Maybe he could stay here another minute or two before getting up...“James? Sirius? You up?” came a voice from down the hall that Sirius recognized as Peter's....maybe not then, Sirius thought regretfully.“Well, now we are!” he heard James groan from the other bedroom across Sirius's.“Good, good. Come on boys, I've got news,” said Peter absently, like he wasn't really listening. That caught Sirius's attention more than anything.“Don't call us 'boys', you're barely older than us,” Sirius stood up and put black trousers and a white shirt on. “What is so important that you have to barge in here at,” –he paused, looking at his cellphone– “10:17 in the morning? And since when did you get a spare key?”Peter didn't answer. Odd.“The hell is going on?” James said as his very messy black mop of hair appeared in the doorway of his bedroom, his glasses askew, mirroring Sirius's sentiment about the whole thing. He shrugged as he walked in front of James to the open area where there was the kitchen on the right and living room on the left.They saw Peter sitting at the table, looking at his phone in front of him and muttering something intelligible to himself.“Pete, you're scaring us,” said James.“I think I've found us a good deal that will make our life much easier,” said their round faced manager, looking up at them expectantly where they were standing.Sirius turned to James. “I hate when he gets all cryptic,” he muttered.“Don't start, you're worse than him,” James smirked.“Remember Marlene McKinnon?” asked Peter, locking his phone and joining his hands as the boys sat down in front of him.“You mean Queen Marlene! We remember her, obviously. 'Remember Marlene McKinnon', he says.” Sirius scoffed, rolling his eyes while tying his hair up into a high bun.“Yeah, if Sirius wasn't already bent for the other team, I'm pretty sure he would be in love with her,” added James.“What can I say, I've always had a thing for blonds...”“And also for enigmatic people,” added James knowingly, taking his glasses off to wipe them on the blue pajama he was wearing. “Too bad you also got a thing for dicks.”“Yeah, especially very big—"
“You two stop, this is important,” cut Peter suddenly. “I talked to Marlene on the phone yesterday to congratulate her for her last album, and we started talking about security and all that. I asked her how she could be safe from the stalkers who followed her everywhere before, you know, and she gave me the number of a company called Cerberus Security. I called this morning and they agreed to—”“Wait-wait-wait... If this is going where I think it's going, I'm not liking it,” interrupted Sirius menacingly.“They agreed to a meeting Sirius, today, see how it goes and if they can offer something worth our while. We can always back down if it's not for us,” continued Peter, his tone uncharacteristically determined.“I'm not going to have some kind of goon following me around all day!”“Let the man speak, Sirius,” said James while putting a hand on his best friend's shoulder.“They don't just offer personal bodyguards,” started Peter slowly. “They also offer security for live shows and on tour. We wouldn't have to check if the security system is good everytime we do a gig, because it would always be the same people we would’ve already vetted. Marlene swears by it, she says she has never felt safer now since she started her career. And we would reduce our risk of getting another lawsuit if one of us loses control again,” he finished without looking at Sirius.“That was one time!” said Sirius angrily. “And the tosser deserved it too!”“Yes, we know, it wasn't your fault. But we were damn lucky the guy dropped the charges! We can't let that happen again,” said James. “Just last week you got your shirt ripped when a crazy fan tried to take selfies with us.”“You agree with this?!” Sirius said, standing up suddenly.“I agree that we should meet with whoever runs that company, so we can talk about what they can offer,” calmly replied James. “We can't go on like this. We've been lucky enough, but we will get hurt if we don't increase our security, sooner or later. It's a miracle we haven't already.”Peter nodded emphatically.Sirius started pacing the room back and forth, pointing his finger at both Peter and James. “I don't like this!”“Yes, you don't like this, and you don't want someone in your knickers, we know. Although it wouldn't hurt you to get it on with someone, how long has it been huh?” James asked teasingly.“Shut up Potter. We can't all be easy.” Sirius started angrily pacing. Some strands of hair fell from his bun into his face elegantly. James could never dream of achieving such casual grace even if he tried. Bloody Black genetics, he thought fondly.“I already arranged a meeting with them. This afternoon at 1PM, here in London. Be there?” said Peter with a hopeful note.“We will be.” James replied as they heard Sirius close the bathroom door forcefully behind him. |
I know the title sounds a little bit extreme, but hear me out.
My boss is a huge asshole. Oh, he puts on a good face for most people, and he seems like a nice old man usually. But let me tell you, that thing about not knowing someone until you've seen how they treat their subordinates? It's especially true for this guy. He's got me and my brothers basically indentured to work for him, so we can't complain no matter what he does. He's usually too busy to bother us much in person, but he overworks us like we're droids and treats us like we're less than human.
So that sets the stage for how I'm doing when I meet my now boyfriend, AS. We ran into each other after he had a meeting with my boss. AS is basically treated like Boss's son, even though they're not related and don't even talk that often. But I only vaguely knew that at the time, so I was understandably wary of the guy. AS, on the other hand, was smitten instantly, and spent the next few weeks trying to catch my attention. Long story short, we started dating.
AS is a really passionate kind of guy. He feels things really strongly, and he'll do anything for the people he loves. I didn't believe it at first, but he's moved mountains to make sure his wife (yes she knows about me, yes it's fine, polyamory is a thing) is safe, so it's kind of hard to deny at this point.
But the main thing is that this guy would do anything for me, and when he found out how much of an asshole Boss was being, he offered to kill the guy for me. AITA for turning him down?
Edit 1: Okay, I can see how jumping straight to killing seems a bit extreme. I left this out initially for privacy purposes, but I should also admit that Boss is extremely powerful, and there's very few ways to remove him from having power over me and my brothers without doing something drastic like this. And to all the people suggesting AS just steal me away or something, I'm not leaving my brothers behind, and there are way too many of us to hide. It's just not feasible.
Edit 2: No, his wife can't talk him down from this offer and make him see sense. When I tried to get her involved, she got a really concerned look on her face and asked me if I was sure I didn't want AS to take care of all that for me. She's just as into this crap as AS is. They're a perfect match for each other.
Edit 3: There's been a lot of people trying to guess who my Boss is. I'm not telling, cos if this gets out and he finds out about it, I'm dead. I'm not kidding. Stop trying to guess, I really don't want him to find this.
Edit 4: Okay, to clear things up a little, AS is feeling hurt that I don't trust him enough, and also incredibly angry that I'm just gonna let the situation stand. The anger is currently winning, so I can't really have a rational conversation with him right now, since it just devolves into him actually starting to make plans for my Boss's murder. The conversation can wait until he's calmed down a little.
Edit 5: I'm not in any danger from my boyfriend. I don't care how unsafe he seems to you people, he's never directed any of that at me. He loves me and would never hurt me.
Edit 6: Stop posting links to domestic abuse services. I'm going to start blocking people. Fuck off.
Edit 7: To all the people who advised talking to my boyfriend, you'll be pleased to know that finally happened. He said he was really concerned about me, and wanted me to be safe, but that he knew I'd never be safe while that asshole still has power over me. I asked him to please maybe think about using his position to depose him instead, and he's now conferring with his wife. They're both vibrating with excitement. I'm officially worried.
Edit 8: Bad news: one of my brothers ratted on me and told AS that my Boss has been punishing all of us with ration shortages and sending us to interact with abusive members of his organization, and now AS is homicidal again. He's also angry at me for withholding information, but I think it's justified seeing how he reacted to what he already knew my Boss was doing.
Edit 9: Alright, I may be the asshole for holding that info back. Sorry. I apologized to him, and he apologized back for not being a person I could trust. I think his wife coached him through what to say, but it was sincere, so I forgive him. Now we just have the original problem of him wanting to kill my Boss.
Edit 10: Why the kriff have half you fuckers decided you agree with my boyfriend with this new information? Withholding rations as punishment isn't that bad. It mostly only affects me and my oldest brothers anyway, we keep the younger ones fed well enough.
Edit 11: I read those abuse pdfs. They were really helpful. Thank you to everyone who's been kind and patient with me. I have a lot to think about now. I think AS is worried at how quiet I'm being, so I'm going to share this thread with him.
Edit 12: I know it's been a few days, but I think after all the help you people gave me you deserve to know how the story ends (if you haven't already seen it on the news). After some thinking, I decided my Boss was an even bigger asshole than I'd thought. Those resources on the effects of abuse were really scary to read, and I realised that I don't want my little brothers to end up as fucked up as I am, too. So I wrote up a list of people who were cruel and abusive towards us. And the next time AS asked if he could please kill anyone for me, I handed him the list.
You all probably know the outcome of that. I think Anakin Skywalker killing the Chancellor of the Republic (who turned out to be a Sith and a traitor) made headlines pretty much everywhere.
|
"I'm sorry. That's not what I meant. What I meant was - Actually -It's just weird, isn't it? Peter being so close to a couple of SHIELD agents? Did you know his parents?"
Fitz still felt off - ever since he'd walked into Peter's room and saw him lying there on that bed - nothing could have prepared him for that. Nothing Doctor Strange said when he showed up at their door - thankfully, Daisy had been home for a visit, and stayed with Alya. Nothing Shuri could have said when they got there, giving them the full report. No number of words or even pictures of scans and injuries did anything to prepare him for what he saw when he walked in that room and saw him lying there, unconscious next to all of the Wakandan machines, and oxygen and IV's and their version of the hyperbaric sphere completely encompassing him.
So when they left the room, prepared to wait for Peter’s surgery, and Tony was suddenly asking how they knew Peter, making it sound like some huge conspiracy or something, it completely caught Fitz off guard.
He blinked at Stark, unsure how to respond- his mouth gaped open like a fish and glanced over at his wife who looked just as stunned as he did. When he looked over at May, she looked less shocked by Stark's outburst - instead she looked almost like she was waiting to see their answer too. Which was odd- because she definitely knew how they had met Peter.
They had to be missing something.
"We met at the Stark Expo years ago," Fitz started the exact same time Jemma said "No, we didn't know his parents."
"Why would we know his parents, I'm sorry, did we miss somethin-" Fitz continued, looking between Tony Stark and May, like they both just grew an extra head, his own shoulders hunching as his left hand started to shake more violently at his side. Instantly he grabbed hold of it with his right, massaging it to keep it from shaking.
"Wait, wait - The Stark Expo? One of mine?" Tony interrupted, his own eyes going comically wide with confusion. "You're telling me Peter was at one of my expos? Which one? Was I there? Please tell me it wasn't --"
"I believe it was one of your first, after becomin' Iron Man. The one where -"
"Hammer. Oh my god." Tony's face paled, and Fitz worried for a second that the man might suddenly be sick. But he quickly regained his composure, and opened his mouth to say something else, but this time May cut in.
"Why were you there though? Was it coincidence that you ran into Peter that day, or..."
"What? No, of course it was. I was there for research. I saw a kid trying to take on the droids by himself with an iron man mask after Iron Man or er- you swooped in and destroyed the droid and ushered him away from the crowds. Wait - I'm sorry. What's happening right now. What's with the 20 questions? Is any of this important right now? When Peter is in there about to lose his arm!?" Fitz snapped, immediately inhaling through his nose and took a step away, flexing his hands and Jemma's hand was instantly on his arm, the connection bringing instant comfort. Already he could feel his breaths, that had started to hitch, return to normal.
He nearly missed the way both May and Tony blanched at his outburst.
"It is important. It's important to me," Tony retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, and for a moment his lips moved silently, like he was having his own internal argument before his hand dropped and he looked back at Fitz and Jemma. "It's just odd - his adoptive parents were SHIELD agents- scientists too from my understanding, and then later, he's taken in by another pair of SHIELD scientists who claim to be like family too - Peter once said you were like brothers. Just.. feels odd, right? Almost like too much of a coincidence."
It was Fitz’s turn to squeeze his eyes shut, and pinch the bridge of his nose between his fingers. He didn’t even know that Peter was adopted. Let alone that those parents were SHIELD agents. But when he opened his eyes again, and looked to his wife, he was shocked to see that she looked... a lot less surprised than him. What did she know that he didn’t!?
”Jemma, I-I think somethings funny goin’ on with my brain, because obviously none of this is real.”
She shot him glare, that quickly morphed back into something more gentle. “Fitz. That’s not funny. And no, this is all very real.” But when she turned back to Tony Stark, her expression was fierce.
”Sir, with all due respect. I’m not sure what Doctors Richard and Mary Parker have to do with us. I’m not blind to the coincidences you’re pointing out, but if you’re trying to make this into some sort of conspiracy to help yourself cope with what is happening to Peter right now, you’ll just drive yourself mad. Is this conversation really worth talking ourselves in circles?”
”You knew that Peter’s parents were with SHIELD?” Fitz interjected, before Tony had a chance to respond.
”Honestly, Fitz. I’m surprised you didn’t. They were quite popular at the Academy.”
Tony snapped his fingers and pointed accusingly at Jemma. “So you did know them then.”
Jemma closed her eyes, letting out a deep sigh, clearly collecting herself before making eye contact with Tony. She was starting to lose her well practiced patience, and Fitz would have gave Stark a warning that he should stop but he was too busy trying to wrap his own mind around everything. There was obviously something he was still missing, and he at first assumed that Jemma was missing that key part of the conversation too, but now he was less sure.
“Mr. Stark, not that it is any of your business really, but as I said before- no, I did not know the Parkers. Only knew of them. Now, before we all lose our heads here over something so trivial- can we all just take a breath. We don’t know when Peter is going to wake up, and when he does, he’s going to need a strong support system. How strong will we be for him if we are just constantly bickering at each other?”
Tony opened his mouth, but was once again cut off when May finally broke her silence and stood up from where she’d been sitting on the floor, with her fingers on her temple during most of the argument aside from her one earlier question.
”Tony, she’s right. I understand that you want answers. I do too. But we are the people Peter counts on most. It doesn’t matter what we feel right now for each other. What matters is him.”
Fitz watched as a range of emotions flickered across Tony’s face- a lot of them mirroring his own feelings. Confusion, anger, offense, defeat.
”This isn’t just something I’ve cooked up because I’m grieving. It’s not just driving me crazy now, it’s been driving me mad for the last five years. But I thought-“ Tony snapped his mouth shut, inhaling sharply through his nose.
“What I don’t get is, if you didn’t want us here, why did you have that Doctor Strange come get us in the first place?” Fitz asked, narrowing his eyes at the man who was massaging his hand in a way that was incredibly similar to the way he did himself under stress. Perfect, Fitz. So much for stopping the argument.
“Because you’re all right. It’s not about me. It’s about Tom- It’s about him - it’s about Peter!” Tony snapped, pointing is hand at the door, and his eyes went slightly wider when he used the wrong name and his shoulders visibly tensed.
”Who the hell is Tom? Is this whole thing you projecting something about someone else completely? Because seriously, I had heard you could be a lot to -“ Jemma started, full of exasperation as she folded her arms against her chest.
”It’s Peter.” May cut in, her voice quiet, and barely above a whisper, but it was enough to stop both Jemma and Fitz from their impending questions. “I’m assuming it was his name before- before he was adopted. My brother-in-law named him Peter when they adopted him. Tom is Peter.”
For the first time since this whole conversation/ argument started, Fitz noticed the silent tears that were sliding down May’s cheeks, and there were tears now on all their faces. Tony still looked angry, but for the first time, Fitz didn’t actually feel like the anger was directed at him. Which- was at least a small fraction of a relief.
He watched as realization dawned on Jemma’s face, followed by more confusion and then one second later it clicked.
“Peter is Tom- “
“Tommy.” Tony corrected.
”Tommy. And you’re...” he pointed at Tony and then at Peter’s door.
”Got it one, kid.” Tony huffed, staring at the floor as if the marbling might hold all the answers to the universe.
“His name is Peter.” May snapped, agitation and pain written all over her face, and it made Fitz’s heart clench tighter in his chest.
“So you think you can just give up your kid and then show up years later and stake a claim? It doesn’t work like that Tony Stark.” Jemma had took a step closer, standing almost protectively in front of May as she glared at Tony, and the man immediately put up his hands, fingers splayed out in defense.
”I know, May. And I didn’t give him up.”
”Then explain to me how he ended up adopted.” Jemma’s lips moved as if she were going to say something else - but thought better of it.
”What do you think I’ve been trying to figure out for the last five years. I was told he was dead. I held a funeral for my son a week before his second birthday.”
Fitz’s eyebrows shot up, his stomach now twisting right along with his heart. He couldn’t help, instantly he thought of his own daughter and having to do the unimaginable. No. He couldn’t think about that. Alya was home and safe. One look at Jemma and he knew she was in the place he was. Instinctively, he reached for his wife’s hand and gave it a squeeze.
“I want to believe you, Tony. I actually do. But if Tony Stark had a son, wouldn’t we -“
“Why the Hell would I lie about this!?” Agitation were coming off Tony and May in waves, and they had both taken a step closer to each other.
”Tony.”
A new voice startled all of them, and completely wrapped up in their own tense little bubble, none of them had heard the familiar sound of a portal opening down the hall. Four heads whipped to the side all at once towards the newcomer.
The man was glaring at Tony, and was quickly stalking down the hall towards them. Fitz recognized him, had seen him on the news with Stark a few times. War Machine. Or was it the Iron Patriot? What was his name — Colonel Rhodes.
”Tony, what the hell, man. This isn’t cool.” Rhodes’s expression turned apologetic as he looked at the rest of them. “Excuse us. I’d like to have a word with my friend here. Mrs. Parker,” he nodded at her, then placed a hand on a scowling Tony’s shoulder, pushing more than guiding him back down the hall.
”You just got here and you’re already yelling at me?” Fitz heard Tony grumble as he left with his friend. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”
The three of them were left standing there in silence - none of them sure what to say now. They had at least another hour until they would be allowed back with Peter.
“I’m gonna go find us something to drink.” Fitz announced, walking in the opposite direction that the two men had just left down. “I’ll be back.” This was Wakanda, surely there was something around there somewhere. |
They are facing the gates when Kaminari starts to wonder what the time is. According to Shinsou it is 22.55. He decides to trust him since he even has his phone out.
They would have come back home earlier if they didn’t take a detour to a park they saw. Oh well, Kaminari doesn’t regret anything. He steps out of the cart, and turns to look at Shinsou in a meek, hopeful manner. “I’ve got a lotta baggage, could ya’ help me with some of it?”
Shinsou is way ahead of him, taking every bag into his hands. Which isn’t that much, they really just bought a bunch of bowls. Still, it fuels the butterflies in his stomach with energy. Before he knows it Shinsou walks through the gates. Kaminari runs after him, yelling for the guy with the longer legs not to walk so fast, I have precious cargo right here, man.
Kaminari giggles a lot. Once they make it into the building Shinsou tells him to shush, which makes him giggle even more. When Kaminari remains still for the moment, Nugget is the one who starts to mewl. Shinsou doesn’t try to stop him. They try to navigate through the dark and Shinsou knocks something over with those bags of his, which opts Kaminari to grab him by the hem of his shirt and drag him to where he remembers the elevator to be. Because of his shit memory they are lead astray. It takes plenty of minutes before Shinsou manages to navigate the elevator by himself. While they wait Shinsou teases him, and Kaminari sticks his tongue out even though he wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. The light is blinding once the doors open, but Shinsou steps in without hesitation so Kaminari guesses he must, too.
They shush and laugh on the way out too, and the moment is simply perfect. Kaminari cannot wait to ask him if he wants to stay over for a while; they could set up Nugget’s stuff and watch a movie afterwards. His hand goes for where he thinks the handle is, the excuse at the tip of his tongue. Their night doesn't have to end yet-
“KAMI!”
“There you are, dude!”
“How did it go, how did it go?!”
Ah, Kaminari blinks towards his colorful friends. Sero, Kirishima, Mina and surprisingly enough Jirou are standing in his room and they are already shouting, maybe it’s gotta end.
Shinsou stumbles into the room, brushing his shoulder against Kaminari. The last pearls of a chuckle leaves his smiling lips when he turns his eyes to look at the group staring right back at him. He is not smiling anymore, but Kaminari can tell it is not meant in a rude way, but in a why are there people in your room and why are they staring at me type of way. Kaminari cannot judge him at all. The staring is the definition of unnecessary, creepy at its best. He leans down to Kaminaris ear while holding eye contact with the group, and he whispers, “Should I leave you alone now? I suspect that I am supposed to leave you alone now.”
Kaminari gawks. He doesn’t even have time to shiver nor think about the hot breath brushing against the shell of his ear. “Nah dude, its fine! I swear they are well behaved most of the time.”
Kaminari looks between Shinsou and his group, eyes lingering on his group to stop staring and look friendly, come on team, you are never this quiet! But it doesn’t work. Both Mina and Sero are staring, but now the gaze seems to go down to Nugget. Kirishima breaks the silence with a nervous yet loud laughter. “Ah, yeah, sorry man! Didn’t mean to stare, it’s just- It’s just, you don’t have a cat. Cats don’t like you, but now you’re holding one and you’ve got bags of cat food like it's your now, and I am really confused right now!”
Kaminari and Shinsou looks down to Nugget before looking at each other again. Shinsou holds back a smile, which makes Kaminari grin even wider. He starts to explain that he is now a proud owner of a three legged cat. Mina breaks free from the staring curse just then. The girl jumps close into Kaminaris space too coo at Nugget. Kirishima and Sero comes afterwards, taking some bags off Shinsous hand and helping him inside the room. Kaminari cannot help but stare at the three guys put away the bags, at how Sero and Kirishima are joking and inviting Shinsou into a short conversation. Jirou simply sits on the bed, looking at them all interact. They share eye contact, and Kaminari shakes his head. Afterwards Kaminari tells Mina that the cats name is Nugget, and that he is a man. Kirishima coos and calls him a manly man. When Mina puts a finger underneath his chin and he purrs she squeals, too. “Aww, he is so manly, look at him roar! So which daddy gave ‘im the name?” She questions. Very loudly, too.
“I did!” Kaminari yells out before the atmosphere even has a chance to grow tense, “That might have to change, though. We have to talk with Aizawa about keeping him in the dorms, maybe he wants Nugget to have a more dignified name,”
“Dignity goes out the window when it comes to cute things,” Shinsou comments, “You should have seen how he dresses Eri before Mic force him to change. It’s hideous.”
He warms up Kaminaris little stressed heart again.
Sero puts a hand on Shinsous shoulder and leans in to stage whisper, “dude, take pics, i’m hella curious now.”
“Yeah, I wanna see Aizawa be a softie, too! Does he swoon?”
They all start to chime in, and the warm feeling in Kaminari’s stomach begins to churn again. While he loves seeing his friends show interest in Shinsou, he doesn’t want them to scare him off, either. Oh, he really doesn’t want that. I haven’t thought of that before, Kaminari begins to muse, I need to like, integrate him into the squad somehow. They are becoming even needier since I’ve been ditchin’ them during lunch now, too. While Kaminari is thrown into another whirlwind of thoughts Shinsou has somehow managed to come closer to the door, a hand already on the knob.
He is still facing them, and he answers their demands. “That can be arranged, but don’t keep your hopes up. You of all people should know he’s a hardass.”
He turns towards the door, but stops up. His gaze flicker back to Kaminari, and he perks up automatically.
“Kaminari?”
“Yeah?” Kaminari replies instantly, curious about what he will say now. That he had a good time, that they should hang out outside of school more often, pick you up tomorrow, six? He lifts Nugget closer to his face to hide a blush. The suspense is killing him.
Then Shinsou points to something behind him. “My backpack, please.”
“Oh, oh! Yeah, forgot about that,” He laughs nervously. Mina and Sero is barely stifling their laughter behind him. Kaminari turns around to grab the backpack in an exaggerated manner, even though it is not helping his friends’ crumbling straight faces. He hands it to Shinsou with one hand, and no, he has been too cliche already, he will not focus on the fact that their hands touched briefly again. I will not. Shinsou thanks him, opens the door and says goodbye.
The door shuts, and now he isn’t there anymore. Now it is only them.
They stay silent for a few more seconds until they cannot hear Shinsous quiet footsteps. Then hell breaks loose.
Mina is squealing because of course she is. Sero and Kirishima cries with laughter while Jirou films them all. Kaminari sighs, both out of exasperation and because of the outright dreamy evening he had. He throws himself into his bed, landing on his back to make sure Nugget does not get squished. Even while Sero is mocking him he cannot help but smile.
Jirou nudges his face with her socked feet, “Well, spill it.” she demands and he does, powering through every aw and joke they throw back to him. Mina, Sero and Kirishima joins him on the bed, Nugget making his shy turns to lay on each of their laps. Even Kirishima, an avid dog person, sheds a tear when Nugget approaches him and purrs in his lap. After everything has been told Kaminari is too tired to stand up, and so are the others. They fall asleep on each other, Kirishima making a sleepy comment about how he cannot wait to tell Bakugou about this the next morning moments before he dozes off. |
Sherlock spent several long moments just observing. In the past, that level of intense scrutiny - almost always when John was trying to hide something embarrassing - had usually left John more annoyed than aroused. With omega pheromones already thick in the air, though, arousal was a foregone conclusion.
“You’ve wanted this for months,” Sherlock finally announced.
Damn it - we’re really going to do this now? John groaned and shook his head, even as he tightened his fist. “Not really the time, Sherlock.”
“It’s true, though - ever since we first moved in together. You want to be all progressive and liberal, but when it comes down to it, all you really want to do is to fuck me into submission.”
God, even just the shape of Sherlock’s lips as the formed the word “fuck” . . . John shivered. “Only when you’re being a prat.”
Sherlock ignored his weak attempt at humor. “Some would say that’s always.”
“Yeah, well.” John attempted a nonchalant shrug, but it came out more as a full-body shiver. “Moot now - we’re both about to get completely, stupidly horny for each other. Well, me for you. You for . . . whoever, I guess.” It hurt to even think about. “I hope you won’t think less of me for wanting to tear their fucking spinal cord out with my teeth. And you’re not even all the way into your heat yet.”
“You would, wouldn’t you?” Sherlock shifted, sprawling elegantly over the floor on his side of the room, and let out a quiet moan. “Bollocks. It really is beginning to kick in - I hate it when I start to feel empty like this.”
“Tell me.”
“Like - it’s like an itch that won’t go away. No, that’s not it.” He squirmed slightly, shifting his arse on the cold wooden floor. “More like - when a limb falls asleep and has that pins and needles feeling as blood returns. Not the sensation itself, but that anticipation. Knowing that no matter what you do, you can’t get the feeling to go away until it resolves itself on its own. Except in this case, I know there is something. Theoretically.”
“Tell me,” John repeated. “Describe it to me. In detail. How you’d want me to help you.”
Whether or not Sherlock was genuinely feeling any mental effects from the phanthoterazine, he was definitely a bit flushed now. He shifted again and a fresh burst of pheromones filled the air. John couldn’t prevent himself from inhaling deeply and groaning. Sherlock naked would have been breathtaking in any circumstance, but Sherlock naked and chained down and smelling like that was a whole new dimension of ineluctable.
“Theoretically, then.” Sherlock bit his lip and eyed John. Who wasn’t even pretending to not be fisting his cock. “Theoretically, I’d start daydreaming about how your cock would feel inside me. How big it would be, how it would feel so amazing as you pumped in and out of my arse. How your knot would start to grow, bit by bit, until it was catching on the rim of my arsehole with each thrust.”
“Hell yes,” John whispered. “Give it to you so hard.” The words were corny, too much for any other time, but it was all his poor brain could handle. Sherlock wouldn’t care. Sherlock wanted his knot-
“Mmmm.” Sherlock twisted onto to his side, propping his head up with one hand. He slowly ran the other palm down his bare chest, skimming over his erection as it passed by. He was fully hard too, now, John noticed, his smaller cock flushed and delectable and standing out from a perfect nest of dark curls. “How would you want me, John? On my back? On all fours, presenting my arse to you like some pagan offering?”
“Fuck.” John dragged in a shaky lungful of air. This was wrong, it was just play-acting on Sherlock’s side and all-too-real on John’s, but they didn’t really have a choice, did they? And apparently he trusted Sherlock, he really did. Sherlock caught his eye and nodded slightly. Nothing overt, just a tiny acknowledgement that yes, he understood.
That nod said let go. It said I trust you too. It said I won’t judge you for your desires.
John let go.
“Want to see you,” John admitted. “Want to see your face, the first time. When you come just from having my cock inside you.”
“Oh God.” Sherlock’s wandering hand finally made it back to his cock for two rough pulls, then a lengthy pause. John might not have even noticed the tremor if he hadn’t been looking for it.
Gotcha. Unaffected, my arse. Actual heat or not, Sherlock wanted him. “You’ll be begging for it,” John added. “I’m going to pin you down and hold you there so you can’t get away, and I’m going to fill you ever-so-slowly. One delicious inch at a time. You’ll be absolutely gagging for it by the time I’m ready to really give it to you. You’ve heard my army nickname, right?”
“Three Continents Watson?”
John grinned. “That’s the one. Not that I mean to brag, but Sherlock - I didn’t get that nickname by being lackluster in bed. Far from it.”
Sherlock moaned, low and dirty, the sound going straight to John’s cock and causing another delicious tremor to go through him. He sped up his strokes.
“Fuck - you want that, don’t you? Want me to bend you practically in half and use your wet little arse?” John could practically picture it, could imagine Sherlock folded so far his knees were bracketing his ears, his dripping arse open and ready. “You’re going to make a pretty picture,” he growled. “All that lovely pale skin on display, those long limbs quivering as I pound into you. Let me hear what you’ll sound like with my cock filling you.”
Sherlock whimpered. Just once, but somehow that single tiny whimper was more erotic than a whole bevy of pornographic shouts and moans. He rolled to his back, granting John a beautiful profile view of his flushed erection, and planted his feet flat on the floor. With the hand not currently wanking himself, he reached down and plunged two fingers into his arse. “Want to feel it,” he whispered. “John . . .”
“Yes,” John murmured. “Just like that. Think about what it’ll be like when you’ve got the real thing - your fingers are really no substitute for my knot. Imagine it - thick and hard and pressing just there where you feel so empty. I can make it better, Sherlock. I’m going to knot you and fill you so full of my come you’ll be sloshing with it. I’m going to pump you so full you’ll be able to taste it in the back of your throat.”
“Oh God.” Sherlock closed his eyes, his breath coming in short gasps. “John, please. Fuck me. Knot me and fill me up. Make me yours - make me come and bite me so I’ll be yours forever. Everyone will know I belong to you.”
“Fuck.” John’s vision blurred and he nearly doubled over as he came. The orgasm gave him a little relief, but nowhere near enough - Sherlock was still right there, naked and ripe and writhing. Why was he all the way over there? John sat up sharply and went to stand, forgetting about his own chains until they went taut and he nearly overbalanced. “Sherlock-”
“Mmmm.” Sherlock slowed his own strokes, but his fingers were still idly questing in and around his arsehole. “Feel better now?”
“You’re too far away,” John said by way of an answer. There was something, something to do with- right. Mary? But Mary didn’t matter, all that mattered was Sherlock, Sherlock and his dizzying smell and the way the muscles in his thighs bunched and tightened as he shifted his hips while rogering himself on his fingers-
“So empty,” Sherlock murmured. He pulled his hand out - fingers glistening with his body’s natural lubricant - and attempted to re-insert all four fingers at once. “Can’t think when I’m like this, John. Make it stop.”
“Oh, I will.” John’s cock was already hard again, his knot swelling against his palm. He made another abortive attempt to yank free from his bindings, but they held fast. “Can’t reach yet.”
“Don’t hurt yourself.”
“I don’t care.” He tried kicking at the eye bolt screwed into the wooden baseboard, but all it did was bruise his heel. “Can’t reach you - can’t fuck you. Why am I chained down?”
“Because it was a trap.” Sherlock rolled closer, as far as his own chains would allow, but they still were nowhere near enough to touch. “Come on me, John - you can make it go this far.”
Hell yes. John pulled closer, too, and smeared the remains of his last orgasm down the shaft of his cock. Going to paint his body from here, going to stripe it all over that little pink arsehole-
The sound of the door shattering made them both jump. Anthea strolled through the doorway, a large pair of bolt-cutters replacing her usual Blackberry. John vaguely registered the change, but right now all that was important was fucking Sherlock-
“Finally!” Sherlock moved back and sat up against the wall, offering his manacled wrists up so Anthea could cut the locks holding the leather cuffs closed. The difference in demeanor was striking, almost dizzying in how quickly he snapped back to his normal self.. “Let me guess - most of my brother’s security team are alphas.”
Anthea wrinkled her nose. “An unfortunate oversight. No one else trusted themselves to come even this far up the hallway.”
Other alphas. Smelling HIS Sherlock. John growled out loud. “I’ll fucking tear them apart.”
“No need.” Anthea eyed John for a moment, as if assessing the threat, but then calmly handed Sherlock the bolt-cutters so he could take care of his own ankles. “The Morstans failed to take into account your prior drug history, I assume.”
“You assume correctly.” Sherlock stood up. For one glorious moment John thought Sherlock was going to come over and present his lovely arse, but Sherlock seemed to know exactly how far John’s tether allowed him to go and he stayed out of range. “Mary and Sebastian?”
“Being taken care of.”
“Good.” Sherlock paused and looked down for a long moment at John. “He’s . . . going to need a minute,” he finally said.
“We brought separate cars for you and Dr. Watson.”
“Excellent,” Sherlock said, then hesitated. “I'll see you at home, then. We can . . . talk more there.” And walked out the door. |
A dark cloud has been hanging over the Ruby Empire for a long time now. Not just because of the Gnolls or even the new Centaur warlord making his way across the land. There's something else, something that has been making the hairs on the back of my neck prickle.
There's something on the darkening horizon that I can't put my finger on. I've always been able to sense things as they come. I was able to get the village to safety when Gnoll slavers tried to invade just a few years ago. I had also predicted a massive storm that took down our crops when I was a child.
All my life I've been able to protect my village and family, but now, I feel like I am failing them. I cannot tell what this bad omen is. All I know is that it is looming. The dark shadow of it hangs over me, refusing to reveal its secrets.
I've been able to make a living for myself using these gifts. A simple touch and I can see a brief flash of someone's future or present. Sometimes a small warning or idea is all people need. It's with this gift I am able to put money on the table and keep my family in good health.
A few months ago, someone new moved into the village. He claimed to be a doctor and set up shop. Although, because of his strange behavior and ways, no one was really busting down his doors. He constantly dressed all in black. He wore black robes and gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat. If that wasn't strange enough, he wore a mask. Not just any mask either. It had a long, bird-like beak pointing out of it. And where the eyes were, were two dark glass orbs.
Needless to say, kids were scared of him, and the adults were a little more than wary. He was often outside his office, sweeping, or hanging out herbs to dry. He kept the curtains drawn so if anyone tried to peer inside they wouldn't see a thing.
One day I was passing by the doctor's place with my two little sisters. They hid behind me, clutching to my left arm which was farthest from the door. As we walk by, the doctor comes out, and my sisters squeak and duck their heads.
"Ah! Good morning!" He chimes. His voice is booming and pleasant. "I hope you are all feeling well and healthy today!"
Vera and Dela are squeezing my hand tight, trying to pull me along faster. Instead, I linger and look up at the Doctor. He's taller than I thought. Usually, he's stooped over when we pass by.
"Good morning," I say to him.
"Mercy, no!" Vera hisses.
The doctor bows, removing his hat and swooping it out as he does. "It is a good morning now that you have blessed me with it." He places his hat back upon his head. "Your little ones there seem eager to be away."
I scoff as I look down at them. "My sisters don't like you."
"Mercy!" Dela screeches at me.
The doctor chuckles. "Most children don't like doctors, it's the curse of the profession I'm afraid." He reaches into his robes and produces two foil-wrapped hard candies. "These candies came all the way from the Rakshasa Courts," he says as he kneels down, going eye level with Vera and Dela.
The two girls ducked behind me, watching the doctor warily. The doctor places the candies on the beak of his mask. He bounces them up and down, never letting the candies fall. My sisters peek out in curiosity.
"Can you catch them?" The doctor asks.
Dela reaches out, but he swipes his beak upwards. She giggles, trying again and catching one of the candies. Seeing this, Vera steps out, trying her hand at catching the last candy. As she does, the doctor throws the candy up into the air and it lands on Vera's head.
The girls seem pleased and have forgotten their worries from before as they open up the candies to enjoy.
"I haven't forgotten about you, lovely Mercy." He places a candy on top of my head and chuckles. "Hugo," he says with a charm to his voice.
"Oh, so you do have a name," I say as I take the candy.
"I find that, when one has a name, people will trust them," Hugo chuckles. "So I always try to have a name."
I can't help but smile at him. "Then why the mask?"
Hugo touches the beak. "What mask?"
I chuckle and nod at him. "I hope you continue to have a good day, Doctor Hugo." I shoo my sisters along, continuing on our way home with the few supplies our mother sent us out for.
That evening, just as I am about to fall asleep, I suddenly see something. There's a blackness seeping in from the mountains. It cascades down like a waterfall but flows through like fog. Standing in its wake, I see Doctor Hugo. His back is turned towards me, but in the last second, before the blackness envelopes him, he turns back to look at me.
I quickly race from the house, throwing on a shawl as I run through night and back towards the square. I go to Doctor Hugo's door, banging on it.
He opens the door, still wearing all his black and the bird mask. "My goodness, lovely Mercy," he sighs. "What are you doing here? Is something wrong?"
I shake my head then nod, trying to catch my breath from running.
"My goodness, ah-" he leads me inside and sits me at his table. "Take a deep breath," he coaxes.
"Sorry," I finally sputter. "It's just- oh this is so hard to explain."
Hugo tilts his head. "Is it your visions?" He asks me.
"Oh," I gasp, catching my breath finally. "So you know about that?" I look at the glass eyes of his mask as he nods.
"You're quite famous around here," Hugo replies. "It's kind of hard to not know about you here."
"Well uhm," I chuckle. "That saves some explaining."
"What did you see?" His voice is low and quiet. "You came here, so I assumed you saw something about me. What was it?"
I look up to Hugo and take a quick breath. "There was this...inky black cloud coming from the mountains," I start. "It came rolling in and spilled down the mountains like water. It spread out really fast, taking over a lot of land. I saw you standing before it. You were holding out a lantern to it. But it didn't even slow down for a moment. It enveloped you, and you disappeared inside."
Hugo is quiet, his head tilted to the side as he remains quiet. He then glances back towards me, and he sighs.
Standing up, he walks over to a wall covered by shelves that are loaded with bottles. He looks them over, sighing again before he looks at me.
"I've devoted my life to helping people. To curing things in this world best left unseen." He shakes his head then looks up at the towering wall. "All these medicines and cures have been my life's work. But this..." He places his head in his hands. "I have feared this for a long time now."
I feel his dread and his worry because I have been feeling it for so long now. "There has been this nagging feeling inside me for ages now," I tell him. "I can usually put a name to it, or I'll know when or where. But this one...this one is different, and it scares me. I can't define it. No matter how hard I search. I can't figure it out."
Hugo turns to me, his hands dropping back down to his sides.
"Whatever it is, I feel as if it is pointing me towards you," I murmur.
Hugo sighs and sits back down across from me. "This isn't something I want you to get swept up in, lovely Mercy." He reaches out and takes my hands. "I appreciate your warning. But you are not tethered to me. You can run away from this."
I furrow my brow. "What is there to run away from?" I ask. "I do not sense war or attack. I barely sense danger. All I feel-"
"You feel dread and doubt," Hugo whispers. "And that is what it is. This isn't an entity to define or place logic upon. It does not see gold. It doesn't see young or old. It doesn't know good from evil. All it does is take," Hugo whispers urgently to me.
I squeeze his hands. "If this is something that scares you, then you'll need my help," I tell him. "I you want people to listen to you, you'll need someone they trust."
Hugo touches his mask. "I know what they say about me," he murmurs. "But it is better this way if I keep my mask and my black on." He then chuckles. "I wouldn't want to scare them any more than I have to. Especially you, lovely Mercy."
I smile softly at him. "I know you are kind and well-meaning. I wouldn't be afraid."
Hugo scoffs. "You say that now." He then stands up. "Let me take you home, it's the least I can do."
I walk beside him. The air is chilled and quiet. Crickets hum all around us and then grow quiet as we pass.
"So, will you accept my help?" I ask him again.
"Will it stop you if I refused?" Hugo asks.
I chuckle and shake my head. "I suppose it wouldn't."
"Then I shall accept, if only you grant me your, well," he laughs. "Your mercy."
I smirk at him, reaching for the door before turning to look back at him. "If you take off your glove," I whisper to him, "I can better see your future. Maybe it will help you."
Hugo holds his hand to his chest. "There are things I do not want you to see," he whispers. "Better yet, there are things I am not ready to know." He then tosses another piece of candy at me. "I hope you sleep well, lovely Mercy."
I nod to him and smile. "I hope you do too, Hugo."
He turns, walking back into the night. As he leaves, the crickets start to sing again, growing louder as I walk inside.
When I wake up, I hear one of my brother's coughing. Going downstairs, I see my eldest brother, Kurt, sitting at the table. He looks pale and exhausted. Our mother is hurriedly trying to make a tea for him, but her pallor doesn't look much better.
"Is everything alright?" I ask.
"Oh yes," you mother sighs. "Just a cold!" She rolls her eyes as she pours tea for Kurt. "Seems like Kurt brought it home from those Merry boys."
The hair on the nape of my neck prickles and the sensation travels up my scalp. "Let me go visit the doctor," I say. "Maybe he'll have something that can help."
"That freak?" Kurt's laugh turns into a cough. "I'd rather suck dad's toe than trust him with something."
"He's a good man," I scoff. "And he's an actual doctor, unlike dad's toe." I grab my shawl and walk towards the door. "I'll be back, and you will take whatever he gives me."
I return to the village, and the air feels heavy. The world feels like it's moving slow, almost stopping. As I approach Hugo's shop, I am stunned to see people waiting outside. The door opens, and he steps out, handing a baby back to its mother.
"Make sure to give that to her with every feeding," he assures the panicked looking mother. "It'll help the coughing I promise." Hugo turns and when he sees me his hands go to his side. "What's wrong?" He asks.
"My brother-" I start nervously.
He sighs and motions to the people waiting. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait." He takes in the next patient.
The woman ahead of me is shivering, and she has a blanket wrapped around as well as a wool cap on her head. She looks pale, almost gray. When she breathes it sounds like a stone rattling around in a bucket. When she coughs, it sounds like the sky opening and letting loose storm.
I hold myself, feeling scared and nervous. I watch as Hugo takes in patients, seeing to them as quickly as he can. When he gets to me, he places a burlap bag into my hand. "Take this," he says, "and place it into a boiling cauldron. Leave it there all day, keep water in the cauldron, so the steam seeps through the entire house." He then hands me a bottle. "Give everyone in your home three drops of this with every meal."
I squeeze his hand. "Hugo, what's wrong?"
He grunts and shakes his head. "It will be ok. I promise." He moves me aside. "Hurry, get home and stay there."
I watch as he takes an old woman inside. I race home, doing exactly as he told me to do. Kurt and my mother both have started to looking like the shivering woman. My sisters seem fine, but as the day wears on, they start to complain that they ache and are tired.
Come the next day, I am feeling the ache as well. I keep the cauldron boiling, so the steam floats through the house. I keep feeding everyone the medicine, but my body feels as if it is betraying me. I am in pain, and I am growing weaker and weaker by the second. I am cold even as I put wood on the fire. When I breathe, it feels as if there are bees in my lungs and I cannot catch a deep enough breath.
This isn't an entity to define or place logic upon. It does not see gold. It doesn't see young or old. It doesn't know good from evil. All it does is take. Hugo's words ring in my head.
Of course, I could not define it. There was nothing there to defend against. It was sickness approaching, and nothing in the world can stop it.
"It's alright," a voice whispers. "The fever is broken."
I whimper, trying to breathe but it's hard. It feels like needles every time. I look up, seeing the glow of a candle and then the beak of Hugo's mask.
"Hu-" I wince and he places his finger over my lips.
"Hush now, don't talk," he coaxes. "I'm so glad I found you." He strokes my hair from my face. "It's alright now." He lifts me up enough and makes me drink. "I was afraid I'd lost you."
I shiver and cling to his wrist.
"Your family is fine. They got the medicine," he whispers. "Why didn't you take it?"
I had wanted my family to have enough, so I didn't take any.
"Foolish girl," he whispers. "I almost lost you."
Over the next few days, Hugo tends to me, keeping me comfortable as I start to get better. I'm weak and healing, and often I'm asleep. Eventually, I'm able to sit up and eat solid food. With Hugo's help, I'm able to walk around. But even still, I'm weak and need assistance,
One morning, as Hugo takes me on a walk, I lean into his side. "Thank you," I murmur.
"Don't," he whispers. "I don't deserve it." He sighs. "Mercy," he murmurs, "I must confess something to you."
We go back to his place, and we sit down. He removes his gloves, revealing inky skin, dark blue-ish black. The fingers are strange and knobby, tipped with strange thick nails. He removes his hat and hood, showing off a long, thin neck. He then takes off the mask. He has four dark gold eyes, two large ones on top with two smaller ones below them. His nose is long and hooked, and from the looks of it, he has no mouth.
"Don't look," he whispers, "if you don't want to." His mouth opens where his chin is, going along his jawline and towards his ears.
"Oh," I whisper, sitting there shocked. I look up at him and stretch my hand out. I touch his cheek, and I see a flash of something.
"Mercy," he takes my hand and holds it. "It's my fault you got sick," he whispers. "The darkness in your vision was me."
I shake my head. "No," I murmur. "It's not you, it's chasing you."
He sighs and dips his head down. "I am a changeling," he confesses. "And it is my fae nature that follows me." He whispers. Tears fall from the small eyes, and I wipe them away. "All I do is cause sickness and death, but all I want is to-" he breaks down into tears.
"And it hurt you," he cries. "It almost took you away from me."
"You saved me," I whisper to him. I make him look up at me, and I smile. "You did exactly what you wanted. You healed me."
Hugo touches my face with both hands. His fingers tremble as he touches my lips and runs his fingers through my hair. "My lovely Mercy," he whispers. "I would never have forgiven myself if I had let someone like you slip away."
I lean in, placing a kiss to his strange mouth. I kiss the soft line along his jaw and Hugo whimpers.
"Don't force yourself," he chokes.
"I want to," I whisper. "More than anything." I kiss him again, and I place his hands on my waist. He lifts his chin up, making it easier for me to kiss.
"Why?" Hugo gasps.
I brush the dark hair away from his neck. "Because I love you."
He grabs me and wraps me up tight in his arms. He burrows his face into my neck, hiding it away. I hold him tight, kissing the top of his head as he trembles.
"I prayed someone would say those words to me," Hugo whispers. "I never imagined it'd be someone like you."
"Who is someone like me?" I whisper. I tilt his head back up and gaze into his eyes. "What makes me so special?"
"I can't put it into words," he whispers. "I just know..." his voice cracks. "I just know I loved you too. From the moment I met you."
I kiss Hugo deeply, trailing my kiss down his long neck. My hand opens up his robe more, and I touch his bare skin. I press my fingertips down his center towards his stomach.
"Wait," he moans, "you're still weak."
I look up at him, panting with excitement and need. "Please?" I whisper.
He picks me up, carrying me over to the bed. His robes open up, covering us as he kisses me. I touch his bare body, lingering on his stomach when I feel his breath shudder. I unbutton my nightgown, exposing myself to him.
Hugo's breath hitches and he stills above me. "Lovely Mercy," his long fingers stroke down my center. I'm flat chested and thin as a bone. All my life I've been teased about it and have felt self-conscious for my lack of curves. But under Hugo's gaze, I feel desire and want.
I pull him back down, kissing him as his body presses to mine. I feel his heat against me, rubbing against my thigh and belly.
"I'm sorry," he rasps. He swallows and tries to catch his breath. "I'm sorry I'm-" he turns his head away. "I can't help it that-"
I touch him, gliding my fingers along the strange shaft. It's glossy and thick. It feels like a stack of spheres going from small to big all the way down. The tip is flared, and heart-shaped and oozing something slick.
Hugo gasps and his back arches. A low, strange grunt issues from his throat the more I touch. His jaws open, showing off the gold interior of his mouth.
"I want you," I whisper to him, spreading my thighs. "Hugo," I mewl his name.
He shudders and sits up. He puts his hand under the small of my back and his tip presses to my slit. He ruts and bucks, clumsily trying to make his way inside. He takes hold of himself, guiding his cock into place and he slowly comes inside.
I gasp and cup my hand over my mouth. I can feel him deep inside me. The strange shape rubs all the right spots and stretches me, easing me onto the thick base. I grip onto his arms and moan for him, letting him know I'm not uncomfortable.
"You...you're tight," his voice cracks. He moves his hips slowly, his eyes focused on my slit and thighs. He touches my belly, which each thrust it bulges. He trembles for a bit before gaining confidence. The more he moves, the better it feels. As he starts to go faster, I get a lightness in my head.
I mewl and moan, stretching out as I start to feel the heat pool in my belly.
"You feel amazing," Hugo groans. "You keep squeezing me."
I look up at him, and my toes start to curl. "I want you," I stretch my hands out, beckoning him. "I need you."
He falls into my touch, and we kiss. His hips keep moving, and I gasp. I moan into his mouth as the heat spread through my body. It makes me jolt and arch of the bed, pressing into his chest.
He suddenly whimpers, his hips stilling as he releases inside me. I feel his seed, thick and warm as it dribbles from me.
I feel dizzy and faint. Hugo moans quietly into my ear, slowly pulling himself out of me. His hand cups my mound, and he licks my neck and cheek.
"I'm sorry," he whispers again. "I didn't mean to...I should have-"
I press my hand over his mouth. "It's what I wanted," I mewl. "I wanted to feel all of you." I give him a sweet smirk. "Didn't it feel good?"
He nods, looking beyond shocked. "But...what if...I mean, what if you get-"
I chuckle and pull him down on top of me. "I'm not worried," I whisper. "Touching you, I see things that I am ready for."
Hugo gasps. "You...what do you see?"
I smile up at him. "I see us," I whisper to him. "Together."
He smiles. "I could have told you that." He pulls me into his arms, laying, so my back is against his chest. "What else?"
I kiss his fingertips and relax into the bed. "There's so much," I murmur. "I don't know where to begin." I glance over my shoulder and smile at him. "It won't be now," I tell him. "But someday your seed will bear fruit."
His eyes widen. "Really?"
"Really," I purr. |
Tony was furious: of all of the possible days to just disappear, Loki had to pick today to act like Houdini and fucking disappear. He tried to act like it didn’t matter. He went to all of the birthday events, the parties, the meals, listened to everyone wishing him well as he tried to pretend that it didn’t matter that Loki had vanished without a word on his birthday.
By the time he finally made it home, he was more depressed than anything else. “Nice way to wish me fucking happy birthday…” Tony sighed, pulling his jacket off and tossing it on the couch. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed with a glass of scotch. He filled his tumbler and headed for his bedroom, “Stupid…fucking…didn’t even-“
“Good evening darling.” Loki’s voice poured over him like scotch on ice.
“Loki!” Tony set his glass down, and turned to try to find his lover, “Where the hell have you been?”
“Busy.”
“Busy? Yeah, well in case you forgot-“
“Today is the day of your birth. A day of great celebration, yes?”
“…You did at least remember….” Tony frowned, going to the closet and starting to strip.
“You are angry with me?”
“Uh… you think? I mean it’s fine if you don’t want to do the party thing but Jesus, you just disappeared.”
“I had a very complicated gift to prepare.”
“What? The hiding in the shadow gig? Sorry babe, that’s an old trick.” He jumped when Loki’s arms wrapped around his waist and pulled him close, urging him from the closet and back into the bedroom.
“It is a very complicated gift.”
“Everything you give me is complicated…so…what is it?”
“Do you remember when you confessed that you had watched me and my clone….”
“Yeah….ooooh, do I get a show for my birthday? I like private shows.” he perked up as Loki pushed him to sit on the bed.
“Close your eyes.”
Tony grinned as his eyes closed, “I take back everything mean I said or thought today.”
The bed dipped behind him with the weight of Loki as he crawled over to Tony, kissing at the back of his neck, wrapping his arms back around Tony’s chest.
“This is nice… but you and cloney gonna get it on right? Can you do that one thing with your leg? I wanna see what that looks like from an outside angle.”
Loki didn’t respond as a second pair of lips trailed along the front of Tony’s throat.
Tony jumped, opened his eyes and looking down at Loki bent over in front of him kissing his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, and found another Loki kissing at the back of his neck.
“…what the fuck?”
“Problem?” a Loki, Tony was pretty sure the original Loki, asked.
“You told me….your clones couldn’t touch anyone but you or they’d poof.”
“That is what I have been working on darling.” Loki’s lips curled into a smirk, “You always wanted a threesome, hm?”
“Oh my God. I fucking love you. Best birthday ever.” Tony wrapped his arms around the original.
“Oh, you are going to get many birthday treats tonight.” Loki purred. He nodded his head and he and the clone moved from the bed and began slowly kissing one another, moving slowly, lips and tongue trailing over pale flesh.
“Are you simply going to watch with your mouth agape?” Loki cooed.
“Come play with us Tony.” the other Loki chimed in.
Tony nearly tripped over himself as he stumbled out of his pants, and boxers and rushed over to the twins.
They both smiled, letting Tony move between them as they both began trailing kisses and nibbles over his throat. One moved up his neck to trail over his jawline while the other trailed along his collarbones, and occasionally their lips met, getting lost in kisses.
Tony moaned, “Jesus fucking Christ, stop making out with yourself.”
Loki smirked, “Getting jealous?” he purred, leaning up to press his lips over Tony’s mouth. His clone wrapped his arms around Tony, and began rubbing against Tony’s entrance. With little prelude, a slicked finger began preparing his body. The lube made him shiver, “What…what is that?” he murmured between kisses.
“Something special to ensure no injuries on a special night…just a little….protective magic…” Loki promised.
“What the hell are you planning?”
Loki grinned, “Something you will never forget.”
He brought his arms around Tony’s legs, lifting them from the ground, and hoisting Tony from the ground. Tony wrapped his legs around Loki, his body pinned between the unyielding bodies of his lover. He gasped as the clone’s cock slid into his body. Tony moaned and arched into it as his toes curled, desperate for any sort of friction. He reached his arm backwards to pull the clone closer, hand fisting in the dark hair, “F…fuck….” he moaned, trying to arch his hips but he was pinned too tightly between Loki and his clone to control. His legs kicked and Loki grabbed hold on them to hold them still. Tony wrapped them around Loki’s back.
“Remember to breath darling…” Loki murmured softly.
Tony’s heart hitched in his chest as he felt Loki’s cock nudge against his entrance, rubbing over his clone’s cock and starting to press into him.
“Holy….fuck…fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Tony’s hand gripped at Loki’s shoulder.
More of the cooling lube spread over his body and helped Tony relax as two identical cocks slid into his body.
“OH GOD!” Tony moaned, desperate to move but he was pinned too tightly to control anything.
“L…L…Loki! Fuck! I…..AH!” His toes curled as the twins began moving in tandem. One arched further in while the other pulled out as they pistoned slowly in and out of Tony’s body.
For the first time in his life, Tony’s mind was a total blank. No equations, no words, not a single thought lingered in his brain, every single possible thing pushed out of his mind by the bursting, overwhelming white hot light of pleasure of two cocks plowing into him, each rubbing over his prostate.
He couldn’t even make coherent words, hot little pleading noises parting his lips as his toes curled as his legs struggled to keep grip on Loki’s body.
He turned his head and two sets of Loki’s cool lips slid over his mouth as he changed pace and everything began moving in unison. Both cocks slid slowly out and then surged forward, in and out identical, and unrelenting as Tony was held firmly in place, screaming and clawing at the air.
“….P…P….P…Please!” It took all of Tony’s willpower to stammer out the coherent word.
Loki smiled, “Happy birthday darling.” both of them purred before everything began moving faster and harder.
Tony felt like a shooting star burning up from the inside out, and when he came, he was positive that his heart had given out and he would never breath again. The feeling of Loki’s clone’s cold seed spilling into his body forced Tony to take in a deep breath.
He could only whimper and whine as Loki continued to fuck him, slamming Tony’s body against the clones as the clone’s cum drizzled out of him. Loki pulled Tony into a fierce kiss, drawing blood from his lower lip as he finally came.
Somehow the three of them fell into bed, a puddle of cum, sweat, and spent bodies.
“Happy birthday darling…” |
“Clarke!” The blonde hears as the front door of her apartment is abruptly swung open and she sees her two best friends walk through the door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“What are you talking about, Ray?” Clarke asked, raising an eyebrow at her friends in confusion.
The two short, brunette girls both stopped in their tracks and exchanged glances before walking the rest of the short distance over to the couch where Clarke was sitting.
“Oh, umm…. well Le – “ Raven started, but Octavia finished.
“Lexa text us and ask us to come check on you. What the hell is she talking about?” Octavia asked.
“She asked you to come check on me?” Clarke asked, clearly thrown off by the statement.
“Yeah. She did, Griff. What the hell happened?” Raven chimed in.
Clarke turned back around on the couch facing the TV, her mind still racing not only from her earlier encounter with Lexa, but from the fact that she had text their best friends to make sure that she was okay. Honestly though, why does she even care?
“Earth to Clarke.”
“What?” Clarke growled, not bothering to turn around and look at her two best friends. The other two girls quickly moved to stand in front of Clarke so that she could not see the television, both of them giving her a fierce look, one that she knew all too well. There was no getting out of this conversation.
“She came over here earlier and we talked.” Was all the Clarke managed to tell them.
“You talked?” Octavia quipped. “You mean you two had an actual conversation? Not just a conversation, but like a real civilized conversation?”
“Yes. Okay. We talked. Although, I don’t know if I would call the entire conversation ‘civilized’.” Both of her friends still stood in front of her, uncrossing their arms from their chests and holding them out to their sides as if to say, ‘And?’
“She started off apologizing.” Clarke was quick to roll her eyes. “And I asked her most of my questions. The obvious ones.”
“Like?” Raven asked, obviously very intrigued by the conversation that had happened between Clarke and Lexa.
The blonde-haired girl let out a very over exaggerated, audible sigh. “Like…. Why in the hell she left me, first of all, why she didn’t come back to me when she was released from the military, why she didn’t call me when my father died, or even come to his funeral, why she bought his bar… Those types of questions.” Clarke finished.
Clarke could suddenly see a change of body language between her two friends, and she once again let out a sigh. “You both knew didn’t you? That she did come to dad’s funeral…”
Both girls moved to sit down on either side of their friend. Raven threw her arm around Clarke’s shoulders and Octavia grabbed the blonde’s hand and took it in her own. “We’re so sorry, Clarke.” Octavia said softly.
“Yeah. We have been shitty friends.” Raven added.
“It’s okay.” Clarke began; looking back and forth between her friends, water clearly forming in her aqua-colored eyes. “You were doing what Lexa asked of you.”
There were several minutes of silence, as the three best friends sat there on Clarke’s couch. Clarke had so many emotions and thoughts running through her mind, and it was extremely tiring. She had not woken up that morning, expectant on what all would happen throughout the day, but in a way, she was glad that she had finally had the chance to speak with Lexa. The past five years have really eaten away at her mind, body, and soul, and from the way that Lexa spoke earlier, the years had been rough on her as well.
“Did you guys know about my mom? About her asking Lexa to stay away from me?” Clarke finally asked, breaking the silence in the room.
Octavia leaned up from where she was resting her head on Clarke’s shoulder and gave the girl a knowing look, followed by a nod. “We did, but not until very recently. We were really grilling Lexa before you came back and she finally broke. It was the first time that I’ve see her cry in ages.”
“Yeah and I wouldn’t really call it ‘asking’ either.” Raven chimed in.
“What do you mean?” Clarke asked, shooting up an eyebrow.
Raven quickly glanced over towards Octavia and then her eyes fell back on Clarke. “Your mom pretty much threatened her.”
“Lexa mentioned threats, but I thought that she was exaggerating. What are you talking about? What kind of threats?” Clarke asked frantically. She could feel her heart racing in her chest at the question.
It was Octavia’s turn to speak again. “She told Lexa to keep away from you. Not just you, but the funeral. She didn’t want her speaking to you, calling you, texting you, having any form of communication with you. Abby told her that if she contacted you in any way, that she would cut of the money that she was giving you for art school.”
“And of course Lexa obeyed. She wanted nothing more to see you achieve your dream of becoming an artist.” Raven added.
Clarke could feel the stinging pressure building up behind her eyelids as she closed her eyes. Octavia could feel the grip that had become tighter on her hand from Clarke’s. The blonde’s jaw clenched and both of her friends just knew that she was about to snap.
After a few minutes, Clarke opened her eyes slowly and looked up at the ceiling taking in a deep breath. “Why? What was it to my mom? She had no right to make that decision for Lexa or for me.”
“Are you kidding, Griff?” Raven asked. “Abby has always had something against Lexa. Ever since we were kids, and especially after the two of you started dating.”
Clarke stood then and there and walked over the key rack beside the front door. “You two can stay here. I’ll be back later.” The blonde grabbed her keys and turned the knob of the door.
“Where are you going?” Octavia shouted.
“I think that it’s time that I see my mother.” Clarke said before quickly exiting the apartment.
“Oh shit.” Raven said, looking over to Octavia.
“Oh shit is right.” The other girl said.
Raven began to pull out her cellphone and start texting. “Lexa has got to hear this.”
“Do you think that’s something that she needs to know right now?” O asked her friend cautiously.
“Hell yeah it is! Lexa is going to love the fact that Clarke is about to go rip Abby a new one.”
Both girls laughed before Octavia said. “I hope that you’re right.”
RAVEN (6:37PM) – This is not a drill. Abbygeddon is about to go down. I repeat, this is not a drill.
RAVEN (6:37PM) – Or does Armagriffin sound better? :)
LEXA (6:42PM) – What are you talking about, Raven?
RAVEN (6:44PM) – Clarke is about to go ape shit on Mama G.
LEXA IS CALLING…
“Reyes’ Porno Palace. What’s your pleasure?” Raven joked as she answered her phone.
“What?” The voice on the other end of the call asked, obviously taken off guard.
“What?” Raven repeated back with a smirk on her face, even though Lexa could not see her.
“Cut the crap, Reyes. What are you talking about ‘Clarke going ape shit on Abby’?”
“Well… She just left Octavia and I here at her apartment. Said she was going to see her mom.” Raven stated.
“And? What did you and O do, Raven?” Lexa was getting a little frustrated with her friend. She doesn’t even really know what she’s asking because she already knows subconsciously. The two idiots told Clarke about Abby’s threats.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Raven asked, clearly nervous. Lexa could always put the fear of God in her.
“Raven!”
“Okay, okay.” Raven surrendered. “O and I might have told Clarke about Abby threatening Clarke’s college degree if you had any communication with her.”
There was nothing but a quiet sigh on the other end of the phone, and Raven swore that she heard a sniffle come from her friend.
“Lex?” Raven asked, her voice softer than it had been being.
“I never wanted this. I shouldn’t have told Clarke about the threats.” Lexa finally spoke.
“If you wouldn’t have told her, she would have continued thinking that you hated her.” Raven added.
“I would rather her hate me than her own mother, Raven.” Lexa spoke so softly, that Raven was afraid that the girl was going to break at any moment.
“We both know that that’s not true.” Raven said. “Plus, Abby’s a bitch.”
Lexa surprised herself by letting out a quite chuckle. Raven was right. Abby is a bitch. Has been the whole time that she’s known her.
“I have to go.” Lexa finally said.
“I’m sorry for telling Clarke.” Raven said into the phone, glancing over at Octavia who was watching her friend intently. “But not really.” Raven laughed.
“Why are we friends again?” Lexa asked teasingly.
“You love me, Woods. Now get to work.” The phone call ended and Raven once again looked over to O. “Well, that went a little better than expected.”
//
It’s been about six months since the last time that Clarke Griffin saw her mother, and now she was standing right outside the door to her childhood home, too afraid to knock on the door. She wasn’t afraid of her mother. Not by a long shot. She hadn’t been in years, but she was afraid that the anger that was filling her up in this moment would cause her to say some extremely hateful things, but right now, she didn’t care. After finding out what Abby had done, to her and to Lexa, that was the final straw. It was time to confront her mother about it, so she balled her hand up into a fist and knocked on the door three good times.
It felt as if she had waited for an eternity. Clarke was beginning to think that her mother wasn’t even home, but then the door swung open and Abby’s face was sporting a very bright smile. Clarke could not let that affect her though.
“Clarke!” Abby exclaimed, throwing her arms around her daughter and pulling her into a tight hug. “I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight.” Abby pulled back once she realized that Clarke was not returning her hug. “Come inside. Marcus is in here and I am sure that he would love to see you.”
“I can’t stay.” Clarke said firmly. “I just needed to let you know something.”
“What’s that?” Abby asked, her smile turning into a frown. She was clearly very aware of Clarke’s mood now. “What could you possibly have to let me know?”
Clarke’s anger automatically got worse by her mother’s tone of voice. It’s like Abby likes to fight and argue with anyone. Even her own daughter. Clarke immediately closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, letting her mind wander to how upset Lexa was earlier that day. She was clearly taken aback by the fact that her mother had threatened Lexa, not just threatened Lexa, but threatened Clarke’s future.
“I know what you did.” Clarke said, slowly opening her eyes so that she could find her mother’s.
Abby’s eyes immediately grew wide. She knew exactly what Clarke was talking about. It had obviously haunted her. “Clarke, I – “
“No!” Clarke cut her mother off. “You don’t get to speak. What were you thinking? That I would just never find out? That I wouldn’t care that you told Lexa to stay away from me? That you threatened her by using me? How could you do that? What kind of person are you?”
“Clarke, I am your mother and you will listen to me!” Abby exclaimed.
“No!”
“Yes you will! I was doing what was right for you, Clarke. Lexa left you. She didn’t care about you. She was just a burden. A burden that you didn’t need, especially after your father. She hurt you enough, and I wasn’t about to let that happen again.”
“That wasn’t your decision to make, Abby!” It made Clarke feel better to use her mother’s name and not just ‘mother’. “I loved her! You knew that even though she left, that I still needed her! Especially after dad.” Clarke could feel the tears starting, but she wouldn’t dare cry in front of her mother. She didn’t want to look weak. “She was my life…and you had a big hand in me never being happy again. Not as happy as I was with her.”
At that, Clarke walked away, back towards her car, but before she had time to enter it she heard her mother say one more thing. “I will not apologize, Clarke.” The words should have hurt her more than they did, but they didn’t. Clarke realized that if her mother truly cared about her and her happiness, then she would have at least tried to fight or apologize. Something. Clarke got into her jeep, buckled her seat belt, and never looked back towards the house where her mother stood.
//
A few days had passed since ‘Abbygeddon’ and Clarke was just getting back to her apartment after a long day at the gallery. She had actually managed to get a lot of work done today and she was very proud of herself for all of the business that she was obtaining.
When Clarke opened the door to her apartment, she saw Raven sitting on her couch eating chips and watching TV.
The blonde rolled her eyes to herself before speaking. “Don’t you have your own apartment?”
“Yeah, but O’s not there and I knew you’d be home soon.” Raven said with a mouth full of chips, not even bothering to turn around.
“I’m going to need my spare key back.” Clarke said teasingly, moving over to sit by her friend on the couch.
“Why?” Raven asked look at the blonde and wagging her eyebrows. “Finally going to ask Lexa to move in?”
“Oh my god, Raven.” Clarke grunted before slapping her friend’s shoulder and stealing the chips from her hands.
“Hey!”
“They’re my chips, punk.” Clarke said, turning her head to the TV.
The two sat there for about half an hour, watching re-runs of ‘Friends’ before Raven grabbed her cellphone after it kept buzzing.
OCTAVIA (5:42PM) – Let’s go out tonight. I need a drink.
RAVEN (5:45PM) – Where to?
OCTAVIA (5:46PM) – Jake’s.
RAVEN (5:47PM) – Good deal. I’ll bring Griffin.
“Get up.” Raven said as she stood and raked the chip crumbs off of herself, receiving a glare from her best friend. “Octavia wants to go get drinks.”
“Ok.” Clarke grunted, getting up from the couch herself. “But you’re driving.”
//
“Why are we here? Are you guys trying to kill me?” Clarke asked firmly, looking over to Raven and then back up the sign that read ‘Jake’s’ over the door of the bar.
“Chill out, Clarke. She’s not even here. It’s game night. Remember?”
“She still goes to those?” Clarke asked with a raised brow.
“Umm… hell yeah she does. If someone you knew gave you free Cowboys’ tickets all of the freaking time would you not go?” Raven asked before holding the door open for Clarke.
“True.” Clarke huffed before entering the all too familiar bar.
It was clearly a slow night. There weren’t very many people in the bar at all and Clarke figured that it was because most of the customers around this neighborhood did usually go to the games. You could actually hear the roar of the stadium outside. That’s how close the bar was.
Clarke quickly noticed Octavia sitting at the bar, talking to the bartender. It wasn’t Wells tonight, but Costia.
“Hello, Clarke.” Costia said with a smile before nodding towards Raven. “Raven.”
“Hi, Costia.” Clarke said, still feeling extremely awkward about the whole Lexa-Costia situation, but the girl was nice. “I didn’t know you worked here.”
“Oh. I don’t. I just come in to help out on game days since Lex isn’t here.” Clarke jaw clenches from the way that the other girl says ‘Lex’.
“Why don’t you go with her?” Clarke asked. She truly was curious because she always use to go with Lexa to the games. Ever since Anya became a lead member of the Cowboys’ merchandising team, she was getting them tickets.
Octavia almost spit out her drink at Clarke’s question. Once the girl swallowed, she began laughing. “Please! Costia at a football game?” The girl continued laughing only to be joined by Raven.
“Shut up.” Costia glared at them and then rolled her eyes. She turned her focus over to Clarke then. “I don’t really do sports. I don’t know anything about them.”
“Oh please.” Raven said, clearly wanting to join in on the fun. She loved picking at Costia. She was a nice girl, but she really didn’t like her being with Lexa. “When Lexa took you to that first game, you asked her how many shots they had to make to win.” Octavia snorted before Raven started again. “And how many points a ‘hole-in-one’ was.”
Clarke couldn’t help but laugh at that. A ‘hole-in-one’ in football. She herself snorted at that and wondered how Lexa dated someone who was so clueless about sports, being that Lexa was so obsessed with them.
“Not you too, Clarke! I thought that we were friends.” Costia exclaimed and pouted out her lip.
“I’m sorry, Costia. It’s just a little funny is all.” Clarke was still trying to hold back her laughter.
After a few minutes, everyone’s laughter had subsided and the four girls enjoyed some small talk.
“So, Lexa’s party is coming up on Friday. Are you all coming?” Costia asked.
Shit. Her birthday. How could Clarke forget? She remembered how she always tried to make Lexa’s birthday so special, but she also remembered how much she hated surprises.
“Ummm… duh we’ll be here.” Raven said, rolling her eyes. “Wouldn’t miss our baby girl turning the big ‘2-8’.”
“I’ll be here!” Octavia chimed in and then all three girls looked over to Clarke expectantly.
“Oh, umm – I think that I – “ Come one, Clarke… you got this… Just come up with an excuse. “I have a ton of work to do at the gallery this week, so I doubt that I will make it.” There. Good enough. Believable.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Costia said, turning back around to clean the glasses on the bar.
“Come on, Clarke.” Octavia said.
Clarke could only give her a look, and Octavia knew to stop pressing the subject then.
//
It was Friday night, and Jake’s bar was packed. Most of the crowd was there for Lexa’s party. The surprise didn’t really surprise Lexa at all; although, she was clearly irritated that everyone was buying her gifts and talking to her all night. She didn’t like the attention to be on her. She hasn’t looked forward to a birthday in a long time.
“Lexxxaaaaa!!!” She heard someone yell and she turned around to see Raven stumbling towards her. Lexa couldn’t help but chuckle at how silly her friend looked and sounded.
“You alright there, Reyes? Do I need to cut you off?” She grinned.
“I am perfectly capable of holding my alky-haul, Woody.” Raven stated matter-of-factly.
“Whatever you say.” Lexa smiled, but then looked over to Wells and ran a finger across her own throat signaling him to cut her friend off. She obviously didn’t need anymore to drink.
“Do you feel older? Cause you look it.” Raven added.
“Thanks, I think.” Lexa said as she rolled her eyes.
“Uh oh, here comes Miss Buzzkill.” Raven looked behind Lexa, but quickly turned to run away. Literally run away. Like she knocked over a couple of people. Lexa could only roll her eyes once more before turning around to see whom Raven had been talking about.
“Hey, babe.” Costia said as she approached Lexa and swung her arms around the tall brunette’s neck, placing a chaste kiss to her lips. “Having fun?”
“I’m really not feeling too well. I think I am going to go take a walk.” Lexa said quietly as she pressed a kiss to her girlfriend’s forehead.
“Did you not like your party?” Costia asked with a frown on her face.
“No. I loved it, but I am just not big on crowds. You know that, Cos.” Lexa said, releasing her grip on Costia and grabbing her coat from behind her. “Thank you for thinking of me on my birthday.”
“Always.” Costia stated.
“Do you care to lock up when everyone leaves?” Lexa asked.
“I can do that. I’ll see you at home?” Costia asked as if Lexa was going to run away or something.
“Of course.” Lexa said before pressing a kiss to Costia’s cheek.
“Tell me what’s wrong.” Costia said, taking Lexa a little bit by surprise, but not really. Costia was always grilling her about something. It’s like she wasn’t allowed to have an off day emotionally.
“What?” Lexa asked.
“You’re being weird. Did I do something wrong? Was I not supposed to throw my girlfriend a party?”
“Costia….” Lexa sighed.
“What? I’m curious. You have been very distant these past few weeks. Why?”
“I haven’t been distant. I’m still the same old Lexa.”
“No. Because that Lexa loved me, or at least I thought she did.” Costia said, a little more harshly than she meant for it to come out.
“I do love you, Costia. Where is this coming from?” Lexa asked, but mentally she was so over this conversation. She felt like they had one or two every week now.
“I don’t know. I just – I feel like you just don’t want me anymore. I get this weird vibe that I am holding you back from something.”
“Costia.” Lexa said, bringing her hands to rest on her girlfriend’s shoulders. “You are not holding me back from anything. I’ve just had a lot on my mind, and I am sorry that it’s affecting you. I didn’t realize.”
Costia didn’t say anything; she just looked up to Lexa and nodded.
“I am sorry that you’ve felt that way. I will try to be better. Okay?” Lexa asked.
“Alright.” Costia replied.
At that, Lexa leaned down to capture her girlfriend’s lips with her own, but only for a second before she finished pulling on her jacket and walked out the door.
Lexa really didn’t have any idea of where she was walking to, but she realized that she suddenly had a craving for ice cream and her favorite stand wasn’t too far from where she was now. The walk only took about ten more minutes before she reached the stand. As she was rounded the corner of the building right beside the ice cream stand, she bumped into someone and caught the girl in her arms before she could fall. She wasn’t able to save the girl’s cone though.
“Oh my gosh. I am so sorry. I just – “ Once Lexa realized who she was holding onto, she quickly let go and she could feel the blush rushing her facial features. “Clarke.”
The blonde was quickly startled as well. Her bright blues eyes widening as they met those all too familiar green ones. “Lexa.”
“I – um- I am sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” Lexa said, suddenly interested in her feet and the world around her, trying her best to keep her eyes off of the blonde.
“It’s fine.” Clarke said, clearly not wanting to have this run-in at all.
Of course, their internal freaking magnets would draw them together like this. Lexa was sure that the universe hated her. Not only had she just had yet another argument with Costia, but she left to clear her head and ran into the problem that was causing her to be hazy in the first place. Shit.
“Come on.” Lexa finally broke the awkward silence. “I’ll get you another cone.”
“No. It’s fine. Really.” Clarke grumbled.
“Clarke, this isn’t comfortable for me either, you know? But we have to get use to the fact that you live here now and we live in the same neighborhood. We will be bumping into each other.” Lexa stated bravely.
“I get that we will occasionally bump into each other, Lexa, but when we do, you don’t have to talk to me. You don’t have to buy me another cone.” Clarke said, clearly aggravated and uncomfortable.
“Clarke”
“Don’t, Lexa. Please. Just don’t.” Clarke interrupted. “I know that we talked a bit and got a few things out of the way, but it still doesn’t really change anything.”
The blonde started to walk away, but clearly Lexa was not having that. “Clarke Jane Griffin, get your ass over here. I am buying you another cone and you will like it. You don’t have to talk to me. Matter of fact, I will leave as soon as I buy them.”
Clarke spun around and the glare that she gave Lexa would have given a small child nightmares for days, but not Lexa. She had been on the receiving end of that glare far too many times.
All the blonde-headed girl did was sigh and cross her arms across her chest. Lexa gave her that annoying grin that she used to always get when they were together before turning towards the ice cream stand. Clarke used to think that it was the most adorable thing in the world, but she couldn’t allow those thoughts to seep through again. No. She was mad at Lexa. Wasn’t she?
Clarke was only standing a short distance away, but she could hear Lexa placing the order for their ice cream.
“Hey. I need two scoops of chocolate in a sugar cone and two scoops of butter pecan in a waffle cone for my friend over there.” Lexa said to the big man behind the stand.
The blonde tried to hide the grin that she could feel pulling on her lips. Lexa remembered her ice cream order. After all of this time.
A few minutes, Lexa was back by Clarke’s side, handing the other girl her waffle cone. “Here you are.” Lexa said softly, as if speaking too loudly would set Clarke off in some way.
“Thanks.” Clarke said before looking up to Lexa. Clarke wanted to bust out into a fit of laughter when she noticed the chocolate ice cream that Lexa had gotten on the top of her lip, but she didn’t. She didn’t want Lexa to know that she had any kind of affect on her. She wouldn’t giver her that satisfaction. “You’ve got a little – “ Clarke said, motioning with her hand around her own face.
“Shit.” Lexa said, swiping her tongue up to try and rid herself of the chocolate that was on her face.
Clarke finally broke and laughed a little bit at how ridiculous Lexa looked. She was nowhere close to reaching the mess. Clarke walked back over to the stand and grabbed some napkins before returning.
“Here.” Clarke said, handing one to the girl in front of her.
“Thank you, Clarke.”
‘Why? Why does she have to say my name? It gets me every time.’ Clarke thinks to herself.
“I need to get going.” Clarke said firmly. “Thanks for the ice cream.”
“Would you like me to walk you?” Lexa asked, but then immediately regretted it, knowing that she needed to just turn away from the blonde and go home to her girlfriend.
“I don’t think that would be best.” Clarke said before turning and walking away. Before she was out of sight, she turned her head slightly to turn back and look at Lexa. The girl was still standing there watching the blonde and the way she was looking at her made her heart fall in her stomach.
Clarke quickly turned back around and walked back to her apartment. She could not have these feelings anymore. She wouldn’t allow herself. Not after everything that has happened. Plus, she had Finn and Lexa had Costia.
This wasn’t healthy. As soon as she reached her apartment building, she pulled her cellphone out of her back pocket and text Finn.
CLARKE (10:32PM) - I miss you.
FINN (10:36PM) – Miss you too, beautiful.
She smiled to herself, but deep down she knew that she had just sent that text to try and get her mind off of someone else. It didn’t work for long.
She swung her apartment door open to find a very passed out Octavia and Raven on her couch. She laughed to herself, but a sudden thought ran through her mind.
They had been at Lexa’s party. Why wasn’t Lexa there? Was something wrong?
As bad as she knew she shouldn’t, Clarke snuck over and grabbed Raven’s cellphone from the coffee table, searching through her contacts before she found the one that she was looking for. She quickly entered that number into her own phone and went to her bedroom.
Kicking off her tennis shoes, and ridding herself of her blue jeans, she plopped down onto her bed and covered up with her duvet. She pulled her cellphone up to her face before she started typing her message. She was extremely reluctant to send it, but she did.
UNKNOWN NUMBER (11:03PM) – Happy Birthday, Lex.
LEXA (11:05PM) – Clarke?
Of course she knew that it was Clarke. Probably the only other person who calls her ‘Lex’ is Costia.
LEXA (11:09PM) – I thought you had forgotten.
Clarke’s heart sunk. She knew how Lexa had always hated her birthday, until they had started dating. That’s when Clarke would go out of her way and do everything in her power to make sure that Lexa had an amazing day each year. It had been so long, but Clarke could never forget. Lexa meant too much to her and even though she was still furious and heartbroken, she never wanted Lexa to feel alone. Especially not on her birthday.
CLARKE (11:11PM) – Never. |
I've told Touko many things.
She's still here.
"I've..."
Deep breath.
"...fallen in love with...someone, very close to me, and I've...been afraid they could end up suffering for it."
I'm tucked too closely against her to see her expression, but that could be a blessing in and of itself.
So long as I can stay near Touko-
Maybe I don't need to name aloud the secret I know we're sharing. If it would change things between us...maybe it's better not to say.
If our secret leaves her so afraid, I shouldn't push it. I couldn't push Touko to her limits anymore.
...Right?
"Y-You don't need to be ashamed of that. Whether or not you tell them...you've decided you'd do anything for them to be happy, even if it means holding in your f-feelings till it hurts. Heh, besides-" An uneven, thin laugh shakes her shoulders, "-if you like the type of person who enjoys suffering a little...your kind of love could be heaven on earth to them. Not knowing whether you love them back...not understanding why they just can't leave you alone...unsure of what you want while they realize they want you..."
I feel like there's a lump in my throat when I hear her say those words. They feel heavy when I hear them over again in my head.
"...If they're that type. Speaking of, you never answered my question from before. What's yours?"
"Oh...you mean...?" I lifted my head, trying to remember.
"You've got to have a type. Girls are...supposed to talk about this sort of stuff together, r-right?" She edged a thumbnail beneath her teeth and looked at me out of the corner of her eye, "Whether you want some ladykiller with lots of experience to sweep you off your feet-or if you want him to be a bumbling virgin like you?"
I try to ignore the way her comment makes my face burn. "I-I guess...someone dependable is most important. Not in the way that I want them to do everything for me, but like...being around them makes me want to be a better person. I can count on them to tell me the truth, even when it hurts, or is scary. If they're too 'perfect' it'd feel weird. I don't have any special talents or anything, so it's kinda intimidating trying to think of what I could possibly do to make that kind of person happy."
"So...you wouldn't date anyone with that kind of talent? You'd arbitrarily refuse?"
"N-No, I didn't mean that. I definitely didn't mean it that way. It's just...how should I put it...? I'd want to be with someone I can figure things out together with. And, I worry that even if I did meet them...and I felt sure about them from the bottom of my heart...what could I actually do for them or give them that they wouldn't be able to get or have already-?"
"Oh come on. You can't honestly believe that, can you?"
"Huh...?" I wipe at my eyes with the back of a hand sheepishly.
"Wh-What's with that face all of a sudden?! Talent isn't everything. You of all people should know that more than anyone. Between someone 'normal' like you and-s-someone with an ultimate talent, there's things that only you can do for them."
I looked up at her from under wet lashes, half-expecting there to be a punchline, but there wasn't. "You...You're serious, aren't you? But...what do you mean-?"
"Think about it. Right from the start, if you have that kind of talent...you're not normal. You never have a chance at normal, no matter how much you might wish for it. So...between a person like that and a person like you...you're the only thing that can actually make them feel like they belong, in a world where they're too outstanding, or weird, or d-disgusting that they can't connect to anyone else. Maybe all their life, they just wanted to feel what it was like to do normal things, or have normal friends."
"...Oh. I...never thought about it like that before..."
"So...don't talk about yourself like there's nothing worthwhile you've done, especially after all we've been through. Anyone would be lucky to have you. Did you think that just anyone could've faced what you you did? Did you think anyone could've...changed someone like me the way you did? Someone who was specifically chosen to escort you to...to that brat, because they couldn't dream in a million years that I'd start to feel anything for you-?"
"N-No!" I cry out suddenly, my blood boiling, "They didn't choose you like that because of who you were: it was because they didn't know the first thing about you to begin with!" I can tell by her expression that I've startled her with my outburst, but in the heat of the moment I couldn't help myself. "You're not cold, or careless, or anything like that. Okay, you're prickly around new people, but...it was always because you were protecting either of us! Monaca and that weird guy-they totally misunderstood you. That's why their plan failed...even when they predicted what I would do every step of the way."
"D-Don't say that, Komaru-"
"I'm being serious! All my life I've been gullible and easy to fool, and it almost got so many people killed or hurt, just because I'm Makoto's little sister. You...you say that not anyone could've done what I did, but-but I was only able to do anything at all because you were at my side, Touko!"
The steam all around us made it feel like I was dreaming as I curled my fingers around her arm, hugging closer with a muted sob, my eyes starting to burn with tears. I feel something inside her forearm, a little faded ladder of raised skin that makes her flinch when I brush over it. At least no matter how stupid I am, I'm not dumb enough to ask.
I know enough not to tear them open again. But when I start to take my fingers away, she clamps her hand over mine tightly.
"You...you saved me, Touko. I don't know what would've happened if I'd broken that controller. I...I'm so simple-minded that I probably would've become the next Junko or something, after being responsible for something that horrible. And...even before this mess, I was always giving up too early when things got hard. I-I've never felt this way before, T-Touko, I finally know what it means to hate how I was when I was younger...have I been so annoying all my life? Have I always been such an...an idiot-?"
I stop short at the sensation of a sharp sting against my cheek.
Touko slapped me. Dazed, I bring a hand to my cheek and blink back at her, bewildered.
The look in her eyes is so fierce that it's almost wild. Through her evident fury and clenched teeth, her eyes shine glossy and wet.
"Just because you're trusting...just because you gave other people a chance, and believed in them...that's not stupidity, that's kindness. And-I never had it in all my life, until...until I met you, Komaru!"
"T-Touko..."
"S-So...don't talk about yourself like that, and...maybe I'll try doing the same. If someone like you can approve of me...then, that's fine, I guess. I can t-trust that." Touko shifts her knees and picks at her fingernails, avoiding my eyes, but there's a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. "B-But...you're a seriously troublesome girl, you know...?"
"What...?"
"I mean! Th-That's the second time I've had to slap someone in the face! Y-You know what's next right? I expect you to...to take r-responsibility-"
"H-Huh...?"
"C-Come on-" Touko turns her cheek towards me, grumbling under her breath, "-hit me back, or-or it'll throw everything out of balance."
"Wh-?! But...I don't want to hit you back," My voice wavers as relief that she isn't truly upset at me brings me to the brink of tears, "-I want you to make it better!" The words come blurting out one after another before I can stop them. I realize how troublesome I must sound, but I can't quit shaking-
"Huh-?" Touko's back straightens like a soldier at attention, but her face denotes a completely different level of composure.
I know she wants me to hit her back. She's counting on me to.
But...
I just can't.
Why? What's wrong with me?
What do I want-?
"...Fine." Touko's fingers push a damp lock of hair behind my ear, and she cups my cheek with her other hand. Her thumb brushes near the corner of my lips, and she presses hers to the bruise on my cheek.
If this is what it meant for everything to go out of balance...
Maybe I didn't want to go back anymore.
Her lips part and her breath whistles quietly through her nose.
"...Better?"
"A-Ah-"
The question hangs heavy in what little space between us remains, weighted by the pressure of her thumb inching onto my bottom lip. My heart is pounding and it suddenly feels much harder to breathe. She pulls back, her forehead resting on mine, and my eyes seek hers before falling to the crease in her lips.
"...Al...most..."
My voice frightens me. It's hungry, hungrier than I'd ever been for freedom, for the light outside of my imprisoned life, and hoarser than the first night alone, cowering under strange bedsheets and sobbing when no one answered my screams for help, the last time I'd ever seen my parents.
When I look up at Touko, I'm looking through those bars again, but they're not the kind I can touch. I can't grab onto them and beg for someone to come save me, or to save Touko-
She's on the other side of those bars too.
The ones we keep imagining together to keep each other safe.
"Y-You do it, then." She closes her eyes, brow furrowed in irritation, a smattering of pink dusting her cheeks. "I told you I'm n-no good at this. Just-just do whatever you want with me."
Touko's jaw is clenched and she looks like she's holding her breath. What is she thinking about? Can I help her?
I put my fingers against her forehead and slowly move the wet strands of hair out of her eyes and off her face. Her shoulders scrunch like her instinct is to recoil, but she lets me. I tuck the last lock of hair neatly behind her ear and look at her. I've never seen so much of her face at one time. I can see her forehead and her cheeks and her dark, stern eyebrows.
My fingers trace her hair along the outside of her jaw, and it goes slack under my touch, relaxed and softened. Her eyebrows flicker minutely. They remind me of a butterfly's wings, and the faint moisture along their edges reminds me of fresh ink shimmering on paper before it dries. Her lips are bruised and raw with abuse, and all I can think to do-
-is to kiss them better.
Fighting gravity, I angle my chin under hers and close the space between our lips, my fingers fanning her shoulders, thumbs anchored into the hollows of her throat. Her lips part and mine mimic hers, my tongue weighed down by the broken moan that follows.
"Mmm-"
Touko's hands pull at the small of my back and I bend with her touch until I'm nearly collapsed against her.
She's kissing me back.
She's kissing me and we're both awake and knowing it, letting each other.
"I love you Touko-Touko, Touko-" I hiccup in the spaces between our lips parting and meeting, her name a prayer and an apology at once. I can't catch my breath, but there's no way I can keep these words from her a moment longer. "I, wanted-wanted to tell you-sooner, I should've, I'm sorry I'm so sor-" Her teeth press against my bottom lip and squeeze down, cutting me short. I whimper loudly into her mouth and clutch at her shoulders. She kisses me too deeply for there to be any mistake.
I'm a little scared. I've never kissed anyone but her before-and even the one time I had hadn't been like this at all. I feel warmth welling deep in my abdomen where our bodies meet that I can't recognize from anywhere but a place that I've only been alone, under the sheets at night with a blanket bunched beneath my open legs, a messy and unsatisfying try at feeling not quite so lonely, and trying to hold back just makes me want it more.
Maybe it's because this time, I'd wake up with the person of my dreams beside me. The loneliness wouldn't return after I was awake enough to realize how deeply I'd thrown myself into a fantasy, that I was truly completely alone.
Maybe I want to try again.
And maybe, I want to give all of my feelings, my heart, and my soul to Touko.
She knows what she's doing, or at the very least, she knows better than I do. The way she keeps calling me a 'virgin'...does it mean she's been with somebody before? I try to ignore the pang of guilt in my heart for feeling sad-it shouldn't matter, and it doesn't, but it's one more thing, one more way I could disappoint her-
"Touko-" I hear the kind of voice that had frightened me before pass my lips, brooking caution.
"Komaru-" She holds me closer to her and buries her face against my neck. I'm sitting halfway into her lap, my knees grazing the stone on either side of one of her pale thighs, and the air feels brisk on my bare shoulders. They ache when she grabs them so tightly, but getting to stay like this, to have her crowding me smaller and smaller into her arms makes me pay it less mind than I had when she'd locked herself in our room, when I thought she'd been in danger.
It hurts...but when hasn't it? I get that strange feeling again spreading from my stomach up into my chest as I feel us breathing together.
I really-
-don't know anything at all, compared to her. I don't want to hide how I'm feeling, but the truth is so embarrassing.
At least if I tell her...maybe we can figure it out together.
"I'm sorry Touko-from the bottom of my heart-" I blink back tears, staring meekly at a spot on her collarbone as her hands frame my shoulders, her fingers following my bruises, "-I just...didn't know-if I could risk our friendship, when I'm already so happy getting to be by your side at all-I'm so selfish that-thinking of you with Byakuya made me more sad than happy-I don't even know the first thing about being with anyone and I still wanted you to-choose me-" My skin feels uncomfortably hot and it's not the humidity of the steam that's to blame, "-I'm...an awful friend, I'm so sorry-!"
She lowers her head to look down at the water's surface, but just before she does, I see her eyes scrunch closed and hear a hitch in her breath, tight and quick like the crunch of scissors opening and closing; in that space, the blades split through my heart, ripping its seam. I feel the blood drain out of my face as I listen to her start to cry and watch her tears ripple the water: was this...a mistake? Did I only hurt her with how I felt? Should I have left it alone since the first time I tried to tell her? Was this why she'd stopped me when she did? No matter what, looking at her like this makes my heart break along with her. We've been through so much together that I don't want to have been the only one that changed for it-I know that no matter how much she's struggling with her feelings, I can't forgive myself for doing this when I know how deeply she loves, shows the loyalty in her heart completely and without reservation to the few who've earned it, and I've done something unforgivable in leaving her to choose, to make a choice she'd already promised she could never and would never make.
"Thinking of...of myself with Byakuya..." She finally breaks the silence with a strained, defeated laugh, at no one's expense but her own, "It's...it's funny, but...thinking of that-" She lifts her head and her eyes shift back and forth, shoulders shaking.
"-it makes me feel more s-sad th-than happy, t-too-" Touko bites her lip again and shudders violently, "-I felt s-so-unfaithful, h-h-how can I-? I didn't know, how-how I could-I thought, I thought I was a liar, I c-couldn't handle it b-because M-Master w-w-was...was. Every, thing. And, if I couldn't even h-hold onto that love-then I wondered h-how I could possibly t-trust myself to...feel for you-without sc-screwing up. The...the more I thought about it-the more I realized I felt so awful was-it wasn't because I thought I was being-unfaithful to Master. It...started to feel more like I was being-unfaithful to you. A-And maybe-I couldn't hold on to what-what I thought was there-because it wasn't...wasn't ever-"
She starts breathing really hard; this can't be anything short of excruciating for her. I'm torn between feeling agony, watching her suffer through such a realization, and relief that she doesn't have to be alone with this anymore, that she's chosen to tell me, to stop bottling everything up.
Her feelings are crystal clear. I don't have to just watch her hurt anymore. I don't have to wonder what I can do. Touko is letting me be close to her, because she wants me to. I can just do my best to help. I don't have to watch, I can comfort her, care for her how I've wanted to. It's no wonder she was scared, when her feelings for someone run as deeply as they do, when she feels everything so keenly. She's the strongest person I know, but her heart is soft and wounded, and she's putting it into my hands and trusting me to take care of it, when she's lost so much already, when all that she thought she was sure of is crumbling beneath her.
It never once occurred to her to stop loving. Earnestly and sincerely she felt pain and love together in her heart to their bursting points, even until it hurt her.
Because of her, I felt that kind of love too. She touched me with that incredible feeling.
Because of how I feel for her, I want to protect her too. That's what I want her to feel.
"We're getting out." I help her up by her elbows and she snaps out of her stunned reverie, blinking at me quickly. I speak slowly and gently. "Can you get another towel from the cabinet around the corner, for each of us? I'll get our clothes so we can hang them up upstairs. I don't think they're dry enough to wear yet." I climb out of the bath and extend my hand to her, holding up my towel with the other. "Be careful getting out, okay? It's slippery."
"Y-Y-Yes, Komaru-" She answers right away and takes my hand, hastens to clear the step out of the bath, pulling up the front of her soaked towel with a nervous grin and going to do as I'd suggested. I'd scarcely finished gathering the clothes in my arms when she returned, arms full of towels. She'd wrapped herself in a dry one already, and stood swaying on her feet.
"A-Ah...that was fast..."
"I figured I should grab some for our hair, too. I-If you want...I can dry your hair for you when we get back-d-don't want you to catch a cold, right?"
"Only if I can dry yours too." I beam happily, not quite able to hide my enthusiasm. "Mine's not much to worry about. Yours is so long and pretty and dark...I've been just dying to play with it!"
"P-Play with it? J-Just...go easy on me. And, here-" She set the two towels for our hair aside and opened the third behind me, just under my arms. I got the message. I unwrapped my wet towel, letting it fall to the floor, and Touko's arms wrapped me tightly into the new one.
We carry everything upstairs together without saying a word. Our room is still a mess, and Touko ducks her head with shame as we step over torn pillows and broken furniture.
"L-Let me at least-get these back together-" Touko busies herself gathering the stray scraps of paper from before, and I start hanging up our clothes in the bathroom. The floor is still soaking wet, so I leave the light on for Touko before going and taking the shredded blankets off the bed. The sheets are largely untouched, and should suffice. By the time I'm done, Touko has seated herself on the edge of the bed, curled over the stack of papers she's hugging tightly to her chest.
"You're...not gonna throw those away, are you?" I take a towel to her hair and softly pat it dry, running my fingers through the parts that are tangled. Maybe next time we're out I should find a comb for her.
"N-No. I make a point of never throwing away my old writing. Even if I look back at it later and it sucks, every time I write, I do it when there's something important I'm feeling that I can't ignore. There are no exceptions. And I couldn't throw those feelings away. Especially not these ones."
I braid her hair in silence, peacefully threading the thick, soft strands between my fingers. There's a warmth in her words that hits home, calming me. I know she's feeling much better than before, and that's all I could want for.
When I'm finished, I sit back to admire my handiwork. I've never had hair much longer than my shoulders, so I'm not used to doing much to it, but I've taken in strands from either side of Touko's head and braided them together like a loose circlet from ear to ear, and left one long thin braid trailing down to her waist, with the rest of it down. She's always been beautiful, but now she looks just like a princess.
"Are you ready to sleep? Today's been really long. If you want we can move rooms tomorrow."
Touko quietly pulls open the bedside drawer and places the stack of paper inside. "Y-Yeah, we should move tomorrow. But first, come here." She motions for me to switch places with her and then sits behind me, tousling my hair with the other towel. At some point she drops the towel and massages her fingertips hard against my scalp, and I can't help but sigh. It feels like all the tension is just melting away. Her hands ease down and cup the back of my neck, and I close my eyes.
"Ahh, Touko...that feels so nice..." She exhales loudly behind me.
"Th-Thank goodness. It's my f-first time, so-so I was hoping it felt okay. I'm-I'm not really used to doing a lot of-um, touching-"
"Oh-Touko, you don't have to if you don't want to-"
"N-No, I know! I know. But it's fine. I...I want to. That's my decision-no complaints."
I giggle under my breath. Same old Touko. "Alright. Now I'm sure you're not just doing it because you feel like you have to."
"Wh-What's that supposed to mean?!"
"You like me too, right?"
"O-Of course I l-like you!" Even without looking, I can tell her face is beet red. "H-How else could I stay with you all this time?! But, you know-" Her hands slow to a pause and her voice softens, "-I think...I think I could only say as much as I have to you...because...y-you said it first. I'm...I'm not good at saying things first. Or...even saying things at all, sometimes."
"...Yeah. I know what you mean." She sinks into an embrace around my shoulders and her chapped lips press gently against my pulse. "You're...so good with words though, Touko."
"Written, not spoken." She answers quickly. "Unless I'm talking about writing. But still. I was never really public-speaking material. Like, at all. I barely even talked while I was in school. The more I could write, the better."
I lifted my hands from my lap and laid them over where her arms crossed my body.
"Maybe you could write down what you're feeling then. Or the things that you want to say but can't yet."
"H-Huh...?"
"You can take all the time that you need. Someone who really cares about you will wait for those words no matter how long it takes. I'm completely sure of that."
"Komaru..."
"Don't worry about it. You don't have to say anything you're not ready to say."
We switch off the light, crack the bathroom door open, and Touko sets her glasses on the bedside table. We lay down in bed, side by side, face to face: I prop my cheek on my arm and when I leave my other hand idle between us, it isn't empty for long.
We talked long into the night. I talk to her about my friendship with Chieko, about my parents, about Makoto, and how relieved I am to share a bed with someone who isn't going to wet it. She laughs and tells me about her mothers: says she doesn't have many nice memories to share, but shares what little there were anyway. Little things like feeling a pen gliding over paper, how it grew into a feeling of elation when she managed to write her first story from start to finish. How in the beginning, she loved everything she wrote, before she learned to be critical of it. How it finally helped her mend the heartache and cruelty she endured each day. I can tell that it's hard for her, but that she's trying means everything to me, that I can be right here for her while she works it out.
"Syo's a much better talker than I am." Touko says after a long silence, as we both begin to get drowsy. "Maybe...maybe she can help me out a little. Can you just...bear with me? I-In the meantime, is...is it okay-?"
"Yeah, Touko. It's okay."
"...Thank you, Komaru."
She falls asleep in moments, and this time, I don't lack the courage to kiss her goodnight. |
What a great achievement it was
To get a hotel room this late
I bet they charge by the hour here
The kind of place where you should bring your own UV ray
It's not a big problem with me, love
You don't look that hygienic anyway
I'm only here because
I wanna twist the structure of my average day
...
What a great achievement it was
To find someone who shirks such little self-restraint
I'm a non-believer but
I believe in these dirty little wicked games
- Jump Into the Fog, The Wombats
I said nothing until we were back into the hotel room. Blame my paranoia. I didn't want our driver hearing, the people on the street...even the receptionist at the front desk. I wasn't even going to bother risking giving Jean a hint of what I had to say to him.
He followed me back to the room, not making a sound either, following directly behind me like an obedient, albeit confused, puppy. He knew something was up, I could tell. I waited for him to follow me all the way into our room before I closed the door behind him and started in on what I had been keeping in for the too-long trek between Ymir's show and the Ritz.
"Jean, what the fuck was that?"
His eyes widened instantly. Whatever he had been expecting from me, it clearly hadn't this intense in his mind.
"What?" he asked with a slight bewilderment.
"You couldn't have made your flirting with the interns a little less obvious?"
His face softened then, almost turning into what looked like annoyance, as thought he couldn't believe that that's what I was making a fuss over.
"Why?" he shrugged. "I can flirt with whoever I want."
"You're supposed to be my boyfriend."
"I'm your employee. And you know it," he shot back without missing a beat. I winced for a moment before regaining my footing.
"That's damn right. You are my employee. This week, I own you. We agreed to that. And out there, you're supposed to be my boyfriend."
He laughed. I found no humor in the matter at all, but he was amused and somehow baffled as hell. "God damn, Marco. Get a clue. The only reason I can flirt and get away with it is because they wouldn't seriously go through with me. They obviously know I'm with you. And I mean, Jesus, they're all fucking each other already! The interns fuck each other, their bosses fuck each other. I know the bosses have fucked the interns. Hell, pretty sure the models are all fucking each other, too. And they wanna keep it all hush-hush, but I know. Oh, I know. I'm a sex worker. I come with, like, a sixth-sex-sense. They're all fucking, and no one knows it. The only people they all actually believe are gettin' down and dirty - the only ones who should be doing it - are me and you, and we aren't."
I was silent. Were...were they all really fucking each other? It couldn't be. But then again, it very well could be. I mean, well... now that Jean had pointed it out, it was blatantly obvious. At the very least, I could now perfectly envision the sexual tension seeping from between Levi and Erwin Smith. And their interns sometimes seemed more like little pets than anything.
But I wasn't spending too much time thinking about that, because Jean had said that we were the only ones who should be having sex.
So...was that coming from everyone else? Or was that his opinion? No. It had to be his opinion, because just before, he had said that everyone already believed we were doing it. So they wouldn't need to think that we should be doing it. Right?
Jean was tired of my thinking. "Do you get what I'm saying?"
The pieces were falling into place. "You...were trying to make me jealous."
"Bingo! The rich bastard's got it."
"But...why? That makes no sense. You're already posing as my boyfriend. What's the point? You've got me."
He grinned at me, in the same way he had laughed before. Amused and baffled. "You answered your own question. If I flirted directly with you, how would you know if I was doing it as Stripper Jean, or hired Model Boyfriend Jean? You wouldn't. You would never know my true intentions. But if I made you jealous by flirting with others...now why would your perfect model boyfriend bother doing such a thing? No, no, that was all me, sweet cheeks."
"And so...you think...we should be...,"
"We should be."
Before I could start to form a reply, or a real coherent thought for that matter, his lips were crushed against mine - so hard I thought they might bruise. I couldn't remember the last time I had been kissed like that. Hell...I couldn't remember the last time I had actually been kissed at all.
And damn, it felt good.
"Mmph," I grunted against his mouth. He pulled back and looked legitimately concerned. "You...sure?" I asked. I mean, I had spent all this time shamelessly fantasizing over my escort that I had convinced myself that a fantasy was all that would happen for real between us. I always thought he was strictly business. I mean, he slept on the sofa. He changed in the bathroom, for God's sake! Clearly I had misinterpreted all of that, and made a point to question him on it later.
He looked me up and down, before returning his eyes back to mine. There was a fire behind them.
"Fuck yeah, I'm sure."
"A-alright, then," I stuttered back. Not that I was shy or anything. I was just completely taken aback by everything. However, once his hand was back behind my head, pulling me back towards his hungry mouth, the demeanor melted away. So I had completely misjudged him and his intentions, and everyone else for that matter, and I guess I'm always doing that because I'm never around a lot of people and never observe anyone...but I'm certainly glad I was wrong.
I had played this situation out before in my head - more than once, actually. Not that my feelings towards Jean were purely lustful. Sure, they started that way (and I mean, we met in a strip club, so what else was my first impression going to be like), but he was seriously starting to get to me. It's hard when most of the time, he's being my escort, but I see the true him when he wakes up and he falls asleep, and I see that witty, bold personality that I had shopped with on Rodeo Drive shining through the model Jean. He completely fascinates me. Enraptures me. Regardless of whether he's putting on a show for everyone or not. And he makes me wish that I had found him sooner, and gotten to know him in a totally candid and personal way, and that I could have fallen in love with him conventionally, maybe over a cup of coffee in a quaint coffeeshop that we had found together, rather than in the corner of our hotel room, so that he might have come to New York with me as my real, honest to goodness boyfriend, rather than glorified hired help. We're going about things a bit backwards here, but I'm not going to start complaining now.
Jean had been holding back just as much as I had, it seemed. I almost felt bad. I wondered if he would have brought something up sooner if money weren't involved. I knew I wouldn't be paying for anything that would be happening right then - I was clearly playing with the real Jean Kirschtein here.
To make up for it, I let him continue with the control he had over me. His kissing had gotten so aggressive that I had been pushed against the end of the hotel bed. I was struggling to keep up with him, his tongue fucking my mouth with a raw kind of passion. He was definitely helping me make up for my long romantic hiatus, although I probably should have expected as much from a worker in his position. The way he had danced last week, there was no way he was going to be bad at something like this.
As the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress, my legs buckled, forcing me into a sitting position. Jean was hardly fazed by it at all and he climbed onto my lap without a second thought, a knee on either side of me on the mattress. He held my face gently but firmly as his tongue ran smoothly across the roof of my mouth, sending a chill up my spine. I couldn't bother hiding it, and I heard him snicker as he licked quickly over my bottom lip before diving deep back into the kiss. Wondering what I could do to return the favor, I pulled my mouth away from his. He pouted almost instantly, and it was probably involuntary, but I stopped him quickly. He had stuck out his bottom lip just slightly at me and it presented me with the perfect opportunity - I leaned forward and caught him with my teeth. He had left his lip ring in for Ymir's show, and I sucked at it gently as I had been eager to do ever since I noticed that he had it.
I heard a low groan in his throat, and I couldn't tell if it was because of the work I was doing on his lip or because he was sitting on the ever hardening spot at my crotch. I hoped it was a combination of the two.
He wrapped his arms around me for leverage and pulled himself harder onto my lap, legs wrapped around my waist now. With his crotch pressed up against where my navel was, he started tugging at the bottom of my sweater. I pulled my jacket off so that he could pull the sweater up and over and over my head, and in no time, he had taken off his as well. I could hardly remember a break in our kissing as we stripped. Someone's mouth and hands were always somewhere doing something. This was not patient, curious love-making. This was overdue and this was eager. The passion started off at full capacity. With a spot inside my pants damp with pre-cum, I wondered if we would even be able to make it to the actual sex.
With our shirts off, Jean pushed me all the way back onto the bed, his knees still on either side of me - his mouth somehow managed not to leave mine on the way down.
To be quite honest, in my fantasies, I had been a bit more...aggressive. I was starting to feel that our roles should be switched, and I had the perfect opportunity to slip out from under Jean and into my rightful position.
"Mm-mph, hold on," I mumbled against his lips. He pulled back only slightly, the metal of his ring still grazing my bottom lip. The coolness of it caused another slight twinge in my pants, and fuck, I was tempted to relinquish my dominance and just let him devour me then and there. But no, this was important.
"What's up," he whispered, his warm breath mingling with mine. I slipped out from under him and crawled up the bed, over to the bedside table, and opened the drawer where the hotel Bibles were normally kept. I pulled out a little bottle that had a red bow around the lid and a condom. I didn't toss them to him, fully intending to use them myself, but he saw them nonetheless.
"The fuck?" he asked, but a smile started to spread. "What, did you go shopping? Were you expecting this to happen or what? Did you bring them with you?"
I was glad he was taking my surprise preparation with so much amusement. I grinned cheekily and shrugged. "They were a gift, actually. Reiner and Bert slipped them to me as a congrats-on-a-real-relationship gift. I just stuffed them in there, but I figured I would keep them...aren't you glad I did?"
He brought himself up onto his knees as he bit at his ring and chuckled almost darkly in agreement. It was kind of a growl, deep in his throat, and I'll be damned if it wasn't the sexiest sound I had ever heard.
I pounced at him, my primal instincts triggered by his animalistic purrs, and tore at the button on his pants. I silently thanked Gucci for designing them with such a simple button - it's like the designers knew that the wearer of these pants would get laid.
I pulled them down to his thighs and he shimmied them the rest of the way off for me. He seemed to be perfectly pleased with our switched positions, now that I hovered over him, now just inches about his face. I flicked my tongue inside his mouth twice, leaving by running across the roof of his mouth as he had down to me - I could see the blonde hair on his arms stand up and he slowly closed his eyes.
I moved down to his bottom lip, giving his ring a final suck, and down to his jaw line. I noticed that he had the lightest freckle - beauty mark - just below his mouth on the right side. I gave it a kiss as well.
I moved down, suckling gently at each spot I passed, careful not to leave marks where they would be visible during any shows. I licked tiny constellations down his neck, leaving a suck and a kiss for each collarbone.
I left a dark purple hickey just between his sternum and a pec. The harder I sucked at the pale skin, the higher he rose his hips in excitement. It was then that I learned just how much he enjoyed being the masochist, how well last week's stripping song fit, and how I was perfectly content with my place atop him, biting and sucking at one nipple and pinching at the other. I heard his breaths becoming shakier and he sucked at his own lip. I only noticed that the harder I went, the more excited he was, but he hardly spoke a word.
Once I was sufficiently satisfied with the scatted purple spots across his chest, I continued my kissing trek along his body, remembering his tattoo when I reached his hem. The black petals of his rose laid gently on his hip bone, and the dark, thorny stem dipped down below the band of his purple boxers. I couldn't help running my thumb over the velvety petals, and had to kiss each of them, but I was desperately eager to see the rest of the stem. I ran my fingers past the seam, and Jean eagerly assisted me in pulling the boxers off entirely. He had waited entirely too long, and he already had a small spot on them.
He was honestly a bit longer than I had imagined - maybe it was a stripper's illusion, or I just hadn't seen a good dick in a while, but I was pleasantly surprised and almost a little thankful that I just had to worry about it going in my mouth.
I took him in my right hand, getting a feel for him, and again, there was another twinge. He was getting restless as I used my thumb to rub clear pre-cum over the head of his cock. With my thumb still rubbing gently, I licked a spot of skin just inside his thigh and blew on it lightly. His goose bumps spread quickly from the chill and I used the distraction to deep throat him completely, using my special parlor trick to stop my gag reflex, until my lips brushed at flat skin.
"Fuck," he whimpered satisfyingly. I wiped away a tear that had pooled thanks to my quick start, and looked up at Jean's face without removing my mouth - his eyes were closed and the most delicious expression was set on his face. It only made me more eager to continue my work.
I leaned down and took him again, not completely deep throating this time. I had found that the deep throat was something nice to start off with, and it did feel good, but a lot of it was just aesthetically pleasing. Instead, I only let myself go half way down, quickly, and then pulled back up at a tauntingly slow pace, getting tighter and tighter until I hit the spot just under the head. I could always tell when I got the sweet spot by the sharp intake of breath from Jean - this time, I also received a sweet whine of pleasure. I repeated the exact motion three more times, each time eliciting the perfect moan. I quickened my pace each time, but paid the same amount of attention to the trigger spot.
After an especially spine-tingling moan, I pulled off, flicking my tongue across the head. Warm pre-cum was still seeping and I rubbed at it again.
"N-no, Marco," he pleaded, "please, a little more." I smirked at him, but did little else in response.
"Please, God, please, just a little more, I'm so close," he begged some more. I stared him in the eyes, maintaining my mischievous expression. He looked honestly desperate. If I didn't know him any better, I would have guessed he would have started crying, lying naked and vulnerable beneath me, wet cock still hard and expecting a climax that it wasn't getting.
I tossed off my pants, rolled on the condom, and started slicking myself up with the lube, finding no harm in using all of the small bottle. I had no problem taking my time, leaving a whimpering and throbbing Jean under me.
When I was ready, I grabbed his hips and flipped his body over. He enthusiastically took this as a cue and rose up on all fours.
I wish I could tell you that I took it slow and romantic, kissing down slowly to the small of his back, but this was not the time for that. We were too eager, and in that moment, I knew neither one of us had any desire to take this slow and steady. The only thing on my mind as I slathered up the remainder of the lube was how fast and hard I was going to fuck Jean into oblivion.
And he was ready for it.
My first entry was our slowest point, which was the most important. I heard Jean inhale sharply again and he bit at his knuckle, but when I stopped to make sure he was alright, he nodded frantically, as though he was worried that I was going to stop.
From that point on, I only got faster, currents of ecstasy pumping through my veins into Jean. His arms suddenly began to quiver from the pleasure and fatigue of holding himself up, and he fell onto his elbows. I kept his ass tighter against me as this happened, which tightened him around my cock more as well, and we each let out a groan.
I found my rhythm again, but this tighter position was driving me crazy. I could tell I wasn't going to be able to last, but I refused to slow my pacing. Jean's hand had found his own cock and was now pumping at it in time with the bucking of my hips. I grabbed onto him tightly with both hands, using them to pull him harder against me as I brought my hips to him.
"P-please," Jean whimpered. The growl was gone. I had tamed him. I never got to figure out was he was saying 'please' for though. With three hard, final thrusts, I finished with loud grunt. Jean bunched the sheets in his left hand as his warm cum trickled over his right. He let out a wordless moan that he had clearly been trying to suppress as he collapsed beneath me.
I flipped him around and lowered myself onto him, our bodies sticky with sweat and cum.
I loved it. The way bare skin felt on bare skin. I licked at his neck, reveling in the now salty taste.
After a fairly innocent, much needed shower together, we tucked ourselves into bed early. For the first time that week, we slept in the same bed together, and Jean seemed pleased to be able to give the sofa up.
We didn't discuss anything that had happened. We didn't discuss fashion, and we didn't discuss our relationship, real or fiction. We just let it all be for the evening and fell asleep quickly, once again with bare skin on bare skin, my arms wrapped around him and held tight against his back. |
It’s a rare morning where Stiles wakes before Derek.
He’s found that over the months Derek has only become more akin to his scent, his heartbeat, when Stiles moves, Derek shifts, when Stiles reaches for the werewolf, he already has his hand waiting. It had shocked Stiles initially, just how easy it was for the brunette to match his own tempo, calming the teen in the process, but Derek did always fall hard for those in his sights.
Derek hasn’t yet stirred. A few seconds after Stiles’ heartbeat picks up with consciousness, Derek is always trailing behind, stirring, turning toward Stiles with a good morning, even if his face doesn’t look positively refreshed.
This morning, however, Stiles has already been awake for a few minutes, simply watching Derek’s bare back rise and fall aided by his steady, even breathing. They had stumbled into the loft the previous night exhausted, dirt tracks on the hardwood, anxious heart and tired limbs. There’s something stalking the preserve, evading sight and capture, making the pack uneasy with tension. Derek had run himself into near exhaustion, Stiles is glad he’s finally resting.
Derek’s room is just an extension of the loft, wide-open windows, exposed brick-work, a dark, minimal color scheme. A king bed is shoved against the windows, headboard being the only cover for the morning sun peeking directly into the vast space. But after months, the space finally looks lived in. There’s a shirt on the floor, keys on the table, Isaac’s dishes piling up in the sink. Derek finally invested in a coffeemaker, a painting, extra sheets and blankets for pack meetings that run late, throw pillows with embroidery.
Sometimes it’s hard to fathom that the man Stiles looks at for comfort and guidance was the very one who told him to get off his property when he was a gangly, blushing teenager. Most of the time he can’t bother to be nostalgic, not with his course work, not with the mythical flavor of the week, not with pack meetings, not with learning Derek over and over again.
But sometimes, during those moments where it’s still and calm, when the noise breaks, when he can finally catch his breath, he enjoys it.
He watches Derek’s tattoo move between the crests of his shoulder blades, he notices how his hair is getting longer, how the duvet his resting temptingly on the jut of his hipbone, how his skin is sleep warm and he still smells faintly like the preserve.
Stiles realizes that after all of it, after every single thing Derek has been through, he doesn’t even have a single, ragged scar to show for it.
--
When Stiles looks back on it, the initial trip was something like a Godsend. He couldn’t voice it, not when he could feel something between himself and Derek changing after every county and highway they passed. He couldn’t describe the complexity of it even if he tried.
A lot had changed between the two. Not simply by comparison alone, not simply by time. He could look back on any of his relationships with the pack, and otherwise, and know that certain circumstances had built trust, had severed bonds, had changed world views, had tested them all to the limits.
This was so much beyond that, as intricate and delicate and life altering and fragile as a brittle bone. Stiles had gone beyond tolerating Derek in his adolescence to respecting him as a young adult to cherishing him without reserve. That was the biggest difference between the pair and the pack, while Stiles loved his friends deeply, he was not in love with them.
It didn’t terrify him as much as he would have thought. Perhaps the idea had already been there, buried deep among his demons, among the spirit that used his body as nothing but a vessel of terror, among the dangers and his own anxieties. He hadn’t always known he loved Derek, but when he realized it, the moment they were in a dark, isolated parking lot in the middle of Oregon, Derek eating a burger from a drive-thru, his profile washed out and sharp and gorgeous, Stiles felt nothing but calm.
The memory still makes him smile, he still can’t believe that he had so much sheer courage built up to lean over and just test the option, of leaning further and kissing Derek in the most gentle, honest way he knew how. And Derek had let him, God did he kiss Stiles dizzy after that.
Coming back from the trip had done nothing but make Stiles hopeful of the future. There was a buzzing in his skin that he thought had been singed right out of him after the his dealing with the Nemeton.
He was not all the way better. He truthfully thought he would never be able to piece himself back together, not after months and certainly not after years. But he was getting there, slowly, and aided by Derek’s cautious hands.
—
Stiles knew a resolution would never be as easy as a quick trip out of the state. There was no ultimate action any of them could do to finally, finally live in some sort of fabricated peace. They all knew this, and even then, they all had decided to stay.
Scott had decided to enroll in the local community college instead of trying his luck at a bigger school, Stiles knew his best friend could have easily been accepted on his sportsmanship alone, but also he knew Scott had an itching to stay close. After losing Allison, after realizing himself a true alpha, after nearly destroying himself by protecting everyone he could, he still needed help.
In the end, Kira followed Scott, Stiles followed them, Isaac stayed with Derek, and Derek looked after them all. They would meet a few times a week, sometimes everyday, sometimes just once, but what Stiles noticed was they all lacked routine, they all sought comfort. Everyone was still rattled by the present they found themselves in, Beacon Hills felt icy and unfamiliar, nothing like the quaint hometown they had grown up in.
Pack meetings would soon turn into something familiar, something they all looked forward to when there was no longer a threat looming above their heads, a guillotine just waiting to drop. No one was waiting for a shaky phone call, for another attack to startle them from their nights, no one was watching Stiles cryptically, wondering who was inside his head at any given moment.
Instead they found solace in each other, in Derek’s loft, in pizza and movie nights, in Stiles falling asleep atop a text book, in finding Scott and Kira kissing in Derek’s room because they had gotten lost, in Isaac buying scarfs for everyone for Christmas, even sending one to Lydia at Stanford, in Derek cooking for them and letting them stay over as often as they wanted.
In the way Derek held his hand during car rides, in Derek bringing him to the cemetery on the anniversary of the fire, in Derek waiting up for him after his night class, in Derek counting his own fingers so Stiles knows it’s not a dream.
—
He decides he wants to enroll in the police academy only a few months following the trip. Stiles’ dad isn’t very surprised, but he isn’t overly fond of the idea of his only son putting himself in another form of harms way.
Derek is livid.
“Why would you want to contribute to it?”
“I don’t understand how you thought this wouldn’t be logical step for me?”
“Because you saw your dad, you saw how many times he was too close—you want to put yourself in that same position?”
Stiles raises his hands as if in surrender, dropping them to harshly slap against his thighs. “As if I already haven’t been for the last years, Derek!”
“Not like that, Stiles, I’ve been—“
“Protecting me, I know. But what happens when you can’t?” he asks genuinely, and something in his voice must strike Derek as begging because he stops.
Stiles can see the way Derek’s shoulders tense, how his eyes become direct, face stony.
“I always will.”
“You can’t guarantee that. Nobody can, Derek.”
He looks like he wants to argue, he always does when it involves Stiles’ safety, but instead he simply looks at him. His eyes don’t shift, he watches Stiles as if he’ll bolt, as if he’ll say something even worse.
Stiles approaches him slowly, takes in the way Derek’s hand twitches into a fist, how his back becomes rigid and ramrod straight, how he looks away the very moment Stiles gets into his personal space.
Stiles hovers there, looking at Derek’s profile, his chest just inches away from the ball of Derek’s shoulder. He can feel the werewolf’s heat, his energy, he can sense more than he ever had before, but not everything.
“I have to figure out a way to protect myself because you can’t be there all the time. I’ve always been a notary member of Beacon Hill’s finest, why not make it official?”
Derek says nothing, just turns his head enough to look at Stiles, so serious it jogs a memory, of Derek before, when Kate still had him choking on the last smoke of the fire.
“I have to do this, Derek. You need to understand that,” his voice is quiet, pleading.
Derek still says nothing.
—
They reach a compromise sometime in the early morning, neither of them having slept since Derek reached over to turn the light off.
Stiles knows why the werwolf is opposed to it, it’s the very same reason Derek always puts himself in front of Stiles in the face of a threat. To protect, to surrender his own well being for his mate without a doubt in his mind.
Stiles doesn’t want to feel helpless, doesn’t want someone sacrificing themselves for his sake when he has enough goddamn sense to fight back.
He might have to tell Derek that one day, but not yet.
He swings an arm around Derek’s waist, mumbles into his back I’m not going to be an alpha husband without a few moves of my own, he gets a snort from the brunette and a hand curling around his own.
It’s not conventional and not the end of the issue, but it’s enough for both of them to fall asleep.
—
Stiles had once told Derek how things hadn’t gotten easier, but they were better.
He had been speaking about his dad then, months ago in a small room at a lodge, reaching out for Derek’s hand with some other bout of courage. On the road, in hotel rooms, in the woods chasing Derek’s wolf, it all felt infinitely simpler. It felt like Stiles could have told him anything, could have suggested they go here and Derek would have, could have told him how much the Nogitsune had torn down every careful attempt to feel sane, and Derek would have listened, those pale, green eyes would have never left Stiles’ face.
And the truth of it is that things don’t get easier.
It’s not easy to have Lydia away from them, it’s not easy to have trouble rolling towards them like storm waves, it’s not easy to protect those that are still left for it.
It’s not easy watching Derek limping toward him, clutching his side, blood so deep in his fingertips it has lined around every nail, nearly black.
“I’m fine—“
Stiles is right by his side, his dad is on a late shift, but everyone knows where the first aid kit is by now.
“God, Derek,” Stiles is helping him up the stairs of the porch, through the open door, and onto the couch. He knows he can’t do much that Derek’s healing won’t already take care of, but he goes to the kitchen, gets a clean rag damp with water and tries to breathe.
Derek has both hands still resting limply against his right side, thighs relaxed open, head resting against the back of the couch, eyes closed. Stiles can see blood smeared on his neck, not his own, Stiles doesn’t think.
The couch dips under his weight, but Derek doesn’t open his eyes, so trusting of Stiles now that he doesn’t think twice about it. Stiles doesn’t notice these little details until they are alone like this, he doesn’t know if he should be relieved Derek trusts him with his life.
Stiles bumps their knees together to get the werewolf’s attention. Derek’s head lulls to his left, eyes open a spectacular green, it always makes Stiles’ stomach ache.
Stiles raises the rag to Derek’s face, wipes off the blood already dried on his forehead, tries to get it out from bunching in his hair. He folds the rag to a clean side, wipes the iron from Derek’s neck, can make out the fingertips there, he wipes those away first.
He takes one of Derek’s hands, no longer embracing a wound Stiles can’t see, one that has already healed in the short time. Derek lets Stiles clean every finger, rubbing at his nails, not speaking, mechanical.
“This is why,” he says quietly, the words ringing loudly in the silent house.
Derek waits for him to continue, but Stiles grabs for the other bloodied hand. Derek lets him continue his process. Between his middle and ring finger, Stiles speaks again.
“You won’t always be able to do this, you can’t expect me to be okay just fixing you up when I didn’t even know—“
“They’re safe—“ Derek tries.
“But what about you?”
“I’m fine, Stiles—“
Stiles juts forward, body turning towards Derek, “Stop—will you just listen to me! One day you won’t be, one day you’re going to be a selfish asshole just to protect everybody else and then what? Then it will just be me because you didn’t want to me to at least try.”
They fall silent. Stiles looks away in frustration, Derek looks ahead and thinks about just what Stiles is really saying.
“You realize how unfair that is, don’t you?” there’s a croak in Stiles’ voice, it’s thick with emotion but he’s trying to keep it even.
“I can’t let anything happen to you.”
Derek can hear Stiles’ heartbeat pick up, can feel how his skin is getting hotter. Stiles can sense something warm, without end between the two.
“God,” Stiles chokes, “you’re so annoyingly valiant,” but he’s laughing through it.
He reaches for Derek's hand, still stained with blood and dirt and every worry he has always worn, and he brings it up to his dry lips for a tender kiss.
“It’s going to take a lot to ever get rid of me, you know. Even you’re going to get sick of me.”
Derek smiles at that. He almost wants to cry.
“No, I won’t.”
—
But the truth is that things do get better, too.
Not all at once, not overnight, and only after Stiles realizes there has been more good than there’s been in sometime.
He notices it in the way the Beacon Hills doesn’t feel so distant anymore, in the way that his dad’s face doesn’t look etched with worry, in how Melissa comes over for dinner, in how complete the pack feels when Lydia comes to visit.
More than anything, Stiles feels it.
Feels it when he settles in next to Derek, feels it when he’s surrounded by pack, feels it in his very core when Derek is hot inside him. It races inside his veins like a wildfire, slow and warm and it aches because it feels so numbingly beautiful.
Derek had told him once why it feels different now, why it feels like they’re burning alive, why he isn’t afraid by any of it.
Stiles groans into the duvet, fingers wrung tight around the fabric bunched in his hands. His back keeps stretching farther, legs taut where they’re bent, thighs slapping against Derek’s by the grip of his rough hands.
Derek puckers his lips around the top notch of Stiles’ spine, licks around it, trying to suck another mark onto him. Stiles is slick with a thin veil of sweat and Derek adores tasting him when he’s like this, ripe and seedy it almost makes him feral.
“Derek—“
“You drive me crazy,” he breathes the words hotly onto Stiles’ pale skin, sears them with his mouth so he’ll remember.
Stiles makes a noise like it’s been punched out of him, rises onto the balls of his palms and bucks backwards. He hears something rumble in Derek’s chest, feels him crumble a little around him.
“Fuck, hold still—“
Stiles keeps going, shoving himself back onto Derek’s cock, legs trembling, arms in danger of giving out until they finally do. His elbows give himself enough traction to continue, hips undulating like waves, rolling and he knows it’s making Derek lose himself with how much his chest won’t stop vibrating, so deep Stiles can feel it inside where they’re joined.
Derek watches as his cock is wedged tight between Stiles’ ass, watches as Stiles’ ass bounces each time he rears back into Derek’s pelvic bone, grinding himself down like an animal in heat. He can see the strain of Stiles’ hole, red and stretched, Derek still has Stiles’ taste in his mouth, wishes his jaw still ached by how long he drove his tongue into him. He lets spit dribble out of his mouth, rubs in around Stiles’ hole, the slickness making his hips shudder. It doesn’t escape Derek the way Stiles bites around the skin of his own arm.
Derek shifts them up the mattress, Stiles reaches for a pillow to hold onto. Derek keeps his hips tight against Stiles, brings his chest to rest against Stiles’ back, a hand slips underneath him, all the way across his chest to hold onto his throat.
“Yeah, oh fuck, fuck, fuck . . .”
Derek’s strong thighs bracket Stiles’ limps ones, his cock striking sharp into his mate, makes him wince with pleasure, little cries coming out of his mouth, his breathing becoming strained and rough. Derek can feel Stiles’ pulse tapping against the thin skin of his throat, directly under his palm, its alight with life and trying to keep up. Derek tightens his grip just a bit, Stiles groans dirty into the pillow, Derek can smell the way Stiles’ cock is leaking at the attention.
“Shit,” Derek growls, pleasure pooling thick in his gut, crackling up his spine like electricity. Stiles answers him with another fluttering noise, his own hand coming to rest atop of Derek’s, still caged possessive around his throat.
“Bite me,” Stiles commands him, voice fucked out and honest, he’s hungry for it.
I would have let you do anything, Derek remembers him saying once, so he does.
—
Stiles is turned toward him, on his side, amber eyes tired, but trying to blink themselves awake. Derek has a hand curled loosely at the small of his mate’s back, keeping them close.
The bite isn’t deep, not enough to turn someone, but Derek can see each indent of his teeth, the skin around it flared and red.
“Do you think it’ll scar?” Stiles asks him and Derek doesn’t know. But it won’t fade, claiming marks stay with someone forever, even beneath the surface.
He wonders if that’s the same as any ordinary scar.
“I hope it does,” Stiles continues, sleepy and warm with only something they can feel, “you have enough of them for us to share.”
Before Derek can ask him what he means by that, Stiles’ breathing evens out, his eyes slip closed.
But Derek doesn’t have to ask, not really.
Stiles will tell him later if he wants to, but for now, Derek lets him sleep. He’ll always be there when Stiles wakes up.
|
Yoongi is barely conscious when he hears what seem to be strained sounds coming from above him. He's a big fan of sleep, however, so with a mumbled "Keep it down" and the silence that comes afterwards, he fully plans to drift back into dreamland.
He's almost there when he hears some faint ruffling and then the sound of skin slapping against more skin in an all-too-familiar pattern that has him rapidly regaining consciousness.
When he blinks open his eyes, he's still trying to get adjusted to the darkness of the room. He's squinting when he feels a warm huff of air against his face, and when his eyes finally focus, he's startled to see Taehyung's face in front of him.
"You little prick! What the fuck do you want so late at night!?" he snarls, irritated, and watches with growing horror the way Taehyung grins cheekily at him as his head bobbles steadily. Yoongi takes a quick surveillance of the situation and notes the way Taehyung's arms seem to be propping him up. The skin slapping sound echoes loudly in his ears and--
"What do you want!?" he demands with growing impatience and dread.
"I don't want anything." There's a tell-tale hitch in Taehyung's voice as he speaks, so Yoongi crawls backwards out of his covers to confirm what he'd feared all along: Taehyung's getting fucked right on top of him.
"You kinky piece of shit. Can't you do this in your own bed?!"
"Where's the fun in that?" Comes a new, different voice that Yoongi is still easily able to recognize as none other than the maknae himself.
"What he means is, we were going to do it in one of our beds but you've got the bottom bunk so we don't have to be scared of falling to our doom," Taehyung corrects easily while shifting his position so he's leaning on his elbows with his ass propped higher in the air. The new angle seems to have done something for the both of them as Taehyung gives a happy sigh and Jeongguk groans in satisfaction.
"I'll kick both of your asses if you don't get the fuck out right now," Yoongi hisses, wide awake now, and Taehyung looks at him through hooded eyes.
"Can't you let us finish?"
"And I should do that, why?" Yoongi sing-songs in mock happiness before glaring harshly at the snorting and cocky looking maknae.
"Because we all know you're probably just getting turned on by this," he sasses, never pausing his thrusts into his hyung underneath him.
Yoongi simply frowns, not exactly able to deny the statement. It's true: for whatever reason, it never takes long for him to be down to fuck because it's easy to get him worked up.
"Jeongguk!" Taheyung chastises, but he's obviously not all that mad. It kind of pisses Yoongi off more.
"You don't see him denying it," Jeongguk reminds, hooking a hand underneath Taehyung to wrap around his cock and pump it slowly. "Which is because it's true. He probably wants to join, even."
At that, Taehyung focuses his attention back on the glaring Yoongi in front of him and grins.
"You can, you know. If you want. You can suck me off."
"Or fuck his mouth," Jeongguk offers casually, grinning wickedly when Taehyung lifts his hand to show him the finger. "Aren't I already doing that?"
"You guys are the most troublesome brats, I swear," Yoongi mumbles. Simultaneously he pulls at his boxers to reveal his half hard erection and then reaches for Taehyung's chin, coaxing him up. He then slides back down the bed enough for his cock to line up with Taehyung's mouth and applies a small amount of pressure to the back of his head.
Getting the hint, Taehyung growls low in his throat, mumbling an almost inaudible "Fuck you, Jeon" before dipping down to take Yoongi's erection into his mouth. As if to award him for a job well done, Jeongguk shifts his angle again and starts shallowly thrusting while twisting his hand as he pumps Taehyung's cock. The other trembles underneath him, pushing his lower half backwards in a silent plea for more, and Jeongguk answers him by stopping his thrusts completely and pulling out.
"What the--" the question is cut off by Yoongi impatiently tugging his mouth back down to continue sucking him off. Begrudgingly, Taehyung returns to the task, bobbing his head up and down and dragging his tongue along the underside until he reaches the tip where he gives a few kitten-ish licks before pulling away and blowing cool air against it. By this point, Jeongguk has started to tease him by replacing his cock with his finger in Taehyung's hole, and it's all he can do not to pull off of Yoongi and yell at him. To distract himself, Taehyung moves a hand to play with the base of Yoongi's cock, this time dragging his thumb against the vein on the underside, before once again taking the length into his mouth. He holds Yoongi's hips down when he reflexively starts to jerk upwards. He's startled when he feels the finger inside him brush against his prostate, filling him with want.
Yoongi, noticing Taehyung's suffering, decides he's feeling generous enough to say something.
"Would you stop playing around and finish already? He looks ready to cry."
"Am not!" Taehyung shoots back defensively, this time moving away from Yoongi completely to turn towards Jeongguk. "And you! You fucking tease! Switch with me!"
"What!?" Jeongguk croaks, wide eyed, but Taehyung is already stepping off the bed.
"You heard me. On all fours."
Whimpering, Jeongguk does as he's told while Yoongi just stares down at him expectantly. With a sigh, he picks up where Taehyung left off, glaring when he feels Taehyung pat his head and lean close to his ear.
"Good boy."
He takes to prepping Jeongguk like the good hyung he is, getting further turned on by how vocal Jeongguk is as he does so, and the way his muscles shyly clench around his slick fingers as they prod around inside him. "What a good boy you are."
Yoongi glances down, both eyebrows arching in surprise when he's scarcely able to make out the faint pinkness of Jeongguk's cheeks as he goes down on him.
"Jeongguk has a praise kink. Why am I not surprised?"
"You probably shouldn't be," Taehyung says with a shrug as he lines himself up with Jeongguk's hole. He pushes in so painfully slow that Jeongguk hisses around Yoongi's cock, the vibrations of which make him jerk up into Jeongguk's mouth unexpectedly. Jeongguk gags around it a bit before pulling away, glancing up to Yoongi's apologetic gaze and taking a few seconds to recoup before dipping down again.
It's almost as if Taehyung times it because as soon as Jeongguk starts deep throating and pulls a pleasure-filled groan from Yoongi, Taehyung does the same for Jeongguk when he starts to thrust. Unconsciously Yoongi begins to fuck Jeongguk's mouth, but Jeongguk makes no move to stop him. He mumbles something around the length in his mouth that sounds suspiciously like Taehyung's name before being shushed into silence by a disgruntled-looking Yoongi.
"Unlike you horny brats, everyone else is still sleep. Keep it down," he orders in a voice heavy with lust, frustration, and exhaustion.
Neither of the two youngest bother up bringing up the fact that Yoongi was also participating in the increased volume, instead concentrating on their current task.
Taehyung comes first, having built up too much pleasure from being fucked first and then being squeezed by Jeongguk's tight ring. Jeongguk is right behind him, reaching his climax without anyone touching his cock and spilling his essence onto the now dirtied sheets. Yoongi is last and comes without warning into Jeongguk's mouth, causing Jeongguk to reel back slightly in surprise as some of Yoongi's come dribbles down his lip.
They all fall out of their positions and end up simply sitting on the bed with a comfortable silence between them.
"...I can't believe I just participated in that," Yoongi marvels with a distressed groan as he pulls his pillow to cover his face in shame. Jeongguk and Taehyung only smile victoriously at each other before sharing a high five.
"Was that good enough revenge for you?" Taehyung purrs into Jeongguk's ear and Jeongguk nods in agreement as he hooks his arm around the other's waist.
"Definitely." |
Sans
This “Valentine’s Day” thing is gonna be the end of me, I swear.
It’s mainly a couples thing, that much is obvious, but Paps recently informed me that people who care about each other in other ways also give each other “valentines.” He’s been working on valentines for me an’ Checkers for, like, a week. He won’t tell us what they are but couldn’t keep his mouth shut about the fact he had plans. His bosses and coworkers are getting some too, apparently, and he’s so excited it’s kinda scary.
So what do I do?
I’ve now got an obligation to get a valentine or some kind of gift for my brother, and that means I’ve gotta get one for Checkers, too, or she might feel left out, and that means I need to survive the minefield that is buying a love-themed thing for the friend I’m in love with without cluing her in to the fact that I love her in a definitely more-than-friendly way.
Startin’ to freak out a little, there, Sansy. Okay, cool it down. Valentine’s Day isn’t for another week.
One minefield at a time.
I train the pocket telescope on the rooftop of the office supply store across from the tall, dense hedge I’ve designated as the drop spot. The hedge runs around the front of one of the larger houses in town and butts up against a high wooden fence at the back. We’re on the outskirts of town, me and the guy I’m lookin’ at, and while I watch him, he watches the hedge and occasionally scans the surrounding area, looking for me. There’s another couple in a car around the side of the house, and one inside the shop, though with the lights off I can only see him if he’s close to the window and if he moves. That’s four pairs of eyes I’ve gotta avoid.
It’s late, it’s dark, it’s fucking cold, and the file I’m waiting for a chance to grab is in danger of getting snowed on.
Checkers would flip if she knew what I’ve been doing recently. Don’t know if she’d try to stop me or if she’d want to help, but either way, I figure it’s best not to tell her. She thinks I’m in the basement right now, building stuff. She doesn’t like to disturb me when I’m science-ing.
You’re a fucking liar, Sans Snowdin.
And Checkers deserves better.
Okay, lemme back up.
Remember when that little human girl went to the hospital after being hurt by magic? One of her monster schoolmates got too rough, and reading between the lines, it sounds to me like they were playing and being reckless. But of course there’s no way to tell for sure since the whole thing has been twisted and blown so far out of proportion it’s starting to seem to me like one of those unidentifiable balloon “animals” Paps and I saw at that fair last summer, and I want nothing more than to pop the fucker in the most dramatic way possible.
Our small-town elementary school has no security cameras, so there’s no footage of what happened. The only lasting evidence of the incident is the girl’s medical records. Now, breaking into small businesses is one thing, but breaking into a hospital? Heh, good luck. There’re cameras all over the place and, maybe worse, hospitals never sleep. The Medical Records people and cafeteria folks and some other groups go home for the day, but the halls are full of nurses and doctors and techs 24-7, and there’s no way I could access an internal computer without getting caught. With no way to get those records all by myself, I had to enlist help.
By that, I mean I followed some doctors, techs, nurses, janitors, and last but not least the girl’s parents around until I finally found a different kind of evidence: I got some pictures of the girl’s mom meeting a secret lover at a seedy motel. (He was wearing a leather mask and short shorts, carrying a whip, and was about three hundred pounds. I was sorta impressed, in an “Oh my god what the hell?” kinda way.) Since the kid’s a minor, her mom’s in charge of making her treatment decisions and has access to all her medical records if she wants them. After a short telephone conversation, she decided she really, really wanted them.
Thank god for scumbags.
Of course, this whole thing has basically bitten me in the ass. I grumble to myself as I scan the area again: flash of reflected light from the roof, dim shift of motion behind the shop window, shadows in the car parked ‘round the side. I told her no police. And I know she heard me. Gotta bite the bullet on this one and admit I misjudged her. Her anger at me is obviously stronger than her fear that her dirty secret will get out. If only all scumbags were cowards. It would make life so much easier. Jeez, lady, don’t’cha know it’s nothing personal?
I heave a sigh and put the telescope back into its little case, stowing it in my pocket.
I know what I need to do, but damn. Aside from the danger of arrest and the certainty of pain, which I am not looking forward to, I might give away the fact that magic was involved in this fiasco. That’ll narrow their suspects down to several thousand, but they’re a several thousand I’m pretty protective of, and I don’t want to implicate them in this sort of thing.
Hell, that file’s probably a decoy. Maybe there’s nothing useful in it. But this kid’s only eight. She’s already a rallying point for the anti-monster movement. If there’s a chance that file’s the real deal, I need to try and get it.
I scratch my cervical vertebrae, grumbling quietly. No help for it.
I wrap my phalanges around the weft of the world, preparing to tug at it, and hesitate for just a moment.
This is gonna suck.
I can’t just stick my arm into a proverbial hole in space and feel around for the file. I’m not making actual portals, here: I’m messing with reality itself. And space gets confused if you’re in two places at once. Spontaneous dissolution happens. Gotta avoid creating the kind of situation where my arm stays hundreds of feet away from my body long enough for space to figure out something’s amiss and resume its natural shape. Try it and I’ll come out of this with one less limb.
Aaaugh. It’s holly, too. Pointy fuckin’ leaves and all.
I screw my eye sockets tightly closed and slide behind the weave of the world. A moment later, I’m crammed into the bushes, with no intermediate step of making room for myself.
Hard, tightly-packed branches rake at me, leaving burning trails on my body. Stiff, pointed leaves like little thorns scratch at every piece of exposed bone. The hedge is so thick that by the time I settle on a position, I’ve twisted into a sort of pretzel shape, winding around the larger branches as much as possible. I’ve never been so glad to be small and bony. Heh. At least the holly is dense enough that, from the outside, there’s probably almost no movement. Some rustling, maybe, but that’s it. With luck, they’ll just think a raccoon is poking around in here.
I saw where the lady left the file, so I know it’s close. But I’m afraid to open my eyes to look for it. I might have nightmares of branches gouging my eye sockets as it is. I start patting around on the ground, feeling for the smoothness of the file folder, as I hear a car door shut. A second later, another slams. Muttered voices drift to me on the chill night air. One of them is familiar. Tomlinson. Aw, geez. Sorry, man. I’m about to make a fool outta someone I genuinely like. I feel like a heel.
Footsteps crunch on the pavement. Shit. Here they come.
My groping fingers find the file and trace it to its edge. I grip it tightly and, as the sound of approaching footsteps draws rapidly closer, I slip through the earth directly beneath me and drop onto the carpet in my living room. Paps, who’s been putting on his jogging shoes, makes a sound like a startled duck. The “gateway” snaps closed behind me, the weave of the world reconfiguring itself as suddenly as I’d distorted it, and I finally turn my weary gaze to the file folder. I hold it up, open it, and several forms, prescription copies, and a couple of x-ray films fall out.
Got it.
I sigh and let my arms flop to the ground, exhausted and bleeding from a hundred stabs and scratches. I have a moment of perfect peace before Paps starts shouting.
“BROTHER! WHAT IS THIS? WHAT HAS HAPPENED? YOU ARE BLEEDING ALL OVER THE CARPET! QUICKLY, TO THE KITCHEN!” He picks me up, tucks me under one arm like a bundle of laundry, and hustles to the kitchen, presumably to get me onto a surface that wipes clean and doesn’t stain. He plops me into my preferred chair. I sink down and lay my head on the table. I’m starting to shake: my body’s not reacting well to all the damage.
I don’t feel right.
Shit.
I hear Checkers’s door open. Paps’s outcry must have woken her. She comes into the kitchen like a ray of sunlight bursting through a layer of clouds, all sleepy and mussed and exactly what I needed to see. Not that rays of sunlight are sleepy and mussed. Just… I’m rambling now. Sorry.
“Oh, god, Sans!” Checkers pulls up a chair to sit next to me. “You’re bleeding!” She pauses, taking in the fact that all the damage is superficial. Then she asks the obvious question. “How are you bleeding?”
“profusely,” I mutter, shaking harder. It’s not exactly true; I’m not losing that much blood and I’m not seriously injured. I’ve even fully recovered from that dumbass shower thing. The real problem here is… well, you might’ve figured it out by now. I’m smaller than I should be, I don’t have much energy, it’s pretty obvious I’m not… ugh. Not as healthy as I could be. There, I said it.
“I WILL GET THE FIRST AID KIT,” Paps announces. “SANS, YOU MUST TRY TO KEEP YOUR BLOOD ON THE INSIDE WHERE IT BELONGS.”
“sure thing, bro,” I mumble. The room sways for a moment. I squint at it and it stabilizes. Yay me.
Checkers tries to stroke my skull, but she can’t seem to find an uninjured area. Finally she lays her hand at the back of my head near my cervical vertebrae. She gasps. “You’re so cold! Oh, not again!”
“aw, i’m okay,” I try to reassure her. “could use some coffee and a good long nap, but…”
“Don’t give me that!” she snaps, her voice full of a desperate worry that I feel guilty for causing. “I know you like your privacy, but I’m your friend, and you’re hurt! I want to know what happened!” As she speaks, she scoots her chair over until it’s fitted against mine, and she takes me in her arms and pulls me into her lap like a doll.
“ow,” I protest as Checkers wraps her arms more firmly around me. God, she’s so warm. Immediately, I feel the wrongness in my body subside a little. My chest warms slightly as my ailing soul finds new strength.
“You’re so cold,” Checkers mutters against my skull. “Why are you so cold?”
I reach for a pun or at least a witty remark, don’t find one, and, feeling Checkers’s worry with a strange, sudden sharpness, I surprise myself by opting for honesty.
“our bodies aren’t like yours,” I say, leaning into her a little more, leaching off her heat. I hear a clatter and shout upstairs that’s probably Paps discovering I’ve used almost all the band-aids to cover the big hole in my mattress. Luckily, my stupid body is finally starting to heal itself. I can feel the scratches on my more sensitive parts itching as they begin to knit. “monsters’ bodies and souls are almost the same thing,” I continue as Checkers listens. “my body heat? that’s excess magic dissipating as one of energy’s simplest forms. right now my magic is going towards healing myself, so there’s none left over to diffuse as heat.”
Checkers’s eyes are wide as she looks at me. “That… is so cool,” she says, and I chuckle weakly at the pun. A moment later, she laughs. Guess she didn’t make it on purpose. “But,” she continues, “I thought monsters could handle a lot of damage. Right? Unless there’s malice involved.” She frowns at me and I can practically see thunderheads of fury gathering around her. “Sans, did someone do this to you?”
“oh, hell, no, not at all,” I hurry to explain. My voice is getting slowly weaker, and I have to exert more energy to make myself heard, but I figure it’s worth it. “most monsters can heal damage like this in a heartbeat, but i’m… weak, i guess? don’t ask why. just, my soul doesn’t handle injuries the way other monsters’ souls do.” I almost stop there, but I can feel Checkers’s inquisitiveness waxing, and I have to remind myself that human bodies are very different and maybe I should give her some basic info on monsters and injuries. “there’s a… a division, i guess, of damage, that happens when one of us gets hurt. the soul takes the hurt from the body, takes the damage, and then recovers. souls are generally pretty resilient. but mine… it isn’t like that. it can’t handle this sort of thing, but it tries anyway, and…”
“You hurt your soul?” She sounds appalled.
“i’ll be okay,” I tell her, and can’t help adding, “gotta soul-dier on, right?”
“Augh,” Checkers says, laughs, and holds me tighter. I’m getting blood on her pajamas. Man. Maybe I can do her laundry later to make up for it. Orange juice gets blood out, right? … Maybe laundry isn’t the best idea. I’ll come up with something later. I snuggle closer to her and am too out-of-it to even be embarrassed about that.
“You’re getting a little warmer,” she says. “Are you feeling any better?”
Come to think of it, I am. I really am. And now that I’m not struggling to heal myself anymore, weariness flattens me like a runaway steamroller. “yeah,” I murmur, eye sockets sliding shut. “loads.” Laundry pun. She’ll never know. It’s hilarious.
“Why are you laughing?” Checkers asks, a bit suspiciously.
I decline to answer on the grounds that I’ve passed out.
* * * * *
You
You stroke the back of Sans’s skull gently as you listen to Papyrus rummaging upstairs. The way your small friend has gone limp tells you he’s fallen asleep. His breathing evens out and his body seems to melt into yours, releasing all the tiny tensions you hadn’t even known were there.
Beyond the doorway you can see the file and some of its scattered papers out of the corner of your eye.
“Sans,” you murmur quietly against the side of his head, “What have you been doing?” And, your inner voice adds silently, why wasn’t I a part of it?
That’s the worst part, isn’t it? After everything the two of you have been through together, after telling you that he’d include you in this, he’s still leaving you behind, shutting you out, keeping you away from all the parts of himself he won’t, or can’t, share.
You trail a hand over his blood-sticky hoodie, idly playing with a new tear in the fabric. You feel a twinge in your own skin, as if, for a moment, you’re sharing the pain associated with the damage. You sigh, arms tightening around Sans involuntarily.
If he was just another friend, you’d be all right with his emotional isolation. But Sans is so much more to you than that. In some ways, you’ve never been as close to anyone in your whole life as you are to him. In other ways… well, it’s like there’s a wall between the two of you that Sans carefully maintains and which you’re starting to think you may never be able to breach. The possibility sits like a cinderblock on your chest, pressing the breath from you.
You don’t know why, after everything you’ve shared, he’s still keeping you at arm’s length. But…
You grip Sans’s hoodie in your fists and hold him tightly as a spasm of pain knifes through you.
He’s so alone.
He doesn’t have to be so alone.
With the thought, you find everything in you straining towards Sans, as if you might be able to help him in his struggles, ease his pain, by the power of your will alone. And, gradually, you become aware of a strange sensation, as if a warm stream of water is moving within you. It feels natural, as if it’s been there all your life, and you’re caught for a moment in the disorienting and somewhat disturbing feeling that you’ve suddenly discovered you have an eleventh finger, or another ear under your hair.
For a moment, you’re afraid. The flow of the “water” slows in response, reverses direction, begins trickling towards your center rather than out through your…
Through your hands. And into Sans.
What… is this?
You hesitantly reach for Sans again with your… your mind? Your emotions? It takes a second or two to redirect the flow back outwards, but it sluggishly complies. Once you feel a connection has been firmly established, you lift your hand slightly away from Sans and scrutinize the space between his body and your palm. Is there a subtle waver in the air there, like a heat shimmer? Or are you just imagining things? You snort softly to yourself. You’re probably trying too hard, fooling yourself into feeling and seeing things that aren’t there.
Papyrus stomps back down the stairs carrying the plastic tub containing the house’s first aid accoutrements and catches you staring at your hand as it hovers over Sans’s skull.
“YOU CAN PET HIM IF YOU LIKE. I PROMISE HE DOES NOT BITE.” The tall skeleton cackles at his own joke. You don’t laugh.
“Is he going to be okay?” You were on the verge of asking about the strange (new? old?) feeling you’re experiencing, but if it’s nothing, you don’t want to seem foolish. And poor Sans is such a mess. You can’t shake the fear that his injuries are worse than they seem.
“HE WILL BE FINE, SISTER. YOUR CONCERN IS QUITE TOUCHING!” Papyrus ruffles your hair before opening the first aid kit. As he pulls out lengths of bandage, he continues, “HE ARRIVED HOME ALIVE, SO HE CAN ONLY GET BETTER. AFTER ALL, WHAT DOES NOT KILL US MAKES US STRONGER!” The lanky skeleton “flexes” to punctuate his statement. You finally allow yourself a small giggle.
“You’re sure?” you ask, already relaxing a little. “Good. That’s good.” The final words are muttered under your breath, semi-conscious attempts to release the last of your anxiety. You jostle Sans gently and sing softly in his earhole, “Sans? CB? You’ve gotta get up, honey. We need to clean your scratches.” For some reason, you find yourself speaking to him as if he’s a child. When he stirs, but only to grip you around the middle and groan into your shirt, you chuckle and bump him again. “Come on, Sansy, time to wake up.”
“’n m’rnin umn…”
“Those aren’t even words,” you inform him good-naturedly, shaking him a little harder.
“are too,” he mumbles, and goes back to sleep. Papyrus groans in frustration. He doesn’t find Sans’s sleepy mornings nearly as cute as you do.
You sigh, smirk, and blow a puff of air into Sans’s earhole.
“khh!” Sans startles awake, hands fisting into your shirt, and freezes when he finds his face inches from yours. His pupils shrink, and then expand, focusing on your eyes. “h-hi,” he stammers, seeming a little woozy still.
“Hi,” you say back, amused. “We need to clean and bandage you.”
“oh,” he replies. “oh, yeah, okay.”
Papyrus sets a bowl of warm water on the table and hands you a damp washcloth. He wields a second one in his bony hand and commands, “BROTHER, REMOVE YOUR CLOTHING FORTHWITH.”
Sans chokes and looks at you, blushing. You shrug. “You’re a skeleton,” you tell him. “Don’t tell me you have something you need to protect from prying eyes.”
Sans gives you a mild glare as he slides out of your arms, taking a chair of his own. “you wouldn’t be so blasé if i told you to get naked,” he grumbles. Now it’s your turn to blush. Sullenly, Sans starts removing his hoodie. Almost immediately, he stops, a small sound of pain escaping him.
“Wait, wait,” you tell him, stilling his hands with your own. You proceed to slowly peel his bloody hoodie away from his shoulders yourself. The blood has started to dry, and some of his wounds reopen as you pull the cloth away as gently as you can. Sans grunts. “Sorry!” you say.
“don’t be,” he responds. “’s my own damn fault.” Once again, he tries to remove the jacket himself, but you softly push his hands out of the way. Then Papyrus steps around behind his brother, grabs the back of the hoodie, and tears it off in one quick motion.
“eeyowtch!” Sans whips around to glare at Papyrus. Many of his injuries are seeping blood again: you can see the spreading patches on his t-shirt.
“YOU ARE SLOW,” your gangly friend announces. “WE DO NOT HAVE ALL MORNING.” With that, he grabs the shoulders of Sans’s t-shirt as if to rip it off as well.
“s-stop!” Sans grabs at his hem, and the brothers briefly struggle against each other, Papyrus pulling upwards and Sans dragging doggedly downwards.
“Boys! Boys!” you intervene loudly. The two of them stop briefly to look at you. You scramble for something to distract Papyrus with. “Doesn’t Sans need food in order to heal properly?” you ask. You don’t know much about how monsters’ bodies work, but the food-to-energy equation seems to apply to them as much as it does to humans.
“YES, OF COURSE!” Papyrus latches onto the idea like a puppy with a toy rope. He springs to the refrigerator and starts pulling out ingredients with the energetic joy cooking always brings out of him. “I SHALL MAKE THE LARGEST AND MOST MAGNIFICENT BREAKFAST THAT HAS EVER BEEN EATEN, AND YOU, SISTER, CAN CLEAN AND DRESS OUR BROTHER’S WOUNDS… IF YOU CAN WINKLE HIM OUT OF HIS CLOTHING. HE SEEMS VERY ATTACHED TO IT TODAY.”
“it’s attached to me,” Sans grouches, tugging at his shirt. You wince in sympathy.
“We’ll go slow, okay?” you say, taking his hem and peeling it upwards a centimeter at a time. When you reach his ribcage, you gasp. Scratches and cuts criss-cross his bones, some so deep they’re more like gouges. Most of them have scabbed over, but several are still bleeding, and more break open when you pull the t-shirt away from them. “Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick,” you breathe, dismayed.
Sans snickers. “is that one of roxy’s?”
“Usually,” you admit. “I only use it on special occasions.” Your eyes rise to meet his. “Are you going to be okay?”
“i’ll be fine,” he reassures you. “i actually feel better than i thought i would.” His eyes wander away, taking on a distant, thoughtful expression, and he mutters, “weird.”
“YES, BROTHER, YOU ARE RECOVERING REMARKABLY WELL,” Papyrus interjects, glancing over his shoulder at the two of you. “I AM SURPRISED YOU ARE CONSCIOUS. CLEARLY, I HAVE HAD A POSITIVE INFLUENCE ON YOU!”
“‘cause obviously, health is just a matter of willpower,” Sans grumbles.
“Sarcasm is beneath you,” you tell him archly, and recommence removing his shirt.
“aww, but it’s so easy,” Sans whines, and then winces as you tug the tee over his head. You wad up the ruined shirt and toss it onto the table.
“I AM MAKING CROISSANTS, AND IF YOU ARE SARCASTIC AGAIN YOU WILL NOT GET ANY,” Papyrus scolds, not bothering to turn and look at his brother.
“You’re so snitty this morning,” you add, not without fondness, as you reach for a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
“everything hurts, and it’s not morning until the sun is up.” Sans is still grouchy, but he’s smiling a little now.
You apply some peroxide to a clean rag and dab at one of the deeper cuts on his ribcage. You can see him struggling not to flinch. “Can monsters get infections?” you find yourself asking.
“yeah, but they just prevent wounds from healing. i heard they can make humans sick, even kill them?” The last is phrased like a statement but presented as a question.
“They can,” you confirm. You’re focused on cleaning Sans’s wounds, and don’t look up at his face.
“sounds inconvenient.” There’s a slight tension in his voice that wasn’t there before, accompanied by a stiffening of his body. You chalk it up to pain and keep disinfecting, but you do respond with a nod.
“Can monsters bleed to death?” you ask next.
“sort of?” Sans sounds uncertain. You lean close to him to clean a cut on his collarbone. The wound wraps around the delicate bone, ending on the inner surface near his vertebrae. He must have twisted as whatever-it-was raked him, to get a scratch like this. “it’s more from loss of magic,” Sans continues, voice tight. “magic and blood are connected. if you’re hurt like that… aah…”
“Sorry.”
“’s okay. you lose magic when you lose blood, and whatever magic you have left is being consumed in the healing process. if too much magic drains out or gets used up, there’s nothing left to keep us together. we’re made of the stuff, after all.” He grips your hand in his, stopping your cleaning efforts. “let me finish that one?”
“It’s done already,” you inform him. “Why didn’t your pseudo-flesh protect you?” You start on his face. He watches you work from a distance of centimeters, expression intense and oddly conflicted.
“it did. just couldn’t protect me from everything.”
“God, Sans, you can feel through that stuff, right?”
“uh-huh.” Your face is so close to his you can feel his breath brush against you. Your heart chooses this inappropriate time to stutter and clench, and you have to remind your hand to keep moving.
“It must have hurt so much,” you mumble, almost to yourself.
“wasn’t so bad,” Sans replies with a shrug. Because you’ve been resting your elbow on his shoulder joint, this disrupts your equilibrium and you accidentally slap him across the face with the rag.
“Oops! Sorry!”
“why you gotta rag on me?”
“I changed my mind. I’m not sorry.” You flap the rag against his cheek again. Sans chuckles. You move around to his back.
“They’re everywhere. What were you doing?”
“i, uh, i ‘ported into a holly hedge.”
“Har har, funny bones.”
“no, really, that shit is way worse than it sounds. for real.”
You pause, blinking. “Holly hedge?”
“holly hedge.”
You have to stick your fingers between two of Sans’s ribs to reach a gouge that, if he can be believed, is from a branch that literally impaled him. He gasps and grips the edge of the table. The pale blue light in his chest flickers brightly for a moment, like a loose light bulb.
“We should get one for the yard. We can train it to eat anyone who comes too close.”
Sans laughs at that. When you ask your next question, though, the atmosphere sobers immediately.
“Why are you still keeping me out of this?” You reach for the bandages and begin the process of wrapping them around his torso. You don’t need to cover every scratch; you only need to protect them from dirt and debris, so there’s no need to bandage each bone individually.
“dunno,” Sans says quietly. “i don’t want you to get hurt? don’t want you to worry or argue with me?”
“I guess those are reasons,” you say doubtfully. “They might even be convincing if you didn’t start with ‘dunno.’”
You’re at his back, so you can’t see his face, but his posture droops a little. His phalanges play an anxious tattoo on the table. For once in his life, he’s silent.
“You really don’t know, huh?”
“i have some guesses.” His voice is so low the sound of sizzling bacon from Papyrus’s masterpiece-in-the-making almost drowns it out.
“You don’t have to do this all alone.”
Sans starts to turn, as if to look at you, but you push on his shoulder to keep him facing forward. Most of his gouges have stopped bleeding again, and you’d like to keep it that way. You almost don’t hear Sans mumble, “i’ve been doing things on my own for so long… i just don’t know how to…”
You’re reaching for Sans again, not physically but emotionally. You didn’t even will it; it’s happening naturally. This time, you can immediately feel that warm current inside you start to trickle into him from your points of contact. “Let me in,” you say softly, half-pleading, half finishing Sans’s sentence. You’re only vaguely aware that you said it out loud.
Sans stiffens. “what’re you doing?”
“Uh… what?” The flow stops at your surprise.
Your hand has been resting on his shoulder. Now Sans reaches back to grip your wrist and pull your arm forward, over his shoulder, so he can scrutinize your hand. Pressed to his back, you can’t see his face, but his sudden intensity is readily apparent. “What is it?” you ask, shocked.
“what was that? was that what i think it was?” Sans releases your wrist and examines his scratched and bloody arm instead. You follow his gaze, and then follow his motion, grabbing his wrist and pulling his arm up so you can see it better.
“ow!”
There’s a light scratch running down his radius that you’re sure was a deep gouge before. You’re sure of it. You trace a finger gently along next to it. “Wasn’t this deeper?” you ask, but you know the answer before the question leaves your lips.
Sans is gazing at your face, head turned so he can see you as you rest your chin on his shoulder. “a lot of these were deeper,” he answers, and you can’t tell whether that low rich voice of his carries wonder or dread. “what did you do?” The question is almost a whisper.
“I don’t know. Nothing! …I think.” But even as you reply, you’re recalling that feeling, the warm current, the pull of connection between you and Sans, and as it’s remembered, so it happens, as easy as drawing breath now, and nearly as unconscious.
The light in Sans’s chest pulses like a heartbeat. The two of you look down at it simultaneously, and then return your gazes to Sans’s un-bandaged arm. Your eyes widen and your breath is stolen away: the bone is knitting before your eyes. The change is slow, but it’s there. There’s no denying it.
“how are you doing that?” Sans asks, seemingly awestruck. He lifts his eye lights to look at you, and you watch his eye sockets widen in sudden shock as if you’re on the other end of a long tunnel. He lurches to his feet, chair clattering to the floor, reaching for you even as your arms slip from his shoulders and you fall backward into darkness.
“Checkers!” |
“Can it be? Are you telling me
This is the future?”
That evening at dinner we were joined by Lewis Carey, a British archaeologist who had just returned from Jordan where – at the site of Ayn Ghazal near Amman – he’d been part of a team led by an American anthropologist; they’d dug up a set of Neolithic statues, which were among the earliest large-scale representation of the human form, dating from the 7th to 8th millennium BC.
I had never seen Samuel so excited; his eyes were wide as saucers and his glasses kept sliding down his nose, as though they too couldn’t contain their elation.
I wished Vimini was there and couldn’t wait to tell her about it.
Elio was still a bit pale from his nosebleed and Mafalda was doting on him, serving him a double helping of roast chicken, which he devoured while he listened to Carey’s account of the excavation.
Samuel asked his guest if he had photos to show us. Naturally, the event had been documented in the press, but it was always more interesting to get insider information. With typical British reserve, the man initially demurred, but after a few glasses of the diabolical rosatello, he pulled out a flat wallet from his backpack and showed us a handful of photographs of the statues.
“You’re like Indiana Jones,” observed Patrice, and Carey cast him a bemused glance. He couldn’t have been more different from the fictional adventurer: he was tall and spindly, with a mass of ginger hair and sunburn on his nose and cheeks.
“I wouldn’t be able to stand all that excitement,” he replied, “Being chased by Daily Mail’s journalists is bad enough without having to contend with spies and criminals.”
“I suppose that there must be a lot of bureaucracy too,” I said.
He sighed, “You can say that again. The site was found because developers were building a highway. Let’s just say they weren’t best pleased.”
“That’s the case here in Italy too,” Samuel chimed in, “They wrap you up in paperwork like a mummy.”
“Are you going back?” asked Elio, who had polished off his meat and was now attacking the Russian salad with the same zest.
“Oh yes,” Carey replied, “In fact, I was hoping to convince your father to become a member of our merry little gang.”
Annella was overjoyed, “Ma che bellezza!” she exclaimed, clasping her husband’s hand, “You are going, aren’t you?”
“I will have to take a sabbatical, but I doubt the University will complain. This is a major discovery and one of the statues has already been acquired by the Louvre.”
“Can we come too?” Elio asked.
“You can come visit next summer,” his father replied, “We’ll be there from January, if all goes according to plan.” He gazed at me to include me in the invitation and I had every intention of accepting it, regardless of how things were going to pan out with Elio. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t going to give up until he admitted that we belonged together; and what better chance of proving it than sharing such a wonderful experience with him?
Patrice regretted he could not be part of the expedition due to his dust allergy, but it was obvious that he wasn’t impressed by the lack of glamour implied in Carey’s description of his duties.
We spent the next couple of hours quizzing him about his work, talking about Petra and Jericho; about Tell es-Sultan, where he believed more digging would take place soon; and about the fact that he didn’t feel like he was living in the twentieth century most of the time.
“The past is endlessly alluring to the human race,” he said, “and that’s perhaps why many choose my profession.”
“But not you,” I said.
He smiled, and an array of creases formed at the corners of his mouth.
“No, not I,” he confirmed, “It was mainly to spite my father, who wanted me to become a civil servant. I’d have been entombed inside some damp office in Westminster, so I chose real tombs instead.”
I could well understand that instinct for rebellion.
“And you never regretted it?” asked Elio.
The man laughed.
“You must not be familiar with our current government,” he replied, “I’d rather be supping with the devil than working for that lot.”
We were all in agreement, even Patrice, who in typical Gallic fashion didn’t have much sympathy for his neighbours at the other side of the channel.
When Mafalda brought us the Limoncello, I poured the liquor into the shot glasses – only for the five of us since Patrice didn’t drink spirits – and reflected on how delightful the dinner had been: the food, the balmy night, the company; I wanted to perpetuate this tradition with Elio; I saw us in the future, in our house, with our guests; laughing, playing the piano and sharing ideas and dreams.
I must have sighed, because Annella asked me if I was alright.
“Never been better,” I replied. She offered me a cigarette and Elio demanded one too. I lit his before mine and he took the chance to brush his fingers across the back of my hand.
“You okay?” I whispered.
“Me okay,” he replied, softly.
I was too keyed up to go to sleep, so I decided to go for a night swim. I wanted to be alone, or at least not to be with Elio, because it would have been too difficult to keep my hands off him; he was tempting as it was without adding water and moonlight to the mixture.
The pond was always popular with couples, but I was hoping to find a quiet spot to myself. It wasn’t to be.
As soon as I got there, I heard a boy’s voice calling me; I didn’t recognise him at first, until I saw the shock of auburn hair as the light of the full moon dwelled on it.
It was Mattia Malinverni, who was there with his sister and two of his cousins who, he explained, lived in Austria and seldom enjoyed the pleasures of night swimming. He introduced me to them, but they were more interested in splashing in the water, which I could perfectly understand.
Flavia was wearing an Olympic-style one piece swimsuit and her hair was gathered up in a tight ponytail: she looked flawless.
“What have you done with Patrice and Elio?” she asked.
“They should still be at the villa,” I replied.
“You’ve never seen our decrepit house,” she continued, “Tomorrow we are having a picnic: why don’t you all come?”
“Yes, yes, please,” said Mattia, “And bring your racket; you promised you’d play tennis with me.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I replied, “But I don’t know about Elio and Patrice.”
“I already asked Patrice,” Flavia stated, “I saw him this afternoon in Crema.”
“Did you?”
“Yes, he wanted my advice on gouache. My aunt paints portraits. Not their mother,” she explained, pointing to her cousins, “My father’s sister, who lives in France.”
“And you know about paints and colours?”
“I thought about becoming an artist, when I was little.”
“It didn’t take,” I joked.
In the meantime, Mattia had left us to join the other two boys: lots of screaming and laughter ensued.
“It’s not a secure profession,” she said, “Only a few make it and the rest teach to survive. I want to make money, have a career.”
She seemed very dispassionate for someone so young, but I kept my considerations to myself.
We arranged to meet on the following day and she left me alone, correctly judging it to be my wish.
I swam until my muscles began to ache. When I emerged from the water, they’d already left.
They called it the old castle, but that wasn’t my idea of a castle, new or old.
The best way to describe it was to imagine that Palladio and Gaudí had worked together, drunkenly merging their styles: the arches and columns belonged to the former, while the uneven turrets and gables to the latter. The stone it was made of must have been white once, but it was now greyish and dotted with mould patches.
At the back of it there was a manicured lawn and a tennis court, but outside that well-tended enclosure were fields of lucerne and paths rife with stinging nettles and brambles.
It was the emblem of savagery lurking at the margins of civilisation.
The inside of the house was surprisingly modern, with no Turkish carpets or towering credenzas in sight.
Mattia and Flavia’s parents had gone to Lake Como, but their housekeeper - a friend of Mafalda's named Gilda - had prepared everything we needed for the picnic.
I didn'tunderstand why we couldn’t simply eat outside on deck chairs, and it was Flavia who provided an explanation.
“There’s a karst spring twenty minutes from here,” she said. “The water is cool and there’s plenty of shade.”
It was one of the hottest days yet so that description sounded very attractive.
Elio was wearing a hat and his hair was still wet from the shower; hopefully he wouldn’t get another nosebleed, I thought.
Marzia and Raffaele had been invited too; they were the last to arrive, and we soon made our way to the picnic site.
The location of the karst spring was almost identical to Elio’s secret spot; for a brief moment, I believed them to be one and the same. He was walking ahead of me, holding Marzia’s hand, but he probably guessed my feelings: he turned towards me and mouthed “no speeches”; I silently replied “you goose,” and felt that customary warmth spread from my chest down to my belly.
We spread out our beach towels and sheets; Raffaele and I placed the lemonade and soda bottles in the water, making sure they wouldn’t float away.
The two Malinverni cousins, Niko and Jan, were younger than Elio, probably about fourteen and fifteen, and were only interested in eating, swimming and searching for insects.
We had playing cards and a Monopoly board, and Patrice had brought paper and pencils. He wanted to sketch the clumps of trees and Flavia was giving him suggestions and inspecting his materials.
Raffaele taught me an Italian card game: after a trial run, I won three times in a row.
“He plays poker for money,” said Elio; I couldn’t tell whether he was proud, annoyed or both.
“I haven’t, not for a while,” I replied, “But I was thinking about going one of these nights.”
“If that’s your story,” he bit back.
Marzia, who had been playing checkers with Mattia, looked in our direction and called her boyfriend over.
As soon as he left, I confronted Elio.
“What’s your problem with poker? I don’t bet big sums and it’s my money anyway.”
He put his sunglasses back on and lay back on his elbows.
“Who said I had a problem?”
“Are you upset with me or with your boyfriend?”
Farther away, Patrice was chatting with Flavia, their two heads close together, both beautiful in their own distinctive way. She was three years older than him and seemed yet more mature. I was beginning to see what Annella and Vimini had meant: maybe Flavia’s gender wasn’t as important as her age and poise.
Elio glanced at them and then back at me.
“That’s not,” he said, “I don’t care. But last year you came back one night - you remember the one I’m talking about?”
We’d had a discussion the morning after and Samuel had spoken of traviamento, of being a dissolute.
“Yes, and?”
“You came back very late and you were gaunt and I didn’t believe for a second that it was because you’d played cards.”
“What did you believe?”
He plucked a blade of grass and chewed on it.
We were practically whispering, but Marzia and Raffaele were laughing and talking loudly, making sure Mattia couldn’t overhear us.
“That you’d spent the night in someone’s bed, or with more than one person.”
“I told you it wasn’t the case.”
“You really meant it?”
I wanted to hug him, but I clasped his ankle instead. It was as thick as my wrist, I thought, suddenly feeling hot and cold.
“I only slept with you,” I murmured, “I made out with Chiara and with a few other girls whose name I forgot, but nothing more.”
“They didn’t touch, you know,” he motioned to my groin, and his pout made me smile.
“Not everybody is as brave as one Elio Perlman,” I replied, grinning. He was referring to the time when he had grabbed my crotch.
“You have to admit that it took some balls to do that,” he said, before realising the words he’d used.
“Balls were definitely taken,” I quipped, “More than once.”
He spat the bit of grass out of his mouth and burst into giggles. I laughed with him and moved around until I was lying next to him. Elio and I, the earth beneath our bodies and the blue sky above: in that moment, I could hear his heart beating and feel the blood coursing through his veins; again, I had a vision of the future, of us together in a park, anywhere, maybe miles away. I was sated and happy, I wanted to stay like this forever; I lacked for nothing.
|
Wilbur was... hm.
Wilbur was hm.
On one hand, ghosts existed, and he had proof, because there is no way the Dream Team (who had gone home just a few hours ago after dinner) could have orchestrated that with the flashlights and shit.
On the other hand, ghosts existed.
Hm.
He glanced around the darkened, mostly-empty room, certain one of the three ghosts was watching him. (He could just feel the pinpricks that always came with the feeling of being watched.)
Speaking of, there were three ghosts. Not two. One of their deaths apparently hadn't been recorded, or it was recorded as a missing child and never connected to the house.
Was that the one in his room?
(Oh, fuck, he'd sworn at the ghost--)
Wilbur saw movement in the corner of his eye--
He jerked up and out of bed, about ready to fight a ghost--
His guitar cluttered to the ground, making a godawful racket that startled Wilbur and probably everyone in the damn house out of whatever dozed state they were in.
The house fell silent.
Wilbur stared intently at the guitar, certain it would suddenly jump up and throw itself at him.
Nothing.
His hands curled into the teal blue blanket that fell around his legs.
He sat there for what could have been hours or mere seconds.
"Hello?" he called, voice nearly as quiet as the room.
(Tommy rolled his eyes.)
The blanket pulled itself off Wilbur.
Eyes wide, Wilbur held his hands up to shield himself, practically cowering.
("Why the hell is this so heavy?" Tommy mumbled to himself, furrowing his brows at the otherwise normal-looking blanket. He adjusted his grip and shuffled.)
"What do you want?" Wilbur struggled out, muscles locked in place.
The blanket tossed itself over him.
Wilbur kicked out on instinct, hands fighting to remove the weighted blanket.
Something landed on him.
Wilbur couldn't scream.
He shoved what he thought had to be the ghost off him, pulling the heavy blanket over his head and tossing it to the side.
Wilburs' chest heaved.
It was his pillow.
The ghost had... thrown his pillow on him? But...
Wilbur swallowed dryly.
He shakily stood from the bed, eyes locked on the blanket.
Wilbur left the room in a small scramble, closing the door and silently booking it to Techno's.
Knocking didn't even cross his mind.
Wilbur tossed open the door and the sight he found gave him pause.
"Yo," Techno greeted, sat on his arctic blue blanket, a few Uno cards in his hand.
The floating cards across the mattress from him waved, ensuring they kept their backs facing Techno as best as they could. Between the two was Techno's closed laptop, the rest of the cards placed near the middle and the box nowhere to be seen.
"What the fuck?" Wilbur mumbled.
"I got Beloved for a roommate," Techno said as an explanation.
"You huh?" Wilbur asked, voice low and somewhat slurred.
"You good?"
"He scare you?" asked a deep, grumbly voice from across Techno.
Wilbur gaped.
"Well, now you're just bein' rude," Techno said. He gestured for Wilbur to come sit beside him, shifting to the side.
Wilbur blinked and then he was walking over, having shut the door behind him. He flopped beside Techno, just now noticing the indentation in the bed on the other side of the laptop.
"Why are you playing Uno?" Wilbur muttered, still staring at the floating cards and indented bed.
Techno shrugged. "Beloved said he liked the game."
"No--" Wilbur sighed. "I mean, how? How are you playing with a ghost?"
Techno shrugged. "I offered to play cards. He chose Uno."
Wilbur put a hand on his forehead. Why did he even try to get straightforward answers from him anymore?
"You wanna play a round?" Techno asked. "Beloved and I are just about done, I think."
Wilbur wordlessly shook his head.
Techno shrugged. "Your loss." He turned back to his cards and placed a red four atop a red seven.
Beloved's cards shifted. One plucked itself from the five cards--a yellow four--and placed itself down.
Wilbur watched the two play for a bit, both exchanging few words as they played. He yawned and felt himself slump over into Techno.
He'd just close his eyes for a minute, he told himself. Then he'd continue watching their game.
Next time Wilbur opened his eyes, he and Techno were asleep on Techno's mattress, the cards and laptops cleaned up and placed to the side.
"Aaand he's asleep," Techno said as Wilbur relaxed against him, eyes shut. He shifted to lay Wilbur down behind him, on the pillow.
Ranboo glanced down at Wilbur to find him knocked out cold. He hummed and picked out his blue reverse card, setting it atop a blue one. "Uno."
Techno hummed and turned back to Ranboo, placing down a +4.
"I don't like you," Ranboo said, earning himself a bark of laughter. He picked up four more cards.
"Yellow," Techno simply replied, grinning lazily.
Ranboo huffed. The one color he didn't have.
Techno waited for Ranboo to tuck the next card he got into its proper place before he placed his own card, a yellow seven. "Anyways, uh, you said your first initial was R, right?"
Ranboo nodded before remembering that Techno couldn't see him. He mumbled out a yes and placed a blue seven.
With a frown, Techno grabbed another card. "And you were the one from the 70s, right?"
"Yep," Ranboo said.
"Hippie?"
"Yep."
"Uno."
"Die."
A laugh bubbled from Techno's throat.
"Honestly kinda cringe that you fell asleep in my bed."
Wilbur shoved his hand into Techno's face, not bothering to open his eyes or make any other indication he was awake.
Techno poked him in the side. "Wilbur," he said, voice slurred from Wilbur's hand smashing his face, "my arm's goin' numb. I fell asleep after you, I don't even know how you got it under you."
"Who won th'game?" Wilbur yawned.
Techno hummed in thought. "We had to call it off cause your roommate came in and dragged Beloved away. I had Uno, though, for, like, the third time."
Wilbur hummed sleepily. "Beloved plays a good game of Uno?"
"Better than you."
Wilbur kicked Techno off the mattress.
Ranboo finally looked up from where he was reading one of Techno's books--The Art of War by Sun Tzu--in the dim light from the window. He stared at the two mortals, still dredged down by their half-awake states, and felt his heart ache in envy.
He set the book back down and crossed into Tommy's room as Wilbur began complaining to Techno that he was cold.
"You kicked me off the bed, why are you complainin'--?!"
Tommy grumbled as he sat on Wilbur's bed, arms crossed and face set in a glare.
Ranboo looked down at him, an eyebrow raised. "How has your face not stuck like that after eighty years?"
"Fuck you," Tommy hissed. "Fuck you, fuck that, fuck the shitty fuckin' cowson that's trying to take my room, fuck the guitar, and fuck this fucking Minecraft family."
Ranboo hummed. "Very poetic."
Tommy glared at him. "What the fuck's wrong with that guy?! He gets food on the table three times a day, he gets snacks, he doesn't have to do fieldwork, he's got more clothes than I would have worn in my entire life, and he gets scared by me throwing a blanket on him?!" He shook his head. "What the fuck is up with this generation?"
"You wanna hide the strings to Wilbur's guitar?"
Confusion wormed its way onto Tommy's mask of rage. "Aren't they, like, part of it?"
"Nah. I think my dad had a guitar? And my mom and I used to hide the strings to trick him. And I dunno if we can take them off, but we can certainly hide the backups."
"Attic?" Tubbo, who had apparently been there the whole time, asked, sitting upside down on the ceiling.
Ranboo flinched and whipped towards him. "Uh, yeah. Totally." He cleared his throat and began glancing around at the various suitcases and haphazardly placed boxes. "Now, um... where are they?"
"Morning, mate," Phil greeted with a yawn as he entered the kitchen. "You're up early."
"Wilbur kicked me out of my own bed," Techno said by way of explanation.
"Why was Wilbur in your bed?" Phil asked, rummaging around for a mug. "Did he get scared by his guitar falling over or something?"
Techno shrugged and took a sip of his water. "Ask him."
Phil blinked at Techno. "Did you sleep last night?"
"I was unconscious for a prolonged amount of time."
"Techno--"
"Wilbur's still in bed, and he's asleep," Tubbo said. "I kinda wanna kick him."
"Or, y'know," Ranboo suggested as he picked through a box of nick nacks, in the attic, "just don't."
"I think you should break his nose," Tommy contributed.
"On it, big man." Despite his words, Tubbo floated over to take a seat beside Tommy. "I'm gonna scare Phil tomorrow night." Tubbo nodded determinedly. "Nothin' like some good ol' sleep paralysis."
Tommy and Ranboo both halted.
"Since when can you do sleep paralysis?!" Ranboo asked.
"Oh, I can't. I wish I could, though. Could you make someone hallucinate that they can't move?"
He shrugged. "I don't think so. I haven't really been able to practice in a few years, so tricking someone into thinking something like that's gonna take time."
“All our shit’s on the way,” Phil said, typing something onto his phone. “Should be here in maybe half an hour.”
“Finally,” Wilbur muttered around his cup. “I’m tired of sleeping on the floor.”
“Imagine sleeping,” Techno said, “what a loser.”
“I will drug you,” Phil threatened half-heartedly, placing his phone down. He stifled a yawn and reached for some coffee. “I canceled the oven and new sink, just so we don’t have to deal with that yet, so it’s mostly just bedroom stuff we’re getting. Techno, the couch is on the way.”
“Finally!” Techno groaned. “That sheet we’re usin’ to cover it falls off way too often.”
The three fell back into silence as they continued eating, oblivious to the ghosts watching them.
“More stuff to fuck with?” Tommy asked.
“I think they’re getting furniture more than they are throwable stuff,” Tubbo said, “but if they’re putting it together themselves, we could definitely fuck with it.”
“Wanna make it a game?” Ranboo asked. “Whoever, uh… messes up the most stuff without Wilbur and Techno getting mad wins.”
“But we want them to get mad,” Tubbo protested. “How about if we did it… but we couldn’t let them see us moving anything? I wanna try to piss off Phil. That geezer's in my room, after all.”
“Try and get them to blame as much as they can on each other?” Tommy suggested. “Winner gets, uh…”
The ghosts quieted as they tried to think of what they would win.
“Winner get bragging rights?” Tubbo offered.
Tommy and Ranboo glanced at each other. They shrugged and agreed. |
After that night, the others take mild interest in him again. Reynar and Jakob mostly tell him how stupid he was for choosing to stay, but the others are too intrigued to think about the significance of that. They try to goad Eskel into showing them more magic again, as if he's a pet for them to command, but try as he might, he can't replicate what he did. Not even when Clovis sneaks up on him while washing and knocks him down, with some crazy idea that maybe Eskel will summon up some magic again on reflex.
He doesn't. He ends up skinning his palm on the uneven wall on the way down, after which he jumps up and hits Clovis so hard that he starts bleeding from the eye and can't see properly for days. The others lay off him then, preferring to make snide comments about him and dancing out of reach when he turns a snarl on them.
Geralt doesn't seem to take that much interest in Eskel's supposed magical talent. Eskel is less than the ghost of a shadow next to him, and he would have done any kind of magic if that meant getting his attention, if only for a second. He still isn't talking to Eskel much. Sometimes he nods or shakes his head, but he's stubborn through and through, and somehow he's gotten it into his thick head that he does not want to talk to Eskel, even though he's literally done nothing wrong.
---
After that morning with Clovis, only Perry dares to try to taunt it out of him. Eskel doesn't even fight back because Perry is shit at fighting still, but that's an excuse too. He won't admit it, but Perry's jibes always make him feel a little bit less lonely. It feels better than Geralt's cold shoulder, or Dirram's sneers about witch pyres.
"Do you have Elf blood?" Perry demands, as they're busy boarding up a cracked window in one of the abandoned rooms. His hammer is pointing in Eskel's face, a little too close.
"I don't know," Eskel says, frustrated. Perry reaches out and pulls at the his ears, like he's expecting to find something else underneath them. "Ow."
Perry's fingertips are cold, but he feels his ears burn at the contact, suddenly extremely aware of how close Perry is to him. Eskel turns away quickly to pick up more nails, his stomach churning.
---
"Fuck's sake, Perry!" Eskel shouts, sucking at his knuckle where Perry had run his peeler across.
"No bleeding into the potatoes," Silas says distractedly, too caught up in plucking the last chicken that died the night before.
Perry watches him closely for a reaction, but Eskel just licks at his wound, confused and hurt, glaring back at him.
---
They're sparring together, with Klef watching from the doorway. "Show me what you did," Perry commands.
"No," Eskel pants, feinting to the left and going for Perry's knee. He jumps out of the way just in time - he's getting better at this, Eskel thinks, but Perry's still ill-disciplined and never learns from his mistakes. Eskel has him pinned within ten seconds, trapping his arm under one knee and pushing his face into the floor. Perry laughs and taps out, springing to his feet and rolling his shoulders back again. Like this is all a game. His eyes are cold and taunting, always sharp and angry, but fearless and so, so bright.
"Clovis," Perry calls out, almost pensive. "Come and fight Eskel again."
"Stop messing around," Eskel growls, landing a flurry of hits on Perry again, but they're at most controlled taps, just small warnings.
Clovis makes a strangled sound from the floor, grappling with Remy. It's messy. Eskel can't tell who's winning. "Shut up, Perry," he adds, his voice strained.
There's a thin trickle of blood going down the side of Perry's eye from his eyebrow, where Eskel's knuckles have torn skin. It's a small abrasion, but face wounds always look dramatic. It's not fair how it looks on Perry, the bead of crimson sliding its way down like it was painted there, skin purpling light underneath it like watercolour on tissue.
It's not fair how Perry ignores it and throws his head back in a careless laugh, all anger and delight, his teeth sharp and white. "Coward," he taunts Eskel, still barely deflecting Eskel's hits, then Eskel really goes for it this time, and he ends up on his back and gasping from where Eskel has struck him right in the chest.
"Don't need magic tricks to beat you," Eskel says softly, letting his mouth twist into something triumphant. Perry glares at him through his matted hair, too breathless to respond, but he grudgingly takes Eskel's hand as he gets back to his feet.
"Take a minute," Klef calls out from his corner, and all the fighting stops. The boys gather in front of him automatically, as he takes his time going down the line pointing out mistakes. It's a lot easier than training with Max; at least his main goal isn't just for them to fight to the death. When Klef reaches Perry, his anger is almost tangible as he glares down the obstinate boy.
"You need to take this more seriously if you ever want to survive a fight," Klef snaps, taking stock of his cuts and bruises.
Anyone would shrink under Klef's disapproving frown, but Perry's face darkens as he looks away. "'S not even a fair fight. Eskel can use magic."
"I can't," Eskel hisses irritably. "I don't know how. I didn't do anything."
"Clovis - "
"That was one time! I can't do it again!"
"Enough. It's not a good excuse," Klef interrupts, rounding on Perry. "The rest can go. Perry, extra drills. Get the sandbag out."
The boys file out gratefully and quickly, before he changes his mind, but Klef claps a strong hand on Eskel's shoulder. He's learnt not to flinch already, but he still freezes.
"You went easy on him. You stay."
Eskel's heart sinks and he has no choice but to remain in the room. His punishment consists mostly of standing while he watches Klef run through the motions with Perry, not letting him get away with slacking off. He looks on unhappily. It's always Perry's fault. He finds himself silently cheering when Klef deals precise blows that bring Perry to his knees when he fails to block. The room gets a little warmer from their exertion, and Perry's hair is a mess of curls in his eyes. He snorts in satisfaction when he sees that Perry's eye is swelling rapidly. Not so pretty now, he thinks to himself.
"Look," Klef says when they're done and Perry looks like he's ready to collapse. "The ragging is getting old. You're not little boys anymore. Settle your differences and learn to get along, I'm tired of punishing the both of you."
"It's not my fault - "
"Perry's always starting - "
"Stop." Klef sighs, but Eskel is shaking with indignance. It's always been Perry, not him. There's a curved scab on the back of his hand where Perry had scraped his skin off with the potato peeler. It keeps opening and bleeding again with every new training, and it's a constant reminder for Eskel to keep hating Perry. This isn't his fault.
"I don't know what you've disagreed about, but you're at Kaer Morhen. We don't fight our own."
"You fought Idras," Perry blurts, and Eskel inhales sharply.
Klef pauses. "I did. And I was wrong. We don't always get along - me and Idras, me and Max. But we don't hurt each other. I've never been able to best him in my life, anyway. And no matter how much I dislike Idras, or how much Max hates me, we trust each other with our lives. You both need to learn to do this. You both need to stop fighting."
Eskel nods reluctantly. Perry rolls his eyes and looks away.
"Glad this is all cleared up," Klef says lightly, pushing them both out the door. "The next time I see you two fighting, you're both hanging. Yes, don't look at me like that, Varin trained me for awhile, too."
---
Geralt still needs Eskel to help clip his nails. It used to be either Jarian or Aster helping the younger ones, but since they're dead, it's Eskel's job now. The others manage just fine on their own, but it seems that Bastien, Buggy and Geralt are spoilt little babies. Geralt lines up behind Buggy and waits his turn just like always. Eskel feels a sense of satisfaction, that Geralt still needs him. He tries not to look smug about it, the same way he tries his best to avoid cutting too short or getting his skin.
"You know you're old enough to do this yourself," Eskel finds himself saying under his breath, trying to goad him into reacting. He'd said it to Bastien too - he's exactly Remy's age but still acts like he's five sometimes - but Bastien just shrugged and said, "I like it when you do it."
Geralt twitches like he wants to snatch his hand away, but Eskel tightens his hold so he doesn't cut Geralt by accident. He doesn't say anything in reply, but Eskel can feel his eyes burning a hole in his head as he bends over to make smaller snips to round out an edge.
"I thought you'd be happy now, since you got what you wanted," Eskel continues.
Geralt pulls his hand back then, sharp and shocked. "What do you mean, what I wanted? I didn't ask you to do anything."
"You did! You asked me to stay!" Eskel hisses, the satisfaction of breaking Geralt's resolve immediately soured by what he's saying. "Come here, I'm not done."
Geralt's shaking his head slowly. "I didn't. I was hoping you'd go."
"You - " Eskel stops, swallows. His voice sounds small in his head. "You didn't want me to - ?"
"No, that's not what I meant," Geralt says quickly, and Eskel unravels. But he continues, "You had a chance. You had the chance to leave and you didn't take it. Why? What were you thinking?"
He lets Eskel take his hand again. Eskel looks at his fingers one by one, examining the pink-tipped shells of his nails carefully, rubbing at the callouses on the underside.
What was I thinking? "I was thinking about you," he confesses quietly, his breath coming out in a rush. He's still staring resolutely at Geralt's fingers. "You were looking at me like - like you were asking me to stay. I couldn't leave you behind."
When he finally looks at Geralt in the eye, he can't look away. It's like looking in the mirror. He can imagine how he must look like to Geralt now: quivering mouth, damp lashes, searching eyes. He feels flayed open, like an exposed wound raw and aching to be covered. He wants to press himself into Geralt and be healed.
"Come with me," Geralt says finally.
"Okay," Eskel agrees, easy as breathing.
---
Most of it is Perry's idea, and Eskel doesn't have as much a problem with his idea as he thought he would, because it sounds pretty good.
"Leftover paint from the back of the storeroom," Perry announces, showing Geralt and Eskel the rusty tin that he'd stolen. The dried bits that have sopped over the sides show that it's blue, probably the paint used to coat the doors outside, though those are so weathered that they've already gone grey a long time ago.
He explains that he'll tie the tin to the back of the cart and poke a hole in it. "That way we can follow the trail of paint when it drips, and then we'll know which way to go."
Eskel is grudgingly impressed, but he doesn't say anything. He'd already agreed that if he were to follow them, he wouldn't say anything to cause another fight between them. Besides, after Eskel had explained to Perry what Klef had meant by hanging, neither of them feel like fighting anymore.
They have to be ready to leave anytime. The three take turns waking up at daybreak to check if Silas is readying the horses or packing some travelling rations, though there were a few days when Eskel didn't manage to wake up. He'd just pretended he hadn't seen anything, and fortunately, Silas hadn't left without them knowing.
The other boys vaguely know their plan, but they're more siding Remy and Bastien about it.
"When you get caught," Nell says sadly, "Please tell them we had nothing to do with it."
"We won't get caught," Geralt replies, cock-sure.
Perry shakes Eskel awake early one morning, his eyes shining. "It's time," he says. Eskel runs to the second floor window to check: out in the courtyard, Silas is humming quietly to himself, shaking out his old travelling cloak and making his slow way to the kitchens to fetch something. The clouds still cover most of the sky in dreary grey, but it's patchy and thins out to reveal a light golden sunrise behind it. There's a fine drizzle in the air that's almost mist, and the flagstones on the ground look slick with melting snow.
Geralt and Perry steal into the stable to execute their paint plan while Eskel wraps some pilfered rations into a bundle. It's a lucky day for them, that they already have a task laid out since the day before. They just have to clean out a room and repair a leaky roof. The other Witchers won't bother them until midday, so they'll have that headstart at least.
"Eskel," Dirram hisses, before he steps out the door. Eskel turns, ready to ask what he needs, then stops. The boys are standing or sitting, in varying positions of just-woken-up, but their sharp gazes show that they all know what's going on.
Is this the last time he's going to see them? Eskel tries to think of something to say, but nothing comes to mind.
"Don't die," Jakob says stiffly. He grins awkwardly, though he isn't quite looking at Eskel.
"I'll try not to." Eskel almost smiles back.
"Here, take this." Kovac presses something cold into his hands. It's a small paring knife from the kitchen, one he's definitely not supposed to have at all. The blade is notched and not even sharp; Eskel remembers tossing it aside because it couldn't even cleanly slice the cheese.
"Thanks," Eskel whispers, his voice catching. He nods at them awkwardly.
"If you fail, you know where to find us," Clovis says, waving lazily.
Then Eskel nods again and leaves before he can change his mind. The faint clop of hooves sound from somewhere below. Geralt must be waiting.
---
They set off when the sky is much brighter and the early morning chill has dissipated, giving Silas enough of a start that he won't hear them crashing through the wilderness after him. Even the drizzle seems to have stopped. It's easier than he ever thought it would be: there's nobody around, no fanfare or horns blasting in warning as they slip out the main gate.
The three exchange nervous glances the moment they're on the path leading away from the keep. Eskel knows they're all thinking the same thing - that was too easy - but time is not on their side so they hurry off quickly, keeping their eyes peeled for the paint spots that appear every ten steps or so. They don't even need it for the first hour and more, because the trail goes in the same direction that they take to the Bastion. When the route finally veers away from their familiar path, they huddle closer unconsciously, as though the fear of the unknown presses them together.
The paint trail was a genius idea: Eskel would've never thought to go this way, where the path is barely a path, barely wide enough for a horse to fit through. At some sections, they have to walk it one after the other, and the ground is uneven with mud and snow piled up all around them. All of it is hard and packed after an extremely cold winter, and the horse barely leaves any tracks except for the occasional hoofprint, almost indiscernible in the dirt.
They plod onwards at a decent speed - running would probably cause too much noise, and their steady pace is just nice to keep them warm and energised to move quickly if they come into harm's way. Despite reading Vesemir's old notes to reassure himself that there aren't actual dangerous things in the vale, Eskel can't help but think about the possible creatures that may attack. He supposes Vesemir's definition of dangerous is very different from what they would consider dangerous. Three malnourished boys, one with no self defense skills at all, armed with just the clothes on their back and a knife meant for cutting fruit... even a wasp would be a credible threat now.
Thankfully, Eskel knows the wasps don't come out in winter.
The paint leads them over a precarious rocky outcrop that threatens to crumble under their feet. Eskel marvels at how an entire horse can go through with no problems, and again thanks Perry's sharp mind for coming up with a way of following it even on rock, where tracks are so difficult to come by. He finds himself recalling Klef's calm voice narrating their occasional hikes.
"You tell how heavy someone is from their tracks - not just in mud, but here, if you stand in the moss, you can see where it's broken and where it's pressed in further. You can tell if someone's limping, or crawling, or running - the shape changes, and the way it would tear - "
It's easier with him right beside them, pointing out everything they should be seeing. Now, Eskel just sees brown and grey and white, the dirt and snow mixing together as the snow melts and trickles down the slopes in thin rivulets.
"Damn," Perry mutters to himself, hours later. The sky is dark again, threatening either rain or snow. Maybe they're higher up on the mountain now, because there's a thin fog around them that Eskel assumes is some low cloud. He feels like he's been going in circles the whole time, with all the twists and turns they've been making. Just ten minutes ago they had crossed over a terribly unstable bridge with an actual hole in the middle - below it was nothing but rocky cliff all the way into treetops and what else, Eskel doesn't know. They hadn't said anything or stopped, but Eskel doesn't blame Geralt at all for getting down onto his hands and knees and crawling the last bit. He'd almost done the same, but Perry hadn't even flinched walking across it, so he didn't.
The worst part is, the trail has been getting increasingly sparse, so it's been difficult to stay on track. The impending question of what they will do when it disappears hangs above their heads.
"What?" Eskel whispers, though there probably isn't anyone around them for miles. The trees are thin where they are now, and their voices will easily echo into the valley if they aren't careful.
Then he realises what Perry's staring at. The path slopes downward again, so narrow and steep that Eskel could probably just slip right off if he puts a foot on it.
"Silas can't have come this way," Geralt says, looking a little sick. "Perry, are you sure?"
The look on Perry's face screams no, but he doesn't say it. Instead he says, "There aren't any more paint drops in any other direction."
"If we stop and the fog gets thicker, we'll definitely fall off this mountain," Eskel says, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Maybe we should've brought some rope," Perry says lightly, then shrugs and just goes for it before Eskel can call out a warning. Thankfully, it's not as slippery as it looks, and Eskel grips the back of Geralt's shirt tightly as he goes down first. Ineffective if he actually fell, but it makes them both feel safer.
They end up standing ankle-deep in a stream, probably snow that's been slowly melting off the mountain tops. It's so vast that it hits the treeline and keeps going, extending into marshland.
"No trail," Eskel says, feeling his blood go cold.
"We should go back up," Perry says uneasily. "This doesn't look like the way."
They can't go back up. They'd reached the bottom by jumping the last of it, and even if they tried to carry each other, there aren't any stable handholds for climbing.
"Perry," Geralt says, his voice tinged with despair.
"We'll find another way." Perry grabs Geralt's hand and squeezes tight. Eskel does the same for Geralt's other hand.
"First we get out of the water," Eskel says, shooting him a reassuring smile that feels more like a grimace.
They walk until Eskel feels the cold sink into his bones. His shoes are sodden, and his toes have lost all feeling already. The sky gets darker - maybe the sun is setting - and the fog gets more dense. Eskel doesn't notice it at first, but then he realises he can barely make out Perry's form ahead of Geralt's.
"Maybe we should stop and rest," Eskel suggests. He wants to say, maybe we should turn back, but it feels like they can't, at this point. There's no way they'd be able to find their way back any more than they can find their way to the mountain pass.
"Here," Perry says suddenly, surging forward and pulling them both. His face splits into a real smile, and it startles Eskel into realising that he hasn't seen this before. He points at what he's happy about. "Blue paint!"
The mountain echoes his sentiment excitedly, but they're too elated to care. Perry disentangles himself from Geralt and darts off, his eyes searching out other signs of the trail.
"Perry!" Eskel shouts, watching as his figure vanishes into the fog. Geralt pulls free and runs after him too, but Eskel snatches him back by the collar.
"Don't run off," Eskel chides, then bites his lip when he sees Geralt's expression. "Sorry, I meant - I don't want to get lost, alright?"
Geralt hpmhs knowingly, but takes Eskel's hand again. "Lead the way, then," he urges.
Eskel strikes ahead, his eyes and ears straining for some kind of sign. The fog is so dense he can almost taste it. He doesn't think he's ever experienced weather like this before. It's probably because of the rain -
There's a sound like a twig snapping and a sharp pain in his foot. "Ah," Eskel breathes, more from surprise than pain.
"Ah," he says again, louder this time, as he sees the thin line of blood well up. He stops moving.
"What? What is it?" Geralt says urgently, crouching to see.
"Snare," Eskel manages under his breath. The pain is setting in now, all at once: The thin, strong coil of wire is so tight around his calf that it's cutting into his flesh.
"Oh, ow," Geralt says sympathetically, then he grabs the wire and pulls.
If there are any Witchers within ten miles, they can definitely hear Eskel's cry of pain. "Don't! Don't!" Eskel shouts urgently, feeling the wire bite deeper. "It'll only get tighter, you're gonna make me lose my leg."
Perry reemerges from the shroud of nothing to the side. "The trail picks up that way," he pants happily. "What's wrong?"
Eskel can't move and they don't have anything to cut him free. He bites at his fist to keep himself from crying out from the pain. "There's a small knife in the pack," he gasps, remembering Kovac's parting gift. There's a glimmer of hope where Perry fishes the small tool out and tries to use it to saw the wire apart, but the edge is too dull, and the wire is so tight that there's no room to wiggle the blade behind it. There's a sort of metal mechanism at the end of the wire, but it won't budge.
Tears spring to Eskel's eyes as he considers his options. There aren't many. "I can't go on," he says, more to himself than to them. "There's just no way."
"Shut up," Perry growls, feverishly rubbing the blade on a nearby rock in an attempt to sharpen it. Geralt sinks to the ground beside Eskel, still clutching his hand, staring wordlessly at Eskel's trapped leg.
"It's no use," Eskel says, trying to compose himself - he's sensible, this is common sense - "someone will find me soon, I'll be alright. You can keep going." He doesn't know if anyone will find him here. They're hours from the keep, and hopelessly lost. The Witchers may not even check the traps for weeks, not if Silas returns with more food. They wouldn't need to. Eskel doesn't say this, though.
Perry slaps him lightly on the temple. "Shut up and keep still." He tries and tries, sawing this way and that, to no avail.
The pain is so intense that Eskel can't hide it anymore. He whimpers when Perry kneads and pushes at tender flesh, swollen around the wire. Perry fiddles and plucks until his fingers are covered in blood, and Eskel isn't even sure if it's all his own. He curses as he rips a nail out trying to pick at it.
"Perry," Eskel says. "Perry."
When Perry finally looks at him, it's in anguish. His face is a mess of tears and some blood streaked across his nose where he's wiped at his face. "I can't," he whispers.
Quietly, Geralt starts to cry.
It's getting dark around them. Eskel's entire leg aches so much that he finds himself wondering if it would feel better if it just dropped off instead. His shoe feels tight. The skin around the snare is turning grey under the blood.
They can't sit here forever with him. Eskel swallows around a painful lump in his throat. "Perry, you should go."
Geralt cries harder, his shoulders shaking. He grips Eskel's hand so tight it feels like a snare, too.
Perry shakes his head slowly.
"Come on," Eskel grits out, trying to sound light-humoured. "Perry, you can stop pretending to care about me, there's nobody around."
Perry swipes at his nose angrily, but his tears continue to fall. He runs his hands through his hair, then buries his face in his hands.
"I'll be okay," Eskel says, sounding more sure than he feels. "Take Geralt and go."
Perry lets out a strangled cry and throws the useless knife into the fog. There's a distant sound of it clattering away into shallow swamp water. Clikka-clikka-tssshhh.
"You have to do magic now," he snarls, looming over Eskel and getting all in his face. Always so angry, Eskel thinks. He grits his teeth as Perry grabs at his head roughly, shakes him by the shoulders.
"I can't," Eskel says quietly. He's never wished so hard that he could.
"That mage appeared in the middle of the dining hall, out of thin air. You can do it, you can - make the magic circle in the air - "
Eskel can feel Perry's tears falling onto his cheeks, warm and salty. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, tries to pry Geralt's fingers from his. "Geralt, come on."
"No!" No, no, no, the mountain agrees.
"You need to go," Eskel says, tired. His mind is full of pain, too much to think about anything else. He blinks to try to clear it. It's like the fog is getting into his head.
As suddenly as he started, Perry stops raging. He pulls back, all the life sapped out of him, looking at Eskel for a long moment. Even in the dim grey light, his eyes are clear shards of blue glass.
"I've always really liked your eyes," Eskel says deliriously.
Perry touches Eskel's cheek with bloodied fingers, trembling. He leans forward, so slow and gentle, and presses his lips on Eskel's forehead.
Then he gets to his feet, turning to Geralt. "Come on," he says, his voice sharp. "Geralt, you have to come with me. We'll find help and come back for him."
Geralt wails and shakes his head violently, burying his face in Eskel's side.
"Geralt, don't be stupid," Eskel says weakly, but there's only so much he can do. If he moves too much, the wire might get even tighter. The pain is so great that he feels himself drifting on the edge of unconsciousness, like fighting a wave of dizziness, or very heavy sleep. It's a good place to be. Hovering in this grey area, Eskel can almost pretend that the pain is not his own.
"Let go!" Perry aims a harsh kick at him. Geralt curls tighter. "Don't make me drag you - "
Perry tries to, pulling at his shirt and his elbow and even his hair, ripping out a small clump, but Geralt thrashes like a fish and refuses to give.
"Fine," Perry pants, his eyes shining again. "Fine. I can't stay here. Geralt, you'll look after Eskel when I'm gone, alright?"
"Take the pack," Eskel says feebly. He's too tired to fight. Perry nods curtly and slings it over his shoulder.
"I'll come back for you," Perry says fiercely, then he turns and runs into the mist before Eskel can reply.
Eskel puts his arms around Geralt. "Shh, it's okay," he whispers, and he keeps saying it until Geralt stops shaking.
Geralt doesn't speak for a long while, not even after he's quieted his sobs. Eskel watches the blood continue to seep from his leg. When it touches the murky snow-water, it blooms like dark flowers. His head spins from the pain.
"Look at us," Eskel says, brushing the hair out of Geralt's face, where it's sticking to his cheeks. It's been a long time since Geralt's cried like this, Eskel realises, running this thumbs across Geralt's cheekbones. No more baby fat. "What a stupid mess. Imagine what Max would say."
Geralt hiccups, swatting Eskel's hands away halfheartedly. "Pro'ly tell us t-to shut up."
"I hate crying," Eskel mimics. "Only the weak cry. You're not getting any pity from me."
"That's Vesemir," Geralt says.
"Mmm. Max said it too." Eskel sighs and pulls Geralt in tighter as the cold settles around him. Soon it will be so dark that they won't even be able to see the fog. "We're both stuck now, I hope you're happy. What were you thinking, huh?"
He feels Geralt's wet lashes on his arm, fluttering. "The other d-day you told me," he says, hiding his face from Eskel. "You told me you c-couldn't leave me behind."
"Oh," Eskel says, his nose in Geralt's hair. If he closes his eyes, it feels like they're back in Kaer Morhen, safe and unhurt.
They're so close that it's not really that cold. Eskel stops fighting sleep. |
Augus
*
It was dawn, away from the eternal night of the Unseelie Court. It was chilly, the scent of spring in Augus’ nose, which meant flowers were blooming somewhere nearby. But here, in the midst of trees and thick granite boulders, he could see none.
‘Where are we?’
‘Does it matter?’ Gwyn said, already walking away.
Augus frowned at him and followed. He reminded himself that he could marvel over how good Gwyn looked later.
‘It’s the war, isn’t it?’ Augus said, wishing that he didn’t feel some taut space inside of him when he spoke of it. ‘That he wouldn’t even let you forget, for one evening?’
‘Be quiet,’ Gwyn said, a faint thread of desperation in his voice. His strides were getting longer, and Augus had to speed up to match him, and even then he was metres behind. The feathers from his neck collar brushed against his face and he scratched at his jaw.
Augus searched his mind for something to say, something to jar Gwyn out of this apathy.
‘Do you know how many of them admired you tonight? Were glad you were their King? I bet some even wanted to fuck you.’
Gwyn turned in a single smooth step, flinging the mask away from him, his eyes hard. ‘Do you think I care about any of that? Do you think any of it matters? The Unseelie Court is broke. We’re…do you have any idea how hungry a resource a Court is? Maintaining the appearance of a Court that’s supposedly growing from strength to strength?’
Augus pretended at innocence, splaying his fingers to indicate that he had no idea. Gwyn’s eyes widened, his mouth tightened, his hands clenched into fists at his side. Augus knew he was playing an unsafe game.
‘It’s…expensive?’ Augus said, with a lightness that almost made him want to laugh when Gwyn’s jaw set stubbornly.
‘I know what you’re doing,’ Gwyn said. ‘Go on then, distract me some more from the reality that we live in, Augus. Is that how you dealt with living with the Nightingale in the Unseelie Court? How you handled being separated from your brother in the Seelie Court? Is that-’
‘Stop,’ Augus said, covering uneven, rocky ground and jabbing a hard finger into Gwyn’s heaving chest. ‘It’s sometimes pathetically easy to gauge just how upset you are. Was it your family who taught you to aim for the belly in an argument? Or all that sword training?’
Gwyn stared at him a few seconds longer, then looked away. Around them, the world was a dove grey in the pre-light of morning. The shadows a darker charcoal. Hearing Gwyn say the Nightingale’s name was just as jarring as it always was.
‘Distractions aren’t bad,’ Augus said, sighing. ‘I’m not inviting denial. As if you could ever forget all of your responsibilities for more than a few hours? But you are slipping towards despair, Gwyn. That’s not reality, either. I have just spent an evening with some of the most esteemed Unseelie fae, and I know for a fact that so many of them are not without hope. Your despair is a coup for the Seelie Court, Gwyn, and that’s all it is.’
‘You don’t see the future that I see,’ Gwyn said, knocking Augus’ hand away, taking several steps backwards and then walking through the forest once more, forcing Augus to keep up.
‘When I invited you to leave the Court,’ Augus said, ‘I didn’t think I would literally see you running away from it.’
Gwyn laughed, turned back, stalked towards Augus with a singular focus. Augus found himself halting, stepping backwards, his heel catching on a rock. He collected himself in time, but then Gwyn was there, looking down on him, looking like he wanted nothing more than to smash Augus into the ground. But that wasn’t like Gwyn either, and Augus catalogued the body language he could see. Gwyn was holding his bad shoulder more stiffly than usual, he was practically hunched. There was a muscle tic at the corner of his right eye, his jaw was tight, his forehead tense.
Augus tilted his head, never looking away from Gwyn’s face as he placed his hand carefully over Gwyn’s bad shoulder. Even through layers of clothing, he felt the flinch.
‘Careful,’ Augus said, as Gwyn made a face of disgust at his own reaction. ‘Careful.’
His other hand lifted, trailed up the waistcoat, up to the shirt, where he quickly undid several of the buttons. Gwyn looked at Augus with something that could have been disdain. A spark of rebellion in his frightened eyes.
But when Augus’ fingers trailed over the metal of the collar, Gwyn’s breath stuttered to a stop, held for several seconds before Gwyn forced his breath to evenness.
Augus’ fingers tiptoed around until he found the fine length of chain that he’d already unclipped from Gwyn’s sleeve. He pulled it carefully up, knowing it would tingle across Gwyn’s skin, until he could finally pull it out of the neck of the shirt and hold it loose, free, in his hands. He slowly twirled the length around his hand until the chain went tight and Gwyn had to lean forwards. His breath was uneven now.
‘If you break this,’ Augus said, ‘I’ll not be pleased.’
‘It’s delicate,’ Gwyn said, in some kind of protest.
Augus smiled. ‘That’s the point, sweetness. You’ll have to choose to follow me every time I pull on this chain. I’m happy to make you do whatever I like, and I know you need that. But what I need, is to know that sometimes you’ll come where I lead you.’
Augus moved the hand looped with chain behind his back, which forced Gwyn’s body into an arch, until the crown of his head touched Augus’ chest.
‘Exactly like that,’ Augus said, staring down at him and licking his lips with the tip of his tongue. ‘Even when you’re champing at the bit and trying to run away from everything, you’ll not break this chain, will you?’
‘I don’t think now is the time, Augus, to test that theory.’
‘I think now’s the perfect time,’ Augus said, letting his voice even out. He lifted his free hand and smoothed it down Gwyn’s back, as though petting some great, exhausted beast. His own teeth felt sharper, and he had to fight with himself not to just force Gwyn’s head to the side and bite down hard into his neck, assert even more control, make Gwyn know who owned him. He couldn’t. He’d only put the collar on him a few hours ago. He hadn’t even thought about how significant it might be for him, until he’d seen it on Gwyn’s neck and had been hard-pressed to remind himself that he had to go and entertain, and that his purpose in life wasn’t to debauch Kings.
He looked around them now, taking in the woods properly. The sun hadn’t yet risen over the horizon, for the light was still soft, a lilac twilight pressing in through the canopy. The trees weren’t too closely together, birds were twittering and calling, the harmless chatter of morning song.
Wherever they were, the place was lovely.
‘I meant to do something tonight,’ Augus said, still stroking Gwyn’s back. ‘I meant to dance with you.’
Gwyn predictably tensed. Augus dragged his hand up lazily and tangled it in Gwyn’s hair, then slid his fingers underneath Gwyn’s jaw and lifted, allowing enough slack in the chain for Gwyn to look up at him, still bent over, forehead furrowed.
‘You see,’ Augus said, stroking the underside of Gwyn’s jaw, ‘I know you were trained as a Courtier. Crielle would have demanded it. I don’t like to dance in public, but I have also been trained as a Courtier. Did you shirk your lessons, Gwyn?’
‘No,’ Gwyn said, trying to stand properly, but the slack in the chain not allowing it.
‘You’re so often clumsy and awkward,’ Augus said, musing. ‘But you’re also adept with the sword, you know how to step through a drill. I’ve seen the grace of you on the battlefield.’
Augus unwound the chain slowly and let it pool against Gwyn’s neck, slipping back down beneath his shirt. Gwyn shivered, straightened, scanned the surroundings with a wary ease. Augus marvelled at how quickly the chain and the reminder that Gwyn belonged, had settled him. It had taken not hours, not days, but minutes.
‘Okay,’ Gwyn said, as though coming to some sort of decision. He straightened properly, his chin lifting as he looked down upon Augus. He held out his hand, while his other arm tucked behind his back in a formal invitation. ‘Would you?’
It was stupid that his cheeks would burn at something he’d instigated, but this was…not something he did with others. He’d learned to dance, and dance well. He practiced alone when he could, for he enjoyed the art of it. But he didn’t dance with others. Except Fluri, once, when she was drunk on passum and Augus didn’t have the heart or will to tell her no.
Augus slipped his hand into Gwyn’s and was mentally prepared for some early stumbling. Surely it would take them time to find their feet.
Gwyn took the first two steps backwards – the hand behind his back coming forwards and taking Augus’ other hand, holding it up. Not as high as was formal – above the shoulder – but perhaps Gwyn wanted no reminders of Kabiri, and Augus wasn’t about to say anything. Couldn’t, in fact, because he was having to remember some of the niches of his training as Gwyn led him into a dance; for though Gwyn moved slowly, the footwork was complicated.
‘Rusty?’ Gwyn said.
‘I actually hate you,’ Augus said, as they danced together. ‘So overcome with loathing, in fact, that I can’t concentrate.’
‘Hm,’ Gwyn said, his lips tightening on something that could have been impish.
Gwyn led for a few minutes more, as was custom, and then the steps changed so that Augus might lead. Fae had no set roles of leading and led that were determined by class or gender or sexuality. Instead, Augus and Gwyn’s dances moved from the taking and ceding of control, to loures and passepieds where the movements were equal and slow and their hands moved in synchrony even as they didn’t touch.
They naturally moved towards a greater clearing, and when their hands came to meet again, Augus saw some fey wild light in Gwyn’s eyes. But Gwyn’s hands remained gentle, if firm. The coat he wore only served to accentuate the proper tension in his shoulders, the way he stepped not clumsily, but smoothly.
The birds were becoming louder, the sun must have crested over the horizon, though its rays didn’t yet find their way to the forest floor. Rather than stick to any one style for too long – minuet or rigaudon with one hand clasped in the other’s as they circled to an invisible beat – Gwyn seemed determined to test all of Augus’ knowledge.
‘This isn’t a competition,’ Augus said, laughing haplessly at the look of challenge on Gwyn’s face.
‘You’re keeping up,’ Gwyn said, laughing a low, quiet laugh that was nothing like his cynical or bitter noises, his hysterical ones. Something far freer, far more real. Augus’ nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, wanted to grasp far more than Gwyn’s hands, but also that sound. Augus could tell then, Gwyn wasn’t inciting him into competition, but was instead impressed with how much Augus knew. The light in his eyes wasn’t challenge, but something fiercer, as though Gwyn knew he had met his match and delighted in it.
They lost track of time, and when Augus stumbled backwards over a rock hidden by leaf litter, he began laughing, Gwyn already there, one arm at his back, stopping him from falling.
Of course, Augus thought to himself, and then didn’t have another moment to think anything more scathing, because Gwyn’s lips were pressed to his.
Augus dug both of his hands into Gwyn’s hair and slipped his tongue between Gwyn’s lips when he gasped. He pushed forwards, and then walked Gwyn backwards into a tree, the breath pushing out of his nose against Augus’ cheek as Augus didn’t break the kiss, kept Gwyn pinned in place. Hungrily, he tasted of a faint sweetness from drinks consumed at the masquerade ball, he tasted carbon and ozone and the salty warmth of flesh and saliva. Gwyn’s tongue met his tentatively, slicked alongside his with a noise rumbling in Gwyn’s chest that broke off, and was all the needier for it.
One of Gwyn’s hands touched the side of Augus’ face, and it was a shock. The second palm curling around his other cheek, so that Augus’ face was framed, was definitely surprising. Gwyn leaned backwards though, fingers curling, so that Augus had to push himself up on tiptoe and found himself biting hard at Gwyn’s lower lip, swallowing the sharp sound he made, tilting his face and slanting his lips so that the kiss was more complete.
Gwyn breathed hard now, in a way he hadn’t when they’d been dancing. Augus, too, was beginning to forget that there was anything else that mattered except birds chirping around them and the scent of trees inhaling and exhaling all around them, the crushed mosses and earthiness of bark that Gwyn had pressed hard against his back.
‘Good?’ Augus murmured against Gwyn’s mouth, and Gwyn nodded, then moved his mouth away and panted when Augus’ fingers touched the collar and slipped back and found the chain again.
‘I don’t know how you do that,’ Gwyn said, his voice rough. ‘You make it seem easy. Would that I could…distract you, the same way.’
Augus shivered with warmth, remembering the temenos and the crown, how Gwyn had distracted him; Augus remembered the room with the small bed, the rough rope binding his arms behind him, Gwyn between his legs. ‘You have your ways, for all you think you don’t.’
Gwyn nodded, said nothing. His lips were swollen, his eyes half shut, and as Augus’ fingers walked along the outside of the collar, the metal ivy leaves warm under his touch, he took two huge breaths. Gwyn seemed half-drugged, and Augus bit at his jaw possessively, then clamped his teeth down on vulnerable skin above the collar, sucking a bruise into place and pressing his body along Gwyn’s length, riding the pulse of movement that followed.
‘We can go back and I can fuck you,’ Augus said into the crook of Gwyn’s neck, ‘or we can stay here and I can improvise.’
Gwyn was caught in indecision, but then he shook his head sharply and one of his hands slid around the back of Augus’ neck, beneath his mane, and Augus wanted to steal all of those touches and multiply them so that they no longer felt rare and precious.
‘Improvise.’
They ended up with Augus sitting with his back to a thick, smooth-barked tree. His pants pulled open and Gwyn on his hands and knees beside him, wearing every item of his clothing including the collar and the chain that Augus had wrapped around his hand once more. Gwyn hadn’t yet started, pressed his face into Augus’ waistcoat, moved as though nuzzling the shape of the feathers embroidered there.
Augus pushed up Gwyn’s thick overcoat, then realised as he began to slip his fingers beneath the hem of Gwyn’s pants that they were too tight.
‘Kneel up,’ Augus said. ‘Undo them, slide off the belt.’
Gwyn nodded, hesitated and then followed his directions, leaning towards Augus because of his grip on the chain. There were two spots of red upon his cheeks, and his lips were far more rosy than usual. The belt was placed beside them, and then Gwyn fumbled with the fastening of his own pants, biting into his top lip and then looking off into the woods.
‘I’m not ever very good at this when you distract me,’ Gwyn said.
‘There has never been a time when you weren’t good at choking on my cock,’ Augus said, tugging on the chain gently, indicating his impatience.
Augus had to add some slack to the chain anyway, as he encouraged Gwyn into a position that allowed Gwyn to reach his cock, while Augus still had access to Gwyn’s lower back and more. It wasn’t the most graceful of positions, but Augus didn’t much care. One of his legs bent up, his heel digging into the ground as Gwyn’s fingers slipped into his pants and lifted his cock free. Augus’ mouth opened and he tilted his head back, mane catching on the faint texture of the bark, the feathers of his collar brushing his own skin sensuously.
He didn’t want slow, and he didn’t want neat and comfortable. As Gwyn’s mouth sank down Augus’ length and the suction began, Augus slid two of his fingers into his mouth and pressed his own tongue down, sucking hard enough to bring a flood of saliva forth, getting his fingers wet.
Gwyn’s pants were only halfway down the rise of his ass when Augus brought his fingers between the cleft of his ass. Gwyn stilled where he was sucking Augus’ cock, and Augus only brought the hand holding the chain to Gwyn’s neck and pushed him down, his fingers pressing roughly into Gwyn, first one, then the second, both taking advantage of that hot, tight space as Gwyn groaned around Augus’ cock and tried to push up. Augus kept his hand on Gwyn’s neck, his fingers in his ass, and took a relaxing breath and spread his legs a bit more, arching his hips up.
‘Come on,’ Augus said. ‘Work harder, Gwyn.’
He turned his fingers so that they were facing down, and then, twisting so that he could find the right angle, he shoved at Gwyn’s prostate and his teeth pressed together on a grin as Gwyn made a sharp sound that was likely pain and pleasure both. His prostate was always sensitive when they first started, and Augus enjoyed wringing all he could from him. He proceeded to rub his fingers over the spot mercilessly, saw the tremble in Gwyn’s shoulders.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ Augus said, ‘I’ll stop doing this once I’ve come. But if you come before me, Gwyn, I’m not going to stop, and it’s going to hurt. Even more than I think you like.’
Augus pressed his lips together when Gwyn started bobbing his head quickly, sucking on the upstroke, his tongue roughly pressing into the side and underside of Augus’ cock. The enthusiasm was possibly a sign of how close Gwyn was to coming, and Augus was not without his moments of cruelty, and he thrust his own fingers harder, faster, knowing that no matter how hard Gwyn worked, Augus was going to get what he wanted.
Gwyn made a sound of frustration, then a faint strangled noise when Augus let go of the chain and pushed down hard on the top of Gwyn’s head, feeling the head of his cock wedge into the tight unpredictability of Gwyn’s throat, never knowing when it would go loose or taut, when Gwyn would swallow, or his throat would try to force Augus free in spasms that were nothing but pleasure for Augus.
It was only a couple of minutes before Gwyn’s entire body began trembling and Augus inhaled between clenched teeth, wanting the spasm of release around his fingers, not even caring about the ache in his wrist at the odd angle. Gwyn was moving his head quickly now. He was trying to play the game properly at least, between all the frantic movement, he’d included a few slower strokes – trying so hard to work to what Augus liked. Those slow, powerful motions of Gwyn’s mouth around his cock, made it hard to breathe each time, but Augus held the trump card in this game. He got to choose when he came, and unlike Gwyn, he could hold his own release back for as long as he wanted – even if it would eventually become painful. Gwyn, on the other hand, had no such skill, and Augus was being ruthless with Gwyn’s prostate, each push firm and thorough and merciless.
The whimpers buzzing through Augus’ cock were very welcome.
Augus didn’t hold back when Gwyn’s entire body tensed and then jerked with his release, he didn’t even ease up when he felt a scrape of accidental teeth against his cock and hissed himself, and he didn’t stop when Gwyn finally pushed himself up off Augus’ cock and tried to twist away from Augus’ fingers, Augus’ other hand keeping him in place.
‘No,’ Augus said firmly. ‘Back to it, Gwyn. Concentrate.’
He shifted his fingers so that they weren’t directly pushing into Gwyn’s prostate for all of a few seconds, and then just as Gwyn took a shuddering, shaking breath of relief, Augus turned his fingers back and pressed hard, and laughed softly when Gwyn keened through clenched teeth.
The gaze Gwyn directed at him then was soulful, pleading, and Augus felt nothing more than glee move through him as he made a face of faux sympathy.
‘Tch, Gwyn, I’d love to stop, really, but…’ he looked down at his own cock and raised his eyebrows. ‘Whatever can I do? I haven’t come yet.’
Gwyn opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, spit out something hateful, but he wasn’t able. His face screwed up and he looked down and simply shook for several seconds, his entire body tense.
‘You know,’ Augus said, licking his lips, ‘you might want to get to it, Gwyn. I’ve done this for long enough with others before that they screamed for mercy. Do you think I gave it?’
Gwyn lowered himself on shaking arms and his breath trembled over the head of Augus’ cock, before he forced himself back down, the movements uncoordinated. It was obvious that Gwyn was having to focus very hard on shielding his teeth, not gritting his jaw together from overstimulation as he so often did when he didn’t have a cock in his mouth to occupy him.
‘It’s amazing,’ Augus said, groaning softly as Gwyn couldn’t control his breathing in the same way as before and the strangled noises came far more frequently. ‘It’s amazing how something so simple, can be so devastating, for some. Isn’t it? It probably doesn’t help that I like you like this, Gwyn. In pain for me. Work a bit harder now, come on. It’s called multitasking.’
A despairing moan around his cock and Augus dug his teeth into his bottom lip and sighed, pleased.
His fingers didn’t stop moving, though he slowed down the thrusts just a little. Even that much was enough to have Gwyn making sounds of gratitude around him. But even so, Augus varied the rhythm. Sometimes fast, sometimes slower. Sometimes slow rolls over Gwyn’s prostate, and then harder, vigorous stabs that he wouldn’t dare risk with someone at underfae class, that had Gwyn freeze and still and shake like he was going to come apart from the inside out, whining pained sounds over and over again.
Even then, Gwyn managed to drag himself back to what he was supposed to be doing, trying desperately to make it pleasing for Augus, saliva absolutely everywhere now, since Gwyn couldn’t control that too.
Augus didn’t need to keep his hand on Gwyn’s head anymore – Gwyn’s desperation to escape the overstimulation worked well enough on its own – so instead he picked up the chain again, ran his fingers around the collar, let himself edge closer to his own release, heat picking up through his body and spreading through him, tingling at the top of his neck, behind his ears, in between his legs.
‘Soon,’ Augus said, when Gwyn’s shoulders heaved in something that could have been an attempt at breathing gone wrong, or something like a sob.
But Augus didn’t take pity on him – that could come later. Instead, he slowly increased the speed at which he pushed both of his fingers against Gwyn’s prostate, ruthlessly going after the gland inside of him, until Gwyn was keening around Augus’ cock and the vibrations were wonderful. Augus groaned softly and kept up the movement of his hand, deciding that improvising was actually far better than having absolutely every element of his life under his control at all times.
He was quite certain that Gwyn didn’t feel the same way, at this moment.
He called the heat of his own release closer, fanning it himself, when he knew that Gwyn was approaching his limits. There was only so much someone could take, before they cracked. Gwyn handled the pain of the pistillum like it was a good friend of his, but he handled this the way most clients handled the pistillum; not well.
The moment Augus’ cock jerked, the first pulse of release flooding into Gwyn’s mouth, Gwyn tried to rush up off Augus’ cock – no doubt to move away – and Augus grit his teeth together and forced Gwyn’s head back down and thrust his fingers hard into Gwyn’s ass and kept him in place.
‘Don’t be rude,’ Augus gasped through the muscle spasms of his own release. Gwyn went as limp as he could, though he still shook.
Augus slid his fingers free before he pulled Gwyn’s head up, a hand fisted in Gwyn’s hair.
Gwyn was gasping wetly, the sounds as hapless and involuntary as the spasms that had shaken through Augus’ body. His face was wet with saliva and tears, and Augus shook his head and pulled Gwyn close to him, pleased, warm and sated. Happy to be away from that awful palace.
‘Careful,’ Augus said, because now was the time to be gentle with him, to soothe. Gwyn collapsed against Augus’ chest, his breathing stuttered and weak and hitching. ‘That was marvellous.’
Gwyn slid one weak arm around Augus’ side and clung to him, his head pushed into Augus’ clothing and his legs curled. Augus began stroking Gwyn’s hair, making sure the strokes were long enough that he could unobtrusively check Gwyn’s pulse. He smelled no fear in the air. Gwyn was unmoored, but not traumatised, which meant this was also something they could do in the future.
Oh, you poor thing, you have no idea the things I could do with you.
Augus smiled into the side of Gwyn’s head, then kissed the top of his ear, listening as Gwyn took a deeper breath, sighed it out shakily.
‘Intense?’ Augus asked.
Gwyn nodded. Sniffed. Then laughed in a rough, broken way, though the sound was real, not forced.
‘You’re cruel,’ Gwyn said.
‘Am I?’ Augus said against his ear. ‘I have no idea where you’d get that impression. It’s not as though I’m a self-professed sadist, or anything.’
‘That hurt,’ Gwyn said, and Augus hummed, pleased. Gwyn laughed again, his arm tightening around Augus. ‘I’m sure that’s not the reaction you’re supposed to have, when I say that.’
‘It’s exactly the right reaction to have,’ Augus said. ‘You take pain so beautifully. And I let you come, didn’t I? Imagine the day when I get to do that to you and don’t let you come. At all. The entire day.’
Gwyn made a sound that was both dread and lust at the same time, and then he shuddered and curled tighter to Augus’ body. Dirt and leaves and twigs clung to both of their clothing. Gwyn’s coat was rumpled, his pants caught around his thighs, the collar still around his neck, loops of chain still in Augus’ hands.
‘I like this collar,’ Augus said. ‘It suits you.’
‘I like it too,’ Gwyn said absently. Augus leaned his head back and smiled at nothing in particular, because this – this – was what he so rarely got to have, unless he wore Gwyn out first. Augus hadn’t even needed hours and hours to get it this time. Not only that, but Gwyn was no longer scrambling to get away, to hide how much he needed this reassurance afterwards. It seemed a lifetime ago that Gwyn had denied that he needed aftercare, had been scared of it. Instead, he’d gone pliant in Augus’ arms, his breathing already levelling out.
‘You’re a good dancer,’ Augus said. ‘I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I don’t think it was that.’
‘I liked it,’ Gwyn said, quietly. ‘Learning to dance. It was like sword drills, but without the promise of violence. I… I know you must think I hated every part of my childhood, but it wasn’t quite like that, Augus. I – I surprised mother, when I requested more dance lessons. And she…for whatever reason she had, she granted that request. Perhaps because she didn’t want me to humiliate myself further in a Court environment. But it was something I enjoyed.’
‘I’m imagining it,’ Augus said quietly. ‘You as a young thing, and it always astounds me that you are the way that you are now. For you were such a gentle soul, really, weren’t you? Wanted to be a map-maker so badly you apprenticed to your Master Ethwynn. Enjoyed dance. You have a latent potential for sorcery somewhere in there. You enjoy the company of animals. In another lifetime, Gwyn, you never went near a sword, did you?’
‘Mm,’ Gwyn said, a little tense, but not as much as he would have been, had he not been exhausted and more open to this line of conversation. ‘Perhaps not. But…Augus…my light, I would have been something. I like the hunt. I love it.’
‘That’s also true, my wild creature. That is true.’ Augus rubbed at Gwyn’s hair and then untangled it patiently, listening to Gwyn’s breathing turn slow and even, wondering at how quickly Gwyn had let himself sink into a doze.
He turned his own head and stared out into the woods, feeling protective and territorial and relaxed all at the same time. Whatever was coming, it was bad enough to kick Gwyn into a fast downward spiral, and whatever Augus had offered him now…it was only a temporary stay, at best.
Augus quietly spent the rest of the morning imagining ways he could hurt Kabiri. He knew he’d never get a chance to get any kind of revenge against a god, but he could dream.
*
Hours later, they returned. Augus had neatened his clothing, then done the same for Gwyn, who was more quiescent than usual, though the haunted look on his face began to return even before Augus had sighed and mentioned the palace.
The Winter Court was still in effect – as it would be for the traditional twenty one days – but Ash and Gulvi, Fenwrel and Aleutia were in the throne room. Augus walked over to Ash, noticed the strange look that Gulvi gave him. Things had been odd between them ever since Julvia’s treatment had yielded a visible sign of forward progress. Augus hadn’t actually seen Julvia since she’d attacked him, but Aleutia had assured him that things were going better than expected; though she hadn’t yet managed a shift back to human form, they were…hopeful.
But it did mean that now Augus was having to deal with weirdness from Gulvi, and it was just easier when she hated him and wasn’t conflicted about it. He sighed, turned, noticed his mask hanging from his throne and was glad that someone had picked it up for him. Then, belatedly, he realised that Gwyn’s was on a forest floor in some random forest that Augus couldn’t go back to on his own.
After Gwyn thanked the rest of them for organising the masquerade ball and the Winter Court, he called them all into a meeting. Augus found himself following at Gwyn’s side towards one of the strategy rooms.
So not tomorrow then, but now.
Not a single word that spilled out of Gwyn’s mouth was comforting. Not when Gwyn talked about Iliak’s concerns about Seelie-Unseelie cabals being split up by Albion, or the possibility of Seelie fae asking for asylum, nor the fact that Kabiri had used a debt to free Ifir and demand Court status. When Gwyn brought up his concerns regarding Davix, the old lore, Augus’ mind started to drift, and then…
‘Ash,’ Gwyn said, frowning. ‘The Mage I sent you to. For that Soulbond. What did he look like?’
‘Uh,’ Ash said, pushing his chair back. ‘About that…’
Augus looked between them quickly, eyes widening. He felt his hands tense beneath the table.
‘Tell me,’ Gwyn said.
‘Okay, this is…I didn’t- I sort of meant to say something at the time and then the opportunity just never came up probably because…because I was acting like too much of a dick but…ah. Okay. So. You know how you did that light show with Albion and his Inner Court a while back? And the Mage, Davix, was there?’
‘I do,’ Gwyn said.
‘The Mage you sent me to – Firebeard, or whatever his name is, he…they’re nearly identical, man. I- What could I say? I didn’t know what to say, you have to believe me.’ Ash turned and looked at Augus, shaking his head quickly. ‘I didn’t know what to do. You were already so mad that I had an open-ended debt with a Mage, and by that point I just wanted to forget about all of it and so I didn’t say anything like, who knows, maybe all Mages look alike after a while? You know? Something?’ Fenwrel clucked her tongue a few times and Ash smiled weakly. ‘I mean obviously I’m wrong about that too.’
‘Olphix,’ Fenwrel said quietly. ‘He’s a solitary Mage. Not a member of the Thirteen. He likes it when people forget he exists.’
‘He not only exists,’ Gwyn said quietly, ‘he’s got an open-ended debt with a member of my Inner Court, and Kabiri was firm and clear – there are two sides. Kabiri on one, and Davix and Olphix on the other.’
‘Then kick me out of the fucking Inner Court,’ Ash said, his voice tumbling forth. His eyes were bright, and Augus’ nostrils flared on an old, familiar bitterness. The scent of Ash’s fear. ‘I don’t want to be made to hurt anyone or betray anyone. Just…’
‘It’s not that simple,’ Gwyn said carefully, precisely. ‘We’ll talk more about this later. But rest assured, you haven’t been kicked out of the Inner Court yet. I don’t think a Mage taking advantage of your naivete – or a god taking advantage of my desperation – will be the final nail in that coffin.’
With that, Gwyn steered the conversation away to other matters, and Augus saw in the very still, neutral face of Fenwrel’s, and Gulvi’s concern pinching at her eyes and mouth, that things were worse than he’d feared.
‘We always knew it would be war eventually, didn’t we?’ Augus said, looking at all of them.
‘The war is a distraction,’ Gwyn said, and Augus was surprised when Fenwrel nodded in agreement across the table. ‘But it could be the end of the Unseelie. It is our biggest threat. But this? Mages, gods, more? I doubt they care very much for battle at all.’
‘La! Except what it can win them,’ Gulvi said. ‘They’re not so lofty, my darlings. If Davix has allied himself with Albion truly, a Seelie win in war must mean something to Davix and Olphix. And on that matter, what is the point, I ask you, in having oaths that should not be broken by the Thirteen, when the Thirteen won’t do anything to punish an oath-breaker in the first place? Those oaths are meaningless. Better they be etched in blood.’
Fenwrel sighed at the direct glare that Gulvi was giving her. It seemed that this was something they’d gone over before.
‘It is not that oath-breakers are not punished. It is that Davix is too powerful for the Thirteen to focus any sort of retribution upon him. The Raven Prince matched him in strength, but he is no longer here.’
Gwyn was staring at all of them, his eyes narrowed, mouth slightly open, and Augus could practically see how fast his mind was working. But after several seconds, Gwyn’s expression smoothed into neutrality, and he began talking about the success of the masquerade ball and a re-assessment of allies within the Court. Whatever he’d worked out for himself, he wasn’t going to share it with the others.
*
‘Ash, can I speak with you for a moment?’ Gwyn said, beckoning Ash over after the meeting.
Augus was waiting by Gwyn’s side, he took a careful breath. He didn’t get many opportunities to watch the interactions between his brother and Gwyn. Knew enough to know that Gwyn behaved around Ash similarly to how he’d behaved around Crielle. All forced self-control and a careful policing of his own expression. Augus’ chest twinged to observe it, because even though he’d always known of Ash’s predatory nature, he never thought that Ash would inflict it on a fae; let alone Gwyn.
‘It’s about the open debt, isn’t it?’ Ash said, his mouth tense, his hand scrubbing hard at the back of his head.
‘Yes and no,’ Gwyn said, looking over at the wall where parchments and strategic documents were pinned. ‘To what degree were you working the crowd tonight? With your glamour?’
Ash shrugged, though he looked shamefaced. ‘I know you told me not to. But I can’t help it. I really…I- It just happens. Big group of people. You know.’
‘I suspect I do,’ Gwyn said.
Ash looked over at Augus as though for support, but Augus wasn’t sure what was happening.
‘We had several families tonight re-pledge monetary support to the Kingdom, or offer more than they have before. I think that was indirectly assisted by your influence,’ Gwyn said. ‘You offered it yourself, to assist the Court with your glamour. And you cannot work against me or the Kingdom, due to the blood-oath you’ve made. So I was thinking that perhaps you’d like more responsibility in the Unseelie Court. We could put you to good use here.’
Augus frowned. Gwyn didn’t understand Ash at all. Ash was about the human world, and getting drunk, and having good times. He wasn’t about responsibility or work. Augus shook his head.
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea,’ Augus said. ‘Not for-’
‘Really?’ Ash said to Gwyn, eyes flicking over at Augus, and then back again. ‘I just…have been feeling kind of directionless for a long time now.’
‘Ash,’ Augus said, shaking his head. ‘You hate the Court, remember?’
‘Yeah,’ Ash said, laughing. ‘I remember. I still do. But I can’t- I can’t just go to the human world and forget everything like I used to. I haven’t been able to for a long time, Augus. It sort of lost its appeal back when- I mean- Back when you disappeared. And then after that. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t even want to see it for myself. And I’m not saying I won’t want to go back to that some day, but I’m not safe around humans if I’m sort of…looking for sex. I’m just not.’
‘You have the trust of the Court in a way that many of us do not,’ Gwyn said to Ash. ‘Your glamour is so strong. You could do so much with that. It reminds me of Crielle’s glamour, sometimes.’
Augus’ gut felt like lead, Ash blanched.
‘That’s…not a compliment, man.’
‘Actually, it is,’ Gwyn said firmly. ‘She held that entire Seelie Court in the palm of her hand, for good or ill. The Oak King knew the benefit of having someone like her on his Court, even as he knew that she was glamouring him too. You are a powerful fae. You’ve played that down for three thousand years, but the fact remains that, like Augus, you are far more powerful than previous incarnations of the Glashtyn. Undirected, you are far more dangerous to us – and yourself.’
Ash was looking at Gwyn oddly, and then he looked aside and shrugged, nodded. Augus thought back to Gulvi telling him that she thought Ash was lost. He’d assumed that it would mean that he’d have to come up with the solution. Yet here they were, and Gwyn seemed to have it all figured out.
‘It would be nothing too taxing,’ Gwyn said. ‘Only keeping up confidence in the Court, helping others to remember that there is something like hope. The Winter Court would be an ideal place to test out how you wish to do it, and monitor what it feels like. If you could gather intelligence while talking to others in casual conversation, that would help. Though…it’s a skill, and you could talk to Gulvi to learn-’
‘Nah, I know how to do that,’ Ash said. He smiled at Augus’ expression. ‘What, brother? I’ve spent some three thousand years in the human world figuring out how to discover people’s deepest secrets, all while making them think it was their own idea. I got that part covered.’
‘Fae are different. They will know you’re using your glamour to manipulate them.’
‘No, they won’t,’ Ash said, his eyes brightening. ‘You think I always need glamour when I’m talking to someone? You think I can’t make the glamour gentle and sweet anyway? You think Ifir had any idea that I was-’ Ash broke off and cleared his throat, his smile disappearing. ‘Sorry.’
Gwyn said nothing for a long period of time, then frowned.
‘Hey, look, I didn’t-’ Ash said, and looked like he was going to launch into an apologetic spiel, and Gwyn only held up his hand and Ash fell quiet.
‘This debt you have,’ Gwyn said quietly, ‘it cannot be helped.’
Ash pressed a hand to his face, and when it dropped, his eyes looked shadowed. The kind of expression he wore after his night terrors.
‘What is he going to ask me to do?’ Ash said, his voice hoarse.
‘I do not know.’
‘Because if he asks for betrayal. I have a blood-oath, I can’t-’
‘He cannot ask you to do anything that would cost you your life,’ Gwyn said, looking away. ‘In which case, that blood-oath may save you from certain types of betrayal. But I think it is safe to say that Olphix and Davix know they have a trump card within this Court.’
‘I don’t want to hurt anyone,’ Ash said, and then he laughed bitterly. ‘I mean I know I do it real easy, you know, but, really…I just don’t want to. And I can’t think of why else… I mean how did you even know to send me to him? Did you know who he was?’
‘No,’ Gwyn said, sighing. ‘I didn’t. There were only two names listed in an old text, Mages who might know something of Soulbonds. And I couldn’t go myself. Their names were…not specific.’
‘I don’t understand how it could work out like this,’ Ash said, his voice cracking. ‘It’s not like he could know you were going to look up Soulbonds. It’s not like…it’s not like this god or whatever, it’s not like he knew you were going to be in a situation where you’d pray for him, right?’
‘I don’t think that’s how this works,’ Gwyn said, sighing. ‘I think they’ve both been sowing debts for a long time. Longer than you or I have been alive. Perhaps it’s just dumb luck that it ended up that you’d have an open debt to one, and I’d have an open debt to the other.’
‘Yeah, cuz the fae world is so much about dumb luck over weird coincidences and epic…whatevers,’ Ash said, turning away.
Augus stretched his arm out, touched a hand to the back of Ash’s shoulder, watched him still, felt the tension in him.
‘Ash, it is what it is,’ Augus said.
‘You’re a part of this Court,’ Gwyn said, his voice stern. ‘There’s no use pre-emptively trying to guess what the debt will be when it’s called. You’ve oathed to not work against the Kingdom. It is a waste of your time and ours to lament what hasn’t yet come to pass, and may never come to pass.’
Ash turned back to face him, his expression raw. Augus folded his fingers around Ash’s wrist, and their hands fell together, tightly gripping each other.
‘If you’ll excuse me,’ Gwyn said to the both of them, ‘I need to chase up some matters.’
Augus watched Gwyn go and wanted to follow, but not as much as he wanted to stay by Ash’s side. When the door closed, Ash leaned into Augus’ side and made the kind of griping, complaining noise he used to make when he was a child.
‘I don’t like any of this,’ Ash said.
‘Me either,’ Augus agreed.
‘Giving me shit to do that I actually want to do, basically telling me that he and the Court have my back… He makes me feel like an asshole. All the fucking time. He was always like this, wasn’t he?’
‘Mm,’ Augus said. He reached up and tousled Ash’s hair. ‘You get used to it after a while. Eventually, you start feeling like you need to be noble in certain situations. But don’t listen to it. It’s a bad impulse.’
‘Ha,’ Ash said, and then he started laughing. ‘Hey, Augus? What’s my heartsong?’
Augus closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into Ash’s curly damp hair while he thought about it. They hadn’t played this game in such a long time.
‘Is there some word that sums up ‘annoying younger brother?’ Because I feel that might be apropos.’
‘You’re essentially saying my heartsong is that I’m a little shit,’ Ash said. ‘Neat. I like it.’
Augus smiled as Ash stepped away from him.
‘Anyway, bro,’ Ash said. ‘Winter Court’s still going. I’m gonna keep an eye on things. But if you need me for anything, just come grab me.’
‘Likewise,’ Augus said. ‘Truly.’
Ash beamed, and walked from the room with something that almost looked like a sense of purpose.
*
Augus spent the rest of the day preparing more medication for Julvia. He’d altered the recipes now that her awareness was mostly back, ran everything by Aleutia, and she once again reduced his dosages. He thought he may have earned something like her grudging respect, but he doubted they’d ever come close to liking each other. It was a shame. Aleutia’s wealth of herbal wisdom was vast, and Augus knew he could learn so much from her.
The door opened quickly, Augus froze with a beaker in tongs and goggles over his face and a huge leather apron tied around his neck and waist. Gulvi hadn’t seen him in this kind of gear before, and he didn’t honestly need to wear this much protective clothingwith most of the herbs he was using. She stared at him, her wings widening and then staying splayed, her black eyes shocked.
‘If it’s that dangerous to you, darling, then why are you giving it to Julvia?’
‘Because,’ Augus said crisply, ‘it’s not dangerous after this part of the process. Can I help you?’
He kept working as he waited, every stage time sensitive. Caustic chemicals crept up his nose, but they were no longer truly noxious now that he was Court status. He only bothered to protect his eyes both out of habit, and because he didn’t want to heal from any kind of chemical eye injury even if it would only take a few days for him to recover.
Gulvi waited too, which meant whatever she wanted to say was perhaps difficult to hear. Augus grimaced, but it was still a good five minutes later before he was taking off the heavy gloves and lifting the goggles.
‘There’s been another shapeshifter caught,’ Gulvi said, her voice dark. ‘One of my apprentices is patrolling the borderlands around the Court. It’s good practice for her. She found a young man, with a bow and a quiver of arrows, claiming to be one Mafydd Brant. He was asking for asylum. The name…meant nothing to me, until I recalled some time ago, that you had mentioned Mafydd in passing and Gwyn had reacted poorly. I need you to use compulsions to be sure, but initially I was going to fetch Gwyn, and now-’
‘Don’t fetch him,’ Augus said sharply, stripping off the apron and the goggles and walking over to a basin of river rock and cleaning his hands. ‘Don’t tell him. I will.’
‘Who is he?’ Gulvi said. But her eyes were a little too sharp, too knowing.
‘What have you deduced?’ Augus said, turning back to her. ‘I don’t want to play this game, Gulvi. Not about this.’
‘He’s young,’ Gulvi said, ‘and winsome, attractive and…barely an adult. These shapeshifters are people from Gwyn’s past. What would I find if I had one of my informants look in the Seelie Registry for information on him?’
‘I’m surprised you haven’t done it already,’ Augus said.
‘I don’t have as much free time as I used to,’ Gulvi replied, scratching at her back, where her feathers met her skin. ‘This is some childhood sweetheart? Yes?’
‘Of a sort,’ Augus said. ‘Where is he detained?’
‘I can’t…justify putting him in the prison until I can be certain he is a shapeshifter,’ Gulvi said, sounding frustrated. ‘I need your compulsions for that. I’ll take you to him? Then we can be done with this quickly.’
‘That would be best,’ Augus said.
He stored and cleaned everything up as best as he could, and he was quietly amazed that Gulvi didn’t snipe at him or tell him to go faster. He wasn’t even sure which he preferred – her patience, or her cruelty.
In the pit of his gut was a blackened, charred anger that was fanning back to life. That Crielle wasn’t yet done even though she was dead. That she had somehow managed to find a way to copy Mafydd, even though she likely had never known him that well. Hopefully that would mean that the shapeshifter would be a poor facsimile, and they could be done with this as soon as possible.
*
They escorted the Mafydd-shapeshifter to a cell. One compulsion was all it took to reveal he was a shapeshifter. And he was possibly the least knowledgeable, the least complete of all the shapeshifters. Visually, perhaps, it was him. But how much had Crielle known truly? How much documentation had there been about a young Reader and his personality and dialogue patterns? Not even enough for the true shapeshifters. Even they had known that their faux-Mafydd was one of the weakest links.
But Gwyn…that was the tricky part. Augus had seen him choke over the boy’s name. Seen him slip into a dissociative trance and not return until Augus had promised not to speak of him again. Seen him lose his footing after nightmares. There had been progress, yes, but progress over a memory was very different to knowing what would happen if Gwyn insisted on seeing him in the flesh.
Especially when Gwyn wasn’t that far away from whatever despair pulled at him.
The trows led him to Gwyn’s location – a scroll library – where Gwyn sat at a tilted table and wearily scanned the writing. Augus blinked to see the Raven Prince’s wild scrawl, remembered a time when he would be blowing the ink dry on a missive that the Raven Prince had given him, wondering if whoever it was supposed to be sent to would even be able to understand it.
‘Enlightening?’ Augus said, thinking of how carefully he’d need to step, and how there were no goggles or apron or heavy gloves to handle this situation, and yet it felt far more dangerous.
‘Depends upon your definition of enlightening,’ Gwyn said, his voice a monotone.
Augus swallowed, then walked up to Gwyn’s side, staring down at the range of scrolls. Some were simply tallies of numbers, others were some kind of symbolic shorthand that Augus didn’t recognise. His chest felt tight.
‘We have another shapeshifter in custody,’ Augus said. Gwyn, predictably, stiffened. ‘I think it might be the last of them. Or one of the last.’
‘What makes you say that?’ Gwyn said, tilting his head, turning to look up at Augus’ face.
‘The shapeshifter doesn’t know a great deal. About the person he’s playing. He’s a very weak link in what I hope is the end of the chain.’
Gwyn looked back at the scrolls, and then his whole body seemed to shudder and he stared at Augus. Gwyn’s pupils dilated, on Augus’ next inhale he thought he smelled acid and burnt carbon and knew it as the scent of Gwyn’s fear. But then he smelled nothing except scrolls and Gwyn’s regular scent.
‘I don’t think you should go see this one,’ Augus said. ‘But it is of course, up to you.’
‘It’s Mafydd, isn’t it?’ Gwyn said, his voice cracking. He pushed his chair back and it scraped across the floor. He walked towards one of the wooden shelves and stood near it. Then he folded his arms and shook his head tightly. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Augus said.
A beat, and Augus prepared about ten different responses, each one either an assertion, an order, pleading, all along the lines of; don’t see him.
He had nothing prepared for Gwyn’s actual response.
‘I can’t see him,’ Gwyn said, squeezing his eyes shut. ‘Unless…you think I must?’
‘No,’ Augus said.
‘I thought you’d…think I should get some kind of closure,’ Gwyn said, and he placed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He pressed himself harder into the edge of the shelving unit, he looked older and younger all at once.
‘That’s not what I think,’ Augus said.
‘It’s just…’ Gwyn dropped his arm and then folded it around his torso. ‘Mother did this to destabilise me. Seeing him will destabilise me. I am…I am hopefully possessed of at least the shred of intelligence that tells me not to see him? I didn’t get a choice when the shapeshifters looked like you or Lludd. But I get a choice now. I want to…I…’ Gwyn made a sound that was not quite a cry, and was raw and terrible and too soft for what it conveyed. ‘I want to see him again.’
Gwyn shook his head over and over again, convincing not Augus – Augus knew that much. Convincing himself.
‘I can’t,’ Gwyn said, as much to himself now. ‘Because it’s not him. Because…she will have given him the words of condemnation I have imagined myself so many times. But they’re not the words he would say. I heard the words he said at the end. I know how he felt. I don’t need to hear- I don’t…’
Gwyn’s mouth opened and he blew out a breath, looking for all the world like he’d just taken a wound to the side.
‘Okay,’ Gwyn said, his voice calming. ‘I’m not seeing him. I’m not seeing that. A year ago, perhaps. Now? No.’
Augus wasn’t sure he’d be able to make the same decision, if the roles were reversed. He knew pride when he felt it. That lifting warmth that felt like air underneath his lungs, when Ash had learned something new, when Augus had accomplished something difficult.
‘When was the last time you ate?’ Augus said.
‘I could eat,’ Gwyn said in response, voice still raw and vulnerable. Gwyn lurched away from the shelving towards Augus.
‘Gwyn-’ Augus said, holding a hand out.
‘No,’ Gwyn said, his voice shaking. ‘It’s not okay. I’m not…it’s not okay. But can we just pretend…can we just pretend that it is?’
Augus looked at the expression on his face, wanted nothing more than to fold over him protectively. Instead, he nodded, and Gwyn closed his eyes in relief.
Gwyn was silent as they walked to the kitchens. It wasn’t until Augus was munching on some salad leaves as Gwyn soberly made some kind monstrosity of a meat roll, that Augus blinked and frowned; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually done something solely for himself, that didn’t stand to benefit someone else. It was fine for now, but if he didn’t do something about it soon…
‘So,’ Gwyn said, at what must have been a forced attempt at cheer when he sat down at the table. ‘That waterweed trick that you do, when you shoot it out of your wrists; does it hurt? It’s not like my light, is it?’
Augus couldn’t stop the quirk of his lips.
Well, if he wasn’t paying attention to himself, at least someone else was. |
Within the first few weeks Ryan was starting to show. It carried too low to be anything like a beer belly, and was too firm for that anyway. Every free moment had Ryan’s hands on his bump, and they started to notice a glow about Michael, a certain pride to him. The guys stayed as far out of it as they could, they supported Gavin and Ryan as much as they needed, but their involvement was limited. The tangle of lives, hormones, and instincts was not one any of the other Hunters wanted to be a part of.
Gavin worked against every instinct he had and became more protective of Ryan. He came in early to switch Michael and Ryan’s desks over. Michael might have been the sperm donor for these pups, but he did not lay claim to Ryan because of it. Gavin just needed to prove that again. He’d lean over and rub his face on Ryan’s shoulder, fighting the losing battle against Michael’s scent. He’d bring Ryan’s lunch for him and set it down like some captured hunt. Every time Michael tried to move in and talk to Ryan, Gavin would either fight back or zone out.
Some days though, Gavin simply would stop responding.
“Hey, Gav, do you think you could edit GO! later?” Geoff asked. “Hm?” Gavin responded. “Never mind.” Geoff replied, knowing Gavin probably wouldn’t get it done anyway. Ryan shifted his chair closer, looking over at Gavin with a measure of worry in his expression.
The Hunters - like everyone else - knew what happened to unfaithful omegas. They were abandoned, the claim was broken and they were left. Though Gavin had given permission for this, his instincts had still remained the same. His body was telling him to distance from his omega, especially now the other Alpha’s scent was setting in. Some days, Gavin found it harder to resist.
“Alpha?” Ryan asked. Michael looked around. Gavin caught him. “No! Not this bullshit again!” Gavin snapped. “They’re your pups, but as far as the rest of him is concerned, that’s still mine.” Michael turned back to his screen. He knew how taxing this was on Gavin, and he was ready to do anything to make that easier. He could only imagine what it was like if someone had gotten Lindsay pregnant. Well, he wouldn’t be so stupid as to allow it to happen. But had it, he would be pretty cut up.
Ryan’s head fell back with no further encouragement. Gavin just sighed and turned away.“Just leave it, Ry.” He mumbled, getting up and pushing his chair back. He was tired. He needed a break from the office.Ryan followed unwaveringly, not content to let his Alpha suffer. “I said leave it, Ry.” Gavin said, keeping his back to Ryan.Ryan got in front of Gavin, his hands on his Alpha’s shoulders.“No. You’re my Alpha, and I need you now. My instincts want me to get comfort from Michael, but I’m fighting it because I know I’m yours. I need you to fight harder too.” He said, one hand clasping Gavin’s cheek. Gavin deflated, closing his eyes and sinking into Ryan’s touch. He could do this, for Ryan. He just needed to be resilient. He was the one who’d allowed this to happen, so the consequences were his to bear.“I’m here, Ry.” Gavin sighed, wrapping his arms around Ryan’s neck, “I’m here.”
Geoff poked his head out of the door with a sigh. “Could you come and get some work done, assholes. If he’s gonna be gone for 6 months, we need to at least have some shit with him in in the meantime.” Gavin pulled away, nodding once and making his way back into the office, towing Ryan behind him.
Gavin found himself drifting during filming, wondering how the hell this happened. Well, he knew how it physically happened, but how could he have been so stupid. Of course Michael would sleep with Ryan in heat. Of course Ryan would need it. He should have just taken Ryan with him. Put him up in England and looked after him there. Maybe even left Geoff in charge of him.
He sighed heavily. “What’s up, Gav?” Ray asked, Gavin realising they were still recording. “Nothing, just this mingy little pickaxe. It’s taking so bloody long.” He lied. “You’ll get there, Gavvy.” Ryan said, glancing over at Gavin.
Gavin just rolled his eyes and continued on. There was no hope of him winning this Let’s Play, but he carried on making enough of an effort. He wondered how on Earth he’d carry on fighting these instincts for so long. He wondered if Ryan would crack and go running into Michael’s arms. He wondered if he’d mind. Gavin liked to think he’d mind if Michael upped and stole his omega, and Gavin wasn’t sure which was worse - if Michael took him on, or if Michael rejected him.
Either way, Gavin didn’t want it to happen. He regretted letting Ryan keep the pups, but he had a feeling if he forced Ryan into getting rid of them he’d regret it more. Gavin was not one of those Alphas. He was not. He would not be.
Eternity passed, and the day ended. Geoff came over to Gavin, taking him aside quietly to invite him over for bevs and Peggle. Gavin couldn’t turn down that, even if Geoff did lie about needing help on a level.
“I don’t know how you do it, Gav.” Geoff said, taking another sip of whiskey. “Do what? Put up with Ryan? Nah, he’s all right, and this won’t last. I’ve got my whole life with him.” “Yeah but...he’s pregnant. And they’re not yours.”“I know that, Geoff, thanks.” Gavin snapped, sighing heavily and finishing off another beer. “And you think once he gives birth those 6 months will fly by and everything will be fine? Once he pops them out it’ll be back to normal for Gavvy and Rye-Bread?” “No, no, I know he’ll want to be with them, but it’ll be okay because he’ll have me and as soon as he can we’ll have pups of our own. Simple. Just like that. He should already be pregnant with my cubs. Not Michael’s.” Gavin rambled. “It’s weird that you and him have been trying and Michael knocked him up after one try.” “Nah, s’not weird. I’ve got no chance.” “Aww, don’t think like that, Gav. It’ll happen.” “I mean it, I was tested. There’s something wrong with my bollocks.” Gavin said.
Geoff paused, frowning and looking over at Gavin. “You really can’t have them? Does Ryan know?” Gavin fell silent, staring pensively down the dark hole of his beer can. “I was going to, but then he told me he was pregnant and I forgot.” He said quietly. Geoff was as close as he had to a father in the US, and he could practically taste the look of disappointment on his face. “Gavin. Tell him. If you believe he has a choice, which I know you do, you need to tell him. Then it gives him the chance to leave if he knows that he needs to have pups he can look after. Tomorrow, Gavin.” Geoff said, grabbing Gavin’s chin to look at him. “Who are you to tell me what to do with my omega?” Gavin bit back, though he knew Geoff was right. “You’re just a beta. You don’t know shit about looking after an omega. Actually, nobody in that fucking office does, but you all think you know best.” He said, pushing up off the sofa and going to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I’m gonna go look after my omega how I want.” He snapped.
Gavin arrived home after the bloody long walk, and flopped down on the sofa, the can of beer he’d had at Geoff’s still in his hand. He could hear Ryan snoring softly from the next room. He slept a lot now, in odd ways too.
Gavin got up, throwing the can away and moving into the bedroom. He knew what he had to do. He stroked a hand through Ryan’s hair where he was curled at the end of the bed, and threw the spare blanket over him. Gavin curled around Ryan, his decision settling heavy in his stomach. |
The Traynor's had been keeping Nathan up to date with all the details of the situation as it was unfolding, then passed the duties on to me. While our correspondence was mostly positive and he was truly grateful Will was alive, he warned that this sudden turn of events might actually cause a regression of sorts in him.
He wasn't that far off.
As predicted, Will began retreating into himself once again, and by the next day, was refusing any further medical care from the hospital staff in Switzerland. Something which left us scrambling for immediate medical transport for most of the weekend.
Our request was finally granted late Sunday night, too late to leave by then, so we arrived home early Monday afternoon.
After Will was settled in his new hospital room, I headed home for some much needed rest. I hadn't recalled that my house was no longer mine, that my mother told me if I'd gone off to Switzerland that I needn't come back, until my key was in the front door. I half expected her to have changed the locks, but when I turned the key, the door magically swung open.
"Louisa!"
"Mum."
My voice was soft, a vast departure from the exuberant cry I was met with. She immediately pulled me into a huge embrace and began sobbing. I let her hug me for a moment, I even hugged back, before breaking away. "Mum, I know you said I was no longer welcome here, but I had to-"
"No Love, I'm sorry. I should have never said that to you. This is your home and we all love you so very much." She glanced away for a moment, looking slightly embarrassed. "I suppose I was emotional, distraught even, thinking of poor sweet Will and what was about to happen to him-" Her tears began again and she pulled me back against her chest. "I can't imagine what you've gone through, can't imagine never seeing you again. Oh Louisa, I love you so much. Please tell me you'll come home to stay. Please."
The weight of the weekends events finally caught up with me and I began to sob softly into her shoulder. After a while, and I was fully composed, I pulled away again. "You're sure about this?"
She nodded vigorously. "Of course."
"Because it's really what you want?" I was asking very cautiously. "And not just because Will's still alive?"
"Will's alive?"
If I wasn't still holding on to one of her arms, I think Mum might have fallen over. "Of course he is. He-didn't Treena tell you and Dad?"
"I'm not sure about your father, but I know bloody damn well that sister of yours said nothing of this to me." Mum sounded angry now, but it quickly dissolved into a smile. "Oh Louisa, that's such great news. I hope now Will can-"
"He's in the hospital. They're treating him for a very serious infection," I began, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat, and sighed. "Mum, you have to understand that this turn of events might not be enough to ultimately change his mind. That he still may end up resubmitting his request for approval."
"I understand-even if I still don't agree with it. I trust Will to make the best decisions for his life, just as I trust and love you."
This time, I'm the one who pulled Mum into a giant hug.
We stayed there like that until the rest of my energy began to wane. "I'll head up for a bath," I told her as I walked over to retrieve the bag I'd dropped by the door. "And maybe a nap as well."
Mum smiled at me. "I'll make you some tea." I was just about to call out my thanks from the stairs, when she called out first. "Oh Louisa, this letter arrived for you this morning. It's from a Mr. Lawler in London. Looks important, even had to sign for it."
I forced a smile as I took the envelope from Mum, and quickly ran up the stairs, ripping it open before I'd even entered my room. I flopped down on my bed, read the short note that accompanied the graciously summed check, and immediately burst into tears. Tears of elation and relief, for I knew exactly what this gift was to represent.
****
I'd taken my shower, but had forgone the bath and nap in order to visit Will again before visiting hours had ended.
"What are you doing here, Clark? I thought I'd told you to go home and stay home."
It was the most he'd said to me, to anyone, all weekend, and I tried not to show my surprise, or slight pleasure in hearing him say more than yes, no, and I don't care.
"Couldn't stay away, I suppose."
It was meant to sound more playful than it actually did, and Will could see right through my facade. "What's wrong, Louisa?"
I pushed the visitors chair closer to his bed, but before sitting down, I pulled the envelope from my purse. "This came for me today, it's from Michael Lawler-"
I could see the change in his expression and he nodded for me to sit. "Okay, here me out," he began with a sigh. "I'd asked Michael to send that out on the thirteenth-a little something to show my gratitude for all you had done for me. I'd made sure that there was enough for a few weeks of unemployment and-"
He paused a moment to glance down at where my hand was caressing his. I knew Will's level of sensation was patchy at best, there were spots where he felt pressure or sometimes pain and other (larger, more significant) areas that were completely deadened to any stimuli. That patch at the base of his wrist, was definitely not one of those. "-and a holiday in Paris."
My head snapped up in surprise. "Will?"
"No fussing, Clark," he warned before continuing. "I did this because I needed to make sure you were taken care of. I wasn't going to be here to-"
"But you're here now."
The muscles in Will's neck and jaw tensed slightly. "You must promise me something, Clark. You must promise me that my being here-my being alive, will not prevent you from doing all of the things you've already set out to do. That you will still go after every dream you have and every goal you've set for yourself."
"I will." I smiled lovingly at him, and entwined our fingers together. "But you are here and can now share those experiences with me-"
"I need time, Louisa," he muttered brokenly and I momentarily wondered if he were disappointed he was still alive, and more importantly, if he still wished he were dead. "I can't look farther than the here and now, at the moment. I'm still trying to process what's happened, what will be happening-." I felt the warmth of his hand squeezing mine, no more than a soft flutter, but with all the strength he had in it. "But I can promise you that I will try. That I am really trying."
|
Stiles felt it like a punch to the gut the moment his siblings crossed the city line. Panic sliced through him, quick and heady, and he stared at Lydia with wide eyes. He barely felt the hands on his shoulders, and then arms were wrapped around him, his head pressed to his sister's shoulder.
"I don't think I can see them yet," he said, sandwiched between the two women.
"You're not going to hide again, are you?"
"I was thinking about it," he grumbled, though he made no move to pull away.
"You don't have anything to apologize for, just remember that," Lydia said, kissing his cheek.
<> <>
Rebekah probably should have felt bad about leaving the Hales with her family, but she didn't. She far preferred the Martins' cheeky banter to Nik's scowling. If she managed to put off the inquisition a little bit longer, who could blame her?
Still, she couldn't help but feel a bit nervous as she pulled up to the house. She truly did believe that Stiles and Niklaus would reconcile; she just hoped that Nik would refrain from doing anything too stupid in the meantime.
Rebekah had absolute faith in Lydia's wrath if anything happened to Stiles.
What was unexpected was the vehemence with which the rest of the Hales defended the youngest Mikaelson at dinner that night. Rebekah had never laughed so hard as she did when Laura had "accidentally" knocked her ice water into the hybrid's lap.
The mishaps were all harmless, but the stern words and stony looks got the point across to the rest of her family: the Hales stood with the Martins.
<> <>
In the end, it was Henrik who saw their brother for the first time. He liked the Beacon Hills Library: it was large without being intimidating, and dotted with quiet, comfortable spaces in which to read or study.
Henrik had escaped early that morning, rather than letting himself get sucked into the chaos that was the Hale house. Inwardly praising his success, he almost didn’t notice his brother sitting across the room as he settled in his favorite chair. He froze, suddenly unsure of letting Stiles see him, but was comforted by the hum of magic deep in his bones that signified both power and kin.
Thankfully, Stiles didn't stir, and Henrik resolved to leave him be. Unfortunately, more often than not, he found his eyes drifting across the room instead of focusing on his reading.
It was lunchtime when Stiles moved to leave, and Henrik decided to follow him. Without thinking, he followed his younger brother all the way into the diner that the family had stopped at on their first day in town.
He had made it into the restaurant when Stiles stopped so suddenly that Henrik smashed into him. Stiles turned, obviously expecting to apologize to whoever was behind him, only to stand dumb at the sight of Henrik.
Feeling the heat in his cheeks at being caught, the older boy blurted the first thing that came to mind. "How are you?"
Stiles shrugged after a moment and looked away. He wanted to ask Henrik what he was doing there, but he wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer. "Are you following me?” he asked instead, with a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth, "because this is kind of the opposite of how I remember our interactions when we were children."
He pulled Henrik toward a booth in the back, gaze narrowed. Jo was working again, and she gave Stiles a wide smile that barely dims when she turned to Henrik.
"You look like you need some sleep Stiles. Are you still not feeling well?” she asked, taking their orders.
"Just really busy," he shrugged, "but thanks."
"I was surprised when you became a witch," Stiles said after the waitress left.
“Evidently, when my little brother pumped me full of magic to save my life, some of it stuck around,” Henrik answered drily.
"I'm sorry?"
"You should be." The older boy grinned. "I totally missed out on the whole 'mad with bloodlust' experience. I could be bathing in the blood of virgins right now."
"But that would get so messy, and you'd still have to shower afterwards."
"True. Now that I think about it, both Nik and Elijah are touchy about cleanliness."
"They are the divas of the family," Stiles agreed solemnly.
It took ten minutes for the brothers to stop laughing.
Henrik, as it turned out, was very good at looking pathetic, and Stiles had a especially difficult time telling his brother "no". Every time Stiles opened his mouth to object to meeting his siblings for dinner, his brother would give him the same sad eyes that he thought only toddlers and Scott could generate.
Sure, Rebekah and Henrik were great, but that didn't mean that that the older ones would welcome him with open arms. Right?
<> <>
Antonio's was a fancy Italian restaurant just outside the city limits. Stiles and Lydia had been there plenty of times, and it was one of Lydia's favorite places to eat. It was also where he was going to be meeting his siblings for dinner.
He chose the restaurant for the few reasons: first, the food was delicious; second, it was neutral territory for all of them; third, if Stiles had to kill someone tonight, he was pretty sure Tony would help him hide the body.
When he arrived, the restaurant was almost completely empty. The hostess was standing inside the door as usual, a line of wait staff standing to the side, and soft music was playing in the background.
He rolled his eyes. "Let me guess," he asked his waitress, "they bought out the restaurant, didn't they?"
She shrugged apologetically and brought him his drink.
Stiles spent his time waiting for his siblings by munching on bread and texting Laura, who kept sending him increasingly absurd knock-knock jokes in an attempt to make him shoot his drink out of his nose. It was amazingly effective.
Thankfully, both Bekah and Henrik had given him the heads-up when they were close, so Stiles was prepared when his siblings stepped inside the restaurant.
Everyone froze, and almost a full minute passed with the siblings just staring at each other.
Stiles took a half-step forward, only to be immediately and unexpectedly sandwiched between Kol and Freya, tears soaking into his shirt where his sister held him. "You can't leave ever again," she exclaimed quietly. Kol held them both tightly.
Finn kissed his forehead and welcomed him home.
Elijah swept him into a crushing hug, eyes damp.
Niklaus impassively watched the rest of his family greet Stiles. Then his brother turned worried eyes to him.
"Thank you for protecting me," the hybrid said. "I missed you, brother."
And then they were embracing, and crying, and that was fine.
<> <>
The next few weeks were some of the best of Stiles's life. He knew that Esther and Mikael would find them soon, but he tried to put it aside for awhile and simply enjoy his reunited family. Before the month was out, the Mikaelsons had all but settled in Beacon Hills, leaving New Orleans to Niklaus's protégé Marcel. When Stiles had objected, his brother had merely smiled slyly and said that he could very well rule the world from anywhere.
Kol and Henrik took to showing up at the Apothecary at all hours, causing a noticeable increase in female patronage, and they, as well as Finn and Freya, started regularly contributing to the shop's wares. While the town was still jealously guarding the secret of Stiles's heritage, the fact that the entire Mikaelson family had set up in a small town in California did not go unnoticed. Thankfully, their presence could be attributed to Rebekah's marriage to Andrew, and the "unification of dynasties" as the gossip mill put it.
The family nights instituted by Freya were uncomfortable at first, but after Lydia not-so-accidentally broke one of Niklaus's priceless vases and threatened to behead him with the pieces, things got markedly better.
The eyebrow duo expanded to include Finn, movie night expanded to include Kol and Henrik, and Lydia regularly had lunch with Freya and texted Elijah random bits of information about Stiles.
He never would have imagined when he left home centuries ago that he would be so fortunate as to have a pack, a family, and a town that cared for him. Not everything was easy, of course--there were way too many dominant personalities among the Martins, the Mikaelsons, and the Hales for that--but for the first time, Stiles allowed himself to consider the possibility that he might survive the final showdown with his parents. |
Kylo knew only a few days after they returned to the Finalizer what his answer was. He had just hoped Hux felt the same way. He had known ever since the General had stood in front of him and dressed him down with not an ounce of fear. It hadn’t even mattered that Brendol had to tilt his head up slightly.
He’d never found Brendol more attractive than that moment.
The idea of having someone so fierce as his mate sent shivers down his spine. It would be the one person he would never have to worry about. Hux could take care of himself.
Kylo had always wanted a true partner, so that night he had written Brendol and told him. He had wanted to come to him that night. He was sure. It was a big step but he was ready.
Always intent on making him wait, the omega had responded with a date. Kylo had known it was the next cycle. At the time it had been almost a month away. It had been hard to resist now that he knew that they both wanted the same thing. As it got closer they agreed that Hux would skip his suppressant shot so he would go into heat for their bonding.
Brendol stated it was due to his age, he had wanted to have his progeny before he was thirty five. To him it made sense that they started trying for a child as soon as they bonded. Kylo honestly felt that he would love any part of Brendol, even if he didn’t know much about children. Kylo just wanted to feel him on a heat, sharing one more thing between them would only be a bonus.
Everything had honestly happened so fast, and yet then the days dragged by. Each day he found excuses to be near the General and only to back off when he received a particularly rude message about what Brendol thought about him getting in the way.
The anger had only seemed to fuel Brendol though. That night he had actually send Kylo messages that were filthy enough to make his skin hot as he read them.
Kylo ended up leaving early again to his apartment, preparing it for Brendol. Making sure his scent was everywhere and that the sheets and blankets were clean.
Kylo wanted it to be perfect for him.
They would both only bond once in their lives, the last thing he wanted was for Brendol to think he didn’t care.
He stocked the fridge with liquids and easy snacks, and he left bottled water at the bedside as well.
For once he actually turned on the environmental controls in the place, cooling it down so that even in his heat Brendol would feel comfortable. It left the air with a slight nip to it.
When Brendol finally arrived he was still in his uniform, it was obvious he had come straight from his shift. There was a small pack I is hands that probably held clothing for the next week, but Kylo would make sure they never used it. Brendol hadn’t even knocked he has just let himself in.
He could smell him the second he was in the door, even though he was across the room. The heat boosting his natural scent. It wasn’t only that, it was also the scent of slick as his body prepared itself to mate.
“Missed you.”
Brendol said in the way of welcome. It felt good that this time he said it without being prompted.
He was normally so careful, but now he let his bag drop to the ground and he was already working on his uniform as Kylo crossed the room to him.
Brendol was almost tearing at his jacket to get it off. He let it drop to the floor and had his undershirt over his head before they met.
Kylo had never smelled an omega on the edge of heat, and he’s never been able to really catch Hux’s scent. It was just starting to come through when they has been on the finalizer, and in the few days they had been apart it was so much stronger.
He wrapped his arms around Brendol and pulled his close, burying his face in his neck and smelling him.
It was addictive, but his chest swelled knowing that he wasn’t going to have to give it up this time. He would be able to return to the Finalizer with Brendol and this time he could spend his nights with him. They would be bonded, not even the most traditional Imperial patriot would think twice about that.
It only made it better, knowing that this would be for the rest of their lives.
“I missed you too.”
He responded, spinning Brendol around and hoisting him up by slipping his hands under his thighs. Legs wrapped around him and he could feel how the heat was affecting Brendol, he ground against him as Kylo carried him to the bed.
“Did you always smell this good?”
Brendol asked, an odd question, as if he’d never noticed Kylo’s scent before. Kylo put it to the heat, that now his senses would be more in tune with the alphas around him.
Each step felt too long, he needed to get Brendol in bed, he needed to feel his body wrapped around his own.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had a heat.”
Brendol admitted, the words hungry and demanding.
“Tell me what to do.”
“Mark me.”
Kylo got to the bed, but Brendol didn’t want to let go. His legs stayed tight around his hips. It took a bit of effort but he managed get down on the bed, Brendol on his back and Kylo on top. He felt the slow rock of hips and he realised that Brendol had already been hard and had tucked himself up in his belt.
Brendol didn’t seem to be in the mood to wait and he already started working on his pants, opening them up. Only when he had to unwrap his legs to push them down did he let go.
The scent of his slick was so much stronger now and Kylo could feel it affecting him. It was intoxicating, and the alpha side of him was giving him needs he hadn’t really felt before.
He wanted to not only be inside of Brendol, he wanted to mark him, he wanted to knot him and make sure that everyone knew that this omega was his own. Kylo had to bite back the growl as he pulled at his own clothing.
Kylo had gotten dressed with the intent of looking good for Hux, and now he regretted it. He just wanted it off so he could be inside him again.
“Ben, too slow.”
Brendol’s voice was aggressive and showed all the frustration that he was feeling.
“Sorry.”
Finally he managed to free himself, his shirt landing on the floor and his pants dangling off one leg. It was enough; Brendol wasn’t the only one who was feeling the need form the heat.
Kylo shifted so he could kick his trousers off his foot and he felt his breath hitch as he looked at him. He loved Brendol’s thin form all laid out, all offered up just for him, with the touch of softness around his stomach. Kylo wanted to leave little nips over the pale skin.
Kylo gave into the feeling, bending over him and pressing his lips to his hip bone. Brendol was worked up enough that he jerked slightly and then there was hands in his hair, pulling slightly. He could tell Brendol wanted him to mount him already but Kylo wanted to make sure he was ready. The heat seemed to be pushing Brendol past rational thought.
He had to admit he wasn’t thinking to clearly either as Kylo pressed his hands between Brendol’s thighs. There was already a little slick on then and when he pushed a finger inside he could feel how incredibly wet he was.
“Faster.”
He groaned, and Kylo obeyed adding a second finger and feeling him give way. On his heat his body was close to ready, but Kylo added a third before he found himself becoming as impatient as Hux was.
Kylo’s scalp was hurting as Brendol demandingly pulled his hair.
He let Brendol pull him up, bracing one hand beside him and his other under his hip. Kylo rubbed himself against him, feeling the slick coat his shaft.
Brendol was obviously done with teasing because he grabbed his hip and ground himself up against him. His hand moved out of his hair and Brendol guided Kylo’s erection into himself. He had to help a little; his was still fairly tight, but not so much that it was uncomfortable. It seemed to be what Brendol needed because he arched his back and let out a loud moan.
Brendol wrapped his legs around him, trying to force movement.
Kylo started as slow as he could manage, watching the expressions cross Brendol’s face as he finally filled him completely. Brendol dug his hand into his hip and ground himself against him, taking the moment to feel their bodies connected.
It had never felt so right to be with anyone else.
“Mark me.”
The order came out again and this time Kylo listened. He started slow deep thrusts, rocking Brendol’s body as he fucked into him. Kylo didn’t hesitate to leave little nips on Brendol’s neck; he made sure they were high enough that they would show over the collar of his jacket.
Everyone on the Finalizer would know that the General was his mate and his mate alone. The possessive feelings were only getting stronger as the heat told hold on him. It didn’t feel like enough to be inside him, he wanted to breed him, to mark him. He started to move harder and he could feel Brendol’s nails biting into his skin, trying to encourage him.
The nips along his neck were starting to colour and he bit a little harder. Be wanted so badly to bond him.
“May I?”
He growled out, feeling his voice vibrate out of his mouth.
“Fuck, yes, get on with it.”
Despite the harsh words Brendol sounded more like he was begging for it.
“Yes?”
He asked, teeth skimming the skin. Kylo could feel Brendol shudder under him.
Brendol was moving harder, fucking back on him as hard as he could.
“Please Ben, please don’t make me wait.”
That was all the encouragement he needed, Kylo bit down and he felt Brendol do it as well. Their bond open up in a rush. It was no longer two people for a breath, instead it was a mix, the love and pleasure flowing through the weak bond. It made him dizzy to feel it, but the taste of blood brought him back to the moment. The bond was starting to settle and he felt more like himself.
Kylo licked the wound as they moved together, encouraging it to close.
Through the bond he was able to feel how close Brendol was, and the frustration. He wanted his heat to ease.
Kylo could feel the base of his cock swelling and he was glad that he could not only please his mate but that he could mark him deeper than anyone else would ever be able to.
The noises coming from Brendol were no longer words, just demanding noises and nails to go along with it.
As it got harder to force his swelling knot inside Brendol they started grinding together, hardly moving. Just rocking together roughly, as he felt the tension building in Brendol’s body.
He felt Brendol’s orgasm, and then he pulsed around his knot force Kylo’s own.
Kylo was left panting at the feeling and he rested his forehead against Brendol’s. There was something deeply satisfying about breeding his mate, and something even more satisfying as finally having Brendol as his mate.
They would never have to sleep apart unless their missions forced it, and at that moment Kylo couldn’t imagine being anywhere without him. Kylo knew past of it was the rush of their bond and the heat, but part were feeling that were there before both.
“Force, you’re prefect Brendol.”
He said softly.
“And you.”
It was a tone he hadn’t heard from the general before, and he couldn’t wait to hear it more often. |
Dear Char,
Forgive me, but I have business down the mountain for a few days. I thought perhaps you might visit, hence this note. My door is always open to you. I hope that I can enjoy your company again when I return.
Affectionately,
Hephaestus, whom you call
One Eye
Char read the note twice. It was pinned on the door with a bronze nail, and written in a cultured, elegant hand. The god of desire stared dumbly at it for several moments, thinking only, why did I not ask if he could write? His sister's voice answered, firmly, that he was an idiot, which he agreed with. Finally, he unpinned it, slipping the nail into his pocket, and tried the door. It was unlocked.
The forge was quiet, all fires within it banked. The same heat he was becoming accustomed to wafted around him, carrying the sharp sting of molten metals and the rich fragrance of hickory fires that had sunk into One Eye's clothes and that Char was now so attuned to. He meandered aimlessly through the forge room, and found himself again drawn to the storage alcove with its shelves full of metals and half-finished projects. He felt awkward, browsing through the work without the master present, but curiosity had often been stronger than sense for him. A delicate flutter out of the corner of his eye made him turn, and the little butterfly landed lightly on his finger.
In the glow of the fires, he could see now that stretched across the filigree of the wings was a sheet of gossamer, that caught the air and provided lift. It shouldn't be able to fly, but One Eye had somehow imbued it with magic to do so. The butterfly was so light that Char surmised that the tubes that made up the edges of the wing and braced the gossamer sails were hollow. He wished One Eye was there, so he could ask him. Sighing slightly, he lifted the butterfly up into his hair, where it sat flapping softly as Char continued his exploration.
Eventually, hunger drove him back to his kitchen, but he found himself, over the course of the week, returning again and again to the Forgemaster's rooms, the gold butterfly his constant companion. So it should have been no surprise at all, that he lay down to rest on the now familiar bed, and woke hours later to the sound of the heavy outer doors clanging shut. Char froze in consternation, debating whether to greet One Eye like a returning lover or to pretend he slept through the noise. Feeling unsure, he opted for staying in the bed and pretending to sleep, until the god Hephaestus made his way into his bedroom to find another in his bed.
A snort of amusement, and then the bed sank as One Eye sat on the edge of it. The scent of metal and dust and sweat and travel filled Char's nose, and he opened his eyes, a hesitant smile on his lips. "I guess I fell asleep waiting for you?" One Eye smiled back at him, and touched his index finger to his chin, and then pointed at himself with the same finger. Char cocked his head, scooting up in the bed.
"Is that a… word sign?"
One Eye nodded, his gaze brightening. He repeated the motion, and then turned and took Char's hand, palm up, and traced letters into it with a fingertip. M I S S. He touched his chin again. M E. He touched his finger to his chest. Char, inexplicably, felt tears burn in the corners of his eyes. "Yes. I missed you." One Eye's amber eye went soft, and he made a Y with his thumb and pinky finger outstretched, other fingers folded into his palm, and gestured back and forth between their bodies. He spelled the letters S A M E into Char's palm.
"You missed me too?" One Eye nodded. Char felt himself flush with pleasure, and he wished the lights were stronger, so that One Eye could see it. "Where did you go?"
At that, One Eye gave him a grin, and stood up, shifting packages to a table in the back of the room and hanging a few bags in his wardrobe. Once he was finished putting things away, he turned back to Char and motioned between them. He pointed at Char, and then made a K shape with his first two fingers and thumb and motioned between them. Char sat up straight, as if he were in class, and chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Me…" he began. "Between? You?" He smirked. "Does this have something to do with sex?" One Eye snorted, shaking his head, and made a different motion, pointing at Char and then beckoning him. "You want me to come to you?" It was an indication of how much he had missed the older god that he did not pause, but came right off the bed and reached for his hand. One Eye took it, and drew him in gently. He lifted his hand, palm up, and, unwrapping his other arm from Char's waist, brushed two fingers over it in a sweeping motion. Char shook his head. "Clean? Sweep?"
One Eye thought for a moment, and then placed his big hand back on Char's hip. He slid his fingers down Char's opposite arm and lifted his hand, as if to dance. Char swallowed, his cheeks flaming at their closeness now. One Eye's cheeks were dark with blush as well. Char tried to arrange his addled thoughts. "You want me to dance with you? Now?" The forgemaster shook his head slowly, and then lifted the hand on Char's hip to make a circle with his fist, palm upward. He shook his head even before Char attempted to translate, and was looking around the room for something, maybe paper and pen, when Char twigged. "Hera's welcoming ball this weekend?" Delight flooded One Eye's features, and Char smiled back. Char had honestly forgotten about it-- Hera had balls to welcome new gods to their ranks, and Char's own had been a lesson in endurance, since every single god and demi-god and well-connected human in the place had wanted to dance with him. His dances with his sister had been his only relief from the never-ending parade of people trying to grab his ass. He had avoided attending them as much as he could ever since, only showing up to be polite and leaving after a few dances. Any in pursuit of him for their arm candy had been turned away. But the thought of going with Hephaestus, of having his steady arm and his handsome smile all night, was enough to overcome any lingering distaste.
"I would like that very much, Forgemaster."
One Eye stepped back from him, took up his hand and bowed to kiss it. Char tugged him back, bringing up his palm to press his lips to it. "Very much." His eyes dropped to One Eye's mouth, and without more than a heartbeat of internal debate, leaned in to kiss him. A tiny moan of surprise escaped the forgemaster's throat, and then those big hands were carding through Char's hair and that mouth opened under his and oh, they were kissing at last. Char nosed into him, pressing his body into that deliciously solid weight as he gripped One Eye's shoulder blades, and then his hips, tugging them into each other. One Eye tilted his head and licked tentatively into Char's mouth, and Char returned the touch, warm and sweet, sighing out his pleasure.
Char felt his strength, too, when One Eye slid gentle hands to his hips to separate them. Their lips parted, and they kissed and parted again, until they stood holding each other. Char wanted nothing more than to drag all that strength and weight and gentleness into bed and be ravaged, but he took a breath, and then another. "My sister tells me I'm being an idiot, because I don’t know what you want." He filled his lungs again, looking down at his arms as they circled One Eye's waist. "Do you want to have sex with me?"
He heard One Eye swallow, and the forgemaster broke away from him now. Char sat down on the bed, nervously determined to wait until he got an answer, one way or the other. When One Eye came back with paper and a pen, he sat down so that their hips were touching, and wrote in a graceful hand. I want you, he began, to know fully my regard for you before we become sexually intimate. So that you understand that I am not falling into bed with just any beautiful man, but that I choose you above all others. He handed the note to Char, who took it with fingers that he was surprised to find were trembling. He read the note over, and again. Such was his surprise that a tear escaped his eye before he could catch it, and One Eye wiped it delicately away, and then nestled his hand at the back of Char's neck. It was impossible to speak, so Char curled into One Eye's body, and felt those strong arms come up around him, and there they stayed for a very long time. |
Bucky shuffled into Steve's apartment determined to have made dinner by the time Steve got in from the office. Becca was right, it was the least he could do and if it happened to be on Valentine’s Day he had himself a fallback explanation. And also he was a decent cook and so help him god, if he lived with Steve for a month or more and didn’t at least try to make a move, he'd never forgive himself no matter how awkward he felt around Steve. AndsowhatifitwasValentinesDay. He was pretty sure Steve was interested in him; he caught some of Steve's sidelong glances and his blushing when either of them said something that could imply romantic interest. But mostly, between Natasha and Clint and Tony and Becca, he had to admit he felt more confidence than he would have had otherwise.
Even taking the time to stop and pick up the groceries he needed, he was still at least an hour ahead of Steve’s arrival. Bucky’d only managed to dodge the same late-afternoon conference call because the client had liked his copy, but had some ‘adjustments’ to the design. They still had a few clients in the financial sector and sometimes, they were the hardest to please. Dinner (roast chicken and vegetables with a marinade of his own invention that was sweet and subtly spicy) was nearly finished when he heard the front door open and then the shuffle and scrape of someone shrugging off several layers of bulky outerwear and boots. "Hey! I hope you're hungry, I thought I'd make dinner." He called over his shoulder. "So you're the handsome young man my Steve's been telling me about." Bucky startled at the gentle, teasing, voice coming from the doorway between the kitchen and living room. A small blonde woman with the same mischievous blue eyes as Steve was standing in front of him with a terribly playful smile hovering over her lips. Who was in all likelihood Steve's mother. "Uh, uhm. I – I'm Bucky. Hi." He wiped his hands hastily on a dishrag and hurried to shake her hand. Disregarding his hand, she gave him a gentle hug. "Hello, Bucky. I'm Sarah." She gave him an indulgent smile. "He told me you were handsome but he didn't tell me you were this handsome." Bucky blushed despite himself. "Uh, thank you ma'am." "What's for dinner?" She paused, surveying the kitchen. "It smells wonderful." "Chicken and veggies, and a marinade that I make. Nothing…nothing too amazing." He’d been trying to clean as he went, or at least put everything where it needed to be so the kitchen was neat. He had some of the marinade set aside in a gravy boat (and he would have teased Steve for it, except it made Bucky feel terribly domestic) and the table was set and he had glasses and a wine bottle on the counter and the timer had about forty-five minutes left. He would have gotten the dishes done in that time, but he wasn’t going to mourn the loss. It was Steve’s mother. Sarah dipped a finger in the extra marinade in the gravy boat (no, strike that, he was going to make fun of Steve for it anyway), and raised her eyebrows as the taste hit her. "Boyfriend sauce." "What?!" Bucky was pretty sure he squeaked. "If that doesn't get him to get over his insecurities, call me and I'll talk sense into him." Bucky blushed. "I, uhm." Hell with it, he thought. "Thank you, ma'am." "Sarah." He smiled. "Sarah." There was noise from the living room, and both Bucky and Sarah turned to see what was in all likelihood Steve walking in the front door. Steve was good at being still, even in meetings that seemed to drag on and on. He was all efficient movement and laser focus, even walking through the office and the crowds in Faneuil Hall. Standing just inside the doorway to his own apartment, staring at his mother and Bucky, Steve fidgeted. Bucky wouldn't have noticed if it hadn't been so out-of-the-ordinary. Steve fumbled with his keys and stumbled out of his snowy boots as quickly as he could.
"Hey, hi, hello. Ma. Hi. What – " Steve pulled his eyebrows together. "How did you get out here in this weather?" To be fair to Steve, Boston had several feet of snow on the ground, Bucky wasn’t sure he’d have wanted his mother traversing it just to say hi, either.
Sarah Rogers smiled indulgently at her son and Bucky busied himself by the counter. He’d bought a bottle of wine (he’s stopped to get a good bottle after Sharon had, unprompted, texted him a couple recommendations; she had kickass taste according to the guy at the wine shop, and was a kickass COO according to Bucky) and Bucky attended to pouring glasses while he pretended not to listen to their conversation.
"I'm aging, not aged. I thought I'd come by to say hello and happy Valentine’s now that my shift is over until Sunday."
"I didn't mean – I'm glad you've got the weekend off. How are you? Happy Valentine’s Day."
Bucky handed Sarah a glass of wine and as she turned to get a coaster (because Steve had a gravy boat and coasters because he was a Real Adult), Steve mouthed a relieved Thank you, sorry to Bucky as he accepted his own glass.
"Grateful I live so close to the hospital; I've never appreciated having a twenty minute walk so much." Sarah glanced to Bucky. "I'm sorry your first winter in Boston is this one."
Bucky hadn't told her that. Steve took great interest in his wine glass. "It's not so bad. I'm just glad someone took pity on me and let me crash with them." He smiled at Steve.
"No pity involved." Steve looked up from his glass, flashing Bucky a quick smile. "Especially not when you're cooking...whatever you're cooking."
"Just chicken and veg with a – "
"Boyfr—" Sarah began to interject.
" – marinade of my own. Sort of. A spin on one of my mother's; sweet and spicy." He spared a thought to ask forgiveness of his mother for talking over Sarah.
Steve nodded, glancing to his mother with suspicion before turning to Bucky. "Need a hand with anything?"
"No, this is – this is to say thanks. For letting me stay with you. And all your help, the other day. On the train. Just. Just sit and, you know. Relax." Bucky found his own wine glass interesting and did his best not to cringe. How was he possibly this bad at flirting. How was Steve? Why was Sarah smiling oh god she was finding it so hilarious oh god he was trying to flirt with Steve in front of Steve's mother and failing spectacularly. He hurried to set the table so he didn't have to come up with anything more embarrassing to say.
"Don't set a place for me, hey." Sarah turned to see Bucky fishing plates out of cupboards. "I just dropped by to say hello and meet you, Bucky."
Bucky took a steadying breath. Steve got his sass from his mother and Bucky was still a little off-kilter after she almost told Steve what she was calling the marinade. Boyfriend sauce. He took another breath and by the time he was at the table, his hands were steady as he set two places. He had a third in his hands, just in case.
“You’re sure?”
“Oh, of course.” She gave Bucky a wicked smile then, blue eyes glinting. “I have my own Valentine’s plans.”
“Ma!” Steve sounded a little scandalized.
“Just because I became an AARP member recently doesn’t mean I’m dead. I date. I’m going on a date. You should try it, sometime.”
Steve sputtered, and took a big sip of his wine. Bucky made his best attempt at keeping a straight face. Oh, yes. Steve got his sass from his mother.
***
By the time Sarah Rogers took her leave, the chicken only had another ten minutes left on the timer. She’d made sure to hug them both goodbye and Bucky could only imagine Steve had glared at her over Bucky’s shoulder; whatever she’d taken a breath in to whisper, she never said.
“Sorry.” Steve reappeared in the kitchen after seeing his mother out.
“What? No.” Bucky straightened up from setting the veggies, wine, and extra marinade on the table. “It was nice to meet her. She’s sweet and you totally got your sense of humor from her.”
Steve beamed. “She is. I did. Do you need a hand?”
“I’m good, you just – uh, relax.” He checked the chicken and leaned against the counter to wait. “How was the meeting?”
“Longer than it needed to be. And Natasha had plans tonight. She is not pleasant when she’s pissed.”
“Did everything get sorted out, though?”
“Eventually. Provided they don’t change their minds tomorrow when I send along an updated proof.”
“Ugh. The wine was a good idea, then..”
“It’s really good.”
“I’m glad.” This was a not-Valentine’s Valentine’s dinner and so help him, Bucky was going to make some serious conversation. “So, serious question. What’ve I been keeping you from doing with your evenings since I started crashing here?”
“Uh.” Steve blushed a little. “Really, nothing. I mean, nothing the weather hasn’t kept me from, too. I like to wander around the city and sketch or see a movie or try a new restaurant – nothing I want to do when it might take a couple hours just to get around.”
“By yourself?”
“Not always. Sometimes. I, uh, was by myself a lot? As a kid. So I sort of got used to my own company.”
“You’re breaking my heart, Rogers.”
“Really! I uh, I was a lot smaller as a kid and didn’t hit a growth spurt for…well. Until college, really.”
Bucky approached the table, setting the chicken down in the middle between their place settings. “And?”
“I was the scrawny know-it-all that kicked up fights. That doesn’t garner a lot of friends.”
“So you’ve always been trouble.”
Steve laughed and served himself. “Says you. You’re—“ Steve stopped himself abruptly, if momentarily. “You’re a troublemaker, too.”
“Army knows how to take good advantage of that. Now all my troublemaking is covert. Or well, was covert.”
There. Bucky was finally fucking smooth. Took him goddamn long enough.
“Oh my god.” Steve had taken a bite of his dinner and. And Bucky wasn’t sure what to classify the sound as but he was pretty sure it was somewhere in the vicinity of a moan. “This is so fucking good.”
“Uh. Thanks, I – I’m glad you like it. Um.” So much for smooth.
“This is to thank me for letting you stay? Jesus. Remind me to do you favors more often.”
“Promise.” Bucky managed to eke out.
He wasn’t sure he remembered all of the rest of the conversation over dinner because his head was spinning because Jesus H Christ Steve Goddamn Rogers. He knew the food was good. He knew the conversation was good because he remembered laughing and having only a few awkward moments but he couldn’t for the life of him remember exactly what they’d been talking about.
“Hey, Buck?” Steve hovered at the end of the hallway as Bucky turned his sheets down later that evening.
“Hm?”
“Thanks, for dinner. And everything. It’s. It’s really nice, having you here.”
Butterflies had taken up residence where Bucky’s stomach should have been. “I’m glad you liked it. It’s – really nice, being here.”
Steve grinned. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Steve.”
Steve blushed, and hurried to his room. Bucky switched off the living room light and waited several minutes in absolute tense silence in the dark before allowing himself the quietest victory flail he could possibly manage.
|
It was no doubt that Ered Luin was a beautiful place, crafted over the years by skilled hands that hollowed out the rather large mountain range that separated Eriador from Beleriand. All - whether they're dwarf, elf or man - had no doubts that there was no mountain range that rivaled such beauty on the east side of Middle Earth. Gems covered the hollowed walls though there were more metals rather than actual gems like diamonds and sapphires. It was still a sight to behold, if one that did not live in such lavish luxuries walked in.
But it's beauty didn't stop there. Along with the few gems and many precious metals that littered the caves, dwarrow of both genders were held to a high regard of jewels. Whether they be of a lower district or nearly royalty, those that were lucky enough to be seen as the standard or above of beauty where looked upon with awe. Many had suitors at their doors if they weren't already in a relationship with their craft, but very few were ever chosen.
Among Ered Luin's, or the Blue Mountain's, beauty - both inside and out - were a small family of dwarrow, brothers. Of course, to say their family was small in comparison to other dwarrow families was like saying a full grown warg was really a small puppy. The dwarf race was a imbalanced ratio of men to women, with the latter being much smaller compared to the former. Meaning that the birthrate was also low. For a family to have three children was like a family of men having seven or an elf having two. It was an honor on their family (which would be even bigger if one or more were a daughter instead of a son).
But I digress.
The family of dwarrow were considered one of the many beauties of the mountain. The eldest, with hair that shined like the finest of mithril and braided into the most delicate of braids, was the head of the family. He once had the purest of amber, which attracted many to their door when he was a younger lad, and while he still had more suitors running to their door because of the new color, he was mostly devoted to his craft. His younger brother still had his amber locks, an envy among many in the mountain, but, thanks to his rather sneaky ways and sticky fingers, did not seem to attract the same attention as his brother. While he was still considered beautiful, handsome even, he had no interest in anything that was even remotely related to settling down. That brings us to the youngest. Like his brothers, his hair was the same gorgeous amber, much shorter and not as elaborate as his elder brothers, and simple. While still young, he didn't have the same responses as his brothers and he was fine with that.
This brings the scene to the three surrounding a neatly wrapped pile of letters sitting innocently on the table. The eldest was pacing, eyes trailing occasionally to the letters that had mysteriously shown up early that morning. All of them - okay most of them - were addressed to him in handwriting he could recognize anywhere. His hands were jittery, as if they were fiddling with something that wasn't there, shaking in the air as he did his invisible task. His face was twisted in a multitude of emotions as thoughts rushed through his mind.
His brothers weren't as troubled as he, though they two were very curious as to the owner of the letters. They had sharper eyes and noticed things much better than their elder, seeing the fading ink on the older, yellow parchment and the thicker ink on the more crisp looking papers. There was one, definitely newer, that was addressed in a different set of handwriting that was not as loopy, more slanted, and obviously in a rush compared to the rest.
"What does this mean?" the older brother muttered, finally breaking the silence between them all. He finally stopped his frantic pacing, stopping and setting his hands on top of the table. "Why now, all of a sudden?"
"Why should we know?" the middle brother asked. He shrugged his shoulders and rose a brow. "We surely weren't that close with the lass. Well, not as close as you, of course. If anyone has a clue as to why there's a large stack of letters on our table, it's definitely you. Unless Ori's got something he didn't tells about. Huh, little brother?" The middle dwarf turned his attention towards the youngest, Ori, who stiffened and shook his head.
"No! I know nothing of this. I-I don't, I swear!"
"Of course you wouldn't know, Ori," the eldest said, shooting a glare towards the other. "Don't listen to anything Nori has to say, anyways."
Nori gave a noise in protest but the elder ignored him while Ori gave an apologetic look his way. The mithril haired dwarf began to pace again, thinking aloud.
"Something bad must have happened for her or someone to suddenly send letters like this. Especially ones that weren't written one right after the other. If something bad didn't happen, then maybe it was a mistake. If it was we should send it back. But if it was on purpose, what's the purpose to even sending it in the first place..." the elder trailed off, face stern as he continued to think of possibilities.
Ori, who had given into his curiosities, brought out the newer looking parchment that was placed on top. It was written recently and obviously was rushed, as the ink was splattered along the parchment as if he brought the quill down without dabbing the excessive ink back into the pot. It was addressed to Dori, the elder brother, like the rest of the letters. Realizing that his brother was still in deep thought and Nori was no doubt zoning out and picking at his fingernails with one of his daggers, Ori carefully opened the seal, which was different than the others, and began to read:
Dear Master Dori or whoever shall be reading this letter,
I do hope that I'm not imposing too much with this rather large parcel of letters written by my mother for whoever knows how long, but I felt that it was, despite how it wasn't entirely in my power to even think of such a suggestion, time to send these to their rightful owner or owners.
Whatever has been written to the receiver I do not know, for I am a Baggins and I do not peek inside anyone else's mail for that is a Sackville-Baggins sort of thing and I am no such person, so if they hold bad tidings, I do sincerely apologize. But I felt it dire to send these to it's recipients for their, and for mine, own good. For, as you see, I am nearly positive that whoever is the owner to these letters is the father that helped my mother conceive me, though I am not sure if he has already known that.
If I did impose, I apologize greatly, and if you do not feel the need to read these letters, than do send them back. I'm sure my mother wouldn't mind if I hid them back where I found them without her knowing I took them without her permission.
To good health and prospering smials,
Bilbo Baggins, son of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins
The Shire
Ori's eyes widen as he rereads the small note three more times before he squeaks and manages to catch the attention of both his brothers. Nori quickly snatches the note from his little brother's hands and reads it as well, laughing loudly as Dori puffs up and takes the parchment as well. His small spout of annoyance is quickly washed away as he blanched at the note.
"Does that mean what I think it means?!" Ori asks, getting up from his seat. He watches, closely, as Dori sets the note down onto the table and glances at the rest of the letters. "That... There's a possibility...?"
"Now, let's not jump to any conclusions," Dori started. "We need all the information we can get first... I'm... I'm going to take a look at these letters... Please excuse me..."
And Dori was out of the room, towards his own, with an armful of letters and his face grim.
|
They ate in silence, neither woman feeling the need to speak, both happy to simply be in each other’s company. Bernie caught Serena looking at her momentarily and bit her lip, bowing her head until her hair covered her face, her cheeks glowing red, “sorry” Serena blushed too, “I erm, I guess I’m still not used to having you here, it almost feels like I’m going to wake up and find it’s all been a dream and you’re still in Ukraine.”
Bernie smiled, “I’m relieved you think of me being here as a dream and not a nightmare” she chuckled, “but I’m here, and I have no intention of leaving Holby again until we go on that holiday you promised me, and then we’ll be going together.”
Serena nodded, “I know.”
Bernie reached out and gently squeezed Serena’s hand, “are you done?” she gestured to the plate, taking it from Serena when she nodded.
“Leave them” Serena insisted when Bernie stood, intending to take the plates into the kitchen, “you go up to bed, I’ll sort the dishes.”
“I’m okay” Bernie reassured her, “I don’t feel quite so tired now I’ve eaten, I think I can manage to stack a couple of plates in the dishwasher.”
“Okay” Serena decided not to argue with Bernie, “if you’re not feeling too tired, would you mind if I watched the news before going up?”
Bernie shook her head, “of course not, I’ll put the kettle on while I’m in the kitchen, make us both another cuppa whilst I’m in there.
Neither of the were surprised to find they curled into each other almost as soon as Bernie sat back down on the sofa, Bernie’s free arm around Serena’s waist, Serena’s head on Bernie’s shoulder as they watched the news, Serena wasn’t sure anything had ever felt so right as being curled up with Bernie.
They watched the news and finished their tea before another wave of fatigue hit Bernie, and once again she found herself struggling to keep her eyes open, “I think I’m going to have to give in and go to bed” she yawned.
Serena nodded, “I’ll come up too or I’ll never get up in the morning, at least I get a day off after tomorrow.”
Bernie smiled, “if you want me to go back to my flat or something so I’m not in your way then…”
“No” Serena grabbed Bernie’s wrist as if it would stop her leaving, “no, I mean, you don’t have to go, I erm, I’d like to spend some time with you, if you want to…” she said nervously.
Bernie smiled, moving her hand so she could slip her fingers between Serena’s and gently squeeze her hand, “I’d like that.”
Serena smiled and nodded, “will you check Jason locked the door when he came in? I’ll put the mugs in the dishwasher and then come up.”
“Of course” Bernie nodded, taking the opportunity to peck Serena’s cheek before going to check the front door was locked.
Just like they had the night before they kissed goodnight outside Bernie’s room, Serena once again promising to wake Bernie to say goodbye before she went to work, if she was honest, Serena thought Bernie was adorable when she’d just woken, her voice deep with sleep, eyes half open and her curls even more unruly than usual, she couldn’t wait for the day when she could wake up with Bernie in her arms.
Bernie was asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow but she was woken, several hours later, by the sound of gentle of tapping against her wood of her door, “yeah?” she mumbled sleepily as she sat up, clumsily pushing her hair from her eyes and flicking on the small bedside lamp, “Jason” she frowned when she saw him appear in the doorway, “what’s wrong?” The red numbers on the clock on the table by the bed told her it was barely 3am and she knew he wouldn’t wake her at this time without good reason.
“I woke up to use the bathroom” he told her, “but I think I can hear Auntie Serena crying in her room.”
Bernie pushed back the covers, suddenly completely awake, “you go back to bed” she told Jason, shivering slightly as her bare feet hit the cold laminate flooring, “I’ll go and make sure Auntie Serena’s okay.”
“You’ll make her happy again?”
Bernie nodded, “I’ll do my very best” she promised, gently squeezing his arm, suddenly feeling self conscious as she realised that, whilst Jason was in a matching set of blue striped pyjamas, she was wearing only a pair of boyshorts, a sports bra and a vest top, something she’d got used to doing in the army, making it easier to get her uniform on quickly if she needed to.
Jason seemed happy with this and nodded, “goodnight Bernie.”
Bernie smiled as he turned back to his room, “goodnight Jason.” Bernie followed him down the hallway, pausing for a moment, she too could hear Serena’s quiet sobs on the other side of the wood. She knocked gently on the bedroom door, not waiting for a response before stepping inside, “Serena” she whispered into the darkness.
“Bernie” Serena took a shaky breath, frantically wiping at her eyes, “what…”
“Jason came and woke me” Bernie said softly, “he said he’d woken to use the bathroom and he could hear you crying…”
“He shouldn’t have, I’m sorry.”
“Hey, no” Bernie’s eyes had gotten used to the darkness in Serena’s room and she could make out the outline of Serena, curled into a ball on the right side of the bed, “he was absolutely right to wake me” she said, walking over to the bed and kneeling down by Serena, “you should have woken me. Do you want to talk about it?”
“It’s stupid” Serena mumbled as she wiped at her eyes, unable to stop her tears from falling.
"Well then you won't mind telling me" Bernie said softly, reaching out to gently stroke Serena's damp cheek with her thumb.
Serena reached up and linked her fingers with Bernie's, "your hands are freezing."
"I'm okay."
"You're not" Serena said softly, knowing Bernie wasn't going to leave until they’d talked so she shuffled over to the empty side of the bed, “get in.”
“Are you sure?” Bernie asked softly. She saw Serena nod and slipped under the duvet, instantly feeling the warmth Serena had left behind, “come here” she said softly, holding out her arm, encouraging Serena to move closer to her.
“I don’t want to hurt you” Serena admitted, tentatively moving closer.
“You won’t” Bernie told her, “it’s the my right side, and it’s on the outside.” Serena nodded and moved closer, nuzzling into the crook of Bernie’s neck, noticing instantly that there was something different about the scent she’d become familiar with, something other than the Ukrainian washing powder her clothes had last been washed in.
“Have you stopped smoking?” she asked as she worked it out.
Bernie nodded, “yeah, it was erm, it was the day I got my biopsy results. Just after I’d got them, I went out for a smoke and I guess it just made sense to stop, I’d just been diagnosed with breast cancer, I didn’t want to end up giving myself lung cancer too.”
“I had a nightmare” Serena admitted, “about you seeing the oncologist.”
“What happened?” Bernie asked as she began tracing patterns along Serena’s back with her fingertips.
Serena swallowed, trying to choke back more tears, “they said it had spread” she whispered, “that there was nothing else they could do. I operated but you, you didn’t make it.”
“Oh Serena” Bernie closed her eyes.
“I can’t lose you Bernie, not when I’ve only just got you back” Serena said softly, her tears warm against Bernie’s neck.
“You won’t lose me Serena, you’re stuck with me now” she teased, “but if this is too much for you, I can go back to Kiev.”
“Don’t you bloody dare” Serena laughed as she wiped at her eyes, “don’t even joke about it.”
“Sorry” Bernie kissed Serena’s forehead, “I wouldn’t do that to you” she whispered as she held her closely, “not again.” Serena nodded and let out a yawn causing Bernie to kiss her forehead again, “close your eyes, get some rest” she said softly.
Serena nodded but made no attempt to move from where she’d curled into Bernie, her arm across the blonde’s waist “stay” Serena said softly, “please. Stay with me tonight”.
Bernie nodded and kissed Serena again, “get some sleep, I’m not going anywhere.”
|
Alisha walked into her apartment in a daze. "Did I do the right thing," asked Alisha out loud to herself.
"Who are you talking to Alisha." Nicole interrupted her thoughts?
"Myself and thanks for interrupting me. I was trying to hash some things out."
"What is there to hash out. You are at the top of your class in school and you have a gorgeous new boyfriend, who I must say just called for you and said he would be over later for dinner. I am assuming he does not mean cooked food," smirked Nicole.
"I was trying to see if I made the right decision about Thomas." Alisha plopped down on the couch.
"Thomas? Why are we talking about him?"
"Oh yeah you don't know the good news. Thomas transferred here to be with me."
"Oh my gosh that is so sweet."
"What Nicole? No it is not sweet. Are we forgetting he cheated on me?"
"Yeah, but you have to admit that is super romantic. How did he look?"
"Gorgeous and then some."
"Did you two talk?"
"That and then some. I told him I needed to be away from him. He said he would stay away from me if that is what I want. Do you think I made the right decision."
Alisha looked at her hoping she would say of course you made the right decision.
"I do not know Alisha that's up to you."
Alisha sighed and looked at the remnants of the torn picture of Thomas and her on the desk. " We are over. No more Thomas."
****** "So what do you say we go out tomorrow to celebrate our one month anniversary," said Chris.
"I would like that. Sound like fun," whispered Alisha. She looked up at her teacher as he finished lecturing.
She looked down to where Thomas was sitting. Some brunette was leaning over him with her breast in his face reading over his notes. They had not talked much since their conversation a month ago. Besides the friendly hello there was nothing more said. He basically stayed out of her way and tried to avoid her.
Look at her, thought Alisha. She is throwing herself at him. She might as well just open her legs and say come fuck me right now? And he is just loving it. You know the least he could have done over this month is try to have a conversation with me. Now he is flaunting this bimbo in my face.
"Stupid slut," whispered Alisha realizing she said it out loud.
"What did you say," said Chris.
"Nothing, nothing at all." She smiled at Chris and turned her attention back to the professor.
"So class we will start debates next week. So I am going to divide you all in teams of two to work on cases. So let's see. Alisha and Thomas will work with one another. And... So please come up to my desk afterward to get your case."
Alisha went blank after he called her name to work with Thomas. Oh this is not going to be good, thought Alisha.
Class ended and Thomas walked over to her.
"So how do you want to do this, asked Thomas?"
Somehow that sounded sexual to Alisha. She did not know if it was how he said it or because he looked so good in his t-shirt and jeans.
"Do what?"
"How do you want to work on the case?" Her brown skin looked flushed. He watched her look at him up and down and then bite her lip. "Are you feeling ok?"
"Yeah, um I just blanked out. We can go to the library today when you are done with classes."
"Ok, so around 7. Do you want me to pick you up from your house or anything."
Dang she looks good, thought Thomas. He looked at her lips as they moved and pictured them wrapped around his penis. He looked in her eyes and remembered the lust that was in them when she used to beg him to fuck her.
"Um no I can make it there fine. See you at 7."
"ok"
*******
Alisha walked up to the desk Thomas was sitting in at the library. He was concentrating on some book. He had his glasses on and a simple t-shirt and sweat shorts. Somehow simple regular clothes make him look so sexy, thought Alisha. "Sorry, I'm late Thomas. I had to put on some sweats if we are going to be here all night."
He looked up and noticed her tank tops showed off her stomach. He felt himself getting turned on.
"Yeah me too. It's pretty quiet here. Seems like everyone stayed home."
"No it is just always quiet in this department. So let's start this thing."
They spent the next few hours looking through books and articles.
Thomas peeked out of the book he was reading and stared at Alisha stretching.
"So um how have you been?"
Alisha looked up at him and smiled. "I have been good. What about you? Do you like it here?
"You know me I fit in anywhere. It's cool. How are you and what's his name?"
She looked at him and laughed. "You totally now his name. Chris and I are good. We are celebrating our one month anniversary tomorrow."
"Really I didn't know you were the type to celebrate one month anniversaries."
"Why do you say that?"
"We never celebrated it. And we were definitely together longer than one lousy month."
"Well Thomas maybe you are not as romantic as Chris, smirked Alisha."
"Oh I am pretty sure I am. Plus I bet I am better than him in the stuff that counts."
"Really, well just to let you know Chris keeps me very satisfied."
Thomas felt his blood start to boil. He liked talking and joking with Alisha, but he definitely didn't want to hear about her and some other guy.
He licked his lips and leaned in and whispered in Alisha's ear. "As satisfied as I made you?"
Alisha felt her heart start to race. I knew this conversation was heading the wrong way, thought Alisha. What am I supposed to say. No, Chris doesn't do it like you. Oh why did he have to ask that.
"I do not think I want to answer that."
He smiled and let his dimples show.
Alisha sat her book down and smirked at him. "Well, what about you. How are things going with the brunette?"
"What brunette?"
"The one that was whispering in you ear all class period."
Thomas made a face like he was trying to remember. "Oh Cassie."
"Yes, Ms. Cassie. Who is she to you?"
"Nobody that matters. Look like I told you Alisha. The ball is in your court. I came here to be with you. No other woman can hold a candle to you. "
They stared at each other for a moment.
Alisha cleared her throat to break the intense moment they were having. "I am going to get some water. I will be back."
What am I doing, thought Alisha. I definitely do not need to go down that road again.
She sipped on some water and bumped into the person behind her. She looked up and it was Thomas.
He pulled her body close to him. She felt his heart beat through his chest. His eyes were hooded and a deep lustful blue. Alisha felt him rub his hands up and down her back.
"What are we doing," whispered Alisha.
"Sssh let just enjoy it."
Thomas leaned down and sucked Alisha bottom lip in her mouth. He let his tongue explore her mouth. Alisha put her arms around Thomas's neck and pulled his head deeper into the kiss. Thomas grabbed Alisha's butt and squeezed her into him. Alisha felt his hard penis through his shorts press into her .
"Oh my gosh Thomas. That feels so good," moaned Alisha.
Thomas pulled Alisha into the janitor closet. He started kissing her neck and lifting her shirt off. Alisha unzipped his pants and pulled out his penis. She let her hands massage his penis up and down slowly. She let her right hand rub his balls as she palmed the head of his penis and slide her coated pre cum hands up and down his penis. Thomas moaned as his penis elongated in Alisha's hands.
Thomas pushed Alisha hands away and engulfed her mouth with his. He unhooked her bra and let it drop to the floor. He kissed down Alisha's neck to her breast . He sucked the left nipple into his mouth. He rolled an pinched the right nipple with his fingers. Alisha cried out in lust. Thomas kissed down her stomach and pulled down her pants an underwear. He kissed up her thigh to his prize. He let his fingers brush against her clit. He felt Alisha's body shiver. He inserted his fingers into her pussy and coated his finger with her wetness. He pulled his fingers out and licked them clean.
"You taste so sweet Alisha." Moaned Thomas.
He pushed his fingers back into her. Alisha felt her climax rising. She shut her eyes to hold it back. Until she felt Thomas's breath on her ear.
" Does Chris make you this wet.?"
His fingers stopped moving into her. She looked at him and her eyes pleaded for him to keep going. "Keep going Thomas."
"Tell me first. Does he make you this wet?"
"No, he doesn't. Only you Thomas. Please fuck me now."
Thomas smiled. He put on a condom. He pulled his fingers out of Alisha and bent her over the bench. He opened her pussy lips and he pushed into her. She was so tight. He pushed until he was all the way in. Alisha gripped the bench to stop from moaning. He pushed in and out of Alisha.
Alisha squeezed her walls around Thomas's penis. She couldn't hold back anymore.
"Tell me you like it Alisha," grunted Thomas.
He pushed into her harder.
"I like it Thomas," moaned Alisha.
He lifted her leg and pushed into her harder. Alisha felt herself starting to cum.
"Did you miss me?"
"Oh my gosh. Yes, yes Thomas oh I missed you. Harder please."
Thomas pounded into her pussy. Alisha's body convulsed and her legs went limp
Thomas leaned down and kissed her neck and then exploded into the condom. He stayed in her into he went limp and then pulled her onto the floor with him to sit on her lap. He threw the condom in the trash.
"I missed you so much Alisha." He kissed her head.
"We can't do this again Thomas."
He lifted his head back and looked at her. "What! What are you talking about?"
She threw on her clothes and threw him his shirt. She looked at the floor. "This was just sex. Nothing more."
He stood up. "Your lying. Look at me Alisha. You can't keep building me up and hoping that we have something and then dropping me."
"We are attracted to each other Thomas. That is it. I, I want to be with Chris. Chris makes me happy. I fell secure with him."
"So what we just did was nothing. Do you love him?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"A simple one do you love him like you loved me."
"Yes," lied Alisha.
She saw his eyes turn cold blue. "Look Alisha I love you, but I can not wait around forever for you to decide whether you want to be with me or not. You keep playing these games. You keep putting me on the back burner and then playing with me. You need to make up your mind. Do you want me like I want you or not?"
"I do not trust you Thomas. I want to be with you, but you lied to me. You fucking kissed that girl. So help me trust you. Convince me you are trustworthy."
" You have no problem sleeping with me, but as for a relationship that is a no. That's the problem right there. I shouldn't have to convince you to love me. The girl caught me when I was drunk at a club. She came over and kissed me and then put it on mybook."
"Why wait now and tell me. You could have told me that in the beginning why wait now?"
"Are you kidding me. I have tried to explain it to you for months. You ignored me."
"I cannot deal with this right now. I have to go home."
" Alisha, if you go that is it. No more of me waiting around for you.."
Alisha looked at him, ran out the closet, and headed home.
****** Alisha sat in class. I am totally confused, thought Alisha. She looked over at Thomas and he looked pissed. He didn't acknowledge her at all. I don't know what to do. I love Thomas, but Chris is there for me. I shouldn't drag him along.
"Are you ok?"
"Yeah. I think we should talk after class."
Class ended and they walked into the hallway.
"So what's up?"
"I have to tell you something and you probably wont like it."
"Ok what is it."
Alisha started fidgeting with her shirt. "Do you remember when I told you about my ex and how I have had issues getting over him?"
"Yeah so what. That was months ago. What he called you up or something?"
"My ex is Thomas and I know I should have told you a while ago, but I did not think anything was still there between us. But, now it could be something and I don't think I should drag this on with you because it just is not fair."
"Are you breaking up with me on our anniversary? Did he not cheat on you?"
"I just need some time to be by myself and think about what my next move should be. I do not want to lie to you and make you think things are ok when they are not. Are you mad."
"Are you kidding me? You do not think I should be. You lied to me Alisha for months. You are not any better than your ex. You two belong with each other."
Chris walked away looking pissed. Alisha turned and walked to the library.
Alisha was about to chase him. It is probably best to let him go, thought Alisha. The last thing I need to do is drag somebody else into this drama.
***** "So you are not going to talk to me at all?" asked Alisha to Thomas. It had been two weeks since their time in the closet. The only time he did say something to her was in the frequent e-mails he sent her about his progress in there project. The only reason they were meeting today was to check and make sure everything was set to present.
" I said all I had to say last time we met. Unless you have something to say to me then we should just finish the work on this case."
Alisha stood up and took the book out of Thomas's hands. He pushed his chair back and looked up at her.
"What are you doing Alisha."
"Shh I have something to say."
She sat down on his lap, leaned down and slowly kissed his lips. She rubbed her hands down his neck and down his chest. Alisha unzipped his pants and gripped Thomas's penis. She squeezed his balls and kissed Thomas deeper. Alisha kissed Thomas's neck and up to his ear.
"I havemade a decision and I hope that you like it," whispered Alisha.
Thomas put his hands in Alisha's pants and gripped her ass. Alisha moaned into his mouth.
"What is it?"
Thomas wet his finger in Alisha's pussy and rubbed his finger on her anus. He pushed his finger in and out. Alisha felt herself getting wetter.
"I want to be with you. I still love you. I tried to get over you, but I keep thinking of you, wanting to be with, and wanting you in me."
"This is not one of your games is it. None of that this is just sex Thomas crap, right."
"No more games. I trust you Thomas. I honestly do. And right now I want your penis in my pussy.
Thomas covered her mouth with his. He picked her up and laid her back on the table. He looked around to see if anyone was in there area of the library. Once he saw the coast was clear. He lowered her pants rubbed her pussy up and down. Thomas pushed three of his fingers in her pussy and pushed them in and out. He lowered he lips to her pussy and licked up and down her clit. Alisha body began to shudder. Thomas pushed deeper into her pussy darting his tongue in and out of her. He slowly bit down on her clit. Alisha began humping his face. She gripped his head on pushed his tongue in further.
"Oh right there Thomas."
Alisha squirted cum onto Thomas's face. Thomas pulled back from Alisha with his face wet with her cum.
Alisha looked down and Thomas's hard penis. It was pink and engorged. Alisha pushed Thomas unto his chair and licked Thomas 's penis from his balls ups to his head. She swirled her tongue around the head sucked the head into his mouth. Alisha massaged his balls and engulfed deeper into her penis into he mouth. The head of his penis hit the back of her throat and she softly hummed on it.
Thomas gripped the back of head and slowly fucked her mouth with his penis. He pushed her head farther down on his penis.
"Oh I am going to cum. Fuck yeah Alisha."
He exploded into Alisha's mouth. Alisha sucked his penis harder until every drop fell unto her tongue.
Thomas pushed Alisha back on the table and took her breast into his mouth. He licked circles around her areola and bit lightly on her nipple. He pushed her breast together and sucked both nipples into his mouth. He felt his penis get harder.
"Fuck me Thomas. Fuck me now."
Thomas rubbed his penis up and down her pussy. He pushed into her pussy. Alisha rubbed her hands down his chest and pinched his nipples. Thomas plunged deeper into her pussy. He lifted her legs in the air and put them on his shoulder. He plunged deeper and deeper. The only sound they heard was their moans and Thomas penis slapping into her pussy. He started to fucked her harder. He let his hands rub up and down her hips while he pushed in harder. Alisha felt herself starting to climax. She squeezed Thomas penis with her pussy muscles. Thomas exploded into Alisha fucking her hard as he came. He pulled out and covered Alisha with his shirt.
They caught their breath. "I love you Thomas."
Thomas smiled and showed off those great dimples. He kissed her deeply. "I love you too Alisha."
******* One year later
"How was work baby," said Alisha? She was in the living room on the couch.
"Crappy since you aren't there everyday."
"Oh I thought husbands like to be away from their wives."
"Not this one Anyway you got me an old secretary so I have no eye candy at the office," smirked Thomas.
"Oh ha ha ha so funny. Anyway I will be back in the office in two months. And you will see this eye candy up and close hopefully on your office desk."
"Oh yes I love my wife." He leaned down and kissed her. He leaned over and looked down and smiled at the light brown curly haired baby that laid in the basinet. "Isn't that right Christopher don't we love mommy."
"He looks like you more and more everyday. See he already has the same cocky smile as his daddy."
"I think he is smiling cause he wants to have a little baby brother or sister." Thomas moved behind Alisha and ran his hands over her breast through her shirt. She leaned back and kissed him slowly.
"Then I say we start on that right now"
Thomas smacked her butt and followed her into the bedroom.
|
The first time he sees Hinata Shouyou, it is in a cold hallway with his future laid out before him in steps and shouted words.
*
If you’re the king that rules the court, I’ll have to defeat you, the boy with orange hair his team has just beaten yells from the stairs. And be the last one standing.
The sharpness of his challenge is lost in his stubborn tears. Hinata Shouyou is a silhouette against the sunset, short figure outlined in clumsy smudges of red and gold, a shining thing before Tobio’s shadow. His vow rings in Tobio’s ears. What kind of person shouts his thoughts like this, he finds himself wondering, bitterness and loss for the entire world to hear? What kind of person pledges a grudge against someone he has barely met? Tobio has half a mind to scoff and turn away, but something in the boy’s voice pins him to his place. He raises his head to meet his eyes.
For a moment, he’s taken aback by the determination in them, tear-glossed yet adamant. The boy seems like he truly means it—like Tobio’s win against him has just swept away his entire world. And perhaps it has. Tobio had played in the match, he’d seen the boy’s sheer will and desire to win; his love for the sport threatening to spill over his actions and his resolve to push through until the end. The words the boy has just spoken only add this impression. There are few like him; with his single-mindedness, it’s not impossible for him to make good on that promise or die trying. With his play, he could...
Stand on the court and deserve every bit of it.
So he snarls, become strong, and watches the resolute line of the boy’s shoulders tense; feels his oath etched and outlined in every line of his limbs, and walks away.
Somewhere he’s aware that he may have just made himself an enemy, inspired hate instead of purpose, but he can’t bring himself to regret his actions.
Tobio goes to sleep that night with the intention of forgetting everything about the boy and his defiant promise.
(He remembers, of course. And it’s ironic—but, he realizes much later, only natural—that they would meet again, this time on the same side of the net, as allies, as teammates.
As partners.)
*
Soon Hinata stands before him once more and gives the same vow. Tobio looks up at him, edged in dusk and with a palpable sense of déjà vu, and wonders what it is about this time that makes it feel different from their first confrontation on the stairs.
He receives his answer with Hinata’s promise of even if it takes ten or twenty years.
The forever is unspoken, but it’s there.
*
“Hey,” Hinata says to him suddenly, in their second year, when they’re panting and spread out on the ground from their usual race to the gym. “Do you believe in fate?”
Tobio blinks the sweat from his eyes and turns. “What,” he says.
Hinata sits up, with some effort, and faces him. His face is flushed from all the running and his bright hair sticks to his forehead. “Do you believe in fate,” he repeats, and maybe it’s Tobio’s imagination, but his cheeks seem to colour a bit more.
“What.”
Hinata groans and flops back onto the ground. “Kageyama-kun,” he wails. “Don’t make me say it again. It’s embarrassing.”
Tobio scowls, reaches out and unceremoniously hits him across the head. “If it’s embarrassing, then why did you ask in the first place, dumbass?”
“Ow,” Hinata sulks. He rubs the side of his face. “I asked you because I wanted to know, obviously.”
“Why would you want to know something like that?”
“I was curious!”
“Why would you be curious?”
“Stop asking me questions! Just answer!”
Tobio sighs and massages his temples. “I don’t know. That’s my answer.”
“That’s a dumb answer, Kageyama.”
He flushes and hits Hinata again, ignoring his whine. “Well, you can’t have expected me to have thought about that, idiot! Do you believe in it?”
It’s a rhetorical question; he hadn’t been looking for an answer. Yet Hinata immediately straightens to look him in the eye. “I do,” he says quietly.
Tobio stares. Hinata looks strangely serious, eyes dark and expression unreadable. It’s such an unfamiliar look on him, on the usually loud and energetic boy that he involuntarily catches his breath. The air between them grows thick and heavy. It makes Tobio starts to wonder if there’s something more behind his answer; something he’s left unsaid.
Then the illusion breaks. Hinata grins at him, full and blinding, and flops back down on the ground. “I’ve been thinking about it, a little,” he says conversationally. “I mean, a lot of things have happened, and sometimes you just gotta wonder if it’s all for a reason, you know? I guess it’s been bothering me for a while now.” He shifts restlessly in the grass until his ankle hits Tobio’s bare knee. Amber eyes glance at him, curious. “Don’t you consider these things once in a while?”
Tobio opens his mouth. Closes it. “Sure,” he says lamely.
Hinata seems unbothered by his gruff response and exhales, reaching his arms up as if trying to cradle the sun like one would hold a volleyball. He flexes his fingers, expression thoughtful. “I’ve just been wondering...” he starts. He chews his lip. “About the club, and everything. If I hadn’t seen that match on TV when I was little...if I hadn’t gathered enough players to go to the tournament...if I hadn’t went to the bathroom before the game, even.” He shoots Tobio a lopsided smile then continues. “If I hadn’t done even one of those things, I wouldn’t be here today. We wouldn’t be able to play like we do. It’s overwhelming, when you think about it. But...”
He drops his arms and rolls over to face Tobio, ankle bumping against his skin. “I’m glad I can be where I am now.”
For the second time in an hour, Tobio is at a loss for words. Hinata’s face is serious again. His eyes stare imploringly into Tobio’s, making him feel the full, pressing weight of his words, and suddenly he thinks he gets what Hinata’s talking about. Everything from their first meeting, their first match, until now—when Tobio thinks about it, it’s really only felt like things fitting into place. Like all of it was inevitable. Their first shouted promise, the first game they’d played together, the first time they’d stood on the same court like a memory and a dream—
And for all that he knows, the coincidence of their reunion at Karasuno wasn’t exactly a coincidence after all, and Hinata, when he’s by Tobio’s side on the court, feels a lot like he belongs there.
Volleyball has always been important to Tobio, but it’s never been this, he realizes.
Hinata’s voice pulls at him. “You know what I mean?”
Tobio turns. Hinata’s eyes are bright; their breath mixes and swirls together in the heat of the afternoon. “Yeah,” he says, softly, simply. Because it’s the truth.
“Yeah.”
*
They lose to Seijou in the finals of their third year.
Tobio clenches his hands, fists them in the fabric of his shorts. He’s in the bathroom after excusing himself from his devastated teammates. His eyes sting; with stubborn finality he wipes them and stands. Better to act the strong one, as the captain. Better to conceal his emotions for the mental state of the team. He’s their leader, after all.
The thought doesn’t stop him from twisting his hands around the faucet until they turn white.
He stares into the mirror. It had been a good match, at least. They had taken the first set, too—with ecstatic delight and blind eagerness to go to nationals once more, to repeat the history of Tobio’s first year. Then Seijou had retaliated with the second set. The final match might have been the most intense Tobio’s ever experienced. Every player on the court focused, every executed play driven with utmost care—at the very least, Tobio had been able to shake their hands and say “good game” with no falseness in his words.
Even so, it was their last year, wasn’t it?
He should have done something more to make it count. Even if they had to lose—and they did, they hadn’t even been able to manage a deuce in the end—he could’ve said something, anything, to turn their last loss into an accepting one. Tobio was the captain, wasn’t he? He remembers Daichi in their first year, always with something to say, words of encouragement to offer. Tobio wasn’t like that. He leads his team with grudging consent at best and fumbling negligence at worst. Any of the other three in his year could have done better, even cold, sarcastic Tsukishima or mild Yamaguchi, or—
The door opens.
Tobio doesn’t turn from his position bent over the sink, because there’s only one person it could be.
A hand is laid on his shoulder. “Hey.”
He exhales and releases his death grip on the faucet. Hinata is visible behind him in the mirror, expression solemn. No hint of concern can be found tucked in his features; they’ve known each other too long for that.
“Kageyama,” Hinata’s reflection says to him.
He bows over the sink and says back, “it was our last chance.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hinata nod. There’s no use denying it. He can count the days until their inevitable retirement of the club on his fingers and toes. Maybe they’ll stay, to coach the underclassmen a bit, but afterward it’s only exams and graduation and university.
And goodbye.
“Stop,” Hinata insists softly, like he can read Tobio’s mind, and maybe he can. “Stop beating yourself up over it, you always do that.”
He lies, “I don’t.”
“You do. And stop it. Our kouhai will get them back next year.”
“Right,” Tobio says, because there’s nothing he can really say to an empty promise like that, then rushes on, “did you see? Oikawa and Iwaizumi were there. In the stands. After the game, they were celebrating...I think they were really happy. Seijou hasn’t gone to the nationals since...”
Hinata’s expression is nothing short of unwavering as he replies, “That’ll be us next year.”
“Right,” Tobio says again, and they fall back into silence.
Eventually Hinata claps him on the shoulder and forces him to stand. “Come on. Wouldn’t want to keep our team waiting, would you, Captain?”
Usually he hates it when people call him that—it falls far too close to King than he prefers—but he doesn’t mind it with Hinata, because he knows there’s no bite behind the word. He takes Hinata’s offered hand and lets him pull them to the door.
Just as the door swings open, Hinata purses his mouth and turns. “I mean it, alright?” he says, and gives a bitter smile. “Even if it takes ten or twenty years.”
This time the unvoiced word is loud and clear, and Tobio only nods as they step through the door.
He doesn’t doubt Hinata or his promises.
And he doesn’t think he ever will.
*
Which is why he supposes he should’ve known, maybe, even then.
*
When it comes, graduation is a blur of faces and names and at the end of the day Tobio takes the time to stand in the middle of the courtyard clutching his diploma just so he can take a much-needed breath. The air is cool for March, crisp and refreshing; it gently tousles his hair and stirs a vague feeling of nostalgia in his gut.
Before he can place it exactly, though, there’s a voice.
“Kageyama.”
Tobio turns automatically. Hinata stands before him, hands clutched at his side, wearing an expression so similar to grim resolve that it makes him want to laugh. Figures he’d want to talk, they hadn’t really gotten a chance to properly in all the rush of today; and figures that he’d face Tobio like the teammate and rival he will always be. The feeling in his gut intensifies. It takes a moment to realize that it’s longing, which makes him feel disgustingly sentimental as he waits for Hinata to speak.
He never does, though, just fidgets and stares at his shoes.
Eventually it’s Tobio who breaks the silence when it stretches too long. “Oi,” he says. “Dumbass, what’s wrong?”
The insult slips easily from his lips. It’s so common these days that it loses its initial meaning—Hinata almost treats it like a second name, doesn’t react to it at all. Granted, that’s probably why Tobio starts to develop a gradually rising sense of alarm when Hinata flinches so hard at the word he stumbles back a step.
“Hey,” he says, voice softer this time. “What’s wrong?” Tobio reaches him in long strides and places a hand on his shoulder. “Hinata?”
Hinata looks up with wide eyes at his name. His face is red, Tobio notes. Perhaps he’s come down with something. He frowns when the usually-loud boy continues with his silence. “Are you sick? If you have something to say, just say it, I don’t—”
I don’t care, he’d been about to say, which he realizes probably wouldn’t have been the greatest choice of words when Hinata straightens and blurts out, “Kageyama, I’m in love with you.”
His body goes cold.
The wind grows stronger and combs across their skin, blows Hinata’s orange locks away from his forehead so that Tobio can see his eyes, so huge Tobio’s reflection is clear and gaping in the smooth brown.
I’m in love with you.
Not I like you, not thank you for everything, not even I love you. Hinata’s said it in a way that leaves no doubt as to what he means, even for someone as dense as Tobio. There’s no misinterpreting his words, now. No clapping him on the back and saying, thanks, I like you too, see you around and leaving it at that.
Tobio’s starting to find it difficult to think over all the sirens blaring in his head, so he just continues to stare open-mouthed at Hinata and hope that he’s heard wrong somehow.
Obviously, he hasn’t.
Hinata turns even redder than he already was and stammers, “I-I mean—I didn’t, um,” which doesn’t exactly answer any of the million or so questions rolling around haphazardly in Tobio’s mind, although from what he can tell Hinata probably hadn’t meant to say that. Or if he did, he had a very different way of going about it envisioned.
The thought of that, of how Hinata had most likely planned to tell him, had considered how to—had apparently been in love with him for long enough to not just stick to a simple I like you and please consider me—makes Tobio’s head buzz. He should do something. Say something, before Hinata runs away, which is growing more and more probable judging by the tremble of his shoulder under Tobio’s hand. But his mind’s still reeling from the sudden confession.
So he does the first thing he can think of by pure instinct, which is to strike Hinata on the head and yell, “you idiot”.
Then his thoughts catch up with his actions and his hand falls. He takes a step back.
Hinata recoils, looking as stunned as Tobio feels, eyes still impossibly huge. There’s a red mark on his cheek growing darker by the second where Tobio hit him with more force than usual in his disoriented state. For a while they stare at each other.
Then Hinata’s eyes fill with angry tears and his hand flies up to cover the bruise on his face. “What the hell,” he shouts, voice breaking, and stalks forward. He smacks his hands on Tobio’s chest and pushes; there’s unexpected strength in his small figure and he ends up on the ground looking up at Hinata. He’s crying, Tobio realizes, and feels a sick twist of nausea in his gut. He’s crying with tears dripping down his chin and splattering on Tobio’s shirt and ten times as much hurt than anger in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Hinata sobs, and sprints away. Tobio can only look at his rapidly retreating figure; shock and regret root him to his place.
*
I’m sorry, he remembers thinking. Sorry, sorry. Sometime in the middle, the words cease to be Hinata’s and turn into his own.
The feeling is sharp, like a broken record slowly and stubbornly revolving in his mind.
*
He doesn’t see Hinata after that. Tobio goes home in a daze, barely remembers to lock the door after he gets home, then promptly goes up to his room and collapses on the bed. Hinata’s tear-streaked face lingers hauntingly at the back of his mind. I’m sorry, he’d said. Something in the way he’d said it tells Tobio that he never expected him to accept his feelings.
But would he have, if Hinata’s sudden confession hadn’t completely taken him by surprise?
Tobio racks his brain for an answer, but can’t find one. It’s hard to admit, but Hinata—Hinata who he’s always been able to read like an open book, Hinata who is just as much a partner off the court than on it—has somehow managed to reduce Tobio’s thoughts to mush with a single sentence.
He still can’t process it. Hinata’s feelings for him. How long has he been hiding them? Has he really been hiding them at all? Tobio’s been confessed to before, for reasons he still can’t comprehend, and each time it’s like a slap to the face, but none so much as this one. For one, they’re both boys, though Tobio has never really cared about that sort of stuff. And Hinata’s his friend. Friends don’t think of each other that way.
But do they, something whispers in Tobio’s mind. He does his best to push it aside. But not before he spends a few seconds considering, considering the way Hinata had looked after his confession, cheeks pink and mouth agape, and the way his tears had knotted Tobio’s stomach awfully like after a lost match, and how his words had left Tobio’s entire body tingling and warm in that half a second before he’d hit him and called him an idiot—
And he thinks, distinctly, what have you done now.
*
After an awkward dinner in which his mother had looked at him worryingly and asked him if he was alright about twenty times, Tobio trudges up to his room and slams the door.
The colorful pamphlets on his desk catch his eye, and his stomach drops.
They’re for university, his parents had said, after pushing them into his hand. There are maybe fifteen lying innocently in front of him. He remembers how he’d gone through each of them with Hinata, listing their top choices and discarding the ones that didn’t have a good volleyball team, lying lazily on his floor a week before graduation. Tobio walks over to his desk and snatches up the list they’d made. Most of them are written in Hinata’s large, curving script, because he’s the one who had taken up responsibility to write their options down.
He feels like he’s going to throw up.
It was an unmentioned rule, that they’d be together. Both of them knew they would. They’d have to be. Have to choose one they mutually agreed on, study for the entrance exams together, get in, stand on the court side by side again—
Tobio crumples the sheet.
(Later, with pressure from his parents, he chooses one at random off the list and spends his days holed up in his room cramming in preparation. The nights are exhausting, with random formulas and phrases blurring before Tobio’s eyes, but the workload takes his mind off other things. Other things, like how Hinata still hasn’t appeared or answered any of his calls or texts or the five or so messages he’d left before giving up and waiting. Other things like the terrible image of hurt and betrayal in Hinata’s eyes.
Other things, like how the ache he feels in his heart might be a sliver too strong for losing just a friend—even one that he’s known as long and done as much together as Hinata, at that.
Tobio throws himself headfirst into his studies. And it’s hard and tiring and mentally draining, but a sufficient enough distraction from the hollow feeling in his chest.)
*
He doesn’t see or hear from Hinata over the break, either.
*
Later, he stands before the gates of his new university with his acceptance letter in hand and tries to conjure up excitement or satisfaction or pride.
All he manages is a burning sensation at the back of his throat.
*
The first practice for the volleyball team comes two weeks into his classes, and Tobio walks into the gym with something terrible eating at his mind. It’s relentless, a what-if that scares him so much he’s hit with the urge to turn and walk back out and very nearly does.
But at the door he takes a breath and stays. He’s been through so much; rejection, fear, countless matches and tournaments with much more than baseless concerns riding on his back. To let something like this stop him is stupid.
But it’s not, he realizes, twenty minutes into the practice. It’s not.
Because he sees Hinata everywhere.
Tobio bends to stretch and sees Hinata’s movements in another player’s short figure, catches a ball and imagines Hinata yelling for a toss at the other side of the gym, can even hear Hinata’s voice mixed in with the frequent choruses of “nice receive”. It’s a bit of a crisis, Tobio thinks faintly. Who knew even volleyball would have to turn out like this. Except he knew, of course, this is exactly what he’d been worried about this morning, and now it turns out he knows himself better than he would have thought.
The breaking point is when he makes a toss, fast and hard and just in the way Hinata usually likes it, waits for the satisfying smack of a hand against the ball and the excited whoop that is sure to follow but hears nothing save for the terrible sound of it hitting the ground.
He turns, and for a moment is back in his Kitagawa Daiichi uniform with his teammates’ glares cutting into his back.
Tobio struggles to breathe. It’s not like that anymore, he reminds himself. Now—now what? Now he’s got a new team all over again where still no one can hit his reckless toss, because the one person who’d been able to isn’t there anymore. Now he’s back at square one.
He inhales shakily. Get it together, he reminds himself, and stutters out something resembling an apology to the spiker he’d been paired with.
“It’s no problem,” the guy says, waving a hand around. “Though, that toss was really something else. Can you imagine what it would be like if someone could actually hit it?” He laughs, and Tobio forces himself to laugh along, as if the idea is simply ridiculous, completely unfathomable. As if there hadn’t really once been someone who could.
At the end of the evening he bows to the coach, gives another awkward apology, and hands in his club resignation form.
The coach accepts it. He’s a middle aged man not unlike Ukai and doesn’t bother to hide his skepticism when he raises an eyebrow at Tobio. “Something go wrong with the practice?”
“No,” Tobio mumbles. “I just—um, I think I might need some time off.” He winces at the pathetic excuse and opens his mouth to explain, to add something, but comes up empty. It’s not exactly like he can tell him the truth, but he can’t bring himself to lie either.
“Is the training too hard?”
“No,” he says again.
“Are the members harassing you?”
Tobio splutters something akin to no again, and the coach sighs.
“Then I honestly don’t see what the problem is,” he says, and for a moment Tobio panics, thinks he’s going to shove the form back at him and demand fifty laps around the campus or something for being such a coward. He would deserve it, probably.
But the coach continues. “Since you insist, though, you can stop attending practices.”
Tobio lets go of the breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. He thanks him, awkwardly, and is about to leave when the coach stops him again with a hand on his shoulder.
He tilts his head at Tobio, eyes piercing—considering—and says, “you really don’t think you can handle it?”
Tobio bristles. He’s about to protest, say that this has nothing to do with the training or the club members or the practice or whatever, but then realizes that the coach knows who he is. Of course he knows Tobio. His team back at Karasuno hadn’t been anything to laugh at, he’d even been stopped once or twice after matches by scouts, and he’d included all of his experiences in his application. No doubt they would make note of it and inform the coach.
No doubt he’d have his expectations for Tobio, which most likely did not come in the form of a stammered apology and a resignation form.
So he hesitates, starts to wonder if maybe he could try again somehow, next week, but then the coach’s eyes shift and turn into Hinata’s—wide and brown and tear-filled and heartbroken—and he exhales and admits, “yes.”
There’s too much of him.
The coach looks disappointed but releases his arm. “Alright,” he says, “but after your ‘time off’—” he makes air quotes around the words and Tobio flushes— “we’d be happy to have you back on the team.”
The look in his eyes says: I expect it.
“Right,” Tobio says, and makes his escape.
*
He spends his night listening to his roommate’s snores and staring at the bright screen of his phone in the darkness.
Still no calls.
*
But a few weeks later, he gets one.
It comes late one night when his roommate is out and the dorm is silent. Tobio’s sitting at his desk, that week’s homework blurring before his eyes. He’d been half asleep when the call came; it didn’t stop him from snatching up his phone so quickly he’d knocked half his books onto the floor.
“Hello,” he says, breathless.
“Kageyama,” Suga-san says.
Tobio’s stomach drops somewhere around his feet, then comes up again along with his rising feeling of confusion. He takes the phone away from his ear and checks the caller ID. It is Suga. He’d put in the number somewhere in first year, he remembers now. Suga’s along with the rest of the team. After the third years graduated, though, their contacts hadn’t seen much use.
He asks again, just to confirm.
“Yes, it’s me,” Suga says. “You’re still awake?”
“Um.” Tobio catches the numbers on his electronic clock out of the corner of his eye. Half past twelve. “Yes.”
“Good. I need to talk to you.”
Which is how he’d ended up in the coffee shop around the corner the next day with his former senpai across the table, and telling him everything.
Suga doesn’t say anything when he finishes, just cups his hands around his drink and stares at him, which is ultimately what makes Tobio realize exactly what he’d just told him and drop his gaze to the floor. They sit like that for a while. Tobio stirs his coffee, coughs a few times, and tries not to look Suga in the eye.
Eventually he hears an exhale and has to look up.
Suga smiles at him, but it’s a weary thing. He doesn’t look much older, Tobio thinks, even though the last time they had seen each other was a little over a year ago at a reunion Takeda-sensei had organized. Hair a little longer. More tired, maybe, but then again university tended to do that to people.
He brushes a strand of hair away from his face, catching Tobio’s attention with the movement, and admits, “I thought it would be something like this.”
Tobio stares.
“What,” he says, when he’s regained the ability to form coherent words, because—what.
Suga shrugs, unconcerned. “I still keep in contact with some of the team,” he says. “Yachi, mostly, but Hinata too. And, well. Hinata didn’t tell me anything, technically, but anyone would’ve been able to tell that he was acting different. Even Nishinoya and Tanaka picked up on it—they suspected it first and told Daichi, actually, who consulted me, which is why I called Hinata in the first place.”
“What,” Tobio croaks again. “How—”
“We’ve been worried,” is all Suga says.
Tobio puts his drink down on the table a little harder than intended. A girl nearby glares at him, but he doesn’t pay her any attention. “The whole team knows?” he says. It comes out accusing.
Suga smiles apologetically. “Former,” he corrects, “and not everyone. None of your kouhai, for example. Or Tsukishima.” He pauses. “But maybe he just doesn’t care.”
The thought doesn’t exactly comfort Tobio.
“Okay,” Suga says eventually, after Tobio’s spent a sufficient amount of time trying and failing to glare a hole through the table. “I didn’t come just to tell you this, though. We need to talk—” of course, Tobio thinks dully— “and I need to ask you something.”
He waits. Suga doesn’t disappoint.
“Kageyama,” he says. “What do you think of Hinata?”
The question doesn’t surprise him, exactly, since it’s Suga after all, but it’s enough to throw him off his edge because it’s not exactly what he’d been expecting. He blinks, twice. When Suga blinks back at him expectantly, he answers the only way he knows how.
“He’s my friend,” Tobio says.
The word is a little hazy around the edges when it leaves his tongue, especially with Hinata’s confession and the subsequent disaster of a few months still fresh in his mind, but Tobio thinks it still fits, somewhat.
Maybe.
Suga tilts his head at him, moves slow, languid. “Are you sure,” he says.
It doesn’t sound like a question.
But there’s a reason, Tobio thinks confusedly, that he’s said the word in the first place. If Hinata isn’t a friend to him, what else—who else would he be?
Then he thinks of the confession, and oh.
When he finally meets Suga’s exasperated eyes is when he starts to think that maybe the statement runs a little deeper than that.
He tries to make sense of it. He’s never thought of Hinata that way, never really thought about anyone that way, but when he starts to entertain the idea from Suga’s prompting he can maybe see why it would make a little sense. Their bond on the court is infallible and rare. To an outsider, it might have looked like they’d known each other for their entire life. And sometimes—sometimes. Tobio feels that way too. Because it’s easy to, and because being by Hinata’s side is natural more than anything, and because losing him over the break had hurt like ripping a chunk out of himself, not like losing a teammate. Not like missing a friend.
And then Tobio starts, because how long has he been like this without knowing?
How long have they been like this?
Suga must have detected something from the look on Tobio’s face, because he puts some coins on the table and stands to leave. “Think about it,” he says, and smiles; soft, genuine. The sternness melts from his face like wax.
“It was nice to see you again, Kageyama.”
*
He thinks about it.
*
“Have you talked to him yet,” is the first thing Suga says when Tobio calls him back a week later, his fingers drumming against his leg in uncertainty and his textbook in his lap because he has an exam tomorrow and even his former vice-captain’s mom-disappointment can’t come above the horrors of geometry.
He squeezes the phone. “Was I supposed to?”
There is a very long pause.
“Well,” Suga says finally. “Have you at least thought about it?”
“Yes,” he says, because he has, and he’d stayed up for two nights then fallen asleep mid-lecture as a result.
“And do you know your answer?” Suga presses on.
He hesitates, then “yes.”
“Then why haven’t you talked to him yet?”
Tobio stares down at his textbook. Why hasn’t he? Because he doesn’t know where Hinata is, he thinks. Because he doesn’t know if he can approach him without Hinata punching him in the face. Because he’s only recently sorted all of this out, and it’s still buzzing around his head and he’s having a hard time really understanding it, any of it.
Because he’s a coward, maybe.
Tobio flips a page and grips it until his knuckles turn white. “He probably hates me,” he says.
“Probably,” Suga agrees. “But he’ll keep hating you if you don’t do anything.”
Silence.
“He won’t pick up. My calls.”
“I know.”
Silence, because what can he say to that?
Suga sighs and it carries through the line like a curl of air. “Do you still have your old contacts from first year?”
“Some.” He does.
“Look for Kenma. You remember—Kozume-san, to you. He’s rooming with Hinata right now for university. Talk to him. I think he’d like to speak with you, too.”
“Kageyama.”
“Don’t forget.”
Beep. The call drops. He’s left with the phone still at his ear, and the remnants of its radiating heat follow him to bed that night and burn.
*
He doesn’t forget.
(He almost wants to.)
He calls and Kenma picks up, listens. Doesn’t question him. Doesn’t say anything at all, other than a soft “oh” he almost misses at the end. Gives him an address. Gives him a chance.
Says, “thank you,” quietly, knowingly—steals the words from his mouth, a beat before Tobio presses the button to end the call.
*
That night he dreams. There’s sunset and dusk, the sun blinding and grass cool beneath heated skin. Broken words. Broken promises. Fingertips glancing and missing, a shouted lie and the sound of a jump; the sound of wings.
For the first time in a while, he does not dream of brown eyes.
*
When he wakes up, Tobio sends Kenma a message to let him know he’s coming, then showers and eats and does some homework then walks out the door at noon with eerie calm.
He feels blank, almost. Like there’s nothing on his mind.
The address Kenma had given him isn’t too far away, a nearby university that’s academically average but known for their strong athletics. It makes sense that Hinata would choose it. The distance is probably a coincidence—it hadn’t been on their list. Tobio breathes in the scent of musty rain and tries not to think.
Halfway there he gets a reply from Kenma when his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Don’t come, it says. It’s Shouyou.
And under that is another address.
This one, Tobio recognizes, and his calmness evaporates like mist.
*
He makes it to the hospital by some miracle, pushes his way through the crowds of people and sprints up the stairs to the correct floor. The room number Kenma had sent him burns in his mind. Tobio doesn't even need to check his phone for it—just runs his fingers across each nameplate he passes and prays uselessly that this is all a huge mistake.
Then he stops.
Room 505.
The name below it is Hinata Shouyou.
So it is, then, Tobio thinks somewhere in the back of his mind, then breathes in shakily and pushes open the door.
It’s an almost empty room with a bed in the corner and a table beside it with some yellow flowers in a pot. A small crowd is gathered beside it, blocking most of the bed from vision. There’s Kenma. His black-haired friend beside him, Nekoma’s former captain. Yamaguchi. Someone who could only be a doctor, sitting in a chair with a clipboard that he’s not writing on.
And Suga.
Well, of course Suga, he’d have to come, Tobio would’ve expected him to—but something just doesn’t sit right with the fact that Kenma’s contacted him out of all the people here, and even then it had been obligatory because of the planned meeting.
Tobio feels ice in his veins as he makes his way over.
And there’s Hinata.
He doesn’t look any different, is the first thing Tobio notices, which he then realizes is ridiculous because of course he doesn’t, it’s only been two months. Not hurt, either. Tobio feels a wave of relief that quickly turns into bemusement because...it’s strange. He doesn’t see any of the machines that he’d expect in a hospital. No nurses or assistants or other patients, either. There isn’t even anything at all on the table other that stupid pot of flowers.
“Um?” Tobio manages, because he doesn’t think he’s been this confused in his entire life.
All eyes in the room turn to him. None with surprise, he registers; though he himself takes a step back in shock because all of them look at him with such undisguised grief that it’s similar to a blow to the gut.
Except one pair, and they’re amber-brown and curious.
“Hi!” Hinata chirps. He smiles, wide and delighted. “Have you come to see me?”
“Um,” Tobio says again. He glances around, bewildered, but no one meets his eyes. Even the doctor is staring at the floor. “Yes?”
Hinata clasps his hands together. “That’s great!” he exclaims. “Did you bring anything special?”
Tobio blinks. He’s spent all day and night wondering what Hinata’s reaction would be to seeing him, and this one was decidedly not a possibility he’d considered. He looks over Hinata again, somewhat desperately. Still doesn’t see anything wrong with him other than the happy light in his eyes when he looks at Tobio.
Because it should definitely not exist.
“Kageyama,” Suga calls him, and his eyes are so, so sad.
Tobio jerks back, and—something’s wrong, something’s definitely wrong. The awful feeling in his gut returns again, relentless, chewing at his insides. His head’s spinning and the room suddenly seems too bright. Everyone around him looks empty and shattered and so helplessly broken, and Hinata’s still smiling, and what the hell is going on?
Tobio snaps back to look at the bed. “Hinata?” he tries.
Wide brown eyes blink. The sunlight makes them look blank, changes them into solid gold.
He tilts his head.
“Who’s Hinata?” he says.
*
...
*
And he thinks the last time he sees Hinata Shouyou, it is in a room with blank white walls and the eerie sound of loaded silence pounding by his ear.
He looks the same.
Tobio thinks this, over and over and time and time again. When he goes back into the room for the first time, when he introduces himself (for the first time because he’d never bothered to before), when he watches that bright smile and those shining eyes and feels his heart drop through the floor—he thinks this. And it’s ridiculous, because he shouldn’t. Hinata shouldn’t. He isn’t Hinata anymore, doesn’t know Tobio or Kenma or his family when they rush in or even himself anymore, doesn’t remember. He shouldn’t still have orange hair and brown eyes, shouldn’t stand with the same short figure. He’s changed so much inside it hurts to know, but he looks the same on the surface, the same he’s always been.
It’s wrong. It’s so wrong.
(An accident, Kenma had said. A head collision and minor concussion, the papers had said. Amnesia and memory loss triggered by an accident and developed by emotional stress or turmoil, the doctor had said.
Because of you, Tobio’s mind had whispered.
And he knows, he knows—it’s right.)
*
Tobio watches with everyone in the room as the doctor speaks to Hinata, watches him handle the matter delicately like Hinata’s a piece of glass. He asks him careful questions to “determine the state of his memory”, he’d told Tobio and the others. The clipboard is in his hands and he’s looking at it this time.
Hinata answers simple questions like “what’s five plus five” and “what’s the capital of Japan”, then “what color is my shirt” and “what language are we speaking”. He gets all of them and the doctor hands him a pen and tells him to write “hello” and draw a cat. He does that too. Tobio’s starting to grow uneasy by the time the doctor puts down his clipboard and tells Hinata he did good, then warns him that the questions are going to get harder now.
“What’s your name,” the doctor asks gently, and Hinata pauses.
Tobio feels like he’s holding all the air in the world in his lungs.
“I don’t know,” he answers.
He releases it and watches Hinata’s sister, Natsu—the only one of his family who had insisted to stay—clench her arms and stare at the floor.
“You’re Hinata Shouyou,” the doctor tells him, still gently. He pronounces the characters like he’s sounding out the alphabet to a child. “Do you think you can remember that from now on?”
“Yes.”
“Can we call you that?”
Hinata looks pensive for a while, and Tobio almost expects him to shake his head, say not everyone used to call me that, say I remember now, but the only answer he finally gives is “yes”.
And it continues.
“How old are you?”
“I don’t know.”
“What school do you go to?”
“I don’t know.”
“What is your mother’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you born?”
“I don’t know.”
Hinata looks confused through the whole thing, like he genuinely can’t understand why he doesn’t know the answers. There’s no realization dawning on his face, no frustration written in his features. Only confusion.
Somehow that’s worse.
The doctor tells him it’s okay, you’re doing fine, Hinata-kun, and this is the last question then you can rest. Hinata nods and smiles like it’s the only thing he knows.
“You used to play a sport,” the doctor says slowly. “Do you remember what it is?”
Hinata blinks, and something seizes in Tobio’s chest.
If he’s going to remember, it has to be now. If he’s going to go back to the way he was. Out of anything in the world, volleyball would be the one thing that would make him remember. Tobio remembers, anyways, recalls the passion and love for the sport he’d first seen in Hinata, the undying dedication that managed to carry him to the top. He can’t forget that. Not this. Not volleyball.
Not the thing that has shaped his life so much and brought him so far, brought him to Tobio.
He watches Hinata process the question. Pause to think. He watches his hands suddenly clench the sheets of the bed, watches the knuckles pale, and thinks this is it.
But Hinata shakes his head. “No,” he says softly. “I don’t.”
The room seems to exhale.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, looking at his tight fists.
If he could, Tobio would have taken meaning in the apology. Taken hope. Taken in how the confusion had faded from his face. He would’ve thought of how Hinata would not could not give up like this, how he never learned how to give up, never stopped in the middle of the road without at least pushing with everything he is and everything he was and everything they ever were—
(Which was what, exactly?)
—but.
Tobio does not do any of these things.
He just looks at Hinata, and thinks who are you.
*
“Who was I?” Hinata asks him quietly, one day soon after the accident, when the sunlight is spilling into his room from the window and across the bedsheets like radiant liquid.
Tobio freezes. He looks up, very slowly, from the notebook he’s meant to record the results of Hinata’s brief check-in into for the doctor, and stares. Hinata drops his gaze when he does.
“Sorry,” he says softly. Tobio flinches at the word. “I know you...I’m sorry. I just wanted to know.”
“Don’t apologize,” Tobio mutters. He finishes writing the last line and snaps the notebook shut with more force than necessary, then puts it down.
It’s been like this for a while now. Hinata’s still staying in the hospital, in the same room, so that they can monitor him and his symptoms. There’s no result yet on his diagnosis or whether he can actually remember, but the physical recovery from the accident has already been noted. It wasn’t anything big, he heard. A traffic accident. A bump with a car when he returned from his morning classes.
Which makes Tobio know all the more that he’d been the cause. Emotional stress and turmoil. What else could it have been?
He tries not to think about it too much.
People come to visit often these days, a mere week after the incident. Hinata’s family most of all, but old teammates from Karasuno—and therefore Tobio—and former rivals in their high school volleyball career frequent the hallway and waiting room now too. They take turns visiting Hinata’s room, talking to him, telling stories from the past in futile hopes to make him remember and leaving behind souvenirs and mementos from their old years when Hinata shakes his head.
Tobio is the sole exception. He comes often, as much as Hinata’s family maybe, but he never talks. He writes in the doctor’s notebook and organizes the gifts and flowers in the room and sometimes just sits and watches Hinata like a guard dog, but he never tries to speak to him. They’ve almost reached a silent agreement. Haven’t even exchanged words beyond necessary greetings, until now.
For Tobio, it’s been a sort of barrier, a way of hiding from the reality of the situation. He’s not proud of it, but it works. Most of the time.
Now, when Hinata is looking at him with flickering questions in his eyes, is not one of those times.
Tobio lifts the notebook again and wonders if he can pretend to write some more to avoid this. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask,” he says measuredly to the leather cover.
There’s a frown in Hinata’s voice. “Why not? You know me, right?”
Knew, he wants to correct. I knew you.
“Yes,” he says instead.
“And I know that I knew you. We played...volleyball together. Everyone from school told me.”
Tobio takes a startled breath. “What did they tell you?” There’s dread coiling in his stomach; his barrier might break, after all.
The frown deepens. “Not much. Just that we played, and we met at a match in middle school then went to high school together.” He looks at Tobio cautiously. “You were my...setter.”
The word is so fragile, like Hinata’s not sure of how to say it, what context it should be said with.
“I was,” he says. Still staring at the notebook and Hinata’s still staring at him. A rush of panic suddenly heats his throat, because he doesn’t want this, whatever it is, because he doesn’t want Hinata to know and understand and know and hate him all over again.
Tobio puts the notebook in his lap and flips it open to a blank page. “I was,” he repeats, “but we weren’t that close. Not friends. Just teammates. I didn’t really know you that well.” The words come out sharper than he’d intended, in short stabs that pierce the air like blades. He has to stifle the urge to take them back.
There’s a beat, then “oh.”
He gathers the courage to look up and there’s Hinata, looking blankly at him and seeming like he’s glowing from all the light in the room. He believes him, Tobio realizes. He doesn’t have the choice to do anything else.
The lie in his mouth tastes like sawdust and weighs like steel.
Hinata returns his gaze to the window. “I understand,” he says. “Thanks anyways, Kageyama-san.”
*
And that’s another thing.
He dreams of brown eyes.
*
“He didn’t hate you,” Kenma tells him later, soft in the dark hallway, reading Tobio as easily as he would read opponents on the court. “He never hated you.”
Tobio could only look at him.
“He thought you hated him,” Kenma says, and he doesn’t meet Tobio’s eyes.
Tobio swallows. His voice feels thick and heavy and terrible on his tongue; it’s a battle to speak. “I didn’t.”
“I know.”
He takes a breath and doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say the words that threaten to break past the block in his throat, the words that are his answer. He doesn’t say what’s been burning on the back of his mind for a long time. He doesn’t say what he should’ve said when Hinata had confessed in the courtyard, or maybe when he’d laid on the grass with fate running through his head, when he’d been promised to stand on top of the world, or even the very first time he’d looked at both of them as one on the court and thought invincible, loud and clear and breathless.
He doesn’t say it, but Kenma’s eyes answer I know all the same.
“He waited for you,” Kenma continues, softly, softly, but it feels like a million cuts on Tobio’s skin. “He thought it would take months, years. He was waiting for you.”
And Tobio hears it.
The forever is unspoken, but.
It’s there.
*
When Tobio walks into the room the next day, clutching the notebook like a lifeline, Hinata’s holding a volleyball.
He turns at Tobio’s arrival. “Hey,” he greets softly.
Tobio puts down the notebook in a corner of the table—it’s practically overflowing with flowers and gifts, he’ll have to clean it up again soon—and stares.
Hinata hums as he traces a groove in the ball, eyes glued to his moving finger. He must’ve felt the incredulity in Tobio’s gaze because he speaks. “I used to play this, right? Yamaguchi gave it to me when he visited.”
“Yeah,” Tobio says. He looks at the curve of Hinata’s fingers cupping the ball, the gold of his skin against the swirling red and white and green. It’s familiar and aching, the rightness of it all crashing into Tobio like a tidal wave, and in that moment he thinks he hates Yamaguchi.
Because looking at Hinata like this, with the sunlight cutting shadows and shades across his face—it makes Tobio’s chest hurt and his breath stop in his lungs for reasons he can’t explain.
Hinata, oblivious, blows air into his bangs and puts down the ball. “Hey,” he says, and grins at Tobio like he’d been struck with a genius idea. “You’re a setter, right? You toss for the players.”
“Yeah,” Tobio says again. It comes out sounding like a question. He doesn’t have time to tack on not anymore to the end of the word before Hinata grins wider in excitement.
“Show me,” he says.
The look Tobio gives him must make it clear what his answer is, because Hinata pouts. “Come on,” he begs. “I’ve heard so much about how I used to play but I haven’t even seen anyone handle a volleyball. I want to see.” He makes pleading eyes. “Show me?”
No, is his first instinct. But Hinata’s expression is fading from playfully imploring to something real and urgent, and Tobio realizes that he really, truly wants to know. He imagines himself from Hinata’s perspective—forgetting everything and remembering nothing, with all these people coming in and telling him things about himself, things he doesn’t know with no real grasp of anything he used to have—and is struck by the sudden nausea he feels. It can’t be easy, being Hinata right now. It must be anything but easy, but he smiles and laughs and welcomes these unrecognizable things and strangers claiming to have once known him into his life despite everything.
In the way of his character, Tobio thinks, the accident has changed surprisingly little.
It can’t hurt, can it?
So he relents, says “fine”, watches the glee and relief and anticipation cross Hinata’s face all at once, then he’s tossing the ball towards Tobio and he’s catching it between stumbling fingers.
It’s probably been too long. He hasn’t played volleyball properly since the loss to Seijou at the finals, save for the disaster of a practice at university, after which he hadn’t even touched a volleyball. Tobio’s not even sure if he remembers how to do this without a net in front of him, but he takes a careful breath and positions the ball above his head all the same.
Hinata bounces in his bed like an enthusiastic child. “Toss it here,” he demands, pointing to a spot in the wall just above the bed, then leans forward, expectancy lighting his face.
If he fumbles the toss, it could probably hit him. But Tobio’s never been anything if not reckless, so he tries to summon the pinpoint accuracy his tosses have always displayed, then throws the ball up and waits for it to fall.
When it does, he sends it streaking across the room.
Too fast. It’s Hinata’s presence, maybe. He’s unconsciously done the toss for their quick attack back in high school just like he had at the university practice.
The volleyball blows past Hinata and thuds against the wall, then rebounds and rolls to a stop at the foot of the bed.
Hinata looks blank. His eyes are glazed and vacant.
For one terrifying second, Tobio thinks he’s scared.
But then he yells and practically leaps into the air. “What was that,” he wheezes, when he’s calmed down a little. “That was—wow—so fast.” Hinata turns to Tobio, his grin splitting his face. “I used to hit that?”
Tobio can’t form an answer to that, but Hinata doesn’t seem to notice. He just shouts in delight again and picks up the ball, then throws it to Tobio with such force that it’s an effort to catch. “Do it again,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Please. I have to see that again.”
Tobio’s fingers tighten against the ball. He can’t tell Hinata that he’s already seen it too many times to count, hit it just as much; can’t tell him that he was the first one to ever, ever watch him toss and think something other than reckless or absurd. He can’t because Hinata won’t remember, isn’t even the same person anymore, but when he’s looking at Tobio with stars in his eyes and calling for one more toss it’s hard to tell.
Tobio swallows around the sudden dryness in his throat and nods. Hinata quiets; there’s an intensity in his gaze that makes it clear he’s waiting.
He tosses the ball up again, glancing at Hinata out of the corner of his eye before focusing on the ball. Lower, lower, lower—
Tobio pushes, pushes hard, harder than he’s ever done since Kitagawa Daiichi and his estranged teammates—
Pushes impossible—
And he’s there.
The colors of the ball swirl and blur in its path. There’s a whoosh, a jump, a chance.
Tobio sees wings.
*
He’s fourteen and he watches a boy who craves victory like air fly across the court.
He’s fifteen and there’s a suppressed memory coming alive again in the form of a soaring jump.
He’s sixteen and he thinks, naive, that there is nothing else that matters besides the feel of victory in his veins, the taste of sweat on his lips.
He’s seventeen and he watches again. This time there’s no rush of wonder, no shock, only familiarity and a burn of completeness inside his chest. He thinks they’re absolute. He thinks they could be on opposite ends of the universe and he wouldn’t want this feeling any less.
Then he’s eighteen, and he’s only half right.
*
Hinata falls and hits the floor, spreads his arms and legs and laughs with pure exhilaration. He turns to Tobio, face alight. The ball crashes to the ground from where it’d been struck into the wall. There are still vibrations, ghosts of shivers running up his spine from the staggering force of Hinata’s spike.
Tobio cannot breathe.
Hinata laughs again, joy bubbling out of his chest. “Amazing,” he gasps. “It was all—waahhhh and—wow, and—” he looks up at Tobio and he’s radiant, he’s shining.
He looks like the sun.
“You’re incredible,” Hinata says.
You’re incredible. Tobio freezes, mind spinning. You’re incredible. You’re incredible.
You really are incredible.
The breath catches in his throat.
He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out because he’s suddenly had all the wind knocked out of his lungs and it feels like he’s been thrown back three impossible years. He replays the spike in his head; flawless, breathtaking, as strong as it’s ever been. It’s the same he’s always known.
Hinata smiles at him, and for a moment the accident never happened, he never forgot, and they’re just practicing together like any other time they have before, and Tobio can believe that nothing has ever changed. Hinata’s expression is soft, thrown into warm shadow by the sunlight. It’s familiar and bright and real.
The unexpected pain in his chest is suddenly, immensely sharp.
It’s not. Not real.
He still doesn’t remember.
Still doesn’t know you.
Tobio’s perfect illusion falls apart. He’s thrown back into reality, and it hurts like frostbite, like poison, like a knife twisting in his side. It hurts like being forgotten.
He stands abruptly. The pain is suffocating, cloyingly thick across his skin. “I have to go,” he says.
He runs and doesn’t take in the smile fading from Hinata’s face, doesn’t take in the confusion that replaces it, doesn’t hear the call of “Kageyama!” after him and doesn’t register the lack of the honorific. It must have been his imagination, but—in that one moment Hinata’s face had looked so content and so full of love it made Tobio’s chest ache.
And it makes him scared, all over again. For and of himself.
*
The next time he visits, it’s only because he has to.
The notebook he’d left lying on the table is gone, no doubt picked up by one of the nurses, but it doesn’t bother Tobio in the least. It’s not what he’s here for. He carefully creaks open the door from where he’d been standing and peeking into the room, and quietly steps inside.
Hinata’s asleep, just like the doctor had said he was. Tobio closes the door and walks over until he’s standing over the bed, close enough to cast a shadow over the white sheets. He looks peaceful like this. The curtains are closed, but the sunlight filters through the thin fabric and paints the walls of the room in a mute orange-gold. It’s fitting.
Tobio presses his lips together for a second. There’s no time to wonder about the future, he reminds himself. There’s no point in thinking about the if onlys, the could’ve beens. He did this to Hinata—he deserves to be forgotten.
“I’m sorry,” he tells Hinata’s sleeping face, and means it.
There. Tobio owes him that much, at least, owes him an apology even if he’s too much of a coward to say it when Hinata’s awake. Truth be told, he could owe Hinata the world for all he’s done, but an apology is the very least he can offer. It doesn’t matter how sincere he is, how much regret and bitterness and pain he pours into those two words. It doesn’t matter if he carves them into his flesh with a knife. It won’t make up for anything, will never make up for everything, but it’s what he can offer.
And maybe he childishly thinks that it’s enough.
In any case, he’s done what he came here to do. Tobio allows himself one last long look. The most vivid memories of Hinata had always been with him facing Tobio with his figure a silhouette set in sun, but he thinks it’s appropriate, that what will soon become his last is one where Hinata’s in the light, for once.
There’s a lump in his throat that threatens to choke him, so Tobio turns and makes to leave.
Just as his fingers touch the doorknob, though, there’s a low voice.
“For what?”
Tobio stills. He spins around. Hinata’s awake and upright, sitting straight on the bed and frowning at him, eyes unusually fierce. The sun catches on them and doesn’t make the brown look blank like before; it makes them glow.
“You’re awake,” Tobio says, mouth dry.
Hinata stares at him and his eyes look like fire. “For what,” he repeats. “You’re sorry for what?”
Tobio doesn’t answer.
“Don’t just apologize and walk out of here!” Hinata snaps at him. There’s something tense in his posture, a rigid line in his limbs that suggests his frustration and anger—though for what, Tobio has no idea. “You don’t come for days and then sneak in when I’m sleeping just to say two words and leave? At least give me a reason! At least say goodbye!”
“I wasn’t going to leave!” Tobio shouts at him, voice hoarse.
Hinata’s eyes burn. “Oh yeah? Then what were you going to do? If I hadn’t been awake, you would have walked out that door and never came back. You would have disappeared,” he hisses. Tobio’s shocked into silence, which is more than enough for a confirmation. Hinata glares at him and continues. “You say we barely knew each other, but you visit every day and run out when I hit a volleyball? What’s your problem? What happened that makes you so—so scared of me?”
The argument dies in Tobio’s throat. He stares at Hinata, face red and eyes blazing, caught up in his rant.
Scared?
“What did I do,” Hinata says slowly, viciously, but there’s a break in his voice— “that makes me such a monster to you?”
For all of Tobio’s stunned silence, the sentence is like he’s hit a switch. “You don’t know,” he spits, and watches Hinata flinch back at his words like he’d been slapped. “You don’t even know. You can’t—can’t know how it is, can’t understand what I’ve—” he takes a full breath and wills his voice to stop shaking. Hinata’s looking at him now, eyes wide, all the anger faded and gone; it makes Tobio feel incredibly small and pathetic.
He drops his eyes to the ground. “You don’t even remember,” he says quietly. His hands curl into fists. “You...forgot.”
The word sears his throat, hurts like a flaming truth.
But Hinata shakes his head. Slow. Reluctant.
Real.
“I,” he pauses. Shifts. His eyes meet Tobio’s and they flicker like candlelight, like sky.
“I remember you.”
*
...
*
Oh.
*
Hinata takes a deep breath then he’s talking, rushing through his sentences, saying things that start too slow and end too fast and make Tobio’s head spin so that they barely manage to pass his ears.
He can hardly hear over the white noise blanketing them both. He can hardly breathe.
But he does.
And it’s like trickling water, into his mind—steady and sure. Hinata speaks; he listens.
Tobio’s world builds itself together again, piece by piece, word by word, without him ever noticing that it’d fallen in the first place.
*
“I remember you.”
“Not everything, and not all at once. Not at all the first few days.”
“But there were bits and pieces, and things that kept surfacing, and somehow I knew they weren’t made up or just from my imagination or a dream.”
“They’re tiny. But I know them, and I know they’re real.”
“And it wasn’t easy, to understand.”
“I kept thinking back to that time I asked you who I was, and you looked at me as if the answer physically hurt you. I kept wondering if you’d lied about us to keep me from the truth.”
“I still don’t really know if you did.”
“People come in and they tell me things, but they never tell me enough about you, not even when I ask them, because they just steer me away. All I knew was that we played volleyball together. I didn’t even know how we played, I barely knew what volleyball was.”
“But I had to know, about you.”
“So I got Yamaguchi to leave me a volleyball and I asked you for a toss.”
“And the first time you did it it really was amazing, but it wasn’t right. It didn’t feel right. It was really really fast, and really awesome, but it still felt sort of...incomplete, like something was missing from it. So the second time I asked you to do it, I tried to hit it, because it was what you’re supposed to do with a toss. And I did. I did hit it. When I saw your face after, I knew it was a part of my life, something that was important to me before, something that meant almost the entire world.”
“It felt so right it hurt.”
“But then you ran off and I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, because I was afraid I’d done something wrong, or that the rightness I felt wasn’t really right after all and I’d made a mistake.”
“I was scared. I still didn’t know who you were to me but I could see flashes of everything. I had some memories, I just didn’t know what they were, but I knew you were a part of them and I was scared that you’d leave me. You seemed scared. After I spiked the ball you looked at me like I was something terrifying.”
“When you came in today after so long I was so relieved, I was just pretending to sleep so I could see what you would do, but you just said I’m sorry and you were about to walk out and I knew you wouldn’t come back if you did.”
“I got mad. I still didn’t know what had happened between us but you were acting like it was something terrible, Kageyama. And you looked like you were blaming yourself for it, or that it was something that would hurt me if I knew, but I didn’t know what it was, I didn’t know anything. I thought that you didn’t have a right to just walk out of my life if you’d done something like that. I thought you didn’t have a right to leave when you wouldn’t even tell me what had happened.”
“I thought I had a right to know.”
“I got mad, and then you got mad, and then you suddenly looked like you were about to cry and I felt horrible, really, so I kind of just blurted it out even though it was supposed to be a secret, even though I was only going to tell you when you told me.”
“And I was going to. I do remember. I’m telling the truth, I was planning on telling the truth, and I was hoping and wishing that you would too.”
“I still don’t know most of what they mean because they’re so small and so short and really just tiny tiny bits, and they hurt my head when I think about them too hard or try to understand them, but I still remembered. And I still had them, if anything.”
“I remember—”
*
He stops. Tobio’s taking in the words as fast as they come, as fast as he can understand, but Hinata just stops and there’s a sudden rush of panic in his gut because he can’t stop, he needs to keep talking, Tobio needs to listen and he needs to know he needs to know—
And Hinata inhales, exhales, steadies himself. He keeps talking.
He keeps answering.
*
“I remember—”
*
“Flying.”
“Falling.”
“Something solid in my hand.”
“Something warm on my back.”
“Words and sentences that don’t make sense.”
“Jumping to catch a ball and the sun in my eyes.”
“Jumping to see from the top.”
“Wishing for wings.”
“Then thinking that I didn’t need them, if I already had the court beneath me, if I could already fly.”
“Yelling for one more time until I couldn’t yell anymore.”
“Wanting something so bad I could taste it.”
“Wanting to win.”
“Feeling like I had.”
“Feeling like I could stand on top of the world, then a feeling of I already have.”
“Feeling like losing was worse than dying.”
“And that victory was tangible, like the only thing I’d ever known.”
“Feeling like I could do anything and I wouldn’t....forget this, wouldn’t take anything like this for granted.”
“Feeling like I wouldn’t want anything else ever again.”
“Feeling like this was forever.”
“Feeling alive.”
“Feeling complete.”
“Feeling loved.”
*
“Feeling invincible.”
*
Hinata pauses again and this time Tobio isn’t seized with the desperate need for him to continue, to go on. He almost wants him to stop talking. His heart feels like it’s about to explode, and he can barely see Hinata, he’s just a blur of orange and amber against a backdrop of sharp throbbing gold, a blur of colors and words and memories and invincible pounding so loud and running so fast through Tobio’s mind he feels like he’s breaking.
But he doesn’t stop.
Because “and I remember you,” he says, and Tobio wants him to stop, wants him to lose his words, wants him to feel what Tobio’s feeling and hear what he’s hearing, wants him to choke on all the anguish that’s rising in his stomach.
He wants him. He wants everything so bad it’s stealing away all the air in his lungs.
Why did I...?
Hinata looks at him and there’s something darkening in his eyes, and it’s like he can still read Tobio’s mind even when they’re forced worlds and galaxies apart by the barrier of his memories. “I remember you,” he repeats, as if he’s afraid Tobio won’t hear, didn’t hear the first three times. As if his words aren’t cannons blowing apart Tobio’s head. “I remember you.”
I know, Tobio wants to say. But what about?
Hinata goes silent for a while. His voice is unbearably quiet when he says, “at least, I think it’s you.”
It sounds like a question, but Tobio doesn’t know the answer, so he can only wait.
“You’re in front of me,” Hinata continues, and his voice is so small. “I can’t see very well, because I think I’m crying. There’s pain but it’s not all physical. You’re standing below me.”
“There’s heat on my back but I don’t care. You’re just standing there. You’re not moving, not saying anything, but you look amazing because your entire body is under shadow and your eyes are so, so blue.”
“Then you’re looking at me, and you’re talking. You’re telling me to be strong. You’re telling me to win. And—” he huffs. “And I remember thinking that I want to, I want to win more than anything else, and I want to become that way because—you are. You’re so strong. So incredible it takes my breath away.”
Hinata’s voice wavers. “So...beautiful,” he finishes, like he’s not sure what the word means anymore, and drops his gaze to the floor.
Tobio’s not breathing.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he finds that he knows what the memory is. He tells Hinata so, if only to have something to say.
“I don’t care,” Hinata says simply in response. “I don’t care what memory it is. As long as...” he exhales. “As long as I can remember you.”
You, Tobio thinks. You, not it. You, not me.
“Hinata,” he says. His voice sounds weak, breaking even to his own ears. “Why...”
There’s so many ways he can end that question he can’t even begin to think of just one, so he doesn’t bother and just leaves the word hanging.
Hinata licks his lips. “I,” he begins, and stops. Kicks his feet against the bed. Looks up, like he’s looking down from the edge of the world.
“Can we start again?” he says.
*
He’s eighteen, and he’s half right—
never right—
and he’s falling.
*
“What do you mean,” Tobio says, and the words come out flat and harsh.
Hinata flinches but doesn’t falter. “I mean,” he says, “that I want to start over. I lost most of my memory but I don’t want to stop like this.” His eyes find Tobio’s; there’s determination in them, soft but strong. “I don’t want to lose everything else, too.”
For a moment Tobio wonders if he’s read the words the wrong way.
But Hinata’s voice goes light. “I don’t know what we once were, but. I want to start over.”
He’s not looking at Tobio.
There’s a sudden surge of something in his gut, but before he can linger on it too much there are words stumbling out of his mouth, disbelief laced clear through the syllables. “But you don’t remember.”
Hinata snaps his eyes back up and they’re unreadable. “Don’t you think I know that?” he says, low.
“You don’t even know me anymore,” Tobio says. Because it’s true. Hinata doesn’t know him, barely knows him, and he doesn’t know Hinata. Not anymore. Not like this. Not like this, when they’re in a hospital room of all places, not when he’s asking Tobio for something he can’t even begin to comprehend or imagine.
In the silence that follows, Tobio adds quietly, “I can’t...do that.”
To you, is what he means, again, all over again.
“Why not?” Hinata asks. His voice is perfectly even and his face a blank mask. He’s waiting.
Tobio opens his mouth to answer, to give him all the reasons why he can’t, but stops short. He could come up with a hundred but none of them make it past his lips. I can’t do this again. I’m going to mess up. I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to do something horrible and you’ll hate me and everything will go wrong and this will repeat itself. You don’t know me anymore. I don’t know you anymore. I don’t deserve a new start. I don’t deserve it, after all I’ve done. I’m the reason you’re like this in the first place.
I don’t deserve it.
They gather in Tobio’s throat, heavy and aching. He can’t bring himself to say any of them. Hinata’s still waiting, face neutral, but there’s something in his expression that’s creeping in slowly like an oncoming storm.
It’s hope, Tobio realizes. Hope. Nausea rolls in his gut because that’s wrong, he’s not the one that should be hoping for something like that, Tobio’s the one who needs to be forgiven and the one who has to apologize and he needs to give an answer now so he ends up saying, “because you don’t remember”.
Hinata freezes and the hope leaks out of his expression like water from a faucet. He stares at Tobio for a while, and when it’s clear those are the words that have come out from his mouth and he isn’t taking them back, his face hardens.
“Why do I have to?” he says, and there’s steel in his voice.
“Why wouldn’t you?” Tobio retorts. The sentence tastes sour when he says it, cold and unforgiving on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t falter. All he can see is that trace of hope that had appeared on Hinata’s face and how wrong it is, how much he doesn’t deserve something like that. “What’s the point if you don’t even know anything?”
“I know you,” Hinata says. It’s like a punch to the stomach. “I know myself. And I know what I want. Why do I have to remember for us to—”
And Tobio cuts in, fast and sharp, because he doesn’t want to hear the rest of that sentence, doesn’t think he can take it. “You don’t,” he says. “You don’t know me. You have no idea what I want. You barely even remember, only things that don’t make any sense or don’t mean anything at all.” He watches Hinata’s hard expression fall away and his eyes widen but doesn’t let himself stop. He keeps going, even if the words hurt his throat to speak. “You can’t just come into my life again and pretend nothing is wrong. We can’t just start over. Do you even know how you used to be?”
It’s a real question, but the way Tobio says it makes it harsh and severe, turns it into a sneer and a mockery. Hinata’s stunned into silence. He doesn’t say anything. Tobio huffs out a bitter laugh and says the last sentence with curt finality.
“I don’t even know you anymore.”
Hurt flashes in Hinata’s eyes and for a second he looks so similar to the time after he’d confessed that Tobio feels the regret he’d been trying to push down climb up his spine. Then it changes to anger, and he catches himself feeling almost relieved before Hinata stands, whole body shaking with it, eyes a blazing inferno. He’s still shorter than Tobio by a long way after all these years, but even so he almost shrinks back at the fury in Hinata’s face.
“So what,” he snarls. “That’s the whole point of starting again. So I don’t remember. So I forgot. So maybe I lost everything I used to have. What does it matter? Why does it matter? Do you need me to know everything that’s ever happened with us? Do you only care about those memories? Do you only want to live in a world where everything is perfect and wonderful and I never forgot?”
He takes a step forward, and if Tobio wasn’t frozen with shock he would’ve taken one back.
“I know I forgot. I know. Do you know how frustrating it is, how terrible it is, to have everyone you used to know tell you about yourself because you don’t know a thing? Do you know how horrible it feels when you have to hurt everyone around you because you don’t remember?” There are tears in his eyes again, and Tobio wants to run but can’t seem to look away. Hinata takes a shaky breath and continues. “No, you don’t. You can’t. But I do. I know how it is, and I don’t want it to go on. I can’t let it go on. No, I don’t know anything. No, I don’t remember much of anything, and I probably never will. But do I really have to know myself, know everyone, know everything to want to try and start over? Do I have to remember to be able to live again?”
Hinata’s voice breaks off at the end and he sits back down heavily on the bed. He wipes his eyes and something in his posture has changed; it’s not angry anymore, not defiant, doesn’t scream ferocity with every line of his limbs. It’s fragile and vulnerable. Tobio looks at Hinata, a small, trembling figure before him, below him, and feels the anguish he feels as if it were his own.
I’m sorry, he wants to say. He wants to tell Hinata that he doesn’t have to, doesn’t need to do anything. He wants to reach out and pull him into his arms, wants to let him cry until it’s okay again. He wants to be able to tell himself it’s alright and believe it. He wants to make things right more than anything else on earth, more than victory or power or a feeling of wholeness or perfection or standing on top of the world, more than wanting them to go back to the way they once were because things can’t change, can’t turn back, won’t turn back no matter how much he tries, how much he gives.
And Tobio would give everything.
Hinata brings an arm to his mouth and his voice is muffled when he speaks again. “I remember you were important to me,” he says. His voice is so broken. “Isn’t that enough?”
Tobio doesn’t answer, couldn’t have even if he had one.
The arm drops and he looks at Tobio. His eyes are red and his expression is miserable, restrained, wrong wrong wrong. “Go,” he says. He closes his eyes. “Let me be alone.”
It’s a dismissal, more than anything. Tobio swallows. It’s the last thing he wants to do, but he opens the door and quietly slips outside.
*
Isn’t that enough?
...Isn’t it?
Shouldn’t it be?
*
“He remembered?” says Suga, whose name had lit up on Tobio’s phone immediately when he got home, who had waited for seven rings until Tobio picked up and spoken to him gently and carefully as if he knew.
Tobio’s mouth feels impossibly dry. “Yeah,” he says. His voice is hoarse. He’d already told Suga what Hinata had told him, but he feels the need to clarify, “just—some. Not much.”
Suga hums, and even when he’s not saying anything the concern radiates across the line like heated air. “But you didn’t want to start over, with him? Why not?”
Tobio stares down at his shoes. He hadn’t taken them off yet. Suga had called just as he was unlocking the door, and he’s still standing in the entryway of his home. “I felt like,” he starts, and has to pause to gather himself. “I didn’t think...I deserved it, after everything.”
“I can see why you’d think that,” Suga says quietly. “But even if you didn’t, don’t you think Hinata deserves it?”
There’s silence. Tobio can’t think. “He deserves better,” he finally says. It’s the truth, because he does—Hinata deserves better than Tobio could ever be. “All I’m going to do is hurt him again. It’s probably a good thing he forgot me.”
“But it’s what he wants to do, isn’t it?” Suga pushes. “It’s what he cares about. And you know what you want, right?”
He does. He’d found the answer a long time ago, known even longer than that maybe.
Suga pauses like his next words take effort to come up with.
“And,” he finally says. “Kageyama. Don’t you see—Hinata remembered by his own will and intent. It’s what he does best.” Tobio can hear the smile in his voice, fond and nostalgic for his former kouhai, then disappear to be replaced with purpose. “He remembered you, didn’t he?”
It’s not a real question; he already knows the answer. Suga continues.
“And if he did remember,” he says softly, “he remembered the good things. He remembered how you two worked together. He remembered how you brought out the best in him. He remembered how he felt when you and him were standing together on the court, how strong you were and how strong you made him feel.”
“He remembered you. So he didn’t forget. And he only remembered the good, not anything else, not anything bad or anything about the differences you two had or the obstacles you faced or any of your losses and fights. He only remembered the best. He only remembered you.”
“Doesn’t that say something?”
*
Isn’t that enough?
...
...Yeah.
It already was.
*
Always has been.
*
The sunset is warm on his back, by the next time he goes out.
It hasn’t been long, objectively speaking, but it had felt like an eternity for Tobio—an eternity, not just three days spent staying in his home and replaying Suga’s words in his head. It hadn’t been easy, to sort it all out. It couldn’t have been. Some of it is still spinning in Tobio’s head, after everything, following him with his steps.
He’s not even sure where he’s going until the route becomes achingly familiar and he stops.
Karasuno High hasn’t changed much. The school buildings are still the same after three months, the green grass freshly mowed for a new school year. There’s an atmosphere around it that Tobio can feel—something heavy and pressing, loaded with memories and feelings and laughing words exchanged through the air. It sweeps around him like wind, and he stops for a while to take it in before making his way to the back of the buildings.
The gymnasium hasn’t changed, either. Tobio walks past the door to it and eventually finds himself lying in the damp grass with his face to the setting sun. It’s warm, and natural, and feels like home.
He’s breathing in the scent of fresh earth when he hears footsteps.
They stop behind him. Tobio closes his eyes, briefly, and turns.
When he opens them, he’s not even surprised to see Hinata standing there.
The same can’t be said for the latter, but there’s only a flash of it across his face before it’s gone. Then his expression is carefully blank. He tilts his head at Tobio—he’s out of his hospital clothes, wearing a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. In front of Karasuno’s gym with the sun behind them, it feels almost normal. Like they’re just taking a break from evening practice.
Tobio knows better.
Hinata exhales and sits down in front of him on the grass, crossing his legs. “They let me out,” he tells Tobio casually. “Said the physical recovery was fully completed. I’ve been home for half a day now.” He leans back and reaches out to the sky as if to touch the sun, and Tobio is struck by a sudden memory of lazy questions and bated breath. He averts his eyes.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
Hinata looks at him and smiles, easy like it’s the only thing he knows. “To remember,” he says. “Natsu told me the address. What about you?”
Tobio runs through a barrage of possible answers before he says, “to forget.”
Hinata’s smile turns brittle. “You’ve thought about it, then,” he says quietly. “You’ve decided.”
Tobio watches him tug a strand of grass from the ground and crumple it in his fist. “I have,” he agrees. “And my answer is no.”
Hinata opens his fist and the blade of grass falls out. He stares at it as it lands, and his smile breaks in half and slides off his face completely.
Tobio steadies himself before saying, “no, you don’t have to remember.”
It’s almost funny how quickly Hinata looks up. A movement like that must have hurt his neck, but he doesn’t even flinch. His eyes are trained on Tobio. He’s waiting.
Always waiting, Tobio thinks, then: I won’t let you wait anymore.
He takes a breath. “You’re right,” he says, meeting Hinata’s intense eyes. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t remember everything. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know me anymore. If I don’t know you anymore.” The words come easier than he’d expected, and he keeps them coming like flowing water, finally releasing the weight on his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter if we can’t ever fully go back to the way we were, because we don’t have to stand on the court to be together. It matters that you’re willing to try again. And as long as you are, as long as you want to try—” he half-smiles and watches Hinata’s eyes widen. “I’m here.”
I’m here.
He holds Hinata’s gaze, one, two, three seconds, then the blankness melts off his face and he flops over to bury his head into the grass. “You’re so stupid,” he says, muffled, and Tobio laughs in surprise. “Of course I want to try, idiot. I want to try forever.”
Forever. It’s such an easy word for them, always has been. Tobio looks down at Hinata’s orange curls framed against the ground and thinks it’s fitting.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and means it.
Hinata raises his head. There are bits of grass and leaves stuck in his hair and a smudge of dirt on his face, but he looks radiant. “It doesn’t matter,” he tells Tobio. “I was mad, but it doesn’t matter now.”
“I thought I didn’t deserve you,” Tobio admits.
Hinata scowls. “Didn’t you just hear me? It doesn’t matter anymore.” He pauses, then shakes his head and adds firmly, “anyways, that’s not for you to decide.”
“Right,” Tobio says. He watches Hinata start to smile again and suddenly has to blurt out, “I think I made you forget.”
Hinata’s face freezes. Tobio has about half a second to think stupid, stupid, why did you have to say that, why did you have to ruin everything before he asks, “what do you mean?”
There’s no getting out of it now. Tobio breathes in and says, “before the accident, you confessed to me and I rejected you, and you avoided me for the entire break until we went off to separate universities. Then you got hit. The doctor said that the cause for your amnesia was only triggered by the accident, but had been built up by emotional stress. I was going to talk to you that morning, before Kenma called me to the hospital.” He says all this in a rush, because he’s afraid he’ll lose his courage if he delays it any longer. Hinata’s looking at him but Tobio can’t bring himself to look back. “I’m sorry, I should’ve—if only I’d tried sooner.”
It’s all in the open now. Tobio can breathe easy, and he thinks it might have been worth it even if Hinata’s going to kick him and leave and never speak to him again. At least, at the very least, there’s no elephant in the room anymore, no biggest what-if that’s kept him up for nights before.
When he finally looks at Hinata, his expression is still. Then he bows his head over his arms, hair hiding his face from view, and starts to shake. Tobio feels his stomach drop and thinks this is it.
He braces himself for the hit, for the scathing words that are sure to come—but they never do.
It takes a while of him blinking in confusion to realize Hinata’s shaking with laughter.
He finally controls himself enough to look up but when he gets a look at Tobio, whose expression must be the most ridiculous thing in the world right now, he starts all over again until he’s out of breath and wheezing, spread out on the floor. Hinata drops a hand over his eyes and lets out a breath, long and slow. “Oh my god,” he says, voice still choked with laughter. “Oh my god.”
“What,” Tobio snaps. Hinata sits up, hand falling away from his eyes, and he’s grinning.
“That’s it?” he asks.
Tobio blinks, because— “yes,” he says incredulously. “Why the hell would I make something like that up, dumbass?”
It sets off another round of laughter and he’s forced to wait until Hinata finally gathers himself enough to form coherent sentences.
“I thought it was something terrible,” he explains, looking up at Tobio. “The way you said it, it almost sounded like you pushed me into the car accident yourself. I thought it was something that put my entire life on the line, and I was bracing myself for the moment you would tell me. I didn’t think it was this.”
“But I’m the reason you forgot,” Tobio says bewilderingly. “Why aren’t you mad? I caused this whole mess in the first place.”
Hinata shrugs. “Maybe,” he says. “And maybe if you hadn’t done anything I would have escaped that accident with minor injuries. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s all fixed. It might not have been if I didn’t forget, so maybe it’s even better this way.” He smiles at Tobio, soft and without a care in the world. “Besides,” he adds quietly, “you’ve changed your mind, haven’t you?”
It takes him a very long time to realize Hinata’s talking about the confession. Tobio looks down at him, red-cheeked and brown eyes liquid and warm, and it’s the easiest thing in the world to answer, “yeah, I have.”
Hinata glows. He closes his eyes and it’s peaceful, for a moment, and Tobio thinks he’s fallen asleep, but then he stands up suddenly and yells, “race you to the gym!” then runs off.
Tobio’s stunned, but it’s only for a moment. Then he’s calling out “dumbass Hinata, you cheater!” but he’s grinning, and he listens to Hinata’s laughs and waits two seconds before chasing after him and—
And—
And it’s right, he thinks, it’s never felt this right.
Hinata’s not by his side, this time around. He won’t be on the court with him. He won’t hit one of Tobio’s tosses and turn to him with sparkling eyes and wide smiles. He won’t ever return—they won’t ever return to the way they once were, all burning limbs and simple words and nights spent together practicing with victory fresh and fierce on their minds. They won’t ever be the same again.
And Tobio knows this. He knows this with a resigned certainty.
But it’s okay. They don’t have to go back to the old them. They don’t have to stand on the same side of the net to be one, even if it’s all they’ve ever known. They’re partners, after all, not only (not anymore) on the court. They’re meant to be. They’re meant to be, even without the context of teammates and rivals, they’re meant to be together through anything and everything and there’s nothing, nothing, nothing in the world that can ever hold them down.
For all the things that will never repeat again—
They can still be more.
And their past doesn’t matter, not when there’s a future before them that’s as bright as the sky; not when the electric exhilaration Tobio had first felt on the court with Hinata finally has a name.
It’s enough, he thinks, for them.
It’s more than enough.
*
He catches up to Hinata in front of the gym. His back is to Tobio, posture straight, and he’s holding something in his hands. There’s shadows from the trees cutting across his figure, smooth and languid and relaxed.
“Hinata?” he calls.
He turns. Tobio’s gaze falls to his hands.
A volleyball.
Hinata holds it out. His hands grip it, firm, determined. He holds the ball out, and he offers it to Tobio.
Offers a chance.
“Teach me?” he says. “Again?”
This time, it’s Tobio with his back to the sun, the sky behind his fingertips, the world at his feet.
He swallows and nods. “Yeah.”
Always.
*
And like that, they start again.
|
This is becoming a troubling pattern. Every interaction with Ty Lee seems to take over her thoughts. Now all she can think about is the kisses they shared when she dropped her off. How perfectly their hands fit together on the way out of cheer practice. The gentle, peaceful sight of her asleep on the couch. With so many exquisite sensations, how can she be expected to focus on school work? Azula has given up trying to fight it. Surely it’s a game Ty Lee is playing, but why shouldn’t she get to enjoy it? She’s never played a game like this before, and she has never had this much fun. Giving into the thoughts makes the day pass by blissfully quickly, although she doesn’t have a chance to run into Ty Lee until the dismissal bell.
“Hey!!” Ty Lee greets as she bounces into view. Her body stutters, as if she wants to move in closer, but she stops herself. Interesting, Azula smirks, opening her locker.
“Hey,” she replies, slipping into a larger smile without realizing. “Didn’t see you at lunch.” Her tone is inquisitive, rather than accusatory.
“I knooooow, I’m so sorry! I borrowed my friend’s notes yesterday, so I had to give them back, and then we got distracted talking and then I had like five minutes to eat, so!! How was your day?” Ty Lee is breathless in her excitement, and the way she looks earnestly into Azula’s eyes when she asks the question is almost enough to unbalance her. The look is so…. genuine.
“It was fine,” Azula shrugs, mercifully breaking eye contact to trade her last class’s books for her student council materials. “Classes were easy so I spent most of the day making sure I had everything ready for the student council meeting.” This is not exactly the truth. Classes were easy, but she definitely did not spend the day thinking about student council.
“Ohmygosh!! That’s right now, isn’t it? Are you excited? Are you nervous? Do you even get nervous? You seem so confident all the time!” Ty Lee has somehow become more enthusiastic. Refusing to be swayed by the bubbly energy, she shrugs again and shuts her locker.
“I don’t think there will be any problems. The council will just be looking for me to tell them what to do, what to expect for this year. Should be easy enough,” she says, pulling back from the bank of lockers to head toward the student council office. Ty Lee naturally falls into step beside her, still carrying her books and nodding vigorously.
“Right!” she agrees, adding, “That will be easy! You’re good at telling people what to do!”
Azula mulls this for a moment, savoring the warmth of the compliment. The last compliment Ty Lee gave her was telling her that she was a good kisser. The memory makes her blush, and she fights the sensation. She can’t show up to her first meeting like this!! While she grapples with her feelings, Ty Lee fills the silence.
“Text me after so I know how it went, ‘kay? My sister won’t drive me home if I make her wait. But I know you’re going to be the greatest president ever!! They’re so lucky to have you in charge!” she beams and peels herself away, heading for the door.
“I’ll text you,” Azula assures, watching her join the current of dismissing students.
Azula is the first to arrive in the student council room, as expected. She sets her leather folio at the head of the table and removes the copies of the agenda she typed up for the meeting. It is short work to flip through them and double check that she has the right amount, and by then other council members are trickling in. She greets them with a curt nod as she continues to prepare her materials. A few of the members speak quietly to each other and take their seats. No one fills the chairs closest to her, but she is used to that. By her count, almost everyone is present with a few minutes before the meeting is to start. It’s a good sign. With one minute before the meeting is scheduled to begin, the final member of the council swans in, phone to her ear. Her entrance is unmistakable as she bursts into obnoxiously loud laughter.
“Yeah, that’s so funny!! Anyway, I gotta go, I have a meeting. I’ll call you after. Bye!!” The newcomer disconnects her call and takes the chair to the right of Azula. All eyes are on the girl, though Azula’s are particularly narrowed.
“Now that we are all here, let’s get started,” she begins, tone clipped. A few of the members further down the table wince. The phone girl snorts, prompting a sharp look from the president. Azula sets her jaw and passes the copies of the agenda down the table, making a point to start on the opposite side of the troublemaker so she will receive hers last. “Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves and our position, and then we can go through the agenda,” Azula adds, pleased that everyone has seen fit to sit silently and await instructions. She gestures to the boy on her left, again ensuring that the troublemaker will have to wait until the end for her turn in the spotlight. She also doesn’t bother introducing herself. Everyone knows who she is and what she does. Azula half listens, matching faces to names and titles. The rest of her attention is spent monitoring the thorn in her right side. The girl’s name eludes her for now, which makes her even more frustrating. Her face is familiar in a bad way, but Azula cannot place her. At least she is enduring the introductions respectfully, other than fiddling with the corner of the agenda before her. Realization strikes at last. The reason this girl is so irksome is that she’s the same one that tried to get Ty Lee to go out with Ruon-Jian! Azula feels her anger flare just as the girl makes her introduction.
“I’m Ming, the treasurer,” she says, giving a half wave. The group returns their attention to their president, waiting for her to continue the meeting. Azula cuts her glare at the treasurer short and looks at the agenda as a distraction, taking a deep breath to collect herself. Ming does not seem perturbed to be on the receiving end of such hostility, which makes her even more annoying.
“Our first order of business needs to be the Homecoming dance, since it is only 8 weeks away,” she says smoothly, “I would like each of you to come with at least one idea for a theme by next week so we can secure vendors as soon as possible-”
Her commandment is interrupted by Ming, sighing loudly.
“Something on your mind, Ming?” Azula’s tone is polite, but her eyes look fit to skewer her. The other girl pretends not to notice as she lounges in her chair, gesturing vaguely.
“There’s no point waiting a week to pick the theme. Why not just decide it now? Then we can get a week’s headstart on securing vendors.”
“If you look at the agenda for today, you will see that we already have plenty to cover-” Azula replies, the politeness sounding much more strained in every syllable. Ming’s response is a huff of disgust. Azula’s hand clenches involuntarily. “If you have concerns , Ming, let’s talk about them after this meeting so we don’t take up more valuable time.” She seals it with a smile that looks more like a baring of teeth.
“Yeah, that sounds good. I’m not scared of you, so meeting one on one isn’t a problem,” Ming replies flippantly.
“Excuse me ?” Azula snaps, pretending not to notice every other member of the council cowering.
“I said,” Ming draws her words out excruciatingly slowly, “meeting later sounds fine.”
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Azula says flatly, inspiring an eye roll from her rival. Without giving her another opportunity to disrupt the meeting, she pushes on with the agenda. It goes surprisingly quickly, although it might be because not one other council member can bring themselves to do anything other than nod minutely along with what Azula has to say. Their eyes are trained resolutely on the paper before them, as if any stray eye contact might earn some of her wrath for themselves. To be fair, they are correct. Ming contents herself with quieter sighs and gentler eye rolls, but doesn’t add any further commentary. The meeting wraps up five minutes earlier than projected, which is almost enough to put Azula in a good mood. The council members nearly trample each other in their eagerness to get out before another showdown can take place. Azula leaves her materials on the table. She isn’t going anywhere. She is ready for this fight, however long it takes.
“So,” she begins, piercing Ming with a look, “do you have any more concerns?”
Ming counters with a shrug, though she can’t meet the gaze leveled at her. “Hey, just because you are the mayor’s kid doesn’t mean you’re the best fit for the job. I’m not just going to let you do whatever you want, unlike the rest of the council. Besides, do you really think you’ll have the time to give this job the attention it deserves?”
“What do you mean?” Azula asks, brow creasing. Why wouldn’t she have time?
Ming meets her eyes at last, replying, “Seems like you’re pretty focused on your dating life right now, that’s all.”
Azula’s lips curl into a sinister smile. There it is , she thinks, satisfied. Ming is furious that I’m dating Ty Lee. “Unlike some, I am capable of focusing on more than one thing at a time. You’re friends with Ty Lee, right?”
“I am!” Ming responds instantly. Angrily. “I want what’s best for her, and there’s no way you can devote enough time to both her and this position!”
“Why don’t you let me decide what I can and can’t handle,” Azula replies, her voice a silken warning.
“If you hurt her, your year is going to be impossible, do you understand? I won’t approve funds for any of your projects. You’ll be the most hated president this school has ever had. Put that on your fucking college application,” Ming points an accusatory finger at her.
“Noted,” Azula says, the picture of calm. She threads her fingers together on the table in front of her, showing she is above vulgar displays such as pointing. “Any other threats you want to make, or are we done here?”
“Whatever,” Ming mutters, snatching her backpack off the floor and stomping out of the council room. Azula watches her go, grinning. As soon as the treasurer is out of sight, Azula’s smile evaporates. This insubordination is going to be a problem, she stews, collecting her materials.
Azula makes it home in record time. That tends to happen when she drives while angry. Something about hearing the engine growl as it accelerates is soothing. It’s like the car is commiserating with her. The car also cannot be anything other than obedient, which is a relief after her meeting.
The house is deserted, as always, when she arrives. Well, unless one counts the staff, which she doesn’t. Her backpack is deposited unceremoniously in her room, where she proceeds to change into workout clothes.
She is too keyed up from the confrontation. The only way she is going to be able to enjoy her evening is if she gets this energy out, and there’s no better way than to practice martial arts in the home gym. The room is cool in comparison to the rest of the house, and she loves the feeling of her bare feet on the springy mats that cover the floor. One wall is made entirely of mirrors so she can see her form and adjust as needed. A few padded dummies wait patiently in the corners, as well as a rack of free weights. Otherwise the space is wide open. She centers herself by drawing in a deep breath. The grating sound of Ming’s laugh comes to mind and she releases the breath in time with an open palm strike. Another breath, another strike, this time with the opposite hand. Her feet slide easily forward, advancing on her imaginary enemy. A feint at a low kick snaps to a brutal high kick, and she feels her agitation beginning to melt away. Seeing her reflection perform each precise move helps, but she is itching to feel her attacks deal some damage.
She drags one of the dummies out to the center of the room. It is vaguely humanoid in shape, and will offer some pleasing pushback when struck. Azula circles her opponent, hands raised in a guard. Her eyes don’t leave her prey as she waits for the perfect time to strike. There’s no need to glance down at her feet. She has practiced so much that it is as easy as breathing. Her forearm lashes out to deflect an imaginary punch from her left, allowing her the perfect opening to strike at the dummy’s unprotected neck. Stupid Ming , she thinks, hitting the dummy to punctuate each syllable. It becomes hypnotic, clustering her attack in groups of three. Stu. Pid. Ming. Stu. Pid. Ming. Stu. Pid. Ming...
Soon her hands are starting to feel pleasantly sore from the impact, and she feels other thoughts creeping in at last to replace the image of Ming’s insolent face. The fact that Ming’s protests seem to be centered around Ty Lee. Ty Lee… Azula’s concentration drifts, and she reverts back to a guarded stance, circling the dummy. She takes note of how hard she is breathing, but it’s a good sign. It’s why she came here in the first place, after all.
Her frustration shifts stances as well, turning to an anxious twist in her stomach. Has Ty Lee been telling people we kissed? Do I want her to tell people? It’s not like I have anyone to share it with… Surely half the cheer team saw us walking out holding hands and can draw their conclusions from there. Ming has certainly been drawing her own conclusions. Azula interrupts her thoughts to deal a punishing kick to the dummy’s midsection. She imagines Ty Lee’s bubbly voice, introducing her to her friends, “This is my girlfriend, Azula!” and a strange, nervous warmth clamors from her gut to her heart. She’s never been anyone’s girlfriend before. Never wanted to, really. But the idea of that word, coming from Ty Lee, makes her feel….excited? Proud? It’s hard to name, but she likes it. And that would mean that Ty Lee is my girlfriend , she reasons, landing another volley of open palms on her opponent. When she checks her reflection to note her form, she catches herself with a sly smile. My girlfriend is a giddy thought that her mind won’t let go of. It’s invigorating, and she launches a fresh attack against the helpless dummy.
But what if she’s not my girlfriend ? The thought comes without warning, and she pulls back for a moment, feeling as though the floor has dropped out from under her. What if she doesn’t want to be my girlfriend? Her shoulders seize with tension. She did say I was a good kisser , her mind objects, desperate, And she wouldn’t have gone out with me if she didn’t like spending time with me. The dummy absorbs a handful of hits, swaying from the momentum. How am I supposed to know if she’s my girlfriend or not? Why is this so complicated?!
Her opponent is wobbling dangerously now, and she backs off until it steadies. Azula’s breathing feels panicked, so she sucks in a slow breath to calm herself, assess her situation. I can just ask Ty Lee if she is my girlfriend and then there won’t be any confusion . The realization gives her a surge of energy, which she pours into a feint of a kick, before following up with a savage spinning kick with the opposite leg. Her landing, as always, is perfect, and she walks away from the defeated dummy with a content sigh to return to her room.
With a towel in one hand and her phone in the other, Azula realizes she was supposed to inform Ty Lee how her meeting went. Oh well , she shrugs, I can fill her in now . As she dabs the sweat from her face, she is shocked to see how many notifications are waiting for her- all from Ty Lee, of course. Anxiety forms a knot in her stomach. What if all these messages are berating her for not texting right after the meeting? What if she doesn’t want to be my girlfriend? Azula fights the rising sensation of panic as she opens the texts.
👀👋Helllloooooo Miss President??? How was your meeting??👍
Wanna call and tell me about it💅 or do u have more ~official business~ tonite??
😱Oh no! I heard there was a little bit of a fight or something😓?? U okay??
😖I know ur probably just busy with ur important stuff but i’m worried🙀!! Txt me plz??🙏🙏
Azula releases the breath she was holding. Definitely not a tirade by any means, but she does feel a twinge of regret for forgetting to text after the meeting. Stupid Ming . But wait… how did Ty Lee already hear about the meeting from someone else? Surely no one would have posted about it online…. She quickly opens a flurry of apps, checking for posts from the council members. None of them strike her as bold enough to complain about the meeting with their name attached to the post, but she has to be sure. Despite a diligent search, she can’t find anything. She does notice, however, that Ty Lee has posted some new pictures and eagerly taps the link. She must’ve gotten bored waiting for me to text , she smirks. The expression falls immediately into a scowl as she clicks through the pictures.
While the first few posts are selfies, Ty Lee is quickly joined by another subject. Ming, posing with her arm around Ty Lee and their faces practically touching. ‘Selfies with my bestie!! #friends #bestfriends #selfie #bestfriendselfie #bestfie??’ is the caption. Azula is engulfed in a hot wave of anger as she sees picture after picture of the two of them smiling and posing together. Her knuckles are white around her phone and her jaw aches from clenching.
How could I have been so stupid? She admonishes herself, flopping dejectedly on her bed. Ty Lee is clearly a master strategist. She will get close to me, since I have the most power, but she needs a back up plan in case I won’t give her what she wants. So of course she would cozy up to someone else on the council. Now she will have a mole inside the council as well. I should have been able to see this coming. Ugh, why did she have to pick Ming?? Of all the insufferable people, Ty Lee picked the worst one!!! Azula heaves a sigh, and realizes it sounds just like one Ming gave during the meeting.
“Augh!!!” she groans, running her hand over her face. A very small part of her is impressed, though. Beneath that cute persona, Ty Lee is clearly very calculating. A worthy challenge… or ally, if I play this right . She takes a few deep breaths to steady herself, then makes her way to the shower. She can’t counter Ty Lee in this state.
Soon enough, she is in fresh clothes and climbing into her car. The drive to Ty Lee’s affords her plenty of time to get her thoughts in order, so when she pulls up to the house, she is more than ready. She smoothly selects the cheer captain’s number and hits “call”.
“Azula?? Ohmygosh, are you okay??” Ty Lee answers after one ring, and her tone is so convincing that it almost passes for worry. But Azula is too shrewd to fall for it.
“I’m outside. Why don’t you come out and I’ll tell you all about it,” she replies evenly.
“What? You’re-- oh! Um, okay!! Let me just-- I’ll be out in a minute, okay? Bye!”
Azula sets her phone down with a smirk. Spirits, she’s a good actress , she thinks, watching the front door. Ty Lee appears in an instant and bounds the rest of the distance to the car.
“Hey,” Azula greets, watching her companion clamber onto the passenger seat. Ty Lee’s eyes are brimming with concern, causing Azula to marvel even more.
“Are you okay??”Ty Lee asks breathlessly, reaching out to grip her hand, “I heard things got a little heated at the meeting and then I didn’t get texts from you and-”
“Who did you hear it from?” Azula interrupts.
“Well, Ming came over after the meeting and was telling me-” Ty Lee begins, but is cut off by a snort from Azula.
“So you’re just going to own up right away? That you had Ming report back to you? I was sure we would be dancing around that for at least 5 minutes,” Azula scoffs.
“ What ?!” Ty Lee sputters, her wide eyes the picture of innocence. Azula raises an eyebrow and waits patiently for an explanation. Ty Lee withdraws her hand and replies, “Ming wasn’t ‘reporting back to me’! She’s my friend, she just came over to hang out. She told me she had to stay after the meeting to go over some stuff with you, that’s all.”
“Did she tell you she told me I couldn’t possibly be a good president because the two of us are dating? As if having a girlfriend somehow takes up all my time and makes me unfit?” Azula fires back. She watches the other girl’s expression closely, looking for any clue that the term ‘girlfriend’ is unwanted or unpleasant. The only emotion on her face, however, is surprise.
“She said that?! I’m sure she didn’t mean….: Ty Lee trails off, chewing her lip before continuing, “Ming has always been a really protective friend, so I’m sure she was just trying to look out for me…. But I’m sorry that she said that. I can, um, talk to her about that.” She pauses again, fiddling with the cuff of her sleeve. “Is that why you wouldn’t text me? Cause you were mad about what Ming said?”
Azula considers this for a moment, then nods. It’s close enough. Ty Lee seems to be doing everything in her power to appear small and defeated. A clever tactic , Azula notes. The cheerleader’s shoulders are slumped and she isn’t even trying to put Azula off balance with direct eye contact. Rather than reach for Azula, her palms cradle her face. Ty Lee draws a deep breath before finding the words to say.
“Next time…. Could you please, please just text me to tell me that? Or just… anything. ‘Hey, the meeting is over and I’m mad and I’ll talk to you later’ or something. Because. I thought. I thought something bad might have happened to you on your way home, like a car accident, or something. And I know that’s dumb to worry about, but it’s all I could think of, because you said would text me and then you didn’t. I was really worried! And then I was really surprised that you came over, and I thought it was a fun surprise that you had come to see me, but instead I’m like, getting yelled at over something that I had no idea about, and-” Her voice catches with emotion. For a moment, Azula thinks it might be real, not an act. “-and I don’t think that’s fair at all.”
Silence stretches between them for a long while. Azula isn’t quite sure how to respond. Being berated is something she is used to, but to be met with ‘I was worried about you’ and thinking her showing up unannounced could be a good thing… It’s truly impressive how unpredictable Ty Lee can be. These are kinds of battles she’s never fought before. It’s equally frustrating and thrilling. It seems the direct approach will not get the results she wants, so she must try something a little more discreet: kindness. It is a difficult path, however, because an apology is an admission of guilt, and she can’t give that kind of leverage.
“I can see that my actions have made you upset,” she begins, her voice more gentle than usual. Ty Lee straightens a little and chances a glance at her. “And that wasn’t my intention. I think my issues with Ming ended up with you caught in the middle, which isn’t what I want. I should have texted right after the meeting, like I said I would.” Azula reaches out, offering a hand for Ty Lee to hold. The other girl seems to think things over for a minute, but she tentatively puts her palm over Azula’s, and nods.
“Okay,” Ty Lee manages, her voice still tremulous.
“Okay,” Azula echoes, running her thumb over her knuckles.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” Ty Lee adds, conjuring a weak smile, “But I should probably get back inside. See you tomorrow?”
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Azula assures her, offering a smile of her own. Part of her wonders if she might get a kiss for her efforts, but Ty Lee withdraws instead. Oh well, she reasons, watching her exit, I bet she is just stung because I won’t let her use her mole against me. Can’t blame her for that. She puts the car in reverse and is basking in her satisfaction as she realizes that Ty Lee didn’t correct her when she used the word ‘girlfriend,’ and she doesn’t stop grinning all the way home. |
==>Be Eridan Ampora
Your name is Eridan Ampora and unlike certain other manipulative bitch trolls you are absolutely running away.
Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are completely, perfectly fine. You are not out of your depths at all. You are handling matters and have the situation exactly the way you want it, the way you have been planning since Terezi and Fef looked at you like a hoofbeast to be culled and nothing at all like a friend.
Your name is Eridan Ampora and you are so fucked you aren't sure how much longer you can keep lying to yourself.
++++++++++
You have been climbing upwards since you left the lawnring and headed into the trees, faint trails to follow leading anywhere as long as it was up and not down. You had looked at maps and guides of the area in the spare moments you could steal onto Dave's husktop, since the system he had procured for 'the trolls' had been commandeered by Feferi and you had no chance to take it away from her. You could not create copies for yourself, not without risking notice, but the day you couldn't memorize a map was the day you deserved to give up and die.
Dave’s 'rescue' had helped, as depressingly insulting as it had been to have him see you brought so low by Pyrope, of all people. It had been a slap in the face to need help at all, but you’d taken it. He'd reminded you that you didn't want to die (no matter how much you hated your own existence) and dying like a stuck lusus - like the lusii you had killed for Feferi's to be fed - was not how you were going to die, fuck no. So you had taken advantage of the shelter Strider provided and ignored the disgusted bile in your stomach and you'd scraped moments to find out where Rose Lalonde's hive would be and you'd made your plan.
It was not the greatest military plan you might have hoped for, but it was deep enough you were confident it would suffice. The question of just how hard it would be to survive here was hardly worth consideration, though you didn't ignore it completely. You had taken what tools you could find from Strider and Lalonde's hives, whatever might be useful for you now. The lack of Ahab's crosshairs gnawed at you and made you feel beached, made you feel exposed and threatened, it was nothing compared to the clawing, clammy desire to pick up a wand again. Fighting against that urge took up most of the mental power you had to spare for weaponry, really. You would let the depths crush you before you ever touched the white sciences again.
You are heading up because these are mountains and the higher you go the lower the population density of humans. You are going up because these mountains are riddled with deep lakes and interconnected caves and you can hide, as cowardly as it is. You can hide and you can live and you've had to fend for yourself long enough that the concept of remaining alone forever isn't a stranger to you. Before you would have raged at how unfair it was. Now you know better.
Now you know you deserve it.
You are a contemptible excuse for a troll. You are beyond pity. You are beyond hate. You are something to be loathed, something seen as so pathetically beneath the others that dying once, split in half in blinding agony, sitting in your dream bubble holding a wound that would never stop bleeding and would never close - that wasn't enough. Worse, you cannot even blame them. You'd kill you in the same place and not feel a minnow’s shit of guilt. They aren't wrong.
You hadn't been much more worthwhile before you'd lost everything. No, before you gave it all up because this is your fault, you were the one to fail and fall. You hadn't been worth much; your own moirail using you, Karkat acting like it was all so fucking simple. You'd lost one kismesis and a second couldn't take you seriously enough to properly fight and you were so addicted to the colour of your own blood sometimes you were convinced you'd die in a pool of it and no one would even notice until they wanted something from you - or maybe never. You didn't have anything anyone wanted, after all, and no matter how many times you tried to show how good you were they refused to see it. Now you know it's because they knew you were rotten. They got what they wanted from you and they left you withThem, with your terrible Angels, but you don't blame them. Not when you went and proved them all right.
Your head aches. You’ve been walking for hours. You're cold but you push forward, not too worried. You can handle temperatures colder than this, your body is made for the depths and sooner or later the organ that regulates your functions when you're deep will wake up and make sure your blood doesn't try to freeze in your circulatory system. You can't afford to stop and rest though you're exhausted (sleep was just an invitation to be culled even with Strider trying to prevent it). You're not far enough yet; you have to find a lake. Then you can lose any trail you are sure you're leaving and keep the others from finding you. That's the plan.
You'll leave them behind because they don't want you. Not one of them wants you. Not one of them gives a fuck if you live. Having a few who don't want you to die for entirely selfish reasons that dry out to be that they just don't want anyone to die doesn't fucking count. You'll leave them behind because one day soon Terezi is going to get tired of waiting, or maybe Kanaya, and you'll be dead and you won't even have the pride to fight back. And if it was Fef... you couldn't. She deserves to kill you. No one would stop her and it would be right and just - but fuck that you want to keep breathing, even if you don't know why. You can give up on romance, give up on friendship, almost give up on yourself. You fight against yourself because you're worthless, miserable, contemptible - but you're still alive. You might deserve to be dead but you don't want to have to die to get there.
You have enough self preservation to run and enough pride that dying in the middle of nowhere on a stupid fucked up planet is better than being killed by the girl you're flushed for or the friends you'd once thought understood you. You'd hate yourself if you had the emotion to spare for it because right now you're a coward and acting like a guttersnipe lowblood but you're too tired to even bother hating yourself. You're just empty.
You keep walking up. You ignore the way your chest hurts or your hands tingle or the dull ache in your head, because after Their song it's hard to remember to care about physical pain. You keep walking. The others will notice you are missing eventually and you don't know if they will let you go. You don't intend to give them a choice.
++++++++++++++++
You are pretty sure you're lost. You can't quite find it in you to care. Everything looks the same here, same plants and rocks you'd seen half an hour, an hour ago, and while you've found rivers and sometimes followed them nothing has led you to any of the lakes you'd memorized and the actual maps in your mind’s eye seem a little waterlogged now. You're cold, too cold, and part of your still active brain tells you that you need to get into water soon, because banking on your sea-troll biology hadn't exactly worked for the best, but since you can see nothing but trees everywhere you ignore it and reassure yourself that you're fine. You're fine. The tide will come in eventually, you just have to wait. It's not so bad - you survived your land and the terrible whispersong of the things called Angels; you can handle Earth.
You're tired, so tired, so much that eventually you have to admit defeat and let yourself rest. The choice is now either to find someplace safe to rest or leave yourself to fall over and who knows when or if you'll wake up. If they set Nepeta and Equius on your trail you don't have enough distance yet, not even for five hours. You can let yourself rest for a few minutes, but that is it. You need to keep heading up.
You won't risk climbing a tree, your addled brain tells you, because you'll only fall out and risk becoming even weaker and easier to cull. You don't have the dexterity right now, your hands curled up and almost unresponsive, your arms numb. You shouldn't stop now but you aren't listening to that part of your brain and you look around until you find a large tree with spiked branches that are low enough to hide you from easy sight. Underneath it the moonlight is hardly visible and you press your back against the trunk, not even caring how your cape will come away with sap and stains. You wrap the thin fabric around yourself and promise that you'll wake up in an hour. You have to keep moving. Your mind is very definite on that. Find water and you won't be so cold. You're going to find water soon...
+++++++++++++++
You dream of Alternia, of hunting on your lusus to feed Gl'bgolyb. Underwater and on land, you move steadily. You never miss your shots, no matter how hard you try and with every pull of the trigger it's another familiar colour, another familiar face. You're crying and you know you are, fighting even as Feferi screams for you to stop, trident pointed to take you down and you aim for her heart and in the dream you smile as you pull the trigger and she dies in an explosion of viscera and tyrian purple. You scream in your head for someone to stop you but your dream self laughs and laughs and laughs.
It's not the worst nightmare you've ever had.
+++++++++++++++++
You wake up to voices calling your name and light, early morning dawn tinting the area gold and grey and you can't quite see, your eyes are reduced to shapes and movement, indistinct and hard to tell real from imagined. You need to hide - the sun will kill you if you're exposed but you can't quite move your legs, can't seem to get up from the ground. When you hear your name again it's from a troll in front of you, in your space, and you're so prone you panic badly. You growl and hiss and try to swipe at them but your body is sluggish and they catch your hand before it even connects and you scream because it burns, it burns and you're on fire and they're going to burn you to death. Hands on you are too hot and they hold you down, one voice that reminds you of Feferi and you think her fork will bury itself in your stomach, she'll kill you slow like you deserve, intestines poisoning you as you bleed out onto the dirt and you fight against them, fight not to let them hold you down because you don't want to die and you know you deserve it but you can't just give up--
A hand works its way into your hair, soothing, fingers trailing down your cheek and over your fins and you freeze, you whimper, you let yourself say no, please, because there's pain and there's pain and you don't deserve that. You don't, but you think they won't care. They'll just make you scream. They’ll laugh as you die, like everyone always laughed at you.
They let you go. You don't understand but hands help you upright and take off your cape and they force your arms to unbend. They're speaking the whole time and you realize it's human, not Alternian. It's strange and it takes too long to realize that you've been discovered by humans and that's good and bad but your brain is too cold to remember why. They wrap you in their clothing and the warmth burns but doesn't set you alight and you're loaded onto someone's back, arms wrapped across a chest by a neck you could break in a thought but you don't. You soak in the warmth and try to remember why you're dead. Why you're going to be dead. Heat sinks into your bones and all you want to do is sleep, sleep and never wake up.
It's so hard to not just give up. You have a hard time remembering why you didn't in the first place.
==>Be Jade
You are scared. You are scared but you refuse to let it get to you, because being scared now won't help and you need to be helpful because if you aren't you think maybe Eridan will be dead before you can get him back to the house.
You thought you had missed Bec before, but that was nothing compared to now when John has Eridan on his back and is trying to hurry but hurrying in the woods when you'd been looking for so long is hard and John has to be careful or he'll fall and that's no good at all.
At least you know exactly where you need to go to get back - John was worried about getting lost but you aren't worried at all. You know exactly where you are and you know exactly what way you need to go and it doesn't matter how you know this, how it helped you find Eridan in the first place, you just do. You lead the way and John follows and you're so glad for the daylight that makes it easier to see because the flashlight Ms Lalonde had found for you was good enough but the sun is far superior, even if the whole mountain is foggy from the clouds that have rolled in over the night.
Eridan's fallen asleep again and you want to wake him; part of your mind pulls up pages you've read about hypothermia and that sleep is a bad thing but Eridan isn't really cooperating and he looks dead already, just as bad as Equius looked when Nepeta woke everyone up. He's dull grey, like the newspapers grandpa used to have flown in to the island. His skin tents when you pinch it and you think that's more for dehydration but it's bad nonetheless and he hisses when you rest a hand on his cheek but he doesn't even try to bite you and even though you don't know anything about troll physiology you know that's a bad sign.
John huffs and bounces on his feet to settle Eridan higher on his back, carrying the troll like a pack with his hands hooked under Eridan's knees. Eridan's wearing your jacket and John's and you just hope that's enough because you're cold and you are going to end up in just as much trouble if you're out too long like this, you and John both.
You lead the way back down through the animal trails, setting a pace that John can follow and you're impressed that he can manage the extra weight without once complaining. You use your phone to tell Sollux that you found Eridan and trust him to pass it along to the others so they can head back and meet you. You keep an eye on the sky through the trees and cross your fingers and toes that the foggy, damp clouds you're walking through will go away as you go lower. Your sweater is already soaked and clammy and you're shivering (but you can stop if you try so that's good) and when it starts to rain you look back to John and you share a look that is all annoyed and determined. You won't let a little rain get to you.
Or a lot of rain.
++++++
John calls for a break when you find an old wooden shelter that's just a roof and three walls and you huddle beneath it around Eridan who just huffs and turns into your shoulder, automatic and not even conscious, breathing terribly slow. It really makes you wonder about trolls and their physiology. He's still too cold but you think he isn't colder and that's the best you can manage right now. You really wish you could start a fire, but with everything wet it will take too long.
"Do you think he'll be all right?" John asks, worried and uncertain and eyes bright against the grey ugly morning haze all around you.
You shrug, but you wrap an arm around Eridan anyway and John follows suit, the three of you a huddle of warmth. "I don't know. Maybe? We have to get him warmer and we need to keep from getting too cold ourselves or all three of us will just curl up and sleep and never wake up." You wiggle your toes in your shoes that are soaked through and they're all hurt and prickley but you're pretty sure that's a better sign than just numb. "It's too bad you can't fly."
John picks up a stick from the ground and throws it and a gust of wind catches it, carries it in a loop and twist before it disappears down the hill. "I think I'm getting stronger, but it's not fast enough. I was trying! But I'd just end up crashing us into trees or worse. I nearly took out the shed at home, and I wasn't even carrying anyone then." He sighs and stamps his feet against the cold. "We're going to have to make sure everyone stays alive. I don't want anyone to die just because the trolls don't know how to forgive somebody."
"Won't... work..." Eridan croaks, limp against you with eyes open and glassy. You aren't sure he can see you - he isn't looking at either of you and isn't really moving his eyes at all. "They'll kill... me... shore." He makes a sound in his throat that's a little like a chirp and he closes his eyes and doesn't open them again.
You shake his shoulder, willing him to stay awake. "No no, Eridan you have to stay awake. You're too cold and if you sleep you might not wake up again!"
You realize that isn't the best answer when his lips crack open and that might be an attempt at a smile, you can't tell, but his voice is wavering and soft and so sad. "Better dyin’ like this...don want them...me like...this."
You punch his arm, as hard as you dare. "And it's okay to let some humans see you all pathetic and weak like this? Is that what you think? Well fuckass, I am going to keep you alive and drag your sorry ass back to Rose's house and we're going to warm you up! And you aren't going to die because we won't let you and we won't cull you even if you're totally all helpless right now because we are humans and that's how we do shit! We do it our way!" You shake his shoulder again and his eyes crack open the tiniest bit. "And you know what? If everyone is being dumb then when we finish figuring out everything you can come back with me!"
You grab his arms and tell John to help you and he tries to argue but you won't hear it. You hoist Eridan onto your back and sure he's heavy but it's not impossible and your blood is racing, all angry and strong, and when he tries to slide off your back you take the scarf from around his neck and you tie him to you and keep moving. Nothing is going to stop you! Not fog or rain or cold or tree roots or slippery mud or really big deer or skunks or stupid trolls who don't listen to their friendleader when he says no killing and do stupid things like trying to kill each other and chasing each other into the woods to freeze to death. You beat the game and Jack and so many bad things that you'd dreamed about for years and years and you won't let a little bit of grumpiness ruin your celebrations. This is a new world, and it's for the living - not the dreaming or the dead.
You think maybe Eridan has fallen asleep again, his head against your bare neck and cheek like ice, clammy and sharp - well, his facefin things are anyway - when he whisper/croaks into your ear "...back with you?"
You roll your eyes and step over the deer shit that totally would have made you slip and stop at the edge of the river and wait for John to catch up. "Of course! I've got enough space at home, you can set up somewhere on the other side of the island and no one will bother you. And if anyone doesn't like it then they're not allowed on my island!"
You step onto the dead tree that crosses the river because it’s really too cold to wade (you had tried when you'd crossed it the first time) and you focus on one foot in front of the other for a minute because the wood is slick and slippery. It's a lot harder with Eridan on your back and halfway across you can tell you're going to fall a step before you do, know you're going to end up in the river and if that happens Eridan will probably die from the shock and John will have to leave him so that he can carry you back and it will make you both so sad and angry and you're frozen on the tree, unable to move forward or back but staying there isn't an option either...
Wind, cold but as solid as a wall pushes up against your sides and back, shores you up and makes you feel secure and safe, even while you stand on a wet old tree in the middle of a swollen river and John's a bit behind you but his voice is a call in your other ear, warm and bright. "It's all right. I've got this." He laughs and of course you smile in return. "Windy thing to the rescue!"
Thus secured you manage the rest of the stupid wet log and down to the other side of the river. You step into a puddle that soaks your left foot with freezing cold water and you shriek in surprise which makes Eridan flail for a second on your back, hissing and scared. You tell him that if he bites your shoulder you are going to drop him and kick him down the rest of the mountain and he whimpers and goes quiet and you feel a little bad for threatening him but you're really happy it worked.
Your fingers are cold, your everything is cold the game snow had never been this cold or you’d never felt it so badly as this and you tuck your hands into fists and keep them against your side, holding Eridan's legs above your hips with your forearms and determination. He is not dying and that's all you are focusing on right now.
When John figures out how to use the wind to keep the rain off it's really great and gives you another burst of adrenaline-fuelled stamina. When you see Rose's house through the trees you almost run the rest of the way. You nearly fall - but John's always there to help catch you before you eat grass and you know you can count on him to always be there. No more dreams, no more fears, no more dying. No one is allowed to die here because it's your world and you want it to be perfect, even if just for a little while.
John opens the door and you start yelling for people before you've even stepped inside.
==>Be Sollux
You have always appreciated duality, mirror images and matching pairs. You have always kicked ass at whatever stupid fucking task you'd set yourself to, or been asked to do. You are very capable - you were - of doubletasking, multitasking, handling yourself and your matesprit and even your work. Maybe you appreciated a little extra help when you were in one of your moods, but whatever. There was nothing you couldn't do, except when it came to certain ess sounds that were stupid in the first place.
It is almost impossible to do anything while this blind and you have been so angry for so long at this fact you have gone right past anger and you think you might be living in the land Karkat must have built, made of cursing and fury where everything pisses you off but the rage is an almost background noise, some hum you can tune into when you need it to power you like a personal sun but it leaves you otherwise functional. You're full of anger but you're surprisingly okay. Usually okay, actually - not so much right now, right now you want to break everything.
You can't complain too much - if you had your powers you might have destroyed Lalonde's hive in the last five minutes, the way you feel right now.
Though then you wish you had your fucking powers. This wouldn't be a problem if you had your powers - and your sight. You could have flown out and found Eridan and kicked his ass (without showing any interest, right now the asshole didn't deserve a kismesis or anything else) and dragged him back for Feferi happily.
Instead you're sitting in front of a computer with a paper map beside you and neither of these things are all that useful because no one besides Rose can really tell you where they are but someone had to keep track and guess what? That someone is you.
You think you've successfully hacked the communication network to show you where the small personal ‘cellphones’ Lalonde's lusus had given everyone are on the mountain. The little blue dots on your screen seem right, even if it's easy to see them and hard to see where they are. You need to run something to change the contrast and colour of this husktop's display. It's just too complicated to get a good smell off of, and Terezi is out with Strider looking for the watery asshole and no help right now.
You'd ask Feferi for help - not in so many words, of course - but she is pacing back and forth behind you and her agitation is so thick you can taste it even when you're turned away. (No wonder no one could ever sneak up on Pyrope, if you were all so... potent.)
"Have they flounder him yet? Ooooooh I barracoulda drown him for this! How dare he?" She turns and stomps and you twist in your chair to face her, a blur of salty purple and pink and blue and liquorice black flowing behind her. It's not now you wanted to see her, but you're grateful you can even have this, when you can remember to be grateful at all.
"I thtill thay it'th better if he jutht dieth out there,” you suggest for the twentieth time and aren't at all surprised at how Feferi rounds on you. She's fierce like this, driven and weak and angry and beautiful. She's obsessed and out of control and all you can do is your best to keep her from losing her shit entirely because seriously, this is getting to her way more than it should.
"I don't want him swimming away!" she tells you for the twenty-first time. "He was mine to cull and this wouldn't have happened if Dave hadn't interfinned!"
"And the humanth are a bunch of wigglers who faint at the thmell of blood but pithing them off when they're doing their weird friendthip thing and actually trying to help ith'nt thmart, FF, and you're thmarter than that." You beckon to her and point to the chair beside to you. "Thit down and relakth. They'll find him and bring him back and you'll make him pay, or they'll give up and let him run and he'll jutht die out there." You catch her hand as she gets close enough and pull her to you. She's trembling and that scares you - as does the way she hisses aggressively at you, hand grabbing your shoulder and digging nails in before she catches herself and cries in horror.
"Oh Sollux I'm sorry! That wasn't on porpoise!" The shaking gets worse and you haven't let go of her other hand so you pull on it until she's sitting beside you. You shift your chair as close as you can and relax a little when she leans into you. "It'th fine, FF. I'm not hurt - but what'th wrong?" That sort of aggression never should have happened. Not with Feferi and not at you, and you wish you could see her fucking face because this would be easier than guessing all the God damn time. "When wath the latht time you thlept?"
She giggles, sighing and letting herself calm down a little, and you relax with her, grateful to find she can relax at all. "Sleeping without sopor isn't real sleep," she explains, like you're a grub. "It's not even restful. All my dreams are daymares, they're horrible, Sollux. He keeps killing everyone."
"They're dreamth,” you sigh, and reach carefully to stroke her hair. Feferi's hair has always fascinated you and being allowed to touch it whenever you were close was a treat that being blind couldn't even detract from. "I'm not dead, no one elth ith and if the athhole trieth anything he'll be culled faster than KK can say fuck. Bethideth, it'th cold out there. If the otherth find him, he'll be dead. Then he won't hurt anyone."
Feferi curls right into you, sighing prettily and winding her arms around your waist. "If he finds water he'll be fine. The cold won't bother him, in water. Alternia's warm but the oceans get cold, colder the deeper you go. He's built for the cold there."
"Then I'll jutht hope he doethn't find any water then." You're smug and bitter, but the bastard cost you your eyes and more importantly killed Feferi and while you'd be happy to have him and your powers and five minutes alone you can't so settling for someone else or the wilderness killing him as an acceptable alternative.
You spend the next few minutes just curled like that, Feferi's head eventually in your lap, her arms tight around your waist, your fingers curling through her hair. She relaxes in inches, slowly but you can feel it and you feel like shit for not noticing how stressed she'd been before. You are so fucking sick of being blind you'd happily take the voices and headaches back if it meant you could see the girl you pitied. You want to help her, not be another burden for her to have to carry.
Just when you think she's settled properly, back to the girl you know and not this whirlwind of emotion you hear the incessant buzzing of your cellular communications device. The stupid thing is pure mechanics and has been a pain to deal with, not a single reasonable honeycomb to be found. You flip the thing open, annoyed at the hinge because it's an obvious design flaw, and it takes a second to hold it right way up to your auricular sponge clot. "Yeah?"
"We found Eridan!" That's Harley's voice, excited - which means he isn't dead. Dammit. You don't have to tell Feferi either because she's sitting up and vibrating again, you can feel her reaching for the device and you duck to keep it away from her hands. "He's super cold and I think he has hypothermia if that's what trolls get and he's not really conscious but we found him and we're bringing him home!"
She must expect some sort of answer from you beyond a sigh, which is funny because you are positive she doesn't actually want to hear what you think. "Sollux?"
"Yeah. Fine. You're coming back with one hipthter douchbag in tow. I hope you drop him down the mountain and kick hith athh the whole way here."
She makes her unhappy sound that usually preceded a fuckass and some sort of smack that never hurt (seriously, why the fuck did humans even bother?) but you cut her off before she can really start. "You're lucky I didn't tell you to jutht cull him and thave uth the trouble. I'll tell the otherth to turn their thtupid atheth back too we can get thome real work done thometime today." You close the device and end the conversation to settle back down at the computer, completely oblivious (or ignoring) the way Feferi is glaring at you.
You could call each of the groups back. Or give Maryam the task, if she's still around - but you're starting to get used to these stupid backwards idiotic systems the humans use and you think you can coax your husktop to send a single message to each of their devices that will save you from having to actually talk to any of them. Especially since you're sure Karkat is going to argue with you.
You're so focused on the system, their horribly inefficient (but not that difficult to grasp) binary and the challenge in front of you that you forget the girl behind you. She's growling, but your mind doesn't even register it. If someone asked you'd just say you knew her anger wasn't aimed at you so you were safe but the truth is you're so absorbed in the computer you wouldn't notice anything, no matter how important.
+++++++
You feel fucking proud of yourself as you breathe in another view of the computer screen in front of you and see all the blue dots returning to your (red dot) position. You can say this about human software - at least it's so hideously outdated and simple even a blind troll can figure it out.
You can hear Harley shouting orders behind you but you refuse to turn around and see what’s going on. Not because you don't care, but because you won't be able to tell and the headache of trying to sort out a bunch of voices and smells into separate people when in a room that echoes and smells of paper and dust already so strongly - you can't. Lalonde's lusus is somewhere, with Maryam and Aradia hovering and you're pretty sure that chemical tang is Gamzee which means Tavros too. You don't know why the fuck they're here but it's already too noisy to try a conversation or to even try finding them in this mess and getting an idea of just how bad Gamzee's hurt. You watch the screen instead, the blue dots showing Karkat and Lalonde (and why she had gone with Karkat and not Maryam is a question you wish you had an answer for) drawing closer and you brace yourself for the shouting match that's going to come.
You hope the human lusii above you are heavy sleepers.
Harley is issuing orders to help Eridan, things you're ignoring because fuck Eridan, let the troll rot for all you care. When the last blue dot arrives and Karkat starts shouting the minute he walks into the room you give up, the noise overwhelming until it's just that - noise. It makes you blind again as you lose any fucking sense of the room and you have to leave, leave right fucking now, before you do something monumentally stupid like bursting into frustrated tears or biting someone.
You fucking wish you could catch Feferi's eyes, have her see and come and help - but she's so obsessed with Eridan it could be a black crush, and while he's in the room she can't remember you right now. So you stumble up and out of the noise, relying on barely there walls of brown and white, chocolate and tin, to get you out of the block and into the cool quiet of the halls.
If anyone suggests you're running away, you'll kill them. You're exhausted - when was the last time -you- slept? If they go back to debating about Eridan again everyone already knows your stance on the bastard. You don't need to sit there and look pathetic and say it all again. You can barely breathe anyway. You wouldn’t manage more than a few words.
Fuck them all. You're going to have a God damn nap and if anyone interrupts you it won't be your fault when you gut them.
==>Be Feferi
Eridan is ashen, and it would be amusingly ironic if it weren't so frightening. It's a colour no living troll should be: a colour you've only seen in the bloodless corpses of those young trolls who fought to save their lusus against Eridan and lost. You forget that an hour ago you wanted him dead. Seeing him like this makes something far too close to pity settle in your heart.
Jade Harley has taken charge; what surprises you most is how everyone listens to her. By the time you'd received the message and returned she'd already set Eridan on the couch of the smaller reading room, stripped him out of his clothing and covered him in bladders filled with hot water and blankets piled high to
keep the heat in. All you can see is his head, tilted up on the arm of the couch. The light that falls on him from this angle makes his cheeks seem impossibly hollow; his eyes seem sunken in and bruised. He’s hardly recognizable, like this.
The room is full of noise: Karkat and Terezi are arguing with John, Jade is explaining something off of a computer to Dave, Tavros and Gamzee are in a corner talking (though quieter than the others, it still adds to the noise) and when Nepeta and Equius start pestering for explanations your ears start to ring. You want to ask Jade how Eridan is but you were his moirail and are a sea dweller besides. You already know. He is a purple blood: if this hasn't killed him yet, it won't.
You try to interrupt the noise politely but you can barely hear your own voice. Somehow Eridan hears (how typical) and his eyes lock on your face but you don't return his gaze. You are feeling conflicted about everything, and you really hate that. You do know what needs to be done to settle this and knowing that you act, because action is always preferable to inaction and you will never hesitate to make a decision that needs to be made. That's what you were born for.
The culling trident suddenly appears in your hand and commands the attention of most of the room: they probably don't mean to fall silent (and in a few cases reach for their own specibi) but trolls have a deep hereditary respect for the weapon. You don't usually abuse this fact - that sort of flagrant misuse of your position makes you feel sick - but there are times when it is useful to have your own way. Into the silence you smile to take the edge off the commands, but these are absolutely commands even if you say them nicely.
"If everyone cod please leave right now I'd be reel-ly grateful."
Half the trolls leave immediately, without a word of protest. The rest just stare, along with the humans who clearly don't understand what's going on. Your smile grows broad and wide and now you're flashing all of your teeth. "Eridan Ampora and I are going to talk. Alone. Are any of you going to challenge me?"
You can see their eyes on the trident. You aren't worried terribly: you might not be the strongest but you are fast and heal quicker than any other troll could hope for. The trident gives you an extra edge and you don't think anyone is willing to go against it, not for Eridan's sake. You were his only quadrant before the game: no one will want to protect him at the sake of their own selves, no matter what they might have argued before.
Karkat surprises you - Karkat always surprises you. Everyone else steps back and he steps forward, expression intent. You know how much he platonically hates Eridan and it's actually quite impressive, his dedication to keeping you all alive. Or perhaps it's just his selfish need not to lose face. Not that anyone will respect him for protecting a troll like Eridan, especially without quadrants to defend the action. But he'd argued against culling the troll before and now he stands in front of you with his sickles drawn and ready.
"Karkat. I don’t want to fight you; it’s only going to make prawnblems. Just flounder away, please?"
"Funny she says she doesn't want to fight and she stands there with her fucking culling fork out. I thought we settled this Peixes? Ampora's alive and he is staying that way. I think you're the one leaving now, or you're going to have the fucking problem. Are you going to challenge me?"
You don't promise anything so silly as not hurting Eridan. Karkat wouldn't believe you, and you don't like lying unnecessarily, but out of everyone Karkat's the troll you least want to fight. You also can't back down, not from such a direct challenge: you have your own pride. "Karkat we're just going to talk. I'm not planning on hurting him." There, it's a peace offering and not actually a lie, since you have no idea what you want to do to the troll at this very second.
Karkat doesn't believe you, drawing himself up and keeping his voice even. "Yeah well here's a novel concept that might damage your already feeble thinkpan - you can talk -"
"Karkat." Eridan cuts him off with a voice that's all growl and gravel, weak and tired. "Go. Fef and I are gonna...talk."
"Like hell you are, nookwiffer."
Eridan tries to lift himself from the couch and its pathetic, he’s so weak. "Are you tryin’ to tell me who I can speak to now, Vantas? Are you gonna be any fuckin’ quadrant and give a damn and deserve to tell me what I can do? Fuck off. It's nothin’ to ya now so leawe me with my cod-damned mo -- leave me with Feferi. I don't want your protection."
Karkat stares for a second and you decide to add some weight to the decision. The fork disappears and you give Karkat a more normal smile. "Please, Karkat. That was asking nicely, for Eridan."
The strange thing is it was nice for Eridan, and considering everything you don't know why he spoke up. He isn’t a terribly brave troll when all is said and done, and he knew you wanted him dead - he ran away, for clam's sake! But you'll figure Eridan out when you have some privacy. Eridan is yours to deal with and you don't want to leave him for anyone else.
Karkat curses violently but after a moment he puts his sickles away. "I swear to you, Feferi Peixes, you cull him I will come down on you so fucking hard these mountains will collapse from the shockwave and I will personally ensure you're crushed to death under the rocks even if I have to move them myself. I will make your ancestor regret ever looking at a God damned pail. Are we clear?"
"As water!" you chirp - and perhaps part of your amusement comes from watching him fume when he walks away and takes the others with him, but it’s only a little amusement and you promise yourself not to abuse it.
You turn to Eridan - and stare, a little put-out. The four humans are standing between you and him, an actual wall of pale (frail) skin. You might have no qualms fighting one of them, but even you have to admit that all four would be impossible. This is a time for politics.
"Fuck, Strider. Do I have to spell it out for you and your humans? Just leawe already." Of course, trust Eridan to spoil your plans, just like always.
"Dude, you are so not capable of making decisions right now."
"I don't remember askin’ for your shitty opinion!"
"So we're supposed to leave you alone so she can be polite and gut you in privacy? Fuck that noise." Even behind his mirrored, tinted lenses you can tell Dave is glaring at you. The other humans seem... quietly stoic and perhaps a bit confused. They're here for solidarity, you realize. What one does the other will too, like a school of fish caught in the current. You wonder what it feels like to trust other people to lead you the right way.
"Fef won't gut me," Eridan snaps, frustrated. "She's got more class than that. Strider, use your fuckin’ thinkpan for a second here. This is gonna happen whether you want it to or not. At least give me some fuckin’ dignity. You too, Harley. Thanks for draggin’ my ass back before I froze to death. Now go the fuck away."
In the end you don't have to say a word, Eridan does all the work for you. The humans leave in a tumble of complex emotions: Rose calculating, John worried, Jade upset, and Dave pretending that no one can read the anger that comes off him in waves.
You half decide not to cull Eridan right then just to vex Dave Strider more. You don't like how the human thinks he knows you. He's a Knight and he's built for fighting, not thinking; he knows nothing.
When the room is empty save for you and Eridan (though you can hear Dave and Karkat standing out in the hall, just waiting, you suspect, for Eridan to start screaming) you pull a chair forward so you can sit next to his head. He just watches you, the same damn way he's been just watching you since you'd all been revived. It was annoying at first, and then it was creepy. Now it's somehow become unnerving though you aren't sure why.
The reason hits you like a wave: it's still silent and Eridan hasn't said anything to you. Eridan hasn't really spoken to you at all, except when you cornered him, and even then he hadn't been willing to properly fight. Eridan Ampora, who could turn a two minute event into an hour long rant, who could never get to the point of a story because he was too in love with his own voice, who would never hesitate to put himself forward if it meant showcasing how strong or smart or right he was... was silent.
It was like watching the ocean burn dry. It just didn't seem real.
In fact it's so out of character that when he does speak you're so relieved you don't really hear the words; you smile before they register.
"It's okay Fef. You can cull me like you want. I know I deserwe it."
Your face freezes into a rictus of horror - not at the idea of killing him, because you have been very clear that he doesn't deserve to live after destroying the matriorb - but because those words do not fit, out of his mouth. They don't fit the shape of Eridan Ampora, your ex-moirail, and all you can do is stare in horror and wonder who the shell this troll is, to suggest you should kill him: to dare pretend he has any right to give you permission.
You grab his arm with nails that dig in and he doesn't even flinch. He looks the same, except Eridan would have looked after himself better. Would have styled his hair into the familiar pompous coif, would have changed the clothes that sit in a pile beside the couch the minute they were soiled - not continued to wear them. He would have hated the deep circles under his eyes, would have complained and raged at being rescued by worthless humans and would not be staring at you with blank eyes that hold no pity whatsoever.
You let go of his arm. This world is strange: what if Eridan is part of that strangeness? "Who are you? I don't believe you're reel-y Eridan at all." It's almost like someone is wearing Eridan's skin - a thought that makes you shudder. Someone else, puppeting him to spy on you?
Eridan almost reaches out for you at that - starts and then catches himself, scowls and drags his bare arm back under the blankets for warmth. "Is that how this is gonna go? Of course I'm me, Fef. Even if I fuckin’ hate it I'm still the bastard who killed you. I'm not some shitty ghost."
"You don't act like Eridan."
"Maybe because actin’ like that nookwiffer was what fucked everythin’ up." He stares at you with hurt in his eyes, tired and bruised and certain. When was the last time Eridan had looked at you with certainty?
Cod, this was the story of the maroon-blooded troll and the large predator. Next you would be commenting on his teeth and how sharp they were."Eridan wouldn't be so calm about being killed."
It gets a reaction out of him, even if it's just strangled anger. "What does it matter? Since when has anyfin I wanted actually mattered? I left and you fuckin’ dragged me back, why should I waste my breath? No one is gonna listen to a fuckin’ thing I say. If they did, I woulda had my glubbin moirail in the Weil and maybe she would have stopped me before I - maybe I would hawe stopped myself!" His voice cracks but he doesn't cry, and your ex-moirail was a troll who could cry at the flick of a fin, if he thought he'd get some pity from you.
He collapses in on himself again, like a dead cuttlefish. "If you're gonna cull me just do it Fef. Please. Don't drag it out. I know you don't hawe any pity for a grub like me, so hawe some mercy. If you ever even pitied me at all, for that, Empress."
The insult is a smack across your pride and you respond back by leaving a handprint against his dry ashen skin. His head snaps into the couch violently and he just blinks, only turning his head back to look at you, you think, when he has control enough not to cry.
Of course you pitied him. You always pitied him. The problem was that he was as detestable as he was pitiable and he had you trapped - your lusus had to be fed, and no one else could provide the way Eridan did so effortlessly. You had to be his moirail or trolls would die (more trolls, because they died when you fed their lusus to yours but the needs of the many outweighed them) and he was completely oblivious. You'd done your best, you really had. You couldn't be blamed for getting out the minute you could, for finding a troll who was so broken and weak you ached to see him sad, who never ever treated you like an empress apparent because he just didn't care.
Your lips move but you can't quite speak, can't admit he might be even one drop right about of any this. You scowl when you realize he's making you feel guilty. You owe him nothing.
Maybe you owed him an apology, before he killed you. You're still carrying a grudge about that, but the longer Eridan just sits and stares between you and the ceiling the harder it is to keep hating him. He's just pathetic now, and maybe you'd hate him or hold him in contempt, if he were begging, but he sits and just seems to be waiting for whatever you decide.
You watch his face for some sort of trick, some angle he must be playing at because Eridan's not smart but sometimes he's clever. Sadly he's back to staring at the ceiling and you can't find anything except resignation on his face. "Why?"
That makes pain flash across his face, brief but potent. "If I gotta giwe ya a reason to... I guess I was a worse troll than I ewen thought."
You shake your head, leaving the silence between you. You need to be calm, here. You can't let your anger get the best of you, because the others will judge that and while they will not blame you they will think you weaker for it. You breathe, until you feel most of your anger at this troll settling into something more calm, equal parts curiosity and uncertainty and maybe a bit of pity, though you loathe to admit the last. "No. Why did you do it? Kill me, Kanaya - the matriorb." You notice how he flinches at each word like you're hitting him and you remember Eridan was always far more hurt by insults and verbal attacks than any sort of physical injury. It wasn't a soft spot - it was a giant target hanging on his back for the world to see.
His voice is so quiet it's a broken whisper and when he looks at you his eyes make your skin crawl. This is not your Eridan Ampora - but maybe it is, just after a hundred years in hell. "Please Fef. Does it matter? Will it change anyfin at all?"
You pull yourself up straight and tall and fix him with an imperious glare. "I asked you why."
He mutters under his breath and clearly resents the order but he tells you - in brief starts and stops - about the Angels in his land and the voices They spoke with, the things They'd promised him, the way the Voices continued long after he'd killed every Angel he could see. He tells you of the ghosts in the corners of his eyes and the sleep that wouldn't come, of trying to find an explanation and being worried because Angels or not they didn't sound trustworthy. He tells you of feeling Them behind his eyes, grasping, and how he'd tried to find someone to see there was something wrong, tried to show you and Sollux, and how when he'd been sent running he'd given up and given in and by the time he realized what he'd done it had been too late.
He doesn't blame you and he could, you think. You remember that second last duel. You remember Sollux had been cruel, his mood foul and influencing yours even though you'd been trying to cheer him up. You remember being tired of Eridan's advances, of him refusing to understand you wanted no quadrant with him. You remember laughing at him, and you feel ashamed. He had been desperate and he'd come for help and you'd dismissed him. You'd treated him the way she would have. You were supposed to be better than that.
"I tried to stop I swear Fef, I did. They didn't understand, They wouldn't listen, They just wanted to kill ewrything. An I was so angry an that's what They wanted. I never would have hurt you on porpoise. Not like that. I just wanted someone to fuckin take me serious for once an I fucked up and I killed my best friend."
He's not looking at you and his voice is so distant you wonder if he even remembers you're here next to him. He's closed his eyes and the thin occular membrane is more grey than purple - he's warming up, finally, but it's a slow process that will leave him vulnerable and weak for a day, maybe two. "I know it don't mean anyfin atoll but cod, Fef, I'm sorry. I would a rather cut my gills off with a broken shell than hurt you."
You really want this to be a ploy. You want it to be Eridan's newest trick, his desperate attempt to win your pity. You want it to be so because it is far more comfortable than the suspicion that is flowing through your veins. You want to go back to anger and disgust because it is easier than the tangled seabed of emotion you're feeling now. You want purple blood on the end of your trident because that would be right... you just think now it would be wrong too.
Perhaps that's how the Condesce went mad, how she became more demon than troll. Because when two options sit in front of you it is easy, too easy, to reach for the simple solution. Killing Eridan would be simple. It would be easy - and maybe even that stops you, because no troll should ever just lie down and wait for death. It's as wrong as the sun rising in the south.
Maybe it's because you could not understand how a troll who had been so flushed for you could have killed you so... so easily. Maybe if you'd actually realized something had been wrong, if you hadn't been so tired of Eridan to notice a change. Too many maybes, too many uncertainties. There's no point on dwelling in them now. Now you need your certainties, your decisions, and they have to be the right ones.
"Eridan Ampora." His eyes open and they see the trident in your hand, the tines pointed up to the ceiling, and he freezes. He isn't even breathing. It helps that he's afraid, that for all he's told you he's ready to die he's clearly not. It makes this easier. "You are a giant pain and reel-ly annoying and I only wanted to make you pay for everyfin you did. And you're right you deserve it. But the humans are right too that it should be fair. If we're going to forgive Gamzee and Vriska for everyfin they did, we should forgive you too." You hate being wrong, hate being proven wrong, but maybe the better kind of empress - the one who wanted culling to mean something different - maybe that was the sort of empress who had to admit when she was the one who had been wrong. Sometimes.
"You're here with everyone else so that means you get a second chance, I've decided." You see the hope in his eyes and hold up a hand to stop him before he speaks, but you gentle your voice to soften the blow. "I don't forgive you. I don't know if I can, Eridan, even if it wasn't reel-ly just you who destroyed the matriorb. I'm going to need some time, all right? But you don't have to be scared anymore."
You bring the trident down, points digging into his neck and concentrate. This is hard and you don't have a lot of experience, but Eridan being too cold has actually happened before, when he'd tried to follow you too deep. It's the only bit of healing you're confident in, with the trident to help you, and after a moment balanced on the precipice of too little and too much, there's a feeling of a spark that jumps from you through your trident to the prone sea troll.
The change is instant. Eridan's skin is healthy grey, his eyes bright and aware and the sunken hollowness to his face almost completely gone. His ragged breathing evens out and his lips are their proper black, no longer near-white. You put the trident away and realize you feel better yourself, the bubbling lava in your veins gone along with the tension in your back and head. You smile at Eridan and tentatively he smiles back. It's a reconnection between you - one you're not sure you want or like, but it's there nonetheless.
You turn on your heel because you don't want to spend another minute here, your duties as former empress and ex-moirail complete. "I'm going to find the others. You should sleep." You need the rest too - healing always takes a lot out of you. "I'll tell everyone to leave you alone."
You ignore the lines of purple that are tracing their way down Eridan's face. You may have forgiven him somewhat, may have wanted him to be better so he wasn't trapped and prone for the rest of the day (and tomorrow too), might have decided it was all right to protect him - but that was the (former) empress, not you. That was politics, not pity. You're certain of it.
When you step out of the room and walk between Karkat and Dave who have been flanking the door and probably heard every word, you fix them with your brightest smile and refuse to even pretend they intimidate you. "If anyone tries to get to Eridan they'll have me to deal with. Oh, and since you're being such good guards you should keep an eye on him all day, just in case. I'll tell Rose to send lunch over to you!"
You giggle: you're giddy. It's another reason you don't heal others often; you're lightheaded and full of bubbles. You float away, down the hall to find Sollux and Terezi and tell them about your changed mind. Dave and Karkat might be laughing behind you but you're too far away to hear - or care.
==>Be Aradia
Everything would be fine, just fine, if it didn't hurt so much.
You can't stay with the others and when Feferi's fork comes out you think this is it and try to reach forward and see again because you had been certain, absolutely certain that you'd seen Gamzee and Equius dead but they're not and the only option is that someone else was going to die, because you could feel it -
Except even as the others start to leave the room the sense starts to fade and when you reach forward again the blinding, stabbing pain - green like the sun had been, shifting to a thousand colours and a sense of go away little girl - and you're pushed away. You’ve never been a seer but you knew how to look to the paths you needed to take and there’s nothing ahead of you. Worse, a part of that terrifying mess feels like you. What is future you doing, that she couldn't even give you a bit of help? What had been done to her? (What was this place, really?)
You stagger through the hive, clutching your head and having all the sympathy for Sollux and his headaches now. Well, even more than you'd had before. It's hard to see straight but you force yourself forward and towards something closer to silence, feet skipping across the carpet, sometimes not even touching it, everything grey and out of focus and you're lost in the forward and back of a world that is old and new and warping time around you because it feels so young -
"AA?" His voice cuts through the cloudy time and pain and brings you back down, sets your feet properly on the floor of the hive and lifts the fog in your head. You hadn't even realized how much you were trying to push forward in the timestream until you stopped and suddenly you feel like a troll again, instead of a bit of grub leather.
He sets a light hand on your arm - missing the first time - and stares blankly at your face; his eyes burned out and nose and forehead all scrunched up in concentration. "You don't thmell well."
That's funny because his hand is trembling and his eyes have deep bruises under them and he smells like sweat and exhaustion himself, his voice a croak. "You look even worse, silly."
"I'm fine,” he growls, and looks away. His voice is all thick, like maybe he's been crying or he wants to. You wonder if he can anymore, without his eyes.
You tug on his arm, wordlessly, and the both of you help each other stay up, taking the stairs one at a time until you're on the third floor of the hive, in the small room you'd been given when you arrived. Sollux's own temporary block is next to yours but you don't let him retreat there. You pull him into your space and sit both of you down on the soft mattress that Rose had called a rollaway.
It's instantly quieter and you both relax with matching sighs, something that makes you giggle and Sollux smile, shakily. He’s been breathing hard but he settles next to you. You press your shoulder against his, warmth to warmth, like you're young again and sitting in his hive, pouring over old books and whatever treasures you'd dug up on your most recent adventure. You loved those days the best, and even knowing how important it was for everything to happen as it did, it doesn't mean you don't have regrets. You just try not to let them keep you down.
"AA?" Sollux starts again, letting his head fall onto your shoulder without even a fight. He's down, you realize. His mood is sinking low and if you and the others aren't careful he'll go right to the point where he doesn't want to eat or move or even breathe much at all, until you pick him up and kick his skinny and very bony ass into gear and he swings up again. You’re out of practice for that – Karkat took over the job for you when you’d died. You should remember to thank him for that, somehow.
"Did you know thith wath going to happen?" He's so tired sounding you can't help but put an arm over his shoulder in a loose hug. "When you thtarted. When you were in the veil and thaid goodbye. Did you know?"
"I..." you wonder how you can possibly answer that, how you can say yes and no in one breath. "I knew some of it? But... not the details, well actually I knew all of the details, but knowing how they were going to work out was so hard it was like knowing nothing at all." You sigh; everything had been so hard but it had been so clear and now it's like trying to see through mud. Or maybe breathe through it.
"Ekthplain it to me," Sollux demands, his voice soft and sharp and... angry? "Were we all jutht detailth? What happened didn't matter?"
"I didn't say that!" You're hurt that he'd think like that. "I never thought like that. Not... not intentionally. When I was dead it was different. In the robot it was a lot better but it still wasn't all me. Not really. They wanted us to succeed. I just wanted everyone to survive and be happy again. So we had to win to get what I wanted."
"And that maketh it better?"
You pull away because as pitiful as he is he's hurting you, and Sollux never hurt you. But you have to remember that you were dead for a long time. Trolls change, and Sollux has had more reason than most trolls for it.
"I... I could see everything, Sollux. All the times we failed. All the times we died and fought and cried and died and failed over and over again and I had to sort through it all and sometimes it was just too much! I just had to find where we were alive and I kept making that happen and everytime we made a mistake I had to go back and fix it until..."
"Until you blew yourthelf up and then thuddenly it all went to hell and you left uth to get fucking thlaughtered."
You recoil, pulling completely away from Sollux and staring at him in shock and pain. "No! I had to wake up my God Tier properly and I couldn't keep up between the outer ring and the green sun and the rest of the Veil! I had to help co-ordinate everything."
"Tho we could end up thitting on a human planet. The latht of uth. We're going to die here and worthe we're probably going to kill ourthelveth. We're fucking utheleth here. I'm blind! When wath that part of the plan?"
You slip a hand on his knee and don't miss how his breath hitches. Poor Sollux. He's been going too long, he must be. You forgive him for hurting you because how could you not? "Sollux, I couldn't see this far."
"What?" He sniffles and you slip your arm back around him once more.
"All I knew was that our plan had an ending, and it felt... it felt like it could be a good one. I couldn't see what it was. I just had to guess. All the other timeliness felt... wrong. They were black or brown and hurt to try to look at. This one was bright. It felt right."
"Thith ithn't right."
Frustrated now, you smack his arm and he's even skinnier than when you last had a body to feel his arms with. He hasn't been looking after himself. (Of course he hasn't. He never did. You did. And then you died and he wasn't important anymore except in his coding.) "I know it's not right. I know no one wants to be here except the humans. I know. And it's all a big mess and there's no sopor or matriorb and I keep trying to see where everything goes and I can't, all I get are flickering little bits and now even they're wrong."
He's holding your hand, running his thumb over the tops of your fingers. It's intimate because it's been years since you were touched, since you had a body that was yours and yours alone and you refuse to even think of the disaster that Equius' disgusting robot construct had been as your own. You don't need revenge on the blue-blood but if he ever dares anything again you think you might learn how to send someone forward and back in time - in pieces.
"I looked, and Equius was dead. I saw it. And it was the only thing I could see so I thought it was fixed, that it couldn't be changed, because that’s how it works. And now he's alive and all right and I thought someone else was going to die instead but everyone's all right now and I don't think Feferi is going to kill Eridan because, well, he's still alive tomorrow. But when I try to see further now it's just all blocked off! And I think I'm the troll blocking me, at least a little."
"I gueth I'd be an athhole for blaming you for thith when you don't even know whath going on."
“Maybe a little.” You agree, but you keep your voice soft. You don’t really mean it. “It’s scary, Sollux. I used to know exactly what I had to do. They told me, or I told me, and I just had to make it happen. And it was hard and sometimes I made really big mistakes I had to fix and do over again and I died. I died a lot and I have to remember it all. But now I can’t hear anyone unless I’m trying and all I hear is go away and I’m pretty sure that’s me saying it. And things I think are going to happen don’t and all the big lines of time I’m used to looking for are just... one big one. It’s like... what if everything we do won’t matter? Because there’s only one timeline in this world, and we have to follow it?”
“Then you juth have to live life like the retht of uth who can’t thee the future or fuck with time. I haven’t heard the Voitheth thince Ampora blinded me and I like it. I fucking hate being utheless and blind and I’d take the Voitheth back, I think if I could thee. But If I’m going to die tomorrow I don’t have to know today and maybe thath not tho bad.” His hand stills on yours and his voice cracks as he suddenly changes the topic. “I never thaid I was thorry.”
You don’t need to ask him what he means, you just tighten the arm over his shoulder and press your chin into his hair, a sideways hug. It’s so so so nice to have a body that’s yours that you can feel in again. “Don’t be silly, Sollux. You said sorry so many times, and I heard them all. I just... didn’t understand why it was so important, when I was dead. It didn’t matter then, and now I’m alive and everything is going to be okay, I really hope it will be. But no matter what it wasn’t your fault and I always forgave you. Always.“
He turns into your shoulder and hides his face against your shirt and you rub small circles into his back as he shudders, knowing he just needs to get it out and he’ll feel better once he has. You wish you could promise him it would be better, wish you could see where this is going, wish the future which is green sun blinding would just let you peek. It’s all so very mysterious and you love mysteries but you love unravelling them, not waiting for them to unravel you.
You hope, as hard as you can (even if Hope was never your domain, poor ignorant Eridan), that things will get better. Because you don’t have to see the future to see how worse they could be.
==>Be Mr Egbert
It's been a bit of a task, getting used to someone else's kitchen - especially when you don't want them to know what you're doing and even morseso when you realize that half the appliances and utensils are for show, not use. It's strange to be sure, but you don't mind the challenge. It's for a very good cause after all, something that leaves you humming and smiling as you move through the space, empty for the moment as the children take care of their newest problem.
The kitchen is a bit of a trick in itself. You aren't sure why Amber has two dozen cans of pumpkin puree and not a single pie tin and no shortening, though you're certain she has a good reason for it. It takes a bit of digging to take proper stock but you decide she has enough of the basics you can make something appropriate for brunch - even if you have to search for a frying pan that doesn't still have the plastic shrink wrapped and you settle for biscuits because you can't find a loaf pan anywhere. (You knew you should have packed your baking tools. Well, hindsight is always 20/20.)
You don't bother with the dining room - it's too large and not intimate especially with how much the kids are using it (and you think someone is sleeping there, or would be if the children ever slept). You settle for the small bank breakfast table set at the back of the room, right in front of the window showcasing the backyard in the mid morning glow of what will probably - hopefully - be a beautiful day.
Amber joins you as you set the still steaming biscuits on the table, clutching the flower you left on her bedtable in one hand, the invitation to brunch in her other. You take the match to the flower from your shirt pocket - you'd clipped both carefully from the planters in the solar - and place it into an overwrought crystal vase on the table and gesture to her with a gentlemanly bow, pulling out a chair for her to sit at. "Good morning, Amber."
She looks at you and her face is still, expression closed off and distant. She looked like this when you'd met in the strange other world, the first time you'd met though not the first you'd spoken. You smile and wait - she'll make up her own mind, and patience is a virtue in real life as much as it is in cooking.
"What is all this?" She points to the table, set for two - with the nicest china you could find, proper silverware and linens, even if brunch consists of pumpkin pancakes, sausage links, biscuits and hot coffee.
"I wanted to continue our date," you explain and motion for her to join you again. "Our last was terribly interrupted."
"You mean we were killed. Painfully." She says it so flatly you'd almost believe it didn't bother her - but she doesn't move closer to you and her fingers tighten around your little note and dying with a person tells you a bit about someone, even if it's not nearly enough. You want to know everything about Amber Lalonde, if she'll only let you learn. You are absolutely all right with the hard work it will undoubtedly take.
"Well yes. I hope we don't make it a repeat performance! This is my lucky tie."
"It's not dinner." She steps closer, which you take as a major victory, and eyes your tie as if she can see why it might be lucky just to look at it.
"Well no, but I've been keeping an eye and ear on the children and think if we want to have any time to ourselves without a crisis interrupting we should really take advantage of the moment. They're quiet right now. Dinner will probably be another fight."
She sits down, finally, though she pulls her own chair in and doesn't let you help her, pointing with a regal finger for you to take your own seat instead. "The children can look after themselves. They've been quite clear about that."
You settle into your own seat and pour her coffee, surprised that she takes it black. Your own is one sugar and one milk, the spoon clinking around the cup with a cheerful tinkling sound. "Saying they can look after themselves is certainly easy." You agree, thinking about the two - no, three now - injured trolls recuperating in separate rooms through the house. It's only been two days and while you're perfectly positive John can handle himself, you're still worried sick about who will be the next person (or troll) hurt. John can handle himself. It’s whether he can handle everyone else that you worry about.
"I thought we agreed we weren't going to interfere." She sips at her coffee and the colour returns to her cheeks like magic. Ah. She's one of those ladies - just not quite herself until she's had her first cup. Considering how poorly you've slept the last few nights you aren't surprised she needs the caffeine. "They have enough to deal with, they don't need or want us meddling."
She's very bitter, a fact that surprises you. You reach to set a hand on hers, covering the perfectly manicured nails with fingers that still have flour in the creases. "Come now, Amber. They're still children - and they hardly have things under control as it is! I do think we should be letting them make their decisions, they certainly intend to. But there's no reason to act like our opinions wouldn't be useful to them. They're still looking to us. We don't have the answers; heck, I still don't understand what in the blazes happened! But we can at least do our darnedest to be there for them now. They might not want us, Amber, but I'd eat my best hat before I said they didn't need us."
She looks away at that, her hand tensing under yours, but she doesn't pull away. You consider that great progress and give her a charming smile. "Now have some breakfast before your pancakes get cold. You should never waste a good pancake, my mother-”
"Always said that." She finishes with you, her eyes bright and aware again and suddenly sad. "She loved to bake and cook."
"I always wondered how she knew you, when she'd talk to you on the phone for ages about the strangest things. I used to think she was just building an elaborate prank." You admit with a soft shrug. Your mother had always been a woman of her own mind - and it was always at least five steps into her next great gag. "She'd tell me different answers every time I asked - that you were old friends, that she'd met you in her dreams, that you were Cleopatra's reincarnation...." Amber laughs, bright and clear and it makes it easier to talk about your mom, because you still miss her and it still hurts, even now.
Even more now.
Amber starts in on her breakfast, one handed so she can keep her hand under yours. She doesn't lace her fingers with you or anything so sentimental as that - she just leaves her hand out and allows you the contact, you know, and if it so happens to make her happy to do so well all the better.
It's already better than your last (first) dinner date, where you'd sat and had tea as she tried to explain just what the devil was going on. Where she'd told you what your mother had only ever hinted at - that your boy was trying to, destined to, save the world. That this had all happened before with less...fortunate endings. Perhaps that's why Amber is so unperturbed by dying - certainly she hasn't woken with nightmares as you have these last few nights - she had time to be accustomed to the idea. She'd died before. You're still quite new to so many of these ideas you feel rather left behind.
You don't blame the others - the guardians, as they've dubbed themselves - for not warning you. You wouldn't have taken them seriously. Worse, you might have taken just enough for truth to hide John, to protect him somehow and instead could have ruined everything. He succeeded; he survived and brought you all back. Well. Almost all of you.
Amber interrupts your train of thoughts to ask what's wrong and when you tell her it's nothing she moves her hand at last - to smack your arm lightly.
"Don't be a fool. You stopped smiling. Something is clearly on your mind." She wraps her lips around her fork and another triangle of pancake in a... eye catching manner and then points the utensil at you. "Talk."
This wasn't where you expected this lunch to go, conversationally. You'd wanted... you'd wanted to talk about Amber. About her plans and her life and maybe perhaps if she'd be interested in a proper dinner date, at a restaurant somewhere once the children weren't quite so... excitable. You hadn't expected to be dwelling on your mother.
But Amber fixes you with a hard gaze and you doubt any prankster's gambit is going to get you out of the conversation, so you sigh and pour yourself a second cup of joe and give her an embarrassed smile. "I was wondering why the game didn't bring my mother back. I overheard Bro mention that Mr Harley was dead before the event and I suppose mentioning her now... well, my mind just started to wander. I'm sorry, I don't want you thinking you're a poor dinner companion."
Her lips press into a hard line and for a moment you fear you've insulted her, before she smooths her face back to her small, expressionless smile and it's her time to pat your hand, comforting. "I wish I knew why," she admits, her voice soft. "I would have loved to see her again. Mary - your mother - was very dear to me."
"John told me he'd brought her back. Somehow. In the game, called it a sprite." You want to scoff at the idea, but you know your son and if he says he did it must be true. After all you've seen it's hard to rationalize denial anyway. "I just keep thinking..."
"What you'd say if you could see her again?" Amber finishes the thought and the surprise in your eyes must be plain, because she gives you a smile - her first real one of the day, it reaches her icy eyes and warms them - "It's a pretty common thought for people who have lost someone close to them, or so Rose's magazines tell me."
You nod, but find you can't say anything. Your throat has closed in a most unmanly way and you need a second to clear it. That's all right, because Amber doesn't need a reply to continue.
"You'd tell her you loved her, of course." Her voice is surprisingly gentle, her eyes distant. She stands and makes her way away from you to the cupboard, clutching her coffee cup in one hand. She finds a bottle and tops the cup off with something potent, you can't tell what, and stirs by swirling the cup in her hand expertly. "You'd say you loved her. She'd tell you she loved you. What else is there to say?"
She doesn't sip from the cup. She drinks, heavily. It's barely noon - too early for this. But she's right and the knowledge burns through you - what would you have said? What could you have said? You should be happy John had the chance to speak to her, not regretting that you didn't get another five minutes to yourself.
You make your way to Amber's side, taking the cup from her hand and setting it gently on the counter. "You're right," you admit, your discontent settling and letting you focus on matters of now, of you and the beautiful woman in front of you who's such a brilliant mystery, a brilliant mind you want to get to know. "How is it you know exactly what to say as a man's mind tries to sabotage him? You were just as helpful in the other world."
"Practice and luck." Her lips twist to tell you you've hit another sore spot. "Not that I have the greatest track record. I suppose I'll be happy I was able to help you at all." She sighs, and reaches for her cup once again. "Perhaps it helps that I loved Mary, too. It's what I would have told her."
Your own mother must have been like a mother to her, you think. She must have grieved to lose her, which touches you deeply. You catch her hand before it picks up the mug again. And press your lips chastely to her fingertips, bowing over her hand.
"And if I said I think loved you, Amber Lalonde. What would you say to that?"
She fixes you with a glare that's so sharp it cuts to your soul. A moment later it softens, just at the edges, and you realize it was instinct more than a genuine reaction. You hold still nonetheless, breath caught in your throat and hopeful for the answer.
"I'd say you're finally showing where your madness comes in. You do realize we're all insane, I hope?"
You don't respond, because that isn't an answer.
Amber huffs, but a tiny smile works back across her features, fluttering and weak but there. "Well. I'd also say I'm not in the market for any sort of prince. Charming or otherwise. I've no time for romance."
You chuckle at that and straighten, meeting her eyes and tapping her nose with your forefinger, playful and light. Her eyes cross and you like that you can surprise her, that this woman who looks at the world as if it's all a day old newspaper doesn't quite know what to make of you. "Why Ms Lalonde. We've already died once, and this world just so happens to be remade fresh and new and unless you and the others are greatly holding out on me, there's no more strange obligations to fill."
Her eyes sparkle and you know you finally have her interest properly again. "Our children are not grown but I think it's safe to say they don't quite need us every minute of their day. I'd say the contrary, in fact. We are here, together, and planning what might become of the rest of our hopefully long and fulfilling lives. We have all the time in the world."
You move in to kiss her cheek, but Amber has other plans. She grabs your shirt at the collar and brings her lips to yours, fierce and breathtakingly sensual. The tang of whisky lingers around her breath and tongue, but you don't feel this is an appropriate time to complain.
There have been many ladies in your life to catch your eye, but you had John to worry over and even though you worry about him still you know he needs to handle things on his own as much as he can. And being kissed by Amber makes all of the other women seem like pale pastels, not even real compared to the stark shock of electricity in your arms. Sometimes you wonder about your own sanity - if you're not simply mad and safely locked away somewhere, or perhaps not, perhaps you're wandering the streets of a city, vagabond and frightening -
But Amber smiles at you when she breaks the kiss and smacks the back of your head. "I can hear you thinking. Stop it."
And then you kiss her, and of course this is real. You've never been a dreamer.
==>Be Karkat Vantas
This world keeps surprising you.
No. That's a shitty excuse for your own incompetence. You're so poorly prepared for this world, for these humans, that they keep catching you by surprise. The fault here is yours. The fault is always yours.
You're surprised when Equius attacks Gamzee - you shouldn't have been. You should have seen it was going to happen when you heard about their fight when Gamzee had arrived, when your best friend regained the scars he'd died with in the veil. You should have done something instead of thinking it would possibly be all right for one God damn night so you could maybe make a shitty attempt at sleep. Not fucking likely.
You're surprised when Eridan takes off into the night and again you know you shouldn't be. The troll was being smart for once in his miserable existence, except like hell are you letting him die out there and if this world is just some elaborate fake or scam you want every one of your group with you. You still remember that fucking prophecy and even if you want to tell the speakers to take their words of wisdom and shove them where moonlight should never shine, you'll hold onto any possible advantage, any hint, that you can.
You're surprised that the humans, blind and useless in the dark, bundle themselves in layers and hand you a coat despite your insistence you're fine and are ready to help you search for Ampora without even an order (or request) to that effect. You're embarrassed you need the help - your group should be able to look after yourselves - but after only one night your numbers are half strong - Equius, Gamzee and Tavros hurt, Vriska 'asleep', Nepeta unwilling to let her moirail out of eyesight. Factoring in that Sollux was still blind that was six right there. With Feferi staying with Sollux to keep track of everyone, it leaves just you, Terezi, Kanaya and Aradia to comb through unfamiliar woods in the chill. The humans double your numbers, double your chances of finding Eridan. You settle for being grateful and try not to be ashamed and promise yourself that when you find the bulgelicking idiot of a seatroll you’ll kick his ass all the way down the mountain to Lalonde’s. You don’t even think that you might not find him. He has to be found.
You’ve failed too many of your friends already.
The only thing that doesn’t surprise you is Feferi, once Eridan is found and settled and looking like a ghost on the dark leather of the couch. You’re arguing (again) with Terezi about guilt and judgement and God, she’s not well, you have to do something you just don’t know what – when that fucking Culling Fork appears and the silence that slams through the room is oppressive and thick and is trying to choke you on the memories of a thousand daymares. She does not fucking dare. Except she does and your sickles are in your hands, solid and reassuring even as she tries to smile and laugh and play it off as no big deal, just leave and let her gut Eridan the way she’s been carping about and give up every intention of being a leader, every one. Because if you let her do this you’re nothing, just a pawn to another fucking empress and who will be next, exactly? The humans are right that one death will just make the rest easier and you are not fucking letting that happen. Not again.
You step up to her and you’ll fight her if you have to – you won’t kill her but you’ll stop her and she sees it in your eyes when they meet hers and she tries to be so fucking reasonable. "Karkat. I don’t want to fight you; it’s only going to make prawnblems. Just flounder away, please?"
Those stupid come and go fishpuns, that godawful smile like she’s just asking for another grubcake or for a chance on the husktop. It makes your teeth crack as you grit them and spit out, "Funny, she says she doesn't want to fight and she stands there with her fucking culling fork out. I thought we settled this Peixes? Ampora's alive and he is staying that way.” You are not going to let anything happen to him. Because he’s part of your team and he’s your responsibility and he was your friend. You step in a little closer, knowing you’re challenging her just as much as she’s threatening you and you don’t care. “I think you're the one leaving now, or you're going to have the fucking problem. Are you going to challenge me?"
She doesn’t want to fight you – she tries to let you off, tries to promise that she’s not going to kill Eridan and you want to believe her but you don’t. You can’t make another mistake; you’re not going to fail Eridan -
But Ampora calls you out. He catches you because you’re not a quadrant of his and you might be willing to tell Feferi she can’t kill him but you know it’s a lost cause to say that the two can’t speak. Not if he’s fighting for it. Not if he’s so clearly intent to do so. If you have to stand guard over Eridan you’ll never be able to help everyone else. You won’t be able to talk to Terezi, speak to Equius, find something to help Gamzee.
Feferi puts the fork away and it’s not that you trust her – you don’t – it’s that if this conversation is going to happen you’d rather it happen under your own terms, your own rules, while you can remind her of the consequences. You’ll let it happen, because you’re the leader, and you’ll... be in earshot just in case you have to step in. You think it’s better to let them talk now than to be surprised yet again by another attack you should have been prepared for and weren’t, and Eridan is right – you don’t deserve to give him orders and expect them to be followed. You do it because you hope you’ll earn that right again.
Strider joins you minutes later, leaning on the opposite wall and watching you through his shades. You think he believes they make him unreadable or aloof but they just make him look like an idiot. You're about to tell him so, voice quiet so you can hear if Eridan calls for help (well, not for help. You doubt he'd sink so low. Calls out in general, then. In pain, probably), when he beats you to the punch.
"I'm disappointed. I mean, I know it's busy but hey, it's been a whole day and nothing. Don't you trolls have hazing rituals or anything?"
You stare at the human for a moment, and when an answer to what the fuck he’s talking about doesn’t magically appear you scowl and tell him exactly how much of a taintchafing idiot he is. "I am sure that statement made sense to your grublike mind, but if you're expecting an answer you should try for some fucking context, Strider. What the hell?"
He shifts a little, leaning on his shoulder against the wall so he can face you, radiating what he thinks is cool. "Terezi had me all hot under the collar, telling me you'd be reading me the trollish riot act for our interspecies sloppy makeouts or whatever. You know, act one: hurt her and I'll break your legs. Act two: make sure she's home by eleven..."
Dave's little inner monologue made verbal falters under the ice of your stare, until it's silent between you - the only sound the faint murmur of Feferi and Eridan in the room behind. When you are certain the idiot human is going to remain quiet you raise one finger to point viciously at his face. "While I should be blown away to see you standing there and thinking about yourself right at this exact fucking moment, I won't be, because we are all aware of how the world revolves around one Dave Strider and I'm sure all the little inconveniences that have kept us from speaking until now were all planned by the others just to piss you off."
He opens his mouth to retort and you don't even let him try. You can’t believe this is what he’s focused on. "There is only one act, you ignorant, incompetent nooksniffer, and I had no intention of reading it to you because I had held the clearly baseless fucking assumption that your tiny little mind could figure out exactly what I would do to you if you hurt her. I had actually given you enough credit to believe any such warnings would be unneeded and a waste of my precious time and breath, which clearly proves my own idiocy when dealing with your disgusting race over and over again." You glare until his mouth closes and continue, warming up to the subject now. "For the record, you are shithive fucking maggots if you think I'd stop at breaking your legs. I would tear them off and cauterize the wound to ensure you wouldn't bleed to death and then make you watch as I tore them into pieces, before shoving every morsel down your protein chute until you were gorged and only THEN would I move onto your whole bones, which you would be forced to suck down until they burst through your bile sac. I would stand and WATCH as the acid slowly ate its way through your body and left you screaming for the mercy that WOULD NOT FUCKING COME. I would ensure your last thoughts were how disgusting and worthless a creature you were for hurting her, and I would, no I will erase your name from all memory if you ‘hurt her’. Breaking your legs? You have to be fucking kidding me."
Dave's impassive. Immobile. Silent. The latter tells you you've scored a hit, the human speechless for once. He hopefully gets it. Terezi is important. She’s not something to just sit around and joke about, and if he’s going to be trying to court her he’d damn well better do it right. When he finally clears his throat it's with the visible attempt to clear the air too. "Right then. Don't fuck with Pyrope. A bit harsh, man."
You're deciding to let it go so he can keep some scrap of his dignity when Feferi appears, suddenly looking half a sweep younger and giddy - telling you to protect Eridan while she pats your shoulder and skipping down the hallway away from you when she's done. You and Strider look in on the room to see Ampora asleep on the couch. Dave meets your eyes behind his shades and informs you flatly “Trolls are seriously fucked up.”
You can't quite find the words to argue it with him.
You want to leave things at that - want to ditch Strider and curl up in a corner somewhere and just get a few minutes of rest until the next emergency, the next crisis. You know you can't. Was it ever this bad in the veil? Yes. You were just all joined by the common fear of getting culled and had the whole asteroid to explore and hide in. This hive might be large for humans, but you all feel cramped and closed in and it keeps everyone on edge. Even more on edge than they’d been there, before the killing started. Of course the problems are coming fast and furious. You just have to deal with them. Somehow.
Strider promises to keep an eye on Ampora. Since he has managed well enough so far you trust him with the task and move on to the next troll you need to deal with.
Zahhak and Nepeta are curled up in the back room that has become their block, Equius still clearly tired from his ordeal and Nepeta fussing over him for going to see Feferi in the first place. You straighten your back and step purposefully into the room and Equius looks up at you, his face a whorl of emotions you really hate that you can recognize. "Vantas." He greets you, always formal, with a little bow of his head and uncertainty in his eyes. You hate this hemospectrum obsessed musclebeast, at least in part because he's fucking pitiful, not to mention clueless and gross. But you owe him. You owe him more than you are ever going to repay, because your bad decisions, your desperation killed him and his moirail in the Veil, and then nearly killed him a second time by not realizing he'd go after Gamzee here - and then a third when you'd decided he was dead and couldn't be saved.
The pair are in a pile, Equius half buried and Nepeta curled and watching you with bright wide eyes. You try not to think about her corpse. She's alive now and you're going to keep her that way. "What happened with Makara, Zahhak?"
He tries to dissemble, burying himself a little deeper into the pile. "I don't wish to speak of it, Vantas." He doesn't meet your eyes. Sweat gathers at his temples, blue and damming.
You bite down on the urge to yell and you lean forward instead. You pitch your voice like the captain in your favourite drama ( ‘a tough fleet captain in an action drama’ might be better) and you don't gag at the sweat that suddenly covers his whole frame. "When did I ask you for your opinion, you frondpalming grub?" The blue blush that starts at his cheeks and slowly spreads across the rest of him tells you that you did the voice right. A part of you curls up and dies at the fact but it isn't important. You're not important here.
Nepeta makes a rare, tactful silent exit as you pace around Zahhak and his pile. She catches your eyes before she leaves and she smiles, which at least helps loosen the knot of self loathing that's growing in your chest. She knows her moirail best and she isn't stopping you and seems to approve. You aren't sure when her approval started to mean so much to you but it does. You silently promise to be worth it.
Equius needs prompting, wants it, so you play pissed off commander to the troll who would (will) kill you if he ever discovers your blood. He calls you sir and you drag the events from his lips and you hate that the one person who recognizes you as leader does it like this. it's almost a distraction from the horrific truth about Gamzee. You've never met the sober half, the part if the troll that saved Equius, at least not in person. You think you might have trolled him, in the in-between of Gamzee being his usual miracle spewing self and that point where he'd get fucking creepy. It's been bad enough to think of Gamzee having the subjugglator as a voice in the back of his head telling him to paint with your blood. At least Gamzee didn't seem to know it. He was almost his usual self. Trying to think of a part if him aware of what's going on, watching, the only thing he can do is eat his fucking pies...
You aren't aware of the way you're growling, low in your chest, until you hear Zahhak's breath catch and you look at him. He's watching you, every muscle tense like he's ready to fight, or maybe flee. He's almost vibrating except he's not moving, not at all, just sitting there and letting you loom over him and the realization is like a physical punch in the stomach.
He expects you to hurt him - he wants you to. He wants it because what he did was wrong, even if it was right, and that crazy honour code he lives (and died) by says that on Alternia he'd be hanging from his entrails for daring to attack a Highblood. Technically thrice. He wants retribution, more than what Gamzee paid him back, and you're his leader. It's your job. It's part and parcel of being Leader and you can't do it. Not while he's so fucking pitiful, not now. But you know he wants it so you sneer as he watches you and you turn the denial itself into the punishment and hope that's enough.
"You disgust me." Every time you walk around him his back goes tense but he doesn't stop staring straight ahead. You'd go mad, having someone like you at your back and not knowing what they were doing. He lets it happen.
"Sir."
"Don't 'sir' me. You barely have the right to call me that as it is, don't use it as some sort of rebuttal. If you're too incapable of an intelligent response, say nothing."
He says nothing.
"That's better. Now you are going to stop this culling nonsense and you'll obey your God damn orders and if you do that you'll be worth reprimanding. Until then you're just a grub." The speech is half stolen from a military movie but it works on Zahhak and that's all that matters. He wants orders. He wants to be told what to do. It doesn't matter that this isn't how you want to lead, what matters is this is how you need to lead him. It's time to stop expecting everyone to listen to you because you tell them to.
They'll listen to you because you're right. Because you know the way you need to speak to them, if you can keep a lid on your fucking temper. You can do this and so you will and no power in this whole fucked up cancerous universe is going to stop you.
Equius bows his head from where he sits like he can see the determination on your face, hear your thoughts. His one broken horn seems so out of balance with the other completely missing - you aren't even sure it will grow back. After a moment you reach out and fist a hand in his hair for just a second and he shudders at that small touch. It ought to give you a thrill of power but you know you still haven't earned it. You will though. You will. You pat his shoulder, not knowing how to end this, and your hand comes away damp. It still makes you sick, but maybe it's more of an annoyance than a clawing need to wash yourself right fucking now.
Equius looks up at you and you can see his eyes over his shades from this angle and no wonder he hides behind the dark glasses he's as obvious and open as a fucking book. He isn't even embarrassed, the way he would have been in the veil. Maybe it's because you came to him, did this without the usual runaround of him trying to goad you into it. Maybe dying changed him. Maybe he's just humouring you and your pathetic attempts at leadership.
"Thank you, Vantas." He holds your gaze steadily, like he can hear the loathing you keep loading onto yourself, and you end up nodding, choppy and short and awkward.
"Yeah well. Just remember what I said. I can't be spending all my time cleaning up everyone else's fucking mess here."
He smiles, small and crooked and missing teeth. "I don't intend to revisit my grievance with Makara. When his pies are done I expect you will deal with him. I have already proven myself incapable of the deed. Until such time, he will be allowed to live as he chooses. I give my oath on my bloodhonour."
You aren't so sure about the way he phrases it. For one thing it's not exactly the glowing recognition of your leadership you want to hear. But it's a promise at least - it's an oath and it's more than you've gotten from anyone else on Team Kill People. You know Equius will keep this, despite any promises he might have supposedly made before. This is honour and it's something the troll has always been good at, if nothing else.
Honour and robots and explosions, if you wanted to be specific.
The reminder about Gamzee - like you needed a reminder, except you did because you've been desperately trying not to think about it - makes you square your shoulders and nod again. This time a hell of a lot more solemn and focused. "I will deal with Makara when he runs out of pies," you promise, because out of everyone Equius deserves that the most. Maybe you'll be lucky and find some sopor, or some other way of keeping the troll under control. Maybe you'd reach God tier and just crush this whole world in your hand and start it all over. Stranger things have happened.
But if you can't, you'll deal with your best friend. You'll do it, yourself. Because you should have done it once before and failing him was always the point, you think, when it all went to hell.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you are not going to fail again. |
“I know that the police in Gotham are useless, or else they wouldn’t need us,” Bruce said mildly, glancing up as Jason emerged from the shower in gym shorts and a loose tee. “But you need to learn to use necessary force only out there, Robin.”
Jason made a face. Bruce was starting to get good at cataloguing these new faces, the faces of a Robin who wasn’t Dick. Jason’s involved a lot more pouting, in general.
“Necessary force,” Jason spat and leaned his ass against Bruce’s desk, almost knocking over a half empty cup of coffee, kicking his long legs out in front of him. He smelled like soap and rubber and toothpaste. “B.”
“You shattered that officer’s arm, Jay.” Bruce kept his voice soft, almost disinterested. Jason arced up like a cat when he thought he was being attacked. “He didn’t deserve that.”
Jason scowled off into the gloom of the cave, mouth turned down, lower lip on the verge of jutting out. Bruce was still in his suit, cowl pushed back from his sweaty hair and making his neck too warm. He needed a shower too, and some sleep. It was Saturday morning at least, they could both catch a few hours.
“Jason.”
“Deserve,” Jason repeated, and then twisted to look down at Bruce. “You know, I can tell you the name and badge number of every officer whose dick I sucked on the street to keep myself out of a cell.”
His eyes were narrowed and cold, and around them, in the space between one heartbeat and another, the cave froze over.
Bruce felt like his veins were full of ice. He couldn’t… there was not enough room in his body for air, not with the sudden cold fury that was filling him as he looked up at his Robin, his Robin. He thought, slow and stupid, he came from the streets, what did I expect, that he wore a newsie cap and picked pockets the whole time? He thought, slow and stupid, I should have known.
“If you tell me who they are,” he started, in a voice as brittle as glass, “I’ll-”
Jason laughed. There was a nasty cut on his lower lip from patrol, it had broken back open and sent a thin trickle of blood down his chin. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, the red looking very dark in the gloom of the cave. His mouth was starting to swell up.
“B, please. What do you think’s gonna happen?”
“They forced - forced you to-“
Jason looked almost pitying. He gave the pout that meant, aww, poor baby, and tossed his tangle of wet, black hair out of his eyes. “No one forced me to do anything. I’ve got this mouth, I just had to learn how to fuckin’ use it.” He shrugged, and bit his bottom lip, teeth pressing into the cut and sending a fresh stream of blood down his chin.
Bruce looked away.
He didn’t kill. But he could hurt.
“It’s not right,” he said, stiffly. “They took advantage of you, Jesus, how - how old?”
Jason sighed, and straightened up. “You know why I love being Robin? When I’m in the mask, I don’t have to give that away to anyone I don’t want to. You already did that for me, Bruce. You did a good thing. Don’t beat yourself up over the details.”
“Someone,” Bruce muttered between his teeth. “Ought to be getting beaten up.”
Jason laughed again. He smelled like blood, now, and - and teenage boy. Bruce stared at the computer monitor in front of him, at nothing.
“Oh shit yeah, B. Necessary force, right?” He moved around behind the back of Bruce’s chair, leaned in to watch the monitor with him. Bruce had up the profiles of the officers who had gotten in the way that night. Jason reached out, leaning over Bruce’s shoulder, and tapped the screen. “Fuckin’ necessary.”
Bruce stared at the grainy profile shot of the officer who was currently in hospital with an arm shattered into a million jagged pieces and thought, viciously, good.
“Go on up to bed,” he said, hoarsely. “Get some sleep.”
Jason hesitated, and moved around to the side again, back into Bruce’s line of sight. His long fingers were playing with the hem of his shirt, and his mouth and chin were smeared with blood, there was blood on the back of his hand, and his lips were huge and dark. “Bruce.”
“Jason, go to bed.”
“Yeah, okay.” He paused again, though, looking between Bruce and the monitor. “Hey, you did this for me. I don’t have to - no one gets this except who I wanna give it to.” He tapped his bottom lip. “Never again.”
“Never again,” Bruce agreed, and nodded stiffly. He meant that promise with everything in him, he meant it from his bones. “If you - hurt an officer from here out, I’ll assume-“
“Necessary force.” Jason nodded. “Yeah, I get it.”
His hand, the bloody one, dropped down hard of Bruce’s shoulder as he passed. “Thanks, B.”
Bruce sat, stiff in his chair, until he heard Jason’s footsteps fade away, and then for some time after that. The computer hummed at him thoughtfully,and he hummed back as finally some of the ice left his veins, replaced with a slow, sick burn. He worked steadily, calmly, building several layers of encryption around a folder, into which he put the dossier of Officer Glenn Boyd. Then he pulled up last week’s patrol records, found the cop he’d stopped Jason from throwing headfirst through a window, and added that, too.
There’d be more, and Bruce would find them.
The sun was up, and shining, by the time he pulled himself up the stairs and into bed.
~
Jason Todd was bright, always smiling, eager to learn, worked hard. He didn’t have the advantage of a circus background like Dick, but he brought other skills to the table. Dick had taken to the acrobatics of the fight like a duck to water, but Jason already knew how to throw - and take - a punch.
“You gotta learn to fight dirty in the Bowery,” Jason told him, after pulling off a nasty low blow that had almost caught even Bruce off guard, “or you stop learning pretty quick.”
“Who were you fighting?” Bruce tossed him a water bottle, looked away as Jason sucked half it down and then squirted the rest over his head, the back of his neck.
“Oh, you know, everyone. Older kids, drug dealers, pimps-”
“Pimps?”
Jason shrugged, all loose limbs and long, boyish muscle. “I liked to stand up for the corner girls, no one else did. And then a few tried to recruit me.” He grinned, and dragged his lower lip through his teeth. The cut, days old now, was a dark red smudge just off centre, his whole mouth was still a little swollen. “Didn’t take.”
Bruce frowned, awkwardly. “But the cops,” he started, and didn’t know how to continue. His blood still boiled and iced over in turns when he thought about that, about the way Jason had been used.
Jason lifted a shoulder. “That was different,” he said shortly. “Come on old man, fight me again?”
“You’ve had enough for today.” Bruce shook his head, and grabbed a towel from the pile Alfred had left for them. “Go ice up, no patrol tonight.”
Pout pout pout. It was almost funny. Dick had relished every night off, bouncing away whenever he got the chance, stealing Bruce’s cars and tearing through the city, taking a line out by himself on the rooftops. Jason, on the other hand, Jason always wanted to be working.
“If I can’t patrol I wanna train,” he said, and Bruce could tell he was trying to sound reasonable, adult, even though the effect was ruined by the exaggerated moue of his lips. “How else am I gonna get as good as you one day?”
“So is that the plan?” Bruce asked, already bending to him, giving in. Jason grinned and squared up as Bruce slowly slung the towel around his neck. His blood was still up. He wanted to keep going, too, even as a small, tinny siren started going off in the back of his head. Danger, danger.
“Yeah that’s the plan!” Jason exclaimed. “Robin 2.0, man. Bigger and better than ever, gonna take over the firm one day.”
“Oh, I see.” Bruce stepped up, got into a fighting stance. “Well in that ca-”
Quick as a flash, quick as lightning, Jason had ducked in, grabbed either end of the towel still around Bruce’s neck, and used it to pull him forward into a sharp, brutal headbutt. Bruce twisted away in an instant and put Jason down hard on the mats, but the damage was done, he could already feel his lip swelling, the blood beading up and dripping.
“Jesus Christ.”
“There,” Jason said in satisfaction, smiling up at him from his back, head tilted up and legs asprawl. “Now we match.”
“You’re too short to pull of that move,” Bruce shot back, to laughter. “You need to aim for the nose.”
“B, I got exactly what I was aiming for.” Jason popped back up like a jack-in-the-box, tossed his hair out of his eyes. “Again?”
His lip was throbbing. Bruce dragged the back of his hand over it, flicked the blood out onto the mat. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning back, even though it hurt, the stretch, and made the blood flow faster.
“Yeah,” he said, and nodded, sharp. “Yeah, again.”
~
Bruce spent his life in an abusive relationship with the city of Gotham and it was strange to see the same thing going on with Jason.
Dick - and Christ, everything Jason did was in comparison to Dick, still. Bruce didn’t know when that was going to stop, didn’t know how to stop it - Dick wasn’t a Gotham native and didn’t have any particular attachment to the place. He’d been happy enough to fly the coop, run away to another city, another state, start a new life like he was changing clothes. Jason, though, Jason was Gotham City to the blood.
“Leave the Bowery corner girls alone,” he was saying, quietly, as they perched on a rooftop casing out an abandoned strip club just off Crime Alley. “You think they do what they do for fun and profit? Be sweet to them, B, and they’ll be sweet to you.”
“How sweet do you think I need corner prostitutes to be to me?” Bruce wondered, peering through his binoculars into an upper window. No movement yet, but the drop wasn’t scheduled for another thirty minutes. “In particular.”
Jason let out a soft snort. “Not that kind of sweet, god.” He turned his back to gaze out over the rooftops and said in a voice just loud enough for Bruce to catch, “Fuck knows you could use it, though.”
“Robin,” Bruce snapped, schooling the smile away from his lips before Jason turned back to him. “Language.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
“‘As a bullet.” He cocked his head towards the club and passed over the binocs. “I’m checking the perimeter, you know what you’re looking for.”
Jason took them with a sigh, and moved into Bruce’s space, kneeling as Bruce stood, looking up at him with a smirk.
“Sure do,” he said, and bit his smirk away before turning back to business.
Bruce hesitated, looking down at him, his messy, windswept hair, the tiny, vulnerable sliver of skin high at the back of his neck that his armour didn't cover.
“I’m not in the habit of roughing up teenage girls,” he said quietly, before he left. “You know I wouldn’t.”
Jason shrugged and didn’t look back at him. “Yeah, well, everyone else is. If I’m not looking out for them who will? They see everything, anyway. Keep them safe, be nice to them, and they’d be great for recon.”
“You - you said they tried to recruit you.” Bruce didn’t know why he was asking. He was supposed to be checking and rechecking the area, checking the traps, the surveillance. Jason stilled, and then twisted, still on his knees, to look up at him.
“Yeah, well, it’s not just teenage girls out there,” he said lightly. “At least I knew how to take care of myself.”
Bruce felt every inch of his suit pressing into him, too tight, just tight enough, holding him together. Jason’s face was all mask and mouth. Bruce wanted…
He didn’t know what he wanted.
“Never again,” he said, remembering his promise.
Jason tilted his head to the side, pressed his lips together, and gave a thoughtful hum.
“Never again,” he agreed thoughtfully. “Unless I say so.”
That, Bruce thought, made all the difference.
“Watch your windows,” he said tightly, and turned away. “I’ll be back in five.”
“I’ll be here.”
Dick, Bruce thought, as he shot out a line and went flying over the rooftops into empty, back air, was never this kind of trouble.
~
It was his own fault.
Jason wasn’t the same kind of innocent as Dick had been, Dick who’d grown up safe and loved, a storybook existence, a whole community of people to take care of him, let him thrive. Dick had liked girls, sure, had chased after them with red cheeks and a slowly growing confidence in his own attractiveness, but he’d never lost that touch of something wholesome and sweet. Even as he got more violent, more withdrawn, even as his temper burned and flared and eventually blew him away from Bruce completely, he was still the sweet, earnest circus kid at heart, believing in the good in the world, believing that kisses always came freely given.
Jason, on the other hand, used his sexuality like a weapon, razor sharp and vicious.
“Gafrini wants to fuck me,” he said once, casually, as they planned to take out a minor drug lord and his budget group of goons. “Send me in first and I’ll distract him.”
“What?” they were in the cave, dressed down, and Jason was perched on the corner of Bruce’s desk as he watched Bruce work at the computer, making his plans. “I’m not using you as bait.”
Jason scoffed. “Pretty well armed bait.” He leaned in close and traced his finger across the screen, outlining a route through the blueprints Bruce was studying. “I’ll go in alone, let him think I got too cocky and came without backup. I’ll get him to corner me...here, in this office. You come around this way, he’ll be way too into me to know what’s going on. Take out his security here and here while I’ve got him distracted and it’ll be almost too easy.”
He sat up, looking proud of himself. “We’ll be home for ice cream in no time.”
“I said,” Bruce started, and coughed, staring at the screen. Jason was too close, he gave off heat like a fire, burning Bruce’s skin. “We said never again. You’d never have to.”
“Who says I have to? If it’s my choice it’s okay.” Jason studied him closely. “It’s a good plan. The less backup he calls in the less people get hurt. I know you don’t like needlessly hospitalising goons. I’ll have him where I want him and when he goes too far I’ll drop him. Soon as you clear the warehouse I’ll take him out, easy.”
“And what will you be doing in the meantime?” Bruce couldn’t believe they were even having this conversation. Dick - had drawn looks, but he’d been bemused by it, maybe a little disgusted. He’d never wanted to use it.
“Putting my mouth to work for once, I dunno.” Jason looked frustrated. “It’s a good plan. The whole point of Robin is to be a distraction, I already know he wants me, we’d be stupid not to use that. You’re the one always telling me to exploit every resource!”
“Your mouth is not a resource!” Bruce snapped, slamming his hand down hard on the desk and making Jason jump.
“In my experience, Bruce, yeah it is.” Jason slipped down and put his hands on his hips. His white tee stretched over his shoulders, over the muscle he’d been starting to put on on his chest since he’d been with Bruce. He’d come from the streets scrawny and wiry, but he was bulking up now, under strict eating plans ruined weekly with ice cream, with daily training, with care. His jaw was set, sharp enough to draw blood and his mouth…
Christ.
Bruce stared at his keyboard. “Robin is a distraction in a fight. You’re supposed to jump around with a yellow cape and be a smartass, not suck dick for a job.”
He regretted the words the microsecond they came out of his mouth, sneaking a quick, guilty look up at Jason’s shocked face. Jason, who’d let his lips fall open and his hands drop form his hips in surprise.
Jason, who was laughing.
“Bruce. You said a swear.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“And another one! Look, how fast do you think I move, anyway? I don’t suck dick on the first date, B, he’s gonna have to work a bit harder to get this Robin on his knees.” He reached out and clapped Bruce on the shoulder, and Bruce wanted to set himself on fire at the way the touch made him shiver. “Can you chill out about this? I’m not a kid.”
You’re nineteen, Bruce thought miserably. And you’re right.
“We’ll look at all our options,” is what he said out loud, on a sigh. “And...I shouldn’t have said that, Jason. I apologise.”
Jason just shrugged, and jumped back onto the desk. “Hey, it’s whatever. I guess I’m a different kind of Robin to Dick Grayson, huh?”
Bruce laughed dryly, and ran a hand over his eyes. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, you have no idea.”
~
“Damn.”
“No.”
Jason’s eyes were bright and his colour high with adrenaline as he watched after Harley, skipping away across the rooftops with Ivy and a tired promise from Bruce to leave it, for now.
“I wasn’t saying anything,” Jason protested. “I was just saying damn.”
“Well don’t,” Bruce snapped. “Not Harley.”
Jason raised his eyebrows. “Oh...kay,” he muttered and then, shrugging it off in that easy, careless way he had. “Let’s go eat, I’m starving. Were those hyenas? Fuck man, Gotham is so fucked up.”
The kid was nineteen, and Harley was beautiful, dangerous, and fucking insane. Bruce supposed he could forgive a single damn, under the circumstances, and let himself be convinced into burgers and milkshakes. Just this once.
~
“Okay, is Slade Wilson fucking hot or is it just me?”
Bruce was going to have an aneurysm
“Just you,” he muttered, holding a thick wad of gauze to the superficial bullet wound (just a graze, he reminded himself, he might as well have tripped over) in Jason’s side. “Do we need to put you in for psychiatric evaluation, Robin? The man just shot you.”
“I mean, yeah.” Jason was stretched out in the back of the car, eyes closed, bits and pieces of his uniform scattered around the interior. “Yeah, but like. He’s fucking sexy.”
“You’re delirious,” Bruce informed him, forcing himself to be gentle as he checked the bleeding, dabbed antiseptic on the wound. The autopilot had them almost back to the cave, he could do more in the infirmary, check for infection, fever, shock.
Jason laughed.
“Never been shot before. It’s not so bad, actually? Doesn’t hurt so bad.”
“I’ve pumped so many painkillers into you you think Slade Wilson is attractive,” Bruce said dryly, “So don’t go making a habit of it.”
Jason just laughed some more. “First Harley, now Slade. Who am I allowed to be attracted to in this town, Bruce?”
“Eliminating my rogues gallery would probably be a good place to start.” Bruce sat back on his heels, looking at the sleepy, high, half naked Robin sprawled out in front of him. “Go find yourself a nice girl at a roller rink or whatever kids these days do.”
Jason smiled faintly. “Or a nice boy.”
“Or a nice boy,” Bruce allowed, and looked away. “Just not Deathstroke, please.”
“Hmm.” Jason stretched, and then winced as it pulled on his wound. “Hey B? Does it bother you?”
“He’s a bad man, a murderer and a thief, and an asshole. Yeah it bothers me.”
“No.” Jason frowned and kicked Bruce softly in the thigh. “Not that. That I like boys too.”
Bruce let out a long sigh, and made himself look at Jason’s face. He wasn’t very good at being a...father figure, or pseudo-father figure, or mentor or whatever he was trying to be with these kids. But he knew enough that this was important.
“No, Jay, that doesn’t bother me. I promise you that. Just your taste.”
Jason’s smile looked fainter. He was on his way out, the endorphin crash and the pethidine working against him. “I bet Dick Grayson just likes girls, huh,” he said, almost slurred. “I bet he was a good boy. Good Robin.”
“You’re a good Robin too,” Bruce whispered, but Jason, Jason was already out.
Bruce told himself, as he switched out the gauze and checked Jason’s pulse, clinical, professional, detached, that it was probably for the best.
~
Bruce wasn’t stupid, and it didn’t take him too long to start wondering whether Jason was deliberately turning the well mined resources of his mouth on him because he wanted something, or if it was just an innocent teenage crush.
Someone like Jason - a kid like Jason - didn’t expect to get anything for nothing. Bruce worked him hard, but he’d still been plucked from the streets to live in the lap of luxury. Also he got to beat up cops pretty much whenever he pleased. Bruce supposed it was reasonable for him to expect a price somewhere. But Bruce didn’t know how to tell him that being Robin was the only price Jason needed to pay. He thought Dick could probably explain it better, but he wasn’t ready for that yet. The two of them together.
But despite all the little touches, the casual innuendo, the brief, heated glances thrown his way, Bruce thought it was an honest mistake when he came down to the cave early one night to find Jason leaning against the car with his shorts around his thighs, jerking himself off with his head thrown back in ecstasy and one hand scrabbling desperately at the paint.
Bruce got maybe half a second to commit everything to memory before he made a low, hurt noise in his throat, startling Jason’s eyes and mouth open. He got to see the long, lean lines of him shaking with tension, he got to see the tendons in his neck standing out in effort, the red flush on his cheeks and throat, disappearing into the low neck of his tee. He got to see the quick, frantic jerk of his arm, muscles bunching, got to see the pink, wet head of his cock, leaking out onto long, callused fingers.
Got to see it, and then put it away.
“Bruce.”
Jason sounded shocked and breathless and so close to coming that Bruce ached for him. He was frozen still, a deer in the headlights, with just enough presence of mind to cup his hand over the head of his cock, pushing it against his belly where he had his tee pulled up over his abs. Bruce couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, and he knew he had to, time rapidly falling away from under him and if he didn’t look away, turn away, apologise and leave the room, he was going to do something terrible.
“Fuck, Bruce?”
Jason’s voice was low and hoarse, tentative. Hopeful. He was still hard, hips still twitching a little, desperate to push into the wet grip of his hand. Bruce allowed himself the wild fantasy of dropping to his knees for him, hated it, hated himself, and finally, just as Jason started to slowly, hesitantly move his hand under the scrutiny of Bruce’s gaze, turned around.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and heard a noise of pure, animal frustration behind him.
“Oh, god,” Jason moaned, and yes, Bruce could move fast when he needed to, was out of the cave in a heartbeat, back up to his rooms, and if he stood under the brutally hot cascade of water from his shower for long enough he was almost sure that he’d forget the sound of Jason’s impending orgasm.
Nineteen is not a child, an ugly, viciously pragmatic part of himself whispered in his ear. He braced both hands against the tile, face under the spray. His cock was thick and heavy, half hard and begging for a touch. Jason had been pink and damp and fresh, his mouth sweet and slack and so plush Bruce wanted to sink into it.
Nineteen may as well be a child, he thought, and turned the shower to cold, let the icy water pierce his skin like a million tiny needles.
Never again.
~
It was an hour before Bruce let himself go back down to the cave, consciously letting his tread fall heavy on the stairs to telegraph his approach. He needn’t have bothered. He found Jason scrubbed clean and pink on the workout mats in loose grey sweats, his hands and feet strapped, kicking the shit out of the punching bag. Bruce paused in the entrance, watching with his hands fisted deep in his pockets. Jason was good with his legs, strong, each kick powerful and precise. There was a fine sheen of sweat covering his skin, and his hair was wet, falling in his eyes and being impatiently flicked out every few kicks.
“You need a haircut,” Bruce said, voice surprisingly loud in the quiet. “Or you need to start tying it back.”
“It’s fine,” Jason said, and was immediately proved wrong when he had to toss his head again. “It’s not so bad when I’m in the mask.”
“Hmm.” Bruce wandered a little closer. Jason smelled like peppermint body wash and sweat. He kept his eye on the bag.
“You’ve got good form, kickboxing suits you,” Bruce said, lowly. “I’m gonna mix some taekwondo and savate into your training.”
Jason paused to catch his breath, and the bottle of water Bruce tossed his way.
“What the hell is savate?”
Bruce smiled. “Boxe française, French boxing. Based on a street fighting style, with a focus on kicking, long extensions.” Bruce squared up to the bag and demonstrated a few moves, feeling Jason’s attentive gaze on him. “Not very fashionable, but very effective.”
Jason hummed, tried to copy Bruce’s movements. He was passable after only a few tries, and Bruce itched to put his hands on him, correct his stance, his form.
He couldn’t stop thinking, though.
“I’ll revise your training plan,” he said roughly after a minute, hands shoved back in his pockets. “Okay?”
“Bruce.” Jason was staring at the floor, and Bruce’s heart skipped a beat or two, knowing, knowing what was coming next. “I, uh…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bruce cut in quickly. “It’s fine.”
“No, I am, I’m sorry.” Jason peeked up at him through his bangs. “Not my finest hour.”
“Probably better places in the mansion to do it,” Bruce agreed, and forced a small smile. “It’s fine. It’s forgotten.”
Jason nodded, but still looked wary, embarrassed, spots of red dancing high up in his cheeks. “I don’t wanna mess things up,” he said quietly. “With us, you know?”
“Hey.” Bruce felt, not for the first time, not for the first time even that night, like the worst person alive. “You haven’t. Remind me to tell you what I caught Dick doing in the Porsche one time. Cost a fortune to get the interior cleaned.”
Jason cracked a smile at that, still embarrassed, but looking a little easier with it.
“Oh, god.”
“Yeah. And I mean,” Bruce coughed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Alfred’s been washing my sheets my whole life. We’ve got a gentlemen’s agreement to never mention it.”
Jason laughed, and seemed to take a deep breath. “Yeah, okay, sure. If that’s - sure.”
Bruce nodded and forced himself to reach out and clap Jason on the shoulder like it was nothing, like it was easy. His skin was hot and damp, and Jason looked up at him through his bangs, with his fat mouth open and wet, his eyes wide, and Bruce felt it like a punch in the gut.
“Get dressed,” he said hoarsely, “let’s go on patrol.”
Jason paused, staring up at him, breath heaving in his chest, muscles tense and shaking.
Bruce had never wanted to kiss anyone more in his life.
“Okay,” he agreed, nodding slowly. “Okay B.”
And he stepped away, slowly, like he did not want to do it, and walked towards the dressing rooms.
~
“Dick Grayson is a fucking joke.”
Bruce hardly had time to look up, to see Jason storm in with his mask off and his eyes red, before Jason was gone again, slamming up the stairs with a crash, throwing his case into a corner as he went.
So that had gone well, then.
He waited a few minutes before following Jason up, gathering himself for whatever inevitable storm was to come. He changed out of the Suit, first, even though a part of him wanted the armour. He’d learned somewhere along the way that some conversations should be had as the Bat, and some...really not.
A last look at the flash of Dick’s tracking beacon, coming now from within the mansion, and he slowly headed up to Jason’s room.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, good, I hate talking.” Bruce leaned against Jason’s door frame, looked at the lump of Kevlar and messy curls facedown in the bed. “Dick always said I was better at brooding.”
Jason twisted to look over his shoulder, face full of storm clouds.
“Fuck Dick.”
“Hey.” Bruce walked in a few steps, relocating himself to Jason’s desk chair. “You gonna tell me what happened?”
For a minute, he thought that Jason wasn’t, that he was going to sulk all night, staring at his ceiling. Bruce was getting ready to get up, try again later, when Jason spoke.
“He doesn’t care.”
Bruce sighed. “Dick has always cared too much,” he said, gently. “Just not always about the things I wanted him too.”
Jason looked at him sideways. “You guys had a real big fight, huh?”
“It...could have gone better,” Bruce said uncomfortably. “Yeah.”
“Yeah, but even so…” he looked frustrated, hurt. “He’s Dick Grayson. He’s the original Robin, I thought he was gonna be so cool, but he just…”
“He’s more than just Robin, Jay, and so are you,” Bruce reminded him. “He’s a grown man, too. He’s got his own life now.”
“Then why has he been traipsing around the country in a fucking Robin suit?” Jason snapped, bitterly. “It’s mine -“
He cut himself off, looked a little mortified at what he’d been about to say. Bruce kept quiet, waiting.
“If he wants to be Robin, then he should be Robin,” Jason eventually continued, quietly. “And if he doesn’t, then he should shut up and let me do it.” He sat up, and took something out of one of his pouches, held it out to Bruce. It was Dick’s tracker.
“He doesn’t want it.”
Bruce ran a hand over his face before reaching out, hand steady even as Jason’s fingers brushed his palm. “He’s not obligated to have it,” he said, hoarsely. “Neither are you.”
The look Jason shot him was incredulous. “You gave him everything, and he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want you.”
“Jay…”
“But I do.” Jason bit his lip, eyes on the floor. “I want you, Bruce.”
“You want Robin,” Bruce corrected. “And you’ve got him.”
A soft laugh. “Yeah, sure.”
Jason was silent for a minute, a flush high up on his cheeks. His mouth was very full, and very red, and Bruce had to draw on years of training to keep his breath even and his heartbeat steady.
I want you, Bruce.
After a few minutes, Jason sighed and went on.
“You know, he yelled at me? I...hurt a cop. Pretty bad.” He snuck a glance up through his lashes, not guilty but trying to look it. Bruce just gestured for him to go on. “He said there was no way you could be okay with that, like he...like he knows us. Like he had the right.”
“Did you tell him?”
“No, I told him he was pathetic and walked out.” A twitch of a smile, then. “I lost my temper, B, but I just...I don’t get him. I wanted to get him.”
He was so obviously torn. Bruce regretted sending him out, even though he’d been so sure it would be good for them to meet, for both of them. The jealousy...should have been expected, really.
“Dick’s a good man, Jason,” he started. “And he was a good Robin. But he’s just a man, same as me, same as you.” He leaned across the space between them, caught Jason’s eyes, and casually tossed the tracker in the bin. Jason appreciated grand gestures, symbols, tangible declarations. “And now you’re my Robin, okay?”
Jason’s mouth was hanging open, eyes wide and a little wet. He was panting softly, and Bruce couldn’t stop himself from studying him, the elevated heartbeat, the dilated pupils, that mouth, swollen and so soft it was all he could do not to touch.
“I’m yours,” Jason repeated, and tilted his head, looked Bruce in the eye. “B.”
Bruce had to go,
“Get some sleep,” he said, roughly. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“B, wait.”
Jason was reaching for him again, for his hand, catching his sleeve.
“Jay…”
“Never again, right?” And with his free hand he tapped his bottom lip twice, held it there. “Unless I say so.”
Bruce had to escape, but he was frozen, standing in the middle of Jason’s room, with Jason in his fucking bed, that tight, tenacious grip on his sleeve, those huge eyes locked to his. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe and he knew without a shadow of a doubt what Jason was seeing on his face.
I want you.
“I’m saying so, Bruce,” Jason whispered, and Bruce let himself draw one ragged gasp in, eyes falling closed.
“Goodnight, Jason.”
The door shut quietly behind him, and the walk to his own room stretched into a mile and all he could see was Jason’s face, triumphant, because he knew.
He knew.
~
Slade Wilson was back in Gotham, and Bruce was going to goddamn kill him.
Well, no, he wasn’t. But he was going to enjoy coming close.
“You got a new Robin, Bat.” Slade’s face was pushed up against a brick wall, shock of white hair gripped in Bruce’s armoured fist, but he didn’t seem too cut up about it. “You just picking these pretty boys up off the streets or you growing them in a lab or what?”
“Shut your mouth,” Bruce muttered, too angry to be original, and smacked Slade’s face hard into the bricks before ducking a stray elbow, dancing back out of range.
“Ooh, touchy. You fucking this one? Cause I gotta say, Bat, the mouth on that kid is criminal, wouldn’t blame you for having a ta-“
The heel of Bruce’s boot came around in a wide arc and smashed into Slade’s jaw with a satisfying crunch. Slade went flying backwards, bounced off the wall and hit the ground, and Bruce didn’t hesitate.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” he growled again, and let his fist add to the damage, working the weak point of Slade’s jaw as Slade grunted and laughed.
“Fuck, Bat,” he slurred through a mouthful of blood. “If you’re not using it maybe I’ll have a go. See what those lips can do.”
The next punch knocked him out. Bruce, ice in his veins, shattering through his bloodstream, didn’t let that stop him.
Later, after Robin had swung in and informed him that the police were on their way and so was an ambulance and holy shit, B, you fucked him up, after they’d taken the car back to the cave in thick, stony silence, after they’d both showered and Alfred had taken one look at his swollen, bruised hands and thrown him some ice before heading to bed, after the reports had been written and the adrenaline had finally died down, after all that…
Jason cocked his head.
“So you really went to town on Deathstroke tonight, huh,” he said, mildly. He was in his standard post patrol clothes, loose sweats, an oversized tee, hair damp and curling over his eyes. Even in the chill of the cave he looked warm and pink, scrubbed clean and fresh as a peach.
Bruce looked, and looked away.
You fucking this one?
“He deserved it,” he said tightly. “He’ll heal.”
“Well yeah, B, they all deserve it,” Jason said, parking himself on his corner of Bruce’s desk and looking down at him with shadowed eyes. “But I mean…”
Bruce let out a long sigh. Maybe I’ll have a go.
See what those lips can do.
“Call it,” he started, voice rough, a low rasp in the dark of the cave. “Call it necessary force.”
Jason smiled, a sharp quirk of his mouth. “Oh I see,” he hummed, nodding. “How necessary, B?”
Bruce held his gaze. The heat coming off all that soft, fresh skin was like a bonfire. Bruce wanted to bask in it, wanted to dive into it and just let himself burn. His knuckles were throbbing, his head was pounding, and he wanted, oh, god, he wanted.
“Very fucking necessary.”
“Bruce.”
The first slide of Jason’s fingers over the back of his hand sent Bruce’s heart into overdrive. He twitched, before he could stop himself, and Jason made a soft, soothing sound, rubbed the pad of his middle finger over Bruce’s swollen, bloody knuckles. “It’s okay,” Jason said. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not,” Bruce sighed, and they both stared at their hands, Bruce’s lax on the desk, gently bleeding, Jason’s smooth and brown, long, unmarred fingers rubbing over the torn skin.
“Does it hurt?”
Bruce almost laughed. “Yeah.”
There was a moment, he thought, where he could have stopped.
A second ago, thirty seconds ago, a week, a month. A million moments, and he’d just closed his eyes and blazed past them all.
He turned his hand over and let Jason touch his palm.
“Let me,” Jason started, voice a little shaky, and then didn’t seem to know how to continue. He traced bloody streaks over the meat of Bruce’s palm, the base of his thumb, down his wrist.
The cave was silent and dark around them, just the light from the computer creating a small, private island around the desk. Jason’s lashes cast shadows halfway down his cheeks, his jaw was sharp enough to cut, lined in the blue glow from the monitor. His mouth, oh god, his mouth. Bruce could feel his resolve crumble away like ash, and he knew he was lost, knew he was Jason’s. Had been Jason’s, even when he couldn’t admit it to himself. It felt like looking down and seeing the earth had fallen away from under him without him noticing. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Just let me.”
And Bruce did.
Jason lifted Bruce’s hand, cradled carefully in his own, and pressed his lips to Bruce’s knuckles. Bruce hissed, softly, and Jason glanced up and smiled.
“Don’t be a baby,” he murmured, and Bruce’s blood was on his lips.
“Jay…”
“Yeah, B.”
Jason kissed him again, opened up his fingers and pressed kisses down each of them in turn, his lips pushing in like cushions, like something plush and opulent. So out of place in the cave, like they’d always been. Too lush, warm, vital. And so, so soft.
“We can’t,” Bruce said, stupidly, and Jason just smiled.
“We already are,” he said, and kissed the inside of Bruce’s wrist. Bruce shivered; he could feel his pulse pounding against Jason’s mouth, slamming through his veins
“We shouldn’t,” he amended, like it meant anything.
Jason shrugged. “Says who?” He turned his attention back to Bruce’s knuckles, peppering them soft, sucking kisses. “I don’t think we need to listen to anyone outside this cave, Bruce.”
“You don’t listen to half the people in this cave, either,” Bruce muttered, and Jason laughed, light and easy and everything Bruce wasn’t.
“Neither do you. How long have I been saying, B?” He let go of Bruce’s hand, and the absence of touch was like a slap, until then he was twisting, sliding down off the desk and onto Bruce’s lap. Warm and solid and sweet, thighs straddling Bruce’s, palms pressed to Bruce’s chest.
“I want you.”
Bruce swallowed and carefully set his battered, shaking hands on Jason’s narrow hips. “I know.”
“And do you want me?”
Bruce closed his eyes. Jason gazing at him wide eyed and eager, so painfully hopeful that Bruce could hardly stand it. He wanted him so bad it was killing him. Wanted him with every cell in his body, with every breath he took, with every heartbeat.
“Yes,” was all he whispered, heartfelt, and Jason’s hands slipped up his chest and looped around the back of his neck.
“Yeah I know, B.” It could have been smug, but instead it just felt like permission. “Will you kiss me now?”
Bruce - still - hesitated. He looked down and smoothed his hands up over Jason’s hips to his waist, rucking his shirt up a little until he could feel warm skin under his palms. Jason squirmed on him a little, like it tickled, and Bruce could taste his heart in his throat.
“Or,” Jason continued, voice low in Bruce’s ear, “Do you need me to kiss you? Do you need me to take the choice away from you, do you need it to be me, because I can, B, I-”
No.
One hand reaching up to tangle in Jason’s hair, the other curling strong around his back to pull him in, Bruce crushed their lips together at last, at last. Swallowing the soft, surprised moan, he kissed Jason like they were both dying, open mouthed and wet, licking over his lips, sucking and biting. He wouldn't be a coward in this, he thought fiercely, if he was going to jump off the cliff he was going to do it with his eyes open.
Jason tasted like red Gatorade, sweet and salty, and he gave back just as good as he got. He’d been waiting too, maybe for longer even than Bruce, for this kiss. He pushed his tongue into Bruce’s mouth, messy, sloppy, too hard and too much, clawing at Bruce’s neck to draw him in and keep him there.
“B,” he moaned into Bruce’s mouth, over and over. “B, please.”
Don’t let me go, don’t push me away, please let me have this.
Bruce was done with pushing him away. He wanted to wrap him up, smother him, fold himself around that perfect body like a bomb shelter and hold him tight and steady and safe. He settled for tightening his grip, deepening the kiss, pouring everything he had into it.
And then Jason twisted on his lap, dropping his hips and dragging his ass in a slow, dirty slide over Bruce’s crotch, and Bruce froze up again.
“Jay, wait.”
“Why?” Jason did it again, strong thighs flexing, hands going to Bruce’s shoulders for balance. “Feels good.”
“I don’t want…” God, he was hard, aching, and he could feel Jason’s hardness meeting him. Had a brief flashback to that pink, wet cock, the flush in Jason’s cheeks as he built towards orgasm, the hitch in his breath.
They were almost there already.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he blurted out, and Jason smiled against his mouth, lips shiny-wet and full to bursting from kisses.
“If you try to hurt me,” he said, low and soothing, “I will shatter your fucking arm.”
Bruce groaned and dropped his head back, cock pulsing in his pants, throbbing. Jason just kissed along his jaw, down over his chin, sucked at his neck.
“If you hurt me I’ll break every bone in your back,” he promised, grinding in Bruce’s lap, licking at his collar bone. His back was in an obscene arch, long limbs everywhere, hair a wild, dark tangle of curls. “I’ll destroy you, B.”
It was a warning and a reassurance, and all Bruce needed. He swept his hands up Jason’s sides, taking his tee with them, and stripped it over his head before pushing him back against the desk.
“I’ll hold you to that,” he murmured, and leaned forward, Jason’s hands scrabbling in his hair, to taste the skin of Jason’s chest. Jason was gasping, heart fluttering like a bird in the fragile cage of his ribs.
“You won’t need to,” he breathed. “I swear it, Bruce.” He was tugging at Bruce’s hair fretfully, restlessly, and his hips were still pushing up trying to rub his cock against Bruce, against anything. He was so fucking gorgeous in his desperation that Bruce’s own need faded into the background.
“Let me,” he started, and paused, licking his lips and catching the edge of one of Jason’s small, pink nipples. “Tell me,” he corrected himself. “Tell me what you want.”
Jason laughed in disbelief. “Are you kidding? Anything, fuck, I’m so-”
Close, Bruce thought, and smirked to himself as Jason reddened, looking away. Already. Jesus fucking Christ, he was gorgeous.
“Watch your mouth,” he said, quirking an eyebrow, and Jason laughed again.
“You watch my fucking mouth,” he breathed, and grabbed one of Bruce’s hands, sliding it up until he had two fingers pressed against those plush, soft lips. “Like you always are,” he added, before pushing Bruce’s fingers in and sucking.
Bruce’s cock twitched, spurted precome into his boxers, the reaction helpless and automatic. Jason’s mouth was wet, hot suction, the slick slide of his tongue lapping against the rough pads of Bruce’s fingers, against his sore, torn knuckles, and out of nowhere Bruce felt like he was close. Like he could just fuck his fingers between Jason’s lips and push his hips up against his ass and come for him, just like that.
Like this beautiful, dangerous, wild-eyed kid had him on a goddamned string.
“Everyone’s watching your mouth,” he said, voice rough. “All the fucking time, Jason. Slade-” he broke off as Jason bit him, sharp teeth catching at his broken skin, and then twisted his head to spit Bruce’s fingers out.
“What about Slade?”
“Tonight, he said...he was talking about you.”
Jason went even redder, embarrassed and pleased, and Bruce nearly growled, hauling him back in close, possessive. “He got what he deserved.”
“You jealous, B?” Jason whispered, and then he was frantic again, hands everywhere, tugging at Bruce’s pants, pushing them down, grasping for his cock. “Is that why you fucked him up so bad? For me?”
“He deserved it,” Bruce repeated, and then surged up, lifting Jason and setting him on the desk, crowding over him. He had to kiss him again, had to feel. He pulled at the waistband of his sweats until they were halfway down his thighs, reached in and wrapped a hand around him as Jason groaned, trying to spread his legs in invitation. “Fuck Slade Wilson.”
“Fuck me instead.” Jason pushed his cock up into Bruce’s grip, hot and wet and smooth, hooked a leg around his waist and tugged him still closer. “I want it, B, just you, I swear to god. I think about it all the time, you fucking me, in the car, in the cave, out in the middle of fucking Gotham. I want you to fuck me on the streets, in an - in a dirty fucking alleyway up against the wall, on a rooftop. You’ve got no idea how many times I wanted to sneak into your room at night and just ride you, oh fuck B, please.”
“Jesus Christ, Jason,” Bruce muttered, stroking Jason steady and fast, palm sticky with precome. “The mouth on you.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” Jason panted. “Yeah, it’s fucking filthy the things I wanna do to you, want you to do to me.” He was writhing in Bruce’s grip, twisting his hips, chasing the sensation. “I wanna...can I…” He blinked hazy eyes up at Bruce and licked his lips. “I really wanna come while I’m sucking your dick. I wanted to - ah, fuck B, I wanted-”
He was right on the edge, and Bruce, Bruce had to - he shoved his free hand down his own pants, palming at his cock. “Fuck, Jay” he panted, leaning in close and mouthing at Jason’s ear. “Next time, I’ll take your mouth next time I swear, just come for me now, come on.”
Jason nodded frantically, eyes slipping closed. His whole body was tensed and hard, breaths coming in quick, sharp heaves. “Yeah, B, like when you caught me, I jizzed all over myself before you even left the room and it was all for you oh, oh, Bruce-!”
And that was it, he was pumping in Bruce’s tight grip, cock pulsing and spilling all over Bruce’s fist and his own stomach. And Bruce couldn’t stop himself, Jason hadn’t even finished before he had his own sweats shoved down and was pushing his cock against the sweet, damp crease of Jason’s thigh.
“Can I,” he managed, and Jason just pulled him in, whispered yes, yes, and please B, and come on me, and they were kissing again, Jason slack and soft and oh, god. Bruce fucked against him and ate his mouth and he could feel it building, months of tension, months of desire. He’d wanted this for so long and now he had it, Jason’s body, Jason’s mouth, Jason open and yielding against him.
“Give it to me, Bruce,” Jason whispered in his ear. “And then take me to bed so we can do it again.”
Bruce’s hips stuttered, his cock skittering up over the flat, smooth planes of Jason’s stomach. “Tell me you want this,” he panted, “Say it again.”
“God, I can’t, I’ve gotta-” Jason pushed at him, right on the precipice of coming, and dropped gracelessly to his knees, caught between Bruce and the desk. Bruce was trembling, looking down at his upturned face and open mouth. “Want this too bad, need to taste you,” Jason breathed, almost apologetically, and wrapped a hand around Bruce’s cock, brought the wet, dripping head to his lips. ‘Here.”
Three pumps, four, and the sweet suction of Jason’s mouth around the very tip of his cock, and Bruce was gone.
He came against Jason’s lips, over his chin and cheek, watching as Jason groaned and closed his eyes, pink tongue out to lap at the drops. He came like it was killing him, heart seizing up and muscles locking, and everything was Jason.
Every part of him, every inch of him, belonged to Jason.
~
Jason was in the gym, pummelling the bag with fists and feet, when Bruce walked in. He’d pushed a sweatband up over his forehead to keep his hair back, and it was flying around like crazy as he spun and danced, strikes landing with brutal accuracy. He’d never be as aerobatic as Dick, Bruce thought, but he didn’t need to be. He was perfect.
“Hey,” Bruce said, approaching slowly as Jason wound up. “You’ve been working on those new moves.”
Jason looked at him around the bag, and executed a perfect three kick combo, keeping his right foot extended up above his head for a few seconds before dropping it, showing off just a bit. “Yeah,” he said, panting. He was dripping with sweat, breathing hard. “That French shit, the savate.”
“Looks good.” Bruce moved in close, took in the flushed cheeks and chest, the slight tremble in hs muscles. “You got a little bit more in you?”
Jason smirked.
“Always,” he promised and before he could react, Bruce came in quick with a grapple, bearing him down to the mats. Jason countered fast, a lot faster than he’d been, but he was exhausted, and after a few moments Bruce let up.
“Come on, come here,” he said, tilting his head and urging Jason back up. “Come here.”
Jason sprung back up into a flip, ducked around to Bruce’s back, and that was Bruce’s chance. He knew how to manipulate a fight. He knew how to lose.
A second later, Jason had him back down and in an armbar, thighs braced over his chest, grip tight on Bruce’s wrist and hand as he bent his arm back and through the point of pain.
Bruce grinned into the mat.
“You could break it,” he gritted out, struggling a little to test Jason’s hold. Jason twisted, pulling back a little harder.
“Fuck you.”
“Finish up down here and come up to my room,” Bruce suggested, keeping the tension in their bodies, keeping the pain. “If you want.”
“Man, fuck you.” Jason let him go and collapsed backwards, laughing breathlessly. Bruce’s arm was throbbing, and he could see the way Jason was starting to tent his shorts.He propped himself up on his elbows. “I know how to say ‘no’, you realise. I don’t actually need to break your fucking arm, old man.”
“I like knowing that you can,” Bruce said, getting up. “You coming? I got a lead on a dirty cop cartel operating out of the Bowery, after we can go hunting.”
“B, you say the sweetest fucking things to me.”
And Jason, high on endorphins and adrenaline, filthy with sweat and so fucking sweet it hurt, beat him to the door. |
Shinsou stands beside the gates, his business now finished.
He continues to look up towards the building, all the windows dark except for one: Kaminaris. The light is still flickering inside, inhabited by one bumbling idiot and his bumbling idiot friends. This evening has shaped Shinsou into a bigger man than he was yesterday, therefore he can safely admit to himself that he really wants to be in there. He had hoped Kaminari would ask him to stay for awhile, and at one point it seemed plausible that their night might have gone in that direction, but Kaminari has other friends he has to pay attention to.
He has a girlfriend he has to pay attention to, Shinsou reminds himself. He turns away. Shinsou was taken by surprise when he walked into the bedroom and the whole group was in there, but one presence shook him the most. That presence was Jirous.
Jirou had stared right back at him like she expected him to be there, sitting on Kaminaris bed like she has done it hundreds of times before. With that thought he was quickly reminded of his place, and he had tried his hardest to stop intruding on their space and leave the room. Which was a weird experience, because Shinsou is not submissive by any means. He is neither rude nor a rebel, he often tries his best to not make anyone uncomfortable by his presence; he can take a hint, but it is not his style to walk into a room and hunch his shoulders forward. It is not at all his style to let someone put him back in his place without a fight. No one but Shinsou himself is allowed to instill inferiority in him. He shakes his head at the same time as he goes to leave.
“Monsieur, oh monsieur, don’t leave just yet!”
Trust me, I don’t want to either he doesn’t say. Shinsou turns to look at where the voice comes from instead, eyebrows carefully raised and eyes hooded.
Lo and behold, there is another blond waiting for him. The blond is dressed in a long sleeved nightgown with a matching sleeping mask propped on top of his swept hair. He is laying across a blanket on the top of the grass, one book and nightlight propped beside him.
After a long, awkward silence Shinsou gives in. “Pardon?”
“Pardon is quite right, but would you care to learn of the french word instead?” There is a very obvious glimmer in his eyes, and then Shinsou starts to remember: this is one of Kaminaris classmates, Aoyama. The one with the flashy armour who buckle his knees together. Shinsou calms down. No threat, then. Not yet.
“Isn’t it the same in french?”
“Oui Oui! My my~ Shinsou, you know so much already, would you care to learn more of the language? I see you are a homme de linguistique, and I would like to aid you in your pursuit~” Aoyama winks.
Shinsou is about to turn him down. He can sense ulterior motives when he sees it. When he looks back to the gates he starts to question why. Why should he turn him down? What would he lose by indulging Aoyama in whatever it is he is trying to do: time? He is trying to lose some of it anyways, and if he does gain basic understanding of a new language by staying then that counts as a win in his book. He turns to sit down, eyes set suspiciously on Aoyama whom starts to open his own book.
They sit there for one hour or two. By the end of the impromptu lesson Shinsou has equipped a handful of french words and proper enunciation over said words. He is also gifted with a slap to his face from his “caregiver” once he made it back to the foster home right before midnight. At least he could call her a putain afterwards.
Everything is an eyesore. The grass is too green and the sun is too bright, its yellow color bleeding into the landscape around in a way it is not supposed to.
Before Shinsou can focus on how strange his surroundings are he hears someone shout his name.
He turns around, and he sees Kaminari. Kaminari is as vibrant as usual (maybe more than usual, he does have to squint after all), arms waving back and forth, over and over. Limbs shouldn’t snap back and forth like that, Shinsou finds it in him to realize. “C’mere my dude, love of my life!” He yells.
Shinsous stomach twists up once the foggy words reach him, and he can barely stutter a reply back. His throat just doesn’t work. Everything goes black for half a second and afterwards, from the corner of his eyes, Shinsou can see the sky turn a shade warmer. It is less eyesore that way, but the hairs in his arms spike up. He is far too used to the cold to welcome the warmth. Then Kaminari shouts again, further away than he was before. When did he move away? Why did he move away? All Shinsou knows is that he sounds surprisingly exasperated.
“Come here right now, Nugget!”
Startled, he looks around, but Nugget is nowhere to be found. Then he looks down to his feet. There are no feet to be seen, at least not his own. Instead of seeing himself Shinsou sees a small cat body; black fur and three stable legs, the ground was not as close to him before as it is now. In fact, there isn’t any ground under him, but a night sky that he is floating on. Kaminari is on his back, talking his mouth off about something. The more he talks the less he understands what is coming out of him. That changes again. Kaminari is no longer on his back, instead he is on the ground beneath Shinsou, with Jirou. They are holding hands, laughing, speaking a language he cannot comprehend. He shouldn’t even be able to hear them from this height, but unfortunately he does. The gibberish continues to ring in his ears, the colors around him becoming stronger.They ambush him.
Shinsou cannot help it. He runs away. As far as his small cat body can take him.
He runs past his old kindergarten, his old middle school. He runs past the foster home, past the hooded figures in the city.
The longer he runs the slower time goes. With each breath he heaves the more his pace slows down, as if the air is trying to claw him back to uncomfortable places bone for bone.The world closes in on him. He sees this very clearly, feels it even clearer. The pressure of everything is heavy on his body, but when desperate yellow eyes search the people around him he finds that everyone else is doing fine. Classmates walks by, cashiers and homeless men refuse to give him the time of their day. Tocha even stops for a hot second, just to smile and walk away. Unhelpful. He fights against the very world around him, small heart beating like it never beat before. All of this is happening while people ignore him.
Shinsou tries to speak, to command everything to stop. He was born with the power to do it. If he really wanted to, he could stop everything around him, control it to do whatever he wants. The air will stop ripping him to pieces. He can stop those hooded people from bothering him. He can stop Kaminari from loving Jirou. It comes so natural to him, the want to have control. Nothing could make him feel better. Everything at his mercy, if he so chose to. The only thing he needs to do is to open his mouth, and it would be done.
His mouth opens, he tries to say it.
He tries to use his rightful voice and say help, but only a puny meow comes out.
No one hears him. Something closes in. He loses his clumsy footing, and in this pocket universe he doesn’t ever regain it back. No one helps him regain it back. If he had his old voice he would understand. It was deep, it held weight on it that no one else wanted to carry. But this is different. If Shnsou had his old voice he wouldn’t need to run on all fours to escape whatever it is that he has to escape. Words would never fail him like they are doing now. Shinsou has lost his potential to hurt others, yet no one reaches out to him. Now he is all but a stray cat. Dangerous to exactly no one, but not useful to anyone; not cared by anyone.
With that he relents, body falling limp.
He thought he would wake up in his bed, shake his head at his dream and face the day, but he has not earned that privilege yet.
What he sees once he “wakes up” is not real life, but a close imitation of it. The cafe looks the same as it would look in the waking life, except all the cats are gone. So are the baristas. Shinsou doesn’t mind that change, even if it is unnatural. He needs some quiet now anyways. What he does mind is the heavy hand ruffling his hair. No one would ever do that except for maybe Kaminari. Aizawa is not Kaminari, that is for sure.
That is a thing that he is doing apparently. They sit across each other on their usual booth far into the corner, where Shinsou sits only when Aizawa is with him. Shinsou is resting his upper body against his side of the table while Aizawa sits sideways. The teacher has his face tilted away from Shinsous view, looking at something Shinsou cannot see. The dark lines that keep black hair and black clothes apart mingle together. Even by squinting his eyes Shinsou cannot get a better look at his mentor. All he knows is that Aizawa is tall. He looks larger than life. To have a tall, dark figure loom over him should scare him, but that doesn’t happen. He is at peace like this, with this unrealistic black boulder of a mentor hiding him away from public view, watching out for windows and incomers and whatever else he sees.
“I’m alone.” Shinsou finds it in him to admit.
“I know,” Aizawa repeats, “Awful, isn’t it.”
Shinsou crosses his arms over the table and leans his head in the little gap he made for himself. His gaze flicker away from Aizawas figure. This conversation bores him. He has already had it before, some weeks after their training started. Just like Kaminari, Aizawa cracked and asked him what his parents thought about him staying out so late, with an adult man nonetheless. No matter how many times he tried to, Aizawa did not let him evade the subject. At last Shinsou admitted that he was abandoned a long, long time ago.
He has fond memories from the experience. It was the first time Shinsou felt like he could be honest with an adult and receive genuine support afterwards, but he has always known the conversation wouldn’t change a thing about his situation. No matter how many times he is invited to dinner, no matter what nickname Yamada cooks up, he will still be an orphan. Neither Yamada nor Aizawa can invite a teenager to properly live in their home, they cannot afford the responsibility to become his adoptive parents. They can’t even adopt a cat given their busy schedules. The fact that Eri still lives with them is a shock to the entire houshold, but given her odd situation (Whatever that is, Shinsou still doesn’t know. He doesn't prod any of them either; Eri can tell him herself once she has healed enough to do so, whenever that is.) no one else can take care of her like Aizawa can. He is given expenses for his "work" with Eri: money, less hours and a bigger living space. Shinsou could not give Aizawa expenses like that, only a lot of stress, perhaps debt.
Since this conversation is just a repeat of the past, he decides to quote himself, too. Nothing will change from it anyways, so he might as well just reminisce. “Whatever, I’m used to it.”
“Not for long.”
His body clenches. The world around him tilts. Everything is just a little bit crooked.
That was new. That is not what Aizawa had said in the waking world. Shinsou lifts his head up from his hole, waits for the words hanging in the air to rewrite themselves to something far more familiar and far less terrifying.
That does not happen. Aizawa doesn’t correct himself, nothing changes. This is it then. The world will remain crooked. The room changes, bathed in warm light. It is less colder this time, and it makes him nervous. Shinsou is used to the cold. He is scared of becoming used to anything else. Shinsou still does not know what to say, so he remains silent until Aizawa says something again.
“You won’t be alone for a long time.” Aizawa finally turns to face his mentee, “And when you are alone again, it will hurt.”
Something about that terrifies him.
“Why does this have to be so dangerous?” His voice doesn’t tremble, he has enough control over it to stop the tremble from peeking out from within him. God knows how much he wants to shake; to revert back to primal animal instincts and keep himself away from any danger, but he remains calm. His surroundings react though, the lights flicker and the table shakes underneath his arms. It doesn’t feel wrong to have control over his surrounding like this. For all he knows, he probably needs it now. No, he feels the satisfaction sink into his bones, slow the sound of his pulse down; he needs to have this type of control now.
Aizawa ignores the shake of the table. He reaches for his coffee instead. Shinsou had not noticed its presence before. It doesn’t stain the trembling desk either, even though it should have.
“If you don’t risk anything then you don’t earn anything.”
Shinsou wanted to question him some more, but the warm yellow light in this cafe turns a shade cooler, a shade much more suspicious, liquidy. When he turns back to look at Aizawa, he sees that the man has been replaced with a toilet.
“Oh no,” Shinsou whines, resting his forehead into the still table and closing his eyes. “not again.”
Like clockwork, Shinsou shoves Hentou off his bed.
He had shoved him a little harder this time, since Shinsou had taken a long nap (exactly three hours if he counted correctly. He hopes he didn’t.) while wearing Kaminari’s hoodie. Shinsou has no idea how he would explain himself to Kaminari if an “accident” actually did happen to the clothing, hey so I know you handed me your hoodie because you are a nice person, and I only had it on me for one night, but a ten year old pissed all over it. Completely drenched in the stuff. So yeah, sorry about that? Just to make sure that won’t happen, Shinsou raises his voice at him, he makes himself look bigger than he actually is. It is a short sighted answer to his everlasting problem. Shinsou has lost count of how many times he has woken up with Hentou hovering over him; he has most definitely repressed all the times the brat managed to wet his bed as well. The effect will last for a few days until he will have to shout at Hentou again. The brat lifts himself up with shaky legs and sulks off, suspiciously yellow snot already dripping down his nose.
“I don’t understand why you keep doing that.” Midori pipes up with his puberty stricken voice, “You know serial killers wet their beds for longer than normal kids, right? You’re gonna be the first person on his hit list by now.”
“Good thing he is only trying to take a piss on my bed and not his own then.” He replies. Just to be mean he imitates Midoris voice. He has heard it far too often for the imitation to not be seamless.
Midori snorts and walks out of the sleeping quarters, not at all bothered.
Shinsou feels stupid now.
Everyone is starting to stand up from their own beds; from their cramped, uncomfortable hospital beds, set too close. Way too close. They are so close a knee is already digging into Shinsous side, and no matter how many times he shoves it away he knows its owner will push it back on him. Shinsou cannot blame him, sometimes you simply need to take up space. Some broken soul of a bastard is shining his night light around the room too, as if Shinsou needs anything else to annoy him now. It is probably Kuroni, Shinsou suspects, it is always Kuroni. He’s such an attention whore.
He lays down in his bed for a while, then he rolls over to his side to study the other kids and teenagers walk around like groaning zombies. Kaneshiro is hiding a giggling Miyazaki under a blanket, acting innocent as if they didn’t stay up the entire night sucking faces (as if anyone cares that a girl was in the boys room anyways, no one gives a shit about anything in here. You have nothing to hide, Miyazaki.), Kuroni is making a loud bet with whoever is willing to hear if he would survive jumping out of the window, and other boys are running to the public bathroom to catch the most clean toilet before anyone else can. Shinsou knows it is taken already, some control freak of a girl has spent entire nights camping in there just to make sure she could have it first in the morning. It wouldn’t surprise him if the same girl pulled the same stunt this week too. While Shinsou lays down he ponders if he should try and get some more shut eye while he still can. His forehead is being ambushed by a throbbing headache, after all.
The moment he does try to take a small nap a “caregiver” appears in the room to shout at the remaining kids to get the fuck out already. Miyazaki I see you, get some clothes on you fucking slag.
With a sigh Shinsou takes Kaminaris hoodie off him and changes back to his school uniform, slipping the finished tie over his head and tightening it afterwards. Sue him for not knowing how to tie a tie. His dad never taught him how, he didn’t even live long enough with the guy for him to teach him anyways. Few more bodies pushes against his while he changes, and Shinsou decides, amongst this sea of fellow orphans, that will be the last time his brain will mention that topic for today.
He shoves the hoodie into his backpack, makes sure he has his phone and money on him, then he ventures down the stairs and out into the cold world in the hope of a snack.
There is a broken vending machine right behind the building. For the past month Shinsou has gotten his free breakfast by snaking his arm through the locket to swipe at anything that comes close. During desperate times, he even shakes the machine off its hinges so something will drop down on its own. During even more desperate times, times where the vending machine is a lost cause and the hunger is gnawing on him, Shinsou steps into the overcrowded cafeteria. Fortunately for him today is not one of those days.
Shinsou makes his way to the train, counting the french numbers he remember from his impromptu lecture last night. Once he reaches “trente sept” his phone buzzes in his pocket.
Kaminari.
“duuuude look who im gunna take w/meee”
Kaminari has sent a picture of a wide eyed Nugget curled up in a tacky leopard print bedsheet. There is a comb stuck to his thick fur. A pink hand is attached to the handle, trying to brush the hair back. Shinsou can see by how pale the knuckles are that Mina is struggling to clean him up. If Shinsou squints he can see Sero in the background laying on the ground, well, he thinks it is Sero- his head is swallowed up by Kaminaris schoolbag. Jirou is nowhere to be seen. He wouldn’t like to think about where she is either.
(Nestled close beside Kaminari, feet tangled up together. She must be wearing one of his hoodies. He has so many of them. How many has she worn? She must have worn the one in his backpack as well. Did Kaminari ever say she looked good in it?
… Shinsou hates himself for even thinking about it.)
Me.
“You are a brave guy, Kaminari. I’ll pray that Aizawa doesn’t punish you too much when he finds Nugget in your backpack”
Kaminari.
“dont waste ur precious time on that ;3”
“if youre gonna pray at all pray he wont make us send Nug away :(“
His heart won’t stop clenching whenever this idiot says anything. Shinsou did not know that the sensation would reach him through a damn text message, but it does. He can almost see the pout in his face. He facepalms just to hide how much he burns for this cute moron.
Me.
“I’ll pray”
Kaminari
“thank uuuu”
“alsooo lets meet up at the cafeteria this time,, the squad is real clingy rn but nugget wanna see you again,"
"i dont want my baby boi to think his other dad dont <3 him :(”
Me
“Fine by me.”
Shinsou had typed, but it was not. It was really not fine by him. For many reasons as well. Far too many reasons for him to sort through this early in the morning, but here he is.
Firstly, he is a father now.
Something in him clicks at that thought. Something clicks wrong. He did not know that he would become a father by showing interest in the cat, by fucking buying the cat. While he is good with strays, properly raising one is a different matter. The relationship between a caregiver and a stray becomes far more complicated, a proper responibility Shinsou is unsure he can handle. Then he would need to give proper care, make sure Nugget is loved. Nugget is a disabled stray, God knows he will proper love to help him recover from whatever happened to him before. Parenthood is serious Shinsou pales, it is so fucking difficult, it is so difficult when the kid is hurt from before. I of all people should know that. Why did I agree to that?
He takes a deep breath, tries to steady himself. He tries to think of the second problem instead. It will be far more manageable than this.
The second problem is that Shinsou had told the hero classes he would not make friends, and while he failed by becoming attached to Kaminari, that was one person. If anyone asked (he doubt anyone would, very few people care enough about him to do that) he would simply enough say that they are useful to one another; Shinsou offers tutoring and in turn Kaminari shares premature information about the heroics class; no friendship or buddling crushes to see there. But if he is going to spend his lunch period with his other friends then he will officially break his word.
And lastly, there is Jirou.
He lets himself stray from the road and walk towards a brick wall. He pockets the phone, squats down and cradles his face in both hands. The hoodie inside his backpack becomes even heavier than it has any right to be.
Blame him for being ashamed of his submissiveness to the girl. The truth is that Shinsou knows fully well that he is towing a tight line. That line will probably break during lunch, he knows that much, what he doesn’t know is what to do with himself because of it. Jirou will see through his pretenses, find him creepy, and probably tell him off in front of her friends, forcing him to retreat to his lonely tree with no cat, no Kaminari. All alone again.
He stills. The thought is surprisingly unbearable to him. He cannot be alone again. For some reason Shinsou cannot go back to keeping Kaminari at arms length. It would hurt too much. He can commit to many things, he is stubborn and prideful like that, but Shinsou could never make himself commit to celibacy, not again. Which is strange, because life has gone well enough for him this way. While he does thrive from having the occasional conversation, and while he cherishes every moment he spends with Aizawa and his family, Shinsou is a solitary person at heart.
Shinsou appreciates loneliness. Loneliness is safe, it is always there. It is the most stable thing he has had in his life so far. He removes his hands from his face and looks down on them, frown on his mouth.
When did loneliness become synonymous to hurt?
After he is somewhat done with his wailing he starts to walk the main road again. He is so deep in his own thoughts he bumps shoulders with a man clad in black. When he turns to face the man for the oncoming apology and drawn out conversation, he realizes that it is just Aizawa. He does not smile when he sees the man.
“You don’t live here.”
Shinsou has been to Aizawa and Yamadas house before, and he knows it is not here. It is a long train route away, Shinsou remembers because he always used it as an excuse when he broke curfew. Even if it was around the block he wouldn’t need to walk out of the home now, since he lives in the dorms with his students. Shinsou would never amdit it, but he is sort of peeved by it.
“I don’t.” He agrees, voice more of a mumble than usual, “I came from work. Now I have to go back to work.”
That worries him. It worries him enough for him to ignore his own issues.
“I want to talk about something. Same place?” He asks. Without a word Aizawa starts to speed walk towards the cafe. Shinsou follows after his mentor, an amused glint to his eye washing away his own self pity.
They end up in the cat cafe in record time, both ordering the same black coffee, with four expressos each. The barista tells them she will bring their drinks to them, so they go to sit down. The usual seat looks just the same as it had in the dream, Shinsous mind slips up before he can shake the thought away. He sits down, Aizawa soon after him. When Aizawa’s back hits the couch his eyes almost blinks completely closed. He forces away the need to sleep by leaning forward, eye twitching. He sways only slightly. Shinsou is still amused. “Spit it out, kid.” He says, but is stopped by his own yawn. Aizawa yawns like what Shinsou thinks a dad would yawn like.
I befriended someone from your class, even when I insisted I wasn’t going to.
“Nothing much, just that I bought you a cat,” Shinsou says, “He’s with Kaminari now. Three legs only. We're planning to take care of him together.”
“Mhm,” Aizawa grunts out. He starts to leans against the seat again, nestling into the cushion while making a pleased grunting sound from deep in his chest. His eyes are already closed. Aizawa looks so much smaller like this. Sometimes Shinsou forgets that his mentor is just an exhausted man, not at all larger than life like depicted in his dreams. That is what he likes about him, anyways. “That all?”
That is not all. Shinsou fights down a snort. Not at all.
I fell for him. I fell for a person completely different from me. He is living a completely different life than me. Did you know while he had a sleepover with his friends I slept in a room full of strangers? He watches Aizawa sway some more instead. Of course you know. You knew before I even told you anything. You understood it. It might be stupid, it is, but that really stuck with me.
He thinks back to his dream. He wonders if Kaminari ever had dreams like that. Did they ever feed on the basic fear of being alone with no help, of only having one person who could come close to understand you? He is not the one to draw conclusions, but he doubts it. People like Kaminari have their issues, but they usually have an easier time expressing said issues. Especially in a way other people can accept. I like someone who will never relate to me. This is risky; but it is also more of a pain. Falling for someone is a pain. His eyebrows twinges upwards. He is so friendly and nice, how could I not like him?
“Yeah.” He lies.
He doesn’t feel bad about it. The man nods until he falls asleep, snoring afterwards. Aizawa is far too proud to thank him whenever Shinsou declines to talk, but that is okay, Aizawa has done a lot for him already. He has taken him under his wing, he has managed to understand him in a way people never tried to before. The least Shinsou could do is let him take a break before school hours. Shinsou looks at the clock to make sure Aizawa wont come late to his class, and he debates against making an alarm on his phone. There will be a risk of them coming late to school if he doesn’t make one, but that is a risk he is willing to take. He doesn’t want Aizawa to be awoken by a fucking alarm of all things, that will make his training later much harder on him.
After making his selfish decision he looks around the shop to see the cats lying around. They are much more curious about customers during the evening, now they are soaking up the rising sunrays coming from the windows. In turn he looks around the whole cafe, lets himself ponder about the little things he remember from the dream. Was the sun rising or setting in that imaginary cafe, what was the source of that glow in the room? Shinsou suspects that it doesn't matter. It is warm, and it doesn't make him as uncomfortable as before.
After some time Shinsou lets himself be lulled by Aizawa’s snores, both awake and asleep at the same time. It is a more comfortable limbo than you would think. The cushioned booth is much more comfortable than his short night back in his cramped bed. |
“It’s not funny,” Courfeyrac moaned, as Jehan set about laughing. He scowled, watching Jehan turn away to wipe away a tear that was leaking from the corner of his eye.
“No, you’re right,” he consented, breathless. He turned back to Courfeyrac and composed himself, holding a straight face for exactly 0.02 of a millisecond before crumbling into giggles, “it’s hilarious!”
Courfeyrac was beginning to wish he’d never told Jehan about the bet. He had been hoping that, as Combeferre’s best friend, he might be able with matters. He began to fear that Jehan was going to be just as bad as his own so-called ‘friends’.
“How long have you got left?”
“Twelve days.” How was there still that long to go? Why was this month taking forever?
“And you can’t ask him out?” Jehan clarified.
“No! So I’ve been trying to get him to ask me out,” Courfeyrac lowered his voice, conscious that Combeferre’s front door was still wide open. “Evidently it hasn’t been working.”
“That’s not your fault.” Jehan sounded earnest, all traces of the giggles long gone. “He, um,” he, too, glanced over his shoulder before dragging Courfeyrac further across the landing. The cakes were left poised precariously on the bannister. “He had a bad breakup recently. The douchebag lead him on for far too long, and then had the audacity to say it didn’t mean anything. He doesn’t trust his judgement just now.”
“Then you have to tell him,” Courfeyrac implored, hands finding Jehan’s forearms and gripping tightly. “I can’t explain the bet to him, but you could?”
Jehan just shook his head.
Courfeyrac’s shoulders dropped.
“Nope. You got yourself into this mess, you have to get yourself out of it,” Jehan smirked.
“Why did I think you’d be any help?” he muttered under his breath, tipping his head backwards and exhaling deeply. He was just going to have to wait the month out, somehow, and hope that by some miracle Combeferre wouldn’t have given up on him by then.
“Why should I be? For all I know you could be another douchebag in the making,”
Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow; he thought he’d made a better first impression than that.
“I’ll warrant you don’t seem the type to break his heart,” Jehan studied him for the moment, “and I have to admit I do quite like you, and your friends.”
Courfeyrac stared forlornly at Combeferre’s door, unable to bring himself to look at Jehan, not again daring to hope that he might help.
“He wants to ask you out,” Jehan said quietly, nodding when Courfeyrac shot him a questioning look. “We just have to somehow tip him over the edge, push him past the possibility of thinking himself out of it.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to do!” Courfeyrac exhaled in a loud whisper, accompanied by a frustrated wave of his hand.
Jehan clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a pitying look. “We’ll think of something. Now get back to him before the cakes get cold,” he gave Courfeyrac a shove across the landing, following it up with a firm slap to Courfeyrac’s ass.
Courfeyrac stifled a yelp and shot Jehan a stunned look. Jehan was already halfway down the stairs.
“You not coming in?”
“I was never here,” Jehan replied waving his hands in front of his face and smiling mischievously. With that, he disappeared round the bend of the stairwell, leaving Courfeyrac a little lost for words on the landing.
=
The sunny weather didn’t last. On Thursday the heavens opened and rain lashed against the pavements. Courfeyrac picked up his pace to a light jog, his feet splashing in the growing puddles and splattering specks of rain water up his calves. His patent work shoes were keeping the rain off his toes, but they did nothing against the water which sloshed over his ankles; they were going to be ruined, but it was going to be worth it.
The two coffee cups in hands wobbles slightly as he ran, coffee seeping up through the lids ever so slightly. He hadn’t realised the hospital was this far away, he probably should have taken a taxi.
It had been Jehan’s idea. If Courfeyrac couldn’t ask Combeferre out on a date, why not take the date to him? He would be walking from his shift to meeting at the Musain, and he took his coffee with milk and sugar, and a shot of hazelnut if he was feeling indulgent. Which was why Courfeyrac found himself standing under the porch of the A&E holding two cups of coffee. His own was a caramel macchiato with extra cream, well if he was letting Combeferre be indulgent, why shouldn’t he?
In hindsight, he probably should have warned Combeferre rather than just jumping out at him as he exited the hospital. Poor fellow looked like he had the living daylights scared out of him as Courfeyrac stepping in front of him and beamed a hello. The fact that Coureyrac looked like a drowned rat, what with his hair plastered to his head and his shirt almost see through from the rain, probably didn’t help. He definitely picked the wrong day to forget a jacket. Although, judging from the way Combeferre’s gaze was lingering on his chest, maybe that hadn’t been such a bad idea. He’d obviously underestimated the ‘Mr Darcy Drowned Rat’ look.
“Hi,” he said again, holding out the coffee cup towards Combeferre. “I thought we could walk to the meeting together?”
“Right. Yes. Absolutely. Thank you.” Combeferre took the coffee cup and stared at it for a little while before remembering to actually take a drink from it.
“I hope I got the order right,” Courfeyrac hid behind his own paper cup as he gauged Combeferre’s reaction. The delighted surprise which lit up his eyes behind his glasses was enough to reassure Courfeyrac that Jehan hadn’t lied to him.
“How did you…?”
“As much as I’d love to take credit…Jehan told me,” he grinned. “Shall we?”
“Hold on, I think I have an umbrella,”
Courfeyrac caught the cup which Combeferre thrust at him, so that he could dig around in his backpack in search of a brolley.
He produced a sleek black collapsible umbrella and brandished it triumphantly.
It was just about big enough or both of them to huddle under, if they walked shoulder to shoulder and didn’t mind their other shoulders getting rained on. Courfeyrac didn’t mind in the slightest. Every time their shoulders brushed an electric spark warmed his chest and by the time they reached the Musain he was beaming from ear to ear. |
THE SWEET SEDUCTION
Hi, I am Melanie. I am a 23 year old college student in her third year of her doctor's degree. I am 5'11, with perfect breasts and long luscious legs. My green eyes are considered my best feature. I have always been a sexual being. By the time Afaf became my roommate in my third year, I regularly had sex with 7-10 people a month. I fucked guys and girls and was both dominant and submissive. I was submissive to a couple black women, but dominated the Asian girls and some older ladies. I was always submissive for cock and because of this had become a great cock-sucker and had done everything you can do sexually with a guy including gangbangs, going to glory holes, and being the all-services stripper at a bachelor party. My new thing this year has been to fuck virgins. Now originally this was just to fuck boy virgins, but when Afaf became my roommate three weeks into the semester everything changed. I saw the ultimate challenge; get the Muslim girl to become my whore. I had done a Canadian, a Mexican, a Philippines, a Russian, and a few Asians, but never a Muslim. The game was on, but I knew this would be a crazy challenge.
When I found out I was going to have other roommate I was annoyed. My past roommate Kate was a decent pussy eater, but she quit school and I was assigned a new roommate. When Afaf entered, dressed in a blue business suit, 3 inch heels and beige pantyhose I was impressed. I was amazed by the clarity of her blue eyes, but surprised when she looked down as I introduced myself. I quickly learned she lacked confidence. I learned she was majoring in medicine as well and was a transfer student from England. I knew instantly, she would be my next prey, but that I was going to have fun seducing her.
Anyways, the next couple weeks I learned the following about her:
a. She was a virgin and was waiting for marriage.
b. She always wore full pantyhose, skirts, etc.
c. She never spoke first to anyone.
d. She had an IQ of over 180.
e. She was completely subservient. Not yet sexually, but that was to come.
f. She was shocked by my parade of men and women that came and went.
After a couple weeks, I decided to start the sweet seduction. She came home after a massive test, just upset. I asked her what was wrong and she said that she did not do well. For Afaf a 90 is not doing well, so put that in perspective. I walked over to her and gave her a hug. She instantly went stiff to my touch. I held her for a long time, until she relaxed a bit. I told her to take a seat on the couch and then I gave her a foot massage. The look on her face was one of horror. I comforted her for a few minutes and then told her I had a date and had to get ready. She was making herself supper when I came out in a micro miniskirt and a tight sweater. I asked her how I looked. She said she would never be able to wear anything like that in public. I shrugged and told her that if you have the body you should showcase it. She said nothing; because of her insecure nature she had no idea how beautiful she was. As I headed out I said, "You know Afaf, you are a very beautiful girl. You should let people she the real you," and walked out.
I came home with my date, a linebacker from our football team. She was studying at the kitchen table as always. I introduced her to him and then whispered to her, "I hear his cock is like 10 inches, I am going to investigate." I then left and went and got fucked. After he came on my face and hair, I sent him away, but told him to walk by Afaf without his shirt on. Of course, he did. I wiped the cum off my face, but made sure the cum in my hair was still there. I walked out in a robe and said to Afaf, "How disappointing, he was barely nine inches. Why is it so hard to find a nice thick ten inch cock?"
Afaf blushed and said, "Um you have something in your hair."
I looked in a nearby mirror, "Oh that fucker, he was suppose to just cum on my face. " I wiped the cum out of my hair all feigning frustration. "Afaf, it is just so tough to train a boy. " I gave her a kiss on the cheek and went to shower.
A couple days later I brought back my 40 plus something History professor Carol and fucked the shit out of her in my room. Afaf came home, like clockwork, at 8 and heard the majority of the fucking. Carol, a submissive white slut, who had been my slave since freshman year, was very animated during sex. She called out things like "Yes mistress, fuck me harder. Make me cum. Oh yes, I am your slave," etc, etc, etc. Anyways, after I was done with her, I told Carol to go get me a glass of wine from the fridge, naked. She looked at me concerned and I said, "Oh and be sure to say hi to Afaf."
She knew better then to disobey, so reluctantly, she left my room and Afaf was at the kitchen table eating. Of course I followed and was amazed to see the look of complete shock on Afaf's face. Carol said, "Hi Afaf," as if it was the most natural thing in the world and went and got two glasses of wine. Afaf just starred at the naked professor. Carol stopped by the table and looked at the History book on the table. She smiled and said, "Pay extra attention to pages 333-336 as they are the key to Friday's test," and she came back to my room. We drank our wine, I had Carol eat me out one last time and I told her to go shower. I came out, in my robe, and sat down with Afaf. She looked at me searching for answers. I smiled.
"I suppose you are wondering about all this."
She looked down and whispered, "No, it is none of my business."
I smiled and said, "No, no, it is ok. I will explain. Some women, like Professor Wilson are lonely and stressed out from their jobs. They need to release their stress and people do it different ways. Some work out at the gym, others play sports, some have meaningless sex and others, like Professor Wilson, want to be dominated. They are in control all day at work and want to just be free when the work day is done. Professor White is a submissive woman who will do anything I say."
"Anything?" Afaf questioned.
"Yes, watch. Slut get out here." Professor Wilson came out wet from her shower. "On your knees." She obeyed. I looked at Afaf "Do you want her to eat your pussy?"
Afaf looked shocked, "Oh no."
I laughed, "Your loss. Slave go get dressed, I will see you in class tomorrow." I then went and showered.
The next day Afaf saw Sadie, an Asian girl in all Afaf's classes, leave my room after taking a strap-on in her ass. Sadie who a few minutes earlier was screaming, "Yes, fuck my ass with your massive cock," walked over to Afaf and asked her how her essay was going. They talked like friends and then Sadie left. I came out in my robe but with my strap-on still attached.
Afaf looked at me and said, "Sadie too?"
I shrugged and said, "She is one of the craziest bitches I have ever had. She will go home now and study and ace whatever she is doing next. Her body is cleansed from stress." I took off my strap-on and washed it in the sink. "She a friend of yours," I asked.
Afaf responded still clearly stunned, "Yes, we just talked yesterday about arranged marriages and how our parents expect so much from us."
I smiled, "Sadie has never talked about that to me, but she comes over here almost every week to release her stress, every time she has a big test." I shrugged and went and had a shower.
The next part of my plan was the first risky one. I felt that I already had Afaf under my control, even though she did not know it, but still this was a risk. I assumed that she would stay true to her submissive personality and would not say no to me. I brought over Colin, a black friend of mine, who did indeed have a 10 inch cock. I had been sucking his cock slowly for about five minutes when Afaf walked in. This time, instead of the privacy of the bedroom, I sucked him in the livingroom while the basketball game was on TV. Afaf looked at me shocked and I said, "Sorry Afaf, but Colin is a big basketball fan and did not want to miss the game." I went back to bobbing up and down on his thick rod. Afaf went to the kitchen and made her supper. I could tell she kept trying to not look, but Colin's grunts distracted her. I then quit sucking and said, risking my seduction plan, "Afaf come over here, I want to teach you something." As I figured, Afaf came over. I said, "Sit down." She did. I continued, "Now I know you are going to have to marry some guy down the road and it is very important that you know how to please him. So just sit there and watch." I then put my mouth back onto Colin's stiff meat. I just took the head in, licked around the top, teasing him. I then said, "You see Afaf, you need to adore the penis, to treat it like a shrine." I then took the whole thing in my mouth and did a few slow seductive bobs. I then said, "Now don't worry Afaf, at first sucking that deeply will make you gag. But practice makes perfect. " I then licked his balls and sucked each one into my mouth. "True pleasure," I continued, "Pure pleasure, comes from teasing, the anticipation. Make him crave you; you have all the power when you have his cock in your hands or mouth." I then took it in my mouth and sucked hard and fast. I then pulled out again and said, "Now what you must decide is do you want to shallow his cum, or take it on your face. Men love both. The guys love it best when you shallow all their cum, but they also like to see their juice dripping down a girl's face." I then looked at Colin and said, "Shallow or facial."
He smirked, "Facial bitch." He then grabbed my head and started pumping his cock in my mouth. All the teasing had him revved to go and after a couple minutes the cum grunt came and he sprayed a massive amount of sperm all over my mouth, cheek and chin. I then took his cock back in my mouth until it shrunk. I then matter-of-factly said to Afaf as I grabbed the gobs of cum on my face and put them into my mouth, "You see we have all the power, do you want to try honey?" Afaf shook her head no, but kept starring at Colin's delicious cock, rising again from my hand. "Your loss sweetie, more for me. Ready for round two big boy? Sorry Afaf but I have to have his cock in me, you can watch if you want." I took off my skirt and straddled him. Afaf watched briefly, but then got up and went to her room. Colin fucked me for a good half hour before shooting a second load on me. We then watched the rest of the game. Afaf never did come back out. I wondered if my plan worked. I would have to wait till tomorrow.
The next couple days were midterms so I was too busy and other then a quickie with Sadie, I behaved myself. Afaf treated me the same so I figured so far, so good. The final aspect of my seduction would be on Friday after our last day of mid-terms. After her last test I could see the complete exhaustion she was feeling, I knew that today would be the perfect day for the final play. We had a couple glasses of wine and talked about which test was the worst and so forth. I gave her another foot massage, this one spending way more time on each toe, each muscle. After a third glass each, I asked her to give me one. She seemed uncomfortable, but she did it. I finally then said, "Afaf, not releasing your sexual tension is dangerous for you."
Afaf said nothing.
"Do you find me attractive?" I asked.
Afaf whispered in the quietest voice ever "Yes."
I said, "I think you are beautiful."
Afaf was embarrassed.
"It is time for you to realize how beautiful you really are." I leaned in and said "Kiss me." She was nervous, but she kissed me. Awkward at first, tentative, but she was clearly trying. I broke the kiss. "Afaf, you are a submissive woman. You have wanted to submit to me since you saw the parade of men and women come from my bedroom. It is time for you to submit to me completely." Afaf looked into my eyes. "Do you want to submit?"
She sheepishly said, "No, but I need too."
I moved back a bit, "You don't want to?"
She realized I was offended and said, "Sorry Melanie, it's just I come from a home where this is very taboo. Women do not have relations with anyone but their husbands. You have had me so excited, that I have had to masturbate myself to sleep every night for the past month. I feel so dirty."
I smiled, "Afaf, sex is natural. I will ask you again, are you ready to submit to me?"
This time Afaf replied, "Yes."
"Good,"I replied. "Now you understand that submitting to me now, means complete submission. Means allowing your body to become mine."
"Um, I am not sure I understand," Afaf responded.
"It means doing everything I ask, always."
Afaf smiled for the first time, "I already do that?"
I laughed "I suppose you have. But this is different. If you submit you will pleasure my pussy whenever I ask, you will be asked to participate sexually with girls I bring home and much,much more. "
"I understand," Afaf responded.
I then sat on the couch and spread my legs. "Now get on your knees and please me." Surprisingly, or not based on how Afaf is good at everything she does, she actually ate pussy quite well. She licked, probed, teased. After about fifteen minutes, I came hard all over her face. I then pulled her up and kissed her pussy juice covered lips.
I said, "Afaf that was very good. You will soon be an expert pussy eater. Now, I want you to realize what real pleasure feels like." I pulled off her skirt, pantyhose and panties and then her blouse and bra. I began kissing her everywhere. She was stiff at first, but slowly melted at my pristine touch. I teased her with gentle kisses all around her breasts, but never touched her breasts. I went to my knees and kissed and licked her upper thigh, but never her pussy. I moved back up and kissed her lips, my tongue sliding into her mouth. I broke the kiss and whispered in her ear, while nibbling on her lobe, "What do you want me to do?"
She moaned, but said nothing.
"I need to know what you want me to do for you."
She whispered, "Please give me an orgasm."
I smiled, "Oh honey, sure I can do that, but I need to know how you want me to do it. I can lick your pussy with my tongue, I can fuck you with a viborator, I can hammer you with the same strap-on I fucked Sadie with. What do you want?"
Afaf looked into my eyes, pleading with me to choose for her, "Um, can you lick my vagina?"
I smirked, "You mean your cunt?"
She sighed, "Yes, I mean my, um, c-c."
"Say it," I demanded.
"Cunt, please lick my cunt," she finally said embarrassed.
I pushed her to our carpeted floor and dove between her legs and began licking her virgin cunt. It took less than two minutes for her to have her first orgasm, but I kept going and triggered three more orgasms in only a few minutes.
When she regained her composure, she whispered, "Thank you."
I laughed, "Your welcome. But the evening is just starting." I grabbed my phone and texted a message, 'Get here now.' I went back to my room and grabbed my small box of toys. I grabbed a small vibe and put it in Afaf's cunt and turned it on low. I then said, "Are you ready for complete submission."
She moaned "yes."
At that moment there was a knock at the door and I said, "Slave, go get the door."
Afaf got up and went to get dressed.
"No, no, stay naked."
She looked at me and said, "I can't."
I stopped her in mid-sentence, "Afaf, you will be doing a lot worse than answering a door naked, now answer the door."
She reluctantly went to the door and opened it. Sadie walked in, she pulled Afaf close and said, "I have wanted to fuck you since I first met you." She then kissed Afaf hard. The kiss was broken when another person knocked on the door. Afaf opened it without being told and Professor Wilson arrived.
Sadie got undressed quickly, grabbed Afaf and led her to the couch. Sadie opened her thin legs and said, "Afaf, make me cum." Afaf looked at Sadie unsure.
She looked at me and I smiled, "Afaf. You will never. Ever say no to any man or woman's demand ever, understand?"
Afaf looked nervous but reluctantly replied, "Yes." She then went between her Asian friends legs and began pleasing her.
Professor Wilson got naked and began eating my pussy as I watched my new slave. When I was nice and primed, I grabbed my strap-on, hooked it on and went behind my virgin roommate. The head of the plastic cock teased her entrance. I said, "Slut. Are you ready to lose your virginity to your mistress?"
I rubbed the cock all over her wet pussy. She moaned, "Yes, please."
"Yes please what?" I teased.
"Please take my virginity?"
"You want me to fuck your virgin pussy with my plastic cock?"
"Yes, please fuck me," she begged attempting to lean back into the cock.
"Much better whore. Keep eating Mistress Sadie." Afaf went back to work as I slowly, ever so slowly, slid the cock into her eager pussy. Her muffled moans escaped as the full 6 inches deflowered her tight cunt. I held it in there deep and leaned into her. She attempted to move back to get it even deeper and after an eternity of teasing, I began to pump my cock in and out of her soaked vagina. Sadie came from Afaf's eager tongue and as I continued to pound my young petite slave, I saw Sadie grab another strap-on and begin fucking Professor Wilson with it. After a few minutes of this hard pounding, Afaf came with such animation that it was clear she had never truly orgasmed. I kept pounding her as she quaked from the fucking. I began to slide out and then drilled the cock back into her and began fucking her again. I then pulled out and told Sadie to lay on the ground. She did and I demanded, "Afaf straddle Sadie's cock."
"Yes mistress" she said and straddled the plastic cock. This one eight inches long. Surprisingly, she took it all inside her as if was something she did every day and began bouncing up and down on her friend.
Mrs. Wilson grabbed a camcorder and began recording. She then said, "Afaf, tell us what you are."
Afaf whimpered as the cock engulfed her now deflowered cunt, "I am a submissive slave. I will obey every command. Please use me."
I moved in front of my new servant and said, "Suck my cock slave." Afaf tentatively took my cock into her mouth as she continued to please herself on the hard strap-on. After she got it nice and lubricated, I smiled and said, "Bend over a bit sweetie, but keep that hard cock in your cunt. We have one more hole to deflower." Afaf's eyes went big, but she did not say a word as she bent forward. I got into position and placed the cock at her virgin ass. I slowly slid inside her butt and began to slowly move in and out. Afaf gave out a cry, but did not move as my plastic rod penetrated her ass deeper. Eventually four inches were inside of her tight ass and I demanded "Bounce back on me angel." Instantly Afaf obeyed and she bounced onto both cocks and soon all 6 inches filled her ass and all 8 inches engulfed her cunt. It was beautiful to watch. Soon Afaf was moving up and down in a perfect symmetry and moaning with pleasure.
After minutes of this double fucking Afaf screamed "Oh yes, yes, I'm cumming..." She then collapsed on top of Sadie. I pulled the cock out of her asd and shoved it into her mouth. Afaf sucked it slowly. I eventually pulled it out. Afaf looked into my eyes and said, "Thank you Melanie. Thank you for allowing me such pleasure."
I smiled, "You are welcome Afaf." I then kissed her passionately.
The night ended with Sadie taking Afaf home with her, where Afaf ate her pussy over and over again. Professor Wilson spent the night between my legs.
Since then Afaf has become a perfect slave. She never disobeys and will eat the pussy of any woman who asks. I have sent her on a girl's basketball road trip, where she serviced all members of the team on the bus, in the dressing room, in the hotel and on the ride home again. Ms. Wilson borrowed her to eat her pussy under her kitchen table for hours as she marked tests. Sadie has taken her with her to her Asian club meetings where Afaf is there to service all the high strung Asians needing sexual relief. Ironically, Afaf is still a virgin to real cock. Until this weekend that is.
|
Jude doesn’t notice it right away, of course.
For the better part of their first year as a married couple, she and Cardan remain in Elfhame cleaning up the mess her wayward father and the cohort of the Undersea left behind. As a result, she spends most of her time in fae clothing — practical linen trousers, embroidered jackets, the increasingly necessary ballgown — and the remainder of the time, well, out of them.
It’s in such a state that Jude finds herself the morning she’s set to leave for a trip away from the brugh, her first since fully becoming High Queen of Elfhame. To make matters worse, it’s drizzling outside, the sound of the rain pattering and the ensuing morning mist so very close to soothing her back into a drowse, surrounded by the soft, silk sheets of their bed.
A situation that, she’s beginning to suspect, isn’t entirely by coincidence.
“Cardan, I have to get up.”
She’s still catching her breath, and it doesn’t help that her husband is an immovable weight on top of her, his face buried in her stomach, as if he never means to surface from her again.
“Later.” He’s tracing his fingers along her hip, up and down the length of her leg. Lazy patterns, meant to lull. Just like the rain outside.
“I know what you’re doing.”
She feels him smile into the curve of her waist. “Is it working?”
“No,” she lies.
He hums. The vibration of it washes over still sensitive skin.
“What will you do while I’m away?” It’s a leading question, because she knows the right answer. And he does, too, even if he doesn’t like it.
“Await your return.”
“And after?”
“Await your return.”
“Don’t you mean, ‘meet with the tribunal delegation sent by Queen Suren?’”
He waves a hand. “Yes. That.”
“Cardan, I’m serious.”
Dark eyes glint at her. “As wholly am I.”
Quick as a knife, her knee cuts up under his chin, pressing hard into his throat and tilting his head back in an uncomfortable angle. “This meeting has been planned for months. You’re going to show up and pass the agenda, with or without me. Do you understand?”
He smiles, sharp like glass, even as his neck strains. “Yes.”
“Good.” She drops her knee and wriggles, a little inelegantly. “Now get off me. I have to get dressed.”
Cardan does not get off her. Instead, he sends his grunt of complaint into the skin of her stomach, the tension of the previous moment melting back into something comfortable. It’s easy like that, with him. “How cruelly you abandon me.”
Jude shoves at his shoulder, unimpressed with his dramatics. “I’m not abandoning you. I’ll be gone for just a week.”
“A whole week. In the mortal world.”
“Yes.”
He holds steadfast around her waist. “I can come with you.”
“We’ve been over this. Someone needs to babysit Oak while Vivi visits Heather’s family in Seattle. And one of us needs to stay behind to oversee the tribunal for the disbanded Court of Teeth.”
“They can take Oak with them.”
“He has school.”
“Vivi doesn’t have to go.”
“She wants to. Heather’s introducing her to her family, again, and this is important to both of them. Now, move.”
She keeps her mortal clothes in the bottom drawer of their closet. It’s been months since she’s taken them out, and the polyester and denim feel more than a little foreign to the touch: she’s gotten too used to the spidersilks and brocades and velvets of Faerie.
Sighing, Jude begins to slip on her bra. She definitely hasn’t missed the feeling of underwires and stiff elastic. Breast bindings are the norm in Elfhame, but even then, their use isn’t much common outside of knights and soldiers. Fae clothing, she had noticed early on, seemed to be designed without the need of such things, anyway.
As if there wasn’t enough to begrudge the fae, they also somehow had self-supporting boobs.
No one seemed to mind, at any rate, even when she wore dresses and gowns that weren’t entirely intended for her fuller mortal body.
Cardan certainly didn’t.
It isn’t until he presses a kiss to her bare shoulder that she realizes he has come up behind her. His slyfooting has greatly improved, apparently.
“Is this a mortal garment?” He runs a finger over her bra strap, and then — when she doesn’t shove him away — under it, lifting the fabric curiously from her skin. “I’ve only ever seen it worn by you.”
“It’s called a bra. A type of… mortal underwear.”
“Bra,” he repeats, and the word sounds foreign coming from his full, swollen mouth.
He pulls them around, until they’re facing the mirror on the vanity. Jude watches their reflections as one of his hands folds across her stomach, while the other begins to trace the top edge of her cup, the swell of her breast. Watches him watch her, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes.
“What?” she asks, warily.
“I like it.”
“I don’t wear it for you.”
His hand stills, warm against the thin fabric on her chest. “Oh? And are there — ones you would wear for me?”
Jude scoffs. “You wish.”
A knuckle brushes across her nipple. “Pity. I think I do.”
Jude tells herself not to dwell on it too long. Those thoughts lead to danger. Her jeans go on next, but Cardan has effectively plastered himself to her back.
“Cardan.”
“Yes? Need help with your clothes again?”
“What? No, just—”
She finally shoves him away with a hard jab of her elbow. He goes, laughing, even as he rubs at his bruised ribs.
The laugh drops off when he notices the jeans she’s stepping into.
“No.” He’s immediately at her side again, this time without an ounce of amusement. “Don’t wear those.”
She’s doing the hop that all tight denim jeans demand. She misses her easy Fae trousers already. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t, Jude,” he says, something urgent in his tone. He tries to tug at her belt loops, but she swats his hand away.
“What is it now?”
“I’ve seen you wear those before.” His eyes are dark, and wide. He almost sounds like he’s begging. “You need to wear something else. Anything else.”
Jude’s temper is swiftly reaching its end. “Quit trying to delay me, Cardan, I’m going.”
She turns and storms away to a short distance where she isn’t tempted to behead him, for real this time. She hears a strangled noise from behind her as she buttons up her jeans. Whatever his problem is, he can deal with it while she’s away. She pulls on her shirt and jacket, and fastens Nightfell and a few select knives to her body. That part of dressing up doesn’t change, no matter where or who she is.
The door is blocked.
“Jude,” Cardan pleads, hands outstretched like a child. Desperation has rendered him foolish.
Nightfell digs easily and eagerly into the hollow of his throat.
“Step. Away. From the door.”
His tail flicks once behind him, curling protectively over the door knob. “You don’t understand.”
“Nor do I care.” A second blade appears in her other hand, and she presses it to his side. “Move, dear.”
“I’ll trade you, anything, if you just promise not to—”
She feints a swipe of her knife hand, and Cardan, unable to move forward because of Nightfell, smartly recoils to the other side. It’s enough for her to wrench the door open.
“Nice try,” she says. “Have fun with the tribunal.”
Unsurprisingly, her trip to the mortal world is cut short.
The Bomb waves cheerily at her atop a ragwort steed, which grazes heedlessly on the front lawn of Vivi’s apartment complex. “The High King requests your return, Your Majesty.”
Jude crosses her arms. She isn’t even halfway through the week. “Of course he does.”
“I believe,” says the Bomb, still in that cheery tone of voice, “that the request was of the urgent variety.”
“Oh, really.”
The Bomb dismounts, and offers Jude a small packet. “I’m afraid so.”
Inside is a lock of black hair, the tip of it wet. Dipped in blood.
“A gift from Suren’s delegation.”
Jude takes less than a second to think. “Take care of Oak. Don’t let him out of your sight.” She’s halfway up the mount before she turns back and adds, “And if he asks to have cake for dinner, do not give in. There are leftovers in the fridge.”
And then she flies.
All manner of horrible possibilities flood her head throughout the ride back home. The delegation had agreed to the tribunal without much complaint. Maybe too easily. Jude had attributed it to Suren and her fealty to the monarchs of Elfhame. But if they had come so that the Court of Teeth could gain access to the palace grounds…
Suren’s scarred face smiles in her memories, teeth filed into sharp needlepoints and stained red.
Jude’s knuckles turn white around the ragwort steed’s mane.
It feels like only heartbeats later when she slams through the great double doors of the throne room, Nightfell already drawn.
And pauses.
The entire delegation from the Court of Teeth is gathered, standing to the sides of the room. In formation among them are palace guards under the banner of Elfhame; Jude spots Fand and select members of the queen’s guard present. But that’s not what makes her pause. Across the throne room floor is a great mahogany table filled edge to edge with towers of pastries and jams and fruits. A feast, and in the center, a great roast boar.
And at the table sit Suren, and the High King of Elfhame.
Spreading cream on his scone.
“What is this?”
“This, I believe,” Cardan drawls, “was a coup.”
It doesn’t look like a coup. It sure as hell doesn’t look like a tribunal. It looks like high tea in the middle of the throne room.
“A sloppily arranged one, to be fair.” Suren’s voice has regained strength in the months since they parted, but she still speaks slowly and carefully, like she is enunciating around a bridle even now. She bows her head to Jude. “My queen.”
“Not one of my finest,” Cardan says to Suren, as if Jude weren’t there, sword drawn to defend him.
“You set this up. You set me up.”
Suren takes a measured sip of tea, yellow eyes flickering between the High King and Queen of Elfhame.
“You’ve come a long way, Jude.” Cardan slides the chair out next to him in a mockery of chivalry. “At least sit down to the table.”
Jude glares.
Members of the Court of Teeth murmur and stir uneasily. Suren sends them a glance, and they quiet down.
“Were you even actually hurt? Whose blood is this?”
“Blood? Oh,” Cardan blinks at the parcel of bloodied hair she throws down to the table. “Well, you know how the Court of Teeth like to arrange their feasts, Jude. Everything is done themselves, as an honor to their hosts. Especially the butchering.” He runs one long-fingered hand through his dark curls, grinning. “Messy affair, unfortunately. The gore goes absolutely everywhere.” Then he picks up his fork. “The roast came out splendidly, by the way.”
Jude drives her blade into the mahogany of the dining table, inches from Cardan’s plate.
More than a few gasps from their guest delegation. Someone almost draws their sword in alarm. Fand places a calming hand on their shoulder, a look of boredom clear on her face.
“I told you,” Jude seethes, “to handle this yourself.”
“And I told you, wife,” Cardan says, “not to wear those mortal trousers when you left.”
“What?” There is enough venom in her voice that Suren’s teacup stills halfway to her mouth. “You tricked me all the way back here because you didn’t like my jeans?”
“On the contrary.” He tilts his head at her. He’s wearing the kind of smile that tells her a good sum of his amusement is actually directed at himself. “My spies informed me that you took Oak to an event full of unruly mortal men. Wearing that.” His eyes rove over her and linger, heavy and dark, on the curve of her hips.
Jude’s head is beginning to throb. Not just because of the anger simmering with every word out of Cardan’s mouth, but because his words aren’t making any sense. He had spies on her? Why?
“Unruly—” Her hand comes up to rub at the ache forming between her brows. “Are you talking about the basketball game?” Cardan doesn’t say anything. “That was a school thing for Oak!”
He shrugs. “It matters not, seeing as there is only one solution to the problem at hand.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” He nods sagely. “I shall have to chaperone you throughout your sojourn in the mortal realms.”
Suren must see Jude’s hand reaching to pull Nightfell out of the dining table because she swiftly interrupts. “Your Majesties. It would seem that a tribunal cannot be carried out while the two of you are away. It would be no trouble at all to postpone to a later date.”
“Trouble. Yes, we wouldn’t want any of that, would we, Jude?”
Jude grits her teeth as Suren and her infuriating husband work out an agreeable rescheduling. The young queen, despite her tender age, is a logical, if soft-spoken, negotiator. Jude marks this, and adds it to the tally of information she’s collected about her. There is precious little, and that leaves Jude uneasy. Then, the entire delegation of the Court of Teeth files out of the throne room, Suren’s expression inscrutable throughout it all.
When the two of them are finally alone, Jude stands in front of Cardan, hands clenched.
“I thought you were hurt.”
A flash of teeth as he sips his wine. “And you came for me so quickly.”
“We’ve been planning this tribunal for months.”
Cardan eyes her over the rim of his wine goblet.
“Cardan, some of them voted to have you bridled and enslaved. And today you let them get away.”
He sets his goblet down and sighs. “Yes. And today you saw how well Suren is handling them. They’re all much too afraid of her to even think about making a move against us.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to postpone the entire thing.”
“It also didn’t mean that we had to make Suren order a retinue of her people to their punishment.”
Jude narrows her eyes at him. “It’s her duty as queen.”
“She’s nine.”
“What does that matter?” The words are out of her mouth before she can think them through. And she knows: it matters. Nine years old. Barely older than the age she’d witnessed her parents killed. Barely older than Oak. Too young.
Cardan says nothing, only waits.
A long breath escapes her. “All right. I understand.”
“Good.”
“That means you have to find another way to charge the guilty.”
“Arguable.”
“Non-negotiable.” Her fingers find that throbbing between her eyebrows again. “You didn’t need me here to postpone that ruling.”
“Of course not. I needed you here for a different reason.”
Her irritation is a hot surge under her skin. Jude slams her hands on the armrests of his chair. “Care to elaborate?” Danger, soft in her voice.
A danger mirrored in the tilt of Cardan’s lips. He snags one of her belt loops in one hand, while the other drifts up her hipbone and then around. He squeezes. “These jeans, you call them? Wear them only when I’m around.”
She doesn’t need Nightfell to get her point across. Her fingers tangle in his hair, yanking hard enough to make him hiss.
“If you pull something like this again, I’ll stab you myself. Are we clear?”
He smiles. His satisfaction is sharp enough to cut.
“Well, wife, you did say with or without you.”
It’s the last day of Jude’s designated week of babysitting, and Vivi and Heather have just arrived from Seattle. She comes in from her evening jog with her sweat drying cold against her skin. It’s late October in Maine and her thin jacket and leggings were a mistake in the evening chill. With mild weather a near constant in Elfhame, Jude is out of practice dealing with extreme temperatures.
She rounds the hallway to find them all sitting around the counter having dinner.
“Cake.” Cardan is half-buried in chocolate icing, and is entirely too gleeful. “Jude, you should have told me mortals eat cake for dinner.”
She doesn’t respond.
“We don’t,” Heather answers when the silence goes on too long. “Not usually, at least. But our Seattle trip was a success and we wanted to celebrate.”
“Thanks for babysitting, Your Royal Majesties,” Vivi says with a grin.
“Not a baby,” Oak grumbles.
“It was our pleasure,” Cardan croons. His eyes track her as she moves to the sink. “Wasn’t it, Jude?”
She ignores him, again. Just like every other time he tried engaging her after he finagled himself into joining her in the mortal world.
Just the thought of it has Jude slamming the kitchen shelves as she retrieves a glass. Water sloshes as she drinks and sets the glass down hard against the counter. The other plates and glasses clink from the force of it.
Vivi raises an eyebrow at her, pulling her plate of chocolate cake away. “Shall I move some things, make some space for your rage?”
“We’ll be returning to Elfhame tomorrow,” Jude announces flatly. “We have a tribunal to move up.”
Cardan pouts.
“I thought he postponed that?” Vivi asks.
“Oh, he did. Indefinitely.”
“Ah,” say Vivi and Heather in unison.
“But, Jude.” Oak blinks up at her with frosting smeared across his cheek. “What about Halloween?”
Cardan immediately perks up. “Yes, Jude. What about Halloween?”
“What about it, Oak?”
Her brother shrinks back a little as she turns all of her intensity toward him instead of Cardan, but he soldiers on anyway. “We were telling Cardan about trick-or-treating tomorrow. How we dress up in costumes and go around getting candy.”
“Candy and costumes, tricks and treats,” Cardan says. “Almost all of my favorite things.” Dark eyes flash in her direction.
She grits her teeth. “Sorry, Oak. We agreed just for a week.”
“Oh, come on, Jude. What’s one more night?” Vivi says. “Remember how you used to plan out our routes to get the best candy?”
“Yes.” Apparently, scheming was long in her blood even before she came to Faerie. “But—”
“Slight problem.” Heather’s brows wrinkle. “We’ve had our costumes planned and ready for months now, and there might not be enough time to pull something together for you guys in time.”
“But,” Vivi says, “they won’t really need costumes for what comes after trick-or-treating.”
And here, Jude feels the conversation slip from her control.
“After?” The intrigue is almost too thick in Cardan’s voice.
A slow smile spreads on Vivi’s face. “A party.”
“A party,” he repeats with relish.
“A party,” Jude deadpans.
“No need for glamours,” Vivi tells Cardan. As if he needs any further convincing. “The devil walks the streets on All Hallow’s Eve. It’ll be the one night we blend in.”
Jude does not care for the mischief in her eyes. “Hey. Wait a minute—”
“You, on the other hand,” Heather says with an assessing gaze on Jude, “could do with some blending in.”
Jude sinks into the nearest bar stool, feeling a familiar throbbing building in her forehead. “You’re all impossible.”
And that’s when she feels it.
A featherlight touch against the top of her thigh.
The material of her leggings is too thin for her to ignore it. And besides, she is intimately familiar with what his tail feels like against her skin.
She sat down next to Cardan and didn’t even realize it.
The conversation fades out around her.
The tip of his tail brushes down her leg. Meets the fold behind her knee. The sensitive, delicate skin there. Unprotected by flimsy fabric. Jude holds her breath. Heather and Vivi are still talking but she’s not paying attention anymore.
It continues down the length of her calf, slowly, and every inch it passes, light as a whisper, she wonders if she’s dreaming it up, until — something feathers against the exposed skin of her ankle, and no, she’s not dreaming this at all.
She gasps, soft enough for just him to hear.
She can feel it like a physical thing, the wickedness of his smile.
His tail sweeps all the way up in a long slide against the back of her leg, and curls around her waist: its home for the moment. The soft ends of it tickle against the patch of skin he finds beneath her shirt. Everything hidden underneath the countertop. A secret tucked away.
He hasn’t touched her. At least, not with his hands. Not with his fingers. Not with his lips.
And yet, she feels the promise of them seared all over her skin.
“It’s settled, then.” She finally looks up when he speaks, and, oh, his eyes. They burn. “Tomorrow, I shall feast on all the treats the mortal world has to offer.”
“Don’t you think it’s too—”
“Short?”
“No—”
“Tight?”
“N—”
“Boob-y?”
“Gold,” Jude snaps. “Too… gold. But thanks for letting me know how you really feel, Vivi.”
Her sister shrugs. “I’m the one in a black latex catsuit, so I guess I’m not one to talk.”
With her blonde hair covering her pointed ears and her feline eyes, for once unglamoured, flashing behind a black mask, she looks like something straight out of that French superhero TV show she’d seen Heather watching on more than one occasion.
“I told you, Vee, the catsuit does all the talking for you.” Heather is a flash of red and black polka dots around the corner. “Jude! Give us, like, ten minutes to change out of our costumes, and then we can go.”
The minute she and Vivi returned from trick-or-treating with Oak, Heather pounced. Jude quickly found out that by ‘blending in’ Heather actually meant a dress. A small, tight, gold dress. A definite far cry from her gowns in Faerie.
She actually doesn’t get to see much of the thing before Heather wrangles her in it with frankly terrifying efficiency, and she sure as hell doesn’t feel much of the dress, either, because it seems like there wasn’t much of it to begin with.
All she knows is that when Cardan sees her, he misses a step going down the stairs. It’s the first inelegant thing she’s ever seen him do, and the sight of it rings through her head. When he finally regains his balance, he gives her a look like she’s swung a sword at his head all over again.
Which she shouldn’t have noticed anyway, since she’s not presently speaking to him at the moment.
He takes a step forward, hand reaching out as if he can’t stop himself, and Jude tears her gaze from the look on his face and walks out the door.
They’re on the way to drop Oak off at a friend’s house for a sleepover — “Remember what we promised, Oakie?” Vivi never did develop the disciplinarian nature of her father, to no one’s chagrin. “You get to stay over at your classmate’s house as long as you keep the glamour on the whole time.” — when Heather sidles up next to Jude.
“Are you still giving him the cold shoulder?” she whispers. It’s not a very subtle one.
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes,” Jude snarls.
“Okay. Then what’s with the royal goo-goo eyes?”
“What?”
“Cardan,” Heather says, unhelpfully. “Looking like a kicked puppy.”
She will not look back to where Cardan is walking behind them. She will not. “He’s the High King of Elfhame. He doesn’t do goo-goo eyes.”
Heather takes another glance over her shoulder. “I don’t know. Those look pretty gooey to me.”
“Ignore him.”
“I think he likes the dress.”
“Ignore him.”
“I can’t, Jude. I’m trying to prove a theory.”
“What theory?”
Heather gives her a long look that she’s sure she has seen on Vivi before. “That maybe it’s not about what you ask, but how you ask it.”
They arrive a quarter to midnight on All Hallow’s Eve. The hour is loose, and the morals are looser.
The club is packed. Music thick in the air. She doesn’t recognize the song, much less understand any of the words. The dance floor holds the bodies of partygoers like a bowl filled to overflowing. There’s a machine belching out green smoke so heavy it’s almost like walking into a wall when they cross the threshold.
The place smells like a mixture of sweat, sugar, and bottom-shelf liquor, but it does nothing to stop the cheer that rocks through the crowd when the next song starts to play, the frisson of excitement reaching even the huge throng of people sloshed and milling in the entrance.
Vivi smiles at the bouncer and he grins immediately, expression glazed. No one asks them for ID.
Cardan’s eyes glint as he takes in the mortal revelry before him.
“We’ll get the drinks!” Heather has to raise her voice to be heard across the thumping bass. “You guys find a table!”
“Wait,” Jude yells after them, but it’s useless. Vivi and Heather are swiftly swallowed by the crowd. “I have no idea where—”
A sharp elbow slams into her side, a sticky body pressing against her, and she grunts. It takes her less than a breath to elbow back even more viciously, shoving what looks to be some wasted college guy careening back into his friends.
“Hey,” he slurs angrily, clutching his injured side and looking around with glassy eyes, “watch it—”
The crowd surges again, and she’s not sure which of the boys stumbles into her this time, jostling her, but she’s ready. There’s a needlepoint tipped in deathsweet hidden in her ring. He’s close enough for her to smell his stale breath, feel his perspiration on her skin. He blinks down at her, and she bristles at the way his eyes linger. Just one prick away from the worst hangover of his entire frat boy life—
A hand spreads across her stomach.
Cardan pulls her backwards.
Away from the rowdy group, the drunk boy. Into him.
Her back hits his chest. His palm holds her flush against him, warm through the thin material of her dress. She twists her neck to send him a glare. “I had it,” she hisses. “I didn’t need you to save me.”
He’s not even looking at her. Instead, he’s got his eyes narrowed in front of them. For a second, Jude swears she sees a flash of bared teeth in the dim lighting.
“As if I would even know where to begin.” There’s a hard edge to his voice. “Come away, Jude.”
She almost elbows him as he begins to lead her further inside, but his hand on her hip is firm, and they were supposed to find a table anyway.
He doesn’t let go of her as he weaves through the crowd, which seems to part for him for no other explicable reason than the fact that he’s radiating magic and mischief and the entire power of Faerie. If he hopes to dispel attention from himself, he’s not doing a well enough job of it without his glamour. A good number of people stare after him, jaws hanging, and she’s suddenly not so mad at the way he has her practically molded to his side.
All the tables are full, of course. Jude is already searching the bar for a flash of Vivi’s blonde hair when Cardan turns toward the section of secluded round booths near the wall.
She doesn’t catch him casting the glamour, because if she did she would have kicked him hard for doing that in front of so many people.
But it’s darkest in this part of the club, and everyone is too caught up in themselves to notice when an entire table of partygoers snap to their feet and march out of their booth without a backward glance.
Cardan throws himself into the now-empty, cracked leather seats, satisfaction curling the edges of his mouth.
Heather whistles when she and Vivi make their way to the booth. “Nice. Can’t believe you guys snagged a booth when the place is so packed.”
Vivi tosses Cardan a conspiratorial wink before setting their tray of drinks onto the sticky table.
Naturally, Cardan reaches for the most ostentatious one: it’s vivid pink in a shallow, diamond fluted glass, and its rim is dipped in crystals.
She slaps his hand away. “That’s salt,” she tells him, dryly.
Heather scoops it up. “And that’s mine, thank you.”
He scowls. “Where is my drink, then?”
“Oh,” Vivi says, eyes gleaming, “just you wait, Your Majesty.”
She arranges an array of small glasses in front of them and Cardan knocks back the clear liquid without hesitation.
“That’s foul.” He pushes the empty shot glass back across the table. “Another one.”
And so the night commences. Jude takes a few shots, the liquid burning down her throat in a way that reminds her of poison, but mostly she watches with exasperation as first Heather, and then Vivi drink enough to attempt the dance floor. Cardan decides to stay back in the booth instead of joining them.
“Never took you for the private type.”
His head snaps to her. She tries not to dwell on his immediate reaction to her attention.
He gives her a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. “I find myself in extenuating circumstances.”
“Try not to let us mortals disgust you too badly.”
His gaze sweeps the length of her. Then he turns his eyes to the open floor, surveying the throng of people filling every last inch of the space. “How easily you misunderstand me,” he sighs.
Jude’s up before she can think better of it. “Fine. Guess I’ll go dance with them after all.”
A hand closes around her wrist: imploring, not restraining.
“I’d like it,” Cardan says slowly, “if you stayed by my side.”
“I’m your queen,” she bites back, “not your courtier.”
She sees her mistake far too late.
Cardan grins, a real one now. “And as my queen, you deserve the finest seat of all.”
And then he tugs on her wrist and drops her into his lap.
Jude lands in the middle of his leg, throwing an arm around his shoulders for balance. His arms come around her, and they meet across the top of her thigh, where her skirt has ridden up dangerously high. The press of their bodies is warmer than usual in the humidity of the club.
“Let go.” She leans into his face, trying to be menacing. “You’ll be surprised how many knives I can hide in a dress like this.”
Her plan backfires because he leans in, too, and it’s not menace on his face that makes her swallow. “And you’ll be surprised to know I’ve thought of little else except that dress of yours.”
She will not react to that. She will not. “Release me, Cardan.”
She can fight him off if she really wants to, but she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of unnerving her that far. He might see the heat crawling up her face.
“I don’t think I will. You’re finally talking to me.”
“Regretfully.”
“No matter. We don’t have to talk.” He starts to lean in closer, expectation clear on his smug face.
She stares down, unimpressed. “Be serious.”
“I am,” he says. The words dissolve into the smoky air. “Indulge me, Jude.”
“Only if you indulge me first.”
“Oh?”
“Move up the tribunal. Suren doesn’t have to be a part of it.”
He groans, finally leaning back a little. “Ask me another time.”
“Why.”
His fingers fist in her shimmering gold skirt. “Because I can’t think clearly when I see you like this. When I see how others look at you like this. Because the devil walks the streets tonight in all her finery, and I am forever at her mercy.”
Maybe the alcohol is finally kicking in, because she’s feeling light-headed. “You’re a fool.”
“And you mortals are more dangerous than I thought.” His face tilts up to her, and his voice is a siren song. “I missed you, Jude.”
Mercy, Jude thinks as she leans in to meet his kiss, has never tasted so good.
And if Cardan’s fingers find themselves wandering up the length of her thigh, testing the give of her quickly-disappearing gold hem, well. It’s much too dark in their booth for anyone to notice.
They depart from the club some hours later. There might have been dancing, but Jude can’t really remember anything besides the press of Cardan’s chest and the warmth of his hand on her back.
What she does remember is the staring. It’s like every pair of eyes turn to them as they emerge from the bowels of smoke and music.
And Jude knows, the same way she knows the weight of Nightfell in her hand, that they aren’t staring at him. At least, not just him. No, they’re staring at her, too, the two of them, together. A golden girl and her king of shadows.
Let them stare.
Cardan’s eyes are heavy on the sway of her hips as she walks ahead of him.
She grins.
Let them all stare.
She’s on the couch the next morning, her head pillowed on Cardan’s lap as they watch Oak play video games. His fingers are gentle against her temple, but she knows he’s fighting back a smirk. The sun is a little too bright and the noise from the television a little too loud, but she’d sooner die than admit that out loud to anybody, least of all him.
Hands appear over the back of the couch, bearing a tray of beverages.
“Here, drink this.”
She almost winces, remembering the last time Heather had offered them refreshments. If six shots of cheap vodka counted as refreshing.
“It’ll help your hangover,” she offers.
“I don’t have a hangover,” Jude argues, but she lifts her head and sips it anyway. “Mm. Is there Sprite in this?” It’s been a while since she’s had soda. The carbonated fizzling on her tongue is a pleasant memory of a life she’s left behind.
Above her, Cardan chokes on his own drink. Some of it lands on her face.
“Cardan, ugh—”
He’s staring down at her in horror. “This decoction contains sprite?”
“What?” Jude pulls herself up gingerly, ignoring the way her head throbs at the motion. “Oh. No.” She can’t help the snicker that comes out of her at the sight of his wide eyes. “Not a sprite, I meant — there’s a human drink. A soda called Sprite.”
He doesn’t look like he believes her. He sets his glass down quickly and goes to join Oak in front of the console, as if he can’t distance himself fast enough. She grins while she drains her drink. It’s good. It’s bright and citrusy and it cuts through the pounding in her head enough that she can sit up for a while. No sudden movements, though.
The couch dips violently as Vivi throws herself into the space Cardan had left behind. Jude’s stomach swoops with it.
“Hey, little sister,” she says, cheerfully ignoring how green Jude probably looks. She shakes a bright orange pumpkin basket at her. “Care to partake of the spoils?”
“That’s Oak’s.” Jude’s conviction is weaker than she would like. She can’t remember the last time she’s had Halloween candy.
“He doesn’t mind. Right, buddy? Sharing is caring, and all that.”
Oak’s answer is an unintelligible gurgle, too intent on mashing buttons. Beside him, Cardan is bent over his own console, eyes focused on the screen. With both boys effectively distracted, the sisters dive into the sugary hoard.
Jude paws past a small pile of red-swirled peppermints. “Hey, do they still make those lollipops with the chewy stuff in the middle? Chocolate flavored?”
“Oh, Tootsie Pops? Hang on, I think I saw a couple near the bottom.”
A few minutes later, the entire basket has been upended over the carpet and thoroughly sorted through by enthusiastic, questing fingers. Jude settles back contentedly against the cushions, rolling her prized candy against the inside of her cheek by its white paper stick, and Vivi sits beside her, trying to fit as many M&M’s in her mouth as she can in a single go.
Jude tosses a packet of sour gummy worms at Cardan. “Here,” she says. “They remind me of you.”
His eyes flicker away from the screen at the sound of crinkling plastic in his lap, and he tilts his head in interest to read the packaging.
She doesn’t have to wait long.
His head snaps up a second later, a scowl etched across his face. “These are shaped like worms, Jude.”
She cackles. “Close enough.”
“These had better be as delicious as Taryn foretold them to be,” he grumps. “Otherwise, I will be sorely disappointed.”
But he pockets the little packet anyway, turning dutifully back to the game. Vivi finally swallows her mouthful of M&M’s.
“How is Taryn doing?”
“Her due date is coming up.” Jude keeps her eyes forward as she answers. “She’s settled in Locke’s estate, but she comes by the brugh during revels, when she’s up to it.”
“That’s good.” The unspoken question hangs in the air. Jude sometimes forgets how much of an older sister Vivi can be.
“We’re fine. I mean, we talk.” She shrugs. “But not about the important stuff.” Vivi’s silence doesn’t crowd her, and it’s this that lets her unfurl just a little bit more.
“Sometimes I feel like we should. Talk about the important stuff, I mean. I keep thinking I should reach out, maybe visit her one day, but I just…”
“Feel like it’s not your turn to apologize?”
“Yeah.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
Vivi nods. “I feel the same way about dad.”
Jude lets the quiet moment wash over her. The sounds of the TV, Oak’s inarticulate mumbling. Vivi’s warm presence beside her, Heather washing their glasses in the kitchen. The lollipop sweet on her tongue, the promise of its soft, chocolate center tempting her to just bite through what little remains of the hard candy shell. She could just bite into it; when was the last time she’s had a Tootsie Pop? But Jude’s no stranger to the waiting game. She knows that there are opportunities to strike, and there are opportunities to draw things out for a better outcome.
She eyes the lollipop critically before popping it back between her lips.
Weakest spot is on its side, where the candy has been melting longest against her tongue. She delivers a carefully calculated blow: a long, slow lick up the now-flattened side, intended to cover as much surface as possible.
If only she could break down Cardan’s resistance to the tribunal as easily as this.
Another cursory check reveals it to have worked, but only incrementally. Jude deploys her strategy again, pulling the lollipop through her mouth using the quickly softening white paper stick.
She can just see the chocolate center peeking through. Maybe if she wrapped her lips around it more fully…
Oak shrieks his victory, voice loud and piercing to Jude’s sensitive ears, and wincing, she looks up to appraise the match. Confetti bursts across the screen as Oak jumps up and down, and beside him, Cardan is—
Cardan is staring at her.
Mouth slightly open, gaming console forgotten in his slack fingers, eyes caught on—
Her lips.
His eyes are caught on her lips.
Sucking on a lollipop.
The moment stretches.
And she realizes that she’s a little caught too.
“Cardan?” Oak asks. “Are you still playing?”
His jaw snaps shut and he turns quickly back to the new game that Oak has started, but not before Jude marks the traces of pink high on his cheekbones. Not before she catches the low sway of his tail. Not before she notices the change in his breathing.
“Well,” Vivi says, a smile in her voice. “All’s fair.”
And unbidden, a vivid pink storefront appears in her mind: one that she’s seen in malls, selling sheer lacy things, with straps and slipties. Things she’s never given a second thought to beyond a disinterested glance. Things she’s now reevaluating through the eyes of her husband, always intent on her, but lately, even more so. Weapons, after all, come in many shapes and sizes.
And are there ones you would wear for me?
A plan begins to form in Jude’s mind.
She knows exactly how to get Cardan to move up the tribunal.
“Hey, Heather,” Jude says. “I like your theory. Let’s go shopping.”
|
********************
4,262 years ago (2252BCE):
The pale sunlight shined brightly over the grassy plains. The great sun was hanging low above the western horizon. A flock of birds flew across a blue, cloudless sky, riding upon a rising northeastern wind. The flock passed over the great circle of stones below, quietly except for the sound of their flapping wings.
Sitting amongst the great stone circle was a young woman. She looked up at the birds as they passed overhead, bringing her out of her silent meditation. She listened to the wind as she watched the birds fly towards the horizon, hoping to hear something, anything. She then looked at the silent, giant stones around her, noticing their shadows growing long, telling her that she had been here for almost half a day. She was sitting upon her knees, her legs tucked under her.
Her ancestors had put these Great Stones here many, many lives ago. It was a place of magic and spirits, not only for her people, but for many other people as well. She liked coming to this place when she wanted to be alone, which was often lately. Soon, many clans would make the journey here for the great Harvest Gathering, to give thanks to the spirits for their harvests and to ask the spirits to guide and protect them through the coming season of cold.
The young woman looked down upon the earth, and absently drew random lines in the soft dirt with her finger. She sighed.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, the wind shifted with a powerful gust from the south. The young woman was facing west, towards the setting sun. The sudden powerful gust whipped and howled around her, pushing her slightly off balance and she had to place her right hand on the ground for support. She looked to the south, brushing the hair from her face with her left hand.
The wind moaned through the Great Stones, "Druuu-shaaa." She shivered, even though this gust was warmer than the previous chill northeastern wind. She looked south with a searching gaze. For a moment she closed her eyes and tilted her head up, smelling and breathing in the wind.
Within her mind, she spoke, "Spirits of the South, what is it you have come here seeking?"
A second gust blew then, more gently, like a fresh breeze. "Druu-shaa," the wind whispered, this time more softly, as it danced and swirled among the Great Stones.
The young woman opened her light blue eyes and stared south for a great while, trying to connect with this spirit from the south. The howl of a distant wolf brought her from her trance. She looked back to the west and saw the bottom of a reddened sun beginning to touch the horizon.
Reluctantly, she rose and set off towards the southwest at a leisurely, unhurried pace. The wind was growing chill once more, shifting again out of the northeast. She walked through a sea of wavy grass, letting her fingertips brush over the tops of the stalks as she made her way home.
Darkness had fallen when she topped the slight ridge to look upon the village. It consisted of about fifty round wooden and stone huts clustered around a central, rectangular longhouse. She occupied a round-hut near the longhouse with her husband, but as she entered the village she made her way not to it, but to the longhouse, where most of her clan would be gathered.
She entered the welcoming warmth and made her way towards the center, near the hearth fire. She stopped before a large man, with a bushy black beard flecked with grey, seated before the fire. He looked up at the young woman with affection and a warm smile. The young woman bowed her head and kneeled.
"Hello, my father."
"Ah, my Drusha. I have been searching for you, daughter. You shouldn't wander so far from the village after nightfall."
"I do not fear the darkness, my father," Drusha said as she took her place to his right and portions of the communal dinner were passed to her.
"As well you should not. What you must fear are the spirits of darkness."
Her father was chieftain of this clan, and highly respected. Unlike other clan chieftains, he was also a priest. In other clans, the positions of chieftain and priest were held by two separate individuals, but due to the proximity of their village to the Temple of the Great Stones, her father was recognized as its protector and keeper. Priests and chieftains traveled far and wide to confer with her father.
"I received word today from your husband's trading party. They are on the coast, two days journey south from here."
"Oh? Should I be hopeful enough to receive from my husband a necklace of seashells?", Drusha said, with barely hidden contempt for her husband. Her father either missed or ignored her contemptuous tone.
"Perhaps you may hope for something more of value. They have encountered traders from across the sea. Strange men, I am told, unlike any which we have ever seen before."
"What makes such men so strange, father?"
"We will know once we see them for ourselves. They have asked your husband and his men to guide them inland. They should arrive day after tomorrow. We must prepare to receive them, so I need you to not wander far as you did today. I will be leaving alone in the morning for the Great Stones, so that I can speak with the spirits concerning these strange men."
"I understand father."
He placed his hand on her shoulder, gently squeezing. She looked up at him smiling down upon her with fatherly pride. She smiled back rather weakly, then turned her attention back to her food.
Her father studied her for a moment. Like her mother, who had died long ago when Drusha was a child, she was fair and very beautiful with long hair the color of the golden sun. She has lived for eighteen years, and in the springtime had married. It was her marriage that had been troubling her, he knew.
Every spring, all the clans gathered at the Great Stones for ten days to celebrate the Renewal. It is during this time that marriages are celebrated. Drusha was easily the most beautiful and desirable woman of marrying age among all the assembled clans, and that, together with her being the daughter of the most powerful man of the land, had many men wishing to become her husband.
She had never shown an interest in any particular suitor, or in marriage at all for that matter. Her father had chosen her to marry Edan, within their own village. He was a half dozen summers older, and was the best hunter and warrior of their clan. The choice was the most sensible one when viewed through the eyes of a chieftain, whose main concern was tribal politics and clan cohesion.
But, as her father, he also wanted what he felt was best for her, too. She hadn't objected to his choice of her husband, but she showed no joy over it either. Privately, he began to regret his choice throughout the summer, as he watched his daughter's mood and outlook on life begin to darken. Now early autumn and still his daughter's stomach had not begun to grow with child, which was highly irregular for those that marry at the Renewal Celebration.
It was clear to all that the marriage between Edan and Drusha was entirely devoid of mutual love and affection. Drusha, for her part, did what was expected of a wife, if only half-heartedly. She always kept their home up and welcoming for her husband, she cooked his food, tending the home fire, cleaned and prepared his hunting kills, and wove clothing for him.
She received from him little in return. He clearly preferred the company of his fellow warriors and hunters to his wife. He would rather go out on a hunt than share the sleeping furs with her. He was always cold towards her and treated her more like a prize that he had won. The only time he shows any deference towards her is when he would brag to others that his wife is the most beautiful of all others and is the daughter of the most powerful man of the land.
All through this his daughter had never complained, but kept it to herself, although he could see it had taken its toll on her normally vibrant attitude. Lately, she had either kept to herself in her hut while her husband was away or wandering alone in the land around the village. He knew she liked to spend many hours alone at the Great Temple.
He wished he could do something about it, and have asked the spirits for guidance to make his daughter happy and full of life again. But now, there were more pressing things that he must worry about, with the coming of these strange foreigners. He would prepare in the morning for the trek to the Great Temple to confer with the spirits.
Drusha had spent the next two days helping to prepare for their foreign guests. She was dreading the return of her husband, and yet was curious to see who these foreigners were, as were all the other villagers.
On the morning of the day of their expected arrival, two warriors from her husband's group ran ahead to inform the chieftain that Edan and the foreigners were near. The whole village gathered, and soon the travelers were seen cresting the hill from the south. When they were close enough, Drusha saw her husband raise his hand and call out a greeting, to which her father did the same.
Edan walked straight up to her father and bowed to him, not even giving Drusha a glance as she stood next to her father. Nor did she pay attention to him, for her eyes were riveted upon the strange men standing a short distance away. After Edan had spoken a few quiet words to the chieftain, both he and the chieftain walked forward to the strangers, while Drusha and the rest of the village stayed behind and looked on.
The group of travelers numbered eight. All were strange indeed, with skin the color of tanned hides, wearing flowing robes and adorned with strange ornaments. Many of them had bizarre marking on their arms, and the man who appeared to be their leader had some strange black markings around his eyes. One man among the group looked pale skinned like her people, and he seemed to be their translator, for he was relaying the words spoken by her father and their leader.
Drusha's eyes looked upon the strangest man of the small group. His skin was the darkest of them all, almost black in color. No hair grew upon his head, and he had shiny metal ornaments dangling from his ears. His skin had more strange markings then all of them. He wore a scowl upon his face and his eyes were locked upon her father. Drusha stared at this man, unable to look away from him. He was strange, and quite frightening.
After a while, her father turned around and walked into the longhouse, followed by the strangers and her husband and a few of his men. The villagers, still curious, scattered to go about their business, but all stayed as near as possible to the longhouse entrance. Drusha did not, however, and went into her hut.
A couple hours later, as evening was beginning, a warrior approached the entrance to her hut and called out her name without looking inside.
"I am here, Broen," she responded, recognizing which warrior it was by his voice.
"Your father the chieftain sends for you to come to the longhouse."
Inside the longhouse, her father sat in his customary spot before the fire, facing the entrance. Off to his left sat her husband and a few of his warriors and facing her father from across the fire with their backs to the entrance were the foreigners. Two village women were busy about the longhouse preparing for the communal dinner.
Drusha entered quietly and made her way to the right side of her father and sat. Normally a wife would sit next to her husband, but this is a protocol that Drusha had never followed, always taking her place next to her father.
"Ah, greetings my Drusha," her father said proudly, his eyes twinkling.
"Greetings, my father," she responded smiling at him.
"Menthalos, this is my daughter Drusha, wife of my captain Edan."
Their translator spoke, and the leader of the foreigners, named Menthalos, rose, tilted his head slightly forward as he touched his right hand to the center of his forehead. Smiling, he then swept his arm outward in a gesture as he spoke. All his words were unintelligible to Drusha, except for him saying her name.
The translator spoke: "Ra, in his journey across the sky, does not pass over another woman as beautiful as Drusha, wife of Edan."
Drusha smiled and looked down. The conversation between her father and Menthalos continued, via the translator. Menthalos was the man with dark lines drawn around his eyelids, with a mark running out from each corner. He wore ornaments the likes of which she had never seen, including an arm bracelet made of yellow metal in the shape of two intertwined serpents. He wore a strange foot covering of strips of leather exposing his foot and winding midway between his heel and knee.
Drusha learned that these men came from a land very far to the south, called Egypt. It was hard for her to imagine the description Menthalos gave of this land, for she was unfamiliar with many words that even the translator struggled with. She had no idea what a desert was or palm trees. She gathered that Ra was the name of the spirit of the Sun, but she was confused as to who Pepi was, which was mentioned many times. They called him Pharaoh, and was apparently the child of Ra, but she couldn't imagine how the Sun could have a child in the form of a man, and who was also the chieftain of the people of Egypt. Egypt was a land where the sun always shone and it never rained, yet a great river was always abundant with water, and they depended upon this river for all their food. She wasn't clear how a river could provide food to people.
At one point she glanced to the dark colored man, who happened to be sitting across the fire from her. He was looking at her. She quickly turned her head away, but after a moment, her eyes looked again over at him from the corner of her eyes. He was still looking at her, unmoving. She raised her chin up slightly, an imperceptible gesture of defiance and confidence that she did not fear his stare. Barely noticeable, a corner of the dark man's lip curled up. They held each other's gaze for what seemed like an eternity. Drusha was frozen, yet refused to yield her gaze. She was amazed at the contrast between the bright whites of his eyes surrounded by the darkness of his face.
Drusha finally noticed his lip curl up a little more, and she turned away, and he also. Across the room, their exchange was not lost on Edan who was also staring at the dark man. As the dark man turned his gaze away from Drusha, he noticed her husband staring at him. Their gazes in turn held each others, before the dark man turned away and shifted his sitting position.
Drusha looked at her husband, taking note that he was sizing up the dark man, and smiled inwardly. Despite her husband being the strong warrior he was, she thought she detected a little fear mixed with his possessiveness in his expression.
Soon the dinner feast was prepared, and the other villagers were invited in by the chieftain. Everyone took their places as food was passed around, but the villagers eyes remained fixed upon their foreign guests.
Conversation resumed between her father and Menthalos, including the reason why they had come so far from their homeland. Menthalos replied that he had been commissioned by his chieftain Pharaoh Pepi to explore far lands and establish trade contacts. Many questions were asked of her father concerning geography of the land and of his knowledge of the clans of the land.
"If it is trade with our people you are interested in, then the spirits had led you here at the right time, Menthalos," said her father, "The harvest moon is near, and soon all clans throughout the land will make their way to the Great Temple for the Harvest Celebration. Instead of you going to seek out trade and knowledge from all the clans, they will come here to you."
Menthalos began asking about the Great Temple, to which her father invited him and his men to visit it tomorrow.
Drusha asked her father if she might accompany him, and he agreed. She turned to look at the dark man briefly, saw him watching her once again. When she looked over at her husband he gave her a disapproving frown. Drusha disregarded him by turning away, and this time, gave him the defiant lift of her chin and turned her concentration to her food.
The dark man, observing this silent interaction between the woman and her husband, smiled to himself and turned his attention to his food.
The next day, the chieftain led a small entourage to the Great Temple. They stayed there until around midday. For Drusha, the talk was uninteresting. While Menthalos didn't seem too impressed with the Stonehenge, he listened politely to her father talk about it. Menthalos then spoke of the stone temples in Egypt, and judging from his descriptions, Stonehenge was tiny by comparison. But Drusha was barely listening.
She tried to watch the dark man as much as she could, whenever she thought no one would notice. She was intrigued by him, and the more she looked at him, the more her curiosity grew. She would become embarrassed if he caught her looking at him, which he did on several occasions, especially because when he did catch her, he would smile at her.
Drusha was annoyed with her husband, who had been determined to stay by her side throughout this excursion, and it distracted her attention from being able to watch the dark man more. She was annoyed because he had hardly ever shown this much attention to her in the past, and although she had sometimes wished for Edan to give her more attention, she now wished he would disappear.
When they had returned to the village, Menthalos asked her father if they could stay here until after the Harvest Celebration. Her father welcomed him to do so. Menthalos and his men then set up tents next to the village.
Over the next two weeks, the foreigners and villagers interacted amicably, trading knowledge of different cultures and different ways, in as much as they could from the language barrier. The men of the village invited the foreigners to go out hunting with them on several occasions.
Drusha had maintained her curiosity of the dark man, but had done nothing more than trade glances. She didn't even know his name, and even if they did speak to each other, neither would understand the other's language.
One evening, after the village had finished eating dinner, Drusha was inside her hut, preparing to hand clean her sleeping furs. She grabbed a water jug and ducked through the entrance of her hut to go fetch some water. It was night, and only the flickering light from fires shown within the various huts. After ducking through her entrance, she straightened upright and almost ran right into the dark man standing before her.
She gasped in surprise and froze, looking up at the large man. A nearby fire illuminated one side of his face, while the rest of him blended in to the darkness of the night. His white eyes bore into hers. Her first instinct was to drop the jug and run away, but her whole body was frozen and she could not take her eyes off from his.
His mouth grew into a grin, and he tilted his head down and bowed slightly toward her while placing his fingers in the middle of his forehead. Drusha gulped audibly. His bald, shiny head was inches from her face. He raised up and said quietly, "Droosha."
She watched him with wide, frightened eyes. He pointed at his chest, "Habiru."
A long silence passed as they stood watching each other before Drusha could get her bearing back, and she forced her mouth to work as she whispered, "Habiru."
His smile grew, and he nodded his head slowly. Hesitantly, and slowly, he raised his hand up, and gently touched with his fingers her blond hair as it fell over her shoulders. "Droo-sha," he said again, as if savoring the sound upon his tongue.
This time, it was Drusha who slowly smiled, and her tense body began to relax. As he continued to allow his fingers to play in her golden locks, slowly and hesitantly Drusha began to raise her arm up. She pointed her forefinger on the exposed skin of his muscular chest. "Habiru," she repeated, looking at him.
Her eyes drifted down to where her finger was touching his chest. She opened her hand and let all her fingertips lightly touch upon his chest. She felt like she had no control and that her movements were being made by something other than her mind. Her eyes slowly drifted up back to meet his. She felt his hand fall and lightly touch her shoulder, and drift down her arm. It made her spine tingle. She rested her palm flat on his chest. She looked down again, and noticed how white her small hand was against his dark, muscular chest.
Footsteps were heard coming towards them. Both Drusha and Habiru let their hands fall to their side. Habiru continued watching her.
"Drusha?" Edan called. "What is happening? Are you alright?"
"I am fine, husband," she replied as Edan came around from behind Habiru and stood looking threateningly at the dark man. Habiru smiled broadly and bowed at Edan with his fingers on his forehead while saying "Edan".
Drusha walked off with her jug to go fetch water. Edan turned to watch her go, and when he turned back to face the dark man, Habiru had already begun walking away in the opposite direction.
Later, as Drusha was back in her hut cleaning the sleeping furs, her mind was racing and replaying what had occurred. She kept on saying the name Habiru over and over in her mind. She couldn't help by smile a little. She felt an excitement unlike any she had ever felt. Then her husband entered the hut, and her smile disappeared and was replaced by a frown, and instantly she was annoyed by him, first by how he had earlier interrupted she and Habiru, and now he was interrupting her thoughts about it.
Edan stood watching her for a moment. Drusha continued her chore without looking up at him. Neither spoke to the other. Edan bent down to remove his footwear, then moved to sit at the back of the hut.
"You should have cleaned our sleeping furs earlier in the day. When will you be finished, wife? I am tired," Edan said gruffly.
"I am almost finished, husband."
Edan took out a cloth bundle from a nearby basket and unwrapped it. It contained his tools of stone working. He began chipping an arrowhead with his chisel.
"Husband, please do not do that within our hut. I have just cleaned and do not wish to feel your clippings on my backside as I sleep."
Edan just grunted, but continued on with his stone working. Soon Drusha had finished with the sleeping furs and spread them out. She lay down to sleep, lying as far as possible from where her husband would lie. She positioned herself with her back facing him. She lay there awake for a while, listening to her husband's tapping, but in her mind she thought of Habiru.
The next morning, the village was at its usual bustle of activity. Drusha was helping the other women prepare and serve the morning meal. Edan and his warriors sat in a group, talking and laughing near the longhouse as they were being served by several women.
Drusha looked over at the foreigners' tents. She noticed Habiru sitting cross-legged in front of his tent, working intently on something. She decided to help two other women in serving the foreigners. She made her way to Habiru.
Habiru looked up from his work as Drusha walked up next to him. She bowed her head and held out his portion of food and drink. He rose and accepted it from her as she raised her head and looked at him. His smile was one of gracious warmth. He spoke, saying her name and some other words she didn't understand, but which she assumed to be words of thanks. She smiled back cautiously.
She turned and walked away and Habiru watched her go. He then sat and began to eat as he looked out upon the surrounding landscape. A couple moments later, he sensed someone approaching. It was Drusha again, holding more food and drink.
He watched as she sat down upon her knees next to him. She kept her eyes down as she began eating. Habiru faced forward again to look out across the land as he resumed eating. Drusha began to look at him from the corner of her eyes without making it obvious.
She studied the strange markings on his right arm. There were two serpents intertwined with each other around a spear. Their heads faced away from the other, and their forked tongues were sticking out. Above them was an eye with a heavy black line around it that edged off to one side, much like how Menthalos's eyes were. She had gathered that it was a mark of importance among Egyptians.
Drusha knew that warriors of her land would paint markings on themselves before going into battle. But Habiru's markings were different. They weren't painted on, but seemed to be somehow a part of his skin. She had never seen anything like it.
She also couldn't help but notice how muscular he was. His bulging arms served to emphasize the markings there. She thought he looked so much stronger than her husband, the village's top warrior. Tentatively, she reached out and touched the markings, tracing them with her fingers. He looked down, watching her hand as he chewed his food. She looked at him to see if he would object.
"Serpent," Drusha said. Habiru looked up at her.
"Pharoah's army," replied Habiru.
Drusha repeated his words, though she knew not what they meant. Her fingers left the markings and glided over his bulging bicep.
"Strong," she said appreciatively.
She shuffled forward a bit on her knees and craned her head around to look at his front side. With mouth slightly opened, she looked like a child overcome with curiosity. She brought her hand up to his garment and tugged it open to get a better view of the markings on his chest. She traced her fingers along the smooth lines of his chest for a moment, until, suddenly aware of her impropriety, she blushed and moved away. She composed herself and resumed eating. Habiru said nothing and did nothing.
After they had finished their morning meal, Drusha took Habiru's plate and cup and set it aside next to hers. Habiru expected her to leave, but she remained sitting next to him. After a while, Drusha began to casually draw the image of a serpent in the dirt between them. When she finished, she looked up with a proud smile, and pointed at it, then pointed at Habiru.
"Habiru," she said, with sweetness in her voice.
Habiru then began to draw in the dirt. He drew a sun, with sunbeams extending out from it. When he had finished he pointed at it, then reached up to touch Drusha's hair.
"Your hair is as radiant as the sun, Droo-sha," he said admiringly.
Drusha understood the meaning. Her eyes and her mouth beamed at the compliment. Habiru then continued to draw in the dirt again. He drew an eye, with lines pointing from the eye to the sun. When he finished, he pointed to his eye, then pointed at Drusha.
"Droo-sha is very pleasing to Habiru's eyes," he spoke, gesturing for effect.
Drusha's smile grew larger. A giggle escaped from her lips and she felt a pleasing tingle from somewhere in her body. For a few long seconds they looked into each other's eyes, smiling. She reached out and touched his knee, while simultaneously turning her attention to what he had been working on before she arrived, as if by creating the distraction of turning her attention elsewhere, it gave her the legitimate pretext to touch him. This subtle method worked, just as it always had and always will, for untold generations of females, past, present and future. Habiru felt her hand on his knee, but he let her instead draw his attention to what she was looking at, and let her hand stay where it was.
They spent the rest of the morning together, learning how to communicate with each other as best they could.
Across the village, Edan sat among his group of fellow warriors, laughing and talking over the morning meal. The smile upon Edan's face diminished when he caught a glimpse of his wife at a distance, sitting next to the dark man. He began staring and jealousy arose within him as he watched them touching each other and smiling.
Meanwhile, Drusha's father, the chieftain, appeared at the doorway of the longhouse after finishing his meal. He looked out over his village and its people as they went about their business. Several feet away were his warriors, gathered round in a circle and eating. He noticed that among the whole group, only his captain and son-in-law, Edan, wasn't talking or laughing. He had a dark expression upon his face. The chieftain followed the direction of Edan's attention. Among the foreigners sat his daughter, next to the dark man they called Habiru.
The chieftain's first impression was one of concern and safety for his daughter. Then he noticed how at ease and relaxed she was, and then he saw her do something that he hadn't seen her do in quite a while; she was smiling, and so animate, like how she used to be. It warmed his heart to see her enjoyment and happiness, and a smile etched upon his face as he watched her.
He glanced at Edan again for a moment, and he arched an eyebrow in thought, then he turned around and went back into the longhouse again.
Around midday, Drusha left Habiru to return to her hut. Almost immediately after she entered, Edan came in behind her. He spoke to her sharply.
"I watched you with that dark man this morning."
"His name is Habiru. And what of it?"
"I do not want you to be around him anymore."
"They are guests and it is all of our duty to be hospitable towards them. My father, the chieftain, would agree."
"It is inappropriate, and after I inform the chieftain of the behavior of which I witnessed between you and him this morning, I believe it is I with whom he will agree with."
"My father, the chieftain, has more pressing matters to worry over with the coming Harvest Celebration. You shouldn't trouble his mind with such things."
Edan just smiled at her, as if he felt he had her where he wanted her. Then he ducked out and left the hut.
A few hours later, Drusha was summoned to the longhouse. Her father and Edan were the only ones inside. They both looked up as she entered. Edan had a smug grin on his face as he watched her approach.
"You wanted to see me, my father."
"Yes, Drusha. Your husband has brought to my attention that you have been spending time among the foreigners, especially with the dark one they call Habiru. Your husband is distressed and considers your actions inappropriate."
"I regret my husband feels this way, my father. This morning I helped prepare and serve the morning meal for our guests. Once I had finished serving, I took my meal and tried conversing with the man Habiru. He had been working with a metal, fashioning an ornament. I became curious because I have never seen a metal such as he had. He is very skilled and I believe we can learn new ways from these foreigners. With your permission, my father, I would like to learn how to speak their language."
"There is no need for that," Edan spoke, "They have a translator who can..."
The chieftain held up his hand to silence Edan.
"My father, they have a translator, but as our clan is the most prestigious of the land, I believe it would be beneficial for us to have one of our own that knows how to speak their language, especially if we intend to establish regular trade with the Egyptians. Our clan's prestige would certainly grow if this were to happen. Our clan would be the one in which future trading parties from Egypt will deal with, and in turn we can trade things we receive further inland. Also, we would be at a better advantage to learn their ways, such as how to work metal, which is superior to stone or bone. The translator works at deciphering their words, but he is not of our people, and has no vested interest in our clan. We don't need a translator, we need an envoy from our people to strengthen ties with these Egyptians."
"Drusha, you are truly a child every chieftain wishes for. I agree with your counsel. You shall be our envoy to the Egyptians and you shall start today with learning their language. I shall confer with Menthalos on this subject."
"Thank you, father. If it is acceptable to you, my father, and Menthalos, I would like to work closely with the man Habiru. This morning he and I made great progress at communicating, and I believe I can learn the best through him."
"I do not see any problem with that, though I shall have to ask Menthalos."
"My chieftain," Edan spoke up plaintively, "I wholly object to this and believe another would do better in this position than Drusha. She is a woman, after all...."
"Silence, Edan," the chieftain snapped, "This woman is as valuable in thought as you are in toughness. Her job is to think, which she is well qualified to do. Your job is to be tough. As such, I have a job for you to do now. Take yourself and two of your men and go send word to the other clans before they leave for the Harvest Celebration. Tell them to expect foreign visitors at the Celebration. Be back two nights before the Harvest Moon. As for your concerns about your wife acting improper with the dark man called Habiru, concern yourself no further. I find that Drusha was acting for the best interest of her clan, and did nothing to dishonor you as a husband. Far from reprimanding her in her actions, I am commending them, and I hope and encourage her to work even more closely with Habiru in the coming days while you are away. I want her to learn as much as she can before the Harvest Celebration, in order for our clan to be the representative clan for the Egyptians to all the other clans. Edan, you should think more about your clan, and less of yourself. Now, you are dismissed."
Edan glared at Drusha as he passed by. This time it was Drusha who was wearing the sly and smug grin upon her beautiful face.
She was going to look forward to working really closely with Habiru, and couldn't wait to begin.
|
"You need to get a new place. You're both so messy!"
Helen's aunt Tammy was at it again. When she got nervous she was abusive, and would harass Helen and Jane. It was early in the morning and Helen was grateful to be leaving the house soon. She dropped Jane off at school and then went to Paul's place. He had given her a key to the house, so she could go and come. She liked getting in there and working to clean the dust. She had been there for a couple of months now, and there wasn't as much cleaning to do each day. Maybe she was just getting used to it. She had been able to save some money, and it turned out to be the best job she had ever had. Paul gave her a tip every day, and was on time with her salary.
She needed ten thousand pesewas to pay her rent for the year for the new flat. She got five thousand a month from Paul, and she had managed to save seven thousand. She was three thousand away, and would probably need another thousand for furniture. In thirty days she would be able to move. Her own place, her own space. She smiled. The hope of moving was the only thing that kept her sane. That and Paul's dick. They had a routine. He wouldn't speak to her while she worked. She knew where everything was, and she quickly got it all done. Sometimes he would play cold and say goodbye. Some times he would pin her down and fuck her legless. She had no way of knowing what was coming. He was a devil that way. He loved to confuse her. She wore a navy dress that came to her knees. It was comfortable and convenient, but nothing fashionable. This was work after all. She wore no panties just in case.
Paul was in a rage. He had just lost a million dollars on the stock market. He was not happy. His traders had followed his orders, only a day later than they were given. By the time they sold the shares they were almost worthless. He slammed the phone down, and looked out of the window into the cloudy night. Having your own jet was good but when you lost money you wondered if it would be better to just fly commercial. It was never clear some times. Actually it was clear. Being rich was good. He looked through the papers, but felt restless. He looked at the tv and didn't find anything interesting. It was crazy, but he was looking forward to getting home. Maybe Helen would still be cleaning. Maybe he would give her something to do...maybe not. Paul was an oil trader. He had many investments across the world, and he liked having his way. At work and at play.
Paul got home to find Helen finishing up. It had been a long trip, and he needed rest. She was a sight for sore eyes though, and her firm breasts and catlike movements got him thinking about her. He was still in a sour mood, so he made some idle chat and sent her off. In the morning he was in a much better mood. Helen let her self in. He was on the sofa reading a newspaper.
"Helen do you know how to swim?"
"No Sir".
He was always shocked how many local africans didn't know how to swim. He had swum competitively growing up, and he always found the water a great way to meditate.
"If I teach you will you learn?"
"If you teach me Sir." She smiled nervously.
"You don't have to be afraid. Let's go to the pool."
The Island Palace was an old colonial hotel which had been re-purposed after the country gained it's independence. It faced the ocean, and had a fantastic olympic size pool. Paul liked to use it as a personal pool and a call to management got it emptied. It was a rare perk but Paul was an investor in the company that owned the hotel, and he always got what he wanted. As they walked into the pool Helen noticed there was only one female member of staff and no other customers.
"Isn't this place always full?" She was stunned to see it so empty.
"I don't like it full. I had them empty the place."
Helen knew Paul was powerful but sometimes he surprised her. She couldn't imagine emptying a place just for your own entertainment. Something was on her mind as she thought about it. She couldn't quite place her mind on it.
"Helen. You need to get in the shower before you swim."
Paul had taken off his clothes and was already padding naked to the shower.
Helen struggled. It was one thing being naked at home, but here it felt public, even with no one. There was the other attendant also. "I feel shy Sir."
Paul gestured at the attendant. "Do you have to wear those clothes?"
The attendant smiled. "No Sir."
She took off her tunic and her trousers, revealing heavy breasts with large nipples and a large curvy ass under a small waist and flat stomach. She was very dark, very shaven, and gorgeous.
Helen felt a little stirring at the sight of her. She felt like she was in a fantasy. Paul was starting to get excited, and the sight of that cock got her in the mood. She removed her jeans and t-shirt, as well as her lingerie. She realized. She wondered what they would do for swim gear. She had her answer. Paul lathered her in the shower, and when they were both clean she sucked his cock for a few seconds. He started getting into it but she pushed him away. He laughed. He took her hand and led her to the pool.
"This side is shallow. If you get in trouble just stand up."
"Ok."
The water was cold. It was early, but the sun was soon up high and the water was a sweet relief. The attendant Mandy joined them, and Paul showed Helen how to paddle, how to float (she was horrible) and a basic backstroke. Mandy was a strong swimmer, and she made fun of Helen's efforts. Helen did pick it up. She was a strong athlete, had lived a life of physical labor, and was very fit. As she frolicked in the water she felt more and more relaxed. She turned to Paul and kissed him. With purpose. Hard. Her tongue sought his, and she could feel his hard cock pressing against her underwater. Her nipples were hard and swollen, and she wondered what it would be like to fuck underwater. She had never done that before. Paul raised her legs and entered her. The water made her feel lighter, and he grabbed her hips and pulled her body to him. They fucked slowly and carefully at first. As she got more comfortable she relaxed and he increased his pace, fucking her deeper and deeper. He pushed her to the wall of the pool and turned her around, entering her pussy from behind, filling her with his cock. Mandy sat in front of her on a towel by the poolside, spreading her legs.
Helen lost no time in lapping away at Mandy's wet pussy, sucking her clit and drinking her copious juices. Mandy's nipples were hard and her breasts bounced as Paul fucked Helen and Helen sucked away at her. Paul was striking a spot deep in Helen's pussy with so much force Helen could not handle it very long. She roared as she came, and she was suddenly aware she was in a public place. Her pussy was suddenly sensitive and she needed a break. Paul came out of the pool.
"Mandy, I think you could use a cock."
"Yes Sir. " Mandy smiled and got on her knees.
Paul knelt behind her and stroked her pussy, fingering her deeply and making sure her g spot was hard and her pussy was nice and wet. Mandy arched her back, shaking her hips. Paul moved closer and entered her with the head of his cock. She was tight but wet, and with slow strokes he entered her deeper as she relaxed more. He couldn't fit all his cock into her, but each deep stroke shook her to her center. She started squirting as he fucked her, and he fucked her harder and harder until she was screaming with each stroke. She dripped on the towel, and Paul stroked her breasts and nipples as she slammed her thick ass on to his hips. She came hard, arching her back and fucking him back as he squeezed her nipples. His strokes came faster and harder, and he tensed himself as he came, spraying his seed into Mandy's pussy, filling her up. She collapsed onto the towel, and Paul stood up and went to lay in the sun on a lounger. He was going to want to fuck again. Really soon.
Helen went to get some water at the bar. There were bottles of cold water, and she felt thirsty. Being around Paul was addictive. It was like being on a ride, on a big boat where she could go anywhere but had no control. He was nice, but she could see how being out of favor with him would sting. She loved his cock and his tongue, but her biggest priority was getting a place to stay for her and her daughter. Her fear was if she ever asked for something, Paul would kick her out of his life. She just hoped he didn't get bored before she could sort the rent out. It was hard going from this sort of thing to fighting over running water. For now though, she would just sip her water, and enjoy a day without cleaning. If she didn't get fired in a couple of months she would be free. It was hard work, but she could see how people liked swimming. Paul was a good teacher, and she hoped he invited her again.
Mandy's pussy was sore. This man could fuck. He was a bully, but she liked that. Paul was also generous, and polite, and skilled. She would fuck him for free anytime. She had fought to get this assignment today once she heard Paul was coming. She hoped he would take her number. Mandy was thirty years old, worked as a masseuse when she wasn't at the hotel, and would love a client like Paul. With his type you couldn't push, he had to be in control. He looked at her.
"I need a beer"
"Yes Sir"
"Thanks. What do you do here?"
"Bartend. Sometimes I do massages."
"And sometimes you fuck guests"
"Sometimes I fuck. Not just guests, not only guests. Sometimes not guests. But you're hot."
Paul smiled. "Do you massage as good as you fuck?"
"Much better."
"Well...you should let me judge that. Give me your number."
Mandy was shaking, but she came back to Paul with her number on a paper towel.
Paul looked up at her firm breasts and thick frame. She looked like she could give a good massage.
He started to stir. She looked at his hard cock and knelt down between his legs. She took him in her mouth as he got harder. She started sucking him, putting more and more pressure on his dick. He was big and hard, and filled her mouth.
Paul smiled. Africa was good to him.
|
*******************
Kirsten and Lauren are two professional indoor swimmers. And they have both won a couple of competitions.
They are members in a small swimming club with low financial resources, which makes them turn down a lot of competitions, that they could have used to gain more experience.
They are now training for the Olympic tryouts in a couple of weeks. But they and their club are still in need of money.
The head of the swimming club David Nolan, who is also their coach has been out trying to get sponsors. But so far he hasn't been able to get anyone to sponsor the girls or the club.
But yesterday the coach got a phone call from a Mr. Lord, who was just starting the construction of a night club in town.
He told the coach that he might sponsor the swimming club and the girls, and that he was sending a man over tomorrow to inspect the facilities.
And today as coach Nolan got in to his office, there stood a tall black man waiting for him.
"Can I help you with something?" Asked the coach.
"Are you the head of this club, a David Nolan?" Asked the black man.
"Yes, who are you." Asked the coach.
"I'm Milo, my employer is interested in sponsoring the club." Milo told the coach.
"Oh yes, please come into my office." The coach invited Milo into his office.
They walked inside and sat down at the coaches table.
"I've heard that your two prospects are in training for the Olympic tryouts." Milo said.
"Yes they are, we have high hopes for Kirsten and Lauren." The coach told Milo.
"Can I ask how much your employer would sponsor us with?" The coach then asked.
"I have the check right here." Milo then showed the check to Nolan.
Coach Nolan read the number on the check.
"Wow, $100.000. That sure is a nice round figure." The coach said.
"Yes, but I still need to check out your facilities, before I can consider handing the check over to you." Milo told the Coach.
"Yes of course, I can give you a tour right now if you would like." The coach told Milo.
"Okay." Milo said.
They then walked out of the office, and then coach Nolan started to show Milo around.
"Well, maybe you would like to see our pool area." The coach then said.
"Yes." Milo said.
The coach then showed Milo up to the pools. The pool area contained one large pool for competitions and training, a smaller one and then a small round heated pool.
The heated pool was there to warm up the swimmers after they had swum.
"Well, the place looks to be in order." Milo then told coach Nolan.
"Yes, we haven't had any problems with this area." The coach told Milo.
"That's good." Said Milo.
"And the two girls." Milo then said.
"Kirsten and Lauren, they have just finished one of their training passes. They should be out in a little while." The coach told Milo.
Milo and coach Nolan then discussed the girls whilst they waited for them to come out.
Milo then made some suggestions regarding the girls, that coach Nolan thought were a bit odd, but he agreed to them because they needed the sponsorship.
A few moments later, the girls came out from their locker room.
"Ah girls." Nolan said as the girls came over to them.
"Hello coach." The girls said, as they then looked over at the tall black man standing next to the coach.
"Kirsten, Lauren, this is Milo."
"Milo, this is Kirsten and Lauren." The coach introduced them.
The two girls are about the same age, Kirsten is 21 and Lauren is 23. They are both rather tall and petite. And they both have smooth and slim bodies.
Kirsten is blonde and is about 5 foot 5 inches tall. She has a bit bigger boobs than Lauren. She is a size C. And her butt is also a little bigger than Laurens.
Lauren is a light brunette, and is about 5 foot 4 inches tall. Lauren is even more petite than Kirsten. She has small size B breasts. And her butt is a bit smaller than Kirstens as well.
"I've heard a lot of good things about you two." Milo told them.
The girls smiled and wondered who this man was.
"Girls, Milo here is going to give us and the club a sponsorship, I hope." The coach said as he then looked over at Milo.
"Yes, I think I have seen enough." Said Milo.
"Here you go." Milo then took out the check and handed it to Nolan.
"Thank you." Nolan then said.
He then showed the check to the girls.
"Wow, thanks." The girls said smiling.
"I promise that we won't let you down." Kirsten then said.
Milo then gave coach Nolan a look.
"Ah yes. Girls, I won't be here the coming week. I have to go and make the arrangements for the Olympic tryouts. Do you think you will be able to handle the training yourselves." The couch then asked the girls.
"I think we could manage that." Lauren told the coach.
"And Milo will be here watching your training." The coach told the girls.
"Yes, I have to make sure that nothing happens to our investment." Milo told them.
"No problem." Said Kirsten.
The following couple of days Milo spent watching the training, and getting to know the girls.
He learnt that both the girls are very competitive, and that they really wanted to win.
Then as Monday came, the coach went away.
A day later, Milo came by as the girls were in the pool swimming.
He sat down in the bleachers and watched the girls.
"Hi Milo, Hello Milo." The girls said hello as they saw Milo.
"Hello." Milo said.
The girls had started to like Milo. They even thought that he was cool. He always had something nice to say to them.
"Hey girls, it's a bit cold in here, do you mind if I jumped into the heated pool for a moment." Milo asked the girls.
"No we don't mind, do we Kirsten?" Said Lauren.
"No go ahead." Kirsten told Milo.
"Thanks." Milo told them.
Milo then walked over to the heated pool, and then started to undress. The girls couldn't help but to take a few peeks at Milo, as he was taking off his clothes.
The girls looked at each and smiled a little as he got down to his underwear.
Milo didn't have any swimming trunks with him, so he got into the pool wearing his underwear.
A few minutes later, the girls had finished their training for the day. As usual after each of their passes, Kirsten and Lauren went over to the heated pool.
"Do you mind?" Asked the girls.
"Of course not, it's your pool." Said Milo.
Milo then watched as the two girls wearing their one piece swimming outfit, got into the pool.
"Hot, isn't it?" Milo said smiling.
"It sure is." Lauren said smiling back.
"You know girls, I wanted to ask you something." Milo said.
"What's that?" Kirsten asked.
"I would like to take you out to dinner this evening." Milo then told them.
The girls looked at each other.
"I've seen how hard you both train, and I think you deserve a nice dinner at a fine restaurant." Milo then told them.
"Well, okay." Kirsten then said with a little smile on her face.
"Yeah sure." Lauren said.
"Good." Milo said.
"Oh, where should I pick you up?" Milo then asked.
"You can pick us both up at our apartment. We are roommates you know." Lauren told Milo.
"Okay great, I'll pick you up at eight O'clock this evening." Milo then said.
"Okay." The girls said smiling.
"Well, I should be going." Milo then told the girls.
Then as he stood up, his underwear were all wet. Lauren could see the outlining of a huge thing inside of his underwear.
Lauren then nodded to Kirsten. Kirsten looked over and then she also saw the bulge in his underwear.
Both girls had a "Wow" expression on their faces.
Then Milo looked over at them as he had dried himself of with a towel, and was getting dressed.
The girls blushed and giggled a bit.
Milo gave them a smile and then he left.
A few moments later as the girls were standing in the shower.
"Did you see that thing?" Lauren asked Kirsten.
"Oh yeah." Kirsten said.
"It wasn't small was it?" Lauren said as they giggled.
"I wouldn't mind having that thing." Kirsten then said.
"Oh you nasty girl." Lauren said as she gave Kirsten a light push in the shower.
They both laughed a bit.
A moment later they got dressed and went home to their apartment.
"Well, what should I wear?" Said Kirsten.
"Well, I'm going to wear this one." Lauren told her.
Lauren held up a long dress, that would show some cleavage.
"Oh that one is nice." Kirsten said.
"And it's going to look even better along with my push-up bra." Lauren told her.
Lauren then started to get dressed.
Kirsten had now also found what she would be wearing.
She was going to wear a long skirt that clung to her butt, along with a nice and sexy blouse.
Then an hour later as they just had gotten ready, the door bell rang.
Lauren went to open it.
"Wow, you look great Lauren." It was Milo.
"Thanks." Lauren said.
Then Kirsten came out.
"Hi Milo." She said.
"You look great as well." Milo told her.
"Well, you told us that you were taking us to somewhere nice, so we thought that we would better get dressed." Kirsten told him.
"You sure did, and I sure am." Said Milo.
"Well ladies, should we go." Milo then said.
"Okay." Kirsten and Lauren said.
Then as they got outside, Lauren and Kirsten saw this big stretch limo standing out in the street.
"Here we are." Said Milo as the driver of the limo opened the door.
"Wow, I've never ridden in a limo before." Said Kirsten.
"Neither have I." Lauren said as the girls then got inside.
After Milo had gotten inside, the driver shut the door.
"This is awesome." Said Lauren as the car started going.
Milo poured the girls some champagne.
Then about twenty minutes later, the limo pulled over. A moment later the driver came and opened the door.
"Well here we are." Said Milo as they all got out of the car.
"Oh wow, this is the most expensive restaurant in the city." Lauren said.
"I've read that movie stars eat here." Kirsten said.
"Only the best for you two." Said Milo.
Then as they went inside the restaurant, a waiter came and showed them to a table.
They then sat down and talked for a few moments.
Then the waiter came back.
"Are you ready to order?" The waiter asked.
"I think so. Ladies, choose whatever you want." Milo told the girls.
Lauren and Kirsten looked over the menu.
"We'll have the veil and the lobster." Lauren told the waiter.
"Good choice, and you sir." Said the waiter.
"How's today's steak." Milo asked.
"It's excellent sir." Said the waiter.
"Okay, I'll have that one." Milo told the waiter.
"I'll be right back." The waiter then said.
Whilst they waited for their meal, they talked and laughed some more.
"I've never eaten in a place like this before, it's all so beautiful." Kirsten said.
"I know what you mean." Lauren said smiling.
"You two deserve it, training as hard as you do." Milo told them.
Then a minute later, the waiter came back with their dinner.
And half an hour later, they ordered some desserts. They sat there talking for hours.
"Well ladies, we should be going." Milo then said.
"Oh already." Lauren said.
"Well the restaurant is closing in a few minutes." Milo told the girls.
The waiter then came over with the bill, and Milo paid him. Then as they walked outside, the limo was waiting for them.
They got inside and the limo drove off.
"Oh thank you Milo, I had a great time." Lauren told him.
"Me too." Kirsten told Milo.
"It was my pleasure." Said Milo.
Then as the limo pulled over next to their apartment building, the girls whispered something to each other.
"Milo." Kirsten then said.
"Yes." Milo said.
"We were wondering, if you would like to come up for a moment." Kirsten then asked Milo.
"Are you sure." Asked Milo.
"Yes we are." Lauren then said as the girls looked at Milo smiling.
"Okay." Milo told them.
They then got out of the limo and walked up to the girls apartment.
"Come in." Said Lauren as she opened the door.
They all then got inside.
"Can I take you jacket." Asked Lauren.
"Sure." Milo said as he removed his jacket.
Kirsten then went over and sat down on the couch.
"Have a seat." Kirsten said as she padded her hand on the seat next to her.
Milo then went over and sat down next to her.
"I'm going to have a drink. Do you want something Milo?" Asked Lauren.
"Yes, I would like to have something." Said Milo with a smile on his face.
"I think I know what you would like to have." Kirsten then said as she laid her hand on Milos's thigh, and then leaned over and gave him a kiss.
Milo then began to kiss her back. Lauren stood there looking, as Kirsten and Milo were kissing on the couch.
They were now really sucking on each others tongues.
Lauren began to slowly touch herself as she watched. Then she undid her dress and slowly let it fall to the floor.
"Can I join in?" Lauren then asked.
Milo looked up at Lauren, and saw her standing in front of them in her bra and panties.
"Wow, come over here you beautiful woman." Milo then told her.
Lauren then slowly walked over to the couch as she looked at Milo.
Milo then got his hand around Laurens hip, as he motioned her down onto the couch.
Then they both leaned over and started kissing.
Kirsten now stood up and began to remove her clothes. She slowly unbuttoned her blouse as she watched Lauren and Milo. As she removed her blouse, she revealed her C-cup breasts inside of her white bra.
By now Milo had reached over and had cupped Laurens small tits.
"Mmm." Lauren moaned softly as they continued to kiss.
Milo then reached around her back and unhooked Laurens bra. As Lauren then took it off, Milo leaned down and sucked on her perky nipples.
"Ohh." Lauren moaned.
Kirsten had now stepped out of her skirt, and was standing in her bra and thong panties.
Kirsten then laid her hand on Milos shoulder to get his attention. Milo looked over and saw Kirsten.
"My my my." Milo said as he reached over and laid his hand on her firm butt.
Milo then started to kiss Kirstens belly and then moved higher and higher. He had soon moved up to her breasts, her neck and now he was kissing her mouth.
Kirsten then reached around her back and undid her bra. Then as she let her bra fall onto the floor, Milo reached up and started to squeeze her big boobs.
"Mmm." Kirsten moaned.
Lauren who was behind Milo, reached around him and started to unbutton his shirt.
As she then took his shirt off of him, Milo reached back with his hand and found his way into Laurens panties.
He started to finger her pussy as he sucked on Kirstens boobs.
"Ohh yess." Lauren moaned to Milos touch.
A moment later, Milo stood up. He began to unbuckle his pants. And soon they fell to the floor and he stepped out off them.
Milo looked into Kirsten's eyes as she got down on her knees in front of him. Lauren who was still behind Milo, reached around him with her arms and pressed herself against his back. Milo then turned his head around, and they tongue kissed.
Kirsten who now were on her knees in front of Milo, reached up and started to pull down his underwear.
As she pulled his underwear down, a huge black cock popped out right in her face.
"Oh my god." Kirsten said as her eyes flew open.
Lauren also looked down and saw his big thing.
"Oh wow." Lauren couldn't believe his size.
Milo got a grin on his face.
Kirsten then reached up and grabbed Milos cock with her hand. She couldn't even get her fingers around it.
Kirsten smiled up at Milo as she started to stroke his cock.
"I've never done this with a black man before." Kirsten then told Milo.
"Then you don't know what you've been missing." Milo said with a grin on his face.
"I can see what I've been missing." Said Kirsten with a smile on her face.
Kirsten then leaned forward and slowly put her lips around his big cockhead. She then slowly started to suck on it.
"Yeahh." Milo grunted.
Lauren who was behind Milo, started to kiss his back all the way down to his butt.
"What a rock hard butt." Lauren then said.
"Kiss it." Milo told her.
Lauren then started to kiss his butt, and then a few seconds later, she spread his ass cheeks apart and began to lick his butt hole.
"Yeah you nasty girl, lick it." Milo grunted.
Milo was now getting his cock sucked and his butt licked at the same time.
A few moments past.
"Now I need some pussy." Milo told them.
Kirsten stood up and Milo kissed her a few times. Then he leaned down and pulled Kirstens thong down, exposing her shaved pussy.
Kirsten then leaned back on the couch and spread her legs.
"Hmm, you want this don't you?" Milo said to Kirsten as he held his cock.
"Oh yes, please give it to me." Kirsten moaned.
Milo then guided his organ up to her wet pussy. He teased her with it for a few seconds, and then he pushed it inside of her.
"Ahhh godddd." Kirsten screamed out.
Lauren sat down next to Kirsten and began to touch herself, as she watched Milo with Kirsten.
Milo then began to move his cock in and out of her.
"Oh yes, ohh yess." Kirsten moaned to his thrusts.
"Damn you're tight." Milo grunted as he then picked up his pace.
He was soon pounding her hard, as Kirstens big tits flopped up and down.
"Ahhhhhh." Kirsten then screamed out as she had an orgasm.
Lauren then reached over and laid her hand on Milo.
"Take me Milo." She pleaded.
Milo got a big grin on his face, as he grabbed his cock and pulled it out from Kirsten. He then moved over to Lauren, who had spread her legs and was ready for him.
"Shove it in." Lauren moaned.
Milo then placed his cock up against Laurens pussy, and then he just shoved in his entire length.
"Oh Milooooo." Lauren screamed out as she felt his fat cock penetrate her.
Milo soon started to pound her hot pussy.
"Oh yes Milo, fuck me." Lauren moaned.
Milo began to move faster and faster as he pounded her.
"Yes, take her hard." Kirsten then told Milo as she reached over and gave Lauren a kiss.
Milo slammed his cock in and out of Lauren.
"Oh goddddddd." Lauren screamed out as she felt an incredible orgasm shower over her.
Then a few moments later, Milo started to grunt heavier and heavier.
And then he pulled out from Lauren.
"Kiss each other." He then told the girls as he pulled his cock.
Lauren and Kirsten began to kiss each other.
Then a second later, they felt something warm hit their faces.
"Yeahh." Milo had started cumming.
"Take it." Milo grunted as he shot his load onto their faces.
He spurted load after load of hot sperm into their kissing mouths. Kirsten and Lauren just licked it up as they kissed.
Then Milo began to slow down as he stopped cumming.
"Mmm, that was delicious Milo." Lauren said as she licked some cum from Kirstens face.
"Oh Milo, I've never felt anything like that before." Kirsten told Milo.
"You girls were rather nice yourselves." Milo told them.
And that night they all fucked each other twice more.
The next morning as they all woke up in each others arms.
"Mmm, you were awesome last night Milo." Kirsten told him.
"You sure were, I've never cum so hard in my entire life." Lauren told Milo.
They then gave each other some small kisses.
"What time is it?" Milo then asked.
"Oh god, it's already twelve O'clock." Kirsten told them.
"We should have started our training hours ago." Lauren then said.
The girls then rushed up, took a shower and got dressed.
"We're sorry Milo, but we have to go." Lauren told Milo.
"But please come and see us today down at the swimming club." Kirsten told Milo.
"Bye, Bye." The girls and Milo said as the girls then rushed out from their apartment.
Milo laid in bed a few more minutes, before he went up and took a shower.
Then on his way out from the girls' apartment, his mobile rang.
"Milo here." He answered.
"Hi Damon, yes we did. Yes, I will be telling them today." Milo told Damon Lord.
They talked some more and then they hung up.
A few hours later, Milo drove over to the swim club, where the girls were training.
As he came into the pool area, he waved to the girls.
"Hi Milo, hello." The girls said smiling as they saw Milo.
"I'll be in the heated pool." He then told the girls.
The girls nodded.
Milo then stripped down to his underwear, and then jumped into the heated pool. He sat there and watched the girls as they swam.
A half an hour later as Kirsten and Lauren had finished their training, they went over to Milo.
"Hi there." Lauren said as she and Kirsten got into the heated pool.
Milo gave them a smile.
The girls then moved over to each of Milos's sides.
"I've missed you." Lauren said as she began to kiss Milos neck.
"So have I." Kirsten said as she laid her hand on his thigh.
"So girls, the Olympic tryouts, do you think you will make the cut." Asked Milo.
"Well, it's going to be tough, and there are a lot of swimmers there. But I think we will make it." Lauren told Milo.
"How bad do you want to make it?" Milo then asked.
"What do you mean?" Asked Kirsten.
"Just what I said, how bad do you want to make the cut?" Milo asked again.
"We have always wanted to make it to the Olympics, we would do anything." Said Lauren.
Kirsten nodded.
"Anything huh." Said Milo.
"Why do you ask?" Kirsten asked.
"Well, it so happens that I know three of the judges at the tryouts." Milo told the girls.
The girls looked a bit funny at each other.
"You do." Asked Lauren.
"Yes I do." Said Milo.
"And I've spoken to them, and if you want to, they have agreed to vote in you favor." Milo then told the girls.
At first, the girls got a bit shocked at what Milo had told them. But then they loosened up a bit. The girls had trained most of their lives, and they really wanted to make the Olympic team.
"Well, why would they do that?" Kirsten then asked.
"Well they did have a favor to ask you, in return for their votes." Milo told them.
"What's that?" Lauren asked.
"They wanted to spend a little time with you two." Milo then told them.
"What... you mean." Lauren said.
"Yes." Milo said.
"But just for an hour or two, at the same time." Milo told the girls.
"You mean the three of them want to be with us at the same time." Kirsten said.
"Yes." Milo told them.
"Well, I don't know." Lauren said as she looked over at Kirsten.
"There wouldn't be any trouble, I would be close by." Milo told them.
The girls didn't know what to say, but they really wanted to make the team.
"They will need an answer rather quickly, because otherwise they might choose some other girls to put their votes on." Milo told the girls.
"And then it would be even harder to make the team." Milo told them.
The girls looked at each other, and then they nodded to each other.
"Well... okay." Lauren then said.
"But you promise to be close by." Kirsten said.
"Yes I promise." Milo told them.
"Then I will call them and tell them that you agreed." Milo told the girls.
"Okay." Said the girls.
Then whilst still being in the pool, Milo reached over to his pants and took out his cell phone.
He then called up someone.
"This is Milo." Milo said on the phone.
"Yes, yes the girls agreed." Milo then said whilst the girls listened.
"Okay, be here tomorrow." Milo then said.
"Bye." Milo then hung up.
"That was them." Milo told the girls.
"And." Said Lauren.
"They will be here tomorrow." Milo told them.
"That soon." Kirsten said.
"Yes, and they want to do it here." Milo told the girls.
"Here." Kirsten said.
"Yes, in your shower room at two O'clock." Milo told them.
Lauren and Kirsten looked a bit nervously at each other.
"Well, okay." They then said.
"And don't worry, I will be right outside." Milo told them.
"Okay." The girls then said with a little smile on their faces.
"Now let's have some fun." Milo told them.
The girls then got an even bigger smile on their faces.
The next day at a quarter to two, just outside the girls' locker room.
"Hi guys." Milo said to the three black guys who came up to him.
Milo and the guys then shook hands.
"Here's the deal, the girls are in there and they really want to get fucked." Milo told the guys.
"Nice." One of the guys said.
"But remember, if they ask, tell them that you are judges at the Olympic tryouts." Milo told them.
"Judges, who's idea was that." One of the guys asked.
"That's because the girls are expecting three judges." Milo told them.
"Okay." They all said.
"Well get in there." Milo then told them.
The three black guys then walked into the girls' locker room.
Then Milo looked over at the two guys with the video cameras.
"Wait a couple of minutes before you go in." And remember, don't let them see you." Milo told the camera men.
Then inside the locker room.
The three guys heard the shower running, so they walked over to the shower room.
Kirsten and Lauren stood in the shower totally naked, nervously awaiting the arrival of the judges.
Then the girls heard something behind them.
And as they turned around, they saw three huge black men standing there watching them.
Lauren and Kirsten covered themselves up a bit.
"Very nice." One of the guys said.
"Damn, they are real fine." Another one said.
"This is going to feel so very good." The third one said.
The girls looked at the guys and then over at each other.
"Are you the judges?" Kirsten then asked.
The guys looked at each other with grins on their faces.
"Judges, yes that's us." One of them said.
"Okay." Kirsten then said as she and Lauren then lowered their hands, and showed the guys their naked bodies.
The guys looked at each other, and then they started to undress.
And soon the guys got down to their underwear, and then they pulled them down. The girls both got "Wow" expressions on their faces.
All of the guys had long black cocks hanging down between their legs.
The guys then walked over to Kirsten and Lauren. Kirsten got two guys, and Lauren got one.
As the two guys got over to Kirsten, one of them moved over and started to kiss kirsten. She resisted a little at first, but then she relaxed and opened her mouth. When she did that, she felt his tongue make its way into her mouth.
The other guy got behind her, and started to fondle her breasts.
"Damn, she has got some real big ones." The guy behind her told the guys.
Lauren looked at the guy who was coming over to her. As he moved in close to her, he grabbed Laurens butt and pulled her in closer to him.
He then started tongue kissing her, as he felt her ass. Then he reached up and began to squeeze her small tits.
"Mmm." Lauren started moaning as she relaxed.
Over at Kirsten, the guy who was kissing her had now planted his fingers between her legs, and was rubbing her pussy.
"Ohhh." Kirsten moaned as she felt the guy's fingers on her pussy.
A moment later, Kirsten felt something hard up against her. She looked down and there she saw the two guy's rock hard cocks.
The guy who was standing behind her, motioned her down to her knees. Then as she got down on her knees, she got two stiff organs shoved into her face.
She almost hadn't time to open her mouth, before one of the guys shoved his black cock into her mouth.
But Kirsten responded quickly, and began to suck his big cockhead.
"Oh god you're big." Kirsten moaned as she sucked on the guys cock.
"And she's real good as well man." The guy said to his friend standing on the other side of Kirsten.
Kirsten then felt another cock poking her chin, so she switched to the other guy and started giving him head.
"Yeah girl, suck that motherfucker." The guy grunted.
Laurens guy had now laid down on the floor, and Lauren had gotten down between his legs and had begun to suck his cock.
"Yeah, suck it." The guy grunted.
Lauren was really bobbing her head up and down. She tried to get more and more of him inside of her mouth.
Lauren used a lot of spit as she sucked him. She was really slobbering over him.
"Now get on top of me girl." The guy then told Lauren.
Lauren gave the guy a nasty smile, as she then moved up on top of him. She then sunk herself down onto his stiff black cock.
"Ohh yesss." Lauren moaned as she started moving her hip up and down.
The guy then reached up and squeezed her tits as she rode him.
Over at Kirsten.
Kirsten was now getting fucked from behind, as she sucked off the guy in front of her.
"Ahh...ah...ah." Kirsten moaned as the guy behind of her pounded her pussy.
"Damn she's got a hot pussy." The guy grunted.
Then the guy who was getting sucked off by Kirsten, looked over at Lauren. He then grabbed his cock from Kirsten's eager mouth and walked over to Lauren.
He got up behind Lauren.
"That is one fine ass." He then said.
"Bend down girl." He then told Lauren.
Lauren bent down and laid down on top of the guy on the floor. Lauren then felt something against her butt hole.
"Oh god, he's going to take my ass." Lauren thought to herself.
The guy behind of her then slowly pushed his big cockhead into her butt hole.
"Oh godddd." Lauren screamed out as she felt his cock move into her ass.
"Yes baby." The guy grunted as he began to move his cock deeper inside of her.
And soon he started to move his cock in and out of her tight ass. Then Lauren felt the other guy inside of her pussy, as he started to move his cock again.
"Oh yesssss." Lauren moaned out as she got her strongest orgasm ever.
The guys then started to pound her real hard.
Over at Kirsten.
Kirsten had now laid down on the floor, and she had gotten her legs around the guy who was fucking her.
He had started to slam his cock in and out of her.
"Yes fuck me, fuck meee." Kirsten moaned.
Then a few minutes later, the guy pulled his cock out of her pussy.
"Open you mouth." He then told Kirsten.
Kirsten opened her mouth, and as she did that the guy began to shoot his load.
"Ahhh." The guy grunted as he spurted his sperm straight into her mouth.
Kirsten felt his hot cum hit her tongue, and then run down into her mouth. She kept on swallowing his cum as he spurted it into her awaiting mouth.
Then over at Lauren.
"Get off of me" The guy below Lauren told her.
The guy who was fucking her ass then pulled his cock out, and Lauren got off of the other guy.
The two guys then got up on their feet, and started to stroke their cocks in front of Laurens face.
And then.
"Yeahh." One of the guys grunted as he started to cum.
Stream after stream of hot sperm hit Laurens face. Then as Lauren opened her mouth, he started to cum into her mouth.
Lauren started to swallow his cum , but then the other guy also began to cum. He started to spurt his sperm onto her face.
Lauren really got drenched in semen.
Then a few seconds later, the guys slowed down.
"Oh god that was nice." Lauren then told the guys.
Then Kirsten moved over to Lauren and licked some cum off of her chin.
"Thanks guys, that was awesome." Kirsten then told them.
A few moments later, the guys got out of the shower and got dressed. A couple of minutes after that, they left.
And the camera men who had been filming in the background, also snuck out of there.
"All I can say is wow." Lauren told Kirsten as they laid there.
"I know, that was incredible." Kirsten told Lauren.
Then they took another shower, and then got dressed.
As they then walked out from the locker room, Milo was standing there.
"I told you that it would be okay." Milo told them.
"Oh, it was more than ok." Lauren then told Milo smiling.
A few weeks later at the Olympic tryouts, Kirsten and Lauren got picked to join the Olympic team. They thought, that they had gotten three of the votes from the judges that they had slept with. But those guys weren't even judges, so they had maid it on their own merits.
And then a year later as they got back from the real Olympics, they were praised as small heroes. Because they had gotten in second and third place in their events.
Then a few days after they had gotten back, Milo stopped by at their apartment.
"Hi Milo, it's been awhile." Lauren said smiling.
"It's so good to see you again." Kirsten then said.
"Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news." Milo then told them.
"What's that?" Lauren asked concerned.
"I just got this in the mail the other day." Milo told the girls as he held up a video tape.
Milo then placed it into the girls VCR and hit play.
The girls were shocked at what they saw.
The tape showed them, as they were fucking those three fake judges in the shower. But the girls didn't know that they were fake.
"Oh my god, if this gets out we could loose our medals." Kirsten said.
"Who sent you the tape?" Lauren asked Milo.
"I don't know, but there was also a message." Milo said and handed it to the girls.
The girls read the note.
"Oh my god. They want us to dance and strip, a few days a week, at some Domino Club here in town." Lauren said.
"What should we do?" The girls asked Milo.
"I don't think you have much of a choice, you have to do what they say." Milo told them.
"But can't we go to the police." Lauren asked.
"If you do, the news papers will soon get a hold of the tape." Milo told the girls.
"He's right." Said Kirsten.
"We'll have to do what they say." Lauren then said.
"If you want, I could be there with you to see that nothing happens to you." Milo told them.
"You would do that for us." Kirsten said.
"Sure I would." Milo told them.
"Thanks." Kirsten said smiling.
A week later, Kirsten and Lauren were dancing on the main stage at one of the Domino clubs.
After a couple of weeks, they had gotten used to it, and they had actually started to enjoy themselves.
And they were very grateful to Milo, and the things that they thought that he had done for them.
They never found out that it was Milo along with Damon Lord, who had set them up from the start.
THE END
|
Because Jiang Cheng understands how privacy is a luxury, he lets Lan Xichen and Lan Wangji talk in his office.
There's a part of him that resents how it's easy for the two of them to reconnect, contrary to him and Wei Wuxian. But he drowns those thoughts in his disciples' training.
He looks to the younger ones and thinks that it's a miracle they're alive and here, in front of him. It's a miracle there's still a sect and forms to learn. And he swears once again to teach them everything he knows.
He'll teach them personally, without breaking their spirits.
It helps that Jin Ling – strapped to his chest – blabbers at the different techniques and, in turn, the disciples giggle in response.
His disciples are efficient and ruthless, but still able to feel, to laugh. They're all humans after all. And it's because he's a human, contrary to the monster most think resides inside his head that later, when his sister asks to speak with him, he acquiesces.
a-yuan is with the Lan brothers and one of his spiders is looking after Jin Ling. They stare at each other and Jiang Cheng wonders how did they get here?
When did he stop being able to read Yanli's eyes?
"Everyone says you're too similar to her, that you have too little of our father, and I never agreed with it. Not truly!” his sister starts. "But there was a day in which I woke up and there was nothing. No parents, almost no friends, no sect. And I wondered that perhaps if that was true, if you were a little bit more like her, maybe it would drown my sorrow. Perhaps this feeling of missing a limb would disappear."
He understands the feeling – searching for the people they lost in others.
"So I tried to see it. I forgot that you were my brother – my little, lovely brother – and I searched for the echoes of them in you. And when I didn't find them because fortunately, you're your person, I resented you. Completely unfair but I wasn't able to control my heart" she confesses.
“I kept on resenting you, specifically when I was in that snake pit and it became clear that I was nothing more than a target – an easy one. Because while you don't resemble any of them, that didn't stop you from striving to be the best – to learn."
Her voice trembles in the same way her body shakes, but Yanli doesn’t give up.
“I was now in the middle of all that gold, realizing that it didn't matter if I wanted to play a fair game if the other players were willing to cheat their way to victory. I had too much pride in my morals and didn't want to ask for help. Silly, isn't it?"
"I would ha-," he starts but is quickly interrupted.
"Oh, I knew I could count on you," she says taking his hand. It's so warm, Jiang Cheng thinks. I missed this, he doesn't dare to say.
"And that was worse in some way, it made me feel more of a burden, that you had so much to give and I nothing in return," she squeezes his hand. "When Zixuan became ill, I couldn't, I just... He was a part of me and I won't be whole again. Maybe I'll be able to smile truthfully, but this gap won't disappear. And you were there, so willing to protect me, to put everything on the line for me. But I just wanted to hurt."
Jiang Cheng marvels at how warm her hand feels.
"And I didn't want to be alone in my hurt. I know I wasn't fair, a-cheng. I was spiteful and selfish and you were the only support I had. You protected my son. But I was blinded by sorrow. No. I was blinded by my resentment – by my need to set the world on fire."
He didn’t expect to hear this confession.
"Being a wife was one of the few things I ever felt I was good at, loving someone - and it was gone. And I couldn't give up on him, I still can't. But I've come to realize that there is still a life for me – this path is not the only way."
Breathing deeply, she continues, "I will not apologize, a-cheng. Not today. I want to, but I'm afraid you'll forgive me easily, and I don't deserve it. But you must know that those things I said were not a true reflection of what I feel for you. I wanted to hurt you and I took advantage of your weaknesses."
Jiang Cheng squeezes her hand, silently telling his sister that he’s listening to her. “I won't ask for forgiveness, not today. But I want you to know I'll strive to be a better sister."
Yanli smiles – It's a brittle thing, too frail to be considered something besides sorrow. She smiles but he's still looking at their joint hands.
“How did you realize all of this?" it's obvious from her expression that she doesn't expect this question. "Was the time with Wei Wuxian?" was he the one giving the clarity that I failed to give you all this time, he wants to ask.
"During our journey here, a-yuan told me he wanted to meet his cousin, that they would be like brothers. He commented that he'll protect Jin Ling from all the bad monsters and give him the best hugs. There was no mention of debt, of being loved in return – of being an exchange. It was a child that made me realize my past mistakes. It also helped that with time the fog created by my sorrow started to lift ".
Jiang Cheng disentangles his hands from hers and stands up – he has to move, there's a lot for him to process. He turns his back to his sister and leaves the room, but backtracks to add:
"I didn't give up on you before, I won't do it now. But I won't wait forever for that apology. Not anymore."
As he goes to his private quarters he gives clear instructions to his spiders and second in command that he won't be attending any commitments for the rest of the day.
They shouldn't bother him unless it's something related to Jin Ling.
When he enters his quarters, he starts stripping from his robes. It's hasty and careless and there are some rips at the end, but he doesn't care.
There is a pier at the back of his quarters, and as soon as he gets barefoot, he becomes one with the water. He lets his body drift away, trying to empty his mind.
Right now, he's not the sect leader, the heir, the youngest. He's not a disappointment, cruel or emotionless. It doesn't matter if he resembles his mother or is too different from his father. At that moment he's nothing – and that's a relief. No expectations are weighing him down, no harsh reality.
He just wants to be nothing for a moment, to let his mind drift – this is the most careless he allows himself to be.
He doesn't notice how much time he spends inside the water, or the time he spends napping at the sun.
This afternoon, he's nothing.
So it doesn't matter there are sect leaders he has to attend to, political ties to care for, a brother-in-law to say goodbye. He's nothing.
He'll be nothing until the next day, when his spiders inform him of Lan Wangji and the kid's departure and how Lan Xichen had to leave as well. And he'll feel something – he'll feel a bit hurt that for all the letters, Lan Xichen did not try harder to see him.
It won't be hate, but it will be the closest thing to resentment he felt for the other man until now.
It won't cut him, but it could someday.
And his spiders, his disciples won't tell him.
They won't explain how the other sect leader looked sad and disappointed – how he tried to find excuses to stick around.
They won't tell him that the men insisted on meeting Jiang Cheng, even tried to use Jin Ling as an excuse. They won't explain how they had to explain to him several times that their sect leader wasn't available.
They won't tell him about the sorrow in his eyes.
Because they remember the smell of blood and the cuts. And they won't fail Jiang Cheng, not this time, not when everybody else failed him.
Lan Xichen may have noticed him now, but he'll have to prove himself because they do remember.
Blood is paid with blood
|
For weeks after it happened, Beth didn’t hear from him. But she still thought about him, about the way his body felt against hers, his shoulders cradled beneath her fingers, his mouth against her neck. It was beginning to become a problem, she knew. She couldn’t sleep and was drinking way too much.
Dean had asked if she was okay, noticing the circles under her eyes, the sluggish behaviour, and she’d brushed him off, annoyed. When he’d asked if it had anything to do with ‘that bounce house guy’, she wanted nothing more than to yell at him, or hit him over the head with something heavy.
Instead she’d given him a nasty side glance, and he’d gotten the message.
In fact, Dean was only weighing her down, making this harder for her.
Right, today’s the day, Beth told herself one morning, after he had tried to kiss her. No. Big no.
How could you cheat on someone, leave them bankrupt, lie about having cancer and then expect to go on like it didn’t happen?
That divorce conversation, it was happening today.
Beth was sitting on one of the stools by the kitchen island, nervously swirling the remains of the coffee in her mug, when Dean walked in.
“You wanted to talk?” He asked with a smile.
“Yeah. Sit, please.”
He pulled out another stool and scooted closer to her. She tried not to focus on how uncomfortable it made her.
Deep breaths. Nothing to be nervous about.
“Okay, listen Dean, I’ve been thinking about this for a long time and...” She trailed off, placing her mug on the island countertop. She saw that her hands were trembling.
“And?” Dean asked, the silence making him frown with worry.
Just do it. Just rip the band aid off.
“I- I want a divorce.”
There it was. The words were out.
“W- what?” He looked genuinely surprised.
“Don’t look at me like. You must have known this was coming.” She tried her hardest not to sound irritated. “But, we were getting better, we were going to sort things out, we-”
She interrupted him, “No Dean. We weren’t, there’s no point. And I think if we’re honest, this marriage was over years ago.”
“Please, Beth, I’m sick, what do you want me to do?” Beth’s eyes shot up at him, her expression cold. If looks could kill...
“I never imagined that you would ever swoop so low. I’ve tried to work through this, all of this, but faking cancer just to stay with me, that hurt my pride more than feelings and I’m not just going to leave it... I’m sick of it.”
Dean paled, his eyes wide and his mouth slightly agape.
“Bethy, please, it was a mistake.”
Agh. She hated that nickname.
“No Dean. Wasting all our money was a choice. Fucking your secretary was a choice. Lying about being sick was a choice.”
“I love you, just please.” He looked like he was about to cry and Beth rolled her eyes.
“You love me? You haven’t shown the least bit of interest in me in years! We haven’t had sex since Emma was born. I’m not your wife anymore. You treat me like a servant, that’s really all I am at this point. ” Dean scrunched up his shoulders.
“I- Beth...”
Suddenly the kids came rushing in, laughing and tugging excitedly at Dean’s clothing, but his eyes remained on Beth. She looked away for a moment, pinching her nose and squeezing her eyes shut. She was not going to lose it in front of the kids.
“I don’t want to hear it. I’ve said what I wanted to say. Just go.”
Dean had promised to take the kids on a camping trip for the weekend. They were leaving later that day, and Beth was relieved that she could finally have some peace and quiet around the house. Plus it was just a nice thing for them to do. Dean might have been a terrible husband, but she couldn’t fault him on being a parent.
As her family left, she watched them drive away until she couldn’t see them anymore. Then, she slammed her front door shut and fell to the floor. She wanted to cry, she wanted to scream. She wanted to get this horrible feeling out of her system. But it just wouldn’t come.
Beth was seething, and had no idea what to do.
After a minute or so, she shakily pushed herself up off the floor and moved back to the kitchen. Was it too early to drink?
A couple of hours later, Beth found herself too shit faced to care that the room was moving. Not spinning, just moving, gently rocking from side to side. She’d ended up on the couch, cradling an empty bottle of vodka in her arms - she’d finished all the bourbon too.
But it was starting to get uncomfortable, and she wanted to dig through the cupboards in the kitchen to get to Dean’s alcohol stash. So she swung herself of the couch, regretting her decision immediately when the pain shot through her temples. She took a moment to steady herself so that she could actually find her way back to the kitchen. It didn’t make a difference though, her sense of direction and ability to walk straight had left along with her sobriety.
This is why, when Beth actually made it to the kitchen, she’d tripped on nothing, and crashed into the kitchen counter, the empty bottle going down too, smashing underneath her.
How odd. It didn’t even sting…
If Beth hadn’t had seen the blurry drops of blood on the floor, she wouldn’t even have thought anything was wrong.
She rolled over and sat up straight. Slowly pulled out the shard of glass cutting into her forearm. Too lazy to move, too tired to care, she just watched through lidded eyes as the drops turned into a puddle in front of her. Soon her eyes drifted shut.
She must have been really drunk or hallucinating, because not only didn’t this hurt the way it should, she could hear voices now too.
“Beth?”
It was faint at first. Gradually getting louder, and closer.
“Elizabeth?”
Now it was right by her ear.
“Shit Elizabeth! What did you do?”
Ha, that’s funny. It sounds like Rio. But Rio would never…
A pair of warm gentle hands were on her before she could register the person crouching next to her. They touched her arm, her hair, her face. When she didn’t respond, didn’t open her eyes, they gripped her shoulders and shook.
“Hmm, what is it?” Beth stirred.
“Elizabeth, look at me.” His hands flew to her face again. “Look at me, please.”
When she did eventually open her eyes wide enough to see his face, it was scrunched with worry.
It is Rio! Beth concluded to herself and giggled.
“Come on Beth, I gotta get you off the floor. Can you stand?”
Beth shook her head.
Carefully Rio hooked his arms under her legs and around her back. He lifted her off the floor and placed her on top of the kitchen island.
“I need to deal with this.” He said, taking a hold of Beth’s arm.
“It’s fine. I’ll just stick a bandaid on it.” She slurred, trying to pull away. Rio just gripped her arm tighter, his other hand coming up to hover over the wound, so the blood didn’t continue dripping on the floor.
“Nah Beth,” he said surveying it carefully, “It’s not that deep, but a bandaid is not gonna do it. You got any bandages?”
She was slightly taken aback. “Um, yeah.”
“Okay, hold on.” He moved behind her to get a dishcloth off the counter.
“Come here,” he pulled her hand forward, tightly wrapping the cloth around her arm. “Where are they?”
“There’s a first aid kit in the bathroom. Top shelf.”
He disappeared down the hallway and into what she assumed was the bathroom. She wondered how he just knew where the bathroom was, but then again, he probably knew more about her than just the locations of different rooms in her home.
He came back with the first aid kit in hand, setting it down next to her on the counter.
He pulled out a roll of bandages along with an antiseptic liquid and a few cotton balls.
“Give me your hand.” he said, tugging at the dishcloth. When she complied he pulled the cloth off completely, noting that the bleeding had slowed. He came to stand in between her legs, he was so close that she could feel his breath on her face, but he didn’t seem to notice the intimacy in that, or maybe he was ignoring it.
“I can do this myself, you know.”
“Oh really? Just a minute ago you were falling asleep on the floor.” He said with a chuckle.
He dabbed the antiseptic over the cut with a cotton ball and continued to wrap the bandage around her arm.
No one spoke while he did this. She wanted to ask him why he was there, why he was helping her but all she could do was watch him as he worked.
When he was done, he placed her arm on her lap and packed everything away. She immediately missed the warmth of his hands on hers.
“It hurts.” She sighed.
“Is the bandage too tight?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“What is it?” He moved in closer to her again.
Beth took his hand and pressed it to the bare skin of her chest.
“Can you feel it? It hurts.”
It clicked. Her heart hurt.
For some reason the feel of her skin, the steady beating of her heart beneath his hand sent a jolt through his system. Had she realized the intimacy in what she had just done?
“Why does it hurt Elizabeth?” His eyes met hers, black swallowed by an ocean of blue.
“All the people that I care about keep letting me down and I hate it. I hate that I let it hurt me. It shouldn’t.” She said. Rio felt her heart beat faster, each dull thump becoming more erratic.
“I shouldn’t care that my husband ruined me, because I stopped loving him a long time ago. I shouldn’t care that you kissed me. But I do. I’m sick of people using me and then throwing me out like trash.”
It took every ounce of strength he had to pry his hand away, but he did, he had to.
“When did I use you?” He asked, surprised.
“The thing that happened in your office.” She mumbled.
“That’s not what that was and you know it.”
After he said that, Beth just kind of deflated. Then what was it? She wanted to ask, but she couldn’t get the words passed her tongue.
“That’s why I’m here, actually. I needed to talk about what happened, and something else. But I can’t have this conversation with you like this. You need to sober up and you need to get some sleep.”
Rio was still there in the morning. He was sitting on the edge of the bed watching her sleep.
And damn, if she wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, with her coppery locks - a halo above her head - and her rosy cheeks.
He’d carried her to the bed last night, and she’d fallen asleep instantly. He couldn’t help but smile when she curled up against her pillow, hugging it tightly.
It was late in the morning. But he wasn’t leaving yet. Not until she woke, so he could make sure she was okay. Not that he had to, she was a grown woman who could take care of herself, he knew that. But she’d hurt herself, and he guessed that Beth wasn’t the kind of person that got drunk for no reason. (And after what she’d told him last night, he knew there was one.)
She was stirring now. Slowly moving her head from side to side, then groaned when she felt the headache kicking in. She opened one eye. No way was that blurry figure at the end of the bed Rio. She opened the other eye. Blinked a few times. No, still Rio.
“Hey. You’re awake.” He reached out to touch her hand, then stopped.
“Hmm.” She gripped the bed sheets and pulled herself up, then leaned back against the headrest. “What are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“What happened?” A sharp burst of pain shot through her arm and she hissed, looking down at the bandage. Oh look, it did hurt.
“You got stupidly drunk, and you hurt yourself. I’m guessing you fell and landed on a piece of glass.”
“Oh.” Was all she could say.
She was unimpressed by that. Stupidly drunk? No. Tipsy at best, and with very good reasons, she corrected him in her head, although, she couldn’t really remember. So yes, actually, it could have been stupid.
For a while, it was quiet. Beth saw that Rio looked tired. Not just physically, but mentally. You could see it in his face.
“Is there another reason why you’re here or did you just stay to watch me sleep?”
“Yeah there is.” He laughed.
“Okay.”
Rio rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension that had been building all night.
“Look Elizabeth… I need you to do me a favour.” |
Erik can’t take the boy off his mind, like he can’t take his taste off his tongue.
On his back, he looks like a wet dream, his shirt still bunched up at his chest, hard pink nipples heaving as he breathes. His cock lays soft and small against a thigh, where marks of teeth are waiting to be bitten in.
God, Erik can look at every part of him but his eyes—those siren eyes, bright and loud alerts of danger. He can take in his shapely legs, dote over skin populated with freckles, splay his hands over a flat, rippling stomach, but he can’t direct his gaze on those eyes. They know exactly what he wants after months of knowing nothing. And if that isn’t danger, than he himself knows nothing.
But Charles, Charles could be given the most enormous power in the world and he’d still be the soft, guileless creature you’d trust with your heart. Lock and key and treasure, he’d have it all.
Erik sits on the bed heavily, feeling hollow from the inside. Everything. Charles has everything.
The boy rises to his knees, fluid, and moves towards him slowly. Like he’s overthinking it, casting himself in slow-motion as he wonders what he’s doing.
It’s too late anyway. Charles seems to know before him.
He’s too perfect, Erik thinks. He takes off his t-shirt the rest of the way and throws it onto the floor, the dejected, rejected pile of cloth, and Erik’s eyes follow it interestedly until his chin is being held and his face is being turned.
The sockets of blue are astounding after staring at a t-shirt, and he blinks a few times to adjust.
I’ve written so much about these eyes, he thinks, that they don’t even make sense anymore. Deconstructed into something much more complex than they actually are, they sit in his face purely to hypnotise him.
At first it’s all slow, dreamy and long-drawn, a kiss on his mouth that’s like sucking out nectar from a flower, then a careful grip around his waist that has them falling against the sheets. The pillow under his head feels nowhere as soft as Charles's kiss, his touch, his breathing.
Then, there’s movement. Sudden, vicious, desperate.
He’s undressed with hands and teeth and orders. He submits with duty.
Charles brings his knee between Erik’s.
He licks his palm and grips Erik’s cock, then they roll in the sheets, Charles finding his seat on top of him.
They should stop.
They should stop and talk.
How much more can they delay their inevitable regret?
Any moment now Jakob is likely realising that he’s made a grave mistake. He could be on his way right this second, long speech of apology memorised—
Charles grips him with both hands.
“I need you,” the boy breathes.
His knees flank him, sweaty thighs stuck to his hips, breath wafting over his open mouth.
“Look at me,” Charles finally urges, jerking at his cock frenetically. “Look at me.”
He looks, and sees: a wild, raw intensity to the way pupils darken his eyes and eclipse the blue, a picturesque beauty to the parting of his lips as they shape his name, and far too little space between them. Finally.
Erik bucks off the bed and fucks into Charles’s fists. The boy bends like a bow, rubbing the tip of Erik’s cock against the taut skin of his torso. Grazing a nipple, tracing his bony sternum, squeezed and milked until he splatters all over Charles’s throat and chest.
And Charles loves it.
Erik grabs him with two large hands and flips them over again.
The boy is grinning, flushed and wanton, wearing Erik’s thick pleasure on his naked skin without shame.
He leans over the boy on his elbows and dives for his mouth.
Erik whorls his tongue relentlessly.
“Do you know,” he breathes out against his red lips, sucking on their swell, “Do you know how much I love you?”
Charles’s smile dies. He shuts his mouth, even as Erik attempts to prod it open.
“Open up for me.”
The boy parts his legs and his lips.
Erik grips him by his wrists, trapping him.
“I’ve ached for so long,” he murmurs, mouth over Charles’s. “Did you ever think it would be you?”
Small pale fingers run through the sticky mess on his skin.
“I always wanted it to be me.”
Erik pulls Charles’s hair in a show of unbridled affection.
“Liar,” he utters, tugging.
“I wanted to be the only person who could save you. I’m so—I’m so selfish, aren’t I?”
Erik bites Charles’s wrist.
“I wanted it to be me. Your knight in shining armour. Your light at the end of the tunnel.”
“You want to save everyone.” He mutters each word with a bite here, a kiss there. Licking to taste and raking his teeth. “How can you expect me to not fall in love with you?”
He’s only human.
And Charles is the angel, isn’t he?
He drags his fingertips down Charles’s back.
“You once dreamt you were trying to hold my hand.”
“And you held it,” Erik recalls, tracing spirals with the buds of his thumbs.
“What else do you dream of?”
Erik pecks Charles on his sweet lips. The boy licks them, waiting.
“Tell me, Erik. Tell me everything.”
With tears, he does.
---
Erik rouses first the next morning.
He leaves the door open as he showers. He’d awoken Charles already with a kiss, and isn’t surprised to hear the curtains rustle as someone steps in behind him.
He opens his eyes and sees small pale hands link at his waist. The boy’s head rests between Erik’s shoulder blades.
“Good morning,” Charles greets him, placing a long kiss on his shoulder.
Erik pulls Charles around so he can face him.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks, kissing his brow.
“Really well,” Charles yawns wide. Erik reaches for the shampoo bottle and pours some onto his palm as the boy wets his hair under the shower. “Are you going to wash my hair?”
“Yes,” Erik says as he starts to massage the scented shampoo into Charles’s damp hair. The boy shuts his eyes and smiles, holding Erik’s biceps for balance.
There’s a hint of disbelief and honest surprise in Charles’s expression, especially when he cracks an eye open to gaze up at Erik as he’s being rinsed.
Like he’s never expected Erik to be so affectionate. Like this interaction is a novelty.
He supposes Charles has been given reason to be sceptical in his expectations.
He really doesn’t know after all.
Charles is standing in his bedroom, arms spread, being towelled down by Erik. He’s down on one knee, drying each of the boy’s legs and Charles is commenting, “You’re treating me like a child,” with a bright beautiful smile and a wet giggle, when Erik’s phone rings.
He heaves a sigh when he reads the name blinking on his screen.
“It’s Dad,” he informs.
“Don’t pick up,” Charles pleads. “Erik please don’t, promise me—”
The phone stops bleeping.
Charles sighs.
“I can’t believe him. I can’t believe he just let you go,” Erik admits dolefully, placing his phone back on the bed and sitting back on his heels.
“He was helpless,” Charles replies after a while, looking to his side.
“No.” Erik shakes his head. “Helpless is someone who doesn’t have you.”
It’s strange.
He can say everything—bring every hidden thought of his mind to his tongue.
And he can say it without fearing for his life.
The boy places his hand on Erik’s head.
“Is that so,” he whispers softly, a hidden smile in his voice.
“I know from experience.”
Over a year of it.
Erik kisses up the boy’s arm until he can reach no higher.
He moves his face to press it against Charles’s stomach.
“Over a year of it,” he adds.
He can say it, and he will.
“I love you,” he completes. “I don’t think I ever won’t.”
And he’s not saying it to make Charles stay.
“I’m really not saying this to make you stay. You can leave…”
Even though—
“It would hurt me, but…”
He swallows.
The boy murmurs, “What if I want to stay?”
Erik grips Charles’s hips tight, fingers digging in.
“Then stay. Stay forever.”
Even if it is outrageous.
It’s barely been a day.
But Charles, here, forever—
There has to be a reason why these past thirteen months have been hellish.
You suffer but it’s worth it.
To live with someone you would die for.
It’s worth thirteen more.
There are goosebumps under his lips.
He inhales Charles’s nearness another time before moving off to find them clothes.
His smallest, tightest pair of boxers lie somewhere in the back of his drawers, and he scrounges the pair out for Charles to wear. He laughs as he turns and gives Erik a glance of his rear, where the material stretches neatly over his arse. Erik leans forward and kisses his lower back—his skin is slightly chilled, so he goes on to look for something Charles can wear on top.
He finds a large blue turtleneck jumper and presents it to Charles, who gives his approval with a small smile. Erik tugs it down the boy’s head and arms, folds down the neck so Charles can breathe, and begins to do the same for his sleeves, but Charles shakes his head.
“I like it,” he insists, so Erik lets the sleeves dangle heavily from the boy’s small pale hands. Then he asks, “Are you going to work?”
Erik pauses from where he’s rummaging for clothes of his own.
“Yes,” he sighs, not meeting Charles’s gaze. How desperate would Charles think he is, if he stays. “I have a very important meeting I can’t miss.”
“Okay.”
Charles walks over to him and pecks him on the cheek, swinging his arms around his shoulders to place his hands over Erik’s chest.
“I’ll make breakfast, hm?” Then he takes Erik’s hand for a kiss, tugging on it as he leaves but letting go when the distance is too far. Erik watches him walk out of the bedroom, his indecent brat indecently dressed, and wonders if Charles is even looking for the space that Erik wants to offer him.
Still.
By the time he’s dressed, Charles is burning something in the kitchen and flapping wildly at the smoke.
“It’s alright!” he exclaims. “Just overcooked some toast, nothing major.” He glances over at Erik as he walks towards him. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“How am I looking at you?” Erik asks, cupping Charles’s face. The boy looks up sheepishly.
“Like you’d rather eat me instead.”
Erik bends to kiss him and kisses him deep, cornering Charles against the counter. When he removes his mouth, the boy’s lips are still wet and open, his eyes still shut. Erik dives in for another, a hand slipping underneath the boy’s jumper to grope at his skin. Charles shivers and ducks his head, his torso rippling away from his hand as though he’s ticklish. The side of the boy’s foot slowly rubs up and down Erik’s calf.
Charles still hasn’t asked Erik to take the day off and stay. But he does look disappointed as he fixes Erik’s tie for him.
“You look very nice,” Charles tells him.
“Thank you.” Erik’s mouth twitches upwards.
“You always do.” The boy lifts and drops a shoulder, casual. Erik’s smile spreads to a full grin. “Don’t act like you didn’t already know that.” The boy flushes charmingly.
“I didn’t know you thought I looked good,” Erik reiterates, pushing Charles’s hair back from his forehead and tipping his chin up. He never dresses for the delight of others and what they might see, but in his profession he cares about presentation and looking sharp. Yet Charles has been appreciating him—not just anyone, Charles—and it alters his motives just a little.
“Grey really suits you.” Charles runs his hands down his lapels. He repeats the motion before leaning in to whisper into Erik’s ear, “I’m sure everywhere you go, people notice you.” He heaves a sigh, fingering Erik’s top button. “Smile at you, stare at you, try and touch you, fantasize about you… they do that, I’ll bet. How many times do you find someone’s number slipped into your pocket?”
In reply, he buries his face in Charles’s neck and nips at his skin.
“Never cared,” he claims. “They weren’t you.”
“All that time went by… surely you had—a few, or maybe… you must have returned someone’s interest… right?”
The boy’s breath hitches when Erik sucks at him, viciously.
“Wrong.” He works his way up to find Charles’s licked lips. “Nobody did to me what you do.”
Erik sinks into his mouth, warm tongue finding a welcome, then he laps across Charles’s mouth as though he’s collecting its taste, both inside and out.
Charles forgets to inhale. He fists his hands in Erik’s hair and pants when they break apart.
“Breakfast,” Charles is flustered as he reminds them, wiping his mouth and moving towards the hob. “I know what you’re trying to do. I’m not letting you go to work without eating.”
Erik hasn’t had an edible breakfast in months—usually a cigarette will do to keep his mouth busy until coffee break. Involuntarily, he pats his pockets for a box of cigarettes or a stray stick. From where he’s plating their food, Charles turns around just in time to see.
He bites his lip and turns back to the food.
Erik thinks of the drawer in his bedroom.
You shouldn’t—it’s bad for you.
It’s your breath.
“Looks good,” Erik says, placing his head on Charles’s shoulder as the boy smiles in thanks.
“Sit down, I’ll bring it for you.”
Erik presses a hard kiss on Charles’s clean-shaven jaw before he goes to sit on a stool, pulling his sleeves up. Charles seats himself to his right, close enough to let their thighs touch.
“What time will you be back?” he asks, wordlessly cutting up a golden omelette and bringing it in front of Erik’s mouth.
“… By five,” he informs, before the fork passes his lips and forces him to take a bite. The next morsel finds its way to his mouth, and the one that follows, as does the tissue that wipes him and ensures his suit remains clean. “You’re not eating,” Erik points out.
“I’ll eat when you go,” Charles says cheerfully, readying another mouthful on the fork’s blades. “I want you to eat first. You hardly ever eat.”
Erik holds Charles’s hand steady as he’s fed. The boy looks on adoringly.
And every portion that’s brought to his lips is accepted without objection, and with a smile.
Charles soaks up the sight of his happiness avidly, eyes darting everywhere with wonder.
“You’re so different now,” he breathes, quiet. When Erik’s gaze slowly drifts up to meet his, he’s blushing and turning away.
Matching him in boldness, Erik remarks, “Because you’re not Dad’s boyfriend anymore.”
It sounds just as relieving aloud.
And now it’s true, it’s real; there’s no protest.
He’s slipping down from the stool when Charles looks up at him and says, “What if I was yours?”
Then he reaches out and interlocks their fingers, slowly, the sides of his fingers grazing Erik’s and parting them, then curling down to fold their hands together.
Erik watches, inert.
“What if I was your boyfriend, Erik?” He lets out an uneven breath. “And we had this every day?”
He stands frozen. Charles toys with his fingers futilely, waiting for a reaction.
“Have I spoken too soon?” The boy bites his lip. “I know it’s fast, but… I’ve never been so sure. I’ve never known anyone could even love me as much as you do. How much more can I make you wait?”
Heavy, charged silence settles into every corner of the room.
Charles’s grip eventually falters, and he instead wrings his own hands restlessly. Then he stands and goes to collect Erik’s briefcase.
“Just—maybe—you could think about it at work…”
He presses the briefcase against Erik’s chest.
“Here.”
Erik takes it and puts it back down.
“It doesn’t matter how long I have to wait,” he begins, voice firm. “As long as you’re ready. As long as you’re happy.”
He cups Charles’s face with both hands. The boy places his hands over Erik’s.
“When you close your eyes and think of us, together…”
“Yes…”
The boy breathes a soft sigh and closes his eyes.
“You don’t even know, Charles. The things I would do for you. The way I have ached for you. You can’t imagine what it would be like to finally have me.”
“I would have to find out.”
Charles slowly opens his eyes. Wet blue glistens, looking up at him dreamily.
“Can you handle all of my love? You can leave through that door anytime you want, Charles. You can have anyone you want. But I will never have any love to give anyone else. It’s all for you.” He grabs Charles harder. “All for you.”
The boy swallows, tipping his head back into Erik’s hands and elongating his throat. He shuts his eyes again, a tear sliding down to his chin. But his face is completely peaceful.
Erik brushes his tear away with his thumb.
“I’ll wait,” he promises. “I’ll give you time.”
He takes a step back and withdraws, hands falling. Charles’s eyes snap open.
“What? Why—I don’t need time.” He frowns. “I don’t want to wait.”
“You should think about it.”
It’s barely been a day.
His father has loved him too, hasn’t he? He could have said the same words, held him the same way, looked at him with the same expression in his blue-grey eyes—
Assertively, he says, “You need time.”
But his voice cracks.
He turns away, whipping off his suit jacket and tossing it on the stool he’d vacated.
“Think about what you really want.”
A moment later he turns back around to find Charles with his back to him, arms holding his suit jacket to his chest. Erik takes a step towards him and kisses his shoulder, his neck, then the soft, wet skin of his cheek.
With that, he leaves to go to his bedroom.
It’s not like they’ll have the meeting without him anyway.
---
He could really do with a cigarette.
His skin prickles like it feels betrayed;
With nothing and nobody to put against his mouth and breathe in and breathe out and intoxicate himself with.
The door slowly creaks open.
Charles pads in, one sock up to his knee and the other down to his ankle.
Erik sighs and looks away.
He places his suit jacket on a hanger and wedges it into Erik’s cupboard, fingering his other clothes and shirts lingeringly. He picks up a sleeve and brings it to his face, then inhales.
“I still have the shirt you gave me,” the boy mumbles, before pulling out a different shirt from the middle of his rack. “This… I think… is the shirt you wore when we went out that time you were punched in the nose. And you took off your coat and gave it to me…”
The boy goes still for a while.
Erik holds his breath unknowingly.
Then he regains his feet and walks on, shutting the doors of the cupboard as he passes. He stops at Erik’s dresser.
He studies Erik’s things—they’re just mundane, everyday items like cologne and pens and lotion—but they capture his rapt attention for a long while.
As though he’s suddenly satisfied by a thought, the boy uprights himself and crosses the room, seating himself opposite Erik on the bed with his legs crossed.
“Earlier, when I was feeding you your breakfast… you looked at me with a smile. Just—a smile. And it completely warmed my heart—all the hurt of these past few days just vanished. God, Erik, do you realise how happy you looked?”
He scoots closer, near enough to press his forehead against Erik’s.
“You looked so happy Erik.”
Small pale hands hold his face with crushing force. The boy’s nose brushes his – and his chest, as it heaves, fills with an expanse of breath as he murmurs, “I’ve never seen you that happy. Did I do that, Erik?”
His head rolls forward in a nod. Charles catches him and gently lifts him so their eyes meet.
The boy’s voice is frail, breaking, but depthless with certainty,
“Won’t you let me do that forever, Erik? Please?”
There’s a choked sob of tears, and Erik wouldn’t have doubted himself if not for the wetness streaming down his own cheeks, pressed close to Charles’s, and the sporadic shudder of his shoulders as he curls forward.
The boy shushes him, wipes him down with the fabric of his jumper, and patters him with kisses when he decidedly nods in reply.
---
His head is pillowed on Erik’s lap, resting comfortably, and Erik wonders why he’d ever decided to go to work when he has this at home.
This, he thinks, is what can weave together the pieces of his heart.
This is his poetry, his words, his longing.
Charles looking up at him, wearing his clothes, laying across his lap on his bed—
When he can leave anytime he wants.
“Erik?”
“Hm?”
“You had an important meeting today.”
He shrugs. “It’s alright.”
“You could still make it. I doubt they’ll start without you.”
Smiling, and taking Charles in a smile with him, Erik leans down to kiss Charles’s cheek. “You’re right. They won’t. Even if I… took a week off?”
“Erik,” Charles gasps, eyes wide. “You can’t take a week’s leave just like that.”
“I would love it if you lived here with me,” he muses, catching Charles off guard. “Have you thought about it?”
At first Charles looks sad—Erik must sound desperate, after all—then he softens, raising his hand up to Erik’s hair.
“I’m starting to.”
Erik kisses his palm. “Thank you.”
Charles smiles. “I’d have to find a job nearby. Learn how to drive… And you’ll have to promise me you’ll stop—”
“I already quit,” he cuts in, failing at hiding a smirk.
“We both know it’s not that easy,” Charles says, pragmatic. “Here.” He presents his hand in front of Erik, wriggling his fingers, then resting a knuckle against the pad of Erik’s bottom lip.
He gives him a questioning look before taking the boy’s index finger into his mouth.
“There we go,” Charles grins up at him. “That works, doesn’t it?”
It does, in a way, work; he willingly ensconces his finger further, lips stretching. It’s enough to keep his mouth distracted, yes—but suckling on the boy, his flesh moistening, his taste thick—
Charles stirs in his lap.
“Someday,” he breathes, “you’re going to fuck me, right?”
Then his mouth goes dry, falling open.
The boy sits up and takes his finger out of Erik’s mouth with a pleased sound.
“Have you thought about it?” he echoes Erik’s question, sitting up on his knees.
Erik swallows.
“Don’t be shy,” he whispers, taking off Erik’s tie. “We have time. I have patience.”
And experience, which makes him that much more tempting, maddening.
Intimidating. God, the indecent brat is intimidating.
“I do think about it,” he rasps, flushing hotly when Charles stops and peers up at him. Slits of blue under dainty dark lashes.
“Will you tell me what you think about?” the boy inquires, removing his tie. “Like,” he tilts his head as he opens the first button of Erik’s shirt, “what position we’re in?”
The first image in his head is vivid, and causes a bolt of heat to course through him.
“On our sides,” he says lowly. He looks down as Charles continues to unbutton his shirt, the corner of his lips tugging up.
“I like that,” he purrs, nodding slowly.
He pulls back Erik’s shirt to reveal his chest, bare and flushed. Charles places his lips to Erik’s neck and slowly kisses downwards, then runs his hands over his skin.
“Would you fuck my mouth first?” Charles lets his fingertips graze Erik’s solar plexus.
“I… would like that,” Erik replies breathlessly.
“Bit forward, though,” Charles drawls, slumping down to place his head on Erik’s chest. “Don’t you think? We ought to wait.”
“If—um—okay. We should wait.”
So they wait.
Erik places his hands on Charles’s waist.
“I’ve missed you so much.”
He isn’t expecting that. It startles him into clutching Charles tight.
“Sometimes I just needed you. And sometimes I simply needed to know you were okay.”
Erik will never get used to the way Charles kisses.
He keeps his hands on the boy’s waist and lets him dominate, from the moment he springs up to find his lips and kiss them, to the moment they stickily pull apart and breathe.
They inch closer for another.
Erik’s phone rings.
“It’s probably someone from work,” he dismisses, taking his phone from the night stand and glancing at the caller ID.
But he’s wrong.
Charles lays his head on Erik’s shoulder.
“Please don’t,” he implores.
Dad calling, it says.
They silently listen to it sing its plea.
It’s his ninth call over the last twelve hours.
When it stops, Charles breathes out the sigh of relief that Erik wants to feel.
It rings again.
Emma calling, it says.
“Emma?” Charles frowns.
Calling directly after Jakob.
“Does Dad know you’re here?” Erik asks over the ringtone.
“No.” He places his hand on his forehead. “I just stormed out. I didn’t stop and inform him that I have nowhere to go so expect me to wind up at your son’s house.”
Erik groans.
“I have to take this,” he mutters, pressing the green button. “Hello?”
“Erik?” Emma sounds surprised. She can never sound worried, surely, so Erik interprets the high pitch of her voice to be alarm. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he says. Anyone to call him now should think he’s at work, and considering he’s not—with nobody to attend his office phone—it may just be logical to be worried about his whereabouts. So Emma might just be worried. “What’s wrong?”
“You haven’t been picking up your cell or your office phone, that’s what. Neither has Charles. Jakob is really concerned.”
There’s a pause; a rustle as though the phone is being shifted.
“Do you know where Charles is?”
Erik looks at the boy sitting next to him, listening. He nods.
“Charles is here. With me.”
A sigh exits the speakers. Emma’s muffled voice retells, “Charles is with Erik.” Then there’s another inaudible pause.
“Emma,” he calls, “Is Dad with you?”
“Yeah, he’s here. He’s fine. Well, now he is.”
“Go to a different room,” he urges her. “Where Dad can’t hear you. Please.”
“… Okay, hold on.”
She sounds tired, but as the phone goes silent, Erik gets the impression she’s doing what she’s asked.
“Alright, I’m in the bedroom. Now listen to me first. Jakob and Charles have split up—you know that, right?”
“Yes,” he replies carefully.
“Which means Charles is upset and alone, so it’s important that you don’t overload him with your dramatic confessions of love. He needs you to be his friend right now, nothing more.”
Erik covers the phone with a hand and leans in towards Charles, whispering, “Should I tell her I sucked you off two minutes after you walked through the door?”
“Christ,” Charles huffs, a crimson blush blooming on his cheeks. Erik notes that even Charles’s thighs flushed with colour. He’s acres of discovery awaiting him.
What a pair they’re going to make.
“Hello? Erik, are you there?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“You need to promise me you won’t do anything foolish.”
Charles leans in close again, his head dropped on Erik’s shoulder as he listens to their conversation.
“I can’t,” he speaks into the phone. “I can’t promise you that.”
“Erik,” she hisses. “Don’t tell me you’ve—”
“I did.”
“Did what.”
“I told him everything.”
“Are you insane?!”
“Yes,” he scoffs. “I’m absolutely fucking mad about him and seeing him in the state he was in gave me no choice.”
“And what choice have you left Charles?”
“Let me,” Charles mumbles to him, taking his cell from his loose hold and placing it to his ear. Erik isn’t even given a second to reel it back before the boy is saying, “Hello, Emma. It’s Charles here.”
Then he bites his lip and shuffles off the bed and onto his feet, his free hand tugging his sleeve in all directions.
Erik looks on apprehensively.
“I understand—” the boy gets in, before Emma jabbers on, and Charles quietly sticks to chewing his bottom lip. When the speaker goes silent, Charles takes a deep breath and determinedly gets a few words in. “It’s nothing like that. I assure you Emma, it’s nothing like that… No, I don’t want to go to Westchester, I want to be here with Erik and nowhere else.”
The words are baffling, easily dragging the air out of his lungs. It’s a shame Emma is the direct recipient of the confession, but Erik isn’t in a place to complain. He manoeuvres himself onto his feet and walks over to where the boy is pacing the length of his bedroom.
“I don’t want space.” He sighs. “I just want Erik. I’m happy with him here—very happy.” Charles turns to acknowledge Erik’s approaching figure. His round blue eyes scan his face closely. “And he’s very happy too. I promise.”
Erik plasters himself against the boy’s back, nose in his hair.
Charles is silently listening to what he’s being told. He slowly turns around to face Erik instead, and reaches out to place his small pale hand on Erik’s cheek. Down on his jaw, where a faded scar traces memories of heartache.
“I know he does, Emma.” Charles is rubbing his thumb over Erik’s eyebrow. “I believe you.”
Erik melts against the boy’s touch.
Charles hums at something Emma says, then steps closer to him. Erik moves in for a fleeting kiss against the corner of the boy’s mouth.
“I need him,” Charles murmurs, his lips ghosting over Erik’s. The words are whispered into his mouth. “I really really need him.”
Emma goes quiet in thought.
Erik takes his cell back and ends the call.
Charles doesn’t utter a word about how rude it is.
It’s not possible with Erik’s mouth clamped over his, lips pressing gently in a long, but chaste kiss.
Erik drops his cell on the bed before wrapping his arms around Charles’s waist. In that moment, he simply tries to remember the grief of being without the boy, the overbearing depth of suppressed emotions, resorting to show his anger when all he’s ever wanted to express is love, and he sighs.
He thinks about now. The body in his arms. The head on his shoulder. The lips against his neck.
The surge of gratitude calms his pacing heart. The memories of a year’s anguish now surpassed by the joy of this day’s arrival.
His indecent brat wants to stay.
“Erik… why are you crying?”
He shakes his head, burying his face into Charles’s hair.
“Tell me.” The boy’s voice wobbles.
Erik slowly goes down on his knees, hands dragging down Charles’s body until he’s clutching his hips. He weeps with relief, but Charles still worries. He descends next to him, holding Erik’s face and stroking his hair back, like he’s delicate.
When Charles kisses his tears away Erik leans his weight against him and lets himself be rubbed on the back, soothed by the boy.
“I’ll be good to you,” he tells Erik, wrapping around him with arms and legs. “I know I’m a stupid boy. But I’ll be so good to you.”
They make love on the carpet.
Erik is spread out on his back, watching as Charles slips off the blue jumper and slowly steps out of his underwear. He sits back down on his knees and touches himself, thighs spread. He keeps his eyes on Erik and Erik looks back as the boy wrings his cock with one hand and rubs his nipple with the other, skittering nails over sensitive flesh.
A compliment, a comment on Charles’s beauty and grace would come off as a thoughtless understatement. In that moment he is a stanza unwritten; too much to ponder over, too little put down into words. Erik still hasn’t worked out how to reassure himself, that this is real.
This is Charles, moaning through his nose, lip caught between teeth, as he gropes for his flesh and puts an arch in his back. Erik pulls his hand forward and positions him until Charles is kneeling over his chest, facing away from him. The boy covers Erik’s groin with his hand but doesn’t move any further when Erik leans up on an elbow and presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to Charles’s round arse. He sits up to press his thumbs to the dimples that indent him just above and runs his hands down until he’s opening Charles up and kissing him again. The boy falls forward on his hands and knees and spreads himself more, gasping. His legs shift to part, his cock thick between them. Erik cups his balls with his palm as he flicks his tongue up and down the skin of Charles’s arse cheeks, lapping them from the inside until he’s moist. The taste is non-existent; but he continues to lick at him with quick dashes of his tongue, gathering sweat and dampness. Charles is red in the face and supporting himself on quivering thighs. Every sound is as though it’s being forced out of him, from the back of his long throat, with a curl of his fingers.
Erik smooths the pad of his thumb over Charles’s perineum, blinking at his small hole. He’s only managed to fit his middle finger halfway inside before Charles yells and bucks away from him. Erik withdraws and placates him with kisses and stroking, gentle hands.
Charles is working on his belt, fixing it open and taking it out before unzipping Erik’s slacks and pulling his boxers down. Erik works his clothes off the rest of the way and helps Charles turn around, his cock sliding against the boy’s and the boy’s legs either side of Erik’s as they face each other again.
When Charles places his mouth on him, Erik bites his soft lips and cups his head, gripping wavy hair. Charles grinds down on him, breathless and flushed in the position that only allows his hips to move. Erik impales himself upwards, thrusting against Charles’s belly. His leverage is limited to the hold he has on the boy’s upper body and he makes the most of it with biting kisses and tightly clutching hands.
Charles says Erik’s name with unflinching eye contact, rolling his hips. Every move of his is indecent, every move meant for him.
His cockhead rubs against Charles’s hip, marking a trail of pre-ejaculate. Charles, in turn, dips his fingers through it.
Tastes it.
Erik’s head falls back; he’s normally relatively silent in bed, but he feels ready to scream.
Instead he flips them over, clutching Charles’s leg from the junction at his hip and thrusting relentlessly, nipping over Charles’s bare skin. The boy cries out and curls forward, then turns his head to the side, whimper and moan pouring out of his lips. One small pale hand reaches down and squeezes his cock; then he raises his leg further, Erik supporting him, and inserts a finger inside his hole. Erik bucks harder, muscles strained. He keeps his hand on the boy’s neck and bites his lip, hard, as his body convulses.
Now Charles is sobbing openly—his toes curl as he plunges his finger deeper inside himself, knowing his own limit and yet, going past it.
He’s given no orders to go faster, or harder, but he does so regardless, digging his nails into Charles’s skin. He’s rubbing himself along the length of Charles’s shaft and watching between urges to squeeze his eyes shut, as Charles’s finger digs into his hole and twists.
Erik skims his hands up and down the boy’s body, feeling the shape of him.
With a frazzled edge to his voice, Charles murmurs, “Come in my mouth.”
As though he likes the way Erik tastes and—
“Want to taste you again…”
Erik groans, biting Charles’s shoulder. He slowly drops Charles’s leg. The boy keeps his finger inside himself. Erik works his way up to straddle his face and holds his cock from the base, adjusting himself to keep his swollen glans placed over Charles’s lips. He can tell Charles is impatient, tongue flitting out to roll over Erik’s slit, and so he bucks his hips a few more times and comes—all over Charles’s lips. He aims for his tongue, but thick white droplets course down his chin and stripe his cheek, glossing his lips.
Charles pants, quirking a small smile.
Erik rubs his tip over Charles’s smiling lips, dripping with remains.
Charles licks his lips with an obscenely stretched out tongue.
Erik kisses his neck as he swallows and shuffles downwards, lips travelling along the boy’s body. His fingers feels for his ribs, which they find too easily. Chest, sternum, navel, everything shapes itself smoothly under Erik’s hands. Skin he’s wanted to touch and taste and smell and bite, stretching out underneath him for exploration.
“Let go, come on, let go.”
Charles thumbs his foreskin restlessly, his breath short and loud.
Erik lifts his leg and kisses up his delicate inner thigh. He takes out Charles’s finger from where it’s lodged inside himself and licks it into his mouth, sucking. “Fuck,” the boy rasps.
Charles raises his hips as he comes, and lazily fists himself through it, hand coating with jets of his seed. Erik obligingly wipes him clean of it with his tongue, trying to get used to the tang of the boy’s taste.
“That was nice.” Charles bites his lip, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “That was really nice.”
Erik makes a noise of agreement as he licks over Charles’s balls. The boy clamps his thighs together with a hitched breath. Erik noses him open again and resumes his meticulous cleaning job, this time holding the boy’s legs apart.
“You love doing that,” Charles breathes, half-questioning.
“Love you,” he slurs. “Love it when you make those noises. Love tasting you.”
“Mmm…” Charles is still red-faced when he glances down at Erik’s head between his legs. Or tongue, rather.
He shivers when Erik’s hair tickles his thighs. “Too much,” he whispers, absently scratching Erik’s scalp, but not pushing him away. The most he does is press the inside of his thighs either side of Erik’s head and squeeze, his cheeks flanked by boy’s tender skin—meaning to crush Erik’s face without even coming close.
It’s difficult to pull his weight up onto his legs and find a means for washing each other up, but with Herculean effort, he manages it. His phone rings and rings with calls from work, and he ignores each without a flinch; instead he tosses his phone under the bed, once it’s silenced, in favour of dragging a wet cloth over every part of Charles’s body that isn’t flailed at him in a fit of hysterics.
Erik sits back on his knees and gazes at the boy, as he pants through laughter.
“This is going to take a while, isn’t it?”
His reply is a hand flapped through the air.
“I’m going to go to the kitchen and make you something. You haven’t eaten anything all day.” He purses his lips. “Coming with me?”
Charles wipes a tear and makes a gesture at his foot.
“My foot’s asleep,” he says eventually, chest rapidly moving up and down.
“Wait here then.” But Charles whines and pouts his lips, and Erik suddenly remembers that this boy may be perfect for him and incredibly fucking gorgeous, but he’s also a handful, and that he wants to deal with this handful for the rest of his life. “Piggyback?”
That option wins.
Charles climbs onto his back, arms around his neck, and together they trek to the kitchen. Erik prepares him a shamefully bland late breakfast using reheated leftovers from the meal Charles had made him earlier.
What a pair they’re going to make.
Charles gives him a sloppy kiss when Erik places the plate in front of him.
“Feed me,” Charles joyfully insists, hands buried in his lap.
Erik should’ve expected it.
He should also expect Charles to moan throatily and lick his lips copious times and hollow his cheeks around the fork and keep his widened blue eyes trained on Erik’s as he opens his mouth and then chew on small bites so he can prod at the inside of his cheek with his tongue—
It still comes as a surprise.
On the last mouthful, Charles throws his head back and touches his neck.
Indecent brat fails to cover it.
Erik pins him down to the kitchen island and kisses him ruthlessly, tangling their tongues, pressing hard on his lips.
When he pulls away and moves off, Charles catches his hand.
They stay like that for a while, catching their breath. The boy’s expression changes into something serious, playfulness dissipating.
“I meant what I said.”
Erik immediately thinks of it.
I’ll be so good to you.
He turns to look at the boy, who slowly sits up.
“I don’t doubt you, if that’s what you think,” he replies, but it comes off as weak. Charles is second-guessing himself, doubting his love, because Jakob has hurt him that badly. Words can’t reassure him.
But it was the circumstances.
He wants to remind Charles of that.
No sane human would let go of Charles willingly. Not unless it’s costing them every single other thing in their life.
Charles needs to understand that, but better yet, Erik needs to make it clear to him.
If only it didn’t pain him to mention his father.
At the end of the day, the man thinks he’s going to be better off without his angel.
Erik lived every moment in agony without his indecent brat.
“You’ve left me…”
He snaps out of his thoughts. At the realisation of Charles’s words, he shakes his head rigorously with a worried frown.
“No.” He reaches out to hold Charles’s face in his hands. “No, I’ll never leave you, do you understand me? Never, I promise—”
Charles’s small pale hands land on his arms. “Erik.” He smiles coyly. “You were lost in thought, that’s all. It’s alright.” He kisses both of Erik’s hands. “I know you won’t leave me.” He kisses both hands again. “I know you won’t.”
“Never,” he confirms.
Every moment—every single one: agony. Muted agony.
Charles hops off the island and wraps his arms around Erik’s waist. He settles in against him, radiating warmth.
They really are this good together.
---
The rest of the sunlit day is spent with his head pillowed on Charles’s lap.
Erik reaches up to hold Charles’s cheek, a thumb tracing his lip.
“If I ever said or did something that upset you,” Erik lowers his voice, “I’m sorry.”
Charles had looked calm and sated before, revelling at Erik’s touch. Now his brows steeple, lips downturned. He fumbles with the quilt he’s swaddled in.
“Erik… I might have taken it personally then, but… now it doesn’t mean anything.”
“I slammed the door on your hand,” he says frankly, cringing. He grabs hold of Charles’s hand where it threads through his hair and determinedly kisses it again and again.
“It was this one.” Charles shows him his right hand. He beams when Erik wordlessly takes it to his lips, placing kiss after kiss, turning it over to get every part of his small pale hand. “I know you didn’t do it intentionally.”
“No,” he mumbles, lips parted over a knuckle. “But I deliberately said terrible things to you.”
“And you’re forgiven.” Charles—for all the offence he’d undoubtedly taken at being called a slutty parasite and a bitch, being ignored and condescended in a regular, unchanging cycle of tears and arguments—bends forward to kiss him on the forehead, compassionate. He doesn’t move his face away immediately. He hovers over him, smiling to himself. “You never meant to upset me. You just loved to see me cry.”
At first, he pretends he doesn’t hear it.
Then an uncontrollable smile breaks across his face, which he guiltily hides against Charles’s stomach.
“I knew it. I bloody knew it.” Charles playfully pushes him away, grinning madly. He mocks Erik’s voice: “Ugly crying face. Fuck you. Do you know how fucking paranoid you made me?” He shoves him again, but Erik quickly catches him and interlocks their fingers, raising their joined hands up between their faces. He moves to sit up on his knees, looming over Charles.
“Say that again.” He bumps their foreheads.
“Say what…” Charles licks his lips and looks down at Erik’s.
“I love it when you curse.” He squeezes the boy’s fingers between his own.
“Really?” Charles narrows his eyes. He rakes his teeth over his lip, then shapes the word, “Fucking.”
“Mm.” Erik’s tongue flicks out to lick Charles’s bitten bottom lip. “Say it once more.”
Charles smirks. He pronounces it emphatically. “Fuck you.”
“I like ‘fucking’.”
“I love fucking.”
Erik shakes his head in disbelief.
Charles wets his lips.
How is he going to deal with this handful?
Easily, it seems—so long as it involves closing the distance between his mouth and Charles’s, and fervent, messy kissing that would end up in them tipping over sideways and staying like that; horizontal and intertwined.
Then, hours can pass. Hours spent gazing, brushing away hair, lazily locking lips, and the resting against the presence of another until Charles shakes him awake to tell him he’s starving.
He places a hand on his stomach and pouts.
The boy climbs over him, quilt still wrapped around his body, and pads over to the kitchen. Erik quickly moves to catch the end of the quilt and pulls. Charles stops short and sighs as the coverlet drops onto the ground and pools at his feet.
He shrugs once when Erik does and says nothing, then continues on towards the kitchen, completely nude and half-hard. He orders take-out with his accent more clipped than usual.
It’s only when the doorbell rings that Erik jumps onto his feet and throws the quilt over the boy, whose laughter comes out muffled and manic from underneath the protective layer that shields him from the eyes of the delivery man.
---
Erik’s phone remains under the bed, disregarded.
“You really ought to go to work tomorrow,” Charles mumbles during dinner, but Erik shakes his head dismissively.
He doesn’t even go to check it when they return to his bedroom at night, but then again, Charles doesn’t check his phone either.
He bends down to collect his clothes, which he’d been neglecting for most of the day, and places them on the hooks behind the door. Erik takes off his shirt and smiles when Charles turns to look at him, skin gleaming from the moonlight’s lustrous gaze. Erik feels disinclined to draw the drapes closed. From where the boy stands baring the profile of his entire body—one hand reaching up and the other down by his side, weight on one foot while the other curls onto tiptoes, heel in the air—Erik can’t help but gaze appreciatively. His front is shaded by darkness, but from the behind, he is glowing from the milk-white light he catches; and it illuminates him from the bones of his shoulders and the dip in his back, down to the curve of his arse that leads to form the silhouette of strong, long legs.
Erik can only think of one word: angel.
“Come here,” Erik beckons, opening his arms for Charles who walks into them with a sigh. Before Erik can, the boy speaks.
“Today was perfect, Erik.” He nuzzles Erik throat, his nose slightly cold against his skin.
“It was.” He holds Charles’s face up and kisses him on the nose. “Because you were in it.”
Charles shuts his eyes, then smiles, and goes back to stuffing his face against Erik’s neck. He swings his arm up to place his fingers on Erik’s shoulder, and so he takes the boy by his delicate wrist and peppers kisses down his arm—following a trail of dispersed freckles.
He’s closely acquainting himself with the slope of the boy’s clavicle, the skin there sensitive to even a scratch, when his shoulders begin to shake with silent laughter.
“What?” Erik asks, leisurely fingering through the strands of Charles’s hair.
He presses a kiss to Erik’s chin and smiles through his reply, “I don’t have to ask you for a hug anymore.”
Erik doesn’t imagine the way Charles’s arms suddenly grip him tighter.
The boy’s chest becomes his pillow for the night, the arms around him pillars of comfort, and the occasional kisses pressed against his head serve as constant reminders that Charles is awake and equally as restless.
---
Erik wakes up hoping that today will be just as peaceful as the day before. And for the most part, it is.
Somehow, Charles has ended up on his chest, neither of them on a pillow, and the boy’s socked feet are sticking out from under the bottom of the covers. Charles is even drooling a little bit. Erik tips his chin up and wipes him with his thumb, chuckling. He doesn’t mention it when the boy rouses.
Morning kisses have always disconcerted him. Luckily, the few bed partners he’s had have always awoken with the good sense to up and leave, rather than linger and move in for a kiss.
So of course, Charles is unlike that.
He scoots up the bed, ruffled hair falling over his sleepy eyes as he places an elbow either side of Erik’s head and looks down with a smile.
“Morning.”
His head falls forward to press his nose against Erik’s. Slowly, dreamy blue eyes fall closed again. His lips stick out in a pout before they drop onto Erik’s in a quick, sweet peck.
Then he hums and lays his head down on Erik’s chest. His hand moves to settle near Erik’s neck as he happily murmurs, “I don’t want to get up. Can’t we stay here all day, like this?”
And so, with the sweet morning kiss that had made his heart flutter away into Charles’s palm, Erik decides that they’re going to prolong the lazy, drugged feeling of waking up in a lover’s embrace, and stay in bed for as long as their bodies can manage. Charles goes back to sleep almost immediately.
It’s their second day together.
Only their second day together.
Every door is open for Charles to leave whenever he wants.
He doesn’t.
He curls up against Erik and sighs, then reaches for Erik’s arm and winds it around his waist.
“Is this what you really want?” Erik asks the air, once he’s convinced that Charles’s small breaths are an indication of him asleep. “Nobody’s ever wanted this, Charles.”
Nobody’s ever wanted to lay in his arms, kiss him early in the morning, choose to stay for a while. Charles is the first.
And hence, he’s crazy; and that’s why they’re a perfect pair.
Stupid, stupid boy.
Eventually, it’s no surprise that the boy’s stomach gives out a growl of hunger. Erik’s appetite is non-existent at best, but Charles is infamous for his intake.
Fighting a yawn, he says, “I’m hungry,” after which he makes no move to get up, so Erik takes the hint.
“Breakfast in bed?”
“I’ll go as far as the bathroom to wash and brush.” He tugs the covers up to his ears. “Then I’m jumping back in.”
Erik feels like he can write a million pages about him, just in this moment: huddled comfortably in his bed.
He makes an effort in the kitchen for once, gathering the sparse edible items filling the pantry and assembling something Charles would be impressed by.
A part of him knows that the boy would beam and take whatever Erik presents to him on the tray, even if it is French toast and a large mug of frothy coffee.
Erik pretends to be reading the newspaper for all of thirty seconds before he’s putting it away and shuffling forward to share sips of coffee and kiss up the boy’s jaw.
“Thank you Erik,” he breathes, hands clutching his mug tighter when Erik finds his lips pressing over the boy’s ear. He can’t help but lick, note that Charles likes it, then lick again, memorising the hitch in his breath.
“For what?”
Unsurprisingly, he sounds like he’s completely drunk. His throat sounds like it’s been roughened by the spill of alcohol. Charles glances at him with a smile that turns impish when Erik takes the coffee mug from him and places it on the side table.
“This.” Blue eyes rove up to the ceiling, lashes framing them. “Everything between us. It’s lovely.” He drops his chin to look at Erik. “You’re lovely to me.”
He pauses for an instant, then fishes for Charles’s hands from under the covers; he holds them both in his palms before ducking his head to kiss them. Charles tilts his head to the side.
“Erik… you make me feel like I’m made of gold.”
“Good,” he murmurs. After a beat, poised over his hands, he adds, “You were made for me.”
When he looks up, Charles is blushing. A few more ardent kisses to his hands and arms later, the boy lets his head hit the pillow as he slides down to lay on his back. Erik joins him on his side, coloured surprised when Charles hooks his leg around his hip and rolls on top of him.
He throws the covers off Erik’s legs and begins crawling backwards on his hands and knees.
“Oh fuck—are you going to—”
He’s not ready for this to happen. Sure enough, he’s done it to Charles and has had it done to him before, but on this occasion, with this boy—
“I won’t last long,” he says in advance, just to forewarn.
Charles raises a brow.
It’s already building up inside him, anticipation the catalyst. Charles is beautiful and naked, not a thread of clothing on an inch of skin. He reaches his position over Erik’s hips and slowly pulls down his boxers.
And in a way that will never not be flattering, Charles’s eyes widen.
The cold air hitting him, followed by the boy’s hot breath fanning him—he swallows and concentrates on the darkness behind his eyelids.
“Won’t look?”
The boy sounds almost smug as he unravels his wet tongue over the hardening flesh of his head, fingers passing down his navel indulgently.
Erik places his arm over his eyes as his abs quiver.
“Fine.” A small pale hand wraps tightly around his cock. “Don’t watch.”
Erik lets out a low growl. “I can’t… you’re—”
Everything he’s ever dreamed of, sucking on his cock.
Charles hums in understanding.
Erik feels soft, moist lips close around his tip, press down and twist, the inside of a throat fluttering against his head as he’s taken in further and licked.
Placing both hands on the bed spread, he clutches the sheets and swallows, mind blank with pleasure.
Charles comes off him noisily and leisurely jerks him off with one hand. The other is now on Erik’s, easing his clenched fingers out so their hands can interlock.
He opens his eyes and glances down.
Charles smiles up at him, then with their eyes locked, brings his tongue out and slides it down Erik’s shaft, ever so graceful in his indecency. Like an elegant cat licking its paws clean, he flits his tongue across the length of Erik’s cock, giving particular care to wiry veins and his sensitive underside. Erik makes a fist of their joined hands, and cries out a strained, throaty rendition of Charles’s name that makes the boy lick in quicker strokes. No scraping teeth, no gargled noises and choked coughs—Charles takes him in to the brim with calm breaths through his nose, and begins to seamlessly move up and down the extent of his lengthy hardness.
He doesn’t flinch when Erik thrusts.
He slowly rakes his eyes up to find Erik’s, the contact holding, shimmering, and it’s quite a feat that Charles—mouth fully occupied—doesn’t look away first. Erik’s ears redden as he tightens his jaw and writhes on his sweaty back, hoping his warning is comprehensible to Charles.
“Close,” sounds more like a strangled plea rather than a signal for his imminent orgasm, but Charles seems to read him well enough. He angles his throat without removing his mouth, where he’s taking him deep, and holds Erik by the base. The glint in the boy’s eyes tells him he loves this part; filling his used throat, drinking his hard work. Unless Charles plans to surprise him by spitting it all out, which, considering how willingly he has swallowed Erik’s semen before, seems unlikely.
Entirely. Erik comes liberally into his hot mouth, and each stream is taken in with enthusiastic gulps and licks, including the excess that escapes his lips. He drags his lips off Erik’s cock and cleans himself of the droplets around his mouth and chin.
He wears the title proudly. Indecent brat, sucking Erik off in the morning with a smile and making him come too soon.
His ears are still burning red when Charles crawls up to lay on top of him and reaches his hands out to hold them.
Erik clears his throat. “I can… I can do better than that.”
Charles frowns, looking slightly affronted. “What?”
“I mean.” Erik purses his lips. “I mean I’m not that… I came very quickly. I’m sorry. I’m embarrassed.”
Charles relaxes into a chuckle, wet red lips stretching prettily.
“Don’t be embarrassed.” He shakes his head, then rests his chin on Erik’s chest. He watches Erik react to his words, then drops his head to press his cheek over his skin. Quietly, he says, “I’m falling in love with you.”
Erik sits still, then abruptly tries to sit up, and in doing so manages to hit his head back against the headboard.
“That’s… ow.” He winces aloud, sharp pain momentarily numbing his joy.
Charles bolts upright and pulls his face to his chest, a hand rubbing over the back of his skull. “It’s alright, you’re alright,” he soothes, moving in to place a kiss on the small bump beneath his hair.
“Hm.” He wraps his arms around Charles’s waist. “I may have forgotten the last ten seconds of my life. Could you repeat what you’d said last?”
Charles breaks out in soft, warm laughter. He kisses Erik’s head again.
“I said, I’m falling in love with you.”
Erik swallows and closes his eyes. His arms tighten, but Charles doesn’t complain.
“So you mean to tell me that I’m the luckiest man on Earth?”
Charles goes completely silent while his heart beats loudly against Erik’s ear. He kisses him again, at the very same moment Erik moves to kiss him over his chest.
He jests, “I’m the one who got breakfast in bed.”
But that just confirms it even more.
“I really am.”
He kisses a line across Charles’s waist.
And then he’s tugged down onto the bed again, this time with Charles back on top of him, treating him to kisses as he pulls the covers over them. Erik is too awake to sleep, but Charles, as he’s learning, is prepared to doze off at the drop of a hat.
“There are three things I am always ready for, Erik.” He has his eyes shut as he talks. “Sleeping, eating, and having sex.”
Which is basically all Charles has done today, so Erik decides that perhaps, he’s doing something right.
---
They rouse late in the day, Charles’s chin fairly clean of drool and Erik’s headache absent. It takes effort to get the boy on his feet—both physically, and also because the sight of him sleeping is too dear for Erik to disturb—and they fail to reach a compromise before Erik is scooping him up into his arms, bridal-fashion, and taking him to the restroom. They waste too much time simply standing under the drizzle of water, Charles’s back to Erik’s chest, warmth transferring between their linked bodies.
Their entire routine is jumbled and out of place, but Erik finally feels like the biggest part of his life is falling into place.
This time round, when the doorbell rings for dinner delivery, Charles is dressed in Erik’s t-shirt and a pair of his boxers.
“I’ll get it,” he hoots, a very discernible bounce in his step as he goes to open the door. Lost in an overwhelming surge of love, Erik smiles and heads for the kitchen to get the plates. When he turns around, Charles is still holding the door open. His shoulders are stiff, tensed.
Erik steps closer, and finds the delivery man isn’t there.
Jakob is.
Anger, sadness, guilt—it all floods him. Protectiveness, for he wants to bundle Charles in his arms until he softens again.
The boy shakily drops his hand from the handle.
At the very least, they can expect Jakob to show some composure, who finally takes his eyes away from Charles’s face and glances behind him at Erik.
“Hello,” he says quietly, raising a hand to take off his black fedora. That ancient thing his father has owned ever since he can remember, the one that Erik would steal to wear so he could be like his father—his only role model, his only family, his everything.
And sons had the tendency to do that, didn’t they? Want what their fathers have.
Erik clears his throat. “Hi Dad,” he says carefully, though he’s dropped his gaze so he doesn’t have to meet his eye.
His voice seems to startle Charles, who slowly takes a step back towards Erik. The boy’s eyes land in the direction of the fedora held between Jakob’s hands, and that sight seems to evoke something in him—he backs away further until he’s right in front of Erik, trembling, his eyes clenched shut and his hands balled into fists.
“Hello, Erik… Charles.”
Erik nods, his gaze darting from his father to the boy, both of them looking equally terrified. To his relief, before he feels compelled to yell at the top of his voice to dispel the tension permeating the air, Jakob continues.
“You’re both probably wondering why I came here.” He clears his throat, fidgeting with the rim of his hat. “Firstly, most importantly, I’ve come to apologise.”
He takes a step closer, tentative. “And secondly, I’ve… come to…”
He pauses again, and that’s when Charles closes the distance between them and throws his arms around Erik’s neck, face buried away, his back to Jakob. Wet lashes brush against Erik’s skin. His hand goes up instinctively to rub the boy’s back. Long soothing circles.
Jakob looks away.
“I’ve come to give you—give you all of,” he swallows and clenches his hat, moving to the side. Behind him are two suitcases, one large and one small. “All of Charles’s things.”
The boy relaxes just a little. Erik gives a small nod, restricted by Charles’s enclosing arms.
“Thank you,” Erik mutters.
His father brings the fedora up to his chest and studies the tiled ground, his eyes looking like they’ve been robbed of rest. It makes Erik want to pull the man to his chest too.
Charles turns to rest his cheek on Erik’s shoulder.
“Emma told me,” Jakob utters with a stoic nod, still glancing downwards. “She told me.”
“Dad.” Erik grits his teeth. “You don’t have to.”
“No, I do.” He takes a step forward. “I’m happy for you both. I have to do this, I have to tell you that I’m—”
“Dad…”
“Erik I’m happy for you.” His smile is wide, but tearful. “Truly. Your happiness is my happiness. And look at you, you’re… you’re happy, aren’t you?”
Charles’s chest stops rising and falling, like he’s holding his breath.
“Very happy,” Erik whispers. Louder, he repeats, “I’m very happy.”
“Then so am I,” Jakob practically exclaims, arms spread. “What would make me happier?” He weakly gestures towards Charles, eyes flickering. “He cares about you so much. I know how much he’ll…”
Jakob turns around. Erik can’t tell if he should feel angry for feeling pain, or the other way round. Charles fists his hand in Erik’s shirt. He manages to kiss the boy soundly on the cheek before his father turns back around, expression managed and eyes wiped.
But the way Jakob looks at them, grieved and yet inclined to pull his lips in a smile—it doesn’t hold its charm, it makes his eyes look more tired than they are, with the effort.
Every time Jakob’s eyes fall on Charles, Erik’s heart stutters.
“My angel in good hands, looking after my dear son…”
Erik shuts his eyes and lets Charles’s warm tears wet a patch on his shirt. “I once told you, Erik—” He opens his eyes and slowly meets his father’s gaze. “I once told you that nothing will keep me happier than knowing that my two boys can get along. Didn’t I?”
Exactly those words. Erik nods, patting Charles’s arm—but the boy remains put. Jakob sighs.
“Forgive me.” His father takes a step closer. Charles grips Erik’s hair from the nape. “Forgive me, Charles.”
But the conversation remains one-sided. The boy acknowledges him with tears. Jakob turns to his son.
“Promise me you’ll look after him. Promise me, Erik.” He drops tearful eyes and gives his fedora a fond look, brushing away flecks of dirt. “Keep him happy… please. I could never, but…”
“I will.”
His voice sounds surprisingly even, like integrity alone is keeping it from going frail.
The boy sniffles and turns his face towards Erik.
“I know you will.” Jakob breathes in through his nose, hands behind his back. He looks collected all of a sudden—the hunch in his back gone, the tremble of his fingers hidden behind his coat. “You’ll give him nothing to complain about, I know you will. You’re both young… nothing to—nothing to be ashamed of.”
The word make him stiffen with shock.
Ashamed.
His father was ashamed of Charles. Ashamed of their gaping age difference, ashamed of being seen him with him in public, ashamed of how he couldn’t give the boy what he wanted in return.
Inside, Charles must be devastated.
And here Erik is, afraid to come off as too desperately in love with this boy—this insatiable handful, who Erik would do anything for and more.
He turns his head a careful fraction. Charles still has his cheek resting against Erik’s shoulder. He somehow looks like a calmed child whose tears are slowly drying, his eyes blankly staring at nothing specific. Erik’s t-shirt hangs over his frame unfittingly, loose over his shoulders and arms. All the love Charles feels for him—how can it compare to the sadness he feels around Jakob?
A year is a long time, Erik knows well enough.
And he also knows that all they’ve been doing is argue, and that Jakob should have something to say to Charles.
“Dad.” Erik gives him a pointed look in Charles’s direction. “Talk to him.”
Jakob nods and hesitantly steps closer, watching them, and oddly, looking pleased by the sight. He doesn’t look at Erik the way Erik would look at him, when Charles sought out his arms. He looks like he’s at peace with what’s in front of him.
“I’ll let you two be alone.”
He carefully and reluctantly dislodges Charles from around him. The boy clings and burrows further into Erik’s neck, but after a gentle kiss on his temple, he relents to stand on his own while Erik goes to exit the front room. He gives him a look over his shoulder at the doorway of his bedroom, certain that Charles would benefit from a moment alone and maybe, get some closure.
He shuts the door and paces around his room.
He’s nervous. Nervous about them arguing again, Jakob leaving in rage and Charles back to the way he was two nights ago, shattered and completely down on himself. Nervous about what that could mean for his relationship with his father, which he wants to see mended.
But their voices are calm.
Erik is desperate to put his ear against the door.
All he can hear is forgive me and Erik and love.
He takes it Emma has done a good job convincing Jakob of that. For Charles, from now on, Erik and love should always be in the same sentence.
The door is knocked, followed by a call of his name.
Erik opens the door, and the very same moment, his father wraps him in a hug. Erik glances at Charles over his shoulder, who finally looks mollified as he tucks his hair behind his ear and smiles at him. Then Erik relaxes into his father’s embrace, and complacently hugs him back.
“I’ve missed you. I’ve missed having you around, son.” Jakob gives his shoulder a squeeze before withdrawing to look at him. “You were worrying me at first, and now that I know why I had half of you and half of your vehement misery, following you like a grey cloud, every time you were with me—God, Erik, I’m terribly sorry. I never knew.”
He shakes his head, even as his father comes forward to cup his face and peck his forehead.
“I’m sorry for the way I acted,” he rasps, but Jakob frowns at him the way he would when Erik says something ridiculous, and he suddenly, fiercely, misses his father with an ache.
“No need to be. Just spend some time with your old man. Visit me often. Tell me whatever I can do for you. Don’t forget me. Please.”
The ache rises in his chest further, like a set of weights dropped over him—and yet this moment of forgiveness and reaping promises is an enormous relief, his father’s hand is warm when he holds it, and the silence between them feels pleasant.
Until Jakob tells him he has to leave, and takes his fedora off his head to place it on Erik’s.
Immediately, he knows he should reject being handed something so profound, but his father insists, “Yours, now,” and Erik is shocked to realise how much more persuasion he doesn’t need.
When Jakob walks past Charles to get to the front door, they share a long look, completely silent. To Erik, it’s a blank stare, but the downward turn to his father’s lips speaks of something else entirely. The boy looks away first.
“Goodbye,” Jakob says, and Charles nods at the ground.
“Goodbye, Jakob.”
“Goodbye, son.”
Erik steps closer to meet him at the door. “Take care,” he murmurs, placing his hand on his father’s back.
The delivery man comes marching in just as Jakob exits, his hands tucked into his coat pockets as he nods a greeting to the man entering with the bag over his shoulder. Erik pays him absently, then hauls the two suitcases inside from out in the hallway. He shuts the door and sighs.
Charles steps up behind him, too quietly for him to have noticed, and takes the bag of food to place it on the kitchen island. When Erik’s hands are free, the boy plasters himself to his back and kisses his shoulder.
Turning around to face him, he’s pounced on with a sudden, eager kiss on the mouth. Erik can’t hold him back for even a moment before the boy’s lips are all over his face, spoiling him with numerous kisses.
Charles should be asking for space, a moment alone with his thoughts, a while for himself.
Instead, he strokes Erik’s hair back and says,
“Shall we start unpacking? Or eat first? I can’t decide.”
And Erik thinks,
Oh.
He really is mine, now.
---
On their sides, Erik grips Charles’s hip and kneads his hand into the soft flesh.
Charles pushes back against him, his arm overlapping Erik’s.
The boy lets out a pained moan, frustrated, and fisting his own hair.
“More,” he begs. “Harder, faster, more, christ’s sake.”
Weaving their legs together, Erik shoves his hips forward, reaching down for Charles’s cock. This time, he doesn’t get batted away, so he takes the hint that the boy is close.
Eventually, Charles ends up on his stomach, arse raised, his knees bracketed by Erik’s, as they sweat and moan their way into another round and another explosive orgasm that dirties their already soiled sheets.
Erik pounds into him, his hand covering the front of Charles’s throat and his teeth in the boy’s shoulder.
Every touch is a caress, every brush of their lips is a kiss, and every time their bodies meet is bliss.
Charles manages to find the pieces of his heart and weeps.
Erik watches every tear as it rolls.
“That bad?” He folds his arms. “Here I thought I could become a writer.”
Charles asks for custody of every single page and paper. He keeps them on his desk.
“Now you have all the pieces of my heart,” Erik says.
After they’ve fucked for three hours straight, Charles flips onto his back and fixes his glazed eyes on the ceiling as he places one hand behind his head, the other roaming up and down his abdomen.
He blinks and says,
“Do you ever feel angry at me?… I must’ve hurt you a lot. You suffered a lot because of me.”
Erik continues to collect their clothes off the floor.
“You know, if you ever want to, I don’t mind if you… tie me up. Or blindfold me. … Have you ever thought about it? Punishing me… Cutting my skin, choking me, hurting me, bruising me…”
He can practically see Charles’s thoughts drift away to a dangerous, distant place.
Erik joins Charles on the bed and leans over him. He places his fingertips over the boy’s lips.
Don’t tempt me, he thinks.
“We’re not discussing this,” he says.
“Think about it.”
He does, and Erik hates himself for it.
---
There are certain parts of their relationship that he will never get used to:
Charles coming to his work and dragging him to the nearest closet where he strips off his jeans and guides Erik’s hand to where he’d prepared himself with slick in the restroom; Charles hopping onto the dining table during breakfast, spreading his legs in front of Erik’s face as he takes his cock out and lies back; Charles forcefully taking Erik’s wrists and placing his hands around his neck, pushing him to squeeze until his pupils are bordered with wiry lines of red.
He can’t get used to Charles’s appetite for love, the way he adorns Erik with his affection every single morning and undresses him of stress every night.
He has trouble adjusting to Emma and Charles’s friendship, which starts off as an effort to simply appease Erik, then grows into a bond that he starts to feel only exists only to team up against Erik, if not make fun of him, and occasionally, aggravate him.
Then there’s Jakob’s calm acceptance. His father’s love is unchanged, untainted, and still as cathartic to his needs as when he was a child, loved and cared for by nobody else. But when Charles refuses to come to their fortnightly family dinner, Jakob doesn’t say a word to speculate.
---
Publishing firms continue to reject him, but he continues to write, a myriad of manuscripts piling up at his desk.
He’s only smoked twice in the past year.
And two years into their relationship, they still share defeated glances when they’re asked,
“How did you two meet?”
---
Charles’s forehead bumps against his. He pants, fingers digging into Erik’s shoulders, sliding up his cock with the raise of his hips and heavily dropping them to fill himself with it. Erik palms the boy’s arse, arm squeezing his waist. Their lips meet for a brief, fleeting kiss before the intensity of their bodies’ friction becomes too overpowering for them to hold.
Erik clutches Charles’s waist with both hands and thrusts upwards, letting out a guttural groan.
“Close?”
Charles nods. “You?” He clenches down.
“God… Yes.”
“Will you marry me?”
"What?"
Erik gasps to catch his breath. He runs his hand over his damp upper lip.
"Marry me?"
Charles is still sitting on his cock, buried, asking Erik to marry him when they're one thrust away from orgasming.
"Yes," he breathes, heart racing. "Yes, I want to marry you."
Charles throws his arms around Erik's neck and kisses him.
"Okay."
Then the indecent brat carries on fucking himself on Erik's cock.
Stupid, stupid boy.
And Erik's going to marry him.
What a perfect pair they're going to make. |
"Thank you so much!" Jack got up and waved farewell quickly in what he hoped would be seen as politely. He felt so much better now that he got out and got to actually see people that weren't either sitting next to him in class, droning on to him about school lessons or screaming at him for nothing. With no little haste he ran home as fast as he could, this time deciding to enter through the front door rather then try to struggle back up into his room's window. In the back of his mind, he realized he didn't get the stranger's name...but then he remembered that not everyone on the Earth had silver poisoning running through their bodies and turning their skin dark gray – he'd be easy to spot if Jack really wanted to see him again.
Satisfied with that conclusion he braced him for the worse, pushed the door open and returned back to his 'normal' life, leaving his indecent social graces, coffee fueled hatred for other teens his age and strangely charismatic gray skinned men behind.
Jack wasn't expecting complete peace and tranquility when he came home, he knew his parents and their problems better then to expect that and he wasn't stupid enough to believe in sudden miracles, but he didn't expect it to look like such an absolute war zone, as if a violent and powerful tornado with claws had had a temper tantrum in his living room Tasmanian-Devil style.
The furniture was tossed, lobbed and scattered across the room, a great majority of the couch pieces had what appeared to be knife holes with cotton pulling and dripping out of them like blood and flesh on an open wound. The T.V. had been knocked onto it's side – luckily not broken but probably not without trying—with the cable box thrown to the floor and broken up into different, shattered black pieces from the protective casing that dotted the floor along with jagged, sharp pieces of a different, non-plastic nature. Squinting he could make out the green glass of a broken beer bottle that reflected the sunlight coming through the open door with a soaking wet orange label that said 'Hellfire' on it.
'No surprises there really...'
The living room table had been flipped over and clearly thrown about with a part of the wood that made the base of the table stable missing, making it an unwise decision to place anything on it. The said part of wood was lying on the floor, unused and randomly breaking the destructive composition of the room. Jack walked up to it, closing the door behind him as he walked in lest his neighbors see and open Pandora's box, and made sure it wasn't used as a blunt object to harm anyone in the house.
More particularly, to make sure there was no blood marks that signaled that father had gone beyond what Jack thought capable of. Thankfully, he found none...so things were still relatively 'normal'.
After surveying the damage he cautiously peered around the house. It was past seven o'clock and he couldn't find his mother, father or his little sister. It was worrying. If anything the damned silence was making it a million times worse.
He traveled down a hallway he almost forgot existed, careful to make sure not to step on anything that would make an excessive level of noise and peered into the three rooms that made up his parents' room, his little sister's room and the 'Safety Room'...
First he checked his Mother and Father's room, a place he really never entered into before. He expected to find things lazily placed about and thrown around the room, making an entire mess with trash and garbage gathering on the floor and compacting, solidifying under its own weight until the trash literally became a new floor...the scent being capable of choking the breath out of a person to the point where one could possibly need a gas mask if they weren't used to be the scent, otherwise it'd be unhealthy just to stand in that room, much less inhabit it...
However, he was at a loss for words at the sight of the inside. It was impeccable with each and every last thing because neatly placed and put away in its respectful section of the room, the floor was remarkably unmarked and almost shined in the near-night/late dawn light that radiated through the nearby window giving just enough light to see.
With his mind once again blown he pulled out of the room as stealthily as he humanly could and made his way towards Mary's room, sincerely hoping nothing had happened to her and that he was going insane over nothing.
He peeked around the corner to his little sister's room and felt a little sick to his stomach. It had been so long since he had been in here last, kissing her on the forehead as a goodnight sign before withdrawing away, closing the door behind him...only to hear her whimpers of sadness from her and turning around, opening the door 'just a crack' to let the light come in before wishing her goodnight again. His heart ached but fortuitously he couldn't find any signs of a struggle or a fight here nor any sign of Mary being in there...time to move on.
With a calming exhale he tip-toed down to the last door of the three, the 'Safety Room'. The room that he actually spent the more time with his sister and mother in then all the other rooms combined. Faint memories of having to huddle up and lock the doors to try and pretend like their father wasn't just a short walk away, hurling slurred obscenities to his wife and kids as he took out his anger on the surrounding environment...
The surface of the door still had imprints of his father's hands on them, banging on the door while daring them to come out, screaming for them to, demanding that they leave the room before he would slowly sink down onto his knees like a defeated man and beg for benignity from his horror-struck family once again. In this moment of thoughtfulness, Jack pressed his finger into one of the marks where his father's hands once were, as if he could somehow help his father like touching the mark would somehow just make it disappear or evaporate into air...but that certainly didn't happen.
With the tips of his fingers he pushed the door open carefully and it gave a complaining shriek as it opened up, revealing the 'Safety Room' which, to the unknowing eye seemed to be a completely normal guest room to the house. Perfectly clean, crisp, unused sheets with a variety of comfortable pillows in various different shapes and sizes with the rest of the room having a comfortable feel to it, a natural blend of blues and whites along with two full walk in closets and an unused desktop in the corner on a desk – 'Obviously.'.
Normal people would've thought it probably looked nice.
Jack hated it. He knew this room too well for his liking.
Disregarding his feelings of discomfort he focused on seeing if any violence had occurred in the room – but unlike the other rooms which had a wide variety of color, even in the dark, this room practically shined with blue and white. Any blood, dirt or signs of violence would stick out and there was nothing but peace and quiet.
Then, out of nowhere there was a loud slamming like wood on wall, the loud screeching of metal parts from being moved too fast and too suddenly with atrociously, loud shrieking cries and Jack hit the floor in a confused flurry of limbs with fists hitting him on the chest and a high pitched voice screaming deafeningly at him, enraged. The dim light that the room has previous glowered with wasn't helping him at all here, he couldn't see the face of whoever was hitting him!
But after a little while, right before he could respond in kind, he could feel their size and physical strength through their punches and their youth through their voice...and instead of trying to fight back he just laid there silently while Mary sat on top of him, hitting him, crying with heavy sniffles and screaming near unintelligible words that he could only understand parts of. He gladly let her hit him as he felt guilty in a way for whatever had occurred, despite not knowing what happened while he was away.
Eventually, the youngest frost calmed down and climbed off of Jack's body and helped him get up. The elder felt terrible despite doing nothing but laying there and not feeling any real physical pain from his sister's punches.
"I'm sorry Mary..." He knelt down and hugged her, holding her close to him and trying his best not to cry and get upset by extension. He needed to be strong for her right now, just like he usually was...he inwardly cursed himself. 'This is what happens when you run from the problem,' he distressingly reminded himself 'Today was a moment of weakness on your own part, you don't have anyone to blame but yourself. Don't let it happen again or things might just succeed in getting worse.' "I ran away. It was my fault."
Mary didn't seem to have a response for that and instead clung to him tighter, her sniffles starting up again as she opened her mouth to speak. "Dad left. He was upset...he came back...drunk...then he and mommy started fighting again and-" she started crying again, louder then last time and Jack's eyed widened as he looked at her, disturbed from her outburst of emotions. "Daddy said that he was glad you were gone and called you a buncha bad names and said you shouldn't ever come back..."
"It's alright...come here little snowflake..." He pulled her up safely into his arms and rocked her gently, trying to stop her tears. "I'm so sorry you had to deal with that all alone...it was my fault. Big brother is gonna try harder in the future alright?"
"Why doesn't daddy love us?" She sobbed into Jack's ear and the older of the two bit his lip, trying to suppress his own oncoming emotions. He hated it when she cried like this, as if with every tear that fell down her cheeks another part of his heart was breaking for her, for them. A selfish part of him wanted to go back to that time to before he really began to care for her. Back when he was able to turn a blind eye to all of the abuse he and his mother were going through by merely shrugging it off. Now he had his little sister, sensitizing him to the real nature of it again...and it was hell to deal with. "What did we do wrong that was so bad?"
"We didn't do anything wrong Mary. Dad just..." Jack's voice unintentionally trailed off there, unable to find an answer that would be befitting. 'Needs help', 'Is really angry?', 'Needs to stop going out and getting wasted?' seemed to all be correct and applicable answers, but not the answers Mary needed to hear right now in her life and so he tried his best to cover it up with another question. "Where's mom?"
"She went to go get garbage bags and stuff to clean up." She pushed past her emotions and Jack couldn't help but grin at her proudly, her English was getting better and better with each passing day. "She didn't make any food or anything...she just left. She's been gone for a while now."
"Hmmm...hey Snowflake-" Jack bit the inside of his cheek for a moment, only now realizing he was calling her by an old nickname Will used to use and instead just danced with her in his arms for a bit, smiling at her. "You've been doing great as of late. Big brother is going to find a way to reward you or something..." Then he remembered he had an unused ten dollar bill sitting in his front pocket with more hidden away in his room. 'Thank you gray guy!' "How about we order some pizza?"
She immediately became her chipper, happy self again. "With pepperoni?!"
"And extra cheese." He tickled her and rubbed his nose up against her own before placing her back onto solid ground.
She cheered as her older brother put her down and then greedily grabbed his hand up as they went back into the ruined living room to pick up and reassemble the dismantled house phone – battery and all – and call the local pizza place.
–
Jack wasn't dumb enough to let the pizza guy see the inside of the house and instead met him outside and gathered the pizza from there. He may have not liked how his parents treated them but he doubted foster care would be much better nor would it keep him in touch with his little sister. Things always got messy when you involved outside powers and laws...He hoped that he would be able to continue playing father figure for her while still being able to have a bit of breathing space for himself until either his father either got sober or until she didn't need him anymore.
He walked back inside and placed the pizza on top of the now un-turned over television – it was almost too big for him to turn back onto it's bottom but he struggled through it and got to cleaning up as best as he could within a nominal amount of time so that he could get his sister fed in an at least moderately clean environment.
First off was the less than difficult task of sweeping the floor clear of all the glass and hard plastic so that Mary wouldn't hurt her feet. Then placing as much of the furniture back in place as he possibly could and testing the cable box to make sure it worked and was fully functional – miraculously it was. Jack was thankful for the little things and set Mary up in the living room, watching Spongebob reruns while eating her pizza and waiting for her brother to come join her.
Unfortunately, Jack refused to rest so easy and tried his best to tidy absolutely everything up while Mary watched from the couch as he ran himself up and down the stairs and throughout the house, cleaning up to the best of his ability before sitting next to his little sister once more and trying to relax again, enjoying the rebroadcasts of his second favorite show in the world, eating his third favorite food in the world and enjoyed the fleeting moment of peace, away from the drunken brawls of his parents and the long and convoluted schoolwork that was more time consuming then difficult. Jack knew he had to eventually return to these things but for now he enjoyed this moment, when he could feel like he was actually a son rather then a full blown father figure...
–
Three full Spongebob episodes and six of out of a total ten slices of pizza later, Mary was dozing off with her head lying against his arm and struggling weakly to stay awake and conscious for as long as possible. Jack couldn't help but pet her head delicately and smile at her as she finally gave in and drowsed off into a world of sleep. After that Jack cautiously picked her up and put her into her own room, under the covers of her own bed before retreating back into the living room, putting away the rest of the pizza away in the kitchen and deciding it was time for him to go do schoolwork before heading off to bed himself.
And then he remembered the testing paper that he needed to have signed. A brief look confirmed that it certainly wasn't in the immediate area but he didn't have the energy or drive to get up and actually do an intense search for it – he didn't even complete the rest of his school work for today. He really couldn't do much besides just pick himself up and head to bed and just as he was about to do that, the front door swung open to reveal a thoroughly pissed off Katherine.
Jack opened his mouth to speak but was too slow, she was already on him with eyes like a hawks, staring him down viciously and mercilessly. "Why would you just leave like that? Do you have any idea how worried I was? How upset and scared me and your father were when we couldn't find you upstairs?"
"Mom I-"
"Don't even! Do you have any idea what you put me and your father through?!"
Jack sucked his teeth and took in a sharp intake of breath, too exhausted and emotionally drained already to deal with her screaming and yelling at him over his leaving. He agreed, it was stupid of him to leave so soon and without a word to her but her screaming wasn't helping him at all. "I'm sorry." It was all he could really struggle out before he pushed himself off the couch and tried to head to his own room...only for his mother to walk right in front of him and get in his face.
"Jackson don't you dare try to walk away from me. You scared the living hell straight out of us!"
Jack really couldn't take anymore for today. Maybe tomorrow but not right now...and he blurted out the first thing that came to his mind as a result. "I saw the beer bottle on the floor. So I can already tell you that's a lie for at least one of you. By the way, did you notice that I cleaned up the living room? Turned the television back straight up? Swept the floors? Fed Mary with food I brought with my own savings? Put her to bed? Did you see any of that or even try to see things from MY perspective before you started screaming at me?" It was all said in a shocking amount of deadpan that would've even surprised Jack, if it wasn't for the fact that he was far too fatigued to try and be astonished by his own words.
Katherine opened her mouth to speak but instead retreated and took a breath before talking. "None of that justifies you leaving Mary in this house all alone."
"Funny you should say that, because when I left here Mary was with you and dad but when I got back she was all alone, hiding in the closet in the safe room, paralyzed with fear until she knew it was me." Jack stepped past her, as if he was paying her no mind – and he wasn't. He didn't have any more left to give for today. "You can be hypocritical, spiteful and mix up your priorities all you want tomorrow. Right now I need sleep." With that he headed upstairs into his own room and locked the door behind him, leaving a stunned and ashamed Katherine to deal with her own emotions while he collapsed into bed and dreamed of a world where he didn't have so much weight on his shoulders. |
Percy had frequently heard it said that Brutus was a very stupid horse. Of course it was mainly his father who said this, but even Percy had been known to say it once or twice. All right, maybe only once (but he had deserved it). Brutus had had a habit, mostly cured now, of blowing out his stomach whilst being saddled. Naturally Percy had got wise to this very quickly — being deposited on the floor in front of half his father's guests on fair day tended to do that. But his father had not. So when, some four years earlier, Lord Wyldon had strode into the courtyard of their castle on a bright May morning and imperiously called for Brutus to be saddled for his morning hunt (his own mount being lame) Percy should really have been more worried. Even when Brutus had been led out to stand, beautifully groomed and suspiciously barrel shaped, by the mounting block Percy had not suspected. It was only when his father swung himself confidently into the saddle and Brutus suddenly deflated like a brown furry balloon that Percy realised that his morning was about to take a truly awful turn. In hindsight he knew that Brutus hadn't intended for his father to slide off into the puddle (he was, after all, just a horse) but it took a long time for his father to see it that way. Of course Percy had had to take the blame for that one — he had forgotten to repair the frayed girth, he decided — but afterwards he had looked long and hard at his horse and told him he was a very stupid horse indeed. Naturally his sister Isolda had thrown her arms around his neck and told him not to listen to Percy and Brutus had looked at Percy in a way he would have thought very smug — if he hadn't reminded himself, again, that Brutus was just a horse.
All of which had nothing whatsoever to do with how Percy and Brutus had come to be standing knee and hock deep in thick, clinging mud except to cause Percy to conclude (weighing past evidence with their present predicament) that Brutus was indeed very stupid.
They had been hunting when it happened. After a moderately successful morning Percy had dismounted with the other Knights to lead his horse along the narrow forest path to the spot where Prince Arthur had decreed they would stop, briefly, for rest and food. He'd been quite happy to drop back behind the rest of the party, enjoying the chance to stretch his legs at last, when Brutus had suddenly shied, dragging the reins from his relaxed grip and haring off through the trees like his tail was on fire. In reality, Percy thought gloomily as he tried to move and only succeeded in sinking a bit deeper into the cold mud; it was probably just a rat. Or something that looked like a rat. Or possibly just something vaguely grey and rat sized. Or even just a small leaf that Brutus had decided could, in a certain light, resemble a rat. It seemed that ever since the tournament last winter Brutus had developed a marked dislike for that particular rodent. On the one hand this meant getting him to gallop when required was no longer such a problem (although really, shouting 'rat' when everyone else shouted 'charge' could hardly be deemed much of an improvement), but unfortunately Brutus had also developed a slight tendency to see rodents at every turn. Percy thought that this could hardly be normal, even for Brutus, but Isolda had just laughed and said that a career with the travelling players likely awaited Brutus when his charging days were over. Right now, however, an illustrious career seemed a rather unlikely prospect for either of them.
He looked at Brutus, trying to ignore the feel of the mud in his boots.
"I don't know why you're looking at me — this was all your fault." Brutus, unsurprisingly, offered no comment. "And you needn't look so pleased with yourself; you're going to sink before I do."
Brutus threw his head up and down and tried to move again, before looking, rather pathetically, at Percy. Percy sighed. He supposed that really, he couldn't blame Brutus entirely for this. After all, imaginary rat or no, he might not have had to chase Brutus at all if he'd been paying attention to his horse and not admiring the way the sunlight dappled the forest floor. However he felt that being found stranded in a bog was going to be bad enough and he didn't really need to mention that part too.
It was at this point he heard the sound of someone, at last, approaching through the trees. He spared a brief moment to hope that it wasn't Sir Meurig or, even worse, Sir Rhys, when Merlin came crashing through the bushes, spied Percy, looked immensely relieved and started forward. Percy had barely had chance to say, "Be careful! It's really—" before Merlin promptly fell down the same slope as Percy, grabbed wildly at a nearby tree branch, missed and fell into the bog. "...slippery there," Percy finished, somewhat after the fact. He reached out, a little awkwardly, and helped Merlin to his feet.
"Oh," said Merlin, looking around.
"Exactly," said Percy, gloomily.
Brutus stretched out his neck and lipped softly at Merlin's collar. Merlin patted him absentmindedly. He looked even worse than Percy who had, at least, only waded into the mud. Merlin's trousers and tunic were caked all down one side but at least he didn't seem to be panicking — not that Percy had ever seen Merlin panic.
"So..." said Percy, looking at Merlin "What are the chances of us getting out of this in a heroic fashion?" Brutus sneezed and sank another inch. Merlin and Percy stared at him for a second and then looked at each other.
"Probably not good," said Merlin. He wriggled a little, experimentally, and succeeded in moving slightly closer to the bank. "But I don't think the others will be here for a while yet, " He moved fractionally again. "So perhaps if I go really slowly I can get out and then we can salvage some—" He suddenly flailed wildly and nearly fell over again before grabbing hold of a surprised looking Brutus and hanging on grimly. "Or perhaps not."
Percy looked at the thick gloop now around his knees and wondered how the King would make 'death by bog' sound honourable to his father.
"I suppose we'll just have to stay here 'til someone comes looking for us." He grimaced. "I hope it's not Sir Rhys." Sir Rhys was one of two new recruits who had joined the Knights in March and he had made his opinion of Percy's complete and utter ineptitude clear from the start.
Merlin gave him a sympathetic look (Sir Rhys's superior attitude extended to the servants) but pointed out, "Better Sir Rhys than Ar—"
"Merlin! You idiot!"
Merlin sighed. "Never mind."
Percy twisted round with some difficulty to see Prince Arthur at the top of the slope staring down at them, surrounded by Sir Meurig, Sir Edwin, the second newcomer Sir Geraint and (because this was Percy and he could expect no less) a very smug looking Sir Rhys. Percy supposed he should feel more offended that none of the Knights, the Prince least of all, could even pretend to look surprised at this turn of events. Indeed, Prince Arthur looked as though he was finding this even more amusing than the time Merlin drank three tankards of Honeymead and knocked himself out trying to open a door. Regardless of what Sir Rhys might think, Percy felt it was time to intervene.
"It was my fault Sire; Merlin was just trying to help me."
The Prince raised an eyebrow. "And you came to be in a swamp because..?"
Percy hoped his red face was slightly less obvious from the top of the slope. "I, er, thought I saw something through the trees and rode to investigate."
"And yet your vigilance didn't stretch to the enormous patch of mud in front of you?" Sir Rhys put in in an insufferably superior tone.
"Shall I throw some mud at him?" Merlin muttered, leaning in his direction as much as he was able. "I'm reasonably certain Arthur won't let him kill me after." Percy bit his lip, managing to suppress the smile that threatened. He noticed Prince Arthur was giving his manservant a look that suggested he was either excellent at lip-reading, or knew Merlin far too well.
"Well, regardless of how this occurred." The Prince's tone, and the look he gave Sir Rhys, were very final. "I suppose we ought to find a way of getting you back to the castle in one piece."
Percy tried not to feel too mortified at the ease with which the Prince and the four Knights climbed down the slope, coming to stand at the very edge of the bog. Sir Rhys, who seemed unable to help himself, gave Brutus an unfavourable look.
"I thought horses were supposed to be able to sense things like this?"
Brutus, who was probably supposed to be able to do a great many things, looked singularly unmoved by this pronouncement. In fact, Percy thought, he seemed to be eyeing an overhanging tree branch in a speculative fashion. But before Percy could make any comment in defence of his (actually quite indefensible) horse, Merlin spoke.
"Is there any chance we could hurry this up a bit? I think I'm actually sinking."
"Oh don't be ridiculous Merlin," said the Prince with a snort, "It's hardly deep enough to drown you." He stepped to the edge and thrust his hunting spear into the mud, "See? It's hardly even up to—" He struggled with the spear suddenly, only just managing to drag it back out with a loud squelch before it vanished completely. Merlin looked at him pointedly. "It's probably deeper in some places than it is in others!" The Prince snapped. Merlin rolled his eyes. Percy sank a little further.
"Right," said the Prince with a last glare at Merlin, "Edwin, go and fetch the rope from my saddlebags — I'll try and edge along the bank towards—"
"Sire!" Sir Rhys cut in in a scandalized tone, "I can hardly stand by and allow you to endanger yourself!"
The Prince looked horribly offended. "I assure you I am perfectly capable of—"
"Your Highness?" Now it was Sir Geraint's turn to interrupt. "Perhaps I should go first? As Sir Rhys says, it is hardly fitting for you to risk yourself. I'll do my utmost to get them out." He gave Merlin a warm smile that seemed to annoy the Prince even more than Sir Rhys's comment.
As Sir Edwin clambered back down the slope the Prince snatched the rope out of his hands and glared at Sir Rhys and Sir Geraint. "I shall make the attempt." He announced in his most commanding voice, "You four will stand by in case anything goes wrong."
"But Your Highness!" said Sir Rhys at the same time as Sir Geraint said, "Really Sire, I think that—"
"Oh for goodness' sake!" interrupted Merlin loudly, "I don't care if one of you lies down and the others use you as a bridge, just will someone get us out of here."
At Merlin's outburst Sir Geraint immediately abandoned his attempt to persuade the Prince and concentrated on telling Merlin to breathe deeply and try to keep calm. Prince Arthur merely told him to stop being such an old woman but, Percy was relieved to see, promptly began to edge along the side of the bog whilst Sir Rhys hovered nervously on the bank, Sir Meurig looked completely bored and Sir Edwin just looked amused.
It was some time before the Prince got close enough to use the rope, by which time Percy and Merlin had both sunk a little further and Brutus had stopped eyeing the branch and finally begun to appreciate the gravity of the situation if the slightly nervous whinnies were anything to go by. Percy was the closest, and perhaps the easiest, to pull out although it took some minutes before he could move enough to be tugged free by the combined strength of the Prince, a length of rope and a sturdy tree. Merlin was a little more problematic. But the Prince, ignoring Sir Geraint's repeated offers to help and looking daggers at Sir Rhys when he suggested simply leaving him there, persevered. It was Percy, who felt entirely responsible for Merlin's predicament, who suggested lashing the two thick tree branches together with rope and laying them on the surface for Merlin to use as leverage. He had seen something similar used at home, when a ride along the coast in high winds had resulted in his father's best hat taking an unexpected detour into a patch of quicksand. Even with the temporary bridge however, there was a brief struggle when Merlin seemed slightly more concerned about leaving his trousers behind than getting out of the bog alive. The Prince solved this through the simple expedient of ignoring Merlin's protests completely and firmly hauling him out of the mud whilst Merlin squawked and hung doggedly onto his clothing. With Merlin, and his trousers, safely on dry land it remained only to salvage a soaked and somewhat belligerent Brutus. This took the combined efforts of the Knights and Merlin (even if Sir Rhys's contribution was somewhat grudging) and seemed, for a while, to be doomed to failure before Percy finally swallowed his pride and asked the Prince if he happened to have any food in his saddlebags. Once a suitable incentive was provided the men could at last, using ropes and several now-ruined cloaks, drag Brutus to safety. There was a small moment of embarrassment, narrowly averted, when Sir Rhys elbowed Brutus a little sharply and told him to stand and Brutus nearly took his fingers off, but all in all, Percy thought, things could have gone a lot worse.
It was, however, a dishevelled group that made its way slowly back to Camelot, the Prince and his manservant riding in front, with Percy and Sir Edwin just behind and Sir Geraint, Sir Rhys and Sir Meurig bringing up the rear. Brutus squelched miserably along, only cheering up when they emerged on to a wide and verdant forest path and the prospect of food presented itself once more. But even Brutus seemed better off than Merlin, who was both wet and cold and appeared to be entirely brown from his shoulders downward.
"I'm never going to get clean again," Merlin said dispiritedly, brushing at the wet and sticky mud on his sleeve. He looked sorrowfully at the Prince who was riding next to him, "I suppose I'll have to wash under the yard pump." Prince Arthur didn't say anything so Merlin repeated, "I said, I suppose I'll have to wash under the—"
"I heard you the first time Merlin." Prince Arthur cut in, ignoring the loud and disapproving tut from Sir Rhys at Merlin's forwardness.
"Oh," said Merlin. He rallied immediately. "Or I suppose I could carry a few buckets to my room and wash in those." The Prince merely looked at Merlin before quickly catching his reins to pull his horse out of the way of an low-hanging branch. Merlin looked vaguely surprised at having been so nearly knocked unconscious.
"I suppose you will." The Prince drawled, letting the reins go once more and steering his own mount along the path.
"It could take a while though." Merlin continued, in a tone that suggested he was pronouncing the imminent death of a close relative. "My room's so cold, even at this time of year." He gave a small but heartfelt sigh. "I'll likely just catch an ague and die." Prince Arthur stared resolutely forward. "And then I suppose Gaius will struggle, you know, to manage without my invaluable support." At this Sir Edwin, riding close behind, gave a snort of laughter which he quickly turned into a small cough as Merlin continued, "And my mother will miss me horribly. And I suppose you'll have to get another manservant and he'll move things about and bow all the time," — as far as Percy could tell the Prince did not look exactly horrified at this prospect — "and he'll be so perfect that you'll never be able to put him in the stocks, or call him an idiot, and every time you eat a potato you will think of me." Merlin looked nobly into the distance as if gathering his courage to face whatever awful fate awaited him at the castle pump. Prince Arthur huffed irritably and shot his manservant an extremely long-suffering look.
"Merlin, whilst I appreciate that washing in cold water is a torment beyond imagining, I think it highly unlikely you will actually die from the experience."
"You don't know that!" said Merlin, "I might have a weak constitution. You know, from all those years living in Ealdor, sleeping on the cold, hard floor and only eating meat on Sundays and—"
"Oh for heaven's sake," snapped the Prince, "If you get the worst off in the yard you can use the bath in my chambers. Anything to stop you sulking around the castle for the next six months."
"Oh no really," Merlin said in a selfless tone, "You don't have to..."
"Merlin," the Prince interrupted, warningly.
"Very well Sire," said Merlin meekly. "If you think it best."
Percy risked a look at his fellow Knights. Sir Meurig looked resigned at this exchange and Sir Geraint and Sir Edwin, deeply amused. He sighed inwardly at Sir Rhys's expression, a look of disapproval Percy was all too familiar with from his father. After four months at the castle he thought Sir Rhys would be rather more familiar with the Prince and Merlin's rather unconventional master/servant relationship, but evidently he still had some way to go.
Finally they clattered into the inner ward of the castle and Percy thought he had never been so glad to dismount. Placing himself between Sir Rhys and Brutus (who had eaten his way through several bushes and was back to eyeing the Knight somewhat hungrily), Percy stretched and thought of the hot bath, clean clothes and food that would soon be waiting for him in his chambers. Speaking of which — he looked around for Merlin and immediately spotted him trying to sneak off into the castle. He had barely managed three steps however before he was caught by Prince Arthur and turned very firmly in a rather different direction.
"He's lucky he's only got to get the worst of it off out here," laughed Sir Edwin as he followed Percy's gaze, "that water's freezing."
"He's lucky the Prince puts up with him at all!" Sir Rhys sniffed, with a disparaging look at where Prince Arthur was firmly hauling a protesting Merlin towards the pump in the castle yard. "I would never allow a servant of mine to get so above themselves as to—"
Sir Rhys's haughty tones were abruptly cut off when Brutus, who had at last succeeded in sneaking around a temporarily distracted Percy, reached out his neck and happily sank his teeth into Sir Rhys's arm. Naturally Percy very properly pulled Brutus away (almost immediately) and apologised to the incensed Sir Rhys, looking horribly shocked at his horse's unpardonable behaviour. But as he tugged his unrepentant horse towards the stables he allowed himself a (very small) smile and thought that perhaps Brutus wasn't so stupid after all.
The End |
“Open up project: Hawk-ear.”
“One of your better project names if I do say so myself, sir.”
“What’s the status, sassy-pants?”
“Printing complete.”
“No problems? Course not, this is me we’re talking about.”
“You are the epitome of ‘problem free,’ sir.”
“Don’t like that tone J. Where they at? Getting old here.”
Out of the 3D printer to his left pops the cast for Hawkeye’s new hearing aids. Tony grabs them and gets to work setting the circuit. A microphone, a speaker, an amp, and a little bit of genius later and Tony has his brand new prototype Stark Industries hearing aids.
“Beautiful. Tell Pepper I have a new product for her. Let’s call these… Stark Ears.”
“Another very good name, sir”
“Who taught you sarcasm? Fine, we’ll run a focus group. How does the industry test hearing aids before releasing them to the public?”
A screen pulls up some documentation on industry testing standards. Tony frowns.
“JARVIS, why is the screen blurring?”
“Perhaps because you haven’t eaten since Mr. Barnes left the premises.”
Tony looks out the window. The sun was up. “And when was that? Please say today.”
“Nearly 32 hours ago.” Shit.
“I remember having coffee since then.”
“Coffee is not food, sir.”
“Says who?”
“Merriam-Webster defines a food as—”
“Dear God, stop, now. How did I forget to eat? I’m usually only sleep negligent. Order pizza JARVIS. And for the sake of comradery, ask if anyone else wants something. Let’s work on this ‘team’ thing. Also,” he adds, pointing towards the arm of Mark 42. “Text Bucky. Ask him when he goes on winter break. That’s still a thing, right? Ask him to come over Monday, any time after 4.” The left gauntlet lifts and launches itself towards Tony, smacking against his wrist and wrapping itself around it cleanly.
Fuck, he’s so awesome.
“Sent, sir.”
“Any further news on the explosions?” He beckons towards the right. It forms itself on his arm just as perfectly.
“None in the major news outlets, and nothing new from any of the intelligence communities Top Secret networks, either.” Tony hums.
“Text Happy. Ask him about Maui. And Pepper.” Left leg, this time. It hits his knee a little hard, and Tony grimaces. “Remind me to adjust the angle the left leg approaches, or, hell, to make it modular enough to be able to figure out how to attach itself to my body no matter what my leg position is.”
“Noted. Message has been sent. Captain Rogers and Agent Barton have said they would like to eat.”
“Get their orders. Family dinner in the penthouse. Invite the spider.” Tony summons the right leg. He winces as it hits his knee. “Right leg has the same issue as the left. Also, take note, I look ridiculous without the chest plate.”
“Noted. And you could never look ridiculous, sir. Ms. Romanoff is not in the tower.”
“Thanks Jarv. Where is she? Remind me I need to find a way to summon the chest with it looking like I’m thrusting my boobs like a cheap whore.” He does that, and the chest piece comes to him effortlessly. It’s awkward as fuck to get on, but Tony doesn’t think he can change that.
“Noted. Ms. Romanoff is not in the tower.”
The redundancy in JARVIS’s words implies that Natasha’s told JARVIS not to say.
“Oh Natalie, where have you gone?” Time for the groin plate now. It hovers in the air, menacing.
“Please, baby,” Tony holds his hands up in a placating gesture. “Be gentle with daddy this time.”
It’s not.
He’s on his knees, tears pricking his eyes, cradling his re-bruised balls, when JARVIS says:
“Text from Mr. Hogan, sir. He would like to inform you that he loves Maui, and appreciates the promotion, and Ms. Potts is going on a date.”
“Fuck yeah, she is.” He’s an adult and he’s proud of her, Goddammit. “Ask him with who. And do a full background check. And see if he’s as awesome as me.” Almost an adult.
He works his way back to his feet, and karate chops his shoulder, letting the suit fall to pieces. He sweeps the groin plate from the ground.
“Sent, sir. Text from Mr. Barnes, sir. He would be delighted to see you Monday, and would like to inform you PhD’s don’t get things such as holidays, but his last day of formal classes is this Wednesday.”
“He’s got that right. How’s his research going? Brain shit, right? Pull up the Mark 42 project, open file ‘cock block.’”
“I am, as always, astounded by your naming conventions, sir.” A holographic projection of his Mark 42’s groin piece rotates into view, and Tony gets to work adjusting the way the piece approaches his body.
Minutes pass as Tony works, before JARVIS announces the arrival of the pizza. Tony pulls away with a huff, hating the idea of leaving something incomplete. For now he just needs to remember to wear a cup.
He snatches his phone up and makes his way to civilization. He gets a text from Bucky in the elevator.
“I’ve been stuck on the same problem for about three or so years, so things are going pretty typical for a post-doc.” Tony grins at his phone. “Honestly though, I feel like I’m stuck.”
Tony frowns at that. He types back: “Maybe I can help. Always love a good dissertation. Bounce some ideas off me, among other things,” God, he’s smooth as fuck.
Bucky sends back a picture of himself, shirtless and in low riding jeans, ass curved provocatively. “What did you have in mind? ;)”
Tony’s cock twitches in his pants. “Down boy. Later.” He says as the elevator door opens.
“You’ll find out soon babe.” Tony sends back on his way to the eating area.
Clint and Steve are already sitting at the table, halfway done with one of the four pizza boxes between them, by the time he gets there.
“Beer, Cap? Hawkman?” Tony pops the cap on some ritzy Belgian microbrew that’s only in his house because it’s 9.3% ABV. He takes a long pull. God bless the Belgians.
“Doesn’t do anything for me, you know, the serum and all.” Steve says politely.
“What the hell, I’ll take one.” Clint says.
“Well it’s here if you want to do it for the aesthetic, Cap.” He grabs the six pack and plops it on the table before collapsing into a chair, exhausted. He grabs one of the boxes blindly and cracks it open, and gets to work on eating.
At first, Tony’s too hungry to care that the conversation is wooden and awkward between Cap and Barton, but after he finishes his first slice, he gets to work on making it better.
“So. How’s everyone settling in?” He says after a sip of his beer.
“Great Tony,” Steve says. “Thanks for letting us stay.”
He sidesteps the thank you. “Didn’t really have a choice, but it seems to be working out. Gym good? Getting along with the roommates? No fighting over the thermostat?”
“We’ve worked out a peace. Nat keeps turning it up, and I’m too scared of her to turn it back down,” Clint says. He’s got his tablet propped up against one of the pizza boxes, and is alternating between watching who’s talking and reading what they say.
Steve huffs. “She’s also never here enough to ask.”
“Yeah, where does she go?” Tony thinks out loud.
“Dunno. She’s never really been a ‘superhero’ type. I think she’s trying to wrap her head around that.” Clint offers. “She’s usually either out, or locked in her room.”
Tony shrugs and relaxes, changing the subject to something benign, leading the conversation until it picks itself up organically. He finds himself actually having a decent time, despite the fact that Barton’s still a bit of wild card, and Steve’s still speaking formally, like this was more of a mission report than a conversation between teammates.
It’s later, and Steve’s on his second slice, wait, sorry, second box of pizza, when Steve says, “Bucky seems nice.”
“You met Stark’s boytoy?” Clint leans forward, still nursing his first beer. Nine percent alcohol can rush up on a person. “What’s he like?”
“He’s not my boytoy, for one.” Tony grouses.
“Mhm, sure.”
“He’s a really cool guy.” Steve says. “You guys seem to really care about each other. How long have you two been going steady?”
“We’ve been—stop laughing Barton—It’s actually only been about a week.”
“Really?” Steve’s eyebrows raise. “The way you look at each other, it seems much longer. Sometimes these things happen rather quick, I guess.” Steve smiles hesitantly. “When is he coming by again?”
“Why do you want to know so bad?” Tony says, a little annoyed at the observation, jealousy stabbing his chest.
Steve’s smile drops and he straightens up in his seat. “No need to get defensive, I enjoyed his company, that’s all. Besides, everyone keeps telling me I need to meet people outside of work.” Steve tries to laugh to break the tension, but Tony wasn’t having it.
“Find someone else.” Tony says shortly. The farther Bucky keeps from the rest of the Avengers, the better.
Steve’s starting to glare. “Well that’s up to Bucky to decide if he doesn’t want to talk to me, not you. He has the right to make his own decisions. You don’t control him.”
Tony disguises his laugh at the irony of Steve’s words by taking a long sip of his beer. The alcohol doesn’t feel like nearly enough. “Am I getting a lecture in ethics now? Let me tell you, that won’t get you very far. My last ethics teacher tried to get me suspended from MIT. Admittedly, I’d spent most of class time either drunk or hungover, but when one of the wings of the school is named after your father, you get overlooked for most punishment. I got an A anyway.”
“Weren’t you like, fifteen, man?” Clint chimes in.
“I’m an overachiever.”
“Stop avoiding the point. It’s not right to tell someone what they can and can’t do.” Steve’s openly glaring, and Tony can tell he’s just itching for a fight. He’s got to learn healthier forms of coping, Tony thinks as he finishes off his beer.
“Stop inflating the issue, Rogers. No one’s saying that.” Tony sighs. Kids.
“Then you won’t mind if I text him and talk to him?” Steve challenges.
“Do whatever you want Cap.” He stands up and grabs his box of pizza, stealing two of the four remaining bottles of beer on the table and making his way to the elevator. “Clint, the hearing aids are done. When you finish up, meet me in the shop. Just tell JARVIS, he’ll let you in.”
“This was fun. Same time next week?” He hears Clint say as he leaves.
Tony snorts. “Sure thing.”
Of course Bucky looks up the serial number. It had taken ‘til Monday morning, but he did it.
He wasn’t sure what he thought he’d find when he typed it into the online registry. Maybe a man with his last name, a grandfather or great uncle or something like that. He was giddy at that thought, the thought that maybe he could actually find a piece of their family, something else that read the last name ‘Barnes’
A more ridiculous part of him expected it to be Rebecca herself, which was impossible for so many reasons. The more he thought about it, the more his headache grew.
What he did find, after typing the number and pressing enter, was exactly what he should have expected.
Jack shit.
The screen mocks him with the empty data set, and Bucky felt defeated. He slams his laptop shut and goes to the bathroom and takes his shower. It’s quick, because hot water isn’t allowed in New York unless you were a billionaire, and he’s in and out before it gets too cold.
He stares at himself in the mirror above the sink, the fuzzy reflection of himself in the steam on the glass staring back. He blinks at the mirror. Julia must have been tracing little messages into her own shower steam, and the steam from his shower has brought them back up. Korean characters he doesn't recognize, hearts, a smiley face. It’s fucking adorable.
He dresses and dons his coat. He takes care to wrap his new scarf around his neck too, and heads to campus.
His boots crunch on the salted sidewalks, and he pulls his scarf tighter at the light wind, blowing snow across the open square. Campus itself is quiet, but crowded. All of the students, and some of the teachers, had an air of misery about them. They seemed to be in different stages of the grieving process: Bargaining. Grief. Anger. A community brought together over its shared hatred of all that was final exams. Bucky sighs sadly.
He enters the biotech building, passing a student consoling a girl crying on the bench outside a classroom. He walks down the stairs to the cave where the grad students live. The windowless white walls were lit with old fashioned white LEDs, giving the place a stale, clinical look, like an old hospital.
He turns the corner to a hallway full of offices, footsteps echoing down the hallway. He peaks in the first one; it’s his professor’s. It looks like she’s been there recently, but the office is empty, so he cross the hall and heads to his own office, a shared space that was blissfully empty.
The room itself is homey, if slightly worn. His desk was covered in papers, and he had two monitors squeezed together on the tabletop, which were running on a CPU so ancient the color was 1995 chic, and it stood tall, chugging away on the ground.
He tries to spend the next few hours grading the final papers for the class he TA’s, but he keeps getting distracted by errant thoughts.
Every few minutes he’d find himself daydreaming, but when he shakes himself out of it, he couldn't remember what he was thinking about. The headache was back too, likely brought on by the harsh lighting, but it wasn’t painful. It felt like something was buzzing around his head, making his thoughts seem cloudy and frazzled. Similar to the way you would feel after a concussion.
Rebecca got a concussion once, when she was a teenager. Soccer practice, he thinks. He was so scared he yelled at her for half an hour, and he could remember someone trying to shush him, because you’re not supposed to yell at someone with a head injury. It must have been a while ago, because he remembered that at the time you were supposed to wake them up at night, ask them questions to make sure everything was okay. So he did. He helped wake her every hour, asked her questions to make sure she was okay. What’s your name. He’d asked. What’s your rank, what’s your serial…
“James?”
Bucky starts. His eyes refocus, and he frowns when he realizes he’s been dragging his pen over the paper in front of him, leaving red lines all over the text.
“Maya. Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in.” He carefully covers his scribble with another student’s essay.
“Are you… feeling okay?” She looks concerned.
“I’m fine. A headache, that’s all. No worries.” He smiles assuredly. It really wasn’t that bad. It only seems to bother him when he focuses on it, like the way you don’t recognize the fact a bug’s crawling on your skin until you look at it.
He just has to stop looking at it.
“Let me know if it continues, okay?” Maya says. “How’s it going with my research problem?”
“Stuck, but still working on it.” Bucky says.
“Well, keep at it.” She nods and leaves.
Bucky sighs. One more week until break, at least.
“You look tense, Tony.” Bucky says as he walks into Tony’s bedroom. “And, well, that’s not actually a come on. You really do.”
Tony makes a noncommittal noise from his place on his sitting room couch, where he’s swirling a glass of red in one hand, reading something on a screen floating at his right. He’s wearing the vest of his suit, his tie was loosened, and one button was undone on his shirt. On anyone else it’d be barely casual. On Tony, it looks almost indecent.
But he’s also holding tension in his shoulders, and Bucky can see it as he brings the glass to his lips, sipping slightly longer than socially acceptable. He makes a motion with his wrist, and the hologram shuts off.
Bucky comes up behind Tony. “Long day at work?” Bucky asks, resting his hands on Tony’s shoulders.
Tony looks up, smiles cryptically. “Always. How are you? Still running into that research problem?”
Bucky smiles. “Always. My professor wants results, but I also have to grade all of her undergrad’s papers, and she also wants me to help her with her work too. I’ll be happy when I get to rest over winter break.” He presses his hand into Tony’s shoulders, kneading lightly. Tony makes a noise in the back of his throat.
“That’s how these things go I guess. I’m literally guessing, all of my PhD’s I did on my own. Most were accidents.”
Bucky’s mind is boggling because how do you accidentally get a PhD? He presses into Tony’s shoulders harder, working his thumbs into the meat between the shoulder blades and his spine. He’s muscles are tight, and Bucky marvels at how strong Tony is under his lean frame.
“As good as you are at this, I’m going to have to ask you to stop.” Tony says, regretfully. “Come around front.”
Bucky does, standing in his jeans and sweater in front of Tony. Tony finishes his wine and stands as well, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s lips. It’s slow and easy, and Bucky relaxes, letting Tony take control, feeling already his stress of his research and his headache from the weekend slip from his body. Bucky’s hands wrap around Tony’s defined waist, and Tony embraces Bucky around his chest, licking into Bucky’s mouth possessively.
Bucky moans and Tony breaks the kiss, Bucky leaning in to chase his lips before he can stop himself. Tony grins. “Am I really so irresistible?” Bucky glares at him, which only makes Tony grin wider. “I can feel you in your jeans too. You want me.” Tony’s sporting a smug smile.
No way he’s giving in that easily. Bucky shrugs, smiles under his lashes, and asks, “how’s Steve?”
Tony’s smile drops off his face.
“Why.”
“He texted me last night.” Bucky says, his voice light. “We had a nice, long conversation.”
“Did you.” Tony’s stiff again. Bucky thinks Tony’s a guy that needs to get rid of his stress all at once. He’s going to try and make him snap.
“Oh yeah. He’s really good with his words, Mr. Stark.” Bucky adds the moniker to get try to get Tony to realize he’s playing him. “Very interested in me.”
(In reality, they had a nice conversation about how much they disliked the cold, and Bucky recommended a coffee shop near the tower that Steve might enjoy. Steve politely thanked him and asked him if he would like to join him sometime. Bucky said yes.)
“You sure this is the game you want to play, Barnes?” Tony’s voice is bordering on actual anger, face drawn tight, and Bucky knows that this is exactly what he needs.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Mr. Stark.” Bucky says. “I’m just talking about how good Steve makes me fee—"
Bucky’s not sure how it happens, but one second, he’s teasing Tony, and the next, his knees have been knocked from under him and he’s collapsed to his knees. Tony leans over him and grabs his hair and pulls so hard that Bucky’s head is forced backwards, so hard that his eyes water in pain.
He whines.
Tony kneels down in front of him, not letting up his grip on Bucky at all. Slowly, carefully, he feels Tony lean inwards until his face is pressed against Bucky’s collarbone, kissing once, before licking a long stripe up the exposed length of Bucky’s neck, all the way to the crest of his chin, the feeling causing his body to wrack with shivers.
He traces the crease of Bucky’s chin and licks up to Bucky’s ear, pressing inside. Bucky squirms feeling, the dual sensation of Tony’s tongue on his ear and the throbbing pain from his hair causing him to feel lightheaded and overwhelmingly hard.
Tony uses his grip on Bucky’s hair to pull his neck to the side in a harsh motion, and Bucky gasps in shock.
“You’re mine, Bucky.” Tony says low and heavy in Bucky’s ear. Already, this was the most intense he’s ever felt with Tony, and it’s been less than a minute.
Tony’s not looking for a response, going back to laving at Bucky’s ear, but Bucky’s always been of the mind that if someone wants control of him, they were going to have to fight for it.
Bucky licks his lips, moistening his dry throat, and says,
“Prove it.”
Tony snaps and full-on bites Bucky’s neck. Bucky swears loudly, eyes falling shut and hips thrusting into the air.
“You’ve been nothing but a brat since you got here, and you need to be punished.” Tony growls, sucking at the bruise he just made.
“Yes, Mr. Stark,” he moans. Tony releases the grip on Bucky’s hair.
“Bend the fuck over.” Tony demands.
Bucky gets on his hands and knees in a heartbeat, waggling his ass in the air. Tony smacks a hand down on his jeans, the dull feeling more of a promise than anything.
“Take my cock out and do the only thing you do well.”
Bucky unzips Tony and pulls his cock out, mouth watering almost instantly. He pulls the foreskin down and sucks the head in, trying to be a tease, but Tony is Not In The Mood, it seems, and pushes himself deep into Bucky’s mouth. Tony taps his hand against Bucky’s twice before starting a steady pace, fucking into his throat. Bucky moans and adjusts his angle, enjoying the bitter, salty taste of Tony on his tongue.
“Sick of you being a cheeky little slut. Someone needs to put you in your fucking place, and it’s going to be me. You know why?” Tony thrusts his hips down Bucky’s throat until his balls press against Bucky’s chin, and it happens so fast that Bucky actually chokes. Tony moans at the sound, rubbing his balls against Bucky’s face as Bucky drools on the carpet.
“You’re mine. You can act like a whore as much as you want to, but at the end of the day, we both know you’re going to always come crawling back to me, on your hands and knees, begging for the feeling of my cock down your throat.” Tony pulls back, and Bucky gets half a breath before he pushes in again. Bucky’s eyes roll back in pleasure, his cock pressing incessantly against his jeans.
“Pull your pants down.” Tony commands, finally pulling back.
Bucky coughs when he’s released, fighting to catch his breath, but he hastily unzips and works his pants down, underwear coming with them.
“Did I say your underwear too? Can’t even follow simple directions, Christ.” Tony slaps Bucky’s ass again, and Bucky thrusts his hips with a moan. Tony’s really got some anger pent up, Bucky thinks in a daze. “You don’t want to get warmed up? Fucking fine.”
Tony falls back to kneel on his heels and manhandles Bucky over his lap, Bucky way too shocked and turned on by the sudden display of strength to resist. It’s a downright humiliating the way they end up, Bucky with his pants at his ankles tossed over Tony’s lap, and Bucky whines and grinds his cock against Tony’s pants, face heating in embarrassment.
Tony rears back and strikes, much harder than before, at the fleshy part of Bucky’s ass. Bucky gasps out in shock. “You think you’re going to get away with being a whore, showing off for anyone and everyone? No. You’re gonna learn who you belong too, no matter how long it takes.”
He gives Bucky one of the most thorough spankings of his life, varying his speed and intensity until Bucky dreads the anticipation between strikes as well as the strikes themselves. Tony’s hands are unpredictable, some open palmed with fingers spread, some sharper and more focused. He is relentless, going back and forth on each cheek, and Bucky’s quickly getting riled up, until the pain of each strike goes straight to his cock, and he’s grinding on Tony’s pants between hits, whimpers, moans, and cries all spilling readily from his throat.
It doesn’t take Bucky long to get close, and he finds himself begging with Tony. “Please, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry, I’m yours, please.” He’s rubbing his cock against Tony’s pants, overcome with pleasure.
Tony suddenly stands back up and takes Bucky’s with him, pressing him to his knees. He positions his hard cock at Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky opens eagerly, letting him thrust at his leisure. Tony let’s out an wild, uninhibited noise, fucking into the heat of Bucky’s mouth, and Bucky becomes overcome with sensation, the feeling of being filled combined with the sudden position change making him giddy with pleasure. His ass was on fire, painted pink from Tony’s hands, and he’s making small, aborted thrusts with his hips, desperately wanting relief, whining in the back of his throat.
Tony pulls away with a gasp, and Bucky drops his head, letting the combination of sensations across his body duel with one another.
He’s so busy catching his breath that it takes a few moments for Bucky to realize that the mood had shifted.
“Mr. Stark…?”
He hears the clink of a buckle, the slide of leather on fabric.
“Can we try something, Bucky?” Tony’s voice is strangely calm as he kneels in front of him. He gently places a hand underneath Bucky’s chin and tilts his face up. Bucky, a little disoriented by the scene shift, looks up at Tony with wide eyes.
“I want to use this on you.” Tony says, holding out his belt. His pupils were dilated and his face pink with effort.
Bucky hesitates and swallows around his dry throat, remembering what Bucky put on the kink chart. Impact play, 1.
Tony presses his palm to Bucky’s cheek. “Say no, and it doesn’t happen.”
He remembered, and he’s asking if Bucky wants too…
“Let me see it?” Bucky asks.
Tony places the leather strap in Bucky’s hand. It’s brown, maybe an inch and a half wide, and the leather genuine. He weighs it, before sliding his hand across the full length and folding it in half, making a loop with the two ends in his right hand. He rears back and smacks it against his left wrist, once.
It wasn’t excessively painful, and the place he hit left a small, magenta mark, and stung, not unpleasantly. With enough force, this could easily leave welts, but Bucky doubts it will break skin. Not his, anyway. He considers it.
The whole time Bucky has been doing his analysis, Tony has had a hand somewhere on him: on his knee, trailing up his shoulder, scratching through his hair, mindlessly keeping contact. When Bucky looks up at Tony, he sees his face is questioning, and a little worried.
“We don’t have to.” Tony states.
Bucky shakes his head. “I want to.” He says quietly. “And, I don’t want you to go easy on me, either. I’m hesitant because…” He stops, and stares in Tony’s eyes, brown and wide and sincere. He strengthens his resolve. This is Tony.
“I’ll likely go into subspace.” Bucky says.
Understanding floods Tony’s face.
“And when I go, I go fast and hard.” Bucky looks into Tony eyes.
Tony nods, stroking a hand down Bucky’s face, but Bucky’s not done; he still needs him to understand. “During, I—I might say no. But that doesn’t mean no. I might ask you to stop; that doesn’t mean stop. Are you okay with that?” Bucky asks.
“Yes, Bucky.”
“But if I say my word…”
“It stops.” Tony says. “One word, and all of this stops.”
Bucky is shocked at how whole-heartedly he believes that.
“I trust you.” Bucky whispers.
Tony moans and kisses him, needy, and Bucky returns it with force. The kiss is intense, yet sloppy with desire, and Tony is leaning further and further into Bucky, running his hands up and down Bucky’s arms, stroking them down his chest, sliding them across his abs. Bucky bites his lip, and Tony growls and retaliates by pinching Bucky’s nipples, causing Bucky to squirm in his grip, gasping. Tony twists and Bucky cries out, head falling backwards. Tony kisses at Bucky’s exposed neck, then bites down on the bruise forming there. Bucky keens and buck his hips into the air.
Tony reaches down to pull at Bucky’s cock, and Bucky cries out. “Please, Mr. Stark, please.”
Tony pulls back, panting lightly, stroking long and strong, and says, “please what, Barnes?”
Bucky bites his lip then bows his head, and extends both of his hands outwards between their two bodies, the belt stretched across his palms. “Make me yours, Mr. Stark.” He breathes.
“God damn, you’re so—" Tony cuts off his words, before kissing Bucky once and grabbing the belt.
“Strip. I want you over the side of the couch. Hands behind your back.” Tony says, standing up and pulling Bucky to his feet.
Bucky thrums with excitement as he pulls off his clothes, moving so he gets in position, already sinking back into his sub role. He shivers when Tony trails the leather loop against his back as he walks around Bucky’s body, before he positions himself at Bucky’ back, leather kissing his pink skin. Bucky let’s his head falls forward, resting it against the couch cushion.
Tony taps the leather strap lightly against Bucky’s ass, already sore and warm from the spanking earlier, Bucky shifts slightly, but is otherwise quiet.
The belt is pulled off of Bucky’s skin.
Bucky’s breath catches.
“Color, babe?”
“Green.”
There’s a whistle of displaced air, and Bucky flinches and cries out at a sharp pain blooms against his ass cheek. He squirms instinctively, trying to escape the feeling. Tony strikes again, on the other cheek, and Bucky whimpers and tries to lift up from the couch, hands still clasped firmly behind his back.
Tony growls and forces him back down and strikes twice in quick succession. Bucky’s eyes tear up, the pain overwhelming, his body still trying to get away. Tony presses his hand on the center of Bucky’s back, stilling him.
“You’re doing good baby.” Bucky nods, shivering at the praise, the pleasure of satisfying Mr. Stark mixing deliciously with the burn on his ass.
“Now.” Tony commands. “You’re going to do 20 more. You don’t need to count for me, but you are going to take them. Do you understand?”
Bucky’s voice shakes when he responds. “Yes, Mr. Stark.”
“Good.” Tony removes his hand and gets back into position, somewhere behind Bucky’s back.
“Color?”
“Green.”
A whistle then a smack. Bucky cries out. One.
Another whistle, another smack, on the same cheek. Bucky releases a sob. Two.
The belt cracks down again and Bucky starts to beg. Three. “Please, Mr. Stark, please…”
Another. Another. Another. Another, in quick succession. He’s sobbing in earnest now. “Mr. Stark! Please, it’s…it’s—”
Another. “I can’t…” How many? He’s burning.
Another. “I can’t!” Bucky’s tears are making a wet spot on the cushion.
Another, and Bucky howls. This is too much, too fast.
Tony’s voice cuts through everything like a hot knife through butter. “You can. You will.”
Another. Bucky sobs in earnest. “It’s too much…” Bucky can’t see, he can’t think, he can only feel. Pain, heat, everything else is fuzzy, distant.
“You’re doing amazing babe.” Tony’s voice is the only thing that Bucky can make out. “I know you can do it Bucky.” Another. The praise and the pain dance in his skull. Everything feels like it’s on fire.
Tony’s voice. “So good, God, if you could see yourself…” The world has narrowed to Tony. Tony and sweet, sweet agony.
Another. It hurts so bad. He can’t hear himself cry anymore.
“Seven more, babe.”
Seven more.
A whistle, a strike. Bucky flinches, then moans around his next sob.
He could do it, for Tony.
A whistle, a strike. Bucky arches his back, crying out into the cushion.
He would do it, for Tony.
A whistle, a strike. Bucky moans again, loud, unashamed, pleasure dancing its way across his whole body.
Tony, who would stop if he said the word.
A whistle, a strike. Bucky cries out, softer this time; the world around him starts to fuzz.
Bucky wouldn’t ever say the word. Bucky would go forever for him.
A whistle, a strike. Mr. Stark. Tony.
“Two more, baby. God you’re so beautiful like this. I know you can do it. I know you can.”
He can. He will.
The next strike is the hardest. The pain is no longer sharp, but present. Warm, inviting, familiar.
One more, even harder, against the other cheek. Bucky smiles through it. He did it.
Hands now, running up his back and his spine, leaving goosebumps against his over sensitized skin. He feels himself being moved, and he lets it happen. Somehow, he ends up with his head in Tony’s lap, Tony making gentle shushing noises. He realizes he still crying.
He let’s himself, until he doesn’t have to anymore. Until all he feels is pleasure and heat and steady, insistent arousal.
Bucky turns towards Tony’s cock, straining against his pant. He wants.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to babe.”
What he wants, more than life itself, is to make Tony feel good.
“Please,” he whispers hoarsely.
“Color?”
“Green.” It’s barely a whisper.
Tony pulls his pants down far enough down to expose his cock, red and leaking. Bucky struggles to his hands and knees and sucks it into his mouth, completely without technique, just moaning abashedly at the feeling of being filled, being useful, being needed.
Tony’s moans are the only thing Bucky can hear. Through the haze, he hears him say, “mine.”
Bucky releases Tony’s cock and kisses his thigh. “Yours.”
It sounds so right that he has to say it again. “Yours.”
He kisses his thigh again. “Yours.”
Tony’s voice is wrecked when he says, “Straddle me.”
Bucky does.
Tony reaches underneath him, two fingers wet with lube press against his hole. “Open up for me baby.”
Bucky does. He hears himself moan from miles away, his body washing between pleasure and pain like waves on a shore.
“Ride me.”
Bucky does. He lifts himself up, Tony’s cock pressing against his hole, and he slides down, gasping as he feels the pressure sing across his prostate, whimpering when his abused skin hits Tony’s thighs. He moves, up and down, the dual sensations mixing together, pleasure and pain.
Tony takes the belt and wraps it around Bucky’s neck. He buckles it in place, loose against his skin. He holds onto it as Bucky bounces, wraps the other hand around his cock. “Mine, mine, mine…”
“Yours, yours, yours.” Bucky agrees absent mindedly. He’s on a beach, lying between the sand and the water, waves lapping at his body. Tony’s calling him from the ocean, saying Bucky, Bucky, oh Bucky, you are so tight, so good for me. Come Bucky, come.
His orgasm shakes through him and his head lolls back, supported only by the collar around his neck and the hand holding it in place. He doesn’t want to move anymore.
Tony pulls him forward, grabs his hips, and starts thrusting into Bucky’s heat, desperately chasing his release. “Fuck, I’m…” Bucky moves to watch his face as he finishes, head tilted back in ecstasy, in euphoria, euphoria that Bucky put there…
Bucky drifts.
Rebecca Barnes always thought she could save the world, Bucky remembers. In the later stages of her recovery, some of that mindset came back to her, a little bit of the original person she used to be. It made Bucky happy to see her with a small smile around her lips, despite the fact she still never liked looking at the arm.
One day she had run home, burst into the room, and wrapped her arm around Bucky while he stood in the kitchen. She was so excited. It had been so long since she had been this excited, and he could barely understand a word she was saying.
“Rebecca, slow down, what’s going on?” He hadn’t seen her like this in years, and he was taken aback by the force of it all.
There’s a man, she’d said, who can help me, she’d said.
A program, she’d said.
Extremis. She’d said.
The program will heal you, he said to me. Will make you strong. Will grow back your arm.
“Becca, I don’t like the sound of this.” It sounded so far outside the realm of possibility that Bucky was sure it wasn’t going to end well. But he could see by the glint in her eye that her mind was made up. She didn’t care. She couldn’t see what he saw.
I’m going to be useful Bucky, she’d said.
She had been so excited.
Bucky wakes up to Tony’s hands carding through his hair. Well, it wasn’t like Bucky was asleep and he woke up, it was more like Bucky was no longer ‘somewhere else,’ but finally ‘here.’
“I was going to wrap a blanket around you,” Tony says when he notices Bucky’s back to reality. “But your body temperature is really, really warm. Almost feels like you’re running a fever.”
Bucky smiles dreamily. “Yeah, I run hot. It’s good for the winters.”
He sits upwards, still naked as the day he was born, and Tony looks at him, pressing his palm to his cheek. Bucky nuzzles it.
“You look more relaxed.” Bucky says.
“You helped, despite being an ass about the whole Steve thing.” Tony huffs, but there’s no heat behind it.
“I figured you were a guy that needs his buttons pushed.” Bucky grins lazily, still high on feeling.
Tony smiles.
“Can I have some of your joggers?” Bucky asks.
“Another pair?” Tony teases as he gets to his feet. “You have two of mine already, I think.”
Bucky blushes, the blushes harder when he realizes he’s blushing. He’s too vulnerable to hide his emotions right now, and can’t help it when his face twists in shame. When Tony comes back, sweats in tow, his eyes go wide at Bucky’s expression.
“Shit.” Tony says, mostly to himself. Tony makes his way quickly to Bucky, pressing his hands to his face. “Babe. You know I don’t mind.”
“Sorry, its just…” Bucky says. “Fuck. I’m not usually…”
“Never apologize. I’ll buy a hundred pairs of these if you wanted. A thousand.” Tony kisses him slowly. “Put these on. Keep them. They’re yours.”
Bucky nods and slips them on, hissing slightly as they go over his sore behind.
“Come here, come on.” Tony beckons, and they end up curled into each other, front to back on the couch. Tony tells JARVIS to turn on the TV. A movie’s playing. Bruce Willis is trying to fight some terrorists in a building in LA.
“So,” Bucky says after a several moments, calm again, resting easy with Tony’s hands running circles into his chest. “How did you get into the BDSM lifestyle?”
“It was a long time ago.” Tony says. “I had just taken over my company, and I’d never had a lick of responsibility before in my life. I had a lot to learn, how to meet people, how to schmooze, how to succeed in the business world. I did it all perfectly, of course.”
Bucky smiles at that.
“Somewhere amongst all the random people I’d been fucking, I realized how good it felt to make others feel good.” He curls his arms tight around Bucky. “And so when business got too busy, and idiots were more idiotic than usual, I’d make my way to a BDSM lounge and find someone to make feel good. It was a power trip, you know?
“Usually never the same person more than once, but… you keep riling me up,” Tony laughs, “and I’m not really looking for a one time anything anymore, and it feels easy to keep doing it with you.”
Blunt, but it makes sense. “I’m glad you picked me.” Bucky says, then blushes again.
Tony kisses the top of his head. “Yeah, me too.”
It’s quiet again. On TV, Bruce Willis is swearing, stepping on broken glass. He has to save the hostages.
“What about you?” Tony says.
Bucky smiles at the memory. “Once, in my teens, a girl was riding me, and right before she came she reared back and slapped me across the face as hard as she could.”
Tony laughs, his breath tickling Bucky’s hair. “Seriously?”
“Oh yeah. It was the best orgasm I had ever had.”
Tony laughs harder, chest shaking against his back, and Bucky chuckles too.
“After that, I realized I liked it a little rough. I liked to be told what to do. It made me feel useful, you know?” Bucky falls quiet after that, and the TV buzzes in the background. He closes his eyes and tenses slightly, before relaxing again.
Tony feels it and makes a questioning noise.
“I had a boyfriend for a while. He was… We started in the lifestyle. It was easy in the beginning, like 50-shades right? But he started getting more intense, and while I liked it…” Bucky sighs. “I enjoyed what we were doing, but there were times…” Bucky keeps trailing off, not quite sure how to articulate himself.
Tony kisses him on the top of his head, again. “You don’t need to explain if you want to.”
“See, right there. That’s what makes you different.” Bucky says adamantly. “With him, I felt like sometimes I didn’t have a choice. We’d get involved in a scene and I never was secure in the fact that I would be allowed to stop. And I didn’t ever tell him to stop, but sometimes I thought…” Bucky swallows, and curls himself inwards, just slightly, pressing back into Tony. “I got that feeling that if I safeworded, he’d ignore me.” Bucky says.
Tony squeezes tightly. “What’s his name? Address? What time is he usually home? Asking for a friend.”
Bucky rushes to reassure Tony. “It wasn’t bad. It was just a feeling, you know? I didn’t actually safeword in the scenes, and it’s not like—”
“But you should never feel like you can’t Bucky.” Tony says, and even without looking at him Bucky can tell how strongly he feels. “Ever. You always have a choice.”
Bucky closes his eyes. “You make me feel like I do, Tony.” Bucky says quietly.
“Good. And that will never, ever change. You have a choice.” Tony repeats, and Bucky just has to turn around in his arms, has to press his lips to Tony’s, just has to believe that to be true.
|
Usually you didn't feel weird playing Steve's girlfriend on a mission. You two were perfect actors and could always handle the situations with grace. You sometimes kissed for authenticity, cuddled like a real couple and sometimes you caught yourself being turned on by him treating you like his loved one. But today was different. This party was not a fancy dinner party where all you had to do was place a hand on Steve's lap, kissing him on the cheek and playing the happy housewife. Today you went to an exclusive club in downtown. The party was private and the invitations very hard to get. But that was not what made you nervous about this whole evening. It was a fetish party for people that were into bondage, dominance and submissive role play. Something you always dreamed of, but never dared to try. And you weren't the only one who had concerns about this night. After Steve heard the mission details he didn't talk to you for days. You couldn't help but feel a sting in your heart as you realized that this was not a turn on for your coworker. You had to admit that since the day you met him, you thought about him dominating you in bed. He visibly felt uncomfortable by the thought of you two pretending to be a kinky sex-driven couple. That was the reason you didn't really talked on your way to the club. You were sitting next to him in a cab, dressed in a very short black leather dress, high heels of the same color and a tiny piece of lace on your face. It was more decor than a mask. It was also a sign, that you were a slave, but you had to admit it looked quite sexy. But not as sexy as Steve. Next to you he sat there, spreading his legs in a pair of black suit pants and a tight black shirt. He looked out of the window with arms resting in his lap. He was your master in this role play, so he didn't wear a mask. It was kinda funny how you had to come up with codenames for your invitation cards. Steve of course chose to be “the Captain” while you went with “Doll”.
When you arrived at your destination you really felt uncomfortable with a sense of foreboding. You just knew that today would be different than your other missions together. “Lets get this over with.” Steve said, still not looking at you, while he took your hand. The doorman looked at your invitations and opened the gates, but not without trying to touch your ass as you got in. He didn't even had the chance to do so. Steve caught his hand in mid-air, giving him a sharp death stare. “Don’t touch her.” he said with emphasis. “She is my slave”, he quickly added to not blow your cover. The doorman laughed and let you two in. The place was covered with red and black silk on the walls, mirrors and black candles on every piece of vintage furniture. It reminded you of a sexy version of Victorian London. In the hallway you could see men and women kept on a leash, walking into the different playrooms. Right next to were you stood, two naked women were kissing passionately on a couch. A man in a black suit, similar to the one Steve was wearing, was watching them on a wing chair with a glass of wine. He was young, hat long black hair done ina low ponytail. He was in a mysterious way sexy. When he looked up, his eyes focused on you, scanning your whole body. And he liked what he saw. A devilish grin appeared on his face and you saw one gold tooth in his mouth. You froze and tried to smile while pressing Steve's hand tight. He immediately understood. That was your target.
He stood up from his chair and gave his glass to a kneeling women next to his chair that you hadn't seen before. One of his slaves, you assumed. He walked to you and Steve not even trying to hide the erection in his pants. “Good evening, Sir. You must be the Captain.” I tried not to giggle as the man used the codename on your invitation. “I am Conrad, the host of this humble get-together” he said, only addressing Steve as the master. You did your research on the conventions of this party. As my role demanded, I looked down on the floor. But while I did so, I tried to gather as much information about your target as possible. The shoes, the pants, his accent. You tried to remember everything that could help find out who this guy really was. “I guess you are new to this event?” Conrad asked still waiting for Steve to answer. For a moment you were afraid to be busted, but then Steve replied: “Yes. I usually don't bring her to big events. She is still too vanilla for my taste.” Vanilla. While briefing you learned that this was the term BDSM-fans used to describe people outside the scene. Steve must have hoped that would make him lose interest in you, but it only seemed to encourage him. “A newbie, huh?”, Conrad asked while putting two fingers under your chin, lifting it up. You looked in his eyes trying to hide your fear to get caught. But he didn't see the SHIELD agent, he only saw a pretty face. “You are especially beautiful, dear. Because this is your first time here, you will have a very special treatment.” Your heart sunk. Whatever that special treatment was, you really didn't want to find out. Steve instantly stepped in and said: “Today she will only watch. We will take it slow.” His grip around your hand got a lot tighter. You could feel a hint of panic in his voice. But before one of you could react, Conrad grabbed your hand pushing you to his body. Out of shock you let go of Steve's hand. “This little slave doesn't want it slow, right? I can see your curiosity, your excitement.” You started to tremble as he whispered in your ear. You know you should be afraid or at least be aversed by the thought of being an actual sex slave. But with Steve on your mind, all you could feel was lust. Conrad took your hand and whispered: “If you're ready, come visit me in the great hall.” His eyes went to a great door at the end of the hallway before he left to what had to be the mentioned room.
Steve let out a sigh before he turned to you. For the first time this evening, he looked into your eyes. “I have a very bad feeling about this, (Y/N).” he whispered.
“Me too. But we need to get this over with. Let me go with him, maybe I can tease something out.” you replied while wiggling your brows. Usually this made Steve laugh but this time you couldn't break the tension. Instead of laughing, he put his arms around your waist and brought his lips to your ear. Your heart was beating faster. His closeness heated the fire that was already burning in your body. “We can stop this at any time. Just say a word and I will get you out. No matter how long it takes to find him again, okay?” his breathy voice made you hesitate. He never thought about blowing a cover. He always did the job he had to. Something about the tension in his body bewildered you. Could it be, that he actually liked the idea? That he secretly enjoying the thought of being a master to some sex-slave… to you? You felt goosebumps on your neck. “I can do this.” you said, not sure if you meant your mission or exploring that new side of him.
When he finally let go of you, he stepped aside to let you walk your way to the great hall. You glimpsed at every room on your way and saw things that equally aroused and frightened you. You saw people on leashes or bound to diagonal crosses while being spanked. In one room you saw a women tied to a chair while a man let candle wax drip on her naked breasts. Nobody was in real pain, it was all pure joy and lust that filled the room. And with every step you felt the arousal grow in your lower body. When you arrived at the door you slowly opened it. You tried to play your role and faced the ground but not for long. You opened your mouth out of surprise. The great hall was a giant room with chairs arranged in a circle around a black wooden table. On every edge you saw shackles hanging from it. Before you could process what this room is all about, a hand gripped your wrist and dragged you against a strong body. It was Conrad, your target, smiling trying to bring you closer to the table. Every cell of your body told you to call for Steve. To just end this charade and use another opportunity to find the true identity of this man. But you didn't say anything as he lifted you up and let you down next to the table. People around you started to fill the chairs. Your heart started racing. Oh god. If you let this happen now, you would be the main attraction of this party. You saw porn like that. He would chain you up on this table and they could do to you whatever they liked. While the whole room was watching. You started to shiver. Meanwhile you stood right in front of the table. You knew you could stop this immediately. You just had to call for Steve. But your curiosity won. “Gentlemen, she is still new to our play. Be gentle.” Two men came to you and while Conrad and one of the strangers started to open your dress, another one started caress your neck from behind. Every inch of your body was burning you felt an excitement and arousal you had never felt before. But one thing was missing. You glimpsed at the door and saw him.
Steve stood there, breathing heavily. His fists clenched while he focused every move you made. And then your assumption earlier was confirmed. You saw a giant bulge in his pants, begging to be freed and proving that he really did like the idea of you being dominated. Your dress fell to the ground and the three men in front of you touched your bare skin. A small piece of lingerie was all that hid your most sensitive areas. And a tiny, strapless bra covered your breasts. The man who had kissed your neck now reached forward and squeezed one of your breasts, before gripping your neck with the other hand, lightly choking you while pulling you closer to his body. You moaned in surprise. Suddenly you heard a loud smack. Every head turned towards the door. Steve had hit the wall next to him, leaving a crumbling hole. “Stop.”, he growled and your blood ran cold. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe this was just too kinky for him and he felt uncomfortable seeing you this way. He walked his way towards you. By the time he reached you, you were ready to fight your way out of the house. But to your your surprise he just shoved the three men aside, pulling you against his body while grasping a streak of your hair. You instantly melted in his arms as he said: “She is mine.”
That was the moment you nearly fell to the ground because your legs turned to jelly. He lowered his head and breathed right into your ear so only you could hear him: “You have exactly three seconds to call this whole thing off, or I swear I can not hold back any longer, doll.” You dreamed about this scenario since the day you met and now it was finally happening. In front of a lot of spectators. But you didn't care. It even seemed to fire your lust. So instead of shoving him away, you moaned and that was the approval he needed. He pulled your hair back and pressed his lips against yours. He wasn't gentle or soft. The proper Captain America was gone and replaced by a wild sensual man who wanted nothing more but devour every piece of your body. You heard Conrad laugh in the distance, saying something about sitting down to enjoy the show. You didn't care about your target, the mission or anything else but Steve grabbing you hard enough to leave some marks. He lifted you like a feather, proving his superhuman strength, and letting you fall on the table. Before you could think about it, your hands were bound by the shackles on the table, as well as your feet.
You groaned as he rashly ripped your bra from your body. “Oh, god.” you breathed, closing your eyes. Everyone could see your naked breasts now. Your nipples hardened as you laid there like a sacrificial offering. Steve started to bite his way from your neck to your small lingerie. You took a deep breath as he ripped it apart. Without warning he put his mouth to your already wet folds. His groan send vibrations through your whole body. He gripped your hips with both hands while exploring your slit with his hot tongue. He was fast and rigorous and it was the best thing you ever felt in your whole life. When he hit your sweetest spot, you raised your back, catching a glimpse at the spectators watching you. Some seemed bored, others touched themselves while focusing on you. You felt a sharp pain in your butt and a smacking noise and when you looked down, you saw Steve focusing your eyes. “Look at me” he whispered against your core, “and don't look away.” It seemed like he waited for your approval so you nodded. He raised on eyebrow still focusing you. “Yes.” you whispered under a breath. Another hit on your butt cheek and you moaned out of pain and arousal. “Yes, what?” he growled. You immediately understood and replied: “Yes, Captain.” He obviously was pleased with your answer and licked your slit again, softly sucking on your clitoris. You couldn't help it but pull on your shackles as shivers rolled all over your body. Damn, he knew what he was doing. Every stroke, every deep thrust inside your entrance with his tongue brought you closer to a relentless explosion. As if he had read your mind, he stopped just before your climax. You cried in frustration and you felt some tiny tears leaving your eyes. You watched him lift his hand from his hips to your chest, twitching one of your sensitive nipples. “Not now. And only if I say so.” he demanded. You could hear whispering and snickering from the crowd. You wanted to nod again, but remembered the lesson earlier and instead you looked him deep in the eyes and replied: “Yes, Captain”. A smile appeared on his face as he let go of your breast and slowly stroke his way down to your core. Two fingers crawled over your soft folds, twitching your clitoris which caused you to tremble. It nearly hurt but balanced the line between lust and pain perfectly. All of a sudden he pushed the two fingers inside your wet entrance. You cried out and he smiled again. “Good girl”, was all he said before he started fucking you with his hand. His thumb massaging your already sensitive clitoris. It was merciless, relentless and perfect. You didn't last long, feeling the tension of an upcoming orgasm building up again. But this time he didn't stop. Instead he pushed his fingers deeper inside you. He focused your eyes and demanded: “Come for me, doll”. And that was all you needed and his teasing fingers pushed you over the edge. Your body shivered, you tried to tear you shackles apart and moaned shamelessly as he drove you crazy. For a moment you lost every sense. You couldn't hear the crowd around you cheering or the wet clashes his hand made on your pulsating folds. All you could feel was wonderful bliss. You tried to catch your breath as you looked up and saw Steve standing in front of you, opening the zipper of his pants. You got a shock the moment you saw his hard cock. It was way bigger than you imagined. The Serum must have gifted him under the belt. He took it in his hand and stroked it a few times until you saw some shining drips on it. You thought he would put it in your still twitching entrance and for a second you were afraid he would be too big for your tightness. But he had other plans. He walked around the the table, caressing ever inch of your skin until he reached your head. You saw his pulsating shaft right next to your face and you sensed, what he was about to do.
“Open your mouth!”, he insisted while stroking over your hair and pulling you towards him. Your arousal still waved through your body and you wanted to obey your Captain and slowly opened your lips. He took a step forward and his tip touched your face. You realized that he wouldn't fit in your mouth when he slid into your the warmth and you nearly gagged, as he hit the back of your throat. He tilted his head back and moaned as you did your best to take his whole shaft. Tears rolled down your face but you didn't care. Seeing him breathing heavily and trembling out of arousal that you caused was worth it. When he looked at you again, his grip around your hair got tighter and he forced you into a steady rhythm to suck his cock. You heard the spectators cheering and the sound of scratching as if chairs were moved. His other hand stroke over your body, playing with your nipples and sliding over your clitoris from time to time and some people came closer to the table to watch you suck him off. When you started swallowing with his shaft in your mouth and used your tongue to stroke the bottom of it in a wild motion, he pulled you back, his cock gliding out of your lips. “Thats enough.” he said under a breath, showing how close you brought him to explode. “Now I will fuck you.”
You swallowed the saliva and drips of his lust left in your mouth before you hoarsely said: “Yes, Captain.” It felt weird hearing him use this kind of words as he was usually the one reminding you to keep your language pg. Satisfied with your answer he made his way back to your dripping folds. The bystanders now stood next to you, one tried to touch you but Steve instantly growled: “You can watch, but never touch her.” The dangerous grunt stopped the hand that came near you immediately but the men watching you didn't go away. They build a crowd around the table shielding you from the rest of the world. When you felt the tip of Steve's giant shaft knocking for admittance you focused on him. “Just look at me. You're mine.”, he whispered and then with one thrust, he shoved himself completely into your tight entrance until his pubic bone hit your pelvis. You cried and tears rolled down your face as you felt the line between lust and pain blurred. He was big, bigger than every man you ever had in your bed and you could feel him explore depths in you, that you didn't even know about. He didn't take it slow. He fucked you like he licked you before. Without thinking or caution. He was untamed, raw and totally in command. He hammered into you as fast and as hard as you could handle while a crowd of spectators watched how you completely lost control over your lust. You tossed and turned, the shackles scratching on your skin leaving small marks as he grabbed your hips, still not slowing down. His thrusts were deep and fast and everything you could dream of. He put one hand on your neck and started to hold it tight, lightly choking you. One last and hard push of his big cock and you came again, this time harder and longer than before. You bit your lips, clenched your muscles around his shaft and cried out: “Oh, Captain, my Captain!”
Shortly after you felt him pulsating inside of you, pumping his semen out in squirts. He was winded and breathless as he needed some seconds before he pulled out of your warmth. The people around you started breathing heavily and laughed amid loud applause. You could feel how the mixture of your juices started dripping out of your slit when Steve tucked his shaft away while he opened your shackles. Your face turned bright red as you realized what you just did but before you could think it through, Steve had wrapped a blanket around you, lifting you on his arms. “Oh, my god.”, you whispered ashamed. Without a word he carried you out of the hall, entering a room with a “private” sign on the door slamming it behind you. In this bedroom he finally let you down. “What about our Target?”, you asked. He snickered while gripping the blanket around your body. With one jolt he ripped it away while answering: “He left twenty minutes ago. This mission is done… but I am not”. |
“Life is the waterfall, we’re one in the river and one again after the fall”
-System of a Down “Arials”
The sun was warm on his skin.
Distantly he could hear birds singing.
A warm summer breeze, smelling of grasses, flowers and fresh soil danced across his skin.
It felt like contentment.
It echoed with peace and stillness.
And it was wrong.
He should ache with weariness and age. Even breathing had come with increasing difficulty of late, to say nothing of his thoughts. His thoughts that now flowed easy and steady as a stream. Where was he? He could feel the warmth of the sun but where was its brightness? Where were the vibrant green grasses he could smell, or the tittering birds he could hear? Where were the heavy, vibrant flowers whose sweet perfume drifted across his awareness?
Oh.
Right.
Of course.
Bilbo Baggins opened his eyes slowly, squinting against the harsh glare of a bright and cheerful summer sun. With a groan he tried to raise a hand to shade his eyes, but was stopped by a gentle hand that covered them for him, and a voice he had not heard since long, long ago when he was fresh and the world, in his eyes at least, was still new; a voice that he had heard only his dreams and memories from far too young of an age scolded him lovingly.
“Hush now Button, slowly. There’s no need to rush.” The gentle hand brushed over his face, prompting him to close his eyes once more as he turned into the caress, small soft fingers smoothing the hair at his brow and brushing back through the thicker locks around face.
He swallowed once, and then a second time, before trying his voice.
“Mum?” The word was little more than a croaked whisper in his throat, unaccustomed as it was to forming words, just yet.
Her smile could be heard in her voice, mellow and sweet as it had always been.
“There you are my little Bilbo-button. It’s all alright now. You’ve had a splendid long life and now you’re home at last.”
“So I am dead then…” he said softly, as much to himself as to her. Then something occurred to him and sat up, eyes wide for a moment before falling back to the grass, hand over his face. “Oh!.... oh goodness that is bright isn’t it?”
“Bilbo?” Her voice was now concerned as she shifted to sooth him from the suddenness of his own actions. “Bilbo, darling, what is it? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing mum just…” He hesitated, not quite sure at first how to shape the slowly forming suspicion into words. “This place, where we are now…. Where are we? Who else is here?” he asked somewhat tentatively as he started to open his eyes once more into the now somewhat less blinding light of the sun.
Again she smiled as her hand returned to soothing his brow. “Oh everyone dear. Your father of course, my siblings, his siblings, your grandparents and grand aunts and uncles and all the way back, all hobbits, every hobbit that was, since even before the wandering times.”
That didn’t sound like the ‘everyone’ he was hoping for.
He reached out for her, uncertain, taking her hand in his as his eyes started to adjust and he was able to squint up at her face. “And…. Other folk? Tall folk? Dwarves? Are there Dwarves here?”
Belladonna Baggins cocked her head in confusion. “Tall folk and Dwarves? No, of course not. This is a place for Hobbits. Why would there be tall folk or Dwarves here?”
Slowly this time he sat up again, rubbing his hands over his now smooth, young face. Oh but he felt tired all of a sudden! What was this thing? To die, to wake anew, and yet be filled with a wearisome feeling! And it was wearisome, it was truly wearisome indeed. More wearisome in its way than his great pressing age had been in the end.
To think! After such a long life of re-thinking every decision, regretting every choice, wishing with every breath that things had ended differently… After his dreams, no not dreams really? After his dreaming walks with that oh so real vison of Thorin (who wasn’t so much a vision now was he? But how could he have been anything else? Yet he must have been, for the alternative, no matter how impossible it seemed, simply made no sense!), after finding that the Dwarf was really there yet not even then fully comprehending such a boon (and it was really only now, as his fresh and new mind worked cleverly at the jumbled memories that he truly began to comprehend, truly began to understand) that he truly grasped the enormity of it all.
After so many long years of comforting his aching heart with the thought that, should the Valor have any mercy whatsoever, death would bring a reunion, the joining that had never occurred in life.
But it was not to be, for some things could not be denied. He was just a simple Hobbit, and his place, in death as ever in life, was to be in a Hobbity place.
And Thorin was no Hobbit.
His mother did not leave him long to wallow in his wearisome state however, and was soon pulling on his hand, urging him up from the grass. “Come on then little button, let’s get you up and home. There are so many waiting to see you!” He let her pull him up from the grass, finding a long forgotten strength in his legs and feet.
Once he had taken a moment to steady himself he looked around once more, his eyes now fully adjusted to the warm and welcoming sun. Green, green grass stretched in every direction, blanketing the smoothly rolling hillocks and fields and rolling like a great living sea in the gentle breeze. This was … both not the Shire, and certainly the Shire. And that was a rather odd to be sure. After all, that there? That was the Party Tree, except…that wasn’t the field the Party Tree stood in. But it was, wasn’t it? Because there was the party tree, standing in that field, so that must be the right field. Except it wasn’t.
And that there? That was the market field, except it wasn’t because the Market Field had never been bisected by a clear and cheerful stream, had never been empty of the wooden stalls where farmers and tradesman had bartered and displayed their wares. But it was the Market field as plain as the nose on his face!
He rubbed his eyes again and his mother tutted.
“Don’t think so hard about it my dear, there are many things here both familiar and strange, and why shouldn’t there be? The Lady’s land for us is her own after all, but also is it ours.”
He drew his attention away from the strange, startling and familiar surroundings and looked at her then, really looked. Her face full and plump and young, younger than he remembered her being, and her hair shorter with wide purple ribbons holding back thick honey-gold curls. She wore a simple dress of deep maroon and never could he have recalled her ever wearing such a color.
“I’m sorry, was I speaking aloud?” His voice was sounding more certain at least, to his own ears at any rate.
She smiled at him and brushed his hair back from his face. It was nearly to his shoulders… why was his hair so long? Certainly it had never been so long life… had it been? No… no he was rather certain it had not been, not even right after… No. he would not think of then, of those days. Days and faces that now were only his memory. A distinctly not-Hobbity memory that would now be all he had in this very Hobbity place.
“Oh button, you don’t need to say anything. It’s a common enough remark for one just newly arrived. And besides, I’m your mother. I don’t need to hear your voice to know your thoughts.”
There was something in how she said that… he looked at her sharply, question unasked on his tongue.
She gave him a sad smile, brushing at his hair again. “Yes, I can tell this isn’t what you wanted to find at the end. But even though you’re not so happy to see your dear departed mother ag-“ She was cut off as he hugged her fiercely “No! No that’s not it at all!” he insisted and she laughed, clear and bright and exactly as he remembered.
“Oh relax my darling!” she wrapped her arms around him. “I know that’s not what you meant!” the mirth in her voice softened slightly. “But you were hoping for something else? Perhaps someone else?”
He sighed and nodded against her shoulder, pulling back to look at her face again, drinking in the sight of features that had faded from his faulty, mortal memory long ago. “I had… hoped.” He admitted. “But it was a silly hope when I think back at it, and why should I expect any special consideration. I’m just a simple Hobbit that went on one silly adventure.”
His mother pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead and took his hand, leading him into the hills toward a very familiar green door. “Oh don’t give up hope just yet my little button. Death doesn’t need to be the entire end.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~
The smial was both Bag End, and Not Bag End. But it was home, and it was full of life and joy and laughter and family. His mother was here, his father, both proud and strong and vibrant in their youth. Old Took was often around, from only a few hills over, but he wasn’t the Old Took that Bilbo recalled, living his death as all did in the fullness of his best years.
There were family and friends all around, Bagginses that he had never met but knew by name, Tooks, Brandybucks, Bracegirdles and Gamgee’s. All he had known in his life that had preceded him into death, and so many, many more that he had never met.
There were Hobbits that had lived long ago and far to the east. Hobbits that had walked the twisted pathways of the wide world in the wandering times. Hobbits that had been first to set their eye’s upon the rolling peaceful hills of the Shire. There were Hobbits that considered his life of adventure shameful, Hobbits that thought him courageous, and many who had slept so many nights on desolate roads that he felt almost ashamed at calling his journey to Erebor an adventure when cast in the light of all they had seen and done.
He did the best that he could to settle, to be truly at peace in this place of quiet and plenty. The pantries were always full, sweet fruits and tart berries always ripe to be picked for pies and tarts. Tomatoes grew fat and bright in gardens of rich dark soil near potatoes carrots and lettuces, framed by blooming flowers of such size and vibrancy that Beorn would have been jealous to see them.
It was truly a place where a Hobbit could live and relax and want for nothing.
But want, Bilbo Baggins did.
After the first few days of meeting relatives and ancestors unknown, of sharing tales by the hearth and picnics beneath the trees, he was swiftly finding himself restless. Relating the tale of his own adventures to his mother and father, and bearing their knowing looks when he mentioned Thorin’s name, had only served to increase the itching need for a change that tickled at his feet and mind.
And so it came that not even a month of gentle summer days had passed since he had awoken under that bright cerulean sky before he packed a small rucksack of traveling foods and set off walking.
It was just a curiosity, he told his mother and any else who asked.
He just wanted to see how far this place went.
It wasn’t like he was trying to leave or anything.
He certainly wasn’t looking for any mountains on the horizon…
But whatever it was that he wasn’t looking for, he also never found it. He walked for days over soft grass, crossing small tumbling streams, and under gentle emerald canopies of great oak, ash and birch trees. He walked and walked and always toward the rise of the sun, and after nearly a week of walking he found not an edge to the world, but rather a familiar green door.
Feeling rather dejected he sat on the small bench on the porch of Bag End. There was a slump to his shoulders as he pulled out his pipe, stuffing it slowly and, once it was lit, puffing halfheartedly.
He didn’t look up when someone sat next to him, he simply sighed and took another pouf of his pipe.
“Now child, why are you so melancholy?” the voice that spoke to him was a woman, in fact it was every woman. Or was it a stream? Certainly it was sunshine, and birdsong and growing green things, bright and verdant and patient and wild. He looked up and then away, Her face was not to be seen by him, that he knew in his bones as certain as his name, as certain as sunrise.
“Green lady…” his voice was small beside her, yet still measures larger than he felt. “I… I’m not…”
Her laugh was pebbles falling in a creek, the rustle of sapling branches in the breeze, the sound of grass stretching up from the soil toward the ever unreachable sun. Her hand on his shoulder was immense and tiny, delicate and interminable, but all at once embracing and comforting and most of all, the hand of a mother, his mother. All mothers.
“Oh my dear Biblo, you are. You needn’t fib to me child, I know you far deeper than any ever shall, I made you dearheart. I brought you into the world. I formed your heart and I formed your soul”
He swallowed, throat dry and tight. “Then why….” He swallowed again and found his voice. “Then why did you make me like this? Why was I made to be so alone in my life that even death I cannot find myself!”
Her embrace was encompassing and all things. “My love, my joy… I have made you none of these things. I have made you strong, and caring and loyal, but I did not make you to be alone, nor are you this way. You maybe cannot see it so much yet, but it’s true.”
He found little comfort in her words, despite the deep warmth they settled into his heart and bones. “If this is not how you made me to be, then why is it the way I am?”
Soft lips that were flower petals and soft down and the breath of a newborn pressed against his brow. “My darling Bilbo Baggins. I merely planted the seed of who you were to be, the soil and sun that you grew in shaped you as much as anything I granted.”
He heaved a deep and heavy breath. “So that’s it then. This is my eternity.”
She patted him once more on the shoulder, standing from the bench. “I think it may be a bit soon to be making assumptions like that.” There was something in her voice, something under the birdsong and summer breeze.
“What? … what do you…?” He looked up at her uncertainly, wincing at the brightness and felt more than saw her smile.
“Be patient my child, just a few days longer.” And she was gone.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
At first it seemed that nothing had changed. He woke in the morning in his soft cottony bed, had first breakfast (a light tea and scone, or maybe some toast) with his parents and often an assortment of other relatives and friends, joined his mother in the garden or his father at baking before second breakfast… in short, his life after death went on unchanged for the first few days after his return.
On the fourth day the door appeared. Or rather it began to appear. It started as a blank space along a wall that no-one could remember being blank, and objects when moved to fill in the blank space simply returned to their original place with no inhabitant of the Smial having moved them. It was the Old (but not really so old anymore) Took who told Belladonna that sometimes the Smials in this place grew, when new family would soon be arriving, so that each and every Hobbit had a place in Her fields.
The revelation saddened Bilbo, as the only relative he could imagine that would be calling Bag End home was his dear Frodo, and it was far, far too soon for Frodo to have succumbed to any natural sort of end. The idea that his nephew should feel himself so broken by the events of his life, as to take his own? To follow his uncle into the forever-after? It set an even deeper darkness than before upon Bilbo’s heart, one that even the most perfect afternoon tea could not absolve.
That fear however was soon swept away in a nervous tangle of anticipation when, after a bit more than a day of slowly fading into existence, the door began to shape itself. It was not a Hobbit door. It had sharp corners, and a seam down the center, and began to fade not into any rich colored paint as a sensible Hobbit would use on a door, but rather into a sheen of weathered metal and stone.
The ‘door’ that was becoming real in the hallway of Bag End, only a few steps from the bedroom where Bilbo slept in death, often troubled by unremembered dreams of a half imagined ghost, was a Hobbit-door sized reproduction of the gates of Erebor.
And as soon as that fact became clear to Bilbo, he of course tried the knob. Nothing happened, it wasn’t yet even formed enough to be locked or open, but it was something he couldn’t help. He just had to, because he knew with every fiber of his being, he just knew.
Thorin would be on the other side of that door.
The door continued to fade slowly into reality, to form and shift and solidify, over several days. Hobbits from across the hills came to inspect it, to remark and exclaim over its appearance. Nothing of any sort like it had ever happened, they said. Oh, once long ago there had been a Hobbit lass whose love in life had been an unusually short man from Rohan, and not long after her arrival in the lady’s fields it was said a great chariot of light had appeared from beyond the unreachable horizon and faced with the choice, she had climbed up to her love and ridden off with him to the place where men go.
To anyone’s knowledge she had never returned.
Bilbo wasn’t entirely surprised when, after the telling of that particular story, his rucksack had appeared packed and ready with a few belongings and reminders of his home and family. It appeared just to the side of the door, and there it sat, waiting to be needed. When he questioned his mother she had smiled, laughed and told him that his father was no fool, and knew the depth of a Took’s devotion well.
That had been less of a surprise than he would have thought at first, but Bungo merely placed one hand on his son’s shoulder, looked him in the eye and told him to find his happiness, wherever that adventure should take him.
After that the biggest surprise and hurt came when the door still did not open.
By the fourth day from its appearance, it had become a part of his routine. Once awake, before first breakfast, he would go to the door, grasp the knob, and it would refuse to turn. After second breakfast he would give it another go, and still nothing would happen. Elevensies would come and pass, luncheon, tea, dinner, supper… a Hobbit’s day is marked by their meals, and every meal in Bilbo’s was proceeded, or followed, by a visit to the door in the hallway. And disappointment.
On the eighth day in a pique he declared he would ignore the door completely, and kept to this until midway through tea when he could no longer hold off the need, and in the middle of listening to Bullroarer once more tell the corrected tale of his adventures (Golf? Really! It was crocket that he invented that day, Gandalf was certainly a great fibber!) He had left his spoon to clatter rather rudely in his saucer and rushed to the door.
The door of course, had no great opinion on being ignored and refused to change its mind about opening. He had little appetite that evening for dinner (although by supper his Hobbit nature had resurfaced and he made up for anything he had missed in terms of caloric intake.
The ninth day proceeded in much the same manner as the days before it.
It was on the tenth day that things changed.
The day was normal enough all day, it was a ‘market’ day and although there was no need to buy or sell goods in this place of plenty, it was still in the nature of Hobbits to haggle and trade and compare what they grew, built and sewed. On market days they would mingle along the winding pathways, in the large empty field (The market field that wasn’t the market field, but clearly was) that was more or less in the center of the boundless smials, and under the wide canopy of tree branches that shaded those below them.
Bilbo had yet to reach the point of taking up any sort of craft or hobby (and felt that as long as there was any hope of travelling through the hallway door to a world where a certain moody and thick skulled dwarf could be found, then doing so was rather superfluous really) so he had nothing to trade, but also no great desire to acquire much, and thus simply wandered through the crowds enjoying the clamor and press of so many on all sides.
The day was long and the evening well upon them by the time all who called Bag End home had returned. Dinner had been eaten with some of the Gamgee’s and a handful of Brandybucks picnic style in the grass by a nearby stream, with many of the group lingering to fish the clear waters, so supper was to be a late affair.
Bilbo joined his father in the kitchen preparing the three fat silver trout that they had caught after dinner, while socializing with their friends before returning home. The fish were swiftly cleaned and spiced and fried up in oil with rosemary, sage and a good dribbling of lemon while bread baked earlier in the day warmed in the oven.
Belladonna had just finished pouring the tea as they all sat to eat when it came echoing through the winding hallways of that cozy Hobbit hole. Knocking. Three great heavy thuds that seemed to resonate all more ponderously for just how… normal they were.
There was a moment of confusion among the three before Bilbo simply dropped the butter dish in his hands, the thin ceramic shattered but was unnoticed. He was already half out the kitchen before it hit the ground, scurrying through the twisted passaged to a door that did not lead outside, that had simply faded into being near his bedroom and was not any sort of Hobbit door.
A moment of hesitation, standing in front of that iron passage that suddenly seemed deep and vast and ancient, the true, full sized gates of Erebor, impossibly set into the hallway of a small and cozy Hobbit hole. Bella and Bungo caught up in that moment and each took the other’s hand as they waited from the end of the hallway, watching their son as he watched the door.
It did nothing.
He took a deep, steadying breath and reached out to grasp the cool bronze knob and twisted.
The knob seemed to hesitate in his hand, then gave in and turned obediently, letting the door split open in the center and swing back outward into the hallway, forcing Bilbo to step back lest he be struck by the impossibly heavy thing.
For a moment he couldn’t see anything beyond except darklight and daystars.
Then a shape, great broad shoulders capped by dark waves of thick black hair, taller than him by a full head, taller than any Hobbit.
The air froze in his throat and for a moment he was stunned into silence with nothing to say, then without having any thought of it…
“You’re late, or did you get lost again?”
COMING SOON
Punctuality Chapter 2: Addendum
Thorin reacts to being called late
Bilbo demands kisses
Bella and Bungo have a small domestic
(I may be posting this under the influence of too much wine without enough dinner, so if I screwed something up terribly, please let me know.) |
The video was of a surprisingly bad quality for something shot in the days of digital cameras and smart phones that had better video resolution than most professional cameras had had a decade ago. Not that Derek had a smart phone. In fact, Stiles would have bet Derek didn't even own a phone, except he had Derek's number saved in his own phone. Strictly for emergencies, of course.
Stiles' thumb hovered over the display - to slide or not to slide. He hummed thoughtfully. It wasn't exactly an emergency of the kind Derek had had in mind when he'd given them all his number. But it was an emergency. Of a sort.
"Ah, screw it," he muttered, sliding his thumb over Derek's name in his address book to initiate the call.
"What," was Derek's response, and Stiles clamped down on his first instinct ("Rude!") and went with his second.
"Dude! Please tell me you haven't been drugged, cursed or otherwise been manipulated into a different state of mind."
"What," Derek said again, but this time it was tinged with confusion instead of irritation.
Stiles rolled his eyes. Of course Derek would need him to spell it out. "So I was doing homework earlier and that led me to do some research on the history of improvised weapons and that led to this video of a lady using household items as weapons. Pretty cool, huh?"
"Stiles," Derek warned, the confusion giving way to impatience.
Stiles pulled a face. People who interrupted him were definitely not his favorite kind of people. In fact, on the list of people he didn't like they were right behind people who wanted to kill him and people who wanted to kill his family and friends.
"Yeah, well, you should have seen what she could do with an ashtray and a pencil. You'd be impressed, too."
"Is there a point to this? If you're not in danger, I'm going to hang up. I have other things to do."
That was the perfect opening and it made Stiles smile like an angel. A fallen angel who'd just discovered that the dark side had better cookies anyway. "Other things - like recording another crochet instruction video?" he asked innocently.
The silence on Derek's end of the line spoke volumes.
"Because," Stiles continued, "while I was watching some lady kick ass using a bunch of knick-knacks as her arsenal, I noticed one of the recommended videos in the sidebar. Namely a video by The Crochet King. Said Crochet King looked very familiar, so I clicked on it thinking I'd at least get a good laugh out of it. And really, Derek? The Crochet King? That's a bit presumptuous, don't you think?"
There was still only silence in the line, and Stiles wondered for a moment if Derek had hung up on him. It wasn't like cell phones had a dial tone. He briefly took the phone from his ear and checked if the call was still connected.
It was.
"Derek?"
"What do you want me to say, Stiles? Congratulations on finding another way to laugh about my shitty life."
Stiles opened his mouth, but nothing came out. That wasn't even the reason why he'd called Derek. Sure, it was funny to think of Derek Hale, alpha male and beta werewolf, as the Crochet King of the internet. But he'd called because -- well, Stiles wasn't actually sure why he'd called, but it hadn't been to gloat or make fun of Derek.
Much.
"No, that's not why I called," Stiles said, but it sounded weak and pathetic even to his own ears. Before he had time to sort out his thoughts and think of a proper response, Derek spoke.
"Right," Derek said, his voice dripping with barely contained anger and disbelief. "Well, if you're done laughing at me, I have to go back to what I was doing. And yes, that's code for crocheting something."
"I--"
"That's the last time we speak of this," Derek interrupted him, speaking low and intently. "If you're really desperate to know more about crocheting, maybe you should watch an instructional video. I hear they have those available online," he added before he hung up.
If he was honest, Stiles had kind of expected the sarcasm. What he hadn't expected was the anger and ...hurt? Had that been hurt in Derek's voice? Stiles wasn't sure.
He slipped his phone into his pocket and looked down at his laptop screen. Derek's video was long done buffering, the screen frozen on an image of Derek in a red sweater.
Stiles hit play.
The video's quality was pretty crappy, but the lighting was better than Stiles had expected. The video was semi-recent, so Derek was wearing a sweater with honest-to-god thumbholes and it was in a color outside of his previously favored color scheme of dark, darker and darkest. Derek also looked very uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and crossing his arms as he spoke.
Stiles frowned and then realized he'd muted the video when he called Derek, so he started over and turned up the volume.
There was a faint rushing sound in the background, speaking further of the poor quality of the video. Derek was sitting on a chair by the large window in the loft, looking uncertainly into the camera.
"Okay, um," video!Derek said. "I've been asked a few general questions that I wanted to answer first, so we'll get to the baby bootie tutorial in about, uh, three minutes?"
A pop up text in the corner informed Stiles that it was actually more like four and a half minutes, but Stiles had no intention of skipping a video of Derek talking to people on the internet. About crochet.
"So the first question is about the best way to hold the hook," Derek said, holding up a crochet hook with a bright blue plastic handle and a gleaming silver tip. "That's one question I get a lot and the answer is that there is no right or wrong way to hold the hook. I hold mine like a knife," he said, and the video cut to a shot of Derek's hands as he held the hook loosely in his fist. Then he changed his hold on the hook and Derek's voice-over explained that some people held crochet hooks like a pencil. The video cut back to Derek, who was smiling a genuine kind of half smile. It was somehow more adorable than the sweater and Derek's shy on-camera personality because he knew that Derek expressed at least 80 percent of his emotions by scowling.
"But those are just the two favored holds. Some people out there have to work around handicaps or other restrictions and have gotten creative with their crochet hooks. Others just don't find these holds comfortable and simply improvise something that suits them better. As long you can crochet with it, there is no wrong hold."
Derek glanced down at a sheet of paper in front of him and started talking about specific yarn brands and acrylic wool and Stiles zoned out a little. Derek's face was more animated than he'd ever seen it, and he was talking about crochet, for god's sake.
Derek had a hobby. Derek had a hobby and shared it with complete strangers. He had a special leather case with different sizes of crochet hooks and a pair of really nice scissors and a sewing kit. Derek loved to crochet.
How did Stiles not know this?
No, that wasn't even the question. The question was: what was he going to do about it now that he knew?
#
The answer was, apparently, nothing. At least for the time being.
Derek having a YouTube channel where he uploaded weekly crochet tutorials demanded further research. Said research led Stiles up into the attic. He rooted though boxes of his mother's things to find the box they'd shoved all her craft equipment into. He found it in the corner, coated with a thick layer of dust. There were only three crochet hooks left in it - nothing like the ten hook kit Derek had.
There was a bit of wool - or was it yarn? What was the difference? Stiles had no idea - in the corner of the box. There wasn't much left, only a fist-sized ball of tightly rolled up baby blue wool. Yarn. Whatever it was.
An hour later, Stiles was staring intently at Derek's hands as he explained how to do a half double crochet. Stiles had never noticed it before, but there were short black hairs on Derek's knuckles.
The video cut and then Stiles saw Derek's hands move at a fast-forward like speed, working through several rows of yarn before the video slowed down again and Derek showed his viewers how to fasten off the yarn and expertly hide it so it didn't stick out of the finished work.
Stiles looked down at his mangled attempt at a baby bootie and cursed. Crocheting was a lot harder than he'd expected. Whenever he concentrated too much on what to do with the hook, he relaxed his other hand and lost the tension in the yarn. That meant he couldn't pull off whatever complicated crochet maneuver he was trying to pull off until he put some tension back into the string. Which he couldn't do without letting go of the hook and undoing all of his hard work. (Well, okay. The last move or two which - at his speed - was still a lot.)
Maybe baby booties weren't the best thing to start with, as a total beginner. Frustrated, Stiles unraveled his squishy blue blob of yarn and clicked through to Derek's channel page, browsing through the videos until he found one that declared it was for beginners.
The upload date of the video was just over a year ago. That put it at a few months after Allison's death. Stiles was both pissed and relieved. Pissed because Derek never bothered to tell anyone about this crochet stuff despite his near-pack status and the fact that they were almost sort of kind of friends these days. But he was also relieved because if anyone desperately needed a hobby that had nothing to do with death and destruction, it was Derek freaking Hale, the master of manpain and tragedy.
Stiles waited impatiently as the video loaded and then he hit play.
Instead of wearing one of the sweaters that Derek was pack-famous for these days, he was in a skin-tight olive green shirt. There were only a handful of shots of Derek's upper body - most of the video focused on his hands to show the individual crochet stitches in detail - but glancing over the comments section, Stiles could see that people definitely took notice of Derek's face as well as his crochet skills.
Well, judge not and all that. It wasn't like Stiles hadn't noticed as well.
The old video started with a shot of Derek, in the same spot where - going by the most recent one - he was still filming the videos, as he waved into the camera. He gave a short introduction and then the video cut to a shot of his hands. Stiles was too busy pondering the pain he'd seen in Derek's eyes to follow the instructions. It was obvious despite the somewhat sub-par lighting and Derek's massive eyebrows to deflect attention from his eyes, that Crochet King Derek hadn't been a very happy person in the early days. Maybe crocheting was Derek's form of therapy? It wasn't like any of them could go to a regular therapist to deal with their trauma.
Stiles focused back on the video and realized he'd missed at least a minute of explanations. On the screen, Derek was working his way through a row of stitches at lightning speed that looked nothing like the half double crochet stitch Stiles had been fighting with before. Being as hopelessly lost as he was, Stiles restarted the video.
Having an explanation for the whole cast on process was actually very helpful, even if his row of chain stitches had curled in on itself and wasn't mostly straight like Derek's. He had already noticed a major mistake he'd made with the baby booties. No wonder they turned out wonky.
Fifteen minutes later, he'd watched the video three times and managed to produce a small rectangle of crocheted yarn. The edges weren't very straight, but the rows were even enough for a beginner, Stiles decided.
He clicked on the next video.
#
Derek sat up and growled when Stiles burst into the loft in a few hours later.
It took Stiles a moment to realize that Derek was bare-chested and in bed. His eyes still had a faint blue edge around them and his hair was sticking up wildly enough that Stiles could see it even in the dim half-light coming in from outside.
Why would Derek be--oh. Stiles blinked and looked at the alarm clock on Derek's bedside table. The bright red numbers proclaimed that it was 1:22 am.
"Stiles?" Derek asked. "Do you have any idea how late it is?"
"One twenty-two," Stiles said, letting the loft door roll shut behind him. He made his way through the loft, glad that Derek's hobby was crocheting and not interior design. Navigating the loft in the middle of the night through a maze of designer furniture was not something Stiles had any intention of trying. Ever.
Derek fell back into the pillows. "Why are you here, Stiles?" he asked tiredly.
Stiles, having finally reached the bed, held out his tangled ball of yarn and the pitiful excuse for a granny square he'd made. "I need you to help me fix this."
Derek glanced at Stiles' hands - the only way Stiles could tell was by the shifting of the faint blue glow coming from Derek's eyes - and then put his arm over his face and groaned. "It's half past one in the morning," Derek said, his voice muffled by his own arm. "Don't you have school tomorrow?"
Stiles frowned. It was a Tuesday, so-- "Yes."
"Then go home," Derek said. "Sleep."
"But--" Stiles bit his lip and ran his thumb over the soft yarn in his hands, trying to look sad and pathetic. Not that he thought Derek would necessarily be swayed by it, but it wouldn't hurt to try.
Derek sighed. "Do you really want to learn?"
Stiles couldn't place the emotion he heard in Derek's voice. It wasn't his usual variation on the hurt/angry/upset/pissed off theme that seemed to run through Derek's emotional life most of the time. It wasn't the playful, sarcastic and annoying tone of voice either. That one seemed to be reserved for interactions with Stiles and for days when Derek was actually in a good mood.
"I've been trying to get this right since four o'clock this afternoon," Stiles said. He frowned contemplatively. "I think I missed dinner."
"Okay, fine," Derek said. "But I'm not teaching you how to crochet at two in the morning."
"One-thirty," Stiles muttered, receiving the full electric blue light show glare as a response.
"Tomorrow after school," Derek said. "Don't tell anyone, don't be late, and don't bother to come if you're going to treat this as a joke."
"Jeez, thanks, Derek. I'm not a total asshole, you know."
"Coulda fooled me," Derek mumbled. "Now get out."
Stiles rolled his eyes and picked his way back to the front door. "Sweet dreams, Crochet King," he called over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow!"
#
Derek looked almost surprised to see him, raising one questioning eyebrow at him as Stiles let himself into the loft and hurried down the steps. He tossed his backpack onto the sofa and walked over to Derek, coming to a stop beside him.
Stiles fidgeted for a moment, then reached into his pocket and got out the yarn he'd stuffed in there on his way up the stairs. Learning how to crochet was one thing, being caught with baby blue yarn in the staircase by Derek's neighbors was quite another.
Derek's other eyebrow joined the first as he took in the twisted, tangled mass of yarn. "You're actually serious about this," he said, sounding as surprised as he looked.
"Well, yeah," Stiles said. "I said I was, didn't I?"
Derek shrugged. "You say a lot of things, Stiles."
"Yeah," Stiles said, his eyes narrowing. "And then I stick to my word."
Derek sighed. "Well, if you're going to learn how to crochet, let's do it right."
Stiles' eyes widened a little when Derek led him upstairs to the roof. There was a small wooden shed in the corner of the roof, locked with a chain and padlock arrangement. Stiles raised an eyebrow as Derek took out the key and unlocked the chains.
Inside, the small shed was packed tightly with transparent plastic boxes. They were filled with multi-colored yarns and half-finished projects.
"Did you make all these?" Stiles asked, pointing at a box labeled 'hats' in black marker.
"Do you know anyone else around here who crochets?"
"I didn't know you did either until yesterday," Stiles pointed out.
Derek sucked in air through his nose. It made the kind of sound that Stiles had come to associate with Derek losing his patience. Quickly.
"Oh, hey! Is that a Captain America hat?" Stiles had the box open before Derek could stop him. The blue, red and white colored hat was indeed a Captain America hat, made to look like the captain's vibranium shield, complete with the white star in the middle. "This is so cool," Stiles breathed, running a hand over the soft yarn.
"You think so?" Derek asked, sounding a little mollified.
"Dude, I'd pay for a hat like this." Stiles froze and then looked up at Derek. "In fact... how much?"
"What?"
"For the hat," Stiles explained, waving the hat in front of Derek's face. "I want to buy it."
Derek blinked and drew back a little. "It's--I--You don't have to pay me. You can keep it."
"Really? Awesome!" Stiles said, putting the hat on. It was a little stretchy and fit snugly around his hat, covering the top half of his ears on either side.
"Okay, let's go back downstairs," Derek said. He held a couple of skeins of yarn and a small leather kit in his hands.
Stiles followed Derek back down into the loft and dragged a chair for himself over to the windows.
"Lesson one," Derek said, pointing to the window. "Always have adequate lighting. If you can't see what you're doing, you're just putting unnecessary stress on your eyes and you're most definitely going to mess up some of the stitches."
Stiles nodded. They were sitting next to the big window in front of the balcony, facing each other. Close enough, in fact, that their knees were touching slightly. Technically, Stiles supposed, that was so that Derek could reach over and help him. Practically, however, that just made it harder for Stiles to concentrate on anything.
"Lesson two: picking the right yarn." Derek plucked one of the skeins of yarn from the table and held it out to Stiles. It was a soft, light green yarn.
"The label has all the information you need. It tells you how much yarn there is, its weight and what size crochet hook you need."
Stiles turned the skein over in his hands, reading the small print on the label. Additionally to the washing instructions, there were a few more symbols printed on it. One was a tiny crochet hook and crossed knitting needles with a letter above it.
"Is that the hook size?" he asked, pointing it out to Derek.
"Yes," Derek said. "There are several different sizes, from really small to really big." He opened the leather kit and Stiles leaned over to look at the different crochet hooks. He'd already seen the kit in some of Derek's videos, but the smallest hook size was even tinier than it had looked in the video. The hook at the end was so small that Stiles could hardly make it out.
"What do you even need such a tiny one for?"
"The more delicate and thin your yarn, the smaller your hook. You can't make a doily with a J hook."
Stiles nodded seriously, vigorously biting his lip to keep from laughing at the thought of Derek crocheting a doily.
"And if you don't make doilies?" Stiles asked. "What if you're strictly a scarf guy? Or make blankets and stuff?"
Derek shrugged. "Obviously you don't need to buy a hook you don't need. I sometimes use the small ones for threading accent yarns through my work. I made a green scarf once and then wove a gold thread through it."
"Cool." Stiles nodded again. "Okay, so what's next?"
"Lesson three: casting on." Derek handed him the H hook and grabbed the next smaller one for himself. "Make a slipknot around your hook and pull it close but not too tight. Then you put your yarn over and pull it through the loop. That's your first chain."
Stiles fought with the yarn for a second before Derek reached over and wound it around his index finger.
"Hold it like that and keep some tension on it," he said. "And if you lead the end through between your pinkie and your ring finger, you'll have a bit more control."
"I already watched this tutorial," Stiles said, pulling the hook through the loops again and again until he had a four inch long chain. "I got stuck at the granny square thing."
"You need to learn how to walk before you can run," Derek said, sounding for all the world like a fortune cookie.
Stiles snorted. "Yeah," he said. "And I watched the tutorial on 'walking' last night."
"Fine," Derek said with a huff. "Show me. Make me an even square, no wonky corners, and we'll move on."
"Challenge accepted," Stiles said. Single crochet stitches were easy enough. Like chain stitches, but instead of pulling the yarn through all the way, you had to stop halfway and grab more of the yarn to pull through both loops. Despite knowing all of that that, though, his end result got a little narrower near the top.
Derek gave him the 'told you so' eyebrows and unraveled Stiles' hard work with a smug smile on his face. "Start over."
Stiles started over and ended up with the same result. His rows were getting smaller near the top, making his light green square not-quite-so-square. He tried crocheting a little more loosely, but that didn't do much except make the whole thing even less stable.
"Fine," Stiles said, throwing his hands up in the air. "I give up. Tell me what I'm doing wrong."
"Hmm?" Derek said, not looking up from his own work and fuck - who had given Derek permission to crochet nearly ten inches of some kind of scarf while Stiles couldn't even get a three-inch square done properly (he'd downsized from four inches because he could fail just as badly at three inches and it was quicker to re-do a smaller square).
"I thought you'd watched a video," Derek said, turning his work to start a new row.
"Dereeeeeek," Stiles whined. "Come on."
Derek looked up and grinned. "Lesson four: always count your stitches."
"I did! It still doesn't work!"
"Did you also add one to every row?"
Stiles froze, looking down at his not-square. "Add one?"
"You'll need to add one chain to every row to turn on. Otherwise you end up with something that runs to a point because you're losing a stitch every time you switch directions."
"Oh."
"Try again," Derek said.
This time, it worked perfectly. His square was the squarest of squares. Derek handed him the scissors and Stiles cut the yarn before Derek could speak.
"Traditionally," Derek said, flicking the rather short end of yarn hanging from the square, "we give it a bit more so we can weave in the end. What are you going to do with all of one and a half inches of yarn? Tie a knot in it to stop it from unraveling?"
Stiles glared at him. "Maybe."
"Just pull it through the loop," Derek said. "That'll hold it. It's not like you're doing anything with the square. It's just for practice."
"Now show me the granny square thing," Stiles demanded. "You said you would if I could do a square. Or is this not okay?" he asked, holding his square up to be judged.
"It's... acceptable," Derek said, pushing Stiles' hands out of his face. "But granny squares aren't exactly for beginners."
"Lucky me that I have a great teacher right here to walk me through it."
"Why do you want to learn it so badly?"
"It's Scott's mom's birthday in two months," Stiles said. "I'm going to make her a blanket."
"Uh," Derek said. "Maybe a smaller project--"
"A blanket," Stiles said decisively.
"You can just buy one," Derek said. "You don't need to do all this."
"The best presents are the ones you make yourself, not the ones you buy," Stiles said. "Unless it's a Ferrari. Anyone gives you a Ferrari, nobody cares if they built it themselves. But if you give someone a blanket, it's even more awesome if it's one you made."
"A simple pattern then, and no more than two colors or you'll never get it done in time," Derek said.
Stiles smiled. "I can work with that. Now show me how to do the thing."
Derek sighed, but obligingly put his own work aside to show Stiles how to crochet a simple granny square.
#
It turned into a bit of a thing after that.
Derek went with him to buy yarn, critically judging the different brands while Stiles goofed off and mock-fought a little kid who'd been dragged in there by his mom with a pair of wooden knitting needles. The stern-looking matronly woman who ran the shop glared at him over her half-moon spectacles and then raised an elegant eyebrow at him when he paid an exorbitant sum for the quality yarn - dark red and white - that Derek had selected.
After a while, however, Stiles noticed that he never actually sat down to work on more squares for Melissa's birthday blanket if he was alone at home. But if he was at the loft, working in quiet companionship with Derek, he finished four or five a session. Derek, meanwhile, worked on his own projects or on new patterns he created.
"I sell them online, actually," Derek confessed when Stiles asked about it. "It doesn't make that much money - I'm not well known enough for that - but it's enough to cover the cost of the website and the yarn."
"But not a new camera, apparently," Stiles muttered under his breath.
Being a werewolf, Derek heard him anyway. "What do you mean?"
Stiles frowned. "What do I mean? I mean that your century-old camera is way below standard, Derek."
"It is?"
"Have you ever looked at any videos besides your own?" Stiles asked, shaking his head. "You'd probably get a lot more views if your videos looked a little less grainy in the previews."
"But--I mean you can see everything clearly enough, can't you?"
"Sure, the close-ups of your hands are okay, but sometimes the details are a little fuzzy. You're lucky you have these big windows or you'd be screwed."
The next time Stiles came to the loft for the Secret Crochet Club's bi-weekly meeting, Derek was pushing random buttons on a brand new camera.
"The man at the store said this was the best," Derek said with a shrug. "But I'm not even sure I can find the power button."
Stiles rolled his eyes and switched the camera on. It was heavy, but Derek had let himself be talked into buying a small tabletop tripod as well.
"Okay, let's test this thing," Stiles said. "Crochet something."
The camera was pretty easy to handle. Most of the controls were intuitive and the symbols on them let Stiles guess at their function with ease. The touch screen display made it easy to zoom in and out. The few actual buttons were clearly marked and easy to reach for anyone holding the camera.
Stiles stopped the recording and then played around a little. He found an instant replay option that let him watch the footage in real time, slow motion or fast track.
"You're picking this up very quickly," Derek said, looking over his shoulder.
Stiles jumped at Derek's sudden closeness and tightened his fingers around the camera in order not to drop it. Thankfully, Stiles was an old hat at dealing with Derek Hale induced mini heart attacks and managed to keep his voice even as he replied.
"I'm a fast learner."
Derek muttered something Stiles didn't catch, so he turned back to figuring out the camera.
They tested the camera in different light conditions and various settings and then uploaded the videos to Derek's laptop to see which settings were the best for Derek's preferred spot by the window.
When Stiles got an email notification on Sunday evening that The Crochet King had uploaded a new video, he was delighted to see the quality of the video was a definite step up from the older ones. Judging by the comments, the rest of Derek's audience thought so, too. Stiles read them all, although some of the comments were definitely crossing the line. Like CrochetKingLover92, who spent more time talking about Derek's hands and his muscles than she (he? they?) did about the flower pattern potholder tutorial that was the actual focus of the video.
Frowning, Stiles scrolled back up and started the video. It was a fairly basic video tutorial of a free pattern that had been requested by one of Derek's subscribers. Before he started the tutorial though, Derek gave a brief introduction like he always did.
"Today I'm going to show you how to crochet the flower pattern potholder - you can find a link to the free pattern in the description below. This video was requested by crochetfiend111 and has a medium difficulty, with a few color changes that might trip you up if you're still a beginner. Don't give up though - hopefully this step by step video guide can help you out," Derek said. He was wearing the same clothes he had two days before, when Stiles had been over to crochet. He must have recorded the video earlier that day.
"One other thing before we start," video!Derek said. "You'll have noticed by now that this video looks a bit different. Yes, I did buy a new camera - finally. A friend of mine recently told me I needed to step up my game if I wanted to keep making successful videos, so I trusted in his opinion and bought the shiniest new camera on the market. I'm still getting used to it though, so please be patient if there's a small transition period and things don't always look perfect."
Stiles leaned back and watched the rest of the tutorial, letting Derek's voice wash over him. He'd never admit it out loud, but hearing Derek describe him as a friend instead of an acquaintance or a nuisance or - Stiles' personal favorite - an annoyance made him feel warm all over. Like he could definitely crochet a flowery potholder if he put his mind to it.
#
Stiles' blanket was progressing nicely. He had two weeks left and only twenty more squares to go. It was going to be a close thing to get all the squares joined up before Melissa's birthday, but Derek said he'd help if he had to, so Stiles wasn't worried.
"Here," Derek said after they'd been working in silence for a good half hour. "Try this on."
Stiles blinked and, for the first time since Derek had started his newest project, focused on the yarn in Derek's hands. His eyes widened when he saw the Captain America star on the blanket-like stretch of material.
"What is it?"
"A cardigan," Derek said. "Well, it will be when it's finished. This is just the back portion." He motioned for Stiles to stand up. "I need to test the length before I go on, see if I need to add any more to it."
Stiles stood and waited patiently as Derek held the half-finished cardigan against his back.
"Okay, I'm done," Derek said after a few moments. "I don't have a pattern for this, so I'm just making it up as I go along. I'll need to check the collar and the sleeves against you as well when I'm a little further along, otherwise it won't fit when it's done."
"Fit?" Stiles asked. "Fit me?"
"I'm not making this for myself," Derek said, an exasperated look on his face.
"You're making me a Captain America cardigan?"
Derek gave him a one-shouldered shrug, not looking up from where he was putting little safety needles into the cardigan-in-progress. "You like Captain America," he said neutrally, but the tips of his ears were turning pink. He cleared his throat. "And he's popular with my subscribers."
Stiles smiled widely. He could wear his Cap t-shirt, his Cap hat and his Cap cardigan to school when Derek was done. Or better yet - wear it to the opening of the next Captain America movie.
"Thank you, Derek."
"It's not even done yet," Derek said, grumpiness returning to his voice.
"Yeah, I know," Stiles said. He put his arm on Derek's and squeezed lightly. "But you're working on it. So thank you." Stiles frowned and squeezed Derek's arm again, running his thumb over the fabric. "Hmm, this sweater feels exactly like the yarn I use for the birthday blanket."
"That's because it's same brand," Derek said, pulling his arm back.
Stiles frowned. "Wait, did you crochet this sweater? Did you make all of your new sweaters?"
Derek sighed. "You've seen my videos, Stiles. I'm crocheting you a cardigan. How does that come as a surprise?"
Put like that, it really wasn't a surprise. Stiles just hadn't thought of it. Suddenly he was filled with the burning desire to try his hand at making his very own sweater.
"I want to lea--"
"Finish the blanket first," Derek interrupted him. "Then we can talk."
"Fine," Stiles said with a pout. They worked in silence for a while longer before Stiles asked, "How do you make the thumbhole?"
"A stitch called foundation single crochet. It's like a combination of a single crochet and a chain." Derek paused for a moment. "It's the same stitch I use for thumb and finger openings in wrist warmers and fingerless gloves."
"Can you show me how to do that?"
"Yes," Derek said, and Stiles internally crowed with victory. But then Derek opened his big mouth and ruined Stiles's big sweater plans, at least for the time being, when he added, "After you've finished the blanket."
#
Melissa's birthday was drawing closer. Only six more days, and seven to the party that Scott was secretly planning. It was supposed to be a surprise, so naturally Melissa knew all about it. Stiles found it amusing to watch Scott talk in code that was so obvious and yet adorable.
Derek hadn't said anything, but Stiles knew he was invited and that there was a small crystal figurine wrapped up in purple wrapping paper, waiting to be gifted to the pack's unofficial Mom.
Stiles' own present was almost done. With Derek's help, he'd managed to make sixty-eight palm-sized squares that he now had to put together into a blanket. They'd spread the squares out on the table until they were satisfied it had a blanket-like shape.
Stiles poked at one of the squares. The edges were no longer curling in on any of the squares. Stiles suspected it had something to do with that blocking thing Derek had mentioned, although Derek had yet to properly explain it to him other than to say it was necessary.
"Lesson... what are we up to?"
Stiles shrugged. "Twenty-something? I don't know."
"It's not important anyway," Derek said. "What you need to know is that there are a lot of different ways to join granny squares. Some are easy, others not. Some use a crochet hook, others a needle."
Stiles made a face. Needles were not his favorite thing in the world, not even sewing needles.
"I'm going to show you an easy and quick way to join these," Derek said. He picked up two of the squares and handed them to Stiles. "Now, which one of the colors do you want to use?"
Stiles looked down at his work. The squares were red and white, with a white center, a row of red and another two rows of white around it. If he joined them with the white yarn, any mistakes or unevenness wouldn't be noticed at first glance. But the blanket would look a lot more badass if the squares were lined in red.
"Red," he decided.
"Okay," Derek said. He put the white yarn aside and picked up the red. "What you're going to do is use the single crochet join method to join these. It'll be quick and easy and it gives you a bit of a raised edge between the squares. You picked the red to stand out, right? The this is the perfect method for you."
It was as easy as Derek had said. After seven weeks of nothing but double crochet stitches, Stiles had a brief moment of panic before he remembered how to do the single crochet stitch, but after that he worked through the rows of squares at an astonishing speed. He stayed an hour longer than usual, but the end result was that he'd finished Melissa's blanket.
"It looks great," Derek said.
"It's a little wonky in this corner," Stiles said critically. During joining the squares, he'd noticed several squares where he'd missed a stitch or accidentally added one, meaning they didn't line up exactly straight, but it wasn't all that noticeable. Except for one corner where he'd somehow missed a stitch while joining the squares, resulting in a small hole.
"It's fine," Derek said. "If you'd stop trying to push your finger through it, you wouldn't even notice it."
Stiles made a discontent noise, but there was nothing he could do about it. Less than a week was definitely not enough time to start over.
#
Stiles was almost at the loft when it occurred to him that he was already done with the blanket and that his desire to make a sweater for himself had diminished somewhat. Technically, he had no reason to go to the loft.
Except he and Derek were friends now. Real friends. Friends who had a secret hobby together.
He could totally go over and hang out with Derek even if he didn't have a project to work on. Maybe he'd even try something new. Maybe that amigurumi werewolf he'd seen floating around the crochet forums.
Grinning, Stiles burst into the loft and nearly fell flat on his face when he saw Derek in front of his camera. Derek shot him a glare and stood up to his the stop button.
"Great," he said. "Now I have to start over."
"Sorry," Stiles said. "But you don't usually film in the afternoons."
"I used to, before you started coming over."
"Oh."
"What are you doing here, Stiles? Your blanket is finished, isn't it?"
"Whoa!" Stiles said. "Did you think that was the only reason I kept coming here?"
Derek didn't answer, but the expression on his face was clear enough.
"God save me from emotionally backwards werewolves." Stiles rubbed a hand over his forehead. "Okay, lesson one," he said, smirking a little when Derek gave him an annoyed look. "We're friends, aren't we? I can come over because I like hanging out with you. Lesson two: I actually like to crochet. Just because I finished the blanket doesn't mean I'll never touch a crochet hook again."
"You like to crochet?" Derek echoed. "You really, actually like it?"
"Duh," Stiles said. "Why did you think I kept asking all these questions that had nothing to do with the blanket I was working on?"
"I... don't know?"
"Ugh," Stiles said. "Okay, let's start over. Hello, Derek. What are you up to today?"
Derek looked at him like he wasn't quite sure Stiles was entirely sane, but he obligingly replied, "I'm filming a new video for my channel."
"Cool," Stiles said. "Can I help?"
Derek nodded. "You can, actually." He rifled through the box in front of him and pulled out a dark blue garment. "Put this on."
Stiles took it and unfolded it, his eyes widening when he saw the shield on the back. "You finished the cardigan!"
"Yes." Derek nodded. "But I made the mistake of mentioning it in a comment, and then people wanted to see it. So I'll have to show the finished thing off before you can have it."
Stiles slipped on the cardigan. The sleeves were barely long enough to reach his wrists, but other than that it was perfect. Stiles rubbed his cheek over the soft wool and the pushed the sleeves up his arms so no one would notice that they were slightly too short.
"Sorry about the sleeves," Derek said.
"It's fine," Stiles said. "This is great. I love it! Thank you, Derek."
Derek smiled and Stiles felt his insides melting. To distract himself, he ran a hand over the row of buttons on the front of the cardigan. They were small Captain America buttons and had probably cost more than the wool to make the cardigan.
Stiles' part in the video was easy. He just stood still and with his back to the camera while Derek explained how to do the color changes to make the shield not in a circle but row by row. Then Derek filmed a few of the details and Stiles was allowed to turn around. He couldn't help himself and waved at the camera, which had Derek rolling his eyes, but the recording process went smoothly enough.
Stiles left in his awesome new cardigan and grinned when, hours later, he got a notification email for a new video.
Derek must have edited the video right away, but not before filming another introduction after Stiles had left because he couldn't remember hearing any of it before.
"This is my friend Stiles," Derek said, and a still image of Stiles waving dorkily at the camera popped up in the corner. Stiles groaned. Trust Derek to pick the worst shot possible to introduce him to the Internet.
On the screen, Derek continued. "You can thank him for making me get a new camera. I've been making the Captain America cardigan I mentioned for him. Some of you expressed a wish to see the finished product, so here you go."
The rest of the video was cut together from scenes they'd filmed this afternoon and close-ups of Derek's hands as he showed a color change or a specific stitch he'd used.
Derek's usual end screen image of an assortment of his finished crochet projects had been replaced with a blown up shot of Stiles' dorky grin and Stiles closed his eyes in amused misery. He'd have to kill Derek the next time he saw him, no matter what kind of a mess it would make of Melissa's birthday party.
Grinning, he took out his phone. Nice video, Crochet King, he texted. Too bad I'm gonna have to kill you for putting my face all over your end screen.
Shut up, Derek texted back a minute later. You love being famous.
Famous? Stiles frowned and texted Derek a question mark.
Discussion about you has taken over the comment section, Derek replied.
Stiles refreshed the page and instead of the four comments it had had when Stiles started the video, it suddenly had fifty-three comments and counting.
Some of the comments are a little... out there, Derek cautioned.
Stiles skimmed the page, rolling his eyes at the people who had nothing better to do than to insult someone for enjoying something geeky. Apart from the asshats you could find in every corner of the internet, there were also a handful of people who apparently thought Stiles was Derek's boyfriend. It sent a small thrill through Stiles to know that somewhere out there people thought Derek wasn't completely out of his league.
The longest comment thread by far though was one between CrochetKingLover92 - Stiles already had not-so-fond memories of that particular fan - and someone called deedooduu. deedooduu thought it was cute that the Crochet King had made a fandom-related cardigan for his boyfriend. Stiles thought it was cute, too, even though he hadn't said so. CrochetKingLover92, however, was convinced that Derek (or "my king" as CrochetKingLover92 called him) was as straight as an arrow and seconds away from recognizing CrochetKingLover92 as his soul mate and proposing marriage.
After reading through the entire thread, Stiles sent Derek a link to the thread and asked, Who the hell is that and who do they think they are?
Yeah, Derek sent back. Like I said, some of it is a little out there.
It's disgusting, Stiles sent. That's what it is.
This time Derek's reply took a little longer. You think so?
Hell yeah, Stiles texted back. It's completely unfounded and so far from the truth that they can't even see how much it's never gonna happen.
Derek's next reply took even longer, and it simply read I have to go.
Stiles shrugged and refreshed the comments page again. Maybe Derek had more important things to do, but Stiles had to obsessively read every single comment now and resist the urge to reply and get involved in the argument.
#
Melissa loved the blanket and draped it over the back of the sofa immediately. It clashed with the colors in the living room - Stiles should have considered his color choices a little better - but Melissa didn't seem to mind. She hugged Stiles and he savored the warm feeling of a mom-embrace.
After that, Melissa's attention had been occupied by other well-wishers and party guests and Stiles had wandered off to find something to drink and then to find Derek. But every time he caught a glimpse of Derek through the crowd, he'd vanished by the time Stiles had worked his way through the party guests.
Stiles downed his soda and decided to get another before he tried again. On his way to the refreshments table, Scott appeared at his side and pulled him into the kitchen.
"Dude," Scott said. "What did you do to Derek?"
"Huh?" Stiles opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water to top off his glass. "I didn't do anything to Derek. I've been trying to find him all evening."
"Did you have a fight?" Scott asked. His eyes widened and he gasped."Did you guys break up?"
What the hell? Stiles frowned. "Break u--Scott, we weren't dating."
"You weren't?" Scott gave him a skeptical look. "But you spend a lot of time with Derek."
"I spend a lot of time with you, too," Stiles pointed out.
"Yeah, but you're my best friend, Stiles." Scott reached up to scratch at his jaw. "You've been over at Derek's a lot these last couple of months, and you always come back smelling of Derek and happiness. You've both been happier. Derek's been smiling more and you've literally been skipping around."
"I have not," Stiles protested. There might have been one or two skipping incidents, but a man was allowed to celebrate for reaching a milestone number of finished granny squares, wasn't he?
"Yeah, well, Derek reeks of misery and he hasn't come out of his corner once except to give my mom her present and to avoid you." Scott gave him a stern look. "Whatever you did, fix it."
Stiles nodded and Scott walked back out to the party. He had no idea what he'd done, and to fix it, he'd first have to find out what was wrong. And for that, he had to find Derek.
#
Scott was the best and the worst best friend ever. When Stiles came out of the kitchen, he pointed at the hallway that led to the bathroom. There were probably better places to talk about it than the downstairs bathroom of McCall house, but it wasn't like Stiles had much choice. If Derek wanted to avoid him, he had the werewolf senses that would make it impossible for Stiles to find him without help.
Derek came out of the bathroom just as Stiles rounded the corner. Derek's neutral expression closed down and he turned the scowl up to full force at the sight of him, and Stiles felt a burst of anger. He had no idea what he'd done or why Derek was angry at him, but everyone blamed him anyway. Awesome. Just typical.
"Hey, Derek," Stiles said.
Derek looked past him, probably to see if he could push past Stiles without anyone - namely Scott - making a fuss. Apparently he couldn't, because he stayed where he was and crossed his arms over his chest.
"Fancy seeing you here," Stiles tried again.
Derek simply clenched his jaw and stared him down.
"Okay, what?" Stiles asked. "Come on, Derek, talk to me. I thought we were friends, so help me fix it. What did I do?"
And just like that, Derek deflated. He uncrossed his arms and sighed, then pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Nothing, Stiles. You did nothing. It's fine."
"It's not fine," Stiles said, putting his hand on Derek's arm as Derek was trying to edge past him and escape back to the party. "Something is wrong. Just tell me and I can do something."
"It's fine," Derek said again, gently shaking off Stiles' hand. "Nothing's wrong. Just enjoy the party."
Stiles watched Derek disappear into the crowd. When he went looking for him again half an hour later to try and get some more information out of Derek, he was nowhere to be found.
#
It was almost embarrassing that it took Stiles until the next morning to realize a vital piece of information. Scott thought that he and Derek were dating. Scott, his best friend, the person who knew him best in the entire world, thought he was dating Derek. Scott who was sometimes a little preoccupied with other things but was generally an excellent observer and had great insight into other people's emotional state, especially Stiles'.
What was more, Scott thought that Derek was dating him. If Derek had a best friend, it was probably Stiles. Scott, however, was more like a brother to Derek. An annoying younger brother who he got to teach about werewolf-y stuff and complain to when his human best friend was being a tool.
So if Scott had the inside track to Derek's thoughts and he was convinced that Derek was dating Stiles, that had to mean that... Derek liked Stiles. He couldn't really imagine Derek telling Scott about any of this, but then again, neither had Stiles, and Scott had no problem figuring out that Stiles was attracted to Derek.
Stiles pondered the implications of that for several minutes, but the only conclusion he could come to was that Derek liked him.
Derek wanted to date him.
Stiles had to sit down for a moment.
But why weren't they dating then? Why was Derek scowling at him and smelling of misery? If anything, Stiles had been sending 'yes please' signals at Derek for at least the last six weeks, if not longer. What had made Derek revert back to his pre-Secret Crochet Club days? Or, judging by the depth of his scowl, even his pre-crochet days?
Stiles ran through their last interactions. Everything had been fine when they were filming the video at the loft. It was only afterwards when they were texting about it that Derek had stopped replying.
Stiles frowned, calling up the texts from that night. He couldn't see anything that would make Derek stop talking to him, but that didn't mean it wasn't there.
Stiles read their texts over and over, trying to puzzle it out. When he couldn't find any clues, he opened the Crochet King channel website and went through the comments again until he found the thread they were talking about. It had grown by several more comments, with a few more people jumping in.
It didn't click for him until he read a particularly nasty comment by CrochetKingLover92 where they called deedooduu several names for promoting such a 'disgusting and unhealthy' lifestyle for their favorite Crochet King. Stiles flagged the comment as offensive and then slowly sat back in his chair.
He'd called CrochetKingLover92's responses disgusting in his texts, but the thread had been started by a comment from deedooduu about how cute their relationship was. What if Derek thought he meant that was disgusting? He hadn't actually mentioned CrochetKingLover92 in his texts or what, specifically, he found so offensive about them.
Derek thought he was a homophobic asshole who got insulted by the idea of them being in a relationship. Stiles groaned and slumped down in his chair, letting his head thunk against his desk. Great. Just fucking great.
#
He tried calling Derek, but somehow the calls never connected. His texts went unanswered and Derek was never home when he stopped by the loft after school.
After nearly three weeks of this, Stiles was starting to get very frustrated when Scott - beautiful, amazing Scott - rode to the rescue.
"You need to make a grand gesture," he said. He was lying on his back, spread out over Stiles' bed and tossed a small ball - a dog toy, if Stiles' eyes didn't deceive him - up into the air over and over. Stiles had valiantly refrained from making any 'fetch' jokes.
"A grand gesture?" he asked dubiously.
"Like in the movies," Scott explained. "At the end of the movie when one of the star-crossed lovers is about to get into a plane or marry someone else, the other one usually shows up and makes a grand gesture. A love confession, or an extravagant gift." Scott frowned. "Hey, what was that movie where that guy suddenly broke out into song?"
"I don't know," Stiles sent absently, his thoughts racing. A grand gesture. For Derek. To show him he wasn't disgusted by the thought of dating him but would, in fact, be ecstatic if it ever happened. It would have to be something he crocheted, that much Stiles knew. But what?
"Out," he said, kicking at Scott's foot. "Go away, I need to plan."
"So? Why do I have to leave?" Scott asked.
"Because it's a secret," Stiles said. "I have an idea and I need to research it, and Derek would kill me if I let you know about it."
"Okay, fine," Scott said, getting to his feet. He grinned. "If it's a sex thing, I don't want to know anyway."
Stiles was still spluttering when the front door closed behind Scott.
#
Derek wasn't home when Stiles stopped by the loft five days later, his gift clutched in his hands. He'd expected it. Planned for it, even. Stiles positioned the small brown wolf in the center of Derek's bed - nobody had ever accused Stiles of being too subtle - and pinned the note he'd written to the toy animal's back.
Amigurumi, while more difficult than anything he'd tackled so far, wasn't that hard to figure out with the right kind of instructional videos and enough determination. There were a variety of patterns available for the small, stuffed crocheted figures, but for Stiles the decision which one to pick had been laughably easy. The wolf pattern had cost him five bucks, but it was so adorable that Stiles might have bought it even without the need to make an apology wolf for Derek.
He left the loft, pulling the door shut behind him. His hands started sweating on his way down the stairs. If Derek was out, he wouldn't find the wolf for hours. Hours of waiting and pacing and nerve-wracking mini heart attacks every time the phone rang. But if Derek had been home and simply disappeared to avoid Stiles, then he could have found the wolf already. He could call at any minute.
But what if he didn't call at all? Stiles gasped and held on to his Jeep for a moment.
No. Derek would call. He was sure of it. Maybe not necessarily to jump into a relationship, but at least to restore their friendship.
It took three hours for Derek to make contact. Three hours during which Stiles had cleaned the entire kitchen, scrubbed the Jeep until it sparkled and pre-cooked dinner for the entire week, freezing it in batches so he and his dad would only have to heat it up.
When Stiles phone chimed with a new text message alert, Stiles was arms deep in the freezer in the garage, trying to make enough room for eight home-cooked meals. He crammed them in and slammed the lid shut, taking out his phone.
He'd changed Derek's name to Crochet King weeks ago.
With shaking hands, he opened the message.
8 pm. Joey's Steak House.
Frowning, Stiles looked down at his phone. What was that supposed to mean? It was just like Derek not to explain anything. Was it a date? Stiles heart skipped a beat. Oh, please, let it be a date.
After he'd confirmed it with Scott, Stiles was reasonably sure that it was a date. Why else meet at a restaurant for dinner?
#
Stiles wore black jeans and a nice white button down. The effect was somewhat ruined by the Captain America cardigan, but Stiles figured - hoped - that Derek would appreciate it.
Derek gave him a relieved but tentative smile when Stiles hurried in five minutes late.
"I'm sorry," Stiles said, even before Derek could so much as greet him. "I'm sorry about being late, obviously, but I'm also sorry for everything else. I should have made it clear what I meant, and not let you assume the worst. No way would I ever call us disgusting. Hell, I thought it was cute too that you made me this cardigan," Stiles said, running a hand over the sleeve of his cardigan. "It's awesome and I love it and I was talking about that horrible person who thinks they know you because they've seen your videos and stalked you on social media platforms. Like you would ev--"
"Stiles," Derek interrupted him. "Breathe."
Stiles took a deep breath and released it, and the waitress appeared with two glasses of soda. Derek sent a questioning look Stiles way and then ordered food for the both of them when Stiles nodded.
"First off: I believe you," Derek said. "It was a misunderstanding. And it wasn't your fault. I should have let you explain and not been such a complete asshole to you at the party."
"You weren't," Stiles protested, and didn't back down even when Derek raised his eyebrows.
"Okay," Derek said. "But can we agree that it wasn't anyone fault and move on. Or better yet: start over?"
"Totally," Stiles said. "Although if we have to blame anyone, why not CrochetKingLover92?"
Derek laughed and Stiles grinned, feeling a lot lighter than he had all week. When Derek calmed down again, he reached his hand across the table and Stiles met him halfway. They held hands all the way through dinner and Derek even kissed him goodnight at the car. Stiles, drunk on pure happiness, put on his best Bogart voice and said, "Derek, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful relationship." |
“You didn’t tell me you were Commander Spock,” she says, slipping up behind him in the line for oatmeal in the mess hall and nodding down at the rank stripes on his wrist.
He turns, obviously startled and obviously trying to hide it. He looks so much more formal and austere in instructor blacks, like the Vulcan who talked easily among the others at the gathering has been subsumed into being an officer and a professor.
“I could say likewise,” he finally responds after his gaze has flicked over her own cadet uniform. It’s not wrinkled, she’s sure of it, having pressed it neatly in preparation for the first day of classes but she still resists the urge to smooth her hands over the fabric under the weight of his gaze.
“I didn’t realize you were also in Starfleet,” she says as she takes the ladle from him and spoons oatmeal into her bowl. “Were there other officers there?”
“Chorenn works in the maintenance department at Headquarters and Eraow works in administration for the dean’s office.”
Nyota frowns at the steam curling up from her bowl. “I’m not sure I met them.”
“I will introduce you if you attend another gathering.”
“Oh,” she says, quickly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “That’d be great. I don’t know, though, I have so much work and…” And she’s human and feels a little bit like an outsider in the enclave of off-worlders they’ve created for themselves.
“Dedication to your studies is logical.”
“Thanks,” she says as she pours honey over her cereal. He skips the sweeteners, and the milk, and the dried fruit, so that he’s simply holding a bowl of plain, steaming hot oatmeal. “Well, nice to meet you, again, sir.”
“Again,” he says. “Likewise.”
…
“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” Gaila says when Nyota walks into their room and finds her bent over, her green hands quickly lacing up her shoes. “You never do anything during the semester. Don’t you want to spend all night doing homework?”
“I, uh-“ Nyota looks down at her hands, which are admittedly full of lecture notes she was going to review, summarize, and color code for future reference. “I don’t know, maybe I want to come.”
Gaila grimaces and crosses the room to hug her.
“Sorry. I should have asked.”
“It’s- my hair, Gaila, ow – it’s fine.” Gaila lets her go after one final squeeze. “And I should probably do this, anyway,” she says ruefully to her handful of homework.
“Up to you,” Gaia says lightly, slipping on her jacket. “But you’ll miss all the fun.”
“Cardassian orthography is fun,” Nyota says, scrunching up her nose and sighing out a long breath at the thought of it.
“Your loss,” Gaila says as she tugs her hair out from under the collar of her coat. “Especially when you consider that instead of doing that you could spend the evening talking to what’s-his-face about morphology or whatever he teaches.”
“Who?”
“The Vulcan guy.”
“Oh. Yeah. He teaches morphology? How do you know that? I didn’t even realize he was in Starfleet, I’ve never seen him around.”
“He said something about it a couple weeks ago, and he just got back from a deployment. I meant to tell you but there’s this thing that I do where I don’t think about school all the time. I highly recommend it.”
“Funny, you’re funny, Gaila,” Nyota says as she sets her padds down on her desk, arranging them just so. She flicks on the screen on the top one and scrolls through it, frowning at the lines of text. “Do you talk to him a lot?”
“Hmm?”
“Commander Spock. You seemed to know him a bit?”
“Yeah, he’s nice. Smart. Tall. And when I say nice I mean kind of boring. And when I say smart I mean like a genius. And when I say tall I just mean that he’s really tall. I think he was on the Lexington until just recently and then transferred back to teach?”
“Oh.”
Nyota gets another hug, a quick one this time, before Gaila wraps a scarf around her neck and checks her appearance once more.
“See you later, Ny.”
“I’ll, uh, I’ll come if you give me a minute.”
“What? Wait, really?”
“Yeah, just-“ Nyota reaches for her boots, looks down at the uniform she’s still wearing, and begins tugging it off. She pulls on a different sweater, frowns at that one too, then selects yet another shirt out of her dresser.
“It’s not a fashion show.”
“Two seconds,” she says, stepping into her nicest pair of jeans and fishing her comm and wallet out of her school bag and grabbing her purse off its hook by the door. She drops the earrings she was wearing on the top of her dresser, not where she normally keeps them but Gaila’s half smirking, half glaring at her and she tries to hurry. She grabs a different pair, ones that match her shirt, and shrugs at her roommate.
“What?”
“Nothing. Are you ready or do you want to change your clothes five more times?”
“Ready, I’m ready.”
“Geez, just wear your uniform next time,” Gaila mutters as Nyota reaches behind her standard issue boots for her nice brown, Argellian leather ones that she hardly ever gets a chance to wear. “Who’s going to see you, Yeinydd?”
“Who’s that?”
“The guy in the pot.”
“The Seiliu?”
“Yep. You should see him when he’s not all leafy, like in the winter when he’s molting. He’s hot, if you like tree bark.”
“If I ever find myself attracted to someone with bark for skin, I will keep that in mind,” Nyota says. “And I’m really, actually ready now, let’s go.”
…
“Gaila said you teach morphology?” she asks when she finds herself next to the Commander as they hang up their jackets. Gaila’s already flitted off across the room, either having seen alcohol, desert, or someone attractive. Nyota straightens her roommate’s’ haphazard job of hanging up her coat, and carefully tucks Gaila’s scarf into the pocket before hanging her own next to it. The Commander is even more particular, so that when he’s done arranging his jacket on the hook it looks like it couldn’t possibly be neater.
“I do.”
“I haven’t see you around the department,” she admits. “But I guess you weren’t teaching at the Academy before this semester.”
“You are focusing in xenolinguistics?” he asks and she nods. “What is your surname?”
“Uhura.”
“Ah.” She’s surprised by the recognition that seems to cross his otherwise blank expression. “You wrote a paper on xenosociolinguistics and how caste divisions in Klingon society are reflected in verb conjugations.”
Across the room, Gaila catches her eye and mimes snoring.
“I… yes, I did,” she says, casting a quick glare towards Gaila, who just grins back.
“Commander Ho shared it with the faculty as an example of particularly strong analysis of quantitative methods,” he says and she feels herself flush. “It was commendable work.”
“Thank you,” she says, trying to not smile too wide. “That’s nice to hear, sir.”
Gaila’s standing behind the Commander acting like she’s swooning and Nyota scowls at her over his shoulder.
“How were you able to find sufficient sources from which to establish a baseline?” he asks, glancing behind him at Gaila, who’s already turned and busied herself getting a drink by the time he looks.
“I used all those old recordings from the talks after the Kelvin incident, when Starfleet was looking into if they were at fault? There’s a lot there.”
“The intervening decades did not negatively affect the quality of analysis?”
“Well it’s so interesting because I thought that might be the case, but most scholars agree that due to the rigidity of the society, their language doesn’t go through the same generation mutations that Terran ones would, or even Andorian or Trill.”
“Fascinating. I have not studied Klingon in great depth.”
“Well I don’t blame you. It gives me a headache to speak for too long.”
One eyebrow twitches and it quite nearly looks like a smile. “I will take that under advisement if I ever find myself with an inclination to become more proficient in it.”
“Watch out for Chillaid, too, then, unless you’re familiar with it already,” she says and then Gaila’s at her side with two drinks and someone’s stepped on Didiza and has her all over the sole of their boot and the Commander is greeting O’nama and she doesn’t have a chance to find out if he knows how to speak it.
…
She has to start refusing drinks after her second one, or probably risk not making it home and spending the evening slumped in a corner of the room as she watches it spin.
It’s already spinning a little, just gently, and she quickly downs a glass of water and then a second one.
“Water is the drink of weakness,” Trav barks at her in Tellarite. He barely comes up to her chin so she’s in the position of having to look down at him to argue back.
“Oh bug off,” Gaila says, stepping between them. Gaila’s taken a shine to the Tellarite celebration of Morath that the evening is in honor of. She doesn’t speak the language, meaning that Nyota has translated more than one argument as Gaila enthusiastically helps celebrate the tradition of disagreeing. Over everything.
Nyota always knew that Tellarites liked to argue – their language is full of references to it and they have thirty six different ways to tell someone they’re wrong – but being at an evening commemorating the cultural practice is something else entirely.
She pops another bite of digikiki in her mouth – she has no idea what it is, precisely, but it’s delicious and she has no intention of asking in case the answer puts her off of it – and watches Gaila wiggle her nose in an admirable emulation of the Tellarite gesture for when the other person is a certifiable moron.
“So this is something you celebrate every week?” she asks Gouth. She has to glance down to talk to him since he only comes up to her shoulder, a height difference that rather puts her in mind of every time she talks to Commander Spock.
“Regularly,” he says proudly. “But we try to make sure everyone gets to celebrate their major holidays, so we only have Morath day when the schedule’s clear.” He snorts a sigh out his nose. “With all the off worlders coming to Tellar Prime these days, I’m not even sure that it’s all that established of a tradition anymore. When I was young, I remember arguments that involved the whole town. Kids these days seem content to just disagree over what holovid to watch.” He shakes his head, his nose scrunching up in obvious irritation over that fact before he relaxes it again and looks up at her. “I didn’t mean any offense, Miss Uhura, over off worlder influence. I don’t know if you’ve ever visited Tellar Prime but a lot of other cultures don’t have the stomach for what we do.”
“Oh, its… No, that’s fine, I understand.”
“Traditions change,” he says, his snout twitching despondently. He brightens slightly when he scans the room. “But this is nice. A couple years ago the police showed up due to a noise complaint when we were arguing about the decision to let the Acaer into the Federation. That was a wonderful night.”
“I can imagine,” she says diplomatically.
“And if you ever have a chance to get into a debate with the Commander over there, you won’t be sorry,” he continues, nodding across the room to where Spock’s talking with Thaalan. “He won’t yell, which is really too bad, but he also doesn’t get frustrated and give up. I sided against him and Trav last year and we were the last ones to leave. It was marvelous. I was hoarse for days.”
“Sounds terrific,” she says even as she wonders what a hoarse Tellarite would sound like. Just… hoarser? More guttural?
“I’ll let him know you might be up for a round,” Gouth says.
“Trav?”
“No, no, the Commander,” Gouth says, then gestures to his drink and nods off towards the bottles of liquor spread out on Threx and Schori’s dining room table. “Would you like anything?”
“No, but thank you.”
“I’d argue with you but we’ll let you off easy because you’re new,” he says, giving her a small nose twitch that she recognizes as being akin to a wink.
She doesn’t attempt to reciprocate the gesture but gives him a smile in return.
…
“This is exhausting,” she confides in Gaila, who has half draped herself over Nyota but is still gamely trying to finish her drink. “Fun, but I can’t disagree with anyone anymore. Want to get some air?”
“No!”
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” Nyota says, tugging at Gaila until she follows her down the hall and out towards the backyard where it’s blessedly cooler and quieter than in the house.
The fresh air feels amazing on her flushed skin and she slips out from under the weight of Gaila’s arm and turns her face towards the sky, breathing in deeply and imagining she can see the stars above them through the haze of the city.
At first she thinks that Gaila’s mumbling to herself, which wouldn’t be for the first time, so Nyota doesn’t look back down immediately, not until she hears a deep, rich, male voice respond to her roommate’s.
“Commander,” she says, blinking at his silhouette against the light shining through the windows of the house. Behind him, the party is outlined in those windows like an ancient silent movie, characters moving against the backdrop of Thex and Schori’s house.
“Spock,” he corrects. “We are hardly on duty.”
“Spock,” she echoes. She tucks her hair back quickly, tugs at the hem of her shirt. “I didn’t see you come out.”
“He was just saying that he doesn’t like the noise, either,” Gaila says, yawning into her palm.
“I quite agree.” She pauses, lets herself grin. “Or maybe I should phrase it that I disagree with the volume.”
“Perhaps,” he allows as he steps more fully into the backyard.
“Is it always so loud?”
“For Morath celebrations, yes. The evening we celebrated Ybo’iveth, we were required to remain as silent as possible.”
“That one was boring,” Gaila says, yawning again. “I mean, it was intellectually stimulating and a fascinating experience to be exposed to such a different culture and all, but tonight is so much better compared to that one.”
“That’s the new year event on Ybo Theta Prime?” Nyota asks, grinning and shaking her head at Gaila.
“Precisely, to commemorate a full orbit of their moon,” Spock answers. “A unique way to mark years, as opposed to the planet’s own orbit of their star, but effective nonetheless.”
“Isn’t that the planet that’s locked in synchronous orbit, so one side’s always dark? And so that the only light they get for half of the year is when it’s reflected off their moon?”
“You are quite well informed,” he says, his head dipping slightly to the side.
“Well it’s a really interesting culture. They have I think seven or eight words just for the different types of light, which all depend on the weather patterns on the moon and the presence of solar flares and yet like you said, silence is such a part of their rituals and traditions.” She tucks her arm behind her back and grasps her other elbow. “Of course a number of cultures will use pauses or quiet during ceremonies, but I’ve always found that their silence carry more significance somehow, like it’s almost a separate language.”
“Perhaps if we celebrate Ybo’iveth again, you will attend the gathering.”
“I’d like to, very much.” She ducks her head and has to smile at herself. “Though I’ll have to enlist Gaila to help me make sure I leave my padd at home so that I don’t just sit there and take notes the whole time. Probably wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Getting your padd away from you is like taking a bowl of Pulappli worms away from a Gorn.”
“Perhaps notes would be appropriate if you are able to record them noiselessly.”
“Exactly,” she says and is about to ask for more details about the celebration when a loud shout echoes from inside. It has the effect of making both her and Spock turn quickly to look back at the house, and it makes Gaila jump to her feet from where she’d been slouched in one of the patio chairs.
“N'Takim’s here!” she grins. “Don’t wait up for me, Ny. See you tomorrow.”
“Is everything well?” Spock asks, peering into the windows as Gaila runs inside, disappears from their view for a moment, and then reappears next to N'Takim, joining in whatever argument he’s in with Gouth.
“You know better than I do,” Nyota says, frowning at the same sight. “Though I’m guessing this is her favorite celebration ever.”
Soon, Gaila has one arm slung around N'Takim waist, her curls shaking with the force of her own exclamations.
“She is quite verbose.”
“That’s the nicest way to put it I’ve ever heard,” Nyota grins.
“Have you been roommates for very long?”
“Since first semester. Thought I’d want to transfer as soon as I could and now I don’t know what I’d do without her.”
Spock looks at her for a long moment, his gaze shadowed by the dim light of the backyard, but nothing about his scrutiny makes her uneasy. It more just seems like he’s curious, like she’s one more thing for him to learn about, analyze, and categorize.
“The two of you give the impression of being rather dissimilar.”
“Opposites attract,” Nyota says lightly. “Which, speaking of, if she’s going to stay here all night and go home with N'Takim, I think I might head out.”
“I had also planned to return to campus presently, if you would like company on the walk.” She nods and he holds the door to the house open for her. They quickly say goodbye to everyone and she thanks Threx and Schori for having her again, and she seeks out Grouth and Trav to wish them a happy – or disagreeable – Morath day and then they’re out on the sidewalk, the hovercars rushing past them and a swirl of other pedestrians walking home in the crisp air of the early autumn evening.
“It’s nice to get off campus. It’s sometimes hard for me to figure out a good balance between school and having a social life,” she admits as they begin to climb one of San Francisco’s ubiquitous hills. His legs are so much longer than hers that she feels like she’s taking two steps for everyone one of his, and she focuses on not getting embarrassingly out of breath as she tries to match his even gait.
“I have heard that is an issue for many cadets, one which is hardly ameliorated by receiving your commission.”
“Did you find it difficult when you were at the Academy?” she asks, trying to imagine him in cadet reds instead of his instructor’s uniform or the slacks and sweater he’s wearing now.
“I was disinclined towards activities other than my academics,” he says evenly. “It was not until my later years of schooling that I was aware of these gatherings and not until I met Eraow that I was persuaded to attend such a social event.”
“I haven’t seen it mentioned anywhere on the Academy, that there’s a whole group who gets together and does all this. I wonder if other students would be interested.”
“Perhaps,” he says with that incline of his head that seems like he nearly means to nod but is too economical to finish the gesture. “However, Starfleet tends to be an insular community in and of itself, and cadets generally prefer the company of other cadets.”
“Generally,” she says wryly.
“Generally,” he echoes. “There are notable exceptions.”
“Well, I’m glad I found you all. It’s a wonderful way to spend an evening.”
“I quite agree, Miss Uhura.”
“Nyota,” she corrects. “As you said, we’re hardly at work right now.”
“Then I quite agree, Nyota.”
She gives him a small smile. “A rather pleasant occurrence after such an evening.”
“Yet another statement I find myself in concurrence with.”
She laughs, then, the sound carrying down the street as they continue on their walk. |
Castiel sat staring out of the window at his new home as the car idled on the gravel. Without permission, he knew, and out of character for a slave so well trained but he couldn’t make himself stop. Even with the punishments that were sure to follow hanging overhead, he stared. Afraid that even blinking too fast would whisk the view away and replace it with a kennel; the entire thing some intricate fever dream. This was it, the single best thing that could have ever happened to him, and he had one chance to get it right.
“It’s not that much to look at,” Winchester gestured towards the house. “But there’s a field out back with some apple trees.”
Castiel started when the engine shut off; leaving him and his master to sit in near silence. Even with some faint sounds that were probably birds, it felt like he had to say something, but it didn’t make much sense. Dean sounded almost- apologetic. Like his house wouldn’t be good enough for a slave so old it was a miracle he was still alive. Like Castiel hadn’t been willing to do anything to be taken here. Like Dean couldn’t drag him inside that house and lock him in a kennel so small he couldn’t move and he’d still be begging for the opportunity to show his gratitude.
“I had to take down a ton of trees when I bought the place, it was so overgrown you could barely see the house.” Dean tapped the steering wheel, smiling at the memory. “That was an eventful summer. Nearly killed myself a couple of times getting the hang of the chainsaw, and Sam said I’d wasted my money on the place, but I knew it had potential.”
“It looks very nice, sir.” Castiel mumbled, trying to imagine what it had looked like before. More trees. More wild-looking bushes.
“Gave the old place a bit of a spruce up, some new windows, a lick of paint. Sometimes you just need to look further than what’s on the surface, you know? Beauty’s more than skin deep ‘n all.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just takes a bit more effort. Learned some stuff along the way too! Like that line of trees,” Dean pointed excitedly. “Those keep the house from being covered in snow or blown away by some freak wind. Good stuff.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Plus it’s apparently great for wildlife. Lots of birds in there, and the brush is for smaller stuff.” Dean gestured. “Like squirrels and raccoons. One of 'em got into the garage last fall but that hole’s been patched up so no creepy tiny hands touching my stuff.”
“Yes, sir.” He was losing volume at a steady pace, unable to follow any of what his master was telling him but equally unable to say that, and staying quiet would be impolite. At least he now knew that there was snow here at some point.
Master Ketch had taken him to a remote cabin once during winter. He’d been on his best possible behavior the whole damn trip. After crawling from the car to the front door he’d barely needed to be told what his punishment would be; left outside he would have frozen in no time.
He didn’t expect that Winchester would leave him outside in the cold to freeze as a punishment- but it was good to know that if it did happen he wouldn’t be completely out in the open. There were bushes he could crawl under… unless he was tied to a stake. Messing up while there was snow out wouldn’t be a death sentence. That was good.
He’d never be bad on purpose, of course, but he was only a slave. Stuff went wrong, and punishments followed.
Had he told Winchester about Master Ketch’s cabin?
“I like the- well it’s not really a garden, but the back of the house has a ton of visitors. Birds ‘n shit, but there’s deer too. Those are nice. I like my space- wouldn’t live out here if I didn’t, but it can get a bit lonely. Knowing there’s other life out there keeps you sane. Also reminds you to lock the back door-”
Castiel blinked, regulating his breathing as if it would stave off the nerves. Winchester was rambling, reminiscing the times he didn’t have Castiel here with him- already second-guessing his choice to take in the slave. Scraping together his courage, Castiel found his words. It was in his best fucking interest to convince Dean that he was a
very
docile and agreeable slave. One who would not disturb his days, but instead enhance them.
“It looks wonderful, sir.” He told his master gently. Not a lie, but he hadn’t technically been given permission to speak.
“Yeah. It’s great.” Dean’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ll give you a tour. C’mon.”
The sudden change in pace caught Castiel by surprise. By the time he’d realized what was happening, Dean had managed to get out of the car, round the giant thing, and pull open Castiel’s door like
he
was the servant.
“Crutches?”
Castiel scrambled to get his walking aids situated. The gravel did not look like something he wanted under his knees.
“Normally I’d park Baby inside the garage, but the guy who built the steps in there fucked ‘em up so bad it’s actually impressive.” Dean set a slow pace towards the house, as if he knew Castiel would struggle with the strange new surface to walk on; he wasn’t in the hospital anymore. “Not a single step’s level, and they’re all tilted in a different direction. It's crazy. Plus, now you get the full grand entrance. Probably more impressive than my washer and dryer.”
The steps leading up the front porch were very level, and Castiel was glad for it. Dean hopped up the stairs ahead of his slave and paused in front of the door to fish keys out of his pocket. Castiel could see into the house through a thin window. No movement. No servants. No slaves. “And we’re in. Casa Winchester.”
Confused at the silence - there were some birds tweeting behind his back, but that was it - Castiel limped over the threshold.
It was
tiny
.
Smaller than he’d ever imagined was possible.
“There’s some storage space in the roof, but I can’t make myself call it an attic.” Winchester pulled the door to the outside world shut and dropped his keys in a conveniently placed wicker basket. “So it’s all pretty much one floor.”
No grand staircase to be kicked down then, Castiel giggled to himself, and no trying to quietly make his way up and downstairs with his cast.
-----------------------------------
He’d been cleaning up for the last two days, and still- Dean’s eyes danced nervously around his home. It wasn’t all that special.
“Your leg doing ok?” He asked, suddenly remembering that gravel wasn’t exactly easy to navigate with crutches. “Do you need to go sit down or something? Or maybe a tour first? Food?”
God, he sounded like a teenager. Wanna see my room? My posters? My mom made us some snacks!
“I’m ok, sir.”
Dean smiled when Castiel’s eyes found his for a nervous second. The guy was used to like, spectacular homes, but not as an owner- not even as a guest. He probably wasn’t going to miss the decadence of hand-painted murals and fancy trimmings- unless he expected every house to have them?
No need to prove anything here Winchester, you’re just here to provide a safe space where he can get over the worst of the trauma. My house is your safe house. That’s it. Get over yourself. He’s a witness, not a normal ass guest. Not a friend- not yet. Ok-ok-ok-
“The tour it is,” with a grin, he gestured at the open space. “This is the chill zone- I mean- uh- the living room.”
Dean looked at Castiel, trying to gauge his reaction, but the guy just nodded as he followed Dean’s hand. Not that there was that much to see. He wasn’t a knick-knack kind of guy.
“I kept a bit of the original furniture when I bought the place, but they had some weird-ass one-thousand-year-old couches that I swear were designed to just make you stand up again. This gal though, she’s made out of dreams. Work gets me down, there’s always Bertha to come home to.”
Confusion flitted across Castiel’s face, as he tried to find a new person, and Dean felt his heart grow two whole sizes. He looked cute like that; little line between his perfectly sculpted eyebrows.
“The couch is called Bertha, Cas.”
“Oh. Yes, sir.”
“It’s something me ‘n Sam used to do as kids. Make up names for furniture or buildings. You’ll get used to it. Anyway. That’s my room. That’s the office. And that’s the tv. Remote’s usually on the coffee table but if it’s not there then it’s somewhere inside Bertha.”
Remembering the hours spent scrubbing his floors, Dean kicked off his shoes and ambled further into his home.
“I’ve got a little gym setup in the garage, but Charlie said you didn’t need anything special for your pt yet. But later, you know, you’ll probably- Oh, let me help.”
Kicking himself for not realizing how hard it would be to take off your frickin shoes with crutches and a cast, Dean hurried to crouch at Castiel’s feet. The dude had been trying to balance on his plastered foot and crutches while reaching for his laces, and Charlie would kill him if Cas had to be sent back to the hospital with a new break- or any bruising at all really.
“You’ll need the walking boot on, probably.”
He untied Castiel’s single shoe, trying to ignore the uncomfortable silence. He should have remembered to put a chair here or something.
“Pull up.”
Holding down the heel of the shoe allowed Cas to slide his foot out on his own.
“There. Just don’t really wanna get the floors dirty again, you know?”
He stood there awkwardly, holding Castiel’s shoe before hurriedly setting the thing down and waving them both further into the house.
“Kitchen, breakfast bar,” He patted the raised table and gestured at the windows he’d put in. “Best place to watch the sunrise. There used to be like one tiny window there, but I didn’t come all the way out here to live in a bunker, you know? And with the 5 glaze glass some guy talked me into buying, the cold doesn’t get in any better than through the walls.”
Dean turned to see Cas’ reaction to what really was the fucking show stopper in his house. He’d checked out a ton of houses before buying this one and, like, none of them had a window this big with a view that wow. Castiel seemed entranced by the windows, hesitantly hopping forward till he was about a foot behind Dean. The kid’s eyes were gorgeous and blue as fuck in the abundance of natural light, but they were- too wide. Like when doctor douchebag had started yelling. Dancing between the window and Dean’s face as if he expected things to go bad.
“You ok?”
“Oh- yes, sir.” Castiel fidgeted with his crutches. “I- there weren’t a lot of windows in master Alastair’s home, and- we weren’t allowed to look through them. None of my owners ever permitted it.”
Oh- That made sense. Person gets punished enough for doing something they eventually stop doing the thing. Looking out of windows was probably some kind of trauma trigger thing. Like when Sam had spent a year and a half jumping whenever he heard the word ruby.
Making damn sure his face stayed pleasant, Dean cursed himself for not paying closer attention to Cas during the drive over. There were a ton of windows in a car- Castiel had been quiet, but he was always quiet. 20/20 hindsight; he’d need to pay attention from now on. Cas was a guest-
a witness
. No extra stress.
“Well, these are for looking through.” With what he hoped was a soothing smile, he led them towards the one floor to ceiling window in the entire house. “Took out some cabinets to make room but it was so worth it. What’cha think?”
“I- It looks amazing, sir.” Castiel’s voice wavered as he stared into the backyard and everything that lay beyond. Trees, lawn, and a ton of open space.
“Mhmm,” Dean hummed, pleased that Cas approved. “Just wait till you see it in the morning. All golds and reds.”
They stood in silence, enjoying the view until Castiel started shifting his weight around and Dean remembered the guy’s leg wasn’t exactly made for standing on for too long at the moment. It was getting darker out anyway.
“You can look as much as you want, Cas, but maybe we finish the tour first? Make sure you know where everything is?”
“Of course.”
Dean smiled, happy to hear how relaxed Castiel sounded.
“Awesome. So. Kitchen. Stove, oven, microwave- and fridge-freezer.” He pulled open the glossy metal doors. “Stocked up, so there should be a bit of everything in here. You-uh- you know how to cook?”
Castiel’s eyes lit up at the question. “Yes, sir. I- I was often allowed to help in the kitchens. I learned a lot.”
“Well- feel free to cook up something if you want to.”
“I will, sir.”
Castiel was practically glowing, nodding enthusiastically.
“There’s a pantry too. Mostly canned and dry goods. Some snacks.” He shouldered open the door to let Cas take a peek at the shelves then gestured to the other doors. “Now- uh- I’m not one to tell you where you can and can’t go, Cas- but” He rapped a knuckle on the lightweight door to the left of the one leading to the pantry. “There’s a massive basement under the house, but the light’s broken and the stairs are a mess.”
With the door open, they could see the first few thin steps down into the dark. Dean’d lived here for years and it still creeped him out. The estate agent had made grand statements about it being the perfect place to plan a man cave, but the whole fucking house was his ‘man cave’. Plus, it was
dirty
down there. And there were spiders- not that he was afraid of spiders, but there were spider
webs
.
“I’d rather you didn’t try to go down there, ok?”
Castiel nodded, enthusiasm gone.
“It’s not infested with rats or anything.” He hastened to calm any fears. “Just don’t want you hurting yourself.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t go into the- the basement.”
“Ok- good. Um- that’s the back door. There’s a deck that’s amazing for parties in summer.” He laughed. “As long as there’s no case keeping me away for months. No parties any time soon.”
Turning in a neat half circle, he pointed finger guns at the opposite wall. Full of posters and family pictures, and two doors. One at each end. He pointed to the one at the far right first.
“That’s Sam’s room. If he comes over, at least. And that’s yours.”
Castiel was back to looking confused. He’d probably thought he’d have to sleep in Sam’s room or on the couch or something. The house didn’t look large from the outside.
“C’mon. Go check it out.”
Unable to contain himself, Dean followed close behind as Cas pushed open the door to his own private space. It wasn’t the Ritz, but it had to be better than the freaking kennels Alastair had been keeping his slaves in. People weren’t meant to sleep on concrete, you weren’t even allowed to do that to animals.
“Mattress got replaced when I renovated, but the bed’s like- old. I guess. And I went a bit crazy and put windows everywhere.”
Castiel was staring right out of the window behind the bed frame; frozen in place.
“It’s not the best view, just trees on this side but it lets in some light, again- don’t exactly like the bunker feel. Oh, and you’ve got your own bathroom.”
Dean pushed open the door as Castiel turned himself around.
“Not that big, but I didn’t want anyone to ever have to share with Sam. He’s got too much-
stuff
. So! Toilet, sink, bath shower combo. Bit compact but better than some motels we stayed in as kids. Oh- and Charlie got you a-uh- welcome basket thing.” He picked up the brightly wrapped collection. “You won’t be able to take a real bath or shower without some plastic bags and a ton of tape for a bit, but there’s normal stuff here too besides-” He poked at a ball. “A bath bomb that smells like- unicorn dreams? Or relaxing green tea- ok just give ‘em a smell and if you don't like it let me know and I’ll get you some less sparkly alternatives.”
He realized he was fucking rambling, but he couldn’t make himself shut
up
.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with sparkly, of course. Hey, you ok?”
Castiel was staring around the tiny bathroom, highly lacking in marble finishings and gold plated taps. Dean couldn’t help but feel insecure. There wasn’t anything wrong with his house but not everyone liked what he liked. What if Cas wanted to leave?
He’d call the bureau and arrange for a safe house, that’s what he’d do. He might like Cas, might want to help him… but whatever Castiel wanted was what had to happen here. Give the man some time to get used to being free for real.
“Am- am I really allowed to use
all
of this?”
Yeah fuck golden taps and marble tiles, Castiel never lived in luxury.
“Yeah, man. Of course. You need to be able to clean yourself ‘n’ stuff, right? Go to the bathroom?” He’d need to ask about what his captors had been demanding he use, it might be important to the case. But he didn’t want to bring it up now; too heartbroken anyway. It was a bathroom for Christ’s sake, and Cas was getting teary-eyed over it.
“Thank you.” Castiel’s voice broke, and he was breathing hard. “Really-”
“It’s no big deal. I promise. Just some soaps you might not even like.”
He wasn’t used to people saying thank you. Most of the time he was the guy handing over pictures of a frickin dead person to said dead person’s distressed family; asking if they recognized them. No one said thank you for that. Scrubbing at the back of his neck, Dean thought wildly about his next move here.
“And speaking of stuff you might not like.” He gestured at the disguise getup. “Your clothes.”
Castiel looked down at himself, quiet again, and Dean moved past him to pull open one of the chests of drawers that he’d fit inside the room.
“I got you some basics. T-shirt. Jeans for when you get out of the cast. More of those weird button pants Charlie found which I guess are handy for now. Underwear- duh. Um- yeah- a sweater or two. Pj’s. We went for comfort over style. So it might not- Cas? Cas you look really pale right now.”
He’d never seen Castiel look this panicked before. Not breathing heavy, no, the guy was barely breathing at all; swaying on his legs like he was seconds away from toppling over.
“I- that’s- I don’t-”
Dean had to strain his ears to hear the broken sentences. Obviously Castiel hadn’t expected to get clothes; or a bathroom, or a bedroom for that matter.
“Breathe Cas. Breathe. It’s ok.” A steadying hand to Cas’ shoulder seemed to do the trick. Cas sucked in a deep breath, responding through the panic. “Ok, yeah. Breathe. It’s just some clothes.”
“It-” Castiel gasped in another breath, shuddering through the exhale; eyes wet with tears he wasn’t shedding as he stared at the drawers. “I- it’s- I don’t-”
“It’s just some clothes, Cas. The bureau has accounts for this. You didn’t have anything, man.”
“But-” Cas hiccuped. “There’s so many.”
“No there’s not, Cas.” Dean soothed. “You needed clothes, and now you have some. That’s all there is to it. No need to worry. Ok?”
Castiel nodded, but Dean knew he was still very much worrying. He wasn’t used to getting things, not like this. They’d need to work on that.
“I promise there’s nothing to worry about here. I swear it to you, Cas. Ok?”
“Ok, sir.”
The honorific was starting to sound just a bit off, but Dean knew this was all a work in progress. Cas was still unlearning being a fucking pet, and that didn’t happen overnight.
“All right.” Dean realized his hand was still on Cas’ shoulder and pulled it back. “I’ll go order us some food, and you get yourself freshened up and check out the room. Good?”
“Yes, sir.” Castiel breathed, blinking fast as he stepped away from the surge of panic. Dean could see him do it. The way his breathing slowed. The lines fading from around his eyes.
“Awesome.”
---
For those wondering what Dean's house actually looks like (I tried describing it but ... a picture says a thousand words) this is a quick sketch I made of the floorplan. Proportions are a bit off, duh, but the base layout is there.
|
Gabriel’s borrowed corporation was starting to feel cold as they ascended to Heaven. He felt dirty like he had just run twenty miles in the dusty desert but couldn’t wash away the dirt and sweat.
He was half scared that armed angels would wait at the top, but there were only the usual guards, trying not to wonder why Heaven’s general returned mere minutes after leaving.
Michael walked briskly towards her office, not stopping for anything and anybody and the rest of them just had to try and keep up. Gabriel found it refreshing, walking the halls of Heaven in Kushiel's skin. The angels they met kept giving Michael covert glances full of curiosity and hints of hope and Kushiel, with his rank far beneath Michael’s, was outside their interest. It was almost amusing to watch how the lower-ranked angels straightened when they spotted Michael approaching.
It had been several months since Gabriel walked the halls of Heaven without worrying about what others thought of him. If they could tell how incompetent he was without Michael holding his hand, if they all knew about Sandalphon, if the fact that he couldn’t do miracles was plain to see. Later, when things had got worse, respect the others had towards archangels wasn’t enough to stop them from approaching him and asking if he needed help.
Now Gabriel wasn’t entirely sure why the opinion of the other angels mattered so much to him. He was the boss! Angels should be worried about what Gabriel thought of them, not the other way round.
They entered Michael’s office. “You two wait here,” she said and walked into her inner office, expecting Gabriel to follow her. Michael was the only angel in Heaven who was granted an inner sanctum. The room offered the best view of Heaven in Gabriel’s opinion, but right now he felt no joy and pride at seeing it. No-one in Heaven begrudged Michael the extra space. She was the smiter of Lucifer, the leader of Heavenly armies, a shield that stood between Heaven and the darkness. She deserved it. Hardly anyone chose to remember that once upon the time, this was Lucifer’s office. When Lucifer fell and no-one wanted to claim his empty office, Michael took it for her own and connected it to her own adjacent office.
The room was practically furnished yet still cozy and Michael led him to the sofa where they’d spent many hours in discussion.
“Tell me what happened.”
“Didn’t they already tell you?”
Michael pursed her lips. “They told me a lot of confusing and contradictory things. I want to hear it from you.”
Gabriel was silent for a while, staring mulishly at the floor. Michael sat silently in her armchair, observing him, but otherwise not rushing him.
“I just messed everything up.” sighed Gabriel.
“How so?”
Gabriel shrugged. “I am simply not good at it...all that relationship stuff. I could never make Sandalphon happy.”
Michael’s eye twitched. “Why do you believe something like that?”
“It’s obvious. I am not the most considerate person. I never was. It never occurred to me on my own to bring a gift or arrange a date. If I tried harder, Sandalphon would have never turned out like this. If I was just better I’d be easier to love.”
Michael grabbed his hand and squeezed them. “Gabriel, that’s not true.”
Gabriel yanked his hand back. “What of it is a lie then? I know it’s true. All I do is make people miserable. Maybe I am not made for relationships. I had one chance and I blew it.”
“Is that what Sandalphon told you? That no-one would love you?”
“He didn’t even have to,” muttered Gabriel. “It’s obvious.”
“It isn’t obvious to me. You act like you are some kind of monster that doesn’t even deserve love. That’s nonsense. I love you for one.”
Gabriel felt the blood draining from his face and his heart sinking. Michael loved him? The panic was rising inside his corporation. What will Michael require of him for her affection? Michael wouldn’t force him to do things he didn’t want to, would she? She was Michael! She was always by his side. Except after the last few months, Gabriel didn’t know who in Heaven to trust. Everything he believed seemed to be wrong. Angels he trusted turned out not to be as reliable as he had known them.
“You love me?” he couldn’t help but let a hint of dread seep into his voice.
“Of course I love you. You are my little brother.”
“Oh,” a wave of relief swept through Gabriel. “We aren’t actually siblings though.” After all, the angels had no parents unless you count their creator the Almighty and so they had no excuse for a biological relation. Depending on the way you looked at it, they were none related to each other at all or they were all siblings.
Michael moved from her armchair to sit next to Gabriel on the sofa. “We might as well be. How many things have we lived through together? Me and you, and Uriel and Raphael too. You want to tell me you don’t see me as your big sister?”
“I wasn’t sure.” He always saw Michael as someone he could always rely on. But he saw Raphael the same way and he decided to disappear. Gabriel always wondered if they did something to drive him away.
“What did Sandalphon say that you doubt me?”
“He said you don’t like it here. That you are glad to be sent away on a long mission, away from me. That you would stay away forever if you could.”
“I couldn’t stay away forever. I would miss you all. Sandalphon lied.”
“Why did you never answer? You barely sent reports.”
“I really was busy. And you know how I am with reports, and I was hoping that once I get home you’ll help me with it.” Michael took Gabriel’s face into her hands and spoke urgently to him. “If I knew you were in trouble, I would be back with a flap of a wing.”
“I made the trouble for myself on my own. I am an Archangel, I shouldn’t wait for you to save me. I should be able to deal with it.”
“Not true. You entered into a relationship with Sandalphon in good faith. It’s not your fault he broke this trust, that he hurt you. That’s on him. And whatever you think you did to make him abuse you, you are mistaken. In fact, I feel partly responsible. I always knew there’s a beast hiding beneath his halo, but I never said anything. I thought if I just keep an eye on him, he will toe the line. And I knew he fancied you but I never warned you.”
“Why not?” Did Michael want him to suffer?
Michael only sighed. “He never actually did anything. Having a propensity for violence doesn’t mean you are going to be violent. If that was true I guess I should be locked away.” Michael closed her eyes. “You were supposed to be working with him closely, I didn’t want to color your view of him just because I was paranoid. And he never actually made one wrong step. I guess that I was lulled into a sense of safety too.”
Gabriel didn’t know what to think about that. He didn’t see why Michael should feel guilty. It wasn’t her job to lead Gabriel around by a hand. On the other hand, not having to convince Michael of Sandalphon’s true nature was relieving. And her words were doing something to Gabriel’s chest and eyes.
“Now tell me what else had Sandalphon said and done.”
“Do you have to really hear it?” Now that Gabriel had no longer a reason to fear that Michael wouldn’t believe him he worried about something else. Her good opinion. Once he tells her what was happening between him and Sandalphon, she will see how stupid and incompetent he could be. And if he tells her how he decided to kill Sandalphon she may still change her mind about him being blameless.
“Of course. So I can tell you that he lied and he was wrong.”
Even Michael’s reassurance didn’t make the words flow out of Gabriel. He stumbled over his sentences and struggled to describe the individual situations he got into. Sometimes he discovered that he no longer remembered what exactly happened, only Sandalphon’s retelling of it.
But Michael was patient with him, asking him questions and prying answers out of him with more questions. She never judged him and her face was impassive. And Gabriel discovered that talking actually made him feel better. It was like resting his wings after a long flight or like watching piles of paperwork disappear as he completed it. Now that he had to think back and put into the words what happened, his mind was clearer. He could now see where he made a mistake, where Sandalphon manipulated him, where Sandalphon had no right to be cross with him.
He could now see that Sandalphon greatly exaggerated the incident in the baths. Michael insisted, outraged, that Gabriel had the right to defend himself against unwanted physical advances and had much to say about other angels’ reaction.
In retrospect, Gabriel shouldn’t have moved with Sandalphon so soon before he knew what he was getting into. He could see how his relationship with Sandalphon became less bearable after that, how his partner became more controlling after that.
Once they got to the worst, to the time where he was drugged and helpless and Sandalphon took what he wanted and raped him, Gabriel ended up crying in Michael”s arms. He didn’t even notice how tense she was, how rapidly her heart beat.
“I’ll get him,” growled Michael eventually, “and kill him for you.”
It was funny but through the previous conversation when Michael kept assuring him that she did care for him, Gabriel still had his doubt that Sandalphon seeded over previous months. But the threat of murder made him feel loved.
“He said he loved me,” muttered Gabriel. “Why did he do this then?”
“Maybe he really believes it. Maybe he mistakes obsession with love. Does it matter? Did you?”
“Did what?”
“Did you love him? There must have been a reason you started dating him.”
Gabriel thought for a moment. “He was just always around. And he was always nice to me. I liked spending time with him. It was…” Gabriel searched for a proper word but he couldn’t one that would truly express his feelings so he finished lamely. “...tolerable. So I guess.”
Michael looked at Gabriel intently. “Just because someone is tolerable doesn’t mean you are in love with them.”
“But I thought… he was my friend first and then, Sandalphon wanted it so badly. I thought it was right. He said he loves me.”
“His feelings are his problems, not yours, Gabriel. You aren’t obligated to return them.”
“How would I even know? I suck at love.”
“Did you want to spend your time with him above all else? Did you miss him when he wasn’t there? Did you want to bring joy to his eyes?”
Gabriel thought back to all the times he wished Sandalphon would just leave him alone. How the only times he wanted to make Sandalphon happy was when he didn’t want him to be angry with him. How he never thought to give him a gift without prompting, how he never took an initiative in their relationship.
Gabriel had thought that there was simply something wrong with the way he loved, that he was somehow lacking as an angel, a being that should naturally be made out of love. Until Michael lead him to this realization, it never even occurred to him that he might not love Sandalphon at all.
“Oh.”
Michael simply rubbed his back. They stayed in their position for some time, until Michael shifted. “We should get your corporation back. It’s strange hugging Kushiel.”
“I should probably apologize to them,” said Gabriel, coming back to reality.
“After they apologize to you first.”
None of them actually made a move to get up from the sofa. Gabriel didn’t want to move. Now that Michael was back and he had someone who was unquestionably on his side, he felt safe and he didn’t want to leave that safety.
Shouting beyond the door of the office forced them out anyway.
“Michael. You are back.” Uriel said in a clipped voice once they emerged. “About time. Can you explain to me why you took my prisoner out of his cell and parade him across Heaven like he was your old friend?!”
“Aziraphale was most helpful in clearing some things up. And when we are at it, you can explain to me why our little brother is currently Heaven’s most wanted? I trusted that order would be maintained while I was away and instead return to chaos and find out that you let Gabriel be abused and made him a fugitive.” Michael sounded like a schoolmistress chastising a naughty student.
Uriel’s nostrils flared. “You have no right to accuse me of anything, showing up here weeks late. Where the hell you have been?! I sent you a missive weeks ago.”
Michael frowned. “The only communication I received was even more assignments. I only learned what is happening because a healer who abandoned her post came to find me.”
Sariel, thought Gabriel. He wanted to ask if she was alright but Uriel and Michael continued their glaring discussion.
“That’s not possible. I sent you multiple messages. I even sent a runner. He didn’t come back…”
“It seems someone interfered with our communications. And I think I know who,” growled Michael.
“You believe that Sandalphon blocked any messages meant for you,” commented Aziraphale calmly, as if he wasn’t between two mean-looking soldiers who held his hands firmly.
“I have wondered why I haven’t received any personal letters,” Michael glanced at Gabriel.
“Sandalphon kept helping Gabriel with his paperwork a lot,” Uriel admitted grudgingly. They and Michael watched each other speculatively. Uriel shook their head. “It doesn’t matter now. Now that you are here you can make yourself useful.”
“Oh,” Michael didn’t seem much to care for Uriel’s tone.
“We apprehended a demon trying to get into Heaven. He didn’t even try to be subtle about it. No doubt trying to rescue this one.” One hand waved towards Aziraphale. Uriel nodded back and soldiers dragged Crowley inside. Or rather Zachariel in Crowley’s body.
Real Crowley moaned despairingly and he had a reason to. Zachariel looked horrible. He limped heavily and one half of his face was blackened and left eyelid shut closed. Zachariel fixed his good eye on Michael. “He is deranged.”
Michael stared at Zachariel. “What happened? Where is Kushiel?”
“Sandalphon took him. He believes that he is Gabriel.”
Silence fell over the room. Confused in the case of Uriel and their soldiers, stunned in the case of Aziraphale, Michael, Gabriel, and Crowley. Then Crowley broke it.
“Uhoh.” |
Stiles feels empty now. They haven’t even been gone a whole day yet but it’s like they took his happiness and confidence with him, leaving him feeling completely hollow and with more self-doubt circulating in his head than he’d like to admit.
It’s late. He doesn’t know how late, but he can feel it in his eyes. His body wants sleep, but he knows better than to sleep right now. He can already hear the voice right now, he’s sure as hell not going to sleep and give him free reign of his nightmares.
‘Oh, come on.’ An evil little voice says in the back of his head. ‘We’ve played this game before, haven’t we?’
He knows this voice well. He should, he hears it every time he opens his mouth to talk. It’s his voice. But he knows damn well that it isn’t him, it’s the Nogitsune. Just like when it was in control, using his face and his body and his voice. That’s worse than seeing and hearing the gauze-wrapped corpse that he was in the beginning, because it feels too real.
Like it’s still in his head.
‘I am in your head, Stiles.’ Void says in a silky way that he could never achieve on his own. ‘I’ll always be in your head, remember?’
“They’ll be back.” He tells himself quietly.
‘Of course they will.’ Void agrees. ‘They’ll be back. The next time you lose control they’ll come running, just like they did this time. Do you know why, Stiles?’
He pointedly doesn’t think anything back. They just left and he’s already falling apart.
‘It’s because they’re afraid of you.’ Void continues, unaffected. ‘Afraid of who you are, of what you can do. They look at you, but they see us. They see how powerful we were, and they’re scared. Scared that they’re going to have to put us down.’
The image of Chris pointing the gun at him pops into his head despite his best efforts. He can’t suppress the chill that slips down his spine as he remembers back to that. Void egging him on while Stiles screamed himself hoarse trapped in his own head, begging for it to stop, for someone to hear him.
He glances over at his bed where Clint is fast asleep with Natasha and decides to get up and go to the bathroom.
“Stop it.” He mutters as he splashes cold water onto his face. Anything to keep him awake.
He definitely shouldn’t have looked into the mirror, because now his reflection is moving independently of him. “No.” It says, smirking at him with his stolen face. ‘I’m not going to stop, Stiles. Do you know why? Because you know it’s true. You know that they’re scared of you. It’s why you didn’t tell them – about the powers. Because you know that once you say it, they won’t see you anymore. They’ll see me.’
“Haven’t you taken enough from me?”
‘Me?’ His reflection laughs. ‘Oh Stiles, no. We. We did that. You and me. Together. I couldn’t have done it by myself. Trapped in a tree for decades, I was a man out of time. But you, with your thirst for knowledge. You gave me the information I needed to hurt them. The bomb. The fox-fire. You, with your need for approval, you knew everything about them – from their favorite colors to their worst fears. You gave me their weaknesses. Allison. Aiden. I didn’t do that by myself, Stiles. We did.’
He’s closed his eyes by now, but that doesn’t stop him from hearing him. ‘Take some credit for your work, Stiles. It was beautiful.’
Leave me alone. Just leave me alone.
‘Oh, it’s much too late for that. Everyone has it, no one can lose it. What is it?’
He can’t stop the words from tumbling past his lips. “A shadow.”
‘That’s right, Stiles.’ Void nods, looking pleased. ‘A shadow. I’m your shadow. You can’t get rid of me.’ Before he can think about it he slams his fist into the mirror, resulting in it shattering and falling all over the bathroom.
He turns and walks out, closing the door behind him to find Natasha and Clint both sitting up, searching for the threat. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” He lies. “I tripped and fell into the mirror. I’ll clean it up in the morning. You guys don’t have to stay with me tonight, I’m fine.”
“Stiles, it’s not trouble, really.” Clint assures him.
“Really, I’m fine.” He shakes his head easily. “You guys don’t have to stay here. Go see your dog, hang out with James. I know he wasn’t really sure how long he was staying.”
“You’re sure?” Natasha asks. Maybe it’s because they’re tired that they’re so easy to fool, but either way, it works.
“Yeah.” He nods. “Dad’s home tonight anyways.”
“Okay.” Clint hesitates, clapping a hand on his shoulder before heading to the window. Natasha uses the door like a civilized person.
‘Give it up, Stiles.’ Nogitsune says as Stiles eyes his empty, inviting bed. ‘We’ve done this before in Eichen House. You know you’ll give in eventually.’
Some part of him is aware that his hand is bleeding as he crawls into bed, but he doesn’t feel it. “You’re right.” He says to the ceiling. “Last time I lost. This time though, the only person you can hurt is me.”
He wakes up in his room back home and stretches before sitting up. He got a good night’s sleep for the first time in a long time.
“Stiles, get up!” His dad calls from downstairs. “I’m leaving for work, don’t be late for school.”
He hums a happy little tune as he gets out of bed. He’s excited for school today, he and Scott have plans to go see a movie after lacrosse practice and he’s practically vibrating with excitement.
But all of that changes when he pushes his bedroom room open and steps into the hall.
Because it isn’t the hall.
He’s in the middle of the woods.
It’s dark. Nighttime. Just enough moon light to see by. He turns back around to look for the door he just came out of, but of course it’s gone.
Instead he sees a little girl. Maybe five, sobbing as she runs away from a chillingly familiar figure with pale gold eyes. He watches in horror as she trips over her feet and goes sprawling in the dirt. He comes to a halt behind her, stalking towards her slower now.
“Mommy!” The girl screams as he raises a clawed hand for what is undoubtably a fatal blow. The sound shocks Stiles into movement.
“Theo no!” He screams, arms outstretched. The girl lifts off the ground and flies right into his arms, away from Theo. The girl sobs harder in response and Theo snarls and turns towards him. The girl screams and clings tighter to his chest.
He scrambles backwards as he tries to fight down panic and figure out what to do, but when Theo raises his claws to attack, he sends the magic inside him bursting forwards without even consciously thinking about it.
“Stiles no!” Scott screams – when did Scott and the Pack get here? – but it’s too late. Theo flies backwards and falls to the ground, his head making a horrible sound when it cracks against a rock protruding from the ground that Stiles is sure wasn’t there a second ago.
Theo goes still, dead eyes boring into his soul, blood pooling on the ground in shock.
“Don’t look.” He warns the crying girl, her arms are still wrapped around his neck, clinging for dear life. “You’re safe now.”
All at once everything changes again. He couldn’t tell you what came first, but the first thing that he registered was the girl.
As soon as the words leave his mouth the crying stops and she looks up at him, tear-stained face completely devoid of emotion. “Why did you have to kill me?” She asks.
“Wha-“ He starts, but suddenly she’s gone and Theo is in her place, strong hand gripped tight around his throat where the girl had been clinging, strangling him.
“Why’d you do it, Stiles?” Theo snarls at him. “Why’d you kill her?
Stiles manages a look over Theo’s shoulder to see that the little girl is now laying where he had been, tears and blood alike still wet as the Pack stands around her in shock.
“He’s a monster Scott!” Allison yells as she cradle’s the little girl in her arms. Her dead eyes hold his with no sign of every letting him go. “Look at what he did!”
“She was just a little girl!” Lydia now.
“He’s evil,” Erica snaps out next, “We all saw it. The magic, he’s just like the Nogitsune now.”
“I warned them, Stiles.” Theo says into his ear. “I warned them that you were dark. You can’t survive something like that without being tainted. That’s what you are, Stiles – the Nogitsune’s dirty whore.”
“Why did you kill me?”
It’s too much.
The panic builds as their words continue, harsh and sharp like knives cutting little pieces of him away. The pain in his chest and head grows as Theo continues to strangle him. But still, he doesn’t truly break until it’s Isaac’s turn to speak.
“How could you?”
That’s it. That’s his breaking point. He just explodes. Everything goes up in a flash of blinding blue light that leaves his eyes burning. His ears ring and it fades, but he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing.
Why is he in a cemetery?
Why is his dad here?
It all snaps into place at once, overwhelming him with the realization of what’s going on as he wishes he could to back to before he figured it out – before he saw the names on the headstones and heard the words his father was saying.
Scott McCall.
Liam Dunbar.
Lydia Martin.
Vernon Boyd.
Erica Reyes.
Isaac Lahey-
He forces himself not to look at the others, but he can’t stop the words.
“-and as Sheriff I promise all of you that I will catch the monster that did this. Stiles will be put to justice for what he’s done-“
‘See?’ The Nogitsune whispers into his ear. ‘I told you. They’re afraid.’
“It’s just a dream.” He says, but it barely even comes out a whisper.
‘Are you sure about that, Stiles?’ A chill runs down his spine as he raises his hands up to count his fingers, but there are tears in his eyes, blurring his vision.
No.
He can’t see.
How is he supposed to tell if this is a dream if he can’t see?
“He killed my baby.” Melissa’s sobs nearly kill him. The hatred in her voice would be enough to make him react any day, but when it’s coming from the woman who raised him
after his mother died and being directed towards him, he has no hope of ever surviving.
The panic and pain continue all night, to the point that Stiles loses all concept of time. It feels as if this is all he’s ever known – this special brand of torture – and he eventually he just gives up.
With no end in sight, he finally just let’s go and takes it.
Each scene is different yet completely the same. He tries and fails to save someone – the Pack or an innocent – but every time it’s like they don’t actually see it, instead they blame him, saying that he killed them, or that his powers are evil, or that he’s evil.
He watches them die over and over, no matter what happens. He listens to the cruel words they throw at him, unable to block them out – a few times they even attacked him, but by that point he had already stopped fighting.
Even worse than him suffering at the hands of those he cares about, is the fact that he has to deal with the Nogitsune spitting poison into his head the whole time.
Unlike normal, however, is that he doesn’t wake up during the night. Not once. Not until four in the morning when the pain of him digging his nails into his sides finally jerks him back to consciousness. The blood that’s wet on his fingers does nothing to calm his racing heartbeat or stop the flow of tears that stream down his face. It’s a long time before he can even get up to drag himself to the bathroom and tend to the new – particularly deep and painful – scratches on his sides.
‘You and me forever, Stiles.’ The nogitsune says as he smoothes the bandage over his side. Stiles hopes that he's imagining the feeling on his breath on the back of his neck.
“As if.” He writes a note to his dad, grabs his bag and leaves. He isn’t exactly sure where he’s going, only that he needs to clear his head. He ends up standing in front of the gym that Steve had mentioned to him. He had said that he had a tendency to go there when he couldn’t sleep to clear his head, and that Stiles was welcome any time.
Stiles picks up the key Steve gave him and unlocks the door.
He doesn’t really look around much except to make sure that Steve isn’t here. He wraps his hands and blares the loudest, most obnoxious heavy metal music he can find through his headphones before he begins attacking a punching bag with what little fight he currently has left in him.
*****
Stiles nearly screams as he breaks his second pair of headphones in the past hour. They keep getting caught on his arms when he hits the punching bag. The first pair he stomped on in frustration, smashing the earbud to pieces. This one made the mistake of getting tangled when it got ripped out of his phone and fell to the ground. He gave up on untangling them almost immediately and instead ripped the cord in two.
Unbeknownst to Stiles, Steve and Tony watch from the doorway, both wearing grim expressions as the seriousness of the situation dawns on them.
Stiles isn’t okay.
They all had questions after the Doombot thing – who wouldn’t when a human teenager is found passed out on top of robot carnage and then goes into a sleep-depravation induced coma where he screams and says some scary shit in his sleep for a fucking week – but this… is more than they had expected.
Stiles becomes aware of their presence when he finally does let out a frustrated “Shut up!”, clamping his hands over his ears so hard that Steve finally moves to put a hand on his shoulder. “Shit!” He jumps, flinching away from the contact – a movement neither Steve nor Tony miss. “Don’t scare me like that.”
“Stiles, are you okay?” Steve asks, and it finally hits Stiles that they’ve probably been here long enough to witness the mental breakdown he’s currently going through.
He knows it’s no use arguing. He’s already caught sight of his reflection. He looks like hell.
His hair is messier than usual, hanging down around his eyes with sweat, he’s pale as a sheet, his lips have been bitten bloody, there are dark circles under his eyes that look like he’s been working on them for a week instead of the sixteen hours his friends have been gone, not to mention that the new marks on his side started bleeding hours ago and there’s now blood starting to appear on his shirt.
More than that though, Stiles looks defeated. It’s not just the physical exhaustion either, it’s in his eyes and the way his shoulders sag inwards.
In the privacy of his own head, Steve cries a little internally at how much Stiles reminds him of Bucky right now.
Despite the fact that he knows exactly what he looks like, and that there’s currently blood coming from under the wraps on his hands, smearing the punching bag in front of him, he lies anyways. “Couldn’t sleep.” He says, giving them his best slight self-depreciating ‘what-can-you-do’ smile. “Figured I’d work off some steam.”
“Stiles…” Steve starts, giving him his sad, golden retriever eyes that put Scott’s to shame. “Do you really expect us to believe that?”
“It’s not a lie Steve.” It takes a lot of energy to keep himself from snapping at the captain. As much as he likes Steve and Tony, all they’re doing is making his mood worse.
“You’re right, Stiles.” Tony says, stepping forward before Steve can say anything else. “It was very specifically not a lie, because you didn’t answer the question.”
“Yes, I did.” He knows Tony sees right through him, but he can’t do this right now. He just can’t. Not when he can see the Nogitsune standing behind them in the mirror, whispering poison in his ears. “Look, guys, I get that you’re trying to be nice and all, but-“
“I talked to Natasha.” The dark-haired man cuts him off and he knows that this isn’t going to be good. “She said that you fell and broke the bathroom mirror last night.”
‘Oh, how sweet.’ Void hisses in his ear. ‘Another person that cares about you. Another person we’ll destroy.’ Stiles can’t help the shiver that runs down his spine at that.
“What’s your point?” He shakes it off, doing his best to block out the play-by-play he’s getting as Void shares his very well thought out plans, he has for Tony.
“Well she also said that you sent her and Clint home last night.” Wow, this is so not the time for him to push this. “Told them that you’d stay with your dad, only when she stopped by your house this morning, the sheets were bloody, the mirror had clearly been punched, and your dad was just getting home from work.”
Stiles doesn’t say anything.
“Look, kid, I’m not the best at this, but we’ve all been going insane trying to figure out what’s going on with you, so I’m giving this adulting thing a shot.”
“Tony, this is really not the tim-“
“We haven’t asked.” Tony goes right on, completely ignoring his plea. “We didn’t asked about the breakdown in the lab. We didn’t ask about the thing with the Doombots. We didn’t ask why Steve found you on top of a pile of dismembered bots without a scratch, shaking even while unconscious. We didn’t ask why you were so sleep-deprived that you fell into a coma for a week after that, or what you’ve been through that made you scream bloody murder in your sleep. We didn’t ask about the scars.” He’s staring at the floor by now, in attempt to avoid their gazes, but the sheer amount of emotion in Tony’s voice almost makes him cry. “But enough is enough. You are not okay, Stiles. I know what not okay looks like, and this is so far past it that we’re all worried. You got to give me something here kid, anything. We can help.”
‘Go ahead, Stiles.’ He's fairly sure that he can feel Void’s breath on the back of his neck. ‘Tell them. Tell them that you’re a monster. Tell them that you ripped those Doombots apart like they were made of paper. Tell them why you were so seep deprived – because you killed your friends and your scared to see them in your sleep, because you’re scared you’re becoming me.’
Shut up!
‘Tell them! Are you afraid, Stiles? You should be. Because once they know they’ll never see you the same. Or should I say us?’
He wants to curl up in a ball and hide for the rest of his life. He wants to stab himself in the ears until he can’t hear Void’s words – can’t hear the truth in them. He wants to go back to beating his anger and pain out into the punching bag.
Instead he takes a deep breath, pretends he can’t her Void and looks back up at Tony and Steve. “You’re right.” His voice comes out in an uneven whisper. He clears his throat and tries again. “You’re right, I’m not okay. But I’m not ready to talk about it yet Tony, I can’t.”
“Stiles-“
“Just, give me a second, Steve, please.” The blonde man nods solemnly and waits, worry evident in his eyes. “I’m drowning, okay? I know I am. But talking about it, means I have to think about it, and when I think about it, I remember just how deep I am – how far I have to fight before I can get back to air. And I know this is fucked up, I do, but it’s just easier to pretend like I’m not. Hell, I’ve been doing it this whole time, and I was fine…but then…my friends came to my rescue. And yeah, we were all still fucked up, but – just for a second – we were getting a little better. Now they’re gone again, and I’m right back to where I started, and I’m out of my head worrying about Isaac, and I’ve got Voi-“
Shit.
That was close.
Okay. Deep breath. Try again.
“Look, my point is that, I know I’m not okay Tony.” The younger brunette shrugs at the pair. “I haven’t been in a long fucking time. But I physically can’t do this right now. Okay? Isaac’s gone. And I’m worried. And I’m drowning. And my head is not exactly a great place to be right now. So, I’m sorry that I’m worrying you. I am. But the only thing I can do right now to stay sane is beat the crap out of this punching bag and wait for one of them to text.”
The silence is heavy. Steve’s eyes are watery. Tony looks hollow. Even Void is quiet – although Stiles is pretty sure it’s satisfaction on his part.
Then, finally:
“Let Steve patch you up first. You’re losing a lot of blood from your sides.”
“Thank you.” He doesn’t even think that Tony hears it with how quiet it comes out, but the next thing he knows he’s wrapped up in a fiercely gentle hug.
“It’s okay to be broken Stiles.” |
Gia practically fell onto her sofa as she stumbled through the door, she could still feel the cum oozing from her pussy and ass from her day’s activities. Her panties and bra were gone before the first bell this morning and she wondered why she even bothered to wear them anymore. Her obsession with black cock would be her ruination, she thought to herself as she felt that familiar trickle across her ass cheek. She needed to get a shower and hit the sack, she was wiped out completely, but her body did not want to move. Finally, after a short nap, she made herself get up and climb the steps to her bedroom and into her bathroom as she struggled to turn the water on. Her skirt and blouse lay in a heap on the floor as she drug her tired body into the shower, ‘ How many cocks did I take today?’ she questioned herself as the warm water danced across her face, she couldn’t remember anymore, it was a countless parade of black cocks that used her poor body each and every day anymore.
All of them told her that her petite body would grow accustomed to their huge cocks, but her pussy and ass were so sore as she soaped them, trying to wash away the reminders of the day’s activities. At least it was true about her mouth, it accommodated them all, though she had always been a great cocksucker. She had long since quit worrying about getting caught, her cravings for the black serpents had caused all of her worries to be pushed aside anymore, she had to have it. She quite frankly didn’t have any choice anymore, they just took her at will, wherever the mood struck them. Thankfully, none had taken her in a place where she had been caught, thus far, and she thanked her lucky stars for that much, anyway. All she ever wanted to do was be a teacher and if this got out, she’d be ruined, at least in this state. She thought back to the first time they had taken her and she got a warm feeling in her stomach, it had been so abrupt, but she had enjoyed every one of them, she closed her eyes and remembered their hard, black cocks as they fucked every opening of hers. She stroked her clit as she thought and soon found herself moaning out loud as her orgasm rushed over her and she almost collapsed right there in the shower.
Her shower done, all the sticky cum gone, she toweled herself in front of the mirror, looking at the red marks where they had slapped her cute, perky tits and rubbed some lotion on them. The lotion felt good and it soothed her abused skin as it coated it, her poor nipples having suffered the most. ‘Why do I have to like being controlled so much,’ she asked herself, she was putty in their hands and they knew it. She pulled on her terry robe and walked out into her bedroom, ready for sleep, but it was not to be. “’Sup, Teach?” it was Joel, she had forgotten to lock the front door in her daze, “What are you doing here Joel?” she asked, but she already knew the answer. Joel had fucked her brutally this morning in the shop before everyone arrived, keeping her bra and panties as a souvenir. Her mind raced back to it, his hands clawing her small tits as his huge black cock filled her pussy from behind, “Come on in Rocky,” he said as she was shocked to see another boy walk in.
“This here’s that white cunt I promised you, we both gonna have some of this tonight,” and Gia backed up towards the bathroom, “Come on Teach, show my boy Rocky that tiny white pussy of yours,” and he ripped the robe open, spilling out all she had to offer. “Where do you get off bringing another boy in here?” Gia asked as she saw Joel’s face tighten, “Who the fuck you calling a boy, CUNT!” and he slapped her hard across the face, causing her to fall back on the floor, her robe bunched behind her back. Her jaw stung as she could feel it reddening, “For insulting Rocky like that, I think maybe we’ll let him have your ass, you white cunt!” and she grimaced at the thought of yet another black cock invading her tender ass today. “What say Rocky? You want some tight, white asshole from the Teach?” and she watched the smile come to him as he rubbed his crotch and nodded his approval. Joel grabbed her by the arm and drug her to the center of the open space and jerked her robe off, “Show Rocky what a nice pink flower you got for him Teach, and be quick about it!” and she found herself getting up on all fours and arching her ass up, “Pull them cheeks apart Bitch! Show him his prize!” and she slowly complied as her hands went back to open up her tender asshole to their gaze. She heard Rocky sigh and Joel said, “See? I told you this bitch was nice and she’ll do whatever we tell her, if not, she knows her fucking body will pay the price!” It was true, she would do whatever they told her, she had no choice in the matter.
Gia watched as they both got undressed, she had seen and felt Joel’s cock, but she sucked in a deep breath when Rocky’s was finally freed- IT WAS HUGE!!! “Rocky’s what we call a freak of nature, Teach, he’s every bit of 13 inches and none of the girls will fuck him, so I suggested my favorite little whore- you.” Gia’s eyes teared up at the thought of that monster in her ass, “Please Joel, I didn’t mean any offense when I called him a boy, really! It wasn’t a derogatory statement, only a statement of your age, I’m much older than you. Please, he’ll rip my ass apart with that thing!” Joel stared at her for a moment and then looked to Rocky, “Whatchya think? Want to spare the cunt’s tiny little ass, don’t matter to me, I’ll hold her for you if you wants it,” Gia’s eyes pleaded with Rocky to reconsider, “I’ll do anything else you want Rocky, just please not that,” and she could see him thinking. She crawled over to him and began to mouth the head of his monster cock to dissuade him from tearing her apart and found she could barely fit a couple of inches of him in her mouth, no wonder the girls shied away from him. His cock grew towards its full length as she saw she was arousing him and she pleaded again, her mouth full of this monster and she was barely past the crown. “You take at least half of me in your mouth and I’ll spare your ass, but Joel can fuck it if he wants to,” and she nodded her head as she tried to force more of his cock into her mouth and felt Joel lining up behind her.
Joel rubbed the head of his big cock against her wet pussy to lube it and then she felt him probing at her pink star and she lunged forward onto Rocky’s cock, gagging, as Joel rammed the head of his cock into her tiny passage. He slapped her tender ass cheeks, “Relax dammnit! You’re hurting me cunt!” as she fought to suck cock and relax her anal muscles as well. Joel inched into0 her ass as she stared down at her nose, watching to see how much of Rocky she had consumed, just over a third and he was pushing at her outer ring of her throat already! She stretched her lips and forced herself to take more as Rocky began pumping her tight ass and her muscles began to relax and she could hear his breathing changing as he worked up a rhythm. She glanced up and saw that Rocky had his eyes shut tight as she began to feel his cock quiver in her mouth, a signal that his orgasm wasn’t too far off. “You gots to have at least half in your mouth before he blows Bitch, or no deal!” she heard Joel say as she fought to admit this monster to her throat. Joel made her exceed half when he slammed her hard and jerked on her hair, just as she felt Rocky’s cum pour into her throat and she held her breath to swallow it. The seal was so tight around his cock, that cum backed up from her throat into her mouth and had nowhere to go. As Rocky’s orgasm subsided, she struggled to breathe and swallow the rest of his cum as she heard Joe cry out and felt his hot load deep in her bowels.
They both pulled out of her and she collapsed on the floor, struggling to catch her breath and soothe her aching jaw muscles. They high fived each other and sat on her bed watching her struggle to get back to normal breathing, “That was great Joel! Man this cunt knows how to suck a cock!” They looked at Gia and then Joel said, “She knows how to fuck one too, Brother,” and Rocky smiled. “Crawl your skinny, white ass on over here and clean me up, Bitch!” Joel said as she looked at his slimy cock hanging on her bedspread. She had really been repulsed with the idea of sucking a cock that had been in her ass in the beginning, but she had grown to tolerate it, as she crawled over between his legs and went to work, “Slurp Bitch! Be noisy, that turns me on,” and she purposely made slurping sounds as she sucked him clean. “Ain’t nothing finer than a little white cock slave sucking her own ass off your cock, Rocky my man. Look at her, she loves it!” and it was true, she loved sucking cock, that was no lie. Joel’s 9 inches she could easily swallow and she worked her head down until his ball sack hit her chin and she turned her head from side to side, she knew that drove him nuts. Soon, he had hold of her head as he fucked her petite mouth and watched her drool run down her chin, the loud suction sounds driving him towards another release as he grabbed a handful of her hair and held her tight on his cock and streams of cum shot into her throat. She struggled to breathe through her nose as his cock shot wad after wad and blocked her mouth. Finally, he let go and she had to once again try to regulate her breathing.
She could see that Rocky was getting hard once more and she wondered if her pussy could take all of him, she didn’t have long to wait as he pushed her onto her back and crawled between her legs, jerking his huge cock as he aimed it towards its target. She hated to admit it, but all of this had turned her on so much and her pussy was nice and juicy, hopefully that would ease the pain when this monster found its way inside of her. Rocky grabbed her legs and pushed her ankles up to her ears as his cock flooded her open pussy lips and began to wet itself. Her leg muscles were stretched, but she knew that it would help him gain access as his cock head slowly entered her tight pussy. She grimaced, as he worked it in, inch by inch, “Oh God! How much more?” she pleaded as he stretched her canal to its maximum, “almost there bitch, one final push,” and she could feel him in her womb as his balls finally hit her ass and he stopped, allowing her to adjust. She could feel tears running down her cheeks, this was the biggest cock she had ever taken and she felt a little pride, but above all else, she felt very full and she waited for him to start moving in and out. It felt like he was pulling her womb out with his cock and then a searing pain shot through her as he slid back in. Her moisture began to flow as her pussy accepted this monster and she began to relax and get into it, “Fuck me with that black poker!” she screamed as he picked up his pace and she felt her whole body shake as he hit home time after time and before she knew it, she was screaming out her own orgasms, one right after the other. Her body felt like a quivering mass of Jello as it became one continuous orgasm until he slammed her hard and she felt the burning of his cum in her stretched womb.
She had been exhausted when she got home, now the feeling was tenfold, her whole body ached. Rocky slid out of her and let her legs drop, then straddle her chest and offered his slick cock to her and she licked it clean, much to her own surprise. They dressed and left, telling her they would “catch” her tomorrow. She fell asleep right there on the floor, cum oozing from her as it soaked into the carpet, but she dreamed of that huge cock that had ravaged her so well, as she slept.
|
James lead them to the Gryffindor quidditch locker room and warded the door.
“We should, umm...,’ he blushed, but looked at her with honest concern, ‘You should wash off and make sure you don’t have a bite or... claw marks? I’ll do the same.”
Severina nodded and hugged herself.
The showers had separate stalls and privacy curtains. They started to undress slowly, separated by tiled walls. Neither spoke but both decided to leave their undergarments on, hyperaware of how close they were to being naked together in the same room.
James heard Severina's shower turn on and the muffling of the water when she stepped under. James took off his glasses and stepped under his own shower. He washed and noted some scratches and bruises but nothing like a bite or claw mark. Not that it would have cursed him the same way in his animagus form, but it was a small comfort. He wouldn’t truly feel better until he knew Severina was out of danger.
Even if she wasn’t they would deal with it together, James decided. Even if she was bitten, he would take care of her. That decision comforted and strengthen him more than anything. He felt confident in its rightness. He’d take care of her. From now on, he would make sure she was happy, protected, provided for. It was the strangest feeling like he just realized his purpose in life- her.
He looked over at the wall separating them and listened to the water in her shower and imagined it washing over her. He smiled. He felt free. He felt like he was flying. He could almost laugh out loud with the all-encompassing joy he felt at that moment.
Love.
He was in love. That’s what it was. That’s why he felt strong and confident and full of life. He felt he could take on anything life threw at him. He didn’t care what tomorrow brought because right now, he loved.
“James?” Her soft, uncertain voice called to him and his heart filled to the brim at his name spoken with her voice.
He cleared his throat, a silly grin on his face, “Yeah?”
“I...,’ her voice wobbled, ‘My back stings but I can’t see…”
His smile fell and the color rushed from his face. Without a second thought, he went to her, pulling her curtain away without pause. Her eyes were wide and worried, her arms crossed over her bra-clad chest and she was trembling slightly. She turned her head down and turned her back to him.
James blinked and focused on breathing. Her hair cascaded wetly down her back. Gently, he gathered it to the side, brushing it around her shoulder and revealing her skin. He didn’t have his glasses on so he had to stand quite close. There was scratch between her shoulder blades but it wasn’t a claw mark. He brushed his fingertips across her skin and sighed in relief,
“You’re okay. It’s just a scrape, probably from a broken floorboard or something."
She gasped and she slumped a little. Relief overwhelmed them both. His forehead came to rest against her exposed neck and his arms inched around her.
"You’re okay.” He repeated softly.
She was crying, he realized. So, he continued to hold her from behind, hugging her gently.
Once she calmed, she turned in his arms. She didn’t meet his eyes but her hands brushed over his ribs, examining the bruise that was already forming.
“I can brew you something for this if you can get me the ingredients. Turn.” She commanded and James chuckled but obeyed.
“I’m fine.” He insisted but he wasn’t about to object to her fingers on his skin.
Her hands fell away from him and he turned back around to her. She was blushing and her arms were crossed protectively around herself. She looked so small, skinny, frail, vulnerable and James wanted nothing more than to protect her. From what, he wasn’t sure yet but that was all he wanted anymore. The feeling overwhelmed him and he couldn’t help but wrap her in his arms again. His heart warmed when she rested her head against his chest and he let his cheek lay on the top of her wet hair.
They both would have liked nothing more than to stay just like that all night but James felt he needed to get Severina back to her dorm before she got in trouble.
Easier said than done, as it turned out.
Along with a broken rib, it seemed that James had also sprained his ankle. It wasn’t too bad, but after the adrenaline had run off, it had started swell painfully. He needed help to get up to Gryffindor tower. Neither seemed to consider the inappropriateness of such a course of action, necessity making it the only practical option for Severina to help James to his dorm room under the cover of his invisibility cloak.
Upon entering the room, Sirius stopped his pacing, and Peter who had dozed off on his bed woke up with a snort.
“James? Is that you? What happened?” Sirius asked.
Severina pulled the cloak off of them, revealing how James leaned heavily on her. Sirius cursed and helped her get James to his bed.
“Honestly, I don’t even want to talk to you right now, Padfoot.” James groused, clutching his side in pain as he sat.
“He has a broken rib and maybe a sprained ankle.” Severina explained.
“What did you do to him, Snape?” Sirius turned to her, accusing.
“Me? A werewolf did this to him. A werewolf that you purposefully sent me to find!” Severina snapped.
“Well, I didn’t think you were stupid enough to actually go into the shrieking shack!” Sirius countered.
“No! You didn’t think I was brave enough!” She said, straightening her back and doing her best to look him in the eye.
They stared at each other down for several beats before Peter squeaked, “Why did you go in?”
James had tried to stop them arguing at first but as soon as Severina said Sirius didn’t think she was brave enough, James had only been able to stare at her. She had been brave. She had just fought a werewolf and lived. Yeah, he helped but he’d been in his animagus form. She hadn’t known it was him. He had saved her but she had tried to save him too, making sure the stag got out of the tunnel.
James was a little in awe of her at the moment.
“I had my suspicions about Lupin. I just didn’t have any proof. Now I do.” She answered, her eyes still locked with Sirius’s.
“You knew he might be a werewolf and you still went in?” Sirius asked in disbelief.
“I had to see him change.” Her stance starting to weaken.
“Why?” Sirius asked.
“I needed to know for sure and I was curious. I wanted to see the transformation.” She turned to James, her eyes pleading, “I wasn’t going to hurt him, I swear.”
James scoffed, “You hurt him? What about you?”
“I had a spell that was supposed to stun a werewolf but I didn’t expect the transformation to be so quick. I was taken by surprise at first and then a stag came racing in out of nowhere.’ She huffed and shook her head, ‘I overestimated myself. If you hadn’t come in when you did…”
James grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Wait, you knew that Remus is a werewolf and you went to watch his transformation? Why?’ He threw up his hands exasperated. ‘And why are you two holding hands?”
Severina sat next to James on his bed, still holding his hand and ignoring Sirius’s second question. She answered while looking at James, “I was reading about this potioneer who is working on a wolfsbane potion. He doesn’t have a lot of support right now, but I’ve read his thesis and I think he might be on to something. I’ve suspected Lupin since third-year so when I read the article, I thought maybe I could, I don’t know.’ She shook her head. ‘I just wanted to observe him, I wanted to gather information about the transformation and write to Master Belby,’ She hung her head and took her hand from James’s, putting it in her lap, ‘I wanted to see if the information could help me get an apprenticeship.”
Sirius scoffed, “In other words, you were using him to further your own ambitions. How like a Slytherin.”
“Padfoot!,’ James snapped, then turning to Severina, running his fingers through his hair. He thought about how to respond to all this. He looked at Severina- her head bent forward, looking into her lap. James sighed. He brought his hand up to brush her hair out of her face and remembered how he had spelled it dry not too long ago. ‘I think that’s a really good idea.’ She looked up at him shocked, ‘If you could help Moony, it would be worth it. I mean, we could go about it differently in the future, but now that we know, we can all work together.’ James turned to his friends, ‘Right, guys? For Moony?”
Peter looked between James and Sirius unsure but eventually stuttered, “F-for Moony.”
Sirius’s face softened and he looked at Snape, “I didn’t mean for… I didn’t think…’ He shook his head and cleared his throat apparently giving up on what he was about to say, ‘For Moony, but I still don’t trust you. How do we know you aren’t going to expose Remus? Or James for that matter? How… how do we know you aren’t going to make Remus some sort of guinea pig or something?”
“You don’t.’ She shrugged, then sighed, ‘As far as Lupin becoming a guinea pig, I think that’ll be up to him.”
She felt James nod beside her but when she looked over, he was actually nodding off to sleep. He was crashing and she wondered how long she had before her mind and body gave out too. Sirius noticed and they both helped James lay down. Once he was horizontal, Severina moved to the end of the bed and took off his shoes. She pulled down the sock on the swollen ankle and hissed through her teeth.
“We need to go to the hospital wing.” Severina sighed.
“I don’t think we should move him.” Sirius said.
Severina rolled her eyes, “I meant to grab some potions and salves. I could brew some but it’d take time. Maybe you could go in the morning and tell Madame Pomphrey that he sprained his ankle playing quidditch and didn’t notice until the middle of the night. But he still needs something for the broken rib.”
Sirius shrugged. “Bludger hit him in the side and knocked him off his broom, didn’t notice until he tried to get up for breakfast.”
“It’s really weird watching you two scheming. I can’t decide if I approve or not.” James said with a sleepy smile from his pillow.
“Yeah, it’s weird.” Peter agreed.
James reached his hand out toward to Severina. She stepped closer to take it and said, “I should head to my dorm.”
James frowned. “I don’t like the idea of you walking all the way to the dungeons yourself.”
“I’ll take her.” Sirius offered.
Severina scoffed, “I can take care of myself,” but they ignored her.
“I think I like that less.” James’s frown deepened.
Sirius put his hands up in surrender, “I’ll be nice, I promise. A truce, for Moony, how about that Slytherina?” He asked Snape, putting his hand out for her to shake.
She stared at his hand like it might bite her. Then looking up at him with an arched eyebrow, she shook his hand, “A truce.”
Jame eventually let her leave, but only after she promised to see him in DADA the next day. Sirius walked with her awkwardly huddled under the cloak. They didn't say a word one to each other, for a long time. Eventually, Sirius finally spoke,
“So, you and James, huh?”
“I don’t know, we didn’t actually talk about it. I really don’t know.”
“Do you like him?” He was looking at her from the corner of his eye.
She sighed in defeat, “Yes. He knows I do,’ shrugged, ‘but he likes Lily. He always has. I can’t imagine that’s changed overnight, you know?”
Sirius was silent for a while.
“Will you still help Moony? Remus? Even if James… I don’t know.”
Severina had never seen Sirius so… well serious before. “Yeah. I promise. You know I have my own self-interest for doing it.’ His jaw flexed and she huffed in frustration, ‘What I mean by that is, because it is in my best interest to help Lupin, you can trust that I will help him. Slytherin ambition isn’t a bad thing. Ambition is what propels the world forward. I can help him more, not because he’s my friend but because helping him is my ambition. You see?”
Sirius stopped and simply stared at her for a long time- like he had realized something new about her, or maybe he realized he had been looking at her from the wrong angle all this time.
“Snape, I…’ He swallowed, ‘I’m really sorry for the way I’ve treated you.”
Severina blinked and her eyes went wide. She didn’t know what to say and he didn’t seem to wait for an answer. They walked on in silence, both thinking about what changes tomorrow might bring for them all. When they reached the dorms, Sirius said more to himself than to her,
“I wonder how Lily’s going to take this.” |
Dwalin was trained for kings.
Where his brother Balin had been taught the way of the word and cutting battles waged within the inner workings of Erebor's politics, he was trained with his body, his scars the only words necessary to prove his allegiance to the line of Durin. Fundin, their father, had seen the potential in his sons in both mind and body and made them to be the hands of their kings. They had the loyalty, honor and strength to make their lord's wishes reality. More than that was the love they willingly gave to their liege, undying even as everything slowly crumbled around them.
Dwalin did not think too much of such things. Oh, he knew what went on in the shadows, whispers muffled in beards, the mechanisms of minds far too sly. He saw with his own eyes the fall of their old king, the madness of his son and despair of the grandson. Dwalin could feel the cracks in the foundation of their kingdom, but that was a worry for a mind like his brother's. Let Balin try to use his pretty words in an attempt to thwart the inevitable. Dwalin would use his body as he had always done.
Dwalin had been trained to teach kings.
Thorin had been an apt and able pupil. He took to his lessons in weapons and war with the seriousness only befit of Durin's child, the blood of kings ran deep. He was the heir to the throne of Erebor and took to it with all his heart. He would lay down his life, piece by piece, bone by bone for his home and people. With strength. With conviction.
Dwalin would follow Thorin to the ends of Middle Earth, for that was how far Thorin would dig in an attempt to save them.
So Dwalin did not question, did not hesitate. Thorin needed that, for where Balin was his writing hand that dealt with the heavy politics of the courts, Dwalin was the hand that held the ax and blade, the hand that would assure the survival of his king.
Thorin was safe because of Dwalin. Thorin was a warrior surrounded by the greatest of warriors because of Dwalin.
And Dwalin was proud.
Fili and Kili were late for their weapons lesson.
This was not a new thing. Not at all. The princes of Erebor were nothing like their uncle in stature and air. Or punctuality. Thorin had taken after Thror. The princes took after their mother, wild and unruly but fierce as fire...and at times just as uncontrollable as those very flames.
Thorin had been raised surrounded by stability and strength. But that was all lost now...
When had they lost it all...?
Dwalin did not ponder. He did not seek his missing students. They would come when they came, whether voluntarily or dragged by their baby whiskers by their uncle. It mattered naught to Dwalin as long as he was prepared for their arrival with a harsh lesson that would pound every drop of sweat out of them. It would not be the first time, nor would it be the last.
So Dwalin sat on the cold stone of the training arena, back pressed into the strong wall and his ax propped on his shoulder. He chewed at some salted venison, drank from a flask of ale and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
It was not Fili nor Kili who entered the arena not ten minutes later, feet rushed and hurried as if chased by an orc's hound. Dwalin could not mask the surprise of seeing Dori charge in, his face red and splotched with such temper that for a moment he feared something happened to the other's family.
"Dori," he called to the other who stopped in his stampede at a wall mounted with axes of varying sizes and weight. "It has been many days since you have trained."
He was not surprised when the white haired dwarf pulled the heaviest ax from the wall with one hand, swinging it with a vicious cut that Dwalin felt his blood begin to sing with anticipation. He pushed to his feet, stance wide and sturdy.
Dori glared at him, a thick thumb running along the edge of the blade, testing its cut. "You know what I have been about. Very much like what you were tasked with not too long ago," he said meeting Dwalin's stand with his own.
Dori was average height for a dwarf, but one of thick muscle and powerful strength. Dwalin could not help the toothy sneer, "I had him for far longer and never was driven to such composure as I see you now." He brought the rod of his ax up just in time to block the blade of Dori's from sinking into his chest. The strike sent a strong vibration from his fingers to his teeth. He had always enjoyed fighting Dori, just to feel the sheer power of his blows. "Really, what could such a small thing have done to raise such ire? All you need is bark and he will keel over in fright."
He thrust forward, shoving his shoulder into Dori's gut, and was rewarded by the pummel of the ax slamming into his spine. He dropped to one knee and then swept his weapon against Dori's legs, sending him down to the same level as he. The other dwarf seized him by the back of the neck and brought their heads together with such force that Dwalin would have been sent backwards had he not been held with an iron fist.
"You," snarled Dori, "have not felt his bite. His teeth are flat and small but he sinks them in and does not let go until he has gnawed through bone."
Dwalin pulled up the memory of a pale little hobbit, sitting awkwardly on the saddle of a pony, wincing daintily with every jostle and jump. The same little hobbit that snapped and brushed his hands away from their food, and glared hatefully at his brother's back.
He thought of the journey back from the Shire fondly because of Bilbo Baggins. Even with everything they had known about the hobbit, the caution and instruction, Balin and he were waylaid by their discovery of what exactly they were bringing back to Erebor. They knew he was intelligent, they knew he had been taught by a well-traveled parent and that he came from a prominent hobbit family of power and prestige. What they hadn't anticipated was that their king's consort was sharp, witty, well-read, cautious and among all else honorable.
Even with bruises stark on his bird-like wrists Bilbo Baggins never once attempted to break the contract he had signed.
He had flat unassuming teeth, just as Dori observed, but how he bit like a dwarf!
And Dwalin was proud.
They pulled back from each other, Dwalin grinning through his teeth and Dori breathing heavily to calm his rattled nerves.
"He obeys," Dori admitted. "He does not act against any of our orders. Not directly."
"He knows what's at stake," Dwalin shrugged, deflated that the fight was over so soon.
"What he knows is nothing! He is just as ignorant as he was when he first set foot into Erebor."
Dwalin stepped back and pulled out his flask of ale. "So he obeys. Isn't that expected?"
Dori shook his head with a snarl. "He has no respect for us! I've been thrown out of his room far too many times to count now, and I am close to throttling the little imp at his impertinence! He cast me out just now because we have not been able to locate the miner who rescued him the other day! He acts as if I am purposely thwarting him, which is not the case! Every attempt I make to try to make him feel comfortable he spits right back in my face!"
"Yet Thorin is content."
"More than content," Dori snorted. "It is dangerous, Dwalin. This hobbit is in no way cowed, nor does he truly try to understand his role here. He is too unpredictable. Thrain is becoming more erratic, and I cannot trust that little imbecile from finding a way to blast all of Thorin's plans to Mordor!" When Dwalin offered the flask to him he took a large swig. "Thorin will not say anything to Master Bilbo until the wizard arrives...but how much can we trust a wizard?"
Vaguely hearing the sounds of his students feet approaching, he hefted his ax and said, "It matters not. As long as Thorin leads, all we need to do is follow." Dwalin would not be bothered by such thoughts. Thorin would do as he wished when it came to Bilbo Baggins. After all, the little hobbit had enough spine to handle what was dealt him.
However, instead of two chagrined dwarf princes, it was his brother Balin who entered the training arena, his white head turning from side to side searchingly.
"Where are the princes?"
Fili and Kili were late. That was not an abnormal occurrence. They were often late. More often late than on time. It was a constant irritant to their uncle, and the court and...everyone, but really when observed objectively it was not so surprising that they were late more often than early.
They were a chaotic duo. Everyone said it. But then they were young, and chaos was acceptable for the young. It was no fault of theirs that they became what everyone said they were all along. Their mother was wild in her days, so really it was in their blood. So when they climbed and destroyed and played pranks and were late for their lessons it should not come as any surprise. They were their mother's children after all.
It wasn't even that they failed in their duties. They excelled in their tasks and lessons...as soon as they got there, that is. Fili was close to holding his own against Dwalin of all dwarves, and Kili was making a name for himself with his proficiency with the bow and arrow. So really, what mattered if they missed a lesson or two because they overslept or lost time exploring the mines or got into a tussle with a pair of humans from Dale City...
...actually that tussle nearly became a riot so they were technically at fault there, but that was another story...
It was even less surprising they were late since Fili and Kili still shared their rooms and bath, and sometimes, because they were young and sometimes the young have difficulty waking up (not because they had snuck some ale last night, not at all), which made them frantic because first lesson was always weapons practice and Dwalin did not punish them he murdered them when late. Two young dwarves sharing a room frantically flailing about in the morning did not lead to efficient time management in getting to their morning practice.
It was even less efficient when in midst of their flails, one brother's hair (that should have been braided but he did not have time for such grooming) got tangled in the other's mail chain-links so that they were stuck together in a most ridiculous way, and they were not in their rooms any longer but in the hallways of the royal wing, crying out and shouting at the other on how to get free.
So it wasn't their fault that in a vain attempt to get loose they ended up colliding with a door that was suddenly thrown open and they fell through it ungainly only to find their uncle's hobbit looking down at them in baffled disapproval.
"Now that is quite enough! Your caterwauling can be heard as far as Mirkwood!"
Next thing they knew small bony fingers were pinching each of their ears and they were being hauled up to their feet. "Quit your wiggling!" Their uncle's hobbit snapped at them fiercely. At the bark, the brothers instinctively held still as deft little fingers freed Fili's blond strands for Kili's mail, and in seconds they were free.
They only had a moment of relief before the hobbit shut his door and said, "Good. You two are just in time for breakfast. Come along, I have everything set on the balcony."
They gaped at the hobbit, who was dressed in a simple yet elegant looking gold vest over a pristine white shirt and dark brown trousers. He walked through the room to the open balcony doors. "Don't dawdle," he chastised when he found them standing in place.
Kili looked to Fili in panic. They hadn't seen hide or hair of their uncle's consort since the ceremony, and though it would be in bad manners to decline the offer, there very late. Fili cleared his throat before saying, "Mister Bilbo, we do not mean to seem rude, but we do not have time for...breakfast" he elbowed his brother as the sound of Kili's stomach growling, completely ruining his argument.
Bilbo Baggins frowned at them, and even though there was no way that the hobbit was threatening, he was very small after all, the look made the bother's shift in discomfort.
"Nonsense, there is always time for breakfast," Bilbo quipped as if what they had said made no sense to him.
When it became obvious that they did would not budge, the hobbit huffed, a bit of breath from his mouth jostled a curl over hi brow. With pursed lips he stomped over to them, taking hold of each their wrists and manhandling them forward. Not with strength, there was barely any muscle on the hobbit, but he had thrown the brothers off so much that they followed along with his prods, through the room and out onto the balcony.
"Really," the king's consort grumbled. "If you were young hobbit lads, the mere mention of breakfast with me would send you scrambling over the other for a chance of a bite. Thought dwarves had appetites like us hobbits..."
There was a round table with four seats pushed close to the rail so there was a great view of Dale City and Mirkwood Forest. A good sized platter was laid out with pastries, fruit, seasoned meats and tea.
The sun was warm and bright, the air smelled like moist nature and city and spice.
And there were hungry. Very, very hungry.
"Please," Fili tried valiantly even as he was gently pushed down into a chair followed by Kili who was eyeing the seasoned meat with round eyes. "We're late for our lessons, and practice with Dwalin..." Would kill them, squash them, grind them to ash, only to be reborn and done over again and again for eternity. And if Uncle Thorin got wind of it...
"Dwalin?" Bilbo was pouring some tea into a glass. "He always had breakfast at this time."
Kili said, "Yes, after he practiced." It was a frightening thought, to have traveled alone with both Dwalin and Balin. How had the hobbit survived?
Bilbo Baggins served them with a serious face, sitting only once his guests were settled with their drinks. "What's the need for practice here in the palace?" He asked in a curious voice. "I understand keeping up while traveling a dangerous road, but in the comfort of your own home?" He took a sip from his own tea and sighed, "Things are so different here."
Keeping to their manners, the brothers drank. Fili nodded to his brother when he noted how desperately Kili looked to food, unable to help a quirk of his lips when Kili attacked the meat and strawberries like one starved.
It was embarrassing to watch, so instead Fili tried to distract from the display of Kili wolfing five strawberries at once. He looked to the hobbit and commented, "I heard about your accident. We are relieved that you were not hurt too badly."
The hobbit smiled a bit, tearing into some bread and cheese. Fili noted how Bilbo's plate was piled with food, equaling that the amount Kili was demolishing as if in competition. "The platform might disagree," Bilbo said once he had swallowed completely. "I hear it was unsalvageable."
There was something bitter; subtle but enough that it stopped the brothers at the implication. Kili, rash, leaned forward. "You are far more important than a platform!" He exclaimed. His mouth had been filled with food, and some meat flew from his lips.
Bilbo blinked at him in surprise, and then chuckled ruefully. "I apologize; I meant it in a poor attempt of humor. Bad taste." He paused, and then looked at them with all sincerity. "I never had the chance to thank you two."
At their combined confused looks he explained. "The day of the marriage ceremony, I earned the ire of King Thrain, and I know you two got King Thorin before the situation escalated. Thank you."
The brothers looked to one another, Kili fidgeted and Fili swallowed a lump in his throat. They had never spoken about what had happened that day. They would have happily forgotten about the whole thing. Their grandfather had acted out with no provocation, and they had truly feared for the hobbit's life in that instant.
"Our grandfather," Fili said carefully, "has not been well since the death of King Thror. Uncle Thorin tries to temper his moods, but it is difficult when grandfather holds most of the court and nobles in sway. We did not expect the way grandfather took notice of you. I don't think uncle even expected it either or else he would have made sure to keep you at a distance."
Fili offered no apology. He was the heir and would not bow his head down, just as he had been taught. Just as Uncle Thorin never apologized for every decision he made, even when it placed him at odds with his father. Even when he allowed himself to crumble when he thought no one was watching. Even when it seemed that he was becoming the thing he feared the most.
And Fili was Thorin's heir.
"But don't worry," Kili interjected suddenly, placing a fist on his chest. "Uncle will never let anything happen to you, even if he has to fight grandfather. We will protect you as well."
The bravado in his brother's voice made Fili wince, but the truth in his words were resolute. Despite everything, Bilbo Baggins was important. His safety was important. They had all sworn to do anything possible to make sure the hobbit stayed safe. It was the least they could for his sacrifice.
"That's a lot of protection," Bilbo commented. He did not look impressed, or relieved by such a vow, which distressed the brothers. As if their promise meant nothing, as if the hobbit did not understand how much they risked for him...how much their uncle had fought for him...
"You wish to go back. To the Shire." Fili blurted out, almost in anger. He immediately regrets his impertinent tongue. It was cruel to expect Bilbo Baggins to understand. He was a hobbit, not a dwarf.
Bilbo's expression hardened and he looked away from them to the world outside Erebor. The sun was shining onto his face, lighting it up in warmth despite the cold in his eyes. "Have you traveled?" he asked.
It was an odd question, but Fili nodded. "To the Iron Hills, and once to the Blue Mountains."
"Did you enjoy your travels?"
Kili smiled, not at all bothered by what odd direction the conversation had gone. "It was amazing!" He said. "I wish to go again in the near future." They had seen so much; beauty and danger and their people proud in their realms.
"And your hearts? How far did they travel?"
Kili made a small sound, caught in the trap laid by Bilbo Baggins. Fili answered without hesitation, "It strayed. Many times. But it always returned to Erebor."
"Those are completely different circumstances," Kili argued, glaring at Fili. He turned to Bilbo who was staring at the blond prince with wide eyes at the blatant admittance. "Your heart should be here, Mister Bilbo!" Kili implored, reaching forward and taking hold of the hobbit's hand with two of his, engulfing the small appendage. "Your heart should be here, with Uncle Thorin. When we traveled, there was nothing for us in the other mountains. But for you, Erebor is your new home, and Uncle Thorin is your spouse and king-"
"Kili!" Fili admonished sharply, silencing his brother.
Too late.
Bilbo pulled completely away from Kili, his fists clenched so tight that his knuckles were stark white, his face bloodless and body shaking in rage. "The king," he spat at Kili's youth, "does not want my heart!"
Fili could not look away from the color of Bilbo Baggins' eyes. There not a unique color, but striking in their own way, holding him with the heated cold there, like coal that burned with blue embers at Kili's words, words that Fili would never echo, even in frail hope. Fili would be king one day and he understood the role of the hobbit from the Shire.
Kili was still young, and his understanding was young, filled with romantic notions that were cruel, so cruel when spoken in the face of the truth of the situation.
Kili was blinking his eyes in distress, looking from the hobbit and then to Fili. When he looked about to argue Fili snapped, "Brother, it is rude to argue when we are guests on Mister Bilbo's table. No matter what you think it is not our place to question his feelings." He turned to the hobbit then, unapologetic, "We are the princes of Erebor, heirs to the line of Durin. Our place is beside the king."
Fili did not think it possible, but Bilbo Baggins seemed to pale even more. "And you will continue what the king started."
He said this not in anger; no, it was something else, a deep understanding that echoed so vile in his words. Fili shuddered, hating how much they both understood each other in that moment.
Bilbo Baggins belonged to the Durins. If his uncle ever fell, Fili or Kili had the choice to take him as consort, and if they chose not to, he would be passed to Dain. There would be no escape for Bilbo, no return home in freedom. Fili would not allow it, not with everything Thorin had fought for. Nor would he allow Kili to be thrust with this horrible burden of ownership, to be caught in such a miserable bond.
The hobbit understood this. It was made clear. Fili would have him. He would not lie about it, would not grant any cruel false hope, nor would he apologize for it. He would not look away in shame, not from those accusing eyes, hateful and helplessly caught. There would be no love there, no 'heart' as Kili thought there should be. Just two individuals chained together by circumstances far greater than their own desires.
The poisonous silence was shattered when the door to the room was thrown open, startling them despite their location on the balcony. All three of them made equally distressed sounds when Thorin entered, his face thunderous, hair flying about his shoulders as he stormed towards their little breakfast party.
Fili scrambled out of his seat in haste, Kili stumbled beside him as their uncle loomed into their faces, grabbing them both by the scruff of their necks.
"The palace is near in arms and you two are here playing?" Their uncle snarled. "Your teachers panicked thinking the worst, rumors already echoing in the halls, and you sit here oblivious to your surroundings!" He shook them fiercely, "Your grandfather's paranoia is ready to accuse the blasted humans of Dale, risking a confrontation that we cannot afford, and all because my heirs do not understand their stations!"
Completely and utterly chastised, the brother's grit their teeth in silence at their uncle's well-deserved anger. They were far beyond late. They had disappeared, forgetting their responsibilities so completely.
But then suddenly Bilbo Baggins, still pale from their argument, was beside them. "What are you doing?" his voice was high in alarm even as he brought his tiny hands up to clutch at Thorin's sleeve. "Let go of them before you snap their necks! They were only having breakfast with me."
The hold did not lesson, but the shaking had stopped, and thankfully, though still thunderous Thorin's gaze was no longer on his nephews but on his consort. "Why would they be having breakfast in our room," he growled, deep in his chest.
Surely, the little hobbit would be cowed by the king's anger. Surely he would step back and allow the king to punish his wayward heirs. Thorin had never beaten them, but his anger was frightening enough, even to family.
Instead, Bilbo answered in full honesty, "They are having breakfast in our room because I invited them. Where else should we have breakfast? In the corridors? Perhaps the mines would have a better view, falling platforms and all."
Thorin released them, turning to face his little consort fully. Fili grabbed Kili's wrist to keep him in place, perhaps if they stayed very still they would be saved from serious punishment. Three days of lessons with Balin in history wouldn't be too horrible, or even twenty-four hours of military lessons, that was fine. Not sequestered with Ori as he alphabetized the libraries. That punishment would make them bleed from the eyes!
"Do not make light of this," Thorin was saying, tone still dark with temper.
"I am not making light of anything," Bilbo responded, unafraid. "It would have been unmannered of them to decline my invitation."
"They should have explained to you -"
"They did," Bilbo interrupted. "But they had not eaten and it is unhealthy for young ones such as them to be skipping their meals, even if it meant being late for a lesson or two."
Thorin reached up then, his hand tangling into the curls on the base of the hobbit's neck. It was nothing like the hold he had his nephews moments ago, it was firm but gentle, tilting the face up to stare down into.
Kili gaped, and Fili looked away in discomfort.
Thorin leaned down close, and when he spoke there was an odd amusement in there that had not been present before. "Fili and Kili are not hobbit children. They are princes that have a lot to learn if they are to rule one day."
"Even more important that they do not skip their meals, nourishment for their minds and body."
The king suddenly smirked, a look that made Fili wish to be gone immediately from the room, covering his brother's eyes. The hobbit seemed to interpret the look in the same way, a blush forming on his cheeks.
The king raised his other hand, touching the rose color on Bilbo cheek with the back of a finger. "You are in a peculiar mood this morning," he commented, voice rough and low.
Mahal, Fili cursed silently. His uncle had forgotten that his innocent, pure nephews were still with them! Watching and hearing things that they really, really should not be seeing and hearing!
"My breakfast was interrupted," Bilbo said, turning his face away from the touch. He looked to the brothers, dark gaze assessing their mortification before turning back to look at his king. With a hesitant hand he reached up and let his fingers weave through their uncle's hair that hung over his shoulder. "Why don't we let the boys salvage what's left of their lessons and explain themselves to their teachers. It's near time for Second Breakfast and I still have plenty food and tea. I bet you have not eaten yet."
Their uncle's eyes were trained on those thin fingers in his hair, white against pitch black. "I have my own responsibilities."
"Which you would perform better with a full stomach." Bilbo let his hand fall to take Thorin's hand in his. "Go on, send them on their way. Have a few moments of quiet before you go off to set order to your kingdom. War with your neighbors over breakfasting princes is not so good."
Thorin narrowed his eyes suddenly, his voice hardening, "You are manipulating me to spare them."
Bilbo shrugged, undeterred. "Let their teachers do the punishing. You wish to have breakfast with me."
"And you wish to have me for breakfast?" Fili's heart twisted at the disbelief there, saddened at this uncle's question.
Hand still holding Thorin's, Bilbo said, "I wish for company for Second Breakfast."
The two stared at one another for another moment. With a slight shudder Thorin finally looked to Fili and Kili. "Go," he ordered them with a tilt of his head. "Make your apologies and let Balin know that I will be detained for a bit. Tell him I am having 'Second Breakfast' with my consort and will join him later."
"Yes, Uncle Thorin," Fili started, ducking his head and with a small bow to both him and Bilbo and dragged Kili out in a near run.
He did not look back, even when the door was shut and the two hurried down the hallway of the royal wing.
Kili pulled to his shoulder and whispered, "That was horrible." Then he laughed, embarrassed, "And awkward. Very, very awkward."
The hallways were filled with frantic guards, who all stopped in relief at the sight of the missing princes. Nobles from their grandfather's court, their beards white and bristling shook their heads at them in disapproval. The brothers gave them chagrined looks, and waved off the worry. They would receive their punishments from Balin and Dwalin, and let their uncle pacify their grandfather once he was done being occupied with Second Breakfast. Everything would be settled by the time the sun was at noon, the incident chalked up as another of the princes' young antics.
But Fili remained shaken, even after being assigned the horrible task of following Ori to alphabetize the libraries, covered in dust and fingers cut by sharp paper.
Kili had called it 'horrible', but his brother was young, and still could not fathom how horrible it had been. The hobbit, small hand on his uncle, the king's attention completely lost.
"I wish for company…" Bilbo Baggins had said, but never said he wished for Thorin's. |
The alarm drags Buck from sleep, and frankly, he's offended by its mere existence. He groans as he rolls over to smack it off, burying his head into the pillow to try and stave off the need to get up. At least until Eddie follows, rolling to lay over Buck's back, pressing his face into the nape of Buck's neck.
"Guess we shouldn't have stayed up so late?" It's mostly muttered into Buck's skin, tickling a little, but not enough that Buck has any intentions of pulling away from Eddie.
"I recall that being your fault." It wasn't like Buck had started anything, that was definitely all on Eddie.
"You know, I don't remember hearing a complaint, not after two orgasms and some cuddling." Buck snorted into his pillow, shuffling back into Eddie's chest, just to emphasise how okay he was with last night's activities.
"Who'd complain about that?" Crazy people. That was who.
But as much as he really wanted to just stay in bed, there was a nine-year-old who needed to get to school, and Buck wasn't sending him without breakfast. He just made a point of huffing lightly as he hauled himself out of bed and padded to the bathroom, picking up the towel that Eddie just left on the floor the night before. It wasn't until he was brushing his teeth that he caught sight of himself in the mirror and....
"Fuck," it wasn't like he'd thought about it last night, when Eddie was sucking and biting and kissing at his neck, but the blood thinners weren't exactly offering any coverage from the fact that Eddie most definitely had an oral fixation.
"Hmm," as if summoned by the thoughts, Eddie's chin rested on Buck's shoulder, arms wrapping around his waist as he pressed them together. "Whoops?" Eddie didn't sound or look like he meant that though, not as he gazed at the vivid purple mark on Buck's jaw, or the dark red marks at the base of his throat, the one just under his ear, lighter marks up the column of his throat. Eddie's hand rested on Buck's hip and a glance down showed that there were just the faintest marks there too.
"Blood thinners aren't going to hide much." Buck already knew he bruised far easier, the lack of clotting meaning the slightest bump left a deep bruise for several days. "I'm going to have these for the rest of the week, you realise?" From the way Eddie's warm chocolate eyes darkened, that wasn't any kind of deterrent. "How do you plan on explaining that to your son?"
"Um..." That at least gave Eddie pause. "Well, I don't start until noon today," which Buck knew, it was why they'd done their team get together on Sunday, "you could make breakfast, I'll take Chris to school, and we could... hang out until I have to head in?" From the way Eddie was trailing his fingers up Buck's abs, he was getting the impression that 'hanging out' was going to involve little to no clothes.
"Oh, is that your plan for the morning?"
"Wanna help me get my cardio in for the day?" Eddie's voice dipped enough that Buck could feel the swoop in his stomach, heat already spreading to his groin.
"Fuck, you're insatiable, you know that?" Eddie rolled his hips into Buck's ass with a laugh.
"Look at you? I have a reason to be." It was fun and easy, the teasing. Eddie pressed a kiss to his shoulder, "You get breakfast, I'll get the kid up, we'll get him to school and then..." Well, the rest could be left unsaid for now, Buck just grinning around his toothbrush as he resumed brushing, watching Eddie leave the bathroom to go wake up Chris.
As far as 'morning afters' went, this was undoubtedly the best kind.
Walking into work isn’t as easy as usual.
Eddie wishes he could just stay in the happy buzz from the morning, skate by on the memories of Buck last night, this morning, Christopher giggling at them in the kitchen when he’d asked what happened to Buck’s face, and they had to come up with some excuse that wasn’t ‘daddy bit me’ but appeased Chris that Buck wasn’t hurt -obviously they went with Buck being allergic to something in Abuela’s garden.
Chris was just so infectiously happy, beaming through breakfast, chatting away as Eddie dropped him off at school, it made going home to Buck all the better, seeing how happy Chris was again, how carefree and full of joy he was. And Eddie knows that Buck did that. It’s all the excuse he needs for how he pinned Buck against the fridge and dropped to his knees when he got home.
Not that he thinks Buck was looking for a reason.
Right then, Eddie would give anything to be lounging at home with Buck, talking about if one or two rabbits was better (Eddie said one, Buck argued two, for company), planning dinner, discussing what to do with Eddie’s day off, with Chris at the weekend, making out freely on the couch.
He honestly thinks he should be more uncertain about this shift in things between them, this line that he and Buck just leapt over with no conversation, and he knows that he’s the one who did the leaping, but damn if he couldn’t help it; seeing that shattered look on Buck’s face, figuring out the moment Buck let go of those walls and trusted Eddie completely, Eddie couldn’t deny it after that. It wasn’t like this was something out of the blue either; Eddie’s sure they’ve been gradually working towards this for months, before the tsunami, before Buck’s pulmonary embolism, before the truck bombing. It was there, under the surface. Eddie knows that they took a step back when Shannon reappeared, knows that things were awkward at Christmas, he’s sure that if Shannon and him hadn’t fallen into bed together so easily, he would’ve probably ended up under some mistletoe with Buck, finally admitting to whatever was sparking between them since that first shift.
Instead, it happened like this, and Eddie doesn’t really think that’s a bad thing either. They’re on semi-firm footing, so long as they can work out the next step career wise. Eddie knows things will work out at home, knows in a way he was never entirely sure with Shannon, it’s not like that with Buck.
He’s changing his shirt in the locker room when someone knocks on the glass, turning to see Hen standing there, somewhat awkward. “Hey, can we talk?” There’s no one else around, and Eddie’s pretty sure that’s by design, but he nods anyway, it’s not like Hen doesn’t regularly join them in the locker room anyway. “So, it took me a little while but I… I realised you had some very good points yesterday.” Eddie had been well aware that every single one of them was listening, that was largely the point.
“I know I did, that’s why I made them.” Not for one minute does Eddie think any of them were acting out of malice; he knows that Bobby’s concerned, knows that Maddie just worries, knows that Hen has a lot going on, knows that Chim can’t see the forest for the trees a lot. It wasn’t their intention to break Buck down to shattered pieces, they just didn’t realise how much their dismissal would hurt, don’t seem to get that he only has
them
.
“I know, and I’m sorry, I got so wrapped up in my own stuff I stopped thinking about everyone else, and it’s not an excuse, I know, but… He hides things so well, I didn’t realise I was hurting him.” And Eddie knows what Hen’s trying to say. How Buck pushes his own needs to the side so often so that he can help others, how he’ll put himself last, even if he’s literally cut open and bleeding, he’ll wait until he’s made sure everyone else is okay. They both know that Buck would never reach out to Hen first, tell her he was struggling, that he missed her, for fear that she felt burdened by his needs.
It’s both wildly endearing and wholly frustrating.
“I think it’s easy for us to just forget everything he’s been through,” Eddie finishes getting himself changed, turning to face Hen, “It’s less easy for him, especially when he feels completely alone.” And Eddie knows that’s how Buck feels. They have insane schedules, busy lives, they don’t have the luxury of a nine-to-five life. Eddie knows it’s hard to juggle, he knows that Buck understands why it’s so hard for the others to hang out or visit or make plans; but a text would be nice once in a while.
“He’s been through more than he ever should’ve.” Hen just shook her head, looking down at the bench, “I don’t even know where to start apologising.”
“Start with a text,” Eddie shrugs, he knows that he’d make them all work for it, but that’s not who Buck is, “He’s going to forgive you the second you say you’re sorry,” even if Eddie didn’t, “just make sure you mean it.” Eddie might not know what the future holds right now, but he knows what Buck hopes it holds, and even with the pain of being ignored for several weeks, Eddie knows that Buck would come back here in a second if it was an option.
“The others are all upstairs, Athena and Maddie too,” Eddie glanced up the stairs, frowning slightly at the inclusion of Maddie and Athena. “Yeah, it felt a little like an ambush to me too, hence why I came down separate. For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure Athena will back you up.”
Sighing, Eddie could only really be quietly grateful that they had done this to
him
, rather than trying to ambush Buck to do something dumb like excuse their behaviour. With Hen at his side, Eddie just straightened himself out before ascending the stairs, narrowing his eyes slightly at the group huddling around the couches.
“No Lena?” He asked Hen, before they approached, and the paramedic simply scoffed.
“She told us to get our heads out of our asses and stop being idiots,” yeah, that sounded like Lena, “I can see why you two get along.” Hen doesn’t join the group, settling a little off to the side, near Athena, while the rest of them seem to straighten up, like there’s a rehearsal about to play out.
“Cap, guys.” They get a single nod, and Eddie crosses his arms over his chest, prepared to hear them out exactly once. There’s a very limited number of ways this is going to go, after all. “So, what’s the big speech?”
“There’s no big speech,” Maddie talks first, running her hands through her hair, “We just… We wanted to talk, about Buck.” Eddie can already feel himself tensing, disliking the fact that they came to talk about Buck while consciously excluding him all over again. “I know you care about my brother, Eddie, but you have to understand,”
“I’m going to stop you right there, Maddie. I don’t have to understand anything, and you don’t get to make his decisions for him.” That’s what everything boils down to. “Yes, I care about Buck, we all do. But that doesn’t give any of us the right to make his choices for him,” Eddie levels a look at Bobby, knowing this is primarily on his shoulders, “We can tell him we’re concerned, explain why, hope he listens. But he’s a grown ass man who’s been through more than most of us, he can make his own damn decisions.”
“I’m still his Captain.” There’s a resoluteness to Bobby’s tone, that stubbornness that makes him a good captain also making him pigheaded right then.
“So act like it.” Whatever this was, whatever it was holding Bobby back, pushing Buck away, it wasn’t professionalism. “He’s ready. He’s been ready for months,” even with the blood thinners, Eddie’s not dumb enough to think that Buck can’t find trouble without being at work. “Twelve people, Bobby. He pulled twelve people out of the water directly following the tsunami hitting the pier, which he was on. He triaged countless others after the wave receded, all while bleeding and exhausted and concussed.” Eddie knows the terror that followed that, knows that Buck was doing it all while fighting to find Christopher, and he can only thank God it was Buck that his son was with, had it been anyone else, Eddie knows Chris likely wouldn’t be there today.
“You’re making my point, he wasn’t thinking during that, he was reacting, he was--”
“He was being a first responder. He was saving lives. He was seeing people in need, and he was going with his training.” Eddie hated that they’d sprung this on him at the start of the shift, hoped to God it wasn’t a hectic one, “You can rationalise this all you want, Bobby, but when it comes down to it, you’re in the wrong. You’re being unprofessional and damaging. And honestly, it might cost you two firefighters.” He prefers not to make idle threats, but he’s fairly sure that Buck would follow through if it was their only option.
“What do you mean?” Chim and Hen edge forward, frowns on their faces.
“I’ve already told you. I want my partner back. If I can’t get it here, we’ll go somewhere else,” Eddie shrugs one shoulder, making sure his face is impassive. “He’s had my back, ever since I got here, he’s put me and Chris before anything else. He was there when my wife died, he saved my son from a natural disaster, he’s been there for all the nightmares. It’s my turn to be there for him. So, it’s up to you, Bobby. You can stay on this high horse, and I’ll transfer to wherever Buck decides he wants to go, or you can start acting like the Captain you claim to be.” They seemed suitably shocked, and honestly, Eddie was fine with that; maybe that’d teach them to try to stage some kind of intervention.
The day starts off something like a dream, if Buck’s honest.
Between waking up with Eddie and the utterly domestic morning with Christopher, Buck had already felt like he was weightless. And yes, the discussion with Chris about the marks on Buck’s neck and jaw had been a little awkward, but the kid seemed to take it in stride and Eddie wasn’t exactly shy about still feeling a little handsy. It’s not like it’s that much different from usual, if Chris’ lack of a reaction is anything to go by; the way Eddie leans into him while they’re moving around the kitchen, sitting too close at breakfast, the nudges as they tease. Eddie waits until Chris was putting on his shoes to give Buck a long, deep kiss, pressed against the counters, before the morning goodbyes are dished out and Buck cleans up from breakfast.
He’s pretty sure that something happens on the way to school; either Chris saying something or Eddie just having some kind of epiphany, whatever it is that causes Eddie to push him into the fridge and drop to his knees, practically sucking Buck’s brains out through his dick, Buck isn’t going to be lodging a complaint.
It’s not surprising how affectionate Eddie is, not really. Buck’s seen him with Chris; Eddie expresses his love in touches, hugs, little kisses to his son’s soft curls. Buck knows that words aren’t easy for Eddie, but actions are. It doesn’t shock him that Eddie expresses himself with sweeping strokes of his hand up Buck’s back when he can see the tension building in Buck’s shoulders, or the way he nuzzles into Buck’s throat just to be closer. They spend the morning trading kisses on the couch, mindless television on, debating if they should take Chris to a kid's concern in Griffiths Park that weekend or if they should drive to Long Beach to just relax.
Tentative plans are made for a date during the afternoon on Eddie’s day off, they decide to just ask Chris which option he wants for the weekend, Buck is tasked with taking him to pick rabbits after school, there’s more kissing and Buck finally getting his mouth around Eddie before they absolutely have to let him get ready for work and Buck just feels like his whole week has taken an upswing.
He’d done everything he could not to get attached to this, to try not to put all his hopes on Eddie and Chris and focusing there. And he knows that Eddie’s laying options out, but if Buck can have
this
, have
them
, could that be enough?
It wasn’t like he could do much about it until he talked to Eddie, they seemed to be going forward together, whatever happened, and Buck didn’t want to start making plans without Eddie when Eddie is clearly thinking of ways for them to do this together. So, he focuses on the rabbits, knowing that Chris will lose his mind when they go to the shelter, he’s figuring out what they’ll need to start with, the runs are strategically hidden in the garden, they’ll need an indoor pen for them, but Buck’s pretty sure they could block off the bottom of Chris’ toy closet to turn it into a mini den, unless the living room was better for a full hutch. Before Buck really knows, it’s almost time to collect Chris and head to their appointment at the shelter.
“Hi Buck,” after three weeks of collecting Chris from school, Buck’s managed to kick up a few easy-going drop off/pick up friendships with some of Chris’ classmate’s parents, and his teacher, “Chris tells me you were planting trees this weekend?” Chris is beaming up at his teacher, Ms Flores, who glances at his jaw but doesn’t comment on the bruises, even if he thinks she’s smirking at him.
“Oh, yeah. His Bisabuela wanted an orange tree to finish off her yard, it’ll be a year or two before she gets any fruit from it, but it looks good.” Buck thinks it’s sweet how interested Chris’ teacher is about his life, she seems entirely engaged with all of Chris’ stories, and she’d been really supportive through his nightmares when he just wasn’t up for staying at school all day, or was exhausted in the mornings.
“I think we need one for our garden now, Buck. You and dad should plant one.” Chris makes his way towards him, Buck saying a quick goodbye to Ms Flores and heading towards the car with Chris.
“We’ll need to see, buddy. Dad might not be the best one to help with that,” although surely Eddie could dig a hole? “I have a surprise for you. It’s gonna mean a bit of driving around, but it’s gonna be awesome.” He got distracted by the hutch plans, so they need to go to the shelter then take the rabbits home before they can go to the pet shop, but he’s sure Chris won’t mind given the surprise.
It took until they were parking the car for Chris to work out where they were, his little eyes lighting up as he squirmed in his seat. "Really Buck? Really?" The excitement was just too much, and Buck couldn't help but grin back.
"Oh yeah, I talked to your dad, and he agreed, you're totally responsible enough to have a pet rabbit, so we're here to see what one you wanna bring home." The squeal of joy, the hug from Chris as they got out of the car, it made Buck's heart feel lighter. This kid was just pure happiness, never-ending sunshine and God, Buck just wanted to see him happy all the time.
They met Sharon inside, who took them through to the rabbit area, where about five or six different rabbits were living. Eddie had agreed that Chris could rehome two, but Buck didn't want to say that outright, just in case only one was suitable, or they didn't come with a compatible friend, but as Chris sat with rabbits hopping around, coming up to sniff at him and eat some lettuce that Sharon gave him to offer them, Buck could tell they'd go home with all five if Chris got his way.
"Bucky, look, I think Pickles likes me." Pickles was a dotted chestnut and tan rabbit, with a soft pink nose and a bad back leg, apparently rabbits with poor legs didn't get a fair shot at things.
"He can't really hop far, and jumping up places is dangerous for him. Rabbits rarely survive surgery." Sharon had cautiously told him, but Pickles and Chris seemed entirely enamoured with each other.
"Do you want to come home with me?" Chris was carefully stroking a hand on Pickles' back, his other holding the lettuce for the rabbit. "Buck, what about Gherkin?" The slightly smaller black rabbit hadn't worked up the courage to actually approach Chris, but it did seem like he was really attached to Pickles.
"They kind of have matching names, don't they?" They came in together, although Gherkin was just skittish, he seemed overly fond of Pickles, boosting his confidence enough to sit by Chris' side, even if he wasn't prepared to let Chris touch him yet.
"They're best friends. Pickles and Gherkin, what if Gherkin is sad if Pickles leaves?" And that almost made Buck laugh, he's glad that Eddie agreed to two rabbits before this, since Buck was absolutely caving to those puppy eyes regardless of whatever had been previously discussed.
"Well, we wouldn't want that to happen, would we?" Chris shook his head, solemn expression not wavering, and Buck know that he knew exactly that he was doing. "I guess ... we'll just need to take them both home."
Pickles and Gherkin were carefully boxed up into their temporary homes for transport, Buck getting the details for the vet visit once they needed to get them checked out and taking a few leaflets on rabbit care, even though he'd been googling for a week. The rabbits were carefully deposited in the passenger seat before Buck got Chris settled in the back seat.
"Good surprise?" Chris' arms instantly wrapped around Buck's shoulders, pulling him into a hug.
"The best surprise." Chris was giddy for the rest of the day, taking the rabbits home to settle with the new smell, Buck leaving them closed up in Chris' bathroom with some food and blankets that smelled like Chris, letting them explore. They had to go to the pet store to get some rabbit toys, a pen for them to play in and somewhere for them to actually live, then to the grocery store to get food for them and stuff for dinner.
"Does Daddy know that we got two?" Chris doesn't really seem terribly fussed about surprising his dad with two rabbits instead of one, but Buck figures it's because Buck tends to talk Eddie around to Chris' way of thinking anyway.
"Yeah, your dad knows, don't worry. He knows that you'd fall in love with all the rabbits, and because you and me are best friends and do all the stuff together, he knows you'd want your rabbit to have a best friend too.”
There are constant giggles from down the hall, as Buck gets things set up in the kitchen, making space for the pet food in the drawer of the fridge, organising food for humans to be eaten, Chris is constantly telling him all the cute and funny things his rabbits are doing, using Buck's phone to take videos and pictures and send them to Eddie. Buck doesn't even care if it's using up money or not.
After they've eaten, Chris wants to Zoom call Carla to show her his rabbits, and Buck makes sure to set everything up so that she can see them and keep Chris talking while Buck builds their pen for the night since they can't stay in Chris' bathroom while Chris has a bath. It's so nice, just hearing Chris chatter away about his rabbits, happy and giggling, so free. And it hits Buck again.
This could be enough.
Even when Carla is back at work, able to help out, Buck could maybe stomach a desk job, work normal hours, be home for dinner and bedtime, taking Chris on trips on the weekend, going to school events. It wouldn't be terrible, it would be
nice
, right? He'd share it all with Eddie, and they'd at least be happy.
He might not have the big family he thought he had, but this right here; Chris giggling, Carla's warm encouraging voice, Eddie's soft affectionate love.
It could be enough
.
It's surprising how easily Chris goes down to bed. After his bath, a little more play time with the rabbits and leaving treats out for them, they'd done story time and tried to call Eddie. He was on a call, but sent them a quick text to say goodnight to Chris, and Buck had read the start of a Peter Rabbit book to Chris.
He was out before the end of the first chapter.
Cleaning up took a bit more that night, all the pet stuff was all over the place, and Buck hadn't actually considered where that would go when he bought it all. Clearing out one of the lower kitchen cupboards seemed the safest and smartest way, so that took a few hours to get sorted and find a new place for the stuff that used to be there. Before he really noticed, he was rearranging Eddie's kitchen again.
Since they'd stayed up far later than either expected to the night before, Buck put himself to bed fairly early, checking on the rabbits and on Chris before burrowing under the covers. Of course, being back in Eddie's bed, without Eddie, just sparked a pang for the warmth and comfort of curling up against Eddie's chest.
Fuck, one night and he was hooked already.
Grabbing his phone to send a text to Eddie, Buck noticed a few unread messages he hadn't seen before. Two from Hen, one from Athena and four from Maddie?
He'd mostly expected those at some point today, or last night, actually. Given what Eddie had said he'd done at Bobby and Athena's house on Sunday, Buck wasn't so much shocked that they'd messaged him, more so that it took them until Monday to do it. Then again, he had been little more than an afterthought lately.
Deciding to text Eddie first, Buck hoped his call was over with as he did so.
EDDIE
🚒
hey. u good?
Hey. Yeah. Back at the station now.
Chris okay?
he's fine.
sleeping off the excitement of today.
How're the rabbits?
adorable. srsly.
he loves them so much.
I guessed that, from the 30+ pictures he sent.
shit it was that many?
😬
sorry?
It's fine. I'm glad he likes them. That he's excited.
What're you doing?
in bed.
Oh really?
nope. not doing that when you're at work.
😉
hey. dykw hen thena and mads wud text me?
Yeah.
About that...
Buck waits for the text, the little box popping up and vanishing several times before Eddie's contact picture pops up and Buck just answers the phone.
"What happened?" If Eddie tried and failed to type it out, it's probably pretty bad.
"I walked into an intervention this afternoon." Eddie explains the whole group sitting there, apparently prepared to scold Eddie on, what, standing up for Buck? Saying what he felt? It's still something of a stab at his fragile heart, that they still think of him as nothing more than a child or a pest, that he's causing problems when he's not even there. "Hen seems genuine. She feels bad that she screwed up, I think Athena's probably trying to show you she's on your side."
It's comforting, at least. Hen had been a support those early months, when Buck was reckless and impulsive and stupid, she'd tried to reign him in, give him some pointers, be a shoulder. After Chimney got hurt, they leaned on each other a little more, especially when Bobby relapsed. But Buck knew that Hen had a wife and a kid, knew they were talking about having more kids, Karen trying to get pregnant. It was probably a lot on Hen's plate right then.
It didn't really surprise him that Athena would reach out; she's probably been busy too, maybe just realised that the others weren't trying to talk to him themselves, maybe she's just wrapped up a case. She'd been the only one who'd kept up with visiting him after the tsunami, the only one who seemed to realise he was struggling directly afterwards.
If Athena realised that he needed some kind of backup, she'd definitely be there.
Maddie.
Buck just sighed down the phone. His feelings regarding his sister were very conflicted right then. He'd seen her maybe three times in three weeks, he'd barely spoke to her much more than that, and he felt like he was putting on a show each time he saw her. She barely asked how he was doing, never asked about his feelings about not being at work. Didn't even ask what he was doing with his time. Half of the time Chimney turned up early and Buck used it as an excuse to leave, not really wanting to sit and listen to stories about work that Buck missed out on or see them being all loved up.
"I can't believe they did that at the start of your shift." It was a shitty thing to do at all, since Eddie had already made his feelings pretty damn clear, Buck thought.
"God, I know. I probably got on Lena's nerves, honestly." Buck manages a startled laugh at that. "Yeah, any time it looked like one of them was going to talk to me, I just started a completely random conversation with her.” There’s a humour in Eddie’s voice that tells Buck that Lena probably didn’t mind that much. “I’m pretty sure she fled the station at the end of her twelve-hour shift feeling grateful to be going back to her station early. I think Lena knows more about our vegetable garden than she ever wanted to know."
"Even I wouldn't wanna listen to you talk about a vegetable garden you're banned from touching." It's not that Eddie can't garden, it's just that he really shouldn't.
"No? And here I thought you liked listening to me talk." Eddie's voice dips, and Buck feels his skin prickle a little, the heat pooling into his gut again.
"Eddie," there's a whine in his voice, but he tries to keep it quiet, "You can't do this to me, not when you're not here, when you might get called away any second." Because Buck can already feel that need coiling up, there's a low grade want already thrumming in him, thinking about the way Eddie made him feel last night, about Eddie's mouth on his cock, about Eddie's cock in his mouth. "Fuck."
"You thinkin' about me, cariño?" Eddie must be in the bunks somewhere, in a quiet corner of the station where he'd hear if someone was coming, where people will leave him alone or at least announce themselves first.
"You know I am." Buck's already getting hard, his free hand dropping to press the heel of his palm against his dick.
"I can't wait to get home," Eddie mutters it low, soft but promising, "Can't wait to get my mouth around you again, feel you fall apart for me. Fuck," Buck can only assume that Eddie is in a similar predicament as Buck; horny and not really able to do what they actually want to do about it. Because Buck knows what he wants, and it's not his own fist while imagining it's Eddie, no. His body clenches as he thinks about exactly what he wants, rocking back into the mattress aimlessly.
"And there I was hoping you'd just pin me to the nearest flat surface and fuck me." Buck knows his voice is a little high, a little breathy, but Eddie's answering groan is gratifying enough that he doesn't care how needy he sounds.
The whole thing is shattered when Buck hears the siren wail in the background, and he can't help but stifle a laugh into the pillows.
"Aw, fucking damn it." Eddie sounds exceptionally put out, and Buck can only imagine why.
"Go. I'll see you tomorrow. Be safe." It still kills him a little, Eddie out there without him, not able to watch his back. It cuts into that tiny little hope that this could be enough because he knows that so long as someone else is watching Eddie's back, it won't ever be enough.
Getting Chris to school the following morning is decidedly hard because he wants to stay and play with his rabbits. Buck feels a little like the bad guy forcing him to get his stuff and head out to the car, but it's not like he can blow off school to stare at rabbits all day, either.
Eventually, Chris concedes to go to school so that he can tell everyone about his rabbits, and they get him on the way. Buck has a meeting with his doctor that morning, to discuss the rod and if it was time to take it out, do another scan to check for more clots, discuss the possibility of coming off the blood thinners soon. Buck wanted to avoid driving back to the house just to drive back into the city, so he found a coffee shop to wait it out, finally opening his messages from Hen, Athena and Maddie.
HEN
🚑
I know you might not want to talk to me, but I wanted to apologise, but in person.
I totally get it if you don’t want to see me though.
when r u off?
It’s not that Buck
doesn’t
want to see Hen, he does. It’s just that he doesn’t want it to turn into some kind of apology tour. He mostly hates that it took Eddie pointing out to them how easily they’d forgotten he existed, how none of them had even sent him a message to see how he was. By now they all knew he’d quit the fire marshal job, even if Bobby hadn’t told the team that he was the one keeping Buck from going back to work, gossip spread around the LAFD like it was an Orange County prep school.
MAMA’THENA
💙🚓
You might get some visitors soon. Call me if you need me x
i’m not at hm.
styn @ edds
He can already picture the eyeroll from Athena, she hates the way he texts, she’s said it numerous times, coming over to him with her phone as asking him what the hell his abbreviation means because not even May can figure out what letters he’s dropped from words.
Buck mostly knows she’s teasing, so he’s never changed how he texts her. But he appreciates her making sure he knew she was a call away if people started showing up at his door. He’d need to check with his neighbours that everything was okay, but he’s been away for so long now that he thinks someone would’ve called if something was off.
MADS
💕 🚨
*I C E*
Hey, I stopped by to see you but you weren’t in, call me?
Dropped by your place again, you know you have no food, right?
Evan, where are you?
Please just call me? I’m worried. I love you.
It hurts something in him that he feels like he’s avoiding his sister. He hates this distance between them, hates that he can’t call her and tell her about him and Eddie, that he can’t send her pictures of Chris with Pickles and Gherkin, that he feels like he’s put a wall between them. And he knows he’s the one putting it there, but he’s not sure how much of her telling him his world caving in around him was for the best.
He’s never
not
wanted to talk to Maddie; even when she was blocking him, even when she was putting the distance there, trying to protect him from Doug, protect herself a little, he’d still reached out whenever he could, accepting that Maddie would reach back when she was ready. It feels wrong to put this barrier in their way.
Realistically, he knows she’s just worried, she’s concerned for his wellbeing. He gets it. He mostly wishes she’d understand this isn’t as simple as just switching jobs.
Buck’s staring at the messages, trying to work out what the hell to say to her. It’s hard to figure out how to broach things, since she never looked deep enough until Eddie went off on everyone. Barely glancing up at the door as the bell chimes, Buck frowns a little at two people who wander in; a broad shouldered male, looks a little twitchy and his female companion, definitely a little worked up. The man zips up his jacket, and Buck notices the gun down the back of his trousers, the way he nods to his female companion, and she psyches herself up before turning to lock the door and pull a knife from her pocket.
MADS
💕 🚨
*I C E*
Hey, I stopped by to see you but you weren’t in, call me?
Dropped by your place again, you know you have no food, right?
Evan, where are you?
Please just call me? I’m worried. I love you.
delphi’s cof&donut
2 robbers
send help
There’s a risk in calling, but he knows that if Maddie’s waiting for him to reach out, she’ll be looking for his messages, which means she’s the safest person to text, even if a call would’ve been better. From the looks of things, these two aren’t entirely stable, possibly drugs or just nerves, maybe it’s their first robbery, and that is likely not good for anyone.
“Everyone stay the fuck down and no one gets hurt.” The gun is pulled out, and Buck glances around at the other people in the coffee shop. It’s not overly busy, and thankfully there are no young kids in there; an older couple in a booth at the far end, huddling closer together, a pair of females getting coffee together, one male on a laptop, a college age looking girl with some binders, him and then the two staff members. It’s not many people to keep control of, with the gun and a knife, hopefully everyone stays put, and they leave quickly.
Buck carefully slides his phone under the table, leaving it on his thigh while placing both hands back on the table, making sure they’re in view so that no one gets jumpy. The woman is whipping back and forth, the man directing the cashiers to put the money from the register into a bag. He’s pretty sure this is a first time; it’s early in the morning, it’s a coffee shop, they’re not about to get a huge haul of money from this.
“Hurry up!” One of the staff members is clearly anxious, she’s close to hyperventilating, probably something to do with the gun in her face. “Move it! If you don’t hurry up, I’m gonna--”
“Hey, man, c’mon, she’s… She’s just scared.” Buck wants to avoid any kind of altercation, he’s very much aware of the tension, but he also wants to avoid a gun accidentally going off. The girl behind the counter if full-blown hyperventilating now, she’s clearly struggling to breathe. “Can I help her, please? She just needs someone to calm her down.”
“Don’t you try anything.” Buck keeps his hands clear as he slides out of his seat, only moving enough to leave his phone on the seat. He’d rather rush over and check on the girl, but he keeps things slow, making sure she can see him approaching before he places a hand on her back.
“Hey, I know it’s really scary,” her name badge says Tina, so he goes with that, “but I need you to try and slow your breathing, okay, Tina? Let’s try and slow the pace, deep breaths in and hold it for four, then a long exhale, okay?” Buck’s tone is quiet, soft. He gets them to sit down, propping Tina against the wall, blocking her from the gunman's view and also keeping her line of sight away from him. “You’re doing great, okay? Everything is going to be okay.”
Coaching Tina through calming down, Buck isn’t paying attention to where the two robbers are, it seems like they’ve gotten their cash and are ready to just leave except--
“How the fuck are the cops here?” The sirens aren’t that far away, but it’s clear that they’re coming here. The woman spots his phone, grabbing it, and Buck realises Maddie might’ve texted him back.
“You texted the cops?” And that does sound a little off, but that’s what happens when you know people in dispatch.
“Look, you’ve got your money, no one has gotten hurt. If you leave now, you can get away.” With probably less than $500, was that a felony or a misdemeanour, he’d ask Athena later, but the point was. “No one is hurt, just go.” And for half a second it looks like Buck’s luck will actually turn around, they’re edging towards the door and everyone is fine, Tina is calming, no one is hurt, it’s going to be fine.
Until the girl freaks as the bell above the door chimes, the guy yanking it open. She twists towards Buck and they both just freeze for a second before Buck feels the heat and sting spread. She’s driven the knife into his stomach, right below his ribcage, neither of them moving for a second. If he’s honest, she looks about as shocked as he does, and Buck’s brain shocks itself back into gear just as she’s about to jerk away.
“Don’t take it out.” He doesn’t think it’s serrated, but it’s likely the only thing plugging the wound and Buck knows enough to know he shouldn’t pull it out, but she’s not paying attention, or she’s just panicking, and she grabs the knife as she pulls away, yanking it out of his gut. Buck’s knees give out at the flare of pain, hitting the ground as the pair flee, hopefully right into the waiting police.
“Hey, hey, oh my god, Alice, get a towel or something!” Tina crawls to his side and Buck pulls himself against the side of the table, hand pressing to his side in a futile bid to stop the blood currently seeping from his side. “What’s your name?”
“Buck,” he gasps it out, right as Alice appears with towels to press into his side, “I’m on blood thinners, you need… You need to get the paramedics here, fast.” He could literally bleed out on their floor, “Press harder, you have to… Shit, you need to press harder.” Buck wasn’t going to get the angle to hold the towel in place, but he knew he needed more pressure.
“Yo, guy!” The man who’d been on the laptop rushes over towards them, slipping a little on the floor because obviously Buck’s already left a stupidly large trail, “You need to press down really hard on this, okay?” The guy nods, movements jerky and panicked, but he puts almost his full weight into leaning on the towel, from what Buck can tell.
It’s sore, the ache spreading along his side, but Buck isn’t coughing up blood or struggling to breathe, so he’s hopeful that means his lung didn’t get nicked by the knife. It’s just the risk of the blood, from what he can gather. How bad was a stab this high? If it missed his lungs, and he didn’t think it could’ve caught his stomach or liver, but… The blood loss could send him into haemorrhagic shock.
He thinks he might already be edging there as Tina reappears, this time with two paramedics, and Buck hadn’t even been aware she’d left. But he can hear her quickly telling them that his name is Buck, he’s on blood thinners, and he got stabbed. So, she’s clearly handling her fight or flight way better when there’s no gun pointed in her face.
Laptop-guy is urged away, Buck feeling the paramedics start to tug at him. “Are you still with us? Can you tell me your name?”
“Evan Buckley,” his mouth is annoyingly dry, his throat hurts when he swallows, and fuck, yeah, he’s going into haemorrhagic shock, isn’t he. “I um… ‘m feelin’ a bit cold, and… I’m on Warfarin.” They more they know, right? If they can stop him bleeding, maybe it’ll be okay.
“Any allergies, Mr Buckley?” And in his right mind, Buck would know they’re asking about medications he can’t take, if he’ll code on them if they pump him full of something, but he’s not really thinking, and he heard allergies so…
“Kiwi. It’s dumb, can’t have it.” There’s a mild snort, and then he feels himself moving. When’d he close his eyes? God, he’s cold and numb, it’s like being under the ladder truck again.
“Hey, Buckley, c’mon, you gotta keep your eyes open. Diaz will kick my ass if you die on me.” It’s hard to pry his eyes open, but he’s startled, hearing that. “That’s it, c’mon, man. You got this, it’s a stab, you’ve had a ladder truck on you, made it through a tsunami, don’t bail on us now, dude.” He’s been moved from the café, he’s in the ambulance, he has no idea how that happened at all.
“Lena?” He can only assume that this has to be Bosko, who’s been watching his partner's back because he’s been unable to work.
“Yeah, how lucky are you, 136’s first active call back on duty.” The other paramedic is hooking him up to things, they’re already on the move, “We’ve got the bleeding under control, you just have to hold on until you get to the hospital, you’re gonna need surgery for the internal damage.” Lena presses something onto his side, Buck hisses at it, but he’s mostly glad he can feel something.
“D’you have m’ phone?” He was sure it was there, “Gotta… call m’ sister an’ Eds.” A hand on his shoulder stops his movements.
“Gimme your thumb, I’ll call them.” They’re with another paramedic, it’s clear that Buck is giving Lena permission right, no one will get into trouble, he doesn’t want Lena to go to hospital jail like he did. “I’m sure there’s a story there, but no, Buckley, no one is going to hospital jail.”
Buck doesn’t care that he’s either high and talking out his thoughts, or just has no control of his mouth any more, he can’t feel the blaring ache in his side any more, although he’s still cold and a little shaky, but he’s rolling out of the ambulance into the familiar halls of First Presbyterian, he stops worrying too much about anything as he lets the darkness take over.
|
Lance provided a… unique service.
It was a well-known fact that unifying a spirit to a physical body would cure both of any magical-related ailments. He meant ‘spirit’ not in the sense of a soul or a ghost, but as in a spirit born from the elements, not the body. Spirits emerged from the pull and push of the ocean’s tide, from the hissing steam of volcanic rivers, from the growls and snarls of thunderstorms. They weren’t humanoids, or magic creatures, or beasts. They weren’t physical in the way those born on the earthly plane were.
He knew this better than most.
His family was one with magic born in its blood. They had a talent for weaving magic particles into tangible things – spells, potions, attacks if need be. There were parts of the world were magic was much more abundant, like ancient ruins and great forests protected by dryads and places where fantastical magic beasts had unleased their power, like dragon caves. Members of Lance’s family had the inherent gift of being able to physically see these places: specifically, they could see the abundant amount of magic particles that floated in the air there. To them, they looked like little glowing sparks.
A lot of the time, messing with magic or using it without the proper training could lead to disaster. People who were the strongest with magic, the ones who were leagues beyond the next strongest mage, were called heroes. Many tried to take shortcuts to becoming heroes – they’d make pacts with summoned demons, or try and consume a large amount of magic particles with a body that couldn’t withstand their energy.
The result was always terrible. Unless on the off, very rare chance they were a magic prodigy, that amount of energy tore them apart from the inside out. It was dangerous and explosive and incredibly immoral, though not quite illegal, unfortunately.
For the unaware, who used magic improperly without ill intentions, the consequences were far less severe. They’d become ill, or experience changes in their behaviour that were negative and aggressive. As long as it wasn’t extremely severe, like in the cases of people who welcomed demons into their bodies for example, then it could be reversed. Not completely, but enough to give them control again.
That was what Lance did. By collecting magic particles – a lot of them – into one source, his body, he could them coalesce them into a singular being, a spirit. Sometimes he was able to summon a spirit already in existence, but it was easier to create them, he found. He could then transfer that spirit into a physical being, usually a humanoid of some kind, and the magic would heal them.
He lived by the sea, because he liked the feel of the magic produced by the waves. His siblings, at least the ones currently in the business (and thus the ones whose time wasn’t preoccupied by caring for their family’s farm, or their own children) lived in other areas, where the magic was different. He was pretty sure his sister Veronica was living in an underground ruin, because of course she’d like the magic there.
Like most of his family, and others like them, he could sense when large amounts of magic particles were approaching. Namely, when a really strong person or being was nearby. Lance was used to them coming and going. A lot of large magical beasts migrated through the water with the seasons, leaving impressive trails of magic behind them. It could be a little lonely when he was the only one enjoying them, seeing such magnificent trails of lights invisible to the eyes of others around him.
That morning he was by the sea, as he often was, when he sensed a great presence approaching. It was like a little alarm was going off in his mind. A shiver went down his spine as he glanced towards it, though he didn’t see anything. He lived slightly adjacent to the town so he could be closer to the sea. Whoever had arrived would need to make their way through the town before getting to him, if that was their intention.
He was sure it was.
Some hours later, he was proved correct.
Two people appeared on his doorstep. He was waiting for them, having spent much of the morning collecting magic particles from the shore, where they washed up with the tide. One was helping the other walk – he had dark hair and strangely violet eyes, which indicated he was proficient with some form of magic. The other was taller and broader in the shoulders, with one arm and a thick, noticeable scar across the bridge of his nose.
“Welcome,” he said, as he glanced them over. It was the larger one that concerned him. The magic particles wicking off his skin were black and pulsing, which wasn’t healthy. Something terrible had found its way inside him.
“I’ve been everywhere looking for someone to help him,” violet eyes said. Despite his firm voice and expression, there was an edge of desperation to him that appealed to Lance’s desire to help them. “No one has been able to.”
“I can,” Lance said. He had no doubt of his abilities. Even though he could see that they doubted him, his confidence was steady. He’d dealt with worse than this before. “Come in.”
He led him to the furthermost room in his home, the one that opened up onto the ocean. He flung the doors open so that the breeze could come in. The room wasn’t close enough to feel the spray of the water, but at the moment when the tide was highest he could. It was wonderful.
The room had very little furniture. There was a mat on the floor that doubled as a patient bed with a blanket, which he indicated for the larger man to lay down on. There was a little shrine sat between the open spaces the doors made with incense burning. A perfectly intact conch shell from the beach sat on its pedestal, it’s opalescent outside catching rays of sunlight beautifully. Some of his tools of the trade had been placed beside the bed in advance – a shallow dish filled with ocean water, a blue crystal he’d made by condensing magic particles (one he’d let the tide smooth out over time, with the help of magic to speed up the process), and a damp cloth.
“What happened?” Lance asked, as he sat on his knees on the floor beside the man, holding one palm over his forehead.
“A dark mage took possession of his body and corrupted his magic particles,” violet eyes explained, sitting on the other side. “He was used as a soldier in the Black War, but rescued.”
Lance pursed his lips. The Black War was a minor-calamity event, which in itself was terrible – calamity events were considered world-ending, so minor ones were a step beneath that. A dark druid corrupted an entire forest of powerful magic particles, turning the dryads there into puppets that then built an army from normal people and beasts by continuing the chain of corruption. Just the fact that the druid was capable of overpowering dryads, one of the most powerful natural beings known, had been shocking.
In the end, a hero named Allura had sacrificed herself to defeat the dark druid, thus ending the Black War. There was a rumour that Allura’s heart was so pure and full of light that her image was transposed into the stars. No cartographers had officially named the constellation, but many travellers believed that following the Allura stars would lead them to light. Lance believed it.
But that was beside the point. The Black War had ended some time ago. It was impressive that this man had managed to live so long with such corrupted magic inside of him.
“Can you help him?” violet eyes asked.
“Yes,” Lance repeated. A blue glow appeared in his palm, and as he moved it over the man’s face, the tension on his face eased into sleep. He hadn’t been fully conscious to begin with, so nudging him unconsciousness was easy enough. It would be less painful for him this way. “Though it may take some time.”
“As long as it takes,” violet eyes said, a concerned but resolute look in his eyes.
Lance nodded. He liked that determination. “Your name?”
Violet eyes blinked, leaning back as if he hadn’t realised he hadn’t introduced himself. “Keith,” he said. “That’s Shiro.”
“My name is Lance.”
“I know.”
Lance couldn’t resist the smile that twitched at his face. “Good.”
“What can I do to help?”
Lance paused. It was unusual for his clients to be so ready to help. Usually they were too concerned or ill to be of use.
Not that it mattered.
“Nothing, unfortunately,” Lance said. “I’m going to be honest. This kind of magic – that is, the kind corrupting Shiro – is very dependent. I’ve seen it before. It binds itself to the magic already inside a being, finds the source, and corrupts it. If I remove the corruption and his magic source has already been consumed, then he very well might die. There’s little to be done about that.”
The hard look on Keith’s face began to waver.
“But take that warning with a grain of salt. It’s worst case scenario,” Lance continued. “I haven’t heard of Black War victims surviving this long without treatment, so that could be a sign that part of his magic is still uncorrupted. You shouldn’t give up hope yet.”
Keith nodded. “I won’t. Not until…”
Lance nodded, too. He understood. Gently, he put his palm to Shiro’s forehead, feeling his temperature. He was fevered, but that was to be expected. Carefully, he brushed a strand of hair away from Shiro’s forehead. They were a handsome pair, these two. It was a shame they’d met in such unfortunate circumstances.
“Alright.” Lance drew his hand back and let out a steady breath. He reached for the smooth blue crystal with his magic, letting it hover in the air before gently depositing it in the centre of Shiro’s forehead. “This will serve as a funnel for the corrupted magic particles. I’d advise you to leave the room, since this isn’t going to be pleasant to watch, but I doubt you’d leave even if I begged.”
Keith gave him a weary smile.
“Thought so.” Once the crystal was balanced, he dampened the cloth in the shallow dish once more, and infused some magic into it. After this, it would help bring down Shiro’s inevitable fever. He used his magic on the remaining seawater in the dish, bringing it up to form an orb between his hands. His back was to the open doors facing the ocean, but when he closed his eyes, he could sense all the magic particles in the air, just as well as if his eyes were open.
After he’d pulled a decent amount into the water orb, he opened his eyes again. Everything looked like it was glowing blue, but that was only to his gaze. Magic was building up at a rapid pace, each particle forming and bonding with the one next to it. Slowly but surely, a spirit was forming. He had to make it strong enough to impact the corruption inside Shiro.
Eventually, he felt like it was.
“Let’s begin,” he said. |
The sunlight shone through the windows in the kitchen at the Avengers’ Compound, where the whole team was gathered for breakfast.
Tony sat at the kitchen island reviewing the latest breakthroughs from Stark Industry’s R&D department, Wanda and Vision were happily making breakfast at the stove, Steve was reading the newspaper next to Tony, and Nat, Clint, and Bruce were hanging out by the couches.
(Sam and Bucky were out helping out Sam’s sister and presumably bickering about something dumb)
It was peaceful in the communal area, only light conversations and quiet eating that satisfied the hearts of each Avenger.
“Good mornin’!” Peter chirped as he waddled in. He was still in his pajamas and held a little teddy bear in his arms that Tony gave him.
Tony looked up from his tablet and beamed when he saw the little boy with a messy head of curls.
“Hey Underoos! You’re up so early, I wanted to let you sleep in since it was the weekend,”
“Yeah! I couldn’n sleep and I smelled bac’n so I had ‘o wake up!”
Even though Strange said his mental cognizance would slowly fade as his age did, Peter was still the same teenage Spiderman. His optimism and bubbly personality would never fail to show.
Tony got off his barstool to help Peter who already had his chubby arms up, waiting to be lifted up. He placed Peter on the chair next to him and made sure he was in reach of the kitchen island so that he could also eat breakfast.
“Good mornin’ Mista Rogers, what’re you readin’?
Steve put down his newspaper and smiled at the boy sitting next to him, “I’m just reading the local newspaper. You know me, I’m still quite old at heart”
“Tha’s sounds like fun! Good mornin’ Wanda, wha’s for bweakfast?” he said, immediately turning his attention to the couple on the other side of the island. Wanda faced away from the stove to look at Peter and leaned over to give a tap on his nose. Peter scrunched up his nose at the touch and giggled.
“Hello little one, Vision and I made eggs, bacon, pancakes, and waffles. How about I give you a little bit of everything?”
“Yes pwease!”
“Yes please” Tony tried to correct.
“Pwease”
“You’re still not getting the ‘ell’ sound buddy,”
Peter took a huge bite of pancake into his mouth and shrugged, answering with a mouth full of food and craning his head to look up at Tony.
“Sorry Mista Star’, I guess my de-aging also ma’es my speech worsed”
Steve offered a comforting pat on the back, “It’s okay Peter, I think it’s very cute”
“I also think the young boy’s speech inhibition is rather charming,” Vision added.
Others from the couch also chimed in.
“It’s adorable Peter!”
“You’re the cutest kid I know, and I have three. Don’t tell my kids I said that!”
“Stark is just an old grouch, don’t worry”
“Hey! I’m not a grouch, Nat. They’re right, it’s super cute. Whatever was I thinking?” Tony quickly responded. He smiled down at the child who was happily enjoying his waffles and Peter returned the smile with cheeks full of food.
God, this kid was going to give him a nose bleed.
“Boss, I feel the need to inform you that May Parker is currently on her way to the compound. Her estimated time of arrival is 9:55 AM,” Friday said in his earpiece.
Tony looked at his watch. 9:47 AM.
“Fucking shit,”
Peter’s eyes suddenly grew wide and he furrowed his eyebrows. “You said a bad word!”
“Yeah well that’s because bad things are about to happen,”
Tony scrambled the million thoughts running through his mind to problem solve this mess. He couldn’t let May see Peter, first of all she’d freak. Second of all, Peter would freak. Then, he himself would freak.
And then everyone would lose their fucking minds and the compound would explode-
Keep it together Tony
Tony pulled Steve, Sam, Bucky and Nat close to him and made them huddle in a circle. “Okay I need you guys to follow exactly what I say or else I’m going to get killed,”
“What?! Tony, are you in danger?” Steve whisper-yelled.
“Again?”
“Who did you piss off this time?” Nat mocked. Tony shook his head and shushed them.
“May Parker is on her way up right now and I don’t have a good excuse as to why Peter is five years old without her attacking me with a kitchen knife. So I really need your help.” Everyone nodded in agreement, but with a little apprehension for whatever nonsense Tony was about to say.
Steve, take Peter to his room and distract him. Don’t let him out until I give you the clear,” the muscular man scurried off and abruptly hoisted Peter off the bar stool and into his arms. Sounds of protest came from the child but nevertheless, Steve got him out.
“You three, please help me keep May distracted and away from Peter. I’m sure Peter will want to come out after like 15 minutes so just keep them away from each other,”
“You got it,” Sam complied.
“Tony, this is a terrible plan. They’re gonna see each other eventually, why the games? It’s just gonna make it worse,” Nat disputed. Of course he knew that, but he just needed some time to let her know the easy way. Some way to show that Peter was fine.
The man just needed some time.
“Yeah I know that but-”
An interrupting voice cleared their throat loudly. “Tony,”
He turned around and gave the biggest fake smile he could and stuck his arms out for a hug (even though he hated hugs).
“May Parker! How lovely to see you-”
May stuck a hand out to stop Tony from going any further. Tony backed away slowly with an awkward smile plastered on his face. Not a great start.
“Where’s my nephew?”
“Oh, you know, somewhere,”
“That isn’t very comforting to hear,” She looked around the room for any sight or trace of Peter but there was nothing to be seen. Just a bunch of Avengers, lounging around.
“You know what? I think he’s doing a big project somewhere. Big brain, that kid,”
“Okay, well, take me to him,”
“I can’t,”
“Why?”
“The…door…is…broken…”
May raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Hopefully that was a good enough lie? Who was he kidding, the man was sweating in fear.
“Interesting,” she replied.
From the distance, Tony could hear a tiny voice yelling for him. “MISTA STAAAAAARK!”
Tony’s eyes went wide and so did May’s. He was so screwed. With all the lying, he didn’t even get a chance to think of a good excuse for Peter’s…condition.
“You got a kid? On the compound? Supposedly, where doors aren’t even safe from damage?”
A crash and booming steps were heard down the hallway. Time was ticking.
“Haha, noooo. Someone just decided to inhale some helium. Avengers shenanigans,”
“Tony, where is Peter?” More small steps began to come their way.
“He’s fine, May,”
“Where’s. Peter.”
The engineer tried to block May from seeing whatever was going on behind him, and hoped that his fellow teammates would do what they were instructed. Which was to keep Peter away.
May tried to peer over Tony’s shoulder but at this point they were just playing a game of ‘who has a faster reflex’.
A presence suddenly appeared beside Tony and he let out a sigh of relief.
“Ah! Relative of spider child! How lovely it is to meet you! You are as gorgeous as ever, may I offer you a pop tart?” Thor greeted. Oh for christ’s sake
He could hear Steve trying to coerce Peter to go with him, but with every ticking second Peter was crawling closer and closer.
“Hi Thor, please move,” May insisted. She tried to pry between Tony and Thor who were glued shoulder-to-shoulder but to no avail.
“No need! We haven’t even properly discussed our prospects! I must know, how do you stay looking so young?”
“Move, I need to find my nephew,”
“May, what’s the rush? Have a cup of coffee,”
In the distance, “No! I don’t want to go!”
“Peter, come back!”
“Peter?!” she tried yelling over the two men. She couldn’t see anything behind them which was good. For now.
“May I think we need to talk,”
“Tony. Move,”
“May-”
“Tony-”
“Thor-” the God interjected.
Finally, after all their efforts, Peter got through all the obstacles and climbed through Tony’s legs.
“Aun’ May!”
Her eyes went comically wide and she turned a ghostly white. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Her nephew? The one she raised all these years? Was it really him?
Tony stepped forward, “May, I can explain,”
She ignored Tony and crouched down in front of the little boy that stood before her. He still held his teddy bear, and his chestnut curls were frizzy from wrestling with Steve. She looked at him up and down in disbelief, putting a hand to his chubby little cheek.
“Peter?” she breathed. The child nodded eagerly and stuck out his arms for a hug which she gladly accepted. May took him into her arms and picked him up, holding back tears.
“May, I can explain,”
She sniffled and took another look at him. The big doe eyes that looked at her with that childlike innocence, the goofy smile that made her heart fond.
“Is this really him?” she faltered. A tear began to roll down her cheek and Peter used his little hands to wipe them off her face.
“Aun’ May don’ cry! I’s me! Peter!”
Tony nodded in agreement and offered a genuine and apologetic smile.
“I know Peter, I’m just surprised,” she turned to Tony. “I haven’t seen him this little in years. I only got to see him a few times a few times a year when he was five. Back when, you know,”
“Look, I’m sorry May. Something happened on a mission and it got messy and we have no idea what happened-”
May shot him a daggering look. “I mean no! We do know what happened, just that, we’re working on a solution right now,”
She looked at Peter and wiped some of his hair from his forehead, “I trust you, Tony. As long as my baby isn’t in danger or anything. How are you feeling, Peter?”
“I’m okay! Mista Stark has bee’ takin’ care of me!” She gave him a smile and then a light kiss on the forehead which elicited a high pitched giggle from the child.
“That’s good. Well, say thank you to everyone, because I’m taking you home,”
May’s statement caused a chorus of protest from everyone around the room, including Peter.
“What?! No! You can’t!” Tony argued.
“A child doesn’t belong on the Avenger’s compound! Are you crazy?” May scoffed. Although she did have a point, Tony wasn’t ready to let go of Peter. He still needed to monitor his vitals, run tests, a bunch of things!
Tony and May argued for a couple minutes before Peter tapped on May’s shoulder. “Aun’ May?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
He ducked his head low and spoke in a soft voice. “Uhm, I wike it here. Mista Stark takes really good care of me and so does everyone else! Can I pwease stay”
Peter gave the best puppy eyes he could to convince her which of course worked. Because who could say no to little ol’ Peter Parker?
She took in a deep breath and sighed before nodding slowly. “If that’s what you really want,”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” the child screamed in her ear. Tony smiled and whispered a small ‘thank you’.
May let Peter down and he ran off to go play with some of his fellow teammates. She shook her head and looked at Tony who was still smiling.
Thank God she let him stay. He didn’t know what he’d do if Peter had left.
“Thanks for letting him stay. I promise. No more accidents, only working on fixing Peter,”
May laughed and crossed her arms. The engineer gave a look of confusion, “What’s so funny?”
She used her hand to motion Tony to come closer until eventually, she could grab him by the collar of his shirt and pull him down so that she could whisper in his ear.
“If anything and I mean anything else happens to Peter, the Avengers are going to face another villain who’s vengeance will be tenfold that of the ones you’ve faced in the past. Got it?”
“Yep. Understood. Got it.”
May let him go and smiled. “Good!”
Tony gave a breath of relief. Wait until she hears about the continuous de-aging part of this whole thing. |
the car ride through the city was quiet and long. dream had decided not to put any music on as to not disturb the boy. he drove for about thirty minutes from where the club was before arriving at a small inn. it looked sketch but it would have to do for now.
dream took his keys and got out of the car. he had parked in front of the check in office so he wouldn’t walk so far. george was so mysterious to him, and he didn’t know why he bothered doing all this, he was starting to regret it.
“here is the keycard, enjoy your stay!” the front end lady gave dream a smile and he quickly mumbled a thank you as he walked back to the car. his eyes widened and he just about dropped his keys as he saw the door to his car wide open. he quickly rushed over to the back of the car and saw the boy on the ground, clutching his stomach and pool of yellow bile besides him. he was unconscious and breathing heavily, which confused dream even more. he quickly picked the boy up and headed up towards their room.
it took him a minute to find it and he quickly opened the door and placed the boy on the bed. he rummaged through a bathroom cabinet and to no avail found nothing that could help the boy. dream grabbed a small towel and wet it, then walked back into the other room and proceeded to clean the boys face.
george was really pale, awfully pale which was not normal. his face had the slightest tints of green as his sweat caused his forehead to shine. he was still taking long heavy breathes and every so often mumbled unrecognizable things. he twitched ever so slightly as dream tucked him into the bed, then he himself prepared his own little bed on the floor.
when morning came, he was the first to wake up. he checked on the boy and saw his face had returned to its normal color, but his cheeks had a slight tint of pink cross them, and he was taking slower but deeper breathes. dream couldn’t help but stare at george’s scrawny figure, he was shorter than him but the boy looked fragile even without the height difference.
the more he looked at him the more intrigued he become. he didn’t know what would become of this boy. he packed his things and before he closed the door of the Inn, he looked back at the boy who continued to sleep.
sometimes, encounters are merely random.
dream leaned back on the door of the room. he stood there for what seemed like forever, and he was having a mental war with himself.
‘is this the right thing to do?’ dream thought to himself. he couldn’t help but feel bad for the boy inside the room. he felt like he was abandoning someone on the brink of death. he sighed loudly and rubbed his eyes. the sun beams pierced themselves into dreams skin, and his forehead started to sweat from the hot and humid air that surrounded him. he looked into his hands and saw the key card that he was supposed to leave in the room.
“shit, i have to go back inside.” he mumbled and proceeded to open the door. dream let himself in, as well as the sun which lit up the corner of the room where the boy was resting. dreams eyes widened slightly, and his hand rested on the door knob as he stared at the boy who had sat up on the bed. his small figure was covered by the white bed sheet, and he was looking behind him at the other room which was the bathroom. he slowly turned his head to look at dream, and shifted so that his body was facing him. he silently looked dream up and down, before rubbing his eyes and proceeding to inch himself off the bed.
“w-who are you-“ he exhaled out as his legs made contact with the floor, and unable to hold himself up, collapsed on himself. dream quickly rushed over to the boy and crouched down in front of him. the boy put all his strength into his arms as he pushed himself up so that he was in a sitting position rather than sprawled on the floor.
“hey, take it easy. let’s get you back on the bed.” dream said softly. he was worried now, and saw as the boys face paled once again. the same paleness he saw the night he met him. the boy put a hand over his mouth and looked up at dream, his eyes starting to water. dream instantly took the hint and picked up the boy, carrying him to the bathroom, basically kicking the door open and sitting him down next to the toilet.
the boy vomited into the toilet, emptying out everything in his stomach. the heaving and small whimpers didn’t sit comfortable in dreams ears, but he felt for the boy who was struggling to breathe. he gave small pats on the boys back and after a while, the boy wiped his mouth and let small tears fall from his eyes.
“thank you, but, who are you?”
dream grabbed a small towel that hung on a rack and wet it. he pressed the towel against the boys face and wiped away at the dirty spots he had around his mouth.
“my name’s dream.” it wasn’t his real name, but he saw no reason why he should tell the boy his real name. the brown haired boy look up at dream who towered over him and smiled.
“i’m george. sorry for all the trouble i’ve caused you. may i ask where are we?” he asked. dreams mouth formed a straight line. he took in george’s physical appearance, saw how his hair slightly curled at the ends and how his eyes were a deep chocolate brown. he knew that if the sun hit george’s eyes, they would glow in a beautiful hazel color.
“we’re at a motel inn, it was the closest place i could find around here.” dream said blatantly. george sighed and rested his head against the wall. he looked down at his hands, turning them around as if inspecting them. dream caught a glimpse of the bruising around his wrists, seeming to be old markings as they didn’t look too defined.
“what happened to you?” he asked george, and the boys eyes widened a bit before hiding his wrists. he shuffled and grabbed onto the toilet seat, pushing himself up to his feet. dream sat up quickly and made sure they boy wouldn’t collapse on himself again.
“nothing, im fine. just fell.” george gritted his teeth and continued to walk slowly out of the bathroom. he sat on the edge of the bed and looked around, taking in his surroundings once more.
dream leaned against the wall and stared at the boy. he was so mysterious and weird. his eyebrows furrowed as he saw the paleness of the boy, the messiness of his hair and the frightened look he constantly had. god he looked like such a pussy. dream scoffed, what kind of thoughts were going through his head. he felt like an asshole just thinking about them. his eyes landed back on george and the smaller boy was already looking at him. both their eyes widened slightly and they continued to stare at each other.
it was like time slowed down, and the air around them tightened. george looked into dreams emerald eyes, the brown specks that surrounded his pupils looked like snow on the pavement, though in yellow. george couldn’t distinguish the colors, but he knew they were a color he has never seen before. dream looked into george’s chocolate brown eyes, and he wondered how the sun would turn them into a hazel nut color, displaying as a beautiful chocolate pool.
they stared into each other’s person, they analyzed so much from just each other’s eyes, and it was a movie scene if they were in one.
a knock at the door broke the silence and both boys looked at the door. dream headed towards to door, room service was awfully late if that’s what was going on.
georges breathe hitched and he ran after dream, grabbing his wrist which was already on the door knob.
“don’t open it! please! i think it’s him!” george pleaded, with tears that pricked at the corner of his eyes. dream looked at george, their hands resting on each other.
the knocks only got louder |
After everyone had left Julie and Reggie helped her parents clean up, leaving the decorations up for the kids to take down the next day. The night had been a success in more ways than Julie had anticipated. The best part of the night being Emily
finally
accepting her son’s dreams and supporting them. It had been a perfect day and nothing could dampen her mood.
Reggie and Julie had gone up to wash up and change into pajamas before heading to her room where they laid down side by side in her bed. Rose walked in then and laid down between them.
“So you and Luke looked pretty...close tonight.” Rose said. Reggie laughed.
“Did you see his face when Julie sang her song?” Rose chuckled and nodded.
“Got it on tape, too.” Julie groaned at that but she was secretly pleased. She’d watched him the whole time and to be able to see it whenever she wanted? She was sure she’d be rewatching it for the rest of her life.
“You were really great tonight, Jules.” Reggie said.
“You really were, mija.” Rose added. “But we’re not here to talk about the performance. I want to hear all about your day.” Rose smirked at her daughter.
Julie knew she wouldn’t be able to resist her mom, she knew everything about her life and so Julie started talking. She told her mom everything, Reggie giving his opinion or making noises as she went. When Julie got to the kiss she clammed up. She wanted to keep this one thing for herself. Her first kiss. Which she had thought would be awkward and messy but had instead turned out to be actual magic.
“So there was a kiss.” It wasn’t a question. Rose just knew from the look on Julie’s face to the way her cheeks turned red.
Rose remembered how she’d felt the first time she’d kissed Ray when she was seventeen. Julie had come the year after that. Sure they’d been young but they’d been in love and contrary to Ray’s mother’s beliefs, sometimes that was enough. Look at her life now. A house full of kids some hers and some not but she loved them just the same. Music always came from somewhere though now it was from the studio instead of the stereo. It was a perfect life, everything she’d ever wanted for herself, She had no regrets.
“I knew it! Luke had the dumbest look on his face when you guys came back.” Reggie said and the other two laughed at that.
“I’m sure mine wasn’t much better.” Julie answered.
“Nope. You both looked dopey as hell. If the heart eyes emoji had human form, it’d be the two of you.” Reggie said.
“I don’t know. Alex might be gaining on you.” Rose said with a smile. Julie and Reggie nodded in agreement.
Rose got up and wished them a good night. Julie was asleep within minutes of Rose leaving. Her arm was thrown over Reggie who rolled his eyes at his best friend and snuggled in deeper to try and get to sleep himself. He was still running high on their perfect day and the response from the crowd at that night's performance. It took an hour for the adrenaline to die down enough for him to fall asleep.
A month had passed since
The Bad Thing
and since then, life had been good to them. Luke had become even closer with his parents now that they’d started showing up for random practices and all of their gigs even if they and the Molina’s were the only ones in the audience.
They had recorded their demo after arguing for hours over which songs would make it in. They only had time for six. They’d decided on Now or never, Bright, Edge of Great, Still Into You, It Ends Tonight, and Mama. Ray had ordered two hundred copies after Jason and Robert had requested a bunch of their own to give out to friends and colleagues. Emily and Mitch had requested the same.
Ray had designed an insane photo shoot for the cover art and so the CD inserts had been printed and packed. Their fans would go wild when they discovered all the writing credits belonged to the band themselves.
Alex had quickly become comfortable with the Ryder’s who had no hesitation in adopting another kid. They’d made it official the following week. Robert, who was a lawyer, had fast tracked all the adoption papers and Alex’s parents had signed the parental rights over without a word. Flynn had gained a brother and Alex another sister.
Jason and Robert Ryder had thrown a party at their house for Alex’s fifteenth birthday that rivaled any of the previous years and that night had been spent in the front row of the STAPLES center watching their favorite band play to a sold out crowd. Flynn had made a sign that read “IT’S HIS BIRTHDAY” With an arrow that pointed to Alex’s head. AJ had seen it and shouted out his birthday to the entire venue, the band proceeding to sing the Happy Birthday song to Alex, acapella. Thankfully Luke had caught him when he fainted. All in all, it had been a perfect birthday.
Nicole came around every other day, following her brother around and quickly claiming Willie as yet another adopted sibling. Any other group of teenagers would have gotten annoyed with a little sister always under foot but they’d all taken her under their wing. Julie had agreed to teach her piano when she’d shown interest.
Luke had started drum lessons with Alex and in that time had picked them up as fast as he had his guitar. His mind just processed music differently than anything else. They’d accepted his talent a long time ago so none of them were surprised.
Reggie had a harder time than the rest of them. The day after Alex’s birthday his father had come by to take him to lunch. Reggie was happy to spend time with his father until the man had informed him that his parents were going to be divorcing. Their relationship was not healthy, nor was it good for his mother’s recovery. They’d already signed the papers.
Jacob Peters was going to be moving out of the house and leaving it for Alice and Reggie when she got back in five months. He was moving into the city where he would work on himself. He said he hoped that Reggie would come visit him whenever he wanted, he’d have his own room there too. It was Reggie’s choice who he wanted to live with, though. He had no idea how to respond to that so they simply left and Jacob had driven him back to the Molina’s.
Julie was on the couch with Carlos watching Frozen for the hundredth time when Reggie walked in. He was pale and barely keeping the tears at bay. Julie pulled out her phone.
Julie to Soulmatez: 911, my house.
Luke: omw
Flynn: omw
Alex: omw
Willie: omw
Julie held her arm out for Reggie who moved to her and sat down. He took Carlos from her other side and sat him down on his lap. Hugging him tight and breathing his scent which never failed to make him feel better. Julie hugged him close.
The front door swung open and Flynn, Luke, Alex, and Willie filed in. They positioned themselves so that all of them were touching Reggie some way. They were still working out the routine with a new member present but it worked out. Flynn sat on his other side on the couch. Luke sat by Reggie’s feet on the floor, Alex next to him and Willie next to Alex. They all had a part of their bodies touching Reggie.
They sat in silence as Carlos clapped when Let it Go started and started singing along, using the words he knew and making up others for those he didn’t. Reggie cracked a small smile and joined in. By the time they’d gotten to the belting notes, all of them were singing along to the song. Ray walked into this scene and joined in. Rose was in the studio working on a new song for Galantis and therefore did not hear the singing from inside of the house.
It was obvious that something had happened with Reggie, the way they all crowded around him Ray knew the routine well so he sat down on the arm of the couch closest to Reggie.
“You okay, mijo?” Ray asked and watched as Reggie blushed a bit at the endearment.
“My parents are getting divorced. My dad took me out to tell me. He’s moving out and into the city. Said he’s leaving the house for us. I feel...guilty? For feeling relieved, I mean. Does that make me a bad person?” He watched as the kids all shook their heads in disagreement. Ray went to answer but Willie spoke before he could.
“When my dad left, I was ten. He was really mean with or without the drugs. Used to hit my mom all the time and if she wasn’t there, he’d take it out on me. We were always walking on eggshells at home. It was the most stressful time in my life and I was a kid. I never knew what I’d done wrong or why he hated us so much. I slept at the beach more than I did at home just to avoid him. He went out one day and never came back. I used to hope he’d been killed or something, just so I’d never have to see him again. I still don’t know what happened to him but I was so relieved when he didn’t come back. I’m still relieved, honestly. My mom’s the happiest she’s ever been. It’s better this way. Sometimes people just aren’t meant to stay together. There’s nothing wrong with that, there’s nothing wrong with
you
for being relieved.” He finished.
Alex had moved closer to him during his story and taken his hand to keep him grounded in the present while he recounted. Somehow, impossibly they were all touching him too in some way. Reggie had taken Willie’s other hand and squeezed hard.
“You’re all too young to have had so many life lessons. It shouldn’t be this way but unfortunately it is. All of your feelings are valid. You’re allowed to feel how you feel and don’t let anyone ever convince you that it’s wrong. You’re lucky to have found each other, most of us go through life with one true friend, if we’re lucky. Look at you guys! Julie was right when she said you were soulmates. It’s obvious to anyone who knows you.” Ray finished. He smiled at them and got up, taking Carlos with him to put him down for his nap. He reminded them to tell Rose he was home when she finally came up for air.
Just then, Flynn’s phone chimed. She pulled it out to check what it was since anyone who would be contacting her was here in this room. Her eyes widened and she shot up from the couch, tripping over Luke and almost falling but he caught her and helped her right herself.
“Oh my god! Guys! You remember the open mic showcase I entered you in? Well they just emailed me!” She read the email out loud.
“Good Afternoon, Flynn Ryder and Sunset Curve.
We are happy to inform you that you have been selected to perform at our open mic showcase. Please prepare a 30-40 minute set or alternatively 5-7 songs. You’re scheduled to perform this coming Saturday. August 3rd, 2019 at 9pm. Please respond at your earliest convenience so that we can begin promoting the show.
Sincerely,
Eats & Beats Talent Acquisitions”
Flynn responded to the email, confirming the show and just like that it was chaos. So loud that Rose ran in to see what was happening, Ray had stumbled down the stairs but neither of their questions were heard over the shouting and the jumping taking place in their living room.
Luke was on the coffee table with Julie holding hands and whooping. Reggie was hugging Flynn and spinning her around. Alex had Willie crushed in a hug and Willie was laughing and congratulating him. Flynn was the only one to notice the parents through the commotion and simply passed her phone over to Rose who read the email, Ray reading over her shoulder. Just like that, there were two other people jumping around with the kids.
They had decided on a set list the day they’d received the email. Starting with Bright, Finally Free, Now or Never, Still into You, It Ends Tonight, and closing out the show with Alex front and center performing Mama. Two songs to showcase all of them and one to showcase each one separately. Flynn had signed off on the choices.
Since then their band Instagram had started slowly gaining followers as the venue promoted the show. They went from 456 followers to 802 in the span of a few days. She could work with that. She started posting 15 second videos of the band rehearsing as a teaser for the upcoming show.
Luke had gone into drill sergeant mode so that for the rest of the week, when they were not sleeping or eating, they were rehearsing. Even then, they’d only been allowed twenty minutes for meals before he started getting fidgety and forced them all back to the studio. By the day of the show Willie and Nicole knew every song by heart.
“I’ll be live streaming from the Insta page so Julie, tell Victoria she can watch from there since she’ll be with Carlos tonight. Alex, tell Nikki. I need you all to post to your stories tag the band page and make sure everyone knows what time the livestream starts.” She started barking orders after that.
The boys were sent to load up Ray’s van with the instruments while she and Julie laid out the boys wardrobe for tonight before retreating and getting themselves ready. The Ryder’s were downstairs waiting to load up their car with kids, the packed van leaving no room aside from the front seats where Rose and Ray would be.
Thank god for SUV’s
Flynn thought.
Emily and Mitch were already there snatching the table at the front of the stage, texting Luke about who was there and how crowded it was. The more people that showed up at the venue the more antsy he got. Ray brought out the large cardboard box with their demo’s to bring to the van.
By the time they were dressed and ready to go he couldn’t stand still longer than a second. He was driving them all crazy until Julie pulled him aside and calmed him down.
“You need to take a deep breath and try to relax. We’re all nervous and excited but you’re making it anxiety inducing. Please chill.” He nodded but didn’t stop moving.
She did the only thing she could think of. She grabbed his face and kissed him hard in the middle of her driveway, surrounded by their friends and families. It worked though. His shoulders relaxed, he stopped moving, and a slow smile spread on his face. His eyes glazed over and she had to lead him over to the Ryder’s car because he wasn’t moving on his own.
“Ugh. Boys are so easy.” Flynn said with a roll of her eyes and everyone laughed except Luke who still had his head in the clouds. They loaded up into the car. Luke, Julie and Flynn in the back seat. Reggie, Alex, and Willie in the third row.
“Let’s get this show on the road?” Robert asked from the front seat. Jason whooped and slapped the dashboard.
“I can’t wait to watch you guys blow the roof off the place.” Jason said.
They pulled up in front of the venue and parked, walking to the back where Ray had pulled up. They went to go unload but there were already three stage hands there waiting.
“Get used to it, kids. The acts don’t unload their own stuff. That’s what they pay
us
for.” Flynn followed them in when they grabbed the stuff, telling them where and how to set everything up.
“Are your sound and lighting techs any good or am I going to be stressed the whole time?” They heard her ask. Her dad’s laughed along with everyone else.
“We are never getting another manager.” Luke said as they walked in.
“I think she’d kill you if you tried.” Robert answered.
In less time than it felt like, it was nine and they were taking the stage. Flynn had a tripod set up on the table holding her phone, perfectly framing the stage. Ray had his professional camera out to take pictures. The Ryder’s and the Pattersons were ordering drinks for the table. Non alcoholic for Willie and Flynn.
Julie started them off on Bright. Her voice and the keyboard the only sounds reverberating through the packed house. The audience was entranced and that was exactly why Luke has chosen this song to start off with. It was quiet but when the boys came in, the audience went wild. Everyone was dancing and clapping for them. It went on like this through Finally Free and Now or Never where Reggie saw a guy accidently get elbowed in the head by his date who paid him no mind as she danced.
Julie came in with Still Into You, taking lead on the song. The crowd ate it up and as she sang and rocked out with her boys she looked to the back, by the bar and saw Carrie and Nick. Both of which were just as absorbed by the music as everyone else there.
Huh, that’s new.
Luke followed her eyes and smiled smugly.
Second place to us is the only place there is.
The thought was mean but Carrie had been meaner for years so he felt justified.
Reggie came in next, switching places with Julie to take center stage and bring in It Ends Tonight. The music and the crowd's energy filled him up and he was barely able to keep his feet on the ground as he belted into the mic. Luke was to the right on his knees playing to the crowd. Girls were reaching for him but he paid them no mind as he looked back to Julie who was making her bass sing and smiling at him and then at Reggie.
Alex was drowning in the music, so much so that he forgot to be anxious about his performance coming up next. Instead he let the rhythm take him wherever it wanted. He was watching Willie watch him with a huge smile on his face. His hair which had been up in a bun had fallen out of the tie and was drifting around his head as he danced along.
Flynn was the loudest, screaming and jumping next to the stage where she reached up to take Reggie’s hand when he reached out to her. The crowd of girls next to her made sour faces but she didn’t care.
Oh honey, if you think any one of those boys are interested, you’re sadly mistaken.
She thought.
Finally the song ended and Alex moved slowly out from behind the drums as Luke took his place. Julie prepared herself and Reggie grabbed Luke’s guitar, slipping the new strap over his shoulder. Alex was alone, no drum sticks to clutch at, no drum set to hide behind. He was alone, but he wasn’t. His friends were looking at him encouragingly, waiting for his nod to start. Willie was beaming, and had moved to stand by Flynn, he reached up and took Alex’s hand, squeezing to show his support.
Alex nodded and they brought the beat in as it caressed his voice. It was his first time performing as a lead singer, the first time his voice wasn’t just back up vocals. The crowd was applauding and cheering. Dancing and sloshing their drinks over each other and the floor as they moved to the music and Alex thought he might understand Luke on a whole new level.
Luke had always talked about music as a living breathing entity, an energy that connected everyone. It had always felt like a romantic idea before. Something he understood but was apart from. Now though? Now he understood it down to his very atoms. This was magic. This was religion. This was a drug they’d never been warned about and he was addicted from the first hit.
Finally, the song ended and they bowed to wild applause and cheers. Emily and Rose were crying. Jason, Robert, Ray, and Mitch were moving the box of demo’s to the table. Flynn had moved to her phone to cut off the live stream and Willie was waiting by the stairs to help them down. He could tell all of their legs were shaking with adrenaline.
Julie moved to her mic then. “Thank you! We’re Sunset Curve!” Reggie leaned in to her mic then. “Tell your friends!” He said.
“Our demo’s are available for five dollars a piece over there.” Luke pointed to the table where the dads had all set up with stacks of CD’s for each.
They’d sold all two hundred that night and when Ray had placed an envelope containing a thousand dollars in Luke’s hand, he’d promptly burst into tears. Alex was the only one to ask how much it would cost to order more and then counted out the money after snatching it out of a sobbing Luke’s hand. He handed it over to Ray to place the order.
They stayed in the studio riding the high of the performance while the parents were inside having coffee. They stayed there until midnight when every set of parents came out to collect their kids.
It was almost two in the morning when five separate phones in four separate houses all lit up and chimed to announce a new message.
Flynn to Soulmatez: GUYS!
Flynn: WAKE UP!
Julie: omg I’m up what
Reggie: someone better be dead
Alex: whose house are we egging tonight?
Willie: I’m game
Luke: We’re egging a house? Whose?
Flynn sent a screen shot in response.
All four houses exploded in shouts and cries of excitement. Four sets of parents stumbled out of bed to check on their squealing kids. One toddler cried from his bed for a minute before falling back asleep. It seemed that some dreams did come true and so did some nightmares.
The next day, the kids were binge watching Schitt’s Creek at Julie’s, less watching the show and more watching their follower count keep growing. Julie decided to go check on her mom when the number hit thirteen thousand. She was in the studio writing and Julie wanted to check if she needed anything.
When Julie had walked in though, her mom was on the couch, she was pale and sweaty, clutching at her abdomen.
“Mom! Are you okay?” Julie ran to the couch and fell to her knees, running her hands over Rose’s face.
“No, I don’t think so.” She was having trouble talking, the words coming out on a hiss as a sharp pain shot from her abdomen to her back causing her to groan.
“It’s getting a little hard to breathe.” She said. Julie grabbed her hand and screamed for her dad so loud that it brought the entire population of the house out with him. They always did say she had a set of lungs on her.
“What happened? Rose! What’s going on?” Rose didn’t answer, instead she curled in on herself.
“She said it’s hard for her to breathe, she keeps grabbing at her stomach.” Julie explained. Ray had a split second to decide what to do and came to the conclusion in a heartbeat.
“Go call your aunt, ask her to come stay with Carlos. We’re going to the hospital.” He said. Julie nodded and ran back to the house to call. Luke followed her, the rest of them stayed behind to try and help, not that they could. Ray was already on the phone with 911.
Victoria arrived at the same time as the ambulance. She clutched at Carlos like a lifeline as she watched Ray get into the ambulance with her sister, tears flowing freely down her eyes. She was praying as she watched them go.
Willie ordered an Uber to take the six of them to the hospital where they sat for hours. It was so quiet you can hear pin drop. There was one couch and lots of empty chairs in the waiting room but Julie and Ray had taken the couch and so the rest of them crowded around them. On the floor and the arm rests as close to the two present Molina’s as they could all get.
The fluorescent lights were beating down on them making Julie’s usually golden skin look sickly. Luke, Reggie and Alex looked like ghosts under the harsh light. The only sound in the room was the buzzing of the light and the drone of the TV in the corner showing the news that no one cared enough to listen to.
Ray was holding Julie and Reggie’s hands. No one dared to move, no matter how numb their butts got, or how stiff their limbs became. They couldn’t do anything and so they did the only thing they could. They offered comfort.
Finally at about nine in the morning, a doctor walked into the waiting room. His face was grim and Julie inhaled sharply and stood up. Luke went with her.
“Mr. Molina?” The doctor called. Ray got up and gestured for the kids to stay where they were.
|
You couldn’t move for the longest time. You could only sit there and stare at the piece of plastic in your hand. Funny how small and insignificant it usually appeared in the hands of the living. But now, here it was, the only remains, the last marker of someone’s life, for who they had once been. This skeleton had once been a person that you knew, in a someway. You had dealt with death before, this wasn’t your first time experiencing it. When your favourite goldfish and grandfather had died on the same day you had bawled your eyes out for days. The thought of them being gone without pain or suffering had brought you no comfort. You were greedy, you wanted them here with you. Even being held by your father had held no consolation to you. He had rubbed your back, and had hugged you tightly in that magical way that you had felt most secure and safe. He would pull you close and rest his chin on your head, sheltering you with his body, all while he whispered soothingly to you. You had eventually overcame the loss at losing them, becoming stronger, somehow learned how to live with the gaping hole in your heart, but this… this was something different. You had helped flush your goldfish down the drain, and you had watched your grandfather be laid to rest, but you were older now. The thought of death had evolved in your mind. No longer was it some evil man in a robe that carried a scythe, but death held a more permanent consequence to you.
Joey… Joey was dead. Gone forever. How could you tell your father?
You didn’t know him, not personally, but your dad had always talked about him. You knew almost everything about him. How your father and Joey had first met in art school, and how they had such big plans for a little doodle that had been sketched on the back of a school assignment. Your father had always described him as being loud and boisterous, with a smile that would light up the room, and having a laugh that was contagious. He told you stories on how Joey would race his wheelchair down the hallways of their school and dorm, running over toes and squealing around corners, often leaving his friends behind in his dust. Joey Drew, the life of the party despite his handicap. “No handicap can slow me down, I won’t let it,” he would say to your father or anyone else who had questioned him. He had inspired and helped keep your father sane, even when they were separated during “that” time. Perhaps that was why your father was so willing to drop everything and see his friend again, even though they hadn’t seen or spoken to each other in thirty years. You had known that had been a great regret of your father’s, letting a friendship like that go. It wasn’t as if he had wanted it to happen. Time had simply slipped away from him. Once he had returned, he needed a recovery period, not counting on meeting your mom and having you, a new mouth to feed. He had needed a new job, house, car, insurance… everything was expensive to a new family. Art, past friendships and the plans and designs for their cartoon had taken a backseat as he tried to get ahead.
How everything had changed in the blink of an eye…
Yet, humans don’t decompose to become skeletons overnight. The process took months, years… had Joey been dead all this time? That would explain why there had been so long without a message or note. The question again rose to the back of your mind. If Joey had not sent for your father, then who had?
The loud clanging of the air vents brought you back to your senses, finally drawing your attention away from Joey’s body. That had been a loud sound, almost like someone crawling through the vent. With all the little ink demons running around… Right. You had to keep moving. Who knows how long your little lie would tide Bendy over for? Every second, every moment counted and here you were, burning your chances at escape away like twigs on a bonfire. You debate putting the card back in the wallet, but decide against it. Without giving it much more thought, you pocket the little ID. The locks on the door were old, you could use the card to slide in between the cracks and disrupt the mechanism. It could be your ticket to getting into the other doors, getting new weapons or supplies. You weren’t overly picky to what you could potentially find. You could use all the help that you could get.
Creeping back along the passageway, you stepped in a trail of fresh ink, letting out a loud squelch, one that led you in a different direction, away from Joey’s body. You hadn’t even noticed that your trail had changed direction. It was like when you were driving and your father warned you about being on autopilot – not noticing the finer details before it was too late. You paused, carefully weighing this new evidence. Ok. Take a breath and think for a moment. That’s right, you had followed one of the ink creatures inside this tunnel. Wouldn’t it make sense for them to know, at least by now, that the one end of the tunnel was blocked? They wouldn’t enter anywhere that didn’t have an exit. At least you hoped not. It could have always been a trap. This tunnel would be a great place for something to sneak up and surprise you, grab you around your ankles…
A mouse ran across your foot, causing you to give a small squeal in surprise and uselessly kick out. The mouse, already over your shoe and across to the other side of the tunnel, was unfazed by your actions, and ran straight into a mouse hole, disappearing as fast as it had appeared.
As you calmed your racing heart, you gave yourself a good, mental shake. Now was not the time to be scared of every little thing, especially something that was as harmless as a mouse. Nor was it the time to stop paying attention to everything. Not when there was real demons and even those who called themselves angels to fear.
The loud clang of the vents again brought you to your senses. You hoped that it was just your imagination but it sounded louder this time. Like it was getting closer.
With a renewed sense of mental awareness, you followed the trail of ink through the other branch of the tunnel. There was no other option. You didn’t want to go back the way you came. You knew that that way was littered with Bendy merchandise and cut outs, more possible eyes for him to see you with. And you weren’t looking forward to running into him again. The memory of what he did to you… your core felt like it had been ripped apart from the inside and, to your shame, it felt like there was still fluid slowly dripping from you. Your shoulders shook and hot tears began to fill your eyes. How would you explain this to your father? Did you even want to?
Ok. Your thoughts were drifting and you couldn’t cry yet. Once you got out you would figure things out, and continue on with your life. You needed to. Looking back over the ruined baseboards you let your breathing even, and breathing deepen. One step at a time. You began to go forward again.
Who knew where this tunnel would lead? Perhaps outside towards freedom and help? Or perhaps deeper into whatever hell was waiting for you inside this damned studio?
You needed to find out. Either way it could help you, and your father… perhaps even Boris and the rest of the poor, damned souls who had been tied to this studio.
Gingerly watching your footing, you followed the ink. The path of ink was well worn and had led into an even smaller tunnel, large puddles of ink laying everywhere. One that held even more twists and weaves, drawing you deeper into the studio’s labyrinth. So much for going to get help from the police. Looks like this wasn’t an escape to the outside exit. You couldn’t even be sure of where you were anymore, or how long that you had been following this passage. Time was meaningless. All that counted was just one foot in front of the other.
Yet, you had to be getting close to the middle, the centre of the studio now. The pipes that ran ink throughout the studio were hotter, small spurts of steam hissing off of them, and the ink sounded like it was running smoother. Gone were the sounds of clanks, and bangs, instead only the smooth gurgle of thick liquid was heard in those pipes. Even the trail of ink that you had been following had merged into something like a large pathway, many other trails leading into one. And if you were headed towards the centre that meant that it had to be closer to the Ink Machine. There was less time to coagulate and cool if it was closer, right? Had to be in the right direction, if not in the direction your father, than that of Angel and Boris. She needed shit loads of ink for her various experiments and for her beauty regime, it only made sense that she would be near the centre…
After all, as she herself had said, only what she considered prime ink would be good enough for her…
With a loud, thick sounding splatter, a large, heavy ink demon suddenly materialized from one of the puddles in front of you. Giving off a loud, demonic grunt, it managed to catch you off guard again, its dribbling ink still solidifying into its long, lanky arms as it swiped at you, its body already moving towards you.
Your ankle, already injured from your fall in the elevator, gave out as the creature landed its first lucky blow. With a small crunch it gave out from under you, your other ankle following suit. With a howl, you fell on your tailbone, looking up at the creature as it loomed over you and came closer. This demon was bigger than the others. Feet squabbling against the slick ground uselessly, you fought to desperately get some space in between the two of you. You needed to run, get up and out of there! You needed to find another way!
Yet the wood was slick and soft from years of being coated with ink, for being used as a high-travel passageway through the studio. Tiny slivers shyly bit your wrists and hands, but bent under your weight. Your feet, unable to find purchase on the ground, were merely trying to push you away from the creature. It was like you were stuck in a familiar nightmare – you couldn’t move, you were frozen in place watching the demon come closer to you. This was no clown or murderer in the woods though… this was an actual ink demon.
The dark figure approached you steadily, well aware of your useless fighting. It knew that it could take you, that it had the advantage. It lumbered at you like it had forgotten how to move gracefully. Slowly, jerkily as small grunts escaped it. It was toying with you, letting you fully taste your fear.
Finally, you were pressed up against a wall, unable to move. You had run out of space. You could only watch as the ink creature came ever closer, its breath escaping in hot pants of excitement. Hovering over you, with arms outstretched, it growled in your face, as if daring you to scream.
Unable to take the suspense anymore, you closed your eyes. Shivering, you sent up a silent apology to your father and Boris. You had failed them…
There was hot breath on your neck, and then… a sharp intake.
Was it sniffing your neck?
Eyes slowly slitting open, you looked at your attacker in slight disbelief. The creature had stopped in its movements, no longer was it forcibly pining you to the wall, now it was simply snuffling at your neck like a dog. But, why? Your perfume should have long worn off in the sweat, ink and the running…
Without warning the creature spun on its “heel” and strode away, disappearing into the same puddle of ink from which it had sprung. Like it had never been there.
Neck… there must be something on your neck… why else would it had stopped in its attack? Before you had met Boris they had been absolutely relentless. Swarming at you, grabbing at your skin desperately, following you around corners until your axe cut them down. They reminded you a bit of zombies in a way. Yet…
Confused and curious now, your hand involuntary reached up and gently touched your neck. Bad idea. The simple touch was enough to send fireworks of pain off behind your eyes. You gave a sharp yelp before yanking your hand away. Injury… and a bad one. Wincing, you shakily got to your feet and hobbled over to what looked to be a piece of glass or mirror, the effects of adrenaline making you drunk in your movements, making you slow and shaky. Finally you peered at yourself, pulling the hair away from your neck and peering into the depths of your dirty reflection.
Sweat, dirt and ink covered your skin. You were in serious need of a shower, your smell probably giving away your location. That wasn’t the most alarming thing though. There, on your neck, was a large bite mark. It showed where large canine fangs had clearly punctured the skin, sucked hard on your flesh and bruising it purple and black. Under the skin though, ink was spreading, webbing and further darkening your skin, bleeding under it like a bad tattoo.
You had been marked by Bendy. |
In his tiny bathroom at St. Agnes that night, Adam scried for Persephone. He wouldn't find her. He tried anyway. He'd known her for a short time, but the loss of her crept up his spine like an ache.
He couldn't sleep. His anger had gone somewhere during his afternoon shift at the factory. When he'd come home for the night he found shame waiting in its place. Shame from a dying Ronan in the pew, and a living Ronan down at Monmouth, and shame, oddly enough, from a yesterday evening at 300 Fox Way.
During a brief lesson involving Persephone's deck -- now Adam's -- Mr. Gray had stepped into 300 Fox Way's sitting room for something. On the street just outside, a car had backfired with a loud crack. It must have had no catalytic converter to sound like that, like a gunshot.
Mr. Gray didn't think in terms of catalytic converters. He'd heard a gunshot. And Adam, looking at the dead way his gray eyes scanned the street outside the windows, and the ugly, blank look to his face, had felt very uncomfortable. It was an out of body experience.
"That one has damage in him," Calla had said, once the Gray Man had realized there were no shots and retreated to the hallway or the kitchen or wherever it was he lurked. She'd said it as though explaining the peculiar behavior of an old cat who sprayed on the furniture.
Adam hadn't needed her to say it at all. Like called to like. He knew the Gray Man had damage, because he knew damage. He was like the Gray Man. The Gray Man who had beaten Ronan's father to death with a tire iron, while on the hunt for the Greywaren.
Others were on the hunt too. Adam knew, because he'd asked.
"Many collectors want the Greywaren," Mr. Gray had noted. Calmly, carefully, he laid out a map of everyone he'd killed in pursuit of the Greywaren. He'd mostly killed men like him: men with decay in them. Men like Adam. Men like that worked for bigger men, he said. The Greenmantles of the world.
Adam couldn't ask Ronan to dream up a child murder for every one of those. Adam didn't want to. But one night it had occurred to him that he might have to: Greenmantle might tip someone else off, as revenge. Someone might realize how curious it was that Greenmantle had gone down to a dusty, out of the way place like Henrietta, and returned empty-handed. Did these collectors know each other? Did they talk? Did they crowd around eachother, slapping shoulders and rivalizing even through their camaraderie, the adult version of the Aglionby crew team?
Adam couldn't quite imagine it, but neither could he imagine that Ronan would stay perfectly hidden in Henrietta for long. It had taken seventeen years for a collector to come close to finding Ronan. What if the next collector came sooner?
"The wakened line should put them off for some time," Mr. Gray had said.
He hadn't said that the next one wouldn't come, though. He hadn't said how long it would take.
The next one would be here sooner.
That was the nature of calamity. One calamity bred and prompted others; they proliferated, a clutch of ugly insects that needed only the first hatchling to awaken before they burst from the hive. Gansey and Ronan, princes of Virginia, would not understand this. They were insulated from the first insect pricks of the season, the red, painful, ugly swelling that heralded countless more. Their money was a net, a repellent, air-conditioned cars and countless cool rooms, assailants hitting cold air and sinking, dying, to the floor, swept away before they could do any harm.
But Adam had grown up in the hive. Sometimes he thought he was the hive. He'd presented Ronan with a fat, crawling, buzzing, stinging plan today, with countless creeping legs to it that he hadn't wanted to mention because each anchored it to Adam. The plan had burrowed out from his conversation with the Gray Man, taken shape at night, while Adam had tried to determine Ronan's best defense. Adam's answer to the problem was ugly, like Adam, and it emerged in an ugly way, thorax plump and oozing green fear.
Fear. That was what Adam offered. Gansey and Ronan didn't seem to have nearly as much as Adam did. But Adam could shape it into being and offer it straight from the source.
He knew he could have just offered Ronan a gun. Ronan already knew how to fight, but against someone like Mr. Gray Adam doubted he would win. So. The gun. His father's. It was tucked away in the same box he'd once tucked the transformer. Adam had brushed his fingers against it when he'd reached for the toy and felt the hard finality the gun offered. This was a sure way to end any threat. If Ronan wasn't surprised first. If Ronan could do it. If Ronan wanted to continue his life of hiding bodies in the old church and the Barns -- and, to be fair, Ronan seemed the least affected of all of them by this lifestyle.
What a cheap lifestyle it would be. Adam couldn't link it to Ronan Lynch. Ronan always waiting, always a potential victim on the alert.
That's not for him, he'd thought at his shabby room.
And out of the low-hanging ceiling he'd seen the shadow of leaves, and he'd smelled the green scent of Cabeswater, fully in agreement.
Adam was Cabeswater's partner, and Cabeswater his. He believed this now. He and Cabeswater were always shifting power between them, sharing it, colluding. The latest development was that he could not be hurt, not as much. Cabeswater had begun to protect him. Adam was still trying to wrap his head around this thought. His head would not wrap.
Magician.
Was this what it meant, to have some power? The ability to keep anything at bay -- his father, falling roof tiles, collectors like Greenmantle. It seemed impossible to think that abilities like this belonged to Adam. Adam had never had magic before; boys like Adam didn't. Instead they had what was sometimes grudgingly termed promise, which was a polite way of saying nothing. Just struggle and will.
But these things were not power, not like how Gansey had it. Not like how Ronan had it. Ronan wasn't designed to work for Cabeswater, to resort to murder to keep calamity at bay. Ronan had power because he had power. He was a creator. Ronan resorted to ugly methods of defense only when Adam put the seed in his mind, guided his hand.
How can something like me keep him safe? he'd asked Cabeswater.
There had been a sound of leaves in his ears, the feel of mulch on the mattress beneath his bony fingers. Cabeswater was unsure, fearful. Strange, for somehting as old and great as Cabeswater. But the forest was susceptible to the oddest maladies, isolated by things like new highway construction, poisoned and weakened by would-be thieves. Cabeswater had power of its own, but it was nothing without Adam to do its will, to act and speak for it. So it came down to this fragile forest and to Adam, to his mind and the ragged, newly-protected shell of his body.
Poor tools. They were the only ones available, and Adam was good at making do with what was available. But still. Poor tools.
So what was to be done? Cabeswater did its part for Ronan already: it sheltered Ronan's mother, a dream within a dream. But there were other dream places -- caverns full of damp lakes, stampeding herds, locked doors. These didn't shelter. They intimidated. They trapped. Artemus, Maura Sargent, Greenmantle's wife, assuming she was still alive down there.
What if Ronan could do that? What if Ronan could simply get rid of those who'd try to hurt him? What if he could send them into a dream?
It was a cleaner, neater solution than shooting someone. Or dreaming up body parts.
It hit him, scrying for Persephone, which was to say for no one, that he knew why he hadn't been able to tell Ronan all this. It was because the Ronan who'd sat in front of him, passing his old toy from hand to hand, was not the only Ronan Adam felt accountable to. There was that other Ronan. The dead one in the pew. The consequences of wielding power the way Adam did.
Adam thought of that Ronan often.
As though to remove that vision from his mind, he'd had been helping Ronan practice, helping Ronan theorize how best to remove Aurora Lynch and give her new life in the real world. But he was an interloper; he was not made to really understand Ronan's dreams. Adam could offer Ronan solutions, but they would always be tainted by Adam. They were not really clean, pure dream solutions. They were dirt and dust creations, like their maker. Effective, but not beautiful. There was no beauty in making a cage of Ronan's ability, until now used to free loyal birds, loose a perfect new Camaro, ornament the Barns.
Adam had gone to Monmouth to ask Ronan to taint that legacy.
He resurfaced, lifted his head from the sink, felt the tin foil crackle beneath his fingertips. He had seen nothing, hadn't expected to see anything. All was strangely quiet since they'd rescued Maura and Artemus. A brief, dishonest calm. So Adam could reach out for the unknown and find only himself. But he was unknown. Every time he thought he'd finally seen himself truly, he turned out to be wrong. There were greater depths he could sink to.
He owed Ronan an apology.
He put a shaking hand to his face as though to steady it, tracking the movement in the mirror out of the corner of his eyes. He no longer felt so haggard, not since they'd journeyed through the caves to rescue Blue's mother. But he still looked gaunt, grim. A distorted version of his parents.
He owed Ronan an apology.
After he straightened, stooped again to cross into the main room, stooped further and crawled onto the bed, he began to realize what he had actually said. The words had come out distantly, Robert Parrish rearing up through his veins. When would he learn not to let that loose? Could he shove that inside him and keep it there? Persephone played in his mind. He'd only known her for a small period, but he thought she might have been able to come up with a better solution. A path forward. That was what he needed, not a solution. There were no solutions to being Adam Parrish. He was not offered those. He had learned to survive instead, cobble together a path, reach into himself and shove aside his wriggling, many-legged, dirt-encrusted heritage, force out what he wanted in its place.
Ronan had very explicitly reminded him, as he always did, that his origins were beautiful, and that Adam's were not. Adam had reacted. But he had been in the wrong to do that. Ronan had not been saying anything untrue.
Adam laid on his bed and listened for the green sounds of Cabeswater, watched for the shadow of leaves. It came. It still came, though he'd been cruel. He was comforted by this, and hated that he was comforted. Adam Parrish, now dependent on this bargain, this odd protection. He'd never really been as brave and self-reliant as he'd wanted to be. And now he wasn't sure he wanted to be. He wanted to apologize. He didn't know how to begin. If only Ronan would come now, knock the same way he always did, offer up his Aurora Lynch problem again, then Adam could offer his help in turn. And it would be like an apology. And Adam wanted that.
But Ronan did not knock. No one knocked, and then Adam fell asleep. Then it was morning and a brisk tapping woke him. He went to answer the door.
It was not Ronan. It was Gansey.
-
Gansey had not spent the night envisioning apologies. Blue Sargent was meant to be more fearless than this. The greatest wrong in the situation was that she had been brought low, a marvel contained by her own curse.
And he was not especially sorry to have pointed it out.
Gansey's people didn't dwell on apologies. When Helen and his mother fought, apologies were not even remotely on the menu. Charity dinners were, and brunch with friends, and political campaigns, and weddings, until three weeks later they were sending each other subtle gifts in anticipation of the fight being over: cut glass vases, portable telephone chargers, monogrammed bathroom towels that neither would ever bother to take out of the gift box. The proper course of action was to move on, not dwell, and to neither ask for nor offer forgiveness. Forgiveness came cheap. One could rise above in better ways.
Gansey did not normally try to act like a Gansey -- for one thing, he often thought ruefully, he didn't have to try. But after his fight with Blue, he reacted like a Gansey.
He would not send her towels, because she wouldn't want them. He would simply busy himself with other things, and whatever the painful problem was, whatever the fight had begun with, it would go away. It would wait for him to notice it, lose patience, and leave. He had enough wonder, enough to occupy his time. He had five new boxes of rare books on mythical beasts, on magical herds, on the symbolism of stampedes. The fight would have to handle itself.
He let himself into Monmouth, noted that Noah was absent and Ronan was missing, took a shower, and settled in to read. It was effortless but methodical work, very absorbing, and he enjoyed it. He liked best the moments when two dissimilar pieces in two dissimilar books linked together. He was good at bringing them together, and good at finding what he wanted to find. When it all became too rewarding, he slipped on his glasses and retreated to his laptop and hunted for even rarer books. He closed Saturday by ordering four more boxes' worth. He almost didn't notice when Ronan slipped back in, smelling of liquor and cars, and when Gansey said hello he got a slammed door for his troubles.
Traffic tickets floated down in the wake of the noise. Gansey said, "Now really," and was on the verge of getting up to see what was wrong, but then something buzzed in his head again and he sat down and thought the best of it.
Helen and Mrs. Gansey did not dwell on problems, but Gansey could be an excellent dweller. He'd spent upwards of a year dwelling on problems with Ronan, problems with Adam, problems with Noah. He'd seen it for what it was: not dwelling. But solving. Pulling out the parts of himself he liked better than the typically Gansey parts, the part that was a brother to Ronan and wanted him at Aglionby, the part that admired Adam and wanted him out of Henrietta someday, because that was what Adam wanted. Rather than retreat into himself and his own needs, Gansey thought, he'd become very good at reaching out to keep the others anchored. He wanted it that way. It seemed more courageous than ignoring problems, the way his family did; or exploding with them, the way Ronan did; or stubbornly holding them close, the way Adam did.
But this fight with Blue buzzed.
He wouldn't hold it in his mind. He remembered a crawling sensation on every inch of his skin. He remembered weeks of banked fury because Adam had taken the Camaro. He remembered fear.
He let it go.
He let it go, and rose above. When his books couldn't keep him any longer he began to go over his old notes, then build his model, then back to books. It was a cyclical night and a long one, but he continued to enjoy it because he could, because he enjoyed this. He telephoned a contact in Australia. When asked how he was doing, he very truthfully said that he was fine. He carried the phone with him into the bathroom and rifled through the medicine cabinet, because it was already 2 AM and he had to meet Adam in the morning. He found a bottle of pills -- melatonin. Sleeping pills. He squinted at them, annoyed. They came highly recommended from the best physician in Northern Virginia. He hadn't taken any in four years. He'd always hated the heavy sensation the melatonin left on his brain.
He took two. He overslept, and was late heading out, too groggy to even think of fixing whatever made the Camaro stall halfway to St. Agnes. He called for help and called Ronan and, when Ronan failed to answer his phone with typical Ronan-ness, called for a replacement to get him to St. Agnes the meantime. He was miffed when it came; somehow the company had missed the memo on his Suburban and had given him a Mercedes, which was even worse, and he wanted to blame his father because sending someone a car like this was something his father would do, some message or inside joke that only a Gansey would really get, at the expense of everyone else.
The thing ran beautifully and gave Gansey a headache.
He worried what Adam would think when he saw it. He worried about being late to meet Adam, who was probably awake and alert and ready, and who was never late without a good reason.
But Adam seemed surprised to see him.
"We said we'd get your suit done today," Gansey reminded him. "Remember?"
It was college interview season and Adam's old suit wouldn't fit. He'd been dreading that ever since he'd left his parents' house, a constant low-level worry that he would voice to Gansey at odd times. What if he grew too much? In the past few weeks, his fears had been confirmed. He was too tall, his shoulders just a little broader. Just enough. Did it look wrong? Did he need a new suit? Was there something he could do to this one, something that would be cheaper? Gansey had obligingly scrutinized him in the suit and confirmed his fears. Adam had looked miserable, the only boy at Aglionby to be terrified of his own growth spurts.
Gansey wouldn't have thought he'd forget their plans to solve the problem.
But now Adam just passed a hand over his face and retreated into his apartment, leaving the door open. Gansey had received better invitations, but decided not to hold it against him. He strode in and ducked to avoid hitting his head on Adam's ceiling. Adam himself stooped forlornly near the bed in too-short pajama pants and a t-shirt and said, "Sorry. I guess I overslept. Give me a minute."
He vanished into his bathroom to change. The ceiling sloped at such an angle that the bathroom door didn't fully close. Gansey looked away to give him privacy, but not before he saw a long fair back with a few old scars striping a path down to Adam's briefs. Adam came from a life that couldn't ignore away its problems. Gansey abruptly felt ashamed. He buried his head in his hands while he waited, wishing his mind didn't feel so heavy with the melatonin, wondering briefly if he should feel more ashamed, having come to Adam Parrish's door like this, after a -- an event with Blue. An event that Adam surely didn't know about, and couldn't know about.
It was in this uncharacteristic pose that Adam found him.
"Gansey?" he said. He sounded mystified.
Gansey put his hands down and brought his head up. He couldn't fault Adam his confusion; bad posture, Dick Gansey II always said, could transform a man from a worthwhile friend into a total stranger. Gansey didn't like carrying his father's maxims around in his head, but there might be some truth to that one.
"Ready?" he said.
Adam nodded, grabbing his suit bag from the door of his closet.
Gansey led the way downstairs, explaining carefully about the Mercedes and noting Adam's reaction. He was pleased to find no judgment. Adam could have fixed the Pig, had he been there; Adam was the height of cleverness with cars, their savior and companion, and Adam's judgment was an unpredictable thing. But he never judged Gansey for his grapplings with the Pig. If anything, he was a patient teacher when it came to cars, kind with Gansey's successes, forgiving of his mistakes.
Now he talked Gansey through the problem, waiting for each red light so that he could demonstrate, using a pen and monogrammed notepad he'd found in the glove compartment, just what seemed to have gone wrong. Adam seemed more awake now, and Gansey, as always, appreciated the care he took with his explanations, the deliberate, thoughtful way he went about diagramming.
They were starting to do this again. They were better than they'd been in some time. The bargain with Cabeswater had given Adam something inexplicable, a powerful edge of unreality now coating the realest person Gansey had ever known. But their friendship, miraculously, had survived.
But Gansey had just hours ago been with Blue, acknowledged what he felt for Blue, as good as asked Blue whether she loved him. Blue. Whom Adam had first loved.
I am a horrible friend, he realized.
And this, of course, brought the other, greater crime to the surface.
I am a horrible...whatever I am to Blue.
Friend, surely. But something else too, to go by her response. And didn't that please him in some small way? Hadn't he squashed a million traitorous thoughts, back when it had looked like Adam might be the curse's target?
Now he might be the target. Some part of him felt smug and glad and ashamed.
There was a wild, selfish Gansey family streak in him. He had so much compared to Adam and Blue that he felt sure he didn't need it, this streak. That wasn't who he wanted to be. It wasn't what they brought out of him, and this was, in part, why he loved them. But he'd still heedlessly deployed it against them, against Adam in those furtive, satisfied moments when Blue hadn't seemed to want him. Against Blue just yesterday.
The Gansey they both hated, and with good reason. His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel. In response the Mercedes seemed to purr through the intersection. Next to him, Adam ran one light, appreciative finger over the glovebox latch. The movement contained all of Adam's restraint. In the mirror, Gansey could see that his eyes were dark with want.
It pained Gansey to look at him. Gansey looked more closely at the road instead.
Something was wrong with the road.
They should have hit the main road by now. They would have. But somehow they hadn't. They passed a sign. It said:
SAINT'S PASS 30 miles
SECONDBORN 75 miles
ALTER 103 miles
"Where are we?" Gansey asked, not letting his voice betray how confused he was.
"I thought you knew," said Adam. His voice did betray confusion. He said 'knew' in the Henrietta way, adding some subtle extra sounds to it. He flinched to show that he'd heard himself. Gansey wished he wouldn't; there was nothing wrong with Adam's knew. And Adam had a point: Gansey had been out of Henrietta far more often than he had. Gansey ought to know where they were going.
Gansey seemed to have become lost. It made no sense. If Gansey was behind the wheel of a car then Gansey was rarely lost. Not unless he wanted to be. He needed planes and helicopters to get well and truly lost, usually. And a sailboat, once.
"I'm turning around," he told Adam.
Adam made a sound like he was acquiescing, but it didn't matter if he was. They could hardly stay lost. They had to start back the way they had come.
The way they had come was apparently a very green road, too green for the time of year, with the blue mountains a stunning backdrop, young reddish brown birch trees with a wet smell crowding them in on either side, and here and there a balsam fir. It was all very picturesque. Gansey was sure he'd never seen it before in his life.
"I don't remember this road," Adam said.
"Me either," Gansey admitted.
They passed a second sign. It said.
ALTER 100 miles
FIRSTBORN 117 miles
EV 346 miles
This was the only road; the sole road they'd been on since the turn-off at the Henrietta movie megaplex. It didn't seem to want to take them back to the megaplex. It seemed to want to wind through the mountains instead, to places that weren't their destination, which, Gansey thought, was very disagreeable of it.
Disagreeable but wonderful.
Thoughts of Blue, Adam, and the hereditary Gansey arrogance fled his mind.
Gansey had spent so long looking for magic. Now magic seemed to have found him. The road in front was a vision. Mist had begun to dot the ground, and the trees had grown wilder, more gnarled, greener somehow. No longer trees he could recognize; these seemed as tragically personable as willows, but with thicker branches, redder bark, great crocusy flowers. It seemed the wrong season for flowers like that. It seemed the wrong universe for flowers like that. Gansey thought of Cabeswater. This was not Cabeswater, but perhaps it was on the ley line. Perhaps this was one of the dreams Adam worked so hard to link Cabeswater to.
Perhaps this was close to where Glendower was.
Something sang in the trees, a clear sound, midway between birdcall and bell. Just to test things, Gansey drove half a mile, noting the scenery, turned around, drove another half-mile, and noted how the scenery had changed, and how, again, the road seemed to be avoiding anything even close to normalcy.
Now the sign said:
HARPS VALLEY 35 miles
SECONDBORN 70 miles
ALTER 97 miles
He tried again. The road resisted going anywhere new. In fact, it seemed to be going in the same general direction.
SECONDBORN 68 miles
ALTER 95 miles
FIRSTBORN 112 miles
Again, he tried. Again, Charlottesville was not forthcoming. Now the sign said.
SECONDBORN 67 miles
FIRSTBORN 111 miles
ROOTABAGA COUNTRY 254 miles
Turning around only made the road more determined.
HARPS VALLEY 30 miles
ROOTABAGA COUNTRY 252 miles
ALICE'S FALL 679 miles
So they were not following the road. The road was leading them.
Alight with wonder, he tore his eyes from the road for a moment to glance at Adam, to see if Adam noticed it too.
One of Adam's hands was gripping the armrest so tightly that the fingertips were bone-white. There was line on his brow. His eyes were distant. He was mouthing something, so quiet Gansey couldn't make him out. After a moment, he realized that he couldn't make it out because Adam kept switching between English and Latin.
Aut ubi sum. Quae mentem insania mutat--
Without stopping this litany, he shoved his white-fingered hand into his pocket and produced a deck of cards. Gansey watched him shuffle them in the mirror. He wasn't so practiced as Blue was, but the cards somehow looked more natural in his hands. He seemed very powerful with them, an Adam that Gansey didn't fully recognize. Gansey went back to focusing on the road.
"Are you--" he began.
"Cabeswater," was all Adam said, voice clipped with strain.
"What's wrong with it? Is it gone again?"
What if this magical place had shorted out the other? Gansey swallowed hard. Cabeswater was too important to lose. It was Ronan's. Adam partnered with it; belonged to it, really. And Aurora Lynch was there.
"It's not gone," Adam said, after a moment. "It's--it's muffled."
"Muffled?"
"Like I'm connected to it long-distance. Like there's static blocking it out."
"I don't understand," Gansey said.
Adam made a very Henrietta sound, almost a Blue sound, a sound that sounded like, well, that's all you're gonna get. Then he went back to his litany. Gansey let him get to it and continued watching the road. There was now the sound of rushing water nearby. He couldn't see a stream or river. The car wound along the mountainside. Below, there was a great green valley with more crocus trees dotting it purple and blue in places. Gansey could see clear across to another mountain opposite, and he was sure that this second mountain hadn't been there a minute ago.
Adam continued to chant. Gansey realized why he wanted to contact Cabeswater -- suspicious Adam didn't trust this road to take them anywhere good.
Did Gansey?
He supposed it didn't matter. They were on it, and Gansey didn't like the thought of shirking any coming adventure that might lead them to Glendower. But no Glendower immediately appeared. The only thing to appear was halfway down the valley, when the road wound deeper into the crocus trees and left the mountain behind. It was a great painted sign tucked into the greenery. It said:
THIS WAY TO OTTOS AUTOS.
The sign was done in brown-reds and purple-blues and faded yellows and it had charm, but Gansey could hardly hide his disappointment. Or his intense desire to pay someone, anyone, to paint in the missing apostrophe. He nudged Adam, pointing. Adam opened his eyes and squinted at the sign.
"Otto's autos," he said, and the way he said it was: autos autos. Gansey supposed there might not even be an Otto. The name might have been chosen for its alliterative qualities.
Adam said, "Like a car dealership?"
Maybe Gansey could replace the Mercedes. It seemed criminal to not have the Camaro here; the Pig deserved to take this strange journey, and the Mercedesdid not. He didn't have to settle for the Mercedes. And neither he nor Adam had eaten breakfast. If Otto existed, then maybe Otto would have coffee. Gansey could bet it wouldn't be good coffee, but then metaphorical beggars couldn't be choosers. He followed the road to Otto's autos. It was the only road; he didn't have much choice.
They came to a long, low house, red-brown against the green valley. Cluttered car parts overgrown with moss were scattered along the path leading to the door. A high clapboard fence extended on either side and continued along the back of the property. Gansey could see nothing around or over it. There was a gate big enough for the car to pass through, but it was chained shut.
The road ended here. There was nowhere else to go. In the mirror, Adam's eyes were wide and mistrustful.
Gansey put a steadying hand on his knee for a moment, then removed it to switch off the ignition.
"Excelsior," Adam muttered at him, as they got out of the car.
Gansey went in first, shouldering the door open because there seemed to be no knob or handle or even a key: it was just several planks of wood arranged into a door. Otto was not afraid of theft, whoever he was, if ever he was. It was dark and cool inside, and Gansey had to blink several times to adjust his vision. Every wall was paneled in dark brown wood. Cramped frames hung on them, with images of pink fish swimming in too-blue seas, fat pink sheep grazing in mint green meadows. A couch covered in red plastic was set against another wall; it crinkled when they passed it. At the far end of the room there was a phone booth with no phone inside, a door, and a battered, ancient coca cola drink machine, bright red to match the couch.
Gansey appreciated the country-awful look of it for a minute.
Then he noticed that there was also a low counter with a little man sleeping on it. He was yellowish white-haired, yellowish white-bearded, and round. He slept with his mouth open. Gansey could see that his teeth were white and perfect and young. But all the other pieces of him suggested extreme age. It was two and two making four if one of the twos was also a seventeen.
Gansey cleared his throat very loudly.
The man kept sleeping. Gansey located the bell on the counter, squat and round like an old hotel bell, and dinged it twice. The man shot up comically and Adam, examining the drink machine, gave a small laugh. The little man was drawn by the sound. He stared over Gansey's shoulder at Adam. This was a little like being scrutinized by a fraying teddy bear, but Adam quickly converted his laugh into a hum in order to be more polite. He began to hum the murder squash song, then trailed off, apparently embarrassed.
The drink machine rumbled. Adam had apparently decided to have a soft drink for breakfast. Gansey couldn't blame him, but he'd hold out for coffee.
"Otto, I presume?" Gansey asked the man. "If there is one?"
"'Course there is one," said the man, blinking up at him with enormous blue eyes. "I'm him, aren't I?"
The name wasn't just a marketing gimmick then.
"We've had something of a tortured morning," Gansey said. "We set out for Charlottesville, but seem to have driven into an apparition. The road took us here instead. Would you happen to know anything about that?"
"Well, I don't know about Charlottesville," said Otto, scratching his ear and ignoring Gansey's actual question. "You're in Saint's Pass is where you are."
Gansey looked again at Adam, who stopped examining his blue bottle of soft drink long enough to look back.
Have you heard of Saint's Pass? asked Gansey's look.
I have never heard of Saint's Pass, confirmed Adam's look.
"Something wanted us to come here," Gansey told the man, turning back to him. "The road doesn't seem to want to go anywhere else. Or, I guess it does, but it doesn't seem to want to go to Charlottesville, which is the only place we want to go."
"Well, Alter's not far off. You could go there," said Otto.
"Alter?" Gansey said. Alter. Altar? Gansey tried to link it to Glendower. The war-god Mars will upon his altar sit... No. That was the wrong take on Glendower.
"Alter," said Otto, amiably unaware of why Gansey even cared.
Adam came up next to Gansey. He set fifty cents on the counter, holding his drink up as though to signal that this was payment. When Otto didn't protest, he turned to Gansey and offered another look.
I have never heard of Alter, the look said.
Gansey had expected as much. Otto picked up the coins, examined them like he wasn't sure they were real at first, then shoved them in a drawer behind the counter, nodding at Adam to show the payment had been sufficient.
Adam spoke up next. "We can't get to Alter, or Charlottesville," he told Otto. "Like he said: we can't seem to make heads or tails of that road. When we try to turn around, it won't let us."
Gansey picked up where Adam stopped. "And the road only seems to lead here. So we need to find out where we are. We have things to do today, and we haven't eaten breakfast. Do you have a map? Or even just an explanation?"
Otto dinged his bell absentmindedly and said, "Well, if you find a map, you can have it. If you find breakfast, I guess you can have that too. And you can do most anything you would need to do in Alter, only thing is to get to Alter you have to go through the back, and I'll say that's double the price in this case because there's two of you."
Gansey and Adam stared at him.
"Double the price of what?" Gansey said.
"The price," Otto said impatiently. "The price. He's paid." This was with one fat, yellow-white finger pointed at Adam. "You haven't." The fat finger transferred to Gansey.
"We have to buy your soft drinks so that you'll let us into your backyard?" Gansey asked, sure that he came off slightly derisive and not really caring.
Otto stared at him guilelessly, not answering. Gansey felt frustrated. Generally, people did not react to him like this. He was not used to not being helped. He knew it was arrogant to not be used to this, but at the moment the Gansey in Gansey was making itself known.
But Adam was good at quelling that Gansey. He touched his fingers softly to Gansey's sleeve and said, "Wait a minute," in a very low voice. Then, "Come on."
He drew Gansey to the coke machine. Trusting him, Gansey examined it.
He realized what was wrong soon enough. It was a solid, square little machine, emblazoned with its cheery corporate logo, but there was nowhere to put the money. No coin slot, no bill sleeve, nowhere to swipe a credit card. A small sign was tacked to the front, blue crayon on dingy coffee-colored paper. A childish hand had scrawled: price is two coins non-negoshable.
"It just gave me a drink," said Adam. "I thought I should pay afterwards, because-"
"Oh, no, it'll give you a drink for a song," Otto put in now, apparently listening.
Gansey cocked an eyebrow at him. Otto smiled a little vacantly. Gansey thought, well, fine, and hummed the first few bars of Amazing Grace, selected purely because ten years of Episcopalian Easter celebrations made it one of the only songs he really knew off the top of his head. The machine rumbled. The front swung open. Inside, an icy white cavern, and on the middle shelf: a single drink. It was not coca cola. It was just a blue glass bottle like Adam's, with indistinct purple-blue liquid inside.
Gansey took it.
"Do I want to drink this?" he asked Otto.
"I couldn't make your decisions for you, son. I'm not equipped for that," Otto said. "It's Miwadi."
"Miwhat-y?" Adam said.
"No," was all Otto said in response.
Gansey looked at Adam. Adam looked at Gansey. Gansey said, "If I gave you twenty dollars instead of two coins, would you be more helpful?"
"No, son," Otto said, infuriatingly un-infuriated. "It's gotta be coins."
Gansey didn't even know if he had coins. Coins were for tip jars, or those leave-a-penny-take-a-penny bowls in gas stations, or else to clog the bottom of the washing machine when Ronan failed to remove them from the pockets of his jeans. But Adam was already rooting around in his old cargo pants. Carefully, testingly, he produced two pennies and set them on Otto's counter.
Otto held them up. Examined them. Put them away in his drawer and nodded.
"That'll do. Good of you to pay for your friend," he told Adam.
Adam flushed. Surrounded by tantalizing magical questions, it was still money that made him most uncomfortable. Gansey put a hand on his shoulder and kept it there. He thought the pennies had been a clever idea. But Adam avoided his eyes.
"Come around the side. I'll open the gate," said Otto, and then he ambled out behind the counter and vanished through the back door without another word.
Again, Adam and Gansey exchanged looks. They were good at this: wordless speech. Gansey had missed it. He hated being reminded that he was different from Adam, and when he and Adam spoke like this he never had to think of it, because they weren't so different when this happened. When they could read each other very easily, Adam's fragile face as communicative, precious, and open to him as the Camaro was.
But now Adam's face was flickering with questions, distrust, a hint of panic. Adam wasn't just speaking to Gansey; he was still trying to call Cabeswater as well. One hand was still in his jacket pocket, rifling the tarot cards within.
"Is it still muffled?" Gansey asked.
Adam nodded, face tight.
"I don't think it will get any clearer," he told Gansey, "if we do this. It's this place."
Gansey didn't see how they couldn't do it, though. Something wanted them here. And a part of Gansey -- the part that came alive for Glendower, the part that buzzed with no fear, the only truly worthwhile part -- wanted to be here. He had Adam at his back to be mistrustful for the both of them. He trusted Adam with that. It was wonderful, a relief. Gansey himself could be given over to adventure.
Though he could see that this arrangement wasn't very fair or kind to Adam.
"I think it's--" he began.
"Connected to Glendower. I know," Adam said. His dusty eyelashes dipped. Accepting. They would do this. Gansey's heart sang with the doing, the wonder of finding this strange place, with its strange rules and strange fees, mythic, powerful. Pennies for the crossing into a new world. It had the ring of Glendower. It must have the ring of Glendower. He told himself this as he brought the car through the open gate, past the fence.
Where it suddenly, improbably, broke down completely.
It was purring one minute. Then the purr flat-lined into a high whine, a sound Gansey had never heard any car make before, not even the Pig. Then, abruptly, the Mercedes gave up. It was over two hundred thousand dollars' worth of giving up.
Adam was out of the car in a flash. When Gansey caught up to him he was already ministering, muttering to himself, a doctor with a patient who'd been perfectly healthy five seconds ago. Gansey trusted him to find the problem and trusted him to explain it well, but he didn't ask Adam to explain. His attention was on Adam only for a moment.
Then Otto's Autos took it.
Otto had autos. Autos by the hundreds, lined up in neat rows. But they were overgrown with green mossy tendrils, their wheels buried in patches of flowers, insects buzzing amiably in and out of their open windows. Strange, bifurcated trees began their growth by crawling in through one window, then emerging through another, bearing berries and plums. Some of the cars were a latticework of feathery leaves all along the hood, lilies poking out from behind the tires.
Hothouse cars. Ancient, abandoned, left to rot, Gansey thought.
Only after a moment he realized that this wasn't the case at all. He strode to the nearest car. He'd seen rusted, abandoned vehicles out near Adam's parents' trailer. They were cheap Honda Civics from the late eighties. They gaped hideously, stripped of their engines. The only flowers that grew from them were choked, weedy, and brown.
This was a BMW. The kind that looked to come with a V12 engine -- the kind he associated with Ronan. A Ferrari crouched nearby, with great fat peony-looking flowers creeping up along the sides of its doors. Three Bugattis lined up not far away, sharing a mass of encroaching fruit vines with a Maserati and a Koenigsegg CC.
In fact, there was not a single car here that would make Gansey's parents sigh at him with disapproval. Not if you removed all the conquering flora, anyway. Gansey picked a plum off of the BMW in wonderment. Otto appeared at his elbow.
"Well, there's your breakfast, I guess," he said agreeably. "You found it, so you can keep it. Like I just told your friend, you can keep anything you can pick. And you'll need to pick a new one. Your car's down. Had to go down. Won't even make it over the bridge now."
Gansey stared at him. Behind Otto, he saw Adam straighten up and turn, catch sight of the whole yard for the first time. Adam identified the cars for what they were right away. He approached a Bentley with his mouth hanging open. He began removing leaves from the hood. Clearly, Adam wanted to diagnose whatever had caused the car to be abandoned in Otto's yard.
Gansey felt as stunned by the luxury car garden as Adam looked. "Thank you for the plum," he began, trying to work up to a request for some information, "But--"
He broke off.
Adam was now crouching behind the open hood, tugging at something. Gansey wondered if he thought he could free the car from its vine prison. It seemed like the kind of magic Adam might perform. Maybe Adam could fix whatever was wrong with the Bentley, and Gansey could buy it from Otto, and they could be on their way.
"Gansey!" Adam shouted wildly.
Maybe the Bentley was stolen. Maybe they were all stolen -- how else would Otto have them? Gansey didn't particularly want to buy a stolen car, but he still found himself drawn to where Adam was. Adam had come around to the side of his chosen car, propped his bottle of Miwhatever in a patch of high grass, and was using his house keys to hack at something on the ground. The vines, Gansey realized. The ones cushioning the car's wheels.
"It's growing," Adam told him, sounding frantic. "Gansey, it's growing."
Well, of course it was growing. It was a vine.
"Not the vines," Adam said, still hacking. "Or--yes the vines. But the vines are the cars. The cars are growing!"
He stopped hacking long enough to gesture at the Bentley, then at the Bentley's open hood. Gansey walked over to it and peered inside. The car had no engine. In place of an engine, out of its interior, the car seemed to be growing fat gala apples. Gansey stared. Otto appeared at his elbow again, grinning with his perfect teeth.
"This is not a car dealership," Gansey said, stunned.
"Heck no," Otto said cheerfully. "It's an orchard. I grow the best autos in Saint's Pass."
"Good of you," Gansey managed.
"I try," said Otto.
"And we can keep what we can pick?"
"Sure you can," said Otto. "Whatever you find and pick, you can keep." He scratched his ear again. "I don't grow maps, though."
Gansey supposed he could forgive him. A few hundred automotive miracles were surely enough for any orchard-keeper.
Otto continued. "You might wanna tell your friend to pick another one. This one's not ripe, and it'll be hard to get it out, and it won't reward you once it is out, since it's not ripe. Riper ones are closer to the bridge, this time of year."
"But do they run?" Gansey asked.
Otto looked affronted. Gansey revised the question. He supposed they could just test whatever car they picked, once they had actually picked it.
"You don't have anything in orange?" Gansey asked.
"Not the season for oranges, no," Otto said.
"Alright. Do you have anything we can use to do the picking?" Adam didn't seem to be making headway with house keys, and, thanks to his mother's commitment to keeping a safe home, half of Gansey's house keys were security fobs.
Otto nodded amiably now. He said, "Sure do. You paid the fee, so I sure do. You and your friend go pick a car. I'll catch up with you."
They returned to the Mercedes to get Adam's suit bag and Gansey's mysterious blue bottle of drink. The sun beat down on them as they hunted for the cars near the bridge and Gansey was half-tempted to drink his drink, but neither he nor Adam succumbed. They didn't actually know what it was. Knowing this place, it could make them small as ants to drink it, or tall as the mountains. Gansey wasn't sure if he should eat the plum, either.
Eventually they heard the sound of rushing water and found a line of shark-nosed BMWs just like Ronan's. These were covered in moss but otherwise mostly clear of any suffocating greenery. Adam immediately took to the ground, sliding himself under the nearest one and trying to determine where the roots were, and where they would need to cut to get the car free of the earth. Gansey looked down at him in admiration where he lay, not entirely sure he could be much help. Adam had known the cars to be wrong almost at once. Adam knew what should go in a car, and, linked to Cabeswater as he was, he could probably recognize what was almost certainly some kind of local ley line magic. Gansey was only beginning to learn about cars, and when it came to the magic it was Adam who'd taken the experiential seminar. Gansey had mostly researched and spent a lot of money on what could best be termed study-abroads.
But when Otto returned, he was carrying a spade and a machete and Adam stared at the latter instrument like he didn't want it anywhere near him. So Gansey rolled up the sleeves of his lavender button down and took the machete in hand. He'd used one before, hacking at roots a lot like these in New Zealand one summer, trying to access a lost cavern that was said to have been built by Glendower's supposed descendants in the 1890s. He wasn't especially fazed by the implement.
"Show me where to cut," he instructed Adam.
Nodding, Adam crouched down and pointed out how the tires seemed to rise from gnarled black vines. He had already begun to dig them out halfway with his hands. Now he took the spade and dug to make room for Gansey, and Gansey hacked wherever he suggested.
After about twenty minutes, they were sweating, brutally thirsty, and in possession of a planted BMW.
"Keys?" Gansey asked.
"Check those little nuts growing near the trunk," Otto suggested.
"Nuts--oh," Gansey said. Adam had already picked what nuts there were to be had and was holding them out. When cracked open, each produced a set of keys. He pocketed one. Adam pocketed another. Sharing a look, they reached for a spare, just in case.
"Thank you," Adam told Otto politely.
"'Course," Otto said. "Now, you'll wanna head that way. That's the bridge. Then Secondborn. Then the mountain. Then Alter. Can't miss Alter once you're through the mountain. And whatever you need to do, you can do it in Alter. You can do most anything in Alter: believe me."
"We certainly do. Thank you," Gansey said again, and opened the driver's side door. Adam slid in from the other side. The interior of the car smelled like new car, and it unnerved Gansey, because it was a new car, but it was also a car he'd just leveled from the earth the way he might have chopped a tree. Gansey felt some trepidation when he put the key in the ignition. Would it work? Would the magic work? And would it work right? Or would it demand some bargain, flay off all their skin, bury them in some underground cavern for seventeen years?
The car worked. It came to life the same way Ronan's did, powerful, in command, and Gansey reached up to adjust the mirror so that he could catch Adam's eye in it.
Mistrustful though he was, Adam looked every bit as delighted as Gansey felt.
They started for the bridge. Behind them, Otto waved a fat little arm, his small round form soon fading into the distance.
"I guess we're going to Alter," Adam said.
"I hear you can do most anything in Alter," Gansey said solemnly.
Adam doubled up laughing, hiding the laugh in his long body, but still laughing. Gansey couldn't remember the last time they'd laughed together. On their way to D.C.? They were in a better place than that now. And there was magic. Magic had found them, as though it were paying back all those years Gansey had been trying to find it. And it was sure to be linked to Glendower, and Gansey would be fearless about finding the link, and if he could be fearless about this, and have Adam at his back while he did it, then--
Surely other things could work out the same way.
He smiled at Adam in the mirror. In the mirror, Adam smiled back. |
III
The next time they met, he really should have seen it coming. There weren’t really any other options: Nezu announced that another teacher would be joining UA just when All Might was spotted in the city again. It was too much of a coincidence, but he still tried to ignore it.
Shouta was good at lying to himself, when he tried.
So it shouldn’t have come as a shock when Nezu introduced him, and seeing him—golden and bright like the fucking epitome of what heroism should be— shouldn’t have hit him like a bitter spark of nausea and bad memories, but it did.
He didn’t even hold it against him anymore. He really didn’t. They had been kids, it only made sense that Toshinori would leave and forget everything about him and their shitty neighborhood where they grew up. He didn’t care about that. That didn’t mean he wanted to speak with him, or spend time in his presence. It wasn’t that he hated him, and seeing him wasn’t painful—he wasn’t some teenage girl suffering from her first heartbreak, thank you very much—but it was…awkward. Seeing him, especially like this, alive and close enough to touch, unlike the all might merch and advertisements he passed on the daily, was different and worse. He had almost thought he was immune to All Might, considering how inescapable the image of him was; but here he was, bringing up strange old memories, strange old feelings again.
He wasn’t seventeen anymore. He didn’t care if he was remembered or forgotten or whatever the hell All Might thought of him. So then why—?
Looking at him, Shouta felt young again. He felt like the five year old who trailed after Toshinori’s every move, clinging to him because there was no one else to cling to, and no one as interesting, besides. He was six, seven, eight, nine, and he didn’t have any other friends but he didn’t need them either. He was ten and he was watching him leave. He was thirteen and giving up on writing letters because he didn’t get replies. He was seventeen, and hurt, all the while being thirty-four and impartial and goddamn it he didn’t care anymore. He closed his eyes. He was too tired for this.
Mic elbowed him in the ribs, muttering—if Mic’s muttering could be considered muttering—about how it’s All Might, come on don’t fall asleep now—! But Shouta ignored him, just blearily glaring at him before he closed his eyes again. Mic knew he never cared for All Might, anyway.
It wasn’t even that Shouta disliked All Might because of their past. He wasn’t some overdramatic teenager; it wasn’t like Shouta swore vengeance upon him. He wasn’t that petty. But he still didn’t like All Might.
He disliked All Might for what he represented: turning the hero industry into an industry where public image was more important than hero work, the dependence of the entire world on the symbol of a single man, the system of rising to the top based off of flashy quirks and dramatic personalities. He hated All Might because everything about him was a lie, or at very least, a PR stunt.
“I look forward to working with you all,” All Might said, but his voice was faraway as Shouta dozed.
His voice was different from how he sounded in interviews. But maybe that was just the sleep talking.
IV
Izuku Midoriya was a reckless child not cut out for hero work. This was immediately apparent the moment Shouta received his entrance exam results. No one could be a hero if anytime they used their quirk they ended up putting themselves out of commission: it was way too self-destructive to be anywhere near plausible. If the kid knew what was best for him he’d avoid the entire hero industry entirely.
Unfortunately, Midoriya didn’t know what was best for him. He threw himself into danger, and he was a terrible combination of reckless and determined that was going to get him killed one day. Shouta had planned from day one to expel him from his class. There was no point going into hero work just to get yourself killed in the process.
Unfortunately, Midoriya, for as much as a problem child as he was, was actually smart. Or at least so ungodly determined that he managed to outwit Shouta at his own game, so maybe there was hope for him yet. Maybe.
Speaking of Midoriya, his voice always seemed to carry everywhere he went. That was another thing he had to look forward to, he supposed. Four years of mumbling. He could feel the headache coming on already.
“Midoriya, my boy!” Oh, there was his other headache, booming outside of his window. God, was All Might unaware of the concept of being quiet? Did he just forget that, in whatever he learned in his years of hero work? Apparently so. “How was your day?”
Midoriya muttered something not quite intelligible, as always.
All Might laughed, the kind that bellowed and practically echoed with how loud it was. Shouta could practically see him wrapping an arm around Midoriya’s shoulders and ruffling his hair. He would’ve rolled his eyes if they weren’t already closed. If All Might got any more blatant in his favoritism, Shouta would have to start believing Mic’s conspiracy theories about how Midoriya was All Might’s secret child.
V
They didn’t talk much. Just because Shouta wasn’t avoiding All Might didn’t mean he wanted to spend time with him. And Shouta wasn’t avoiding All Might, not really. He was just busy, and tired, and didn’t want to be bothered with the Symbol of Peace’s clumsy attempts at friendship with the rest of the staff.
He especially didn’t want to deal with All Might’s clumsy attempts at friendship with him. Not that it stopped All Might.
“Aizawa!” All Might shouted, far too early for this time in the morning. “How are you doing this fine day! The late spring weather is wonderful, isn’t it? Anyway, Present Mic was just telling me—”
How did U.A. manage to invest in specialized training courses and yet still have the slowest coffee maker known to man? Ugh, his head ached. Still, there was no way in hell he was dealing with any one of those problem children without coffee…
“—about how he and the rest of the teachers were going out for drinks tonight—”
Maybe if he used his quirk on the coffeemaker it would start going faster…It wasn’t natural for a coffeemaker to go this slow, it had to be a quirk somehow, right? If it was a quirk, then he could erase it…
“And I was wondering—”
Then, once he had his coffee, he could finally escape All Might’s shouting and live in peace. At least until he had to deal with his equally loud class.
“Were you planning on going as well?”
“Yes.” Finally, coffee.
“So you are going?”
“Hm?” He turned, finally looking over at All Might. “No. I never go to those things,” he said, walking away, coffee in hand.
“Then perhaps—”
He was already gone.
“I see! We’ll talk later then!”
VI
It wasn’t that he hated everything All Might stood for. He was a competent hero: he was the Symbol of Peace, and everything that entailed. He was a good hero.
What he wasn’t, however, was a good teacher.
“Shouta, give him some slack,” Mic said, throwing an arm across his shoulders. “It’s not like we were that great our first year teaching!”
“Hm.” At least Shouta tried in his first year of teaching, kicking himself into gear with the stress of immersion. All Might seemed content to just keep his classes limited to the same inspirational speeches on heroism that Shouta’s entire class ate up with a spoon.
They couldn’t learn from just inspiration alone. They had to be pushed.
“Just last week he was asking Nemuri for more tips on lesson planning!”
“…He was?”
“Oh, yeah. He also mentioned something about asking for your help with assigning papers, but that you were busy?”
“I see.” He remembered that. All Might had come up to him, speaking far too loudly and enthusiastically for any sane person, like he always did. He thought he remembered All Might mention something about papers, but then again Shouta tended to automatically tune out to anything spoken above a certain decibel level.
Maybe All Might was putting up more of an effort than he appeared to be. Maybe.
VII
There was something wrong with Shouto Todoroki, and that something was his father. Shouta didn’t have any proof, and he wasn’t sure what it was, but something was wrong.
Admittedly, he’d never liked Endeavor. Not many did. The man was prickly at best, excessively violent at worst, but that didn’t mean he abused his son. Shouta knew that much.
However, he also knew the way Todoroki looked whenever his father was mentioned, and the way Todoroki refused to use his fire quirk, or do anything to relate himself to Endeavor at all. Of course, all that could be attributed to teenage angst. But Shouta also knew the way Todoroki flinched whenever he heard men shouting—not a good trait to have when one of your teachers was Present Mic—the way he tried to take up as little space as possible whenever he wasn’t fighting. He knew the giant burn scar that stretched across Todoroki’s cheek, red and angry.
That, combined with the rest, was too much to ignore.
“Aizawa,” All Might said, and for a moment, he sounded almost young. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past him, even though it was absurdly difficult to do so with All Might’s hulking body mass being what it was.
“Of course,” All Might said, laughing awkwardly and lightly, in a bad attempt to diffuse tension. “It’s just, ah, for a second there you seemed a little distressed.”
“I’m fine,” he repeated.
“Right, yes.” All Might rubbed at the back of his neck. “Sorry to pry,” he said, and turned to walk away.
Shouta paused, then sighed silently. “Actually, All Might,” he called back to him. “I need to ask you something.”
“Oh?” It was strange, sometimes, how All Might acted. He seemed almost soft, almost shy. As if All Might and all of his showboating could ever be described as shy.
“What do you know about Endeavor?”
“Endeavor?” All Might blinked; had he been expecting something else? Whatever. It wasn’t like Shouta cared.
“What do you know about how he treats his son.”
All Might blinked again. “Last I checked, he liked to keep his children out of the limelight. I’d never even met the young Todoroki before I began at U. A.,” he said. “Then again… it’s not exactly like Endeavor and I are friends.”
Endeavor didn’t have friends. Let alone did he have one in the man he claimed as a rival decades ago. Still. If All Might knew nothing, then he was of no use.
“Aizawa.” All Might said. “Is there something wrong with young Todoroki?”
Shouta looked into his eyes. Gone was the soft, bumbling man from before: this was the number one hero in all of his focus, earnest but serious. “Nothing that I know for sure,” he said, voice even and cautious. Nothing I can prove.
All Might hummed, looking at something in the distance. “I’d like to help,” he said. “If there’s something I can do.”
Something inside him softened, if only a little. “I’ll let you know,” he said. It wasn’t a promise, it was hardly even a response, but it felt like a promise all the same.
VIII
Then, the USJ.
|
A/N: Hello, people!
I don't own Good Omens.
I have no beta.
ENJOY!
CHECK ME OUT ON TUMBLR. HELLY-WATERMELONSMELLINFELLON.
Finding his angel was never a difficulty. Even if Aziraphael couldn't feel their connection, it was still there. Though Crawly couldn't pinpoint exactly where Aziraphael was at any given moment, he could locate the general area and then just search for Aziraphael's inner light.
The angel wasn't very good at blending in with humanity just yet. His tendency to wear a white robe compared to all the humans donning multi-coloured fabrics, made him stand out all the more. Crawly had a feeling it was because he tended to glow with Grace whenever the sun touched him and he secretly liked it.
It was in 3004 B.C. that they had their next meaningful interaction. All others for the past thousand years had been more like meet and greets. Or rather Hi and Byes. Crawly of course wanted to linger, but to get his other half to trust him he couldn't be too clingy. While the angel's wariness was a bit of a heart-breaker, Crawly was as tenacious as he could be within the realm of reason.
Aziraphael had never tried to smite him for one thing. Both were perfectly capable of fighting and wielding 'magic' as the humans called it. They very well could be like all the other angels and demons that come into contact with one another. But Crawly wasn't so inclined to harm his better half or anyone for that matter, and Aziraphael was too kind to enjoy a fight. He might snap something rude now and then, but then his guilt would overpower him and he'd apologise immediately afterward.
Literally, he was Crawly's better half.
Seeing the angel's personal glow again had been a relief of sorts. Of course Crawly was a bit disappointed over the wings having to be hidden. Mortals didn't like the immediate and obvious reminders of otherworldly beings existing among them. It made them all twitchy and worried for their own continued existence as if they were honestly that important.
The amount of people that fled upon seeing Crawly's eyes alone, was ridiculous. As if these humans hadn't been laying with demons(yes, that was a thing that was happening) and having odd children as a result. A pair of snake eyes set in a humanoid face couldn't be the worst some of them had truly seen before.
Anyway, it was in 3004 B.C. that he finally got to have a true conversation with his angel once more. Aziraphael was stood at a fence that sectioned off a good percentage of the local humans from whatever work was being done about half a league off. As in, there was a great bloody boat sitting on a hill, and animals of all sorts were unnaturally congregating in groups of two only, heading for that boat.
Stood at the forefront of the group was Aziraphael, hands wringing in worry like usual. And so Crawly, feeling lighter and lighter in spirit the closer he got to his other half, sauntered on over to strike up a conversation that would hopefully be worth something.
"Hello, Aziraphael!"
Said angel jumped a bit, a fetching flush coming to the apples of his cheeks as he gave the demon a hesitant smile of acknowledgement. "Crawly."
He'd said it so softly too. Crawly's desire to embrace him was stronger than usual. Typically he loathed physical contact with anyone, but it wasn't so odd that he'd long for his other half, right? And if his eyes hungrily roved over the angel's face, taking in every detail anew, there was nothing wrong with that.
He asked what the boat was for. It was the only reason he'd even come near Mesopotamia. Before feeling Aziraphael's presence of course. Word had spread far and wide about a massive boat being built and he'd wanted answers! And lucky for him, his angel had them!
'God's a bit tetchy' had to be the greatest thing to ever come out of Aziraphael's mouth thus far. As if the Almighty was naught but a child throwing a tantrum. And was it blasphemous if Crawly thought to himself that such a distinction wasn't afar off from the truth?
'Wiping out the human race' was far less great. To the point of Crawly disagreeing wholeheartedly with such a plan. Not all of them were fornicating with demons. Not all of them worshiped false gods. It sounded unfair to him to punish the whole for the actions of a few.
And he could tell that Aziraphael agreed even if he would never say it aloud for fear of Falling like Crawly had. His angel was kindness and goodness personified and his very being had to be crying about the Almighty's plan for the mortals.
Healing had always been a specialty of his, he'd learned. Something Aziraphael mirrored exactly as his other half. Even though Crawly was a demon, it didn't mean he agreed with Hell's inhabitants. It didn't mean he was on Lucifer's side in general. Lucy wanted to be God instead of the Almighty, Raphael had merely questioned not giving humans the right to determine their own destinies. As Raphael had been among the lot questioning things, even if only half of him held such thoughts, he'd been split apart and cast out.
Lucy was a drama queen. Crawly hated him. Crawly hated the other Fallen. Crawly liked taunting mortals and pranking them, but for the most part, doing pure evil wasn't his thing. There was no satisfaction to be gained from it for him. Sure he took credit for certain acts that transpired, but he hadn't been involved in them in the least. Simply put, if Hell thought he was working, they'd leave him to his own business without complaint, and that was good enough for him.
And truly, going against the Almighty's plan to save only Noah - whoever that bloke was - and his entire family, would be something Hell would appreciate? Crawly secreting several hundred children of all ages into a miraculously expanded section of the Great Big Boat of Exclusion up there could be spun as defying the Almighty even if it was saving lives.
It was defiance in a sense.
And Crawly couldn't be any more taken with his other half, than when Aziraphael found the group in the bowels of the ark, and merely gave a tentative smile, miracled up some blankets and bread for the children, and returned to his post at the top of the boat without a word on the subject.
His angel was different than the sanctimonious lot up above. As one half of Raphael he should have expected no less.
A/N: Finished!
How was it? Let me know!
See ya! :D
|
For some reason, seeing Hermione at his front door felt almost as strange to Neville as waking up in his 9-year-old body had been. When Gran answered the door Neville almost jumped at the sight of her and her mum; his home and school-life suddenly colliding on his doorstep.
Hermione’s eyes lit up when she saw Neville, but she quickly hid it and looked to his grandmother. Glancing up at her, Neville could see his grandmother’s mild confusion at these two strangers.
Neville had never met Hermione’s mum, but she was almost a mirror image of her daughter. Her skin was darker, but they had the same brown eyes, the same face, the same curly hair. Mrs Granger looked nervous, but there was a determined glint in her eyes that Neville recognised all too well.
Mrs Granger was very tightly clutching Hermione’s hand. Hermione gave her mum a reassuring squeeze, and Mrs Granger immediately launched into speech. Neville felt another very familiar sensation of being caught in a gale of words. He braced himself as Mrs Granger rushed through her story: how she was sorry to drop by like this but she’d just found out her daughter was a witch that morning; how Hermione had apparently met Neville on a trip to Kew Gardens and how they’d been writing to each other ever since; how Neville had told Hermione about a secret wizarding world and a magic school and-
Neville felt his grandmother’s eyes on him and felt his cheeks flush.
“I’m very sorry for dropping by like this” Mrs Granger repeated warily. “Hermione said your grandson’s been a good friend, he’s explained all he could about this… this other world, it’s just-”
“You have thousands of questions” Gran finished for her, sighing sympathetically. She gave them a curt but welcoming nod. “You better come inside, this must be a lot for you to take in”.
As she beckoned the Grangers across the threshold Gran cast Neville a strange look. “You said it was Kew Gardens they met?”
“Yes, we went there as a family last August, though I don’t remember your grandson. Hermione must have slipped away at some point”.
“Hmm. Yes, Neville has been to Kew Gardens quite a few times with my sister-in-law. He has an odd passion for plants”.
Neville let out a breath. Hermione gave him a small smile in relief as they followed the grown-ups into the living room. As they entered the room the portrait of Great-Grandmother Agatha Longbottom looked up from her book in interest, peering at them from her spot above the mantlepiece. Mrs Granger stopped in her tracks. She blinked rapidly at the moving portrait, gaping as though unsure she had seen correctly. After a beat Hermione did the same next to her, staring up at the portrait in a passable performance of awe.
The corner of Gran's mouth twitched. She gestured the Grangers towards the sofa. “I have to offer you an apology, Mrs Granger” she said briskly as they sat down. “Usually someone is sent along to explain all of this to the parents, but typically only when the child turns eleven. I’m on the board of governors for the school, and I’ve often argued it would be prudent to explain it earlier. Children typically begin to display magic between the ages of seven and nine”.
Mrs Granger tore her eyes away from the portrait and let out a shaky laugh. “I’m extremely grateful for your grandson then, Mrs Longbottom”.
“Please Mrs Granger, call me Augusta” Gran insisted, holding out her hand. Mrs Granger smiled tentatively and shook hands.
“I’m Abena” she said, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
“Lovely to meet you Abena”. Gran glanced at Neville and Hermione, who teetered nervously to the side. “Neville, why don’t you take Hermione upstairs to play while we talk?”
Not needing to be told twice, Neville led Hermione up the stairs two steps at a time. Once they were out of earshot Hermione startled him with a hug.
“Oh Neville it’s so good to see you!” Hermione said excitedly. “I’m sorry I didn’t owl ahead, my mum walked in on me doing magic and by the time I finished explaining your owl had flown off – it bit me by the way – I couldn’t believe it when mum suggested we come straight here – we haven’t even told my dad yet – mum had so many questions the whole car ride over – but the story about Kew Gardens worked!”
Hermione seemed to say this all in one breath. Now that he’d met her mum Neville could tell where she’d got it from.
“It’s great to see you too” he said, beaming. “This- this whole thing… the past few days have been” he shook his head, at loss for words.
“It’s been disorientating to say the least” Hermione finished for him. “I was so relieved when you replied to my letter. I’d hate to be back here all by myself. Oh, Harry’s back too! I managed to talk to him on the phone. I haven’t managed to contact Ron though, but he must be back as well. Have you heard anything from him and Ginny?” she asked Neville hopefully.
Neville shook his head. “No, I haven’t heard from them”. Seeing Hermione’s disappointment he added quickly. “They probably just haven’t been able to borrow Errol”.
“Yes, that must be it” Hermione nodded restlessly. “Could we send them an owl? Just so they know we’re here too? And Ron won’t know to expect Professor Lupin and- did he look like he believed it, when you gave him the letter?”
“Professor Lupin?” Neville blinked. “Yeah, I mean, I called him Mooney like you said and he looked…” He looked like Neville had thrown a bucket of ice water over his head. “But… what was that about anyway?”
“Well” Hermione took a deep breath. “It’s a long story”.
It was indeed a long story. Hermione paced as she explained, and Neville found it just as disorientating as time travel. As she finished her tale Neville, madly, found himself laughing.
“What?” Hermione said.
Neville flushed. “It’s just, you had something that could turn back time” he said timidly. “And you used it to, um, take extra classes?”
“And to help Sirius and Buckbeak escape” Hermione said defensively.
Through all the bewilderment, Neville had been glad to hear about Buckbeak. As terrifying as the Hippogriffs had been, he’d developed a soft spot for them after they’d attacked Malfoy. Speaking of Malfoy, he couldn’t wait to tell Hermione about shoving a cake in his face. He put the happy thought aside for now.
“It was the time turner then, wasn’t it” Neville asked Hermione. “That’s what sent us back?”
Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t think so” she said slowly. “At least, not just the time turner. I think it was Fawkes. You know, the Phoenix”.
Neville felt an involuntary shiver at the memory of the phoenix. The way it had been writhing in pain. He swallowed stiffly as Hermione continued.
“Time turners don’t make you younger” she explained, partly to herself. “They take you back in time as you are, and you don’t take the place of your younger self. When I was using it I had to be careful, because there would be two sets of me running around Hogwarts at the same time. However” Hermione said excitedly. “Phoenixes have regenerative abilities”.
She’d gone back to her pacing, eyes swirling as she put the pieces together. “When they grow old, they burst into flame, and they’re reborn from the ashes as a baby. Harry saw it for himself in Dumbledore’s office, so we know Phoenixes have the ability to reverse aging…”
“So that’s why we’re 9-years-old again” Neville said, catching on.
Hermione nodded. “The time turner broke, and the hourglass crashed on the floor at the same time that the Phoenix burst into flame. I think that somehow the combination of the two did this. So…” she frowned. “Does that mean this was an accident?”
It was like being questioned by McGonagall on switching spells. The implication set in slowly. “Um, wait, you think the phoenix did this on purpose?” Neville did not like that idea at all.
“Well, why did it fly towards us? Hermione ran a hand through her hair. “And- it looked healthy. Harry said it had looked sick when he saw it burn so- so can phoenixes burn on impulse then?
It was dizzying, watching Hermione jump from one train of thought to the next. As comforting as Neville found it it to know that someone was at least figuring things out, he couldn’t help but feel of little use.
“Do you have any books on phoenixes?” Hermione asked suddenly.
“Um” Neville hurried out of his seat. “Um, Gran has a library in her study”.
They tiptoed their way across the landing and into his grandmother’s study. Dionysius eyed them from his perch. Neville winced as the owl ruffled his feathers, as though offended by their intrusion, but thankfully he didn’t screech at them. Hermione’s eyes widened at the bookshelves.
“It goes so high” she said, a note of awe in her voice.
Neville’s heart sank as he glanced up to realise just how high the shelves went. If the book they needed was near the top, they’d never reach.
“Wait here” he said. Leaving Hermione to peruse the books he hurried quietly down the stairs. On his way to the kitchen he overhead Mrs Granger in the living room.
“I’m sorry the two of them kept the letters a secret”. Mrs Granger sounded much more relaxed than she had earlier. “Hermione really should have at least told me she had a pen-pal, and these days you can never be too careful”.
“Yes, I’ll be having a word with Neville about that” came his grandmother’s voice. “Though honestly Abena, I’m just thankful he’s made a friend”.
Neville felt a small pinch at the surprise in her voice. The sad realisation crept over him. This was the first time he’d really had a friend over.
Not that his grandmother hadn’t tried. There had been plenty of playdates arranged, usually with other children with parents on the School Board. None of these playdates had been successful. The other boys had tended to be boisterous whereas Neville was... Neville.
He had managed to have one peaceful playdate when Hannah Abbot was invited over. Peggy had laid out a picnic blanket for them by the crab apple tree in the garden, and they’d spent the afternoon in the sun, drawing with Neville’s new rainbow crayons and munching on pumpkin pasties. Gran had victoriously arranged a sleepover that very night. But then Neville’s nerves had to go and ruin it, and to his horror he wet the bed.
In his humiliation he’d been too ashamed to invite her back, and Gran had sighed and decided not to press the matter. Neville had dreaded seeing Hannah again at Hogwarts, blushing volcanic hot at the thought. But if Hannah remembered the bed-wetting incident at all then she made no mention of it. Still, Neville cursed himself for ruining everything. It would have been nice, to have Hannah as a friend.
Hermione was his friend, he reassured himself. And Ron and Harry. But at school he was never really one of them. Not that he thought they would turn him away. Perhaps he should have tried to join in more. But Neville could never really shake the sense that he’d be interfering somehow. He didn’t know how the other kids at school did it, how they could join in conversations so easily without an invitation.
Gran would roll her eyes if he said that out loud. “Don’t be ridiculous Neville” he could hear her scoff. “Don’t wait for an invitation. Do that and no one will pay you any notice”.
He knew she was right. He kept going back to that night in first year, and imagined what would have been if he’d gone with Harry, Ron and Hermione instead of trying to stop them. Dumbledore had awarded him 10 points for bravery. Neville hadn’t felt brave. There had been nothing brave about lying frozen on the common room floor, while his housemates walked daringly towards danger.
Shaking off these thoughts, Neville entered the kitchen. Penny was by the sink, stood on a stool so she could reach the dishes. The small elf turned to him before he spoke.
“Master Longbottom” she climbed down off the stool.
“Um, sorry, are you busy Penny?”
“No, I has just finished serving Mrs Granger tea. What can I help you with, Master Longbottom?”
“Me and my friend are trying to find a book on phoenixes, in Gran’s study” Neville said gingerly. He wasn’t sure if he were really allowed in there. Or if Penny would tell on him. “But we can’t reach the top shelves…”
“You want Magical Creatures and their Mysteries” a shaky voice came from the back of the kitchen. “On the second top shelf behind the desk”.
Neville and Penny both turned to see Peggy, leaning against the pantry door for support. Neville felt a pang in his heart to see her again, her hazel eyes peering through her many wrinkles. She was much smaller than he remembered, made smaller as she hunched over in her starched-white pillow case.
“Mother, you must go back to bed” Penny scolded, but the wizened old house elf smiled at Neville.
“Hello Peggy” Neville said softly. He felt a small tear in his throat, and tried to cover it with a cough. “How are you feeling?”
“Ooph” she said with affect. “Like shaky old bones”. Peggy waved away her daughter’s attempts to lead her back to bed. “I can help you find the book”.
“I will find it mother” Penny insisted. “You need to rest”.
“Penny’s right” Neville added. “Um, here” he offered his arm. Penny let out a sigh of relief as her mother took it. Peggy smiled her toothy smile up at him as he led her back to bed.
“You have gotten older Neville” she said in light surprise. “Not as old as me, but you are older”.
Neville froze and stared at Peggy in amazement. Could she somehow tell?
Peggy laughed at his expression and patted his hand. “Our magic is an old one, young Neville, and not often understood, as I try telling Penny. You are very sad to see me”.
Neville shook his head. “I’m happy to see you Peggy”.
“And sad” she insisted. “You are almost all grown up. I will hear all about it, before I go”.
Penny lowered her mother into bed. It was made from old pillows, fashioned together in the corner of the pantry. Neville watched, and once again the sick feeling that something was wrong curdled in his gut. Peggy had lived in this house for years. She told him once that her mother and grandmother had lived here too, long before the Longbottoms ever set foot here.
And here she was, sleeping and dying in the pantry. Neville swallowed. He wasn’t sure why it hadn’t felt wrong before coming back in time. Maybe it was the knowledge that she was going to die quietly in this corner of the pantry once again. Maybe it was because this time he was seeing her towards the end, as he hadn’t been allowed to before. He didn’t even remember if there had been a funeral...
Penny stroked her mother’s head as she went to sleep, and muttered something gently. She then stood up in a hurry, as though only just remembering Neville was there. “I will help you with your book, young Neville” she said quickly, and she scurried out of the kitchen ahead of him.
With one last look at Peggy, Neville hurried up the stairs after her. He only just reached the study door when Penny came to him, the book already in hand. “I must hurry Master Longbottom” she said quietly. With a tiny bow she hurried back down the stairs before Neville could blink, his thank you dying on his tongue.
Inside the study Hermione was perched on the window sill, absorbed in scanning the index of a heavy book. Two other books lay by her side. Penny must have slipped in and out so quietly that Hermione hadn’t noticed her. Neville stood awkwardly at the doorway until Hermione closed the book with a sigh.
“No mention of phoenixes in that one” she said in disappointment, glancing upwards. “Did you find a way to reach the top shelves?”
“N-No, but here” Neville fumbled with the book in his arms. “Er, Magical Creatures and their Mysteries”.
Hermione’s eyes lit up hungrily as they opened the book. Neville peered over her shoulder. On the page gleamed a detailed illustration of a large swan-like bird with a red and gold plumage, it’s long peacock tail curling into flames. Hermione’s fingers traced the feathers, and at her touch the illustration shifted. The flames sifted slowly up the tail, and rippled its way across the wings. It was a beautiful effect, but Neville privately thought it didn’t at all capture what he’d witnessed in the hospital wing. The flames had engulfed Fawkes in the blink of an eye, transforming the bird into a roaring, blazing creature, made entirely from the flames themselves. Now that he thought about it though, he couldn’t recall feeling a burn in his hands. Even though they’d been grasping the thrashing bird as it set alight.
Shifting the heavy book onto her lap, Hermione began to read out loud:
“The Phoenix is a creature of many names and varieties – Bennu, Garuda, Firebird, Simurgh – and has long been revered by magical communities around the world. It’s regenerative abilities have been the subject of devoted study, and the Phoenix is rumoured by some to be key to understanding the Elixir of Life.
Beyond its regenerative abilities, early practitioners of magic looked to the Phoenix as a giver of wisdom, with early Persian sorcerers once believing the Simurgh to possess knowledge of all ages. Likewise the Bennu is still studied to this day in Egypt, where the Order of Osiris takes note of its stages of immolation and rebirth. Divinationists within the Order believe the timing of a burning to be a forecast of either good or bad fortune, and proclaim the burning of a healthy Phoenix as a warning”.
Hermione’s voice trailed off. Neville watched her eyes read and re-read the last few lines. He jumped as she suddenly stood up, her eyes wide as dinner plates. She was silently mouthing something.
“That’s it!” she finally exclaimed. “Fawkes burnt as a warning!”
“Wait” stumbled Neville. “A warning? Of what?”
Hermione didn’t answer. Her face screwed up in concentration.
“It will happen tonight… what was it? Tonight before midnight the servant will- will break free and re-join his master!” Hermione recited urgently. “The dark lord will rise again, greater and more terrible than ever! Trelawney had a prophecy the day Pettigrew escaped! She said it to Harry just a few hours before! And Fawkes… if phoenixes possess knowledge of all ages then maybe he could sense what was going to happen, so he undid it! He sent us back!
“Please slow down” Neville begged, his heart hammering at the mention of You-Know-Who. “What was going to happen?”
Hermione finally stopped pacing and looked at him. “Back in our old time” she explained. “Trelawney predicted that Pettigrew was going to find You-Know-Who, and help him come back”.
“I thought- I thought you didn’t believe in Trelawney?” Neville said weakly.
“Well, no…” Hermione flustered. “I’m just not ruling anything out. Given the situation”. There was a manic energy to Hermione as she continued, a feverish excitement Neville hadn’t quite seen in her before. “Neville, don’t you see? This is why were are here. This is what we were sent back to prevent!”
Neville gaped at her. The enormity of what she was suggesting reared impossibly in his mind, and he wondered how someone like him had gotten caught up in it. “We’ve prevented it then, haven’t we?” Neville asked hopefully. “I mean, Professor Lupin knows about Pettigrew now, right?”
“Maybe. We need to get a message to Ron right now, to see what’s happened with Scabbers. Can we use your owl?”
Grabbing her a quill and some parchment, Neville watched Hermione as she scribbled down a letter to Ron.
“How much detail are you putting in?” he asked as she copied down Trelawney’s prophecy, word for word as she remembered it.
“Everything” she said with fervour, her hand racing across the parchment. In spite of everything, Neville found himself wondering how she managed to write more neatly fast than he could slow.
As she wrote, Neville wandered back over to the book. He eyed the illustration of the phoenix reproachfully. Making to close the book, Neville saw that one page had been earmarked. He turned the pages to see a small entry on house elves. Surprised, he remembered Peggy had recommended him the book. Neville let out a breath. All these years, he never knew Peggy used the library...
“Finished” Hermione said happily behind him. They tentatively approached Dionysius, who thankfully consented to have the letter tied around his leg. They watched as the owl flew off into the wintry air, swooping up and over the chimneys and roofs until he dipped out of sight. Neville hesitated as he made to close the window, shivering slightly from the cold bite outside. His grandmother's study overlooked the old crab apple tree, where he and Hannah had once spent an afternoon drawing in the sun. It stood bare and rigid below them, and looked strangely out of place now. It had been cut down in the future, he remembered. But now it was back.
He glanced sideways at Hermione, who was still watching the space where the owl had been. She had a familiar look in her eyes, one of multiple trains of thought colliding and running off each other.
The question escaped him before he could even think to hesitate – “Would you like to sleep over?”
Hermione jolted out of her reverie. She blinked at Neville. “Sorry?”
“I-” Neville felt himself blushing so fiercely he could have burst into flames like Fawkes. “I was just thinking, we could wait together for Ron and Ginny to reply, though you don’t have to, I mean, if you don’t want to I’ll send you a letter to let you know as soon as they-”
“It’s not that” Hermione said quickly, with a surprised smile. “It’s just, well, no one ever asked me to a sleepover before”.
Neville’s head spun with relief. “Me neither” he said.
There was an odd lightness in his body as they turned away from the window, making their way downstairs to ask permission for a sleepover. The thought of You-Know-Who returning was terrifying, almost as terrifying as the idea that Fawkes had sent Neville, of all people, back in time to help stop it.
Well. Not sent him, of course. Neville had just happened to be in the hospital wing at the wrong time. Still, here he was. And, despite his terror, despite being small again, despite the continuing utter confusion at everything around him, Neville found he didn’t wish the Phoenix had stopped him from tagging along. |
Yvette stood before him in shocked indignation, and for a second, Geoff's confidence began to slip. "What the hell did you say to me?" she asked nonplused.
"Don't make me repeat myself bitch, get over here and suck my cock," he said with just enough authority in his voice to show that he meant it. she looked at him for a minute before a sly smile touched her lips.
"With pleasure," she murmured walking over to him like the femme fatale. She slowly dropped to her knees in front of him, then taking her time undoing his zip. Geoff couldn't move for the live of him, as she set free his engorged shaft. "Your cock is so big," she eyed it greedily like a little kid with a piece of candy. She kissed the head lightly before running a fat, pink tongue along side of it. She stroked it with up and down, circling the head each time her tongue reached the tip.
"Stop teasing me and suck it," he commanded. The pleasure was driving him insane. She obliged by taking it gently into her mouth. She continued all the way down until he felt his cock buried in her throat. Not many woman, could usually get all ten inches in his mouth at once. She continue to go up and down on her shaft gently, until she started bobbing faster and faster, increasing the pressure of her mouth, and bringing him closer to the brink. Her hand was gripping his cock and she was sucking, licking and nibbling it. His eyes rolled all the way back in his head. His cock had never been sucked so voraciously before. He knew he was going to cum soon, so he jerked back and shot his white juice, all over her unsuspecting face.
Though it took her by surprise, she seemed to love it. She sat back on her heel, and licked her lips taking in the thick milky substance. Geoff watched in fascination as she rubbed a bit off her face with the tip of her forefinger and sticking it seductively into her mouth. He watched as she repeated this process over and over again, until her face was clean once more. By the time she had finished, he was rock hard once more.
"You're a nasty bitch, aren't you?" he asked. She simply smiled at him as if in agreement. He reached over and hauled her body against his. "I want to hear you say it. Tell me you're a nasty bitch!" he demanded.
"I'm a nasty bitch" she echoed obediently. He smirked. he liked having this beautiful woman in the palm of his hand. Having the upper hand was such a rush. "You've been teasing me for a week, now don't you think that deserves some punishment?" he asked. She merely nodded with wide eyes. He could tell that she was really getting off on this by the way her nipples strained against her dress. "Get up and lean over my desk with your back towards me," he instructed. She complied. "Spread your leg, and lean over some more."
He came up behind her and pushed her dress to her waist. her as was so smooth and round. It was so firm, and just the right shape for going doggy style. He could see her thick bush poking out from between her legs. The dark lips of her pussy stood out prominently, swollen, and ready. He gently caressed her ass, awed but it's perfect contour. He couldn't resist sticking a finger inside of her. She felt so wet and tight around his finger. He pulled it out and instantly smelt it's tangy aroma. It was a bit musky but not unpleasant. He tasted his wet finger, and it was surprisingly sweet.
She swayed her hips slightly, and that small, movement, pushed him over the edge. He pushed his pants down in a hurry, and took hold of his swollen cock to ram it into Yvette's waiting pussy. "Oh, Mr., Howard," she moaned.
"Shut up slut" he gritted through his teeth knowing that he wouldn't last that long if she kept moving her hips the way she was. He smacked her hard on the ass. She let out a loud breath but other than that she gave no indication of pain. With each thrust into her he would smack her delectable ass, and he would gyrate her hips wildly. Before he knew, it he was cumming right there on her ass. He could have lasted for more than a couple of minutes. He had never cum so fast with any other woman before. What was she doing to him?
He had to show her that she had the upper hand. "I'm not finished with you yet," he threatened he turned her unzipped her dress and pulled it down her waist. He turned her around to get a good view of those tits that had tormented him that past week. The too were nice and firm. Geoff pushed her back on the desk and fell of top of her. He buried his face between them and needed one in each hand. They were large and they felt natural. He worshiped each hardened peak with his lips and tongue. Damn she felt good.
"Spread those legs a little wider baby," he whispered in her ear. She complied gladly. He began a trail with his tongue starting at the valley of her breasts, to the dip of her navel. He went further yet to her waiting bush. He was use to shaved women, but Yvette was all natural. It was the hairiest pussy he had ever seen, but surprisingly enough, it wasn't a turnoff at all. The musky odor of her was intoxicating and he tentatively touched her clit with his tongue. Liking the sweet taste, he took the swollen clit into his hot mouth. She moaned loudly and bucked her hips against his face. He slipped a finger in her wetness, then two. He ate her out until she spasamed violently against him indicating that she had cum.
"You know what I'm going to do to you now?" he asked. She looked up at him with passion glazed eyes and shook her head. "I'm going to fuck you again." This time he planned to make it last longer. He took his time at first, going at a nice and easy pace, but Yvette had other ideas, she wrapped her black legs around him and he could feel her pussy clench tighter on his cock. Seconds later, he came inside of her. He felt like a school boy. Yvette didn't seem to mind, within minutes she had it hard again with her mouth, and once again, he fucked her, this time with her laying sideways on the desk and him standing over her thrusting into her like a rutting bull. He managed to last a bit longer this time, but only just. She was such a hot piece that he couldn't control himself.
This continued for several hours until he was worn out. When he was too tired to do anything more he realized that it was way past time for him to go home. All the appointments that he had had scheduled were long past over. He could visualize the calls from all the angry clients the next day, all because he couldn't stop fucking his temp. As they got dressed she smiled smugly. "Don't worry about your appointments for today, I took the liberty of rescheduling them for a later date. I'm going home now." She said once she had gotten fully dressed once more. He could have kissed her right then for her thoughtfulness, but it gave him cause to cause to pause. She had planned this all along. Strangely enough, it didn't bother him.
"How about I take you to dinner and maybe we could head back to my place----"
"No, I'd rather not," she cut him off.
"Why? Did you enjoy yourself?" She merely smiled and shrugged.
"Let's not complicate things ok?" she turned to him and pressed her body against his and gave him a long lingering on the lips. She left then, and Geoff could feel his cock get hard once more. He anticipated the week ahead. He was a bit disappointed in his performance but he knew that he could do better if given another chance.
The next day he was in the office extra early. He sat down at his desk and waited for Yvette to appear. He began to get antsy when eight cam and went. Where the hell was she. Half past eight came and an elderly woman poked her head through the door. "Hi, I'm Edna, I'll be you're temp for the rest of the week." Geoff bolted out of his seat.
"'Where's Yvette?!" he demanded not understanding why this old prune was here in Yvette's place. "Well, I don't rightly know sir, but I was called this morning and asked if I could fill in, so hear I am." she said indignantly not liking the young man's tone of voice.
"Get out of my office and wait in the reception area for further instruction" he dismissed rudely pushing Edna out the door and slamming it shut behind her.
"Well, I never," huffed Edna, as she stalked off. Geoff called the temp agency that Yvette had come from and immediately demanded to speak to the person in charge. "What can I do for you Mr. Howard," the pleasant voice of a woman came on the line. "I had a temp all last week and yesterday, and I was quite satisfied with her work. I want her and only her. what's the meaning of sending me someone else," he knew he was being rude and arrogant, but dammit he wanted Yvette.
"Sir, we apologize for the inconvience., but as of today, she no longer works for this agency. She called us this morning to say that she's found a position elsewhere..." Geoff didn't hear the rest of what was being said. What was he going to do now? He had no way of finding out where she was or where she lived. How could she do this to him? He had a feeling that from this point on, no ordinary woman would do for him.
He hung up the phone and walked over to his window and stared out in the city below him. Somewhere out there was Yvette Randall, and one day, he would find her, and when he did, she wouldn't slip through his fingers so easily the second time around.
|
“What do you want, Hannibal?”
“All of you that you will let me have.”
Will met Hannibal’s eyes steadily, grounding him, feeling a small smile touch the corners of his eyes. “I think you deserve a reward for all your help this week. Where would you like to start?”
--
Hannibal looked over Will’s body, nostrils flared, ravenous, suddenly glutted with the possibility before him.
“I would breathe you in, Will, every part. I would hold you in my lungs until the end of days.”
Will took the left hand that was still clenched in his own and pulled it over so that it cupped his own hardness, gasping at the contact. Hannibal’s eyes glazed over, and he let out an indelicate groan at feeling the proof of Will’s desire. He pressed against Will, then pulled back to run his fingers down his length, filling in the voids in his mind’s eye with this new knowledge. His hand was big and warm, and Will felt safe and whole in its grip.
“Would you like to taste?”
Hannibal looked at his face again, eyes completely gone by now, mouth open, burning. He pressed his right hand to his own groin blatantly, moaning a little with this small relief he was finally allowing himself.
“On your knees.”
Hannibal obeyed, prostrating himself between Will’s legs like an apostle, waiting fervently for his next order.
Will still wasn’t entirely sure what this game was, but he did know that he’d given a rule that Hannibal had blatantly broken. This was a first in his little experiment.
“Good. Now, we still haven't addressed the issue of your disobedience this week. You held yourself back from orgasm against my direct orders. What are we going to do about that?”
Silence. Hannibal’s eyes focused on a spot just behind Will’s ear.
“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, Hannibal.”
Hannibal snapped his eyes to Will’s, his neck flushing.
“Better. Here’s what will happen: you may have me in your mouth, but you may not touch. You may do whatever you want with your lips and tongue, but you may not take me in hand, and you may not offer yourself relief. Hands behind your back. I trust you can keep them there.”
Hannibal looked back at him with needy eyes, contrite. “Yes.” He moved his trembling hands behind his back, breathing deeply as he assumed the appropriate position.
“Good. Within those boundaries, you may do as you like. I want you to feel free to take your time and enjoy yourself, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Will looked at him softly and gave him a small nod of acknowledgement. He then moved his hands to his pants and began working the buttons loose. Hannibal watched him intently, a wolf in the underbrush. Will finally pushed his fly open and his boxers down around his hard cock, displaying himself for Hannibal’s appraisal. Hannibal made a small, broken noise when Will gripped himself and stroked once, twice.
“Come here.”
Hannibal moved just that little bit closer, Will’s knees now boxing in his sides. His hair was loose and hanging over his forehead, and Will reached out a hand to brush it aside, lingering on his cheek, thumb ghosting over his bottom lip. “Go ahead, whenever you’re ready.”
Hannibal closed his eyes and pressed into Will’s hand in gratitude, unable to help himself from leaving a small kiss on Will’s palm. Will felt a shiver go through him at the chaste touch.
When Will pulled his hand back, Hannibal shuddered and sighed. Opening his eyes, he focused in on Will’s cock, now standing tall and flushed. He moved in and nosed along its curve, ending up right at the root, moaning loudly once his nose was buried firmly in the pubic hair at the base. Pressing his eyes closed again now, he breathed him in deeply in great, drowning breaths. Will wondered how long he'd been waiting for this exact experience, building it up over the years on the cave wall of his mind.
After he’d gotten his fill, temporarily sated on Will’s scent, Hannibal moved back up the length of his cock, pressing chaste kisses to the shaft as he went. When he reached the head, he laved it with his tongue and suckled it lightly into his mouth to clear it of precum, moaning helplessly at the taste, his hips already jerking futily into thin air.
Once Hannibal had the taste of Will in his mouth, a switch flipped in him, and he was done teasing. He sucked Will down inch by inch, instantly creating a hard and fast pressure that had Will keening in seconds, his thoughts going white.
“Fuck,” he choked out. Hannibal’s raw suction, unforgiving, was so good, so thorough. With how long it had been since he'd come, he knew it would be over in less than a minute if Hannibal kept this up. Already he felt himself coiling tighter, nearing the edge, and still Hannibal kept going as though Will were water in the desert, as though this was all the nourishment he'd ever need again.
“Fuck, Hannibal, slow down,” he forced himself to command, almost regretting the order when Hannibal took him into his throat, swallowing tight around him. So close, he was so close, but not ready for it to be over so soon. Hannibal kept at it as though he hadn’t heard him, looking like he’d be content to continue at this same pace for hours, almost beatific in his bliss.
“Hannibal. I said ‘slow down.’” He yanked harshly on Hannibal’s hair, succeeding in pulling him off his dick entirely.
Hannibal already looked a mess, hair again hanging in his glazed eyes, belly heaving, sweat standing out on his brow and staining his sweater. His lips were full and wet, and the outline of his cock was very visible through his dark wool slacks.
“You may continue, but only if you promise to pace yourself. Do you understand?”
Hannibal nodded, a small whine escaping his throat.
“Good. Go ahead, take your time.” He carded the fingers still in Hannibal’s hair softly over his scalp in apology for his earlier roughness.
Hannibal leaned into the touch, seawall breached and spilling over. Will withdrew his hand again, and Hannibal took a couple of deep breaths, throwing down sandbags to stem the flood. After a minute, his breathing evened a little, and he moved forward into Will’s lap again.
He took Will’s tip in his mouth, gentle. He slowly moved to take more in, tongue pressed firmly to the base as he sucked lightly and then withdrew, repeating this cycle over and over. He paid attention to the tip on every round, pressing light kisses to it, tonguing the slit and the sweet spot under the head, soft and worshipful.
Will was no longer urgently close to coming, but he was almost more overwhelmed by this supplication, this gift of milk and honey. This, now, was another veil lifted, Hannibal’s beating heart laid out for him.
Hannibal went on like this for long minutes, looking up to Will’s eyes, a shining transparency passing between them. Will felt the uncontrolled motion of Hannibal’s hips, pressed as they were between his legs. Pleasure flowed over him in waves, birthed on seafoam, and he heard himself moaning as if underwater.
“You’re so good, Hannibal, so good for me.” Hannibal flushed a little darker and began moving a little faster over Will’s cock at the praise. Will gradually felt the climb towards orgasm building again in his abdomen, and he buried his hand in Hannibal’s hair to stabilize both of them, just holding on.
After a little while, he slowly became aware that his hips were beginning to rock up into Hannibal’s mouth, and when he tried to restrain himself, he felt rather than heard Hannibal’s small growl, wolven eyes looking back up with defiance. Hannibal pulled off him completely and gave him a petulant look, then sucked him back down aggressively, humming in pleasure when Will’s hips again began bucking. Will groaned at his hungry enthusiasm, watching the small smile form in Hannibal’s eyes as he let himself over to his body’s base instincts.
“Hannibal, fuck, I’m close.” He continued to fuck up into Hannibal’s mouth, rougher now, and Hannibal moaned around him. He closed his eyes, feeling the vibrations, and when he opened them, the look on Hannibal’s face, like he’d found home, like he’d seen God, had him falling over the edge with a shout, hips snapping up with the force of his orgasm. Hannibal swallowed every pulse, watching Will’s face with religious fervor. Will fell through doors and doors and doors in the black of space, other lives and worlds passing him by until he came back to consciousness in this one.
When Will finally returned to himself, boneless and shuddering, Hannibal released him from his mouth. He gently licked him clean and left a final wet kiss on the tip before looking back up at Will, shy and coltish.
“You’re… you were… fuck, come here,” Will stuttered out, overwhelmed with his need to be close. Hannibal obeyed, and Will took his face in his hands, kissing him deeply, tongue roving in his mouth. He pulled back to pant, “You can use your hands again,” and Hannibal did, gratefully, roaming all over Will’s cheeks and hair and neck, pulling him as close as he possibly could. They drowned and gasped together, tasting bread and wine and holy water.
Mouth full of his own taste and Hannibal’s, Will moved his hand down the other man’s front, intending to help him with his own completion. He groaned lowly when he found only a spreading wet spot. “Jesus, Hannibal.” Hannibal just moaned again, unashamed, and kept kissing Will. When Will finally pulled back to catch his breath, pressing their foreheads together and existing on Hannibal’s air, he moved his hand to stroke Hannibal’s hair gently, calming.
“You’re so good for me, Hannibal. So good.”
Hannibal whimpered a little at that, squeezing his eyes shut.
“Go and get the water heated for a bath. I’ll join you in a minute.”
Hannibal nodded, rocking back on his heels when Will broke away. When Will stood, Hannibal followed suit. Will looked towards the staircase with a little nod, and Hannibal took to his task, leaving him alone to think.
Today had been so much more than Will had intended or expected from their relationship, and they’d only begun their steep climb, hooves finding holds in the rocks as they went. Hannibal’s calm need for Will’s permission had been one thing, but his sexual response to being controlled was something else altogether. Will’s own newly apparent desire for Hannibal was yet more territory to be mapped - he had a loose vision of its shoreline, its bays and inlets, but had yet to know what lay within, dark jungle and fertile plains.
Now that he’d tasted the fruit, their future swam in front of him in thick colors and shapes and sounds, newborn and hale. He was starving. |
"In summation I state that the Court finds in favour of the defendant against the plaintiff. It is clear that zoning regulations in this case are purely the responsibility of the city authorities and of no other layer of the governmental structure."
A small man in a suit stood up. "Your honour, I request a right to appeal?"
"You have no case, Mr Weissman. You represented your clients with great skill but you have no case. In order to save the taxpayer some money I can see no merit in allowing an appeal."
"But..."
"That is ENOUGH, Mr Weissman. I realise it is normally a formality but this court absolutely has the right to deny an appeal in a litigation such as this. You do not deny that?"
"No but..."
THUMP.
The judge's gavel fell and he heaved himself onto his feet as the perspiration showed on his broad dark face. Matthew Wood had delivered his judgement and that was all there was to it.
Weissman slumped back into his seat. He could remember the days when he could count his court defeats in a year on one hand. Now he only had to see Jessica Lyons on the other side of the court-house and he pretty much knew he was fucked! Seemed it was true that she was pregnant, well roll on her maternity leave. Then he just might be able to win a damned case!
***
Jessica gathered her papers and prepared to leave when she heard her name being called. When she turned it was to face a woman who looked in her late thirties and who was approaching her with a broad smile. She was perplexed for a moment and then recognition came and her face lit up. "Oh my God - it can't be!"
The two women embraced. "It's been way too long," said the new arrival, "but I just don't get out here any more. When the family decided to come over on vacation and David wanted to take them to a ball-game then I just had to see if I could look you up."
Jessica grinned - she remembered that her teacher had never been a fan of sports. "What do I call you - it seems silly to say Mrs..."
"You call me Dee, of course! Do you know how proud I am of you - I always knew that you would be a credit to all of us. Just seeing you up there today - winning your case so easily."
Jess made a dismissive gesture. "It really wasn't a difficult case..."
"Don't listen to her," the words came from the dark-skinned African-American man seated next to Jessica, her client in the recent hearing. "State's been trying to close me down for years and this time they were sure they'd got me. Didn't reckon on me having the best lawyer in the three state district did they." Dee's eyes widened a little as the man's large Black hand patted Jessica's bottom with an easy gesture.
Jessica just smiled. "This is Cassius - one of our best-known local businessmen."
"Scuse my manners," said Cassius as he finally stood up and offered Dee his hand. "I wasn't brought up what you'd call proper!" He showed a flash of white teeth in his dark face. "I'm delighted to meet any of Jessica's crew tho, especially when they a fine chassy like you."
Dee didn't quite understand that but she did grasp that it was a compliment. A fine rosy glow suffused her cheeks. She was a respectable wife and mother of three. Strange men hadn't complimented her like that for years! It also wasn't helping that Cassius seemed to have scanned her figure as he spoke. Men just didn't look at her like that any more. Heck, even her husband hadn't shown her that sort of attention in as long as she could remember.
Jessica stood and Dee again noticed her baby-bump. She remembered hearing that Jess had married that local boy - the one who was in politics now. But it seemed strange that she was back to using her maiden name especially with a young one on the way.
"I think Cassius, that you owe me a favour."
"That I do - but I'd like to owe you two. You know you've promised to come to my club."
Jess gestured to her midriff. "I don't think I'll be dancing for a while do you."
Cassius smiled that confident smile of his again. "Fuck, baby, I'd love to see you there in about five months. Crowd will go wild once they hear the story." He took her hand in his. "Besides, ain't nothing more beautiful than a woman like you who's showing the potency of her men."
Jess giggled and turned to Dee. "Cassius is also a local character and a bit of a scoundrel. He doesn't respect proprieties too well, it sort of goes with his business."
Dee was a bit taken aback. There was some argot and a little profanity but she was pretty sure she'd understood him rightly. It amazed her that he was saying such things and young Jessica just seemed to be amused by it. She caught herself - 'young Jessica' was thirty and could most certainly look after herself.
She glanced back to Cassius only to catch him pretty obviously checking out her rear end. He noticed her and just smiled his confident smile. "Scuse me but when I see something I like I always make a point of enjoying it to the full. Thass always been my way - when I see something I want I reach out and take it. I make it mine and enjoy it to the full." He reached out and took hold of Dee's hand running his thumb over her skin. She was frozen like a statue her mind unable to take this all in - it just couldn't be happening. "Unless, of course, my hand gets slapped away." He pointedly looked down to where his big Black hand still held her smaller white one. The symbolism was obvious.
Cassius raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You didn't slap me away, Dee. I'm going to leave you two to catch up now but I'm going to expect you on your next visit to make sure to come and see me at my club. Just to visit ... unless you come and dance with Jess of course. Got a lot of customers would love to see that almost as much as I would." He lowered her hand and just for a moment touched it to the front of his pants. It might have been accidental but Dee knew that it wasn't. He had been sending another message because even in that split-second she had felt the big bulge there. He had been hard and he was making sure that she knew he was hard for HER.
The Black man winked at Dee and smiled at Jess and then he was gone.
"Congratulations", said Jessica to her former teacher, "you have just experienced Hurricane Cassius."
Dee said nothing. She just watched him go - walking with a supreme confidence as if the whole world was his and every fruit ripe for his picking.
***
"His clubs have quite a reputation and that reputation is amply deserved," admitted Jessica as they ate lunch, "but believe me there are a lot worse than Cassius over there in H-Town. Anyway, the law was most definitely with him on this occasion. Whatever may go on at his clubs those State politicians are targeting him for racial reasons. I know two clubs just as wild but with largely white clientele and they somehow didn't have a zoning problem."
"But his clubs are, er, 'wild.' You mean they are strip clubs?"
Jess laughed, "I forget you're not from round here. They are a little, er, racier than just strip clubs. Floor shows, full contact lap dancing and private rooms where most anything goes. Still, the law WAS on his side."
Dee understood that lawyers had to represent all clients to the best of their ability. That wasn't what had set her mind racing. She could read between the lines of what Jess was telling her. Cassius' clubs were basically brothels. Which was one thing. Quite a level above that, however, was the fact that Cassius had invited Jess and then her to go and dance there!
It was like nothing Dee had ever encountered. A world that she had only heard of on news reports or in press articles. Now she had been asked, no virtually ordered, to go and dance for an audience of Black customers at a brothel. It was the most shocking thing that had ever happened to her. Well, actually the second most shocking. The most shocking was just how aroused she was by the very idea.
His body was on hers and he was pushing her to the limit. She felt the weight of him and her hands on his arms were feeling the solid muscle there, the masculine power of him. When she breathed she could smell him - his cologne and that warm smell of a man who was applying himself to physical work.
Physical it certainly was. His big cock was in her and finding its way to places that no other lover had ever come close to. She glanced down and saw him as he moved in and out of her body - his dark flesh contrasting with her own fair skin. He was a powerful Black Lord claiming his conquest - another white woman fallen under his spell.
She felt her hand slip from the perspiration on his shoulder. As her hand fell beside her head she saw the glint of her wedding ring. Poor David - he would never be able to match this. A Black hand moved down over hers and obscured the ring from her sight. Her husband vanished from her thoughts and she gasped again at the power of her new lover.
His thrusts were regular and deep and delivered with meaning. He knew he was making her feel as she had never felt before. This man knew his business. This man knew how to take a woman and make her worship him, make her do anything for him. That wave of desire was rolling in again. That warmth that spread through her whole body and being. He was going to get her there.
He seemed to know what it was that she needed. Perhaps men like him, men of experience and power, did know these things. She was only 5'4" and 125-pounds - so small against his hard-muscled body. When he wanted to move her he could just man-handle her but he didn't make it feel that way. It felt so smooth and so natural how he turned himself and she suddenly found herself on top of him. She wanted to slip down and bring their upper bodies together again but he had other ideas. His hands gripped her sides and he began bucking his cock up into her. Hard and fast.
She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. She felt that she needed to scream, to let the whole world know how good he was and how he made her feel. Somehow, however, she couldn't get the scream out. The whirl of sensations and emotions surging through her body and brain left her forever on the brink knowing that one touch would set her off.
Then he grunted and pushed up hard into her once, twice and a third time. As his seed spurted deep into her she howled her surrender to her new master. Her willingness to serve him in all things and to give up everything for him if only he would sometimes help her to feel like this.
She was exhausted by her passion and slumped down. Her mouth found his and his strong tongue pushed into her mouth to dance with her own in the age-old language of love. He broke the kiss and turned her onto her back again. He rose above her - dark and potent and magnificent. His head lowered to her neck and she felt him gently kiss the pink flesh there before applying a stronger pressure.
She knew what he was doing. He was marking her - leaving a love-bite high on her curved white neck where it would be almost impossible for her to hide it. David would see it and David would know. Her heart quailed at the knowledge but then she had an overpowering thought. David had twelve years to make her feel like this and he had failed, failed miserably and worse, she thought, recently he had failed even to try.
That was where her dream had ended on innumerable occasions since that meeting with Jessica and Cassius. She had woken in bed-sheets drenched with perspiration and with a pussy desperate for some skilled attention and had found only David snoring on the other side of the bed. Had she called out for Cassius in her sleep? She didn't know but it was clear David hadn't noticed if she had.
Every other night it had ended there - but not tonight. Tonight her lover raised his head from his ritual of marking her throat. His deep brown eyes, so beautiful to her, locked with her own blue ones. She felt that he was staring into her soul, that he was making sure that he knew every aspect of her.
"Teacher enjoying her lesson?" It was his voice - the voice that had been indelibly recorded in her brain since that one brief meeting. The meeting when he had held her hand and complimented her. Such little things and yet they had made it utterly impossible for her to go back to her old life. He had somehow entered her soul as well as her dreams.
"Yes," such a little word but uttered in a tone that spoke of fear, desire and sexual satisfaction.
"Here's the next part of your lesson - in my culture when a man finds something of the finest quality he isn't selfish." His eyes were still locked on hers and she knew if he stayed there a thousand years she would never be able to blink or look away. "He shares it with his friends and then with his community. You understand - the finest wine, the finest food and, of course, the finest pussy. It's time for me to stop being selfish and for me to share you with my friends. Are you ready for that - are you ready to please me?"
She knew just what he was asking. His friends would also include his clients and his patrons in the clubs. He was going to turn her out - he was going to make her his whore. She had to tell him no and go back to David. She had to tell him no but his eyes and his seed deep in her pussy were demanding that she say, 'Yes'.
She swallowed and opened her mouth to say...
***
Dee woke up in her bed alongside her husband. Yet again he had slept through it all. She turned over and tried to get back to sleep. She had school in the morning.
|
Castiel knew just how disobedient he was being when he sank to the floor instead of jumping to it and getting himself freshened up as Winchester had commanded. He knew he’d get punished for it. Knew he was stepping out onto the thin ice of the auction block for no reason but his own comfort.
But he
needed
this. Needed a moment of stillness.
Forehead to the floor, back bowed to perfection as he stretched his arms out in front of him, he could breathe for the first time in weeks. His leg was throwing him a bit off-balance, but it was close enough.
This was his center, his base, and if he could just kneel here for a little while everything would be alright. He’d figure it out, he just needed
one
moment.
There were no other slaves here to tell him the secret unspoken rules that made the household tick. No warnings. No tips to help him survive his first night. But it would be alright.
He could do this.
He’d been sold so often- he knew how to prepare himself. And he would- he
would
. He’d do exactly what Winchester expected him to do, right after he’d breathed long and slow. Right after he cleared his mind of all the doubts and fears. He just needed a moment to become empty.
I can make anyone do anything I want, Castiel. Fear is a powerful motivator. If I wanted to, I could whip your guards and after a while, they’d fall to their knees to make it stop just as quickly as you do. But they’d not be slaves. I don’t just sell obedience, Castiel. A slave is far more than a body that does what it’s told.
Eyes closed, he focussed. Made his body stop- made it forget- made it ready.
A slave - a good slave, anyway - is an empty one. A blank slate that their owners paint to suit their needs.
It felt like coming home.
No thoughts, just breathing. Body as light as a feather.
He was naked quickly enough. Clothes folded neatly and set on the dresser to be returned to the FBI.
There were no drugs in his system- it was comforting to know that master Winchester hadn’t felt it necessary. It showed some basis of trust. Winchester was giving him a chance to prove his loyalty. Castiel would not spoil this trust. He wouldn’t fight or run. He’d take this seed, his master’s faith in his obedience, and nurture it through obedience till it bloomed. If he did it right, Winchester would trust him. He wouldn't even think that his pet would disappoint him.
Soon-
First, he breathed, and readied himself for his master’s wishes till his lips tingled with oxygen. The rush of meditation and emptiness still made him feel hazy after all these years. He was a vessel. A vessel that obeyed its owner.
The thought got him to his feet and carried him through into the bathroom.
Weightless.
Mindless.
And soon he’d be clean.
Tap to cold, he vigorously scrubbed away the hospital. It wasn’t like he was dirty. The nurses had been very thorough in his maintenance every day. But his body needed to be prepared to accept the new household- his new master. Easier perhaps in a shower or a bath- or at the business end of a hose- but he would make do with what his master granted him. He’d always lived within limits. He adapted without touching the walls of his cage.
I will drain you, Castiel. I will mold your mind till it is clear of anything but the ability to become what your masters want you to be.
The problems only started once he’d washed every last inch of himself. He needed to start making choices now. Answers he was expected to know, but couldn’t.
Did he wash again, this time with soap? It had been provided by Charlie, not Dean. His master had seemed to disapprove of the smells.
Castiel held the basket, sniffing each item as his master had instructed. Green tea smelled comforting, and the sparkly pink ball’s scent was sugar sweet. They fit the image he had of Charlie- no doubt her household used them. But Dean didn’t smell like this. Would he really approve of his slave if it reeked of another home?
It was probably safer to not use any products.
Blank slate- he was a blank slate. Free of opinions- Did he shave? The mirror, ignored till now, showed exactly how long his facial hair had become. The nurses had shaved him every so often. Kept him presentable- but there was a shadow of scruff there now. It made him look older- And what about the rest of him? Most owners had kept him smooth.
Again- he had no idea what Dean wanted. And again- there was no one here to help him choose. No one to tell him what Dean enjoyed. So he stood motionless- plastic razor in hand - till he couldn’t stand being still anymore and carefully cleared his genitals of any pubic hair.
It was a hesitant middle road. It would grow back if Winchester was upset he’d taken it off, and he could shave the rest of his body if the man liked it.
There were no scissors that would adequately cut his hair, and Castiel had no idea how to even begin trimming it, so combing it through was all he could do, and it would
have
to do.
His hole though- how did Winchester want him prepped? There weren’t any guests here so far, so there wasn’t much of a chance of him being a party favor. A task like that would require very thorough stretching. Potentially even enough to take a fist or impressive looking toys.
One on one service wasn’t as intense- usually.
It still left him with a lot of room to fail here. Did Winchester expect him fully prepped and ready? Or just slick but tight? What if his new master wanted to stretch him open himself?
Worse- what if he wasn’t wanted at all?
He hadn’t forgotten about the complete and utter lack of slaves or servants here. Dean was certainly important enough to have a couple of pretty slaves around his home to soothe him after a hard day at work. He was important enough to have pets curled around his legs at all times. Dean
deserved
that kind of adoration.
Which meant this empty house was a choice.
Winchester preferred to be alone.
Taking on Castiel was new - an experiment - and it made the slave’s already difficult job twice as hard. He’d need to prove that having a slave around was better than the life Winchester had lived so far. That having him around would
enhance
his days instead of complicating them.
He had to be better than solitude.
Anything less and he’d be banished to the shadows while Dean was home- potentially even sold off again. No one wanted to feed a mouth that wasn’t useful.
The hazy emptiness inside wavered at the potential failure- fear creeping in from all sides. He’d need to be better than he’d ever been before, but how could he ever do that? He didn’t even know how to properly prepare himself for his master.
How would Dean ever want him?
How
could
he?
Tears welled up, but he stifled any sound. His master was waiting- he had to choose. He had to
know
- what would Winchester want? A man who didn’t usually have slaves- A man who needed to be convinced that having Castiel around wouldn’t drag him down.
He’d- he’d-
Going back into submission, tile flooring cold under his forehead, felt like falling- like failing. His master was waiting. He couldn’t keep falling back like this- was supposed to be better than this.
Castiel reached back towards his hole, the one thing he knew had pleased everyone that had owned him so far. It had to welcome Dean- show him how willing he was. How pliant.
It- It had to be open.
Except he’d already lost too much time.
Biting the bullet, he grabbed for the basket and found the slickest thing he could find. It wasn’t lube, but there was no fucking time to spend hunting for the right kind of oil. He’d get himself soft, and get through whatever Winchester wanted with breathing exercises.
His cheek was cold by the time he struggled upright again- frantically washing his hands and checking his reflection. He needed to fix what panic had ruined. Hide the tears- relax his jaw- loosen his shoulders- and then find clothes.
It was hard to breathe when he looked at them. Of all the things that would end with him screaming for mercy- it would be these choices. Clothes meant something.
The drawers were filled with different clothes- not a uniform. He knew uniforms. Staff wore them all the time. Maids looked different from waiters. Chefs were distinct from lower-level cooks. And guards wore special symbols to tell you what their rank was and how much power they had over you.
The lower their station the less likely you were to end up on your knees for them. They didn’t have the time. A slave was quick to recognize the stripes and colors.
Masters though. Masters rarely wore the same outfit twice. They had special rooms full of clothes that each had their own unique function. Suits for parties. Suits for dinners. For movies. For meetings. For lunches. For punishments. For shows. For playing... For blood.
A language Castiel
understood
but didn’t speak and Winchester expected him to know what these meant. What would he be saying if he wore a red shirt? Was white more appropriate?
Which underwear screamed please use me?
It was a delicate choice, and he was making it blind, and he was running out of time. He’d already lost so much of it. He had to pick- he needed to pick, and he needed to somehow get it right. He-
“Cas?”
He was on his knees so fast the impact made his teeth click.
“Food’s here.”
He was late. Fuck- he was late, and he wasn’t anywhere near dressed yet. He surged up, blindly grabbing individual clothes, wincing when a bell rang. Late- he was late- Winchester was going to beat him on his first night and it would be his own fault for being too slow. Forget his master's bed he’d be lucky if he got to stay in this room.
Hands shaking, he got the underwear over the cast easy enough.
Another blind pick- a shirt. It was soft and slid on like butter but it wouldn’t matter because he was late, and he wasn’t done yet. He needed pants. Frantic, he yanked at the next drawer, looking for the pants Winchester had shown him.
Not jeans. Those were for later- not the jeans- not the-
those
!
Sick with fear, he shoved his right leg in before remembering he had to undo the buttons on the left. After panicked seconds, he realized he could just pop them open and he yanked the entire row open at once. Getting them to close again took longer- too long. His fingers were clumsy with fear.
He’d failed.
He wasn’t racing to get to be on time- they were well past that. He was racing towards punishment. And he deserved it, he knew he did. But no one, slave or person, looked forward to a lesson that was taught in screams for mercy.
“Cas?” Castiel’s master asked again, and Castiel winced. He’d know what the basement held, at least.
Fully clothed, he staggered to his feet and got his crutches situated. Every bone in his body was telling him to crawl, but he was expected to walk here- for now.
“Yes, sir! I’m coming.”
Eyes low, he raced out of the room. Or, well- he hobbled out. There was no way to go fast on the crutches. Not without prematurely beating himself up by way of falling. The kitchen was empty-
“I’m here. Pizza’s not really a table food.”
He forced his breathing to slow down on the way to the living room. He knew he was getting punished, but he’d accept it with grace. He could save the evening. Serve Dean as the man wished. He’d be good-
He was a vessel. He was empty. He was good- he’d
be
good.
“It’s nothing fancy.” Winchester dropped two boxes on the table. “Couldn't decide between a meat lover's and the chicken curry one, so I got ‘em both. Not like they’d be going to waste, you know? What’s better for breakfast than cold pizza?”
Castiel stood by awkwardly as his master got himself situated, trying his best to recognize what was happening so he could do it all by himself next time but the smell coming from the boxes was impossible to ignore. God, he was hungry- his meals at the hospital had been very regular and his body had grown accustomed to it. It expected food now that he could smell it.
At least his mouth wasn’t dry anymore. That was good-
“Cas?”
He snapped back to attention, suddenly aware of how quiet it was, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up into as small a ball as he could manage and beg for forgiveness. Wanted to promise he’d learn. But he couldn’t.
Stand there like a failure- that was all he was capable of, and even that was a stretch. He felt faint- wavering on breathless.
“You look super pale, man. I think you should sit down.”
Down. Yes.
Somehow he remembered the crutches, setting them aside neatly as he folded carefully to his knees and shifted to sit more to the side when his cast got in the way. Didn’t fold all the way into submission- that wasn’t allowed yet. Just down. Just wait. Be good for once in your life.
“That’s- better.”
Better- good. He could breathe again. Until Winchester
joined him
. The man who owned him was sitting
on the floor
.
Winchester kept talking but Castiel was too busy trying to figure out how to make sense of the madness that his life had become. The floor was where slaves sat. Winchester was most certainly not a slave- yet he was sitting on the floor. Like that was
fine
. Like people sat on the floor for fun.
How was he meant to get lower down than his owner now?
Did he lie on the floor? Did he-
“Here. No one’s doing dishes today.”
Still dazed but too polite to let any of it show, Castiel accepted a white paper plate and let himself be pointed in the direction of the boxes. The origin of the tempting smells. Pizza.
The order was clear, thank god. He was to serve the food.
Forcing his fingers to remain steady, Castiel opened both boxes and managed to cleanly extract a slice from each. The plate was crowded, but it fit. He’d done it!
Except he hadn’t-
By the time he’d gotten everything sorted and looked up to hand over the meal, Winchester had taken
another
plate and served himself. Leaving Castiel holding a useless plate of food in his hands that wouldn’t remain steady for much longer.
He was getting sold.
No way was Dean going to bother keeping him here for more than a day.
“You remember ever eating pizza before?”
“No, sir.” None of his masters had ever had the dish while he was serving them.
“Ok, well the cheese is super hot so blow on it or you’ll burn your mouth.”
Castiel couldn’t remember ever being this lost. Training took over- he obeyed what felt like a command. He blew on the food, looking up just in time to see Winchester disregard his own advice to take a large bite.
|
Not well, as it turned out. Severina hadn’t really thought about how Lily would find out. Well, truthfully, she thought if there was anything to tell Lily at all, that Potter and she would have had some sort of conversation first. That’s why Severina was minding her own business during breakfast the next morning. She had arrived late and didn’t expect James to even come to breakfast, thinking he would still be healing his ankle until at least morning classes. So, when the sound of someone being slapped resounded through the Great Hall, she didn’t know to look for James and Lily. Until she heard someone down the table say,
“Looks like Potter and Evans are having a tiff. Wonder what he did to deserve that.”
Severina looked across the Great Hall and immediately her eyes met Potter’s who was looking at her somberly while a red-faced Lily got up and nearly ran out of the room, her bewildered but curious dorm mates following at her heels. Severina’s eyes followed her out the door and she found herself thinking, ‘what in Merlin’s name just happened?’
Well, what happened was this:
Sirius hadn’t been able to sleep and so he was waiting for Madame Pomphrey at the crack of dawn. She begrudgingly gave him the necessary potions and salves, all the while berating him for not bringing his friend in immediately after the accident and letting him go so long without treatment and ordered him to bring Potter to see her as soon as the salve worked enough to let him walk.
Of course, all this went in one ear and out the other and any of the information he passed to James was completely ignored. James had other things on his mind. He had his new life to start and he was eager to start it. As soon as he was able, he made it down to breakfast and went straight to wiggle in beside Lily who was chatting with her friend on the other side of her.
“Hey, Evans. Can I talk to you?”
She gave him a flirty smile and said, “For the last time, Potter, I’m not going to go out with you.’ She let out a soft, coy giggle, ‘At least not until the OWLs are over.” She looked up at him through her lashes and then she frowned in thought, ’Actually, maybe not even then. Have you apologized to Severina for that stunt with the Black Lake yet?”
James frowned and mentally cursed himself, “No, not yet but I will.’ Lily blinked in surprised but he continued, undeterred from his purpose, ‘Actually, I just wanted to tell you because, really, you should hear it from me first. I’m going to be… dating someone… else. I mean I’ve asked her to be my girlfriend and she hasn’t said yes, yet, but I hope she will. I know I’ve lead you on, and I am really sorry about that. I really did like you but I…”
“What?' Lily asked in disbelief, 'Well, who is it?”
“It’s Snape... Severina.”
“What do you mean it's Severina? You mean you’re moving on because I’m friends with Sev? Or that you are going to be dating... Severina?” Lily laughed at the thought.
“I’m going to be dating Severina.”
Lily scoffed, “Sev, would never date you. If this is some sort of prank,”
“It’s not. Lily… I’m…’ his eyes were so full of sorrow and earnest, ‘I’m in love with her.”
Lily just stared at him for a long time; waiting for him to tell her he was joking, but he serious. In fact, she couldn’t recall a time when he had ever looked this serious before. Had it been obvious and she missed it somehow? Or did something happen recently between them? Why didn’t Sev tell her?
Lily’s chin began to quiver and her voice filled with tears, “You said you loved me. You said you were going to marry me. You lead me on James.”
“I’m sorr…”
James’s head snapped to the side and his cheek stung from the impact of Lily’s hand. He didn’t watch as she got up and left. Instead, his eyes sought Severina’s from across the room. She had been pushing her food around her plate just before her head snapped up at the sound of the slap. She looked around the Hall before finally her eyes found his.
Her eyes calmed him. Even through the sting on his face, he felt certain he made the right decision. Yes, it hurt now. He had hurt Lily and he had never meant to do that, but she’d get over it. She would move on. He couldn’t. Not from Severina. He would have been miserable his whole life without her. He couldn’t explain why he felt that way but he knew it, in the deepest part of himself that he would never have felt truly complete without her.
It would all work out. He was sure.
So, he ignored all the whispers and all the stares as he made his way to the other side of the Great Hall. Severina’s eyes widened and she looked uncertain but he pressed forward.
Severina wasn’t sure what Potter thought he was doing but walking into a snake pit seemed unwise even from her perspective. Dread filled her and the uncomfortable foreboding threatened to upturn her stomach’s breakfast.
Severina got up, barely looked at James and strode out of the Hall, hoping it looked like she was following after Lily. Her plan failed spectacularly, since James followed hot on their heals, calling her name,
“Snape! Severina! Where are you going?”
As soon as they were in the hallway, she turned, grabbed his hand and tugged him into an alcove. He looked at their location a bit flustered. He had a red handprint on his cheek and he absentmindedly scratched at it as he said,
“Uh, hey. Look, I need to say...”
She didn’t let him, feeling a little flustered herself,
“What was that in there? What did you say to Lily to piss her off like that?”
“Oh, I told her about us and I really need to say...”
“About...us?”
He scratched the back of his neck.
“Well I told her that I was going to try to date you. I mean I know you haven’t agreed or anything but you did say...”
“You told her that you wanted to date her friend instead of her?”
“Well yeah. I mean, I thought she should know. I figured she should find out from me first, you know?”
Severina felt like she couldn’t breath and she wasn’t sure if she should be at all happy about this. Her best friend was hurting and it was partially her fault. Would Lily see it that way? Would she be mad at her? Would she stop talking to her over this?
Severina looked up at James and she wondered who looked more vulnerable and uncertain at that moment.
“Why?” She asked him.
“Because I... Well, I... I..., ’ he sighed with a shake of his head. Then confidently in one word, answered, ‘You.”
He said it like it was an actual answer- an obvious answer. He said it like it was the only answer he needed. The only answers either of them needed: I and you, you and I.
“I don’t understand.” She begged him with her voice to explain it in some way that would make it feel real.
“Yes you do. Don’t you remember what you wrote? This something between us. We’re not imagining it. We are drawn to each other. When I look at you, the whole world falls away. You wrote that you loved me,’ his voice became hushed and desperate, ‘You said you wished it to fade but I don’t,’ tears swam in his eyes, ‘I don’t want this to fade, Sev, not ever.”
Severina felt so full that the emotion grew and pressed against her chest with so much light and warmth that she couldn’t contain it and couldn’t stamp it down. She lifted herself on her toes and pressed her lips to his. Her hand came up to cup his face and he melted at her touch. His own hands came up and held her cheeks. They both whimpered pitifully at the relief they felt in their kiss. Relief that they shared something together. Relief that all they felt was reciprocated and out of that relief desire bloomed exponentially.
Severina pulled away with a gasp and when she opened her eyes she saw James’s smile, his eyes so full of hope.
“I can’t do this,” she thought aloud.
“What? Why not?”
“Lily’s going to hate me! She may never talk to me again.”
James gripped her arms gently, “Hey, Lily will be okay. It’s not like she and I had really dated. Just hung out in groups with our friends. I never, we never kissed or anything. Just flirted a bit. Besides lots of guys fancy her. Her vanity is just bruised but she’ll get over it pretty quick. Why should she hate you, anyway? I was the one who lead her on. Look... it’ll all work out. Everything is going to be okay.”
Severina blinked and nodded. That sounded logical, right? It wasn’t like she planned this. She looked into James’s eyes, his reassuring smile and she wanted to believe him.
Severina said sensibly, “Okay, but we do have OWLs and we don’t need to be rubbing our relationship in her face. We’ll just take things slow... what? What is it?”
James’s face had brightened considerably. His smile widened and his cheeks dimpled.
“Relationship? Does that mean you’ll be my girlfriend?”
Severina has never in her life giggled like a girl. It was not in her nature, she was much too mature for that nonsense. No, the noise she made was not a giggle. Definitely not. If anything it was more like a happy sigh that bubbled from her chest up to the back of her throat. Also, she did not smile so widely that she revealed that one dimple she possessed somewhere about her right cheek.
Well, James wouldn’t tell even if she did giggle. He decided to keep her girlish giggle to himself and he would cherish that hidden dimple on her right cheek. Those were his, for now. For now he would hoard all her happiness in his heart and in his soul. One day he would show them off. One day she’d smile openly and freely, giggle and laugh to her heart’s content. On that day he would let everyone see how completely entrancing and beautiful her happiness was. Then he would remind himself how he was the first to see it and to cherish it. He would always know that these firsts were his. So, his heart soared when she giggled and smiled until her right cheek dimpled and she said,
“Yes, James Potter, I’ll be your girlfriend.” |
No matter how she tried to keep her voice low, Kaeya can still hear Barbara's mumbles of concern as she patched up his wounds using a variety of herbs, her Vision and medical supplies.
"I know, it's pretty bad." Kaeya stated, watching as she healed the gash on his leg with her catalyst - the bruises were mostly healed from it, though there were a few yellow ones left behind - drawing out a wince from him. He had nearly forgotten just how painful it is to treat injuries with his record of getting hurt is mostly clean.
He was immediately rushed here by the Sisters, Rosaria especially, into the infirmary where Barbara was rearranging bottles for medicine. She paused in her task to tend to Kaeya, and this has been going on for a while.
Just how badly did he get beat up?
"You'll need to take it easy when it comes to walking with this kind of wound." Barbara said, taking ahold of the roll of bandages and began to wrap it around the gash. "Whatever happened to you to cause this much pain?"
"Stuff happened." Kaeya responded, not really wanting to talk about how he had gotten like this and nearly got kidnapped had not been for Diluc.
Speaking of which...Kaeya is still baffled by the mere thought of him being the one to come to his rescue, and perhaps even a little humorous. He knew he hated his guts ever since their fight, so why would he suddenly turn around and help him when he had no reason to?
Then again, he himself did do the same thing countless times before, but those times were different.
It made no sense, to him anyway, and he'll definitely ask Diluc about it if he ever came to visit, or when he fully recovers, whichever happens first.
"I'm guessing you don't want to talk about it?" Barbara asked, finishing her task of securing the bandages. "I understand fully."
That was one aspect Kaeya can appreciate from the Deaconess, always understanding of privacy.
"Appreciate it." The Calvary Captain smiled slightly as she continued her work.
Neither of them dared to speak again, aside from a few groans from Kaeya here and there due to the wounds inflicted on him were being closed to Barbara's expert healing skills.
He began to think back to the incident that started this whole mess in the first place. He had finally cornered the Treasure Hoarders where he wanted them and was going to take them away for questioning when he was bashed on the head and then the rest of his body was next and his Vision was taken and-
The door to the Cathedral's infirmary slammed open, and two heads turned to look at the wine tycoon that has busted in without a warning.
"Master Diluc?" Barbara paused in treating the rest of Kaeya's wounds as she directed her attention to Diluc. "I haven't finished treating Captain Kaeya yet, you'll have to come another time."
"I'm staying." Diluc stated, closing the door and went over to the both of them.
He shouldn't have felt surprised by it, since he did come to his aid and is the reason none of his wounds had gotten an infection, but it still got him off guard.
"For what reason, Master Diluc?" Kaeya asked, blinking in disbelief. "You wouldn't want the Sisters to kick you out, would you?"
"So? They couldn't make me go outside even if they want me to." Diluc huffed, grabbing a nearby stool and sat down next to his bedside.
Barbara seems to be conflicted between letting him stay or forcing him to get out as per the rules of the Cathedral. She sighs, resuming her work on treating Kaeya's condition. "Please, don't interrupt me as I help him, okay?"
"I won't." The redhead promised, though it isn't a guarantee that he would keep it.
Silence had taken over as Barbara helped to restore his body to its former self, all the while Diluc looked at him with a gaze that is between some kind of anger and...concern. The last time he had seen such a look from him was during their younger years, when things were more simple for them both.
Soon enough, Barbara has finished with the last of his injuries. "There, you'll have to be careful when walking due to that gash, and you'll have to avoid combat until you're back to full health. You might need to stay overnight here though, if that's okay with you."
"Thank you, Barbara. I understand." Kaeya smiled.
"How long would it be until he recovers?" Diluc asked.
"His condition isn't very serious, so with daily healing, he should be able to resume back to his job in a few days at most." Barbara answered, allowing for Diluc to breathe out a sigh of relief.
"Thank Archons..."
"I'll be heading out now to stock up on herbs, if you two need anything you can ask Sister Victoria or Sister Rosaria. I promise it won't take long." The Deaconess informed, and after receiving some acknowledging nods from the two, she stood up from her seat and headed out the door, but not without a concerned but relieving look.
As soon as she went out, an awkward silence was formed between the estranged brothers, neither of them really knowing what to say. It was as if this was their first time encountering each other when that isn't the case now.
Kaeya was the one who had questions though, and after thinking of a way to word them, he asked, "Why did you even help me?"
Diluc seems to be caught off guard by that, but he maintained a calm and stoic expression. "You thought I wasn't going to save you?"
"Not exactly, it's just...I thought that if someone were to ... get me out of that predicament, it wouldn't be you." The Calvary Captain knew it was harsh, but those were his exact thoughts. Even then, he wasn't expecting to be saved from it either way. He let it happen after all, for being careless.
Diluc remained silent for a while, the only other thing that was done was him slowly but surely inching his hand closer to his before it landed on his bandaged palm that he knew had rope burns and cuts underneath. Kaeya was surprised by the gesture, but it wasn't unwelcomed.
"I didn't expect to be the one who found you either." The wine tycoon admitted. "But I would be damned if I never had. Those scumbags had no right to lay a hand on you."
I mean, it wasn't exactly them who did, and I allowed myself to be in that situation anyway...
His words took him back to when they were children, when Diluc was more open to expressing his emotions while he was the more reserved child. He remembered when he would step in front of him to protect him if danger were to arise or at least had signs of happening.
It's a shame those memories have long since been lost to time.
"Really? Last I checked, you would-"
"I don't want to hear it." And that immediately shut Kaeya up. "I'm just...content to see that you're...still functioning."
He couldn't help the smile that appeared, not his signature smirk, but a genuinely relieved one.
Diluc didn't reciprocate the smile, but he did gently slipped his fingers into his hand, being delicate as to not hurt him.
Although he loved the moment, there is one thing that needs to be addressed.
"Master Diluc-"
"Just Diluc would be fine, we're not in the general public anyway."
"Right... wouldn't your reputation be damaged when people see us like this? You'll be made into a mockery."
"Frankly, I don't care anymore. If anyone has problems with that, I'll be sure to give them what they deserved."
"Like that hoarder?" Kaeya chuckled.
"Perhaps." Diluc replied.
"You'll be charged with attempted murder."
"Whatever."
Maybe their relationship can still be repaired after all. They were years late, but better late than never. |
Keep quiet
Nothing comes as easy as you
Can I lay in your bed all day?
I'll be your best kept secret and your biggest mistake
The hand behind this pen relives a failure every day
- Nobody Puts Baby In a Corner, Fall Out Boy
When I woke up the next morning, I was both intrigued and relieved to see that Marco was still wrapped around me. His hand was draped over my torso, a thumb caressing the edges of my black rose. I'm sure it was unintentional, but there's was just something so cool about it.
Now, normally it might not mean much to have the man you just slept with like, spooning you morning after. In the same position you fell asleep in. Nothing out of the ordinary there really. But...shit man, I don't know. You know that after-sex thing...like where you gotta piss really bad after it's all said and done for whatever the hell reason? Yeah, well, Marco got up to go as was expected of him. I felt him crawl out of bed in the middle of the night and the bathroom light clicked on and all.
And yet, we awoke in more or less the exact same position.
Even after having the precious moment broken by a bathroom break, the bastard came right back to the same position, wrapped around me. Crazy. I can count on my fingers how many times that has happened.
I lead a lame existence, alright? I do have a social life. It's my love life that lacks real, uh, substance. I mean, what a change of pace to sleep with a man who came back after the bathroom break. Usually they would use that as an excuse to pick up their scattered clothing and make the walk of shame quietly out of the room as I pretend to still be asleep. I had half expected to hear Marco slip out the hotel door after coming back from the bathroom before remembering that he couldn't exactly go anywhere.
But I mean...I guess he and I had the same problem after all. Hadn't he hired me in the first place because his love life lacked "substance?" I mean, shit, by those standards, we're made for each other. Marco the billionaire and Jean the reasonably-priced stripper. Match made in heaven, I'll tell you.
After waking up and falling back asleep three times to Marco's deep snores, I finally got up for good at about nine to see my benefactor (read: lover? pretend boyfriend? real boyfriend?) at the coffee machine. The hair sticking up at the nape of his neck and his bare back were telltale signs of his lack of a shower. Shit looked downright domestic.
"You snore," was the first thing I decided was appropriate to tell him.
"Do I?" he turned to me, coffee in his right hand and his left leaning against the counter. There was something particularly devious about his expression, but I couldn't exactly place it.
"Well...you haven't the past few nights, actually. So maybe it's just a thing you do after a beautiful night with a beautiful man?"
"Mm," he agreed with a sip of his battery acid. "That would explain why they rarely last through the night."
"Hey, I stayed, didn't I?"
He shrugged, not bothering to state the obvious fact that I couldn't have actually gone anywhere even if I wanted to. Regardless of personal feelings and relations, nothing was going to change the fact that I was being paid, and that was that.
Quietly, I made my own coffee and my mind couldn't help but wander to the tuft of hair at Marco's neck, just cow licked up the way it was, and the way it swirled, drawing the eyes down between the shoulder blades, which were so perfectly visible and defined without a shirt to cover them...
I hoped that Marco hadn't showered yet because he was waiting for me or something glorious like that, because I had gone and excited myself and I was having a hard time imagining venturing out the hotel without a little reprise of the night before.
I decided instead to kill the feeling by saying the most clichéd - the most embarrassing statement to ever escape my lips. I flinch, just thinking about it, and I can honestly say that I never imagined such a phrase coming from my mouth, and yet, Mr. Bodt caused me to surprise myself yet again.
"Let's talk about us."
Fuck. Slap me, please, I deserve it, but I mean...if any situation deserved such a statement, it was this one.
Marco's eyebrows shot up, but I know he knew we had to discuss, you know, us. I think he was more surprised (and relieved) that I just sucked it up and said it first.
"And...what about us?" he teased. He knew perfectly well what I was on about, but I figured I would go ahead and humor him.
"Where does last night put us?"
And I guess he really had no idea what to say to that. So maybe he hadn't really thought about it.
"Okay, to make it...easier," I helped, "last night was, um...no extra charge."
He blushed lightly, just under his eyes and at the tips of his ears. It was actually pretty funny (not to mention fuckin' adorable) that we went through all that we had the night before with animalistic passion, but that he blushed at the mention of it.
"I see..." he said bashfully. It made me wonder if he had actually considered paying me for the act.
"I told you, I have standards, remember? I'm not a prostitute. Just a stripping male escort."
He laughed, and I might have been the slightest bit offended if I hadn't realized how not serious I sounded.
"So, uh...I was definitely sleeping with stripper Jean, rather than model Jean? Just to, you know, clarify..."
"Plot twist, Marco: they're the same person."
Now that was a purely serious statement. It's just...I was getting a better paycheck for being model Jean. To be honest, besides lying about having modeled before (and being in an official relationship with Marco), I didn't actually have to do much acting. He seemed to pick up on this.
"So then how much of our fake relationship was actually fake to you?"
I shrugged. "I dunno. That's kind of a grey fuzzy area, really. I never would have minded holding your hand for real. I just had rhyme and reason to do so in public if I wanted to, so I just did. I can't say for sure when I did it because I wanted it, and when I did it to fool everyone else. There's not a very clear distinction. I dunno. Does it really matter? I like you, Marco. Model Jean likes you and Stripper Jean."
At that, he kind of threw himself at me and kissed me full on the mouth. It was almost innocent, in comparison to our first kisses. It was sweet, because I could feel that it came purely from his happiness and not just primal instinct.
"So, uh..." he got bashful again. I hated how his dumb shy blush made me feel like a twelve year old with a crush. Kind of embarrassing, since I probably haven't actually felt that way since I was twelve, but, like...whatever. "Does this mean I can call you my boyfriend like, um...like, in here, too?"
I laughed out loud. You know, from his magazine shoots and interviews and designs, I never would have pegged Marco Bodt as such a complete dork.
"I mean, yeah, of course, if you want that."
And he beamed. I mean really fucking smiled. I had broken him somehow. I had seen that dazzling smile often since being in New York - Marco smiled and laughed a lot - but he always acted so cool around me that I had not been the soul recipient of the smiles too often. Something about knowing that I had caused the smile just made me stupidly happy. Despite my trying to be cool, I couldn't help but break into a completely stupid smile as well.
"This should make the act out there twice as easy then, hm?" he finally said after a completely non-awkward minute of us watching each other smile. My expression must have shifted slightly, because he started waving his hands, like he was trying to get rid of some lingering thought in the air.
"Don't think I'm not going to pay you still, though! I totally am, in full. I mean, just because we're together for real now doesn't mean you aren't my employee anymore. I'll still pay the three thousand, the modeling salary...you still keep the clothes..."
It was like he was concerned that I would take it all back if I wasn't being paid. I wouldn't, of course, but that reassurance still kind of made me want to kiss him all over.
I settled for one kiss, slightly less innocent that the one I had just received, but honestly, that kiss had been like a playground peck. This was more like a relationship seal.
It played out sweetly, one hand at his bare and dimpled lower back, and his hand at my jaw. The scents of our two different coffee cups swirled together between us, and for a while it seemed like I had been with Marco forever. It was so strange, but after years of men leaving before coffee was even a question, how else was I supposed to feel?
We were broken up by the melodic twinkle of Marco's text tone from his phone on the night stand. I excused him to get it, taking a moment to pick up Marco's cup and inhale deeply. It smelled alright, but I could almost feel the strength. I couldn't fathom how Marco decided he liked the shit for its flavor, let alone why he decided to try it anyway.
"That was Reiner," Marco explained, interrupting my train of thought. "He and Bert are about ten minutes from the catwalk, so we need to hop to it."
I had kind of completely forgetting all about doing the actual modeling part of my job for a bit, but we still had Marco's shoot to do and I had been promised a final rehearsal. This time, the rest of Marco's models were going to join us near the end for official dress rehearsal and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't nervous. It just seemed to creep up a lot faster than I was prepared for. Still, Reiner had said if I could walk in heels, I could walk without them, so I knew my actual walking would look at least look half confident.
After Marco's text we both scrambled to get ready. He packed more outfits for the official dress rehearsal and stuck his head under the bathroom sink to fix his bed head He didn't have time at that point for a full on shower, but I reminded him of our post-sex shower the night before. It seemed he had forgotten all about it, apparently not counting it as a shower since it involved more than one person. We had actually cleaned up though - it was fairly innocent for a two person shower - so he decided his hair wetting would suffice.
He also requested I keep the lip ring in again. While he assured me that it, of course, was to enhance the aesthetic of the show, he was also now able to admit that it was "sexy as hell."
I bit at it purposely, trying to feign thoughtfulness. "Oh yeah? You don't think it's tawdry or anything?"
I mean, I knew it wasn't. Even I admit to myself that it looks fucking great. Why else would I have gotten it if I hadn't seen other hot guys pulling it off? I just asked Marco because I wanted him to fawn over it again. And he did, obviously, reassuring me enthusiastically that it was fitting and just subtle enough and did I think that he, a fashion professional, would allow me to walk down the runway with it in if it didn't look absolutely perfect?
I'll tell you what, dating someone in the fashion industry, regardless of the relationship's validation, is a miracle for self-esteem.
Marco had me dress in black skinny jeans, a fad I never tried simply because of its reputation. Looking in the mirror though, I have to say I looked pretty damn fantastic. He said the key was clothes that fit and clothing made for your body type. Doesn't matter if you need to buy the biggest size of something or the smallest - if that's what fits you, that's what will make you look good. A bigger size won't make you look bigger. It'll just make you look like you know how to dress properly. Just like buying a size too small won't make you that size. He said that was a common issue with skinny jeans - people buying a size that was not fit just for them.
"On you, though, they're a dream. You're taller and lean, and they hug you the right way."
I don't know what the right way is, so I just went with it.
Well.
I should say I didn't know the right way. Until I saw what Marco was wearing. If my ass looked as good in skinny jeans as his did in corduroys, I would never take them off.
"Can I ask you something?" Marco said after we got into our car ready to leave. Reiner and Bert had already made it to the studio.
"Shoot."
"So, uh...why did you keep changing and stuff with the bathroom door locked? Like, if you were into me and stuff. You strip for a living. Why hide? Was it a tease? I don't understand...and then I just did it because you were doing it."
I laughed at him. Sometimes his naivety struck me.
"Kind of hard to get dressed with a hard-on. Thought that might throw a wrench in everything before I decided to totally toss it out the window. Can't have you thinking I was into you or anything."
He blushed hard and I laughed again, unfazed. Talking casually about sex was nothing to me, really. It's my living. Seeing Marco trying to do the same, both talking about it and hearing about it, was a different matter. It was entertaining.
"So, uh...no kidding, huh? You really did fight with yourself on this one for a while."
My smile turned into a serious expression and I nodded. I mean, yeah, of course. With every minute, I was realizing that I was a lot more serious than I had thought. I didn't need to hide behind the fake boyfriend thing, and yet, I was acting pretty much the same.
Well. I mean. Not acting. But I didn't have to change anything. Nothing was different except for it feeling real now. It was nice. It was cool. It was right.
It was absolutely fucking terrifying.
But, uh. Yeah. I'll figure that part out later.
We arrived at our rehearsal space apparently not long after Reiner and Bert had arrived - we caught them just at the edge of the catwalk still sipping on hot coffee.
It always entertained me seeing them in their street clothes. Like their more casual stuff. It was still pretty high scale and designer, but like...the casual side of designer. You know, like t-shirts that just look like t-shirts until you see that they're fifty bucks? I keep getting put in these button ups to match Marco, but Reiner wore a tight navy blue Hollister tee. I imagine he would fit in Los Angeles, except for the part where he looked like the brand personified. Like the damn models that show up in front of the store to pose with thirteen year old girls.
Well. I mean, he is a model. He probably has done work for them before. The thing is, any guy could throw on a Hollister shirt. I'm sure even someone might tease him for it, whatever. Some Californian surfer wannabe. And it almost looked comical to see Reiner dressed that way, such a ripped stereotypical SoCal guy, but no one would ever be able to say anything about him, because anyone who might think to tease him about it would never get the chance to look as perfect in that shirt as he did.
Bert was a little more effortless...and yet, I think it would take years of effort for me to pull off what he was wearing. It was just a short sleeved button up with the sleeves rolled up once. But floral print. Floral. Can you imagine? Me in a floral? How would it ever work? But Bert was just pulling it off like it was made for him. The flowers complimented his dark skin in such a unique way that the shirt had to be made for him. I discreetly tried to catch a glimpse of a tag and found a name embroidered at the hem -
Marco Bodt.
I was now about 90% sure that the shirt was made just for him. 99% sure he wore it on a catwalk. Last year's Spring collection? There was no doubt.
They put down their coffees to help Marco and I get out all of the clothes that he had brought along for rehearsal. It was a lot like our last one, but more clothing options and less high heels.
"The extra is for the models that are coming later," Marco mentioned, and directed us to the outfits we would be wearing. For the most part they were the same as before with perhaps an extra outfit for each of us. We retained the edgy alternative style, like Marco was trying to revive the best of 90's grunge and make it classier with a polished modern highlight.
Look at me, I'm talking fashion.
Once we were dressed, Marco took his regular seat and bid us to practice. Our goal was to get my walk and turns as polished as we could, even before our colleagues arrive. We all decided it would be for the best that the other models not know they were working with an amateur.
"You've got your walk down pretty well," Bert assured me. "The heels definitely helped you, whether you believe it or not."
I smiled at him. He was really fucking hard not to smile around. Something about his demeanor was strangely relaxing.
"Bert's right," Reiner agreed, patting a huge hand on my shoulder. "Your walk alone is damn near perfect at this point. Now you really need to focus on your turn and you pose - or look. That's going to make or break your walk."
You think I didn't know shit about fashion before this gig, but hey, I'm Jean Motherfuckin' Kirschtein. I know a thing or two. I knew some designers. I knew fashion week was a big thing. And I know all about turns and all that shit.
Remember? I'm a movie watcher. I've seen The Incredibles, so I was able to understand that Levi is Edna Mode. I've seen The Devil Wears Prada, so I understand that Erwin is Miranda Priestly, and that Eren and Armin are their glorified bitches. I've seen Mean Girls (five hundred times), so I know how this social class works.
But most important of all is the one movie I've seen just about as many times as Mean Girls.
Zoolander.
I know what a turn is, and I know what a look is.
I decided to play around just to show off my elite expertise. Reiner and Bert each walked once and demonstrated a perfect walk, stop, and turn with outfits Marco had selected for them. Bert had a jacket with his ensemble and took it off and flipped it over a shoulder with one fluid movement. If I could mimic something like that, I'd be golden.
But. I decided to play around first.
"Ready to go?" Reiner asked. I nodded simply and walked up the platform. My coaches hopped down beside Marco and they flipped on the soundtrack.
I did everything just the way I was supposed to, one foot in front of the other. The looks on my small crowds' faces told me that I was doing everything just right. Thanks to my stripping acts, I already knew how to bob myself in time with the music. I wondered how Marco would feel about incorporating a pole into his show.
I reached the end on the walk and stopped, perfectly with a break in the music.
That was mostly my extremely good luck with timing.
Standing sideways, I turned my head, pursed my lips, sucked in my cheeks, and cocked an eyebrow.
Instantly, Bert fell over himself with laughter. Marco hid a laugh behind his hand, but he was turning red from trying to keep it in, which made me laugh. Reiner flicked the music off immediately and snorted.
"Did you really just use Blue Steel as your look?"
I couldn't even say anything. I just snorted and sniggered again, having received the reaction I had hoped for, and Reiner finally broke out with his own fittingly booming laugh.
"I think every male model in history has attempted Blue Steel at least once," Reiner chuckled. Bert ran a hand through his hair, mumbling something about needing to watch the movie again.
Marco looked like he was still trying to stifle back his laughs. "It probably wouldn't have been as funny if you didn't do it so freaking well."
"Let's have another go, I think," Reiner said, setting the music back. I hopped off the catwalk to recompose myself.
"Hey, Bertholdt," I piped up seriously. He looked at me, eyebrows raised, prepared to answer a sincere modeling question, but I think he knew what I was getting at. "Did you ever think that there was more to life than being really, really, really ridiculously good looking?"
"Oh, you think I'm really, really good looking?" he snorted. I gave him my pout again for added effect and he turned away quickly before doubling over in laughter again.
"I mean, maybe we should be doing something more meaningful with our lives. Like helping people," I finished, climbing back onto the catwalk. I had watched the movie so many times that my impression was near perfection. I noticed Marco strike a tear away from the corner of his eye.
From then on, I kept my poses professional, mimicking what Reiner and Bert had done, trying with jackets and without jackets, and turning both left and right. I also tried out some stuff I had learned from watching shows on Youtube from my phone during down time, which everyone seemed to be rather impressed with. With a bit of tweaking, I looked rather good next to the other models who finally arrived.
I wish I could say that Reiner and Bert were the best looking men Marco had, if not the best looking men I had ever seen in person. They were my mentors. I was biased.
Unfortunately, all of Marco's models were the best looking men I had ever seen. Bastard knew how to pick them. In any other situation, being in their presence would intimidate the hell out of me. In this case, it was kind of a confidence boost, because I was among their ranks. I was worthy.
Not gunna lie, they caused a moment of weakness. I spared a wink or two here and there to my fellow models, all in good, innocent fun. It's hard, really, going from a job where I have to put on a show to please other good-looking men for a living, to a job where I have to put on a show to please Marco Bodt for a living, to a job where I'm just a model and in a monogamous relationship. Old habits are hard to break. It's a strange mindset to adjust to. Reiner and Bert raised an eyebrow at me now and then and I could only shrug and smile in response.
Watching the other models proved to be extremely helpful as well. I tried keeping my walk my own, just as I was taught, because I knew trying to fix something that was already good would only lead to destruction - especially the day before the show. I did, however, latch onto a lot of their poses and styles, and I guess that paid off.
It was nice to see Marco's collection before the official show. Personally I loved everything about it. Leather, denim...but classed up. I wondered how much of it I could take away with me. Besides that, I was kind of ogling it the entire time and I'm sure I looked completely stupid doing so. It was nice to get all of my dumb staring out of the way before I had to do this in front of a lot more people.
"Think you're ready for the grand finale?" Reiner asked. I shrugged.
"Yeah, ready as I'll ever be. And if I fuck up, I think the crowd will be too distracted by the other models to notice me."
With a booming laugh, he gave me a pat on the shoulder. "Good attitude to have, Zoolander."
"Let's wrap it up, guys!" Marco commanded. I kind of loved the tone of his voice and wondered if he could transfer it to...other situations. "Miss Ackerman has this place booked for the next three hours!"
We started changing and packing up, although it seemed like I didn't need to do much. Mikasa Ackerman came in when we still had about fifteen minutes left of time and I was pretty surprised to see that Armin and Eren were tagging along with her and her models. I mean, I know they're really close and all. It was more surprise that Erwin and Levi didn't need them.
I went to greet my friends as Marco helped get his models packed away and prepped for the next day.
"Miss Ackerman," I greeted with a smile. I took her hand and kissed it. Quite gentlemanly of me, I do think. "Might I say your hair looks lovely today?"
She took her hand back gently and looked at a strand of her black locks. "Mm. Thank you."
She walked away, leaving Armin and Eren with me.
"Huh. Usually I would get a little more of a...reaction."
"I don't think she's in the market," Armin replied with half a smile.
"For men? Well, it's not like I'm in the market for women -"
"No, no," Eren corrected me sharply. "For like...anyone."
My eyebrows rose.
"She's asexual," Armin explained softly. "Also, as far as I know, she's never been interested in a romantic relationship either. Her strongest relationships include her friendships with us and her rivalry with Annie Leonhardt. And while anyone would tell you that her love and loyalty to us is the strongest love in the world, it's not that kind of love."
"No kidding? Well, good for her," I remarked. There was something kind of beautiful about the whole thing, but I couldn't say what that was.
"Works in her favor, I have to say," Eren said, crossing her arms. "She's stupidly focused on her work."
"So, where's the bosses tonight?" I asked. "Let you off the leash?"
Eren's eyes narrowed like he was offended, but Armin laughed as he pulled his hair back. "They're um, occupied tonight."
They had probably given the interns some stupid excuse, but I had a strong feeling about what their bosses would actually be doing as the night reached its end.
"-so we get to help Mikasa tonight," he finished breaking me out of my daze. "You all hyped up for Marco's show tomorrow? Prepared?"
I gave the two a cheeky smile. "Will you guys be there to support me?"
"Of course!" Armin replied enthusiastically, threatening to elbow Eren if he claimed otherwise. I winked.
"Then I am beyond prepared."
I turned away to join Marco who was watching, waiting for me by Reiner and Bertholdt.
"See you guys tomorrow, then!" |
Marriage is a very foreign concept to Wei Wuxian.
He never watched his parents embarrass him by kissing in front of his friends. He never got to see his mother’s scrap books of his first steps, word, anything. When he was adopted into the Jiang family by his parents’ close friends, he was no better off. Jiang Fengiman loves his wife on the best of days and when everything goes to shit, Yu Ziyuan always makes it Jiang Fengiman’s fault. It doesn’t matter if it’s rain, hail or shine outside or someone’s birthday or anniversary. Yu Ziyuan loving her husband is an outrageously foreign concept.
When Wei Wuxian was adopted into the Jiang family, he made everything difficult by just existing. Jiang Fengiman didn’t want kids but when his first born was a girl, he warmed up to the idea. When his second born was a boy, he tried so hard to be a good father but Jiang Cheng is his mother’s son, through and through, and everyone became aware of that too early on for Jiang Cheng to attempt to change it.
Jiang Cheng loves his siblings and Wei Wuxian would do anything for him but growing up, it was impossible to avoid their guardians and their chilling gaze. Wei Wuxian got the worst of it, since he was never a Jiang, no matter how hard he tried or how close his parents were to them. As a result while growing up, Wei Wuxian avoided Yu Ziyuan all his life to make not only his life easier, but Jiang Cheng’s too.
Jiang Yanli grew up without much issue. She raised herself and her brothers and when it came time for her to get married, she accepted her mother’s choice in Jin Zixuan. Originally, no one wanted Jin Zixuan around and he hurt Jiang Yanli as an immature kid - but Yu Ziyuan pretended to chastise Jiang Cheng for starting a fight and ripped into Wei Wuxian for throwing the first punch, despite all of them wanting to rip his head off.
“You know she hates it when you act out,” Jiang Cheng said, sixteen years old and already going into his mother’s looks. “You know you and I are going to take over the company some day, right? We can’t start shit with Jin Zixuan, even if he deserves it.”
Wei Wuxian licked his lip where Jin Zixuan had clipped him and ignored his brother. He packed his shit and went to wherever Yu Ziyuan sent him for punishment. It was a stupid discipiline camp for rowdy young boys. Wei Wuxian hated that. Mainly just a culty camp with ample opportunity for Wei Wuxian to mess around like a teenager should. He went because God help him if he didn’t and tried to focus on whatever Jiang Cheng’s plans for the future were when he came home.
Jiang Cheng is lucky that his mother is alive and that she loves him, even if she shows it in the worst way. Wei Wuxian was lucky to get through his high school years without much more issue. Jiang Yanli got married when Jin Zixuan was eighteen and Wei Wuxian hated the wedding. Too yellow. Too many Jins. He could have drunk but if he did, Yu Ziyuan would have had his head for that.
But for a few years in his life, there was nothing much else to comment on. He and Jiang Cheng graduated and started working for Jiang Fengiman’s company. Jiang Cheng was trained to take over when it all came down to it and Wei Wuxian basically became his secretary just to fill the position. Yu Ziyuan took him apart and built him back up in the worst way, her own assistants getting into him to ‘train’ him and Wei Wuxian just let it all happen, happy enough to get a damn paycheck.
Life was fine until the hurricane of Yu Ziyuan came crashing into his desk on a boring Wednesday morning and said, “Get up, Wei Wuxian. You’re getting married.”
“What?” Wei Wuxian barks at her, not afraid of her anymore. Especially with this topic at hand. If there’s one person in his life that knows nothing about the everlasting love of marriage, it’s Yu Ziyuan. “Are you serious?”
Yi Ziyuan glares at him, gesturing for him to follow her. It’s rather crude and he stumbles out of his desk, grabbing his documents in a rush. “I’m serious. A-Cheng is too young and important for us to let go and just like in history, this is a business relationship move.”
Just like your marriage to Jiang Fengiman,
Wei Wuxian doesn’t say, spying Jiang Cheng who’s on the phone in his office, watching him walk past with glaring silver eyes. Wei Wuxian gestures for him to come though, his stomach churning and he hangs up on whoever was on the phone and runs after him, blinking at his mother in surprise.
“Mom, wh- Where are we going?” Good to know Wei Wuxian isn’t the only one that has no fucking clue what’s going on. Jiang Cheng is an awful liar so it’s obvious he’s just as lost.
“My office,” Yu Ziyuan barks, turning sharply to her office. Her assistants walk out behind them, completely silent before standing guard outside the door like two bloodhounds. “Wei Wuxian is getting married.”
Jiang Cheng closes the door behind all three of them, staring between them. “You… Why? To
who?
Do they know who you are?”
“Fuck off,” Wei Wuxian snaps, rolling his eyes. As if he’d fucking know. Does he seriously think he’d just agree to that?
“Lan Wangji,” Yu Ziyuan answers her son, handing him papers as if he’s the one that needs to be concerned. “We have been in business with the Lan family for a long time, exactly like the Jin family. A-Li has joined the Jin family as you know my relationship to their mother. We have no connection to the Lan family and with this, there is reason for them not to pull out of any future negotiations.”
“Is marriage really necessary?” Jiang Cheng asks desperately, staring at Wei Wuxian. He smacks his arm and Wei Wuxian glares at him. He has no room to argue with this, not when Yu Ziyuan is the one setting it up.
The Lan family are nice enough. Lan Xichen is almost always in their building, speaking with associates and he and Jiang Cheng are quite familiar. If Wei Wuxian remembers correctly, Lan Qiren was friends with his mother so there’s close connection there too. But nothing that really connects the Jiang family.
Wait. That’s why.
“It’s because you lost my mother,” Wei Wuxian whispers, looking up at Yu Ziyuan who doesn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t have any familiar connection or
leverage
over the Lan family so you’re using me.” He laughs bitterly, throwing up his hands. “You’re a snake, you know that? She was never in this kind of business life, either.”
“Wei Wuxian!” Jiang Cheng hisses, sounding just like his mother, that it makes Wei Wuxian sick.
Wei Wuxian slams his hands on the desk and Yu Ziyuan looks down her nose at him, letting him challenge her. “You just want to get rid of me but you can’t do it without getting something out of it,” he spits and she raises her eyebrows.
“Poor little Wei Wuxian,” she snipes, crossing her arms. “You’re right. Do you want a medal? I don’t know what you expect.”
Wei Wuxian feels his world shattering. It’s not like he had many plans for his future past Sunday dinner but getting married? To Lan Wangji, no less? They’ve met briefly before. Wei Wuxian doesn’t remember it being that memorable. He sees Lan Xichen more often than not - he was here two days ago just to personally go over a meeting and gave half his muffin to Wei Wuxian because he didn’t have time to stay and eat and didn’t want it to go stale.
He’s starting to breathe shallowly, his head hot. He scratches his nose quickly and glances at Jiang Cheng, moving past him. The office is too stuffy and Yu Ziyuan is the last person he wants to see right now. Should he run away? He’s a grown man. But with this marriage, he’d be able to get away from Yu Ziyuan forever. He would no longer answer to the Jiang family.
He’d still have a job and he doubts Lan Wangji is onboard with this. Or that he wants a househusband. Wei Wuxian isn’t marriage material - he’s barely a human without coffee and a shower in the morning. Marrying Wei Wuxian is a disaster waiting to happen and that’s coming from the man himself.
Maybe, if it comes down to it, he can make Lan Wangji hate him. The marriage won’t be concrete, it never is. Jiang Yanli was called to assess her own relationship after a year and she chose to stay with Jin Zixuan and they were lucky everything worked out. Wei Wuxian was waiting for Jin Zixuan to give in but they truly love each other so Wei Wuxian left it alone, just like everyone else. They were one of the lucky cases.
He can hold out for a year, if that’s what it comes down to. Maybe he’ll survive this and prove something to Yu Ziyuan. He’s not as useless as he seems and with him away from Jiang Cheng, his brother should be able to show his parents that he has what it takes so Wei Wuxian will stop covering his fucking job for him.
Wei Wuxian goes to the bathroom, dry heaves into the sink and sniffs, acid burning his throat. He pants, trying to regain his breath but God help him, he doubts it will work. He washes his face, lets the cold water drip from his features and stares at himself in the mirror with tired eyes. God, did he really show up to work looking like this? And he thought it was okay?
Wei Wuxian takes a breath, closing his eyes so he can collect himself. It takes five minutes before he walks back into Yu Ziyuan’s office and tells her to set up the meeting.
“I’ll marry him,” he spits, staring down at her. “But not because you asked me to. I have things to complete.”
“I wasn’t asking,” she answers, her eyes on her computer. She hasn’t even looked up at him since he walked in. “Get out of my office.”
***
Lan Wangji always thought he would never marry. If he did, it would not be for love. He is the second born son - the responsibilities of the family and the world do not fall on his shoulders, but on Lan Xichen’s who has taken on so much more than he could chew but he prevails because he has to.
Lan Wangji has watched his brother from afar, shielded from the world by his big brother. Lan Xichen single handedly raised him when Lan Wangji wanted nothing and no one else but his mother. It has always been the two of them, even when their parents were still alive to watch them grow.
Whatever Lan Xichen got, he gave half to his brother. Whether it was food or teaching Lan Wangji how to ride his bike because their parents had bought one for Lan Xichen’s birthday, Lan Xichen has always given his all for Lan Wangji. It was never to boast or be the best big brother ever - it was just as simple as breathing for the two of them.
It’s been the same since they began working together, underneath their uncle. They worked the same position for some time until Lan Xichen was promoted, trained to take over the business one day, when their uncle becomes too old with no children of his own to succeed him.
But the family’s business has grown for a long time and Lan Xichen has taken it head on so that Lan Wangji won’t have to step up. He did not ask his brother to do this but alas, Lan Xichen has a mind of his own and his soul hungers to always assist his baby brother.
Lan Wangji did not think he would ever get married because of a tricky little thing called being gay. But what was most interesting about this fact is that his family not only accepted his coming out, but arranged a marriage for him. It was to serve their business and family well as the Jiang family had already married off their daughter to the Jin family and she has been happy with her husband. And their first born son, Jiang Wanyin, has similar responsibilities like Lan Xichen.
“Wangji,” Lan Xichen said the day they got the proposal, alone in his own office as he blinked at the email and the document in his hand. “Do you want this? You can refuse.”
Lan Wangji thinks about it for a long time. He assesses his apartment and how he would come to live with another person. It took him three weeks to respond, saying he agreed to the wedding with no other further comment.
“Really?” Lan Xichen questioned, confused. “It… There are other ways. We’re a trusted family so this is quite extreme, Wangji.”
“It does not matter,” he responded, having not yet processed it all. He tried to prepare himself but he went into the meetings blind, trying to keep all of his thoughts to himself and process them once he’s actually met Wei Wuxian.
Wei Wuxian. Lan Wangji knows his name - they have met quite briefly due to their jobs but Lan Wangji chose to ignore him because he immediately found him quite attractive and he does not like to process things he does not want to.
He knows next to nothing about Wei Wuxian aside from his looks and that he has a very pretty smile. Wei Wuxian most likely knows even less about Lan Wangji. The whole situation leaves them both in odd positions in their families as they now have to answer to Yu Ziyuan, as well as Lan Qiren who, as Lan Wangji’s guardian, will oversee the pre-wedding meetings.
Lan Xichen tells Lan Wangji of Wei Wuxian’s position in this situation. Yu Ziyuan has two children, one that has already married happily into the Jin family and her son who is too young, apparently, to be married off. That left Wei Wuxian with no wife and nothing else to do so Yu Ziyuan decided enough was enough and chose to get rid of him to the Lan family. Well, get rid is a strong term. But it’s the term Wei Wuxian uses when he and Lan Wangji meet for the first time, their guardians speaking outside the shared room where they had been left to mingle.
Nervous is a strong word but Lan Wangji feels it deep in his gut as soon as the door clicks closed. The footsteps fade, only just to the end of the hallway.
“Lan Wangji, right?” Wei Wuxian says, blinking at him. He offers his hand for Lan Wangji to take, which he does out of sheer politeness. “I think we’ve met before, a long time ago. My… My mother was friends with your uncle. But we weren’t born yet.”
That’s where the connection is. Cangse Sanren, Wei Wuxian’s mother. Lan Qiren has spoken of her quite fondly so Lan Wangji can understand the fondness towards Wei Wuxian, however faint it may be. Apparently, Wei Wuxian often gets on Lan Qiren’s nerves but Lan Xichen quite likes him.
Lan Wangji nods slowly, not really knowing what he’s getting at but there’s a spike in Yu Ziyuan’s voice outside the door and Wei Wuxian grimaces. That tells half the story.
“You know what she’s trying to do,” he says slowly, avoiding Lan Wangji’s eyes. He seems awkwardly placed in the room, like a crooked frame. His body is tight, shoulders hunched and legs pressed together, not crossed elegantly like Lan Wangji.
“No, I do not,” he says because he truly doesn’t.
Wei Wuxian looks at him, confused. “You… Do you even know who she is? Or who my mother was?”
“Madam Yu. I don’t pay attention to family politics. It does not interest me so I only know who your mother was to my uncle.”
Wei Wuxian stares at him until he grins, his face completely lighting up. “So I can say anything I want and you’ll believe me?”
Lan Wangji would not put it like that but… “If it’s reasonable, I have no reason to question it.”
So Wei Wuxian explains everything. How Yu Ziyuan hates him with a passion, his parents' relationships to the Jiang family and why he was even adopted into the family in the first place. His mother was truly loved, almost desperately by Jiang Fengiman and Lan Wangji learns that Lan Qiren lost his best friend when she passed.
It’s actually nice to hear about his uncle through Wei Wuxian’s brief touches on the stories. He talks for so long that Lan Wangji gets caught in the way he articulates himself and expresses his feelings, even going as far to send his adoptive parents away when they knock on the door so he can keep talking to Lan Wangji when he gestures for him to continue.
He tells Lan Wangji everything, from the moment Yu Ziyuan first lost her temper to the whole reason their marriage is even being set up. But he’s not asking for pity - these things are in the past and even Wei Wuxian says this.
“There’s a lot I can’t change. Where I come from is one of them. But I don’t want to answer to Madam Yu anymore.” Lan Wangji watches him curiously, nodding along. “She can’t marry Jiang Cheng off, so she has to settle for getting rid of me in the meantime,” he confesses, finally crossing his hands over one another in his lap and meeting Lan Wangji’s eyes. “I’m sorry you’re involved in this. I doubt you expected life to be going this way, let alone getting married to me.”
By all accounts, life could be much worse for the both of them. But he looks to Wei Wuxian once more and simply says, “May I call you Wei Ying?”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes widen suddenly and he smiles softly, just as beautiful as before. “Y-Yeah, you… Can I call you Lan Zhan?”
“We will be married soon. We should be getting used to it.”
“R-Right.” Wei Wuxian raises his brows, sort of in shock but he sighs in response. “Uh… I don’t know what else to say, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji despises that the sound of his name on Wei Wuxian’s tongue makes his heart flutter. Well, he doesn’t but he won’t get into it. But he decides that they have spoken enough. “I have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you want this marriage? If you don’t, I can refuse it. It’s only for one year, mainly to secure future deals between our families. But given my position, I can refuse it.”
Wei Wuxian thinks for a few minutes, his eyes elsewhere. He furrows his brows a little before he looks back to Lan Wangji and nods. “If… If I marry you, I would be viewed more as a Lan family associate, right?”
“It depends.” Wei Wuxian would have to get clearance but it could be arranged. “My question more so is, are you willing to go this far just to get away from Madam Yu?”
Wei Wuxian licks his lips, tilting his head slightly. “It’s more that this is an opportunity for me to break away from Jiang Cheng. His mother is a witch but I do most of his work. She knows that as well - he needs more space to step up and I think this would give him that chance.”
“And you have not refused to do his work before?”
“It’s not like I let him cheat off my policy drafts,” Wei Wuxian smirks. “We work together - I’m his secretary, at this point. But Madam Yu doesn’t want to hold his hand and she hates that I’m the one that’s been doing that for the past few years. My brother isn’t an idiot but he definitely needs more confidence in himself.”
Lan Wangji can understand that. Perhaps Lan Xichen would think the same for him, if the situation was similar. “This marriage won’t cut you off from the Jiang family,” he adds pointedly.
“Oh, it will,” Wei Wuxian laughs, bitter. “If Madam Yu is the one running it, yeah, it will.”
“That’s what you want, Wei Ying?”
Wei Wuxian takes a slow breath, looking down at his hands once more and says, “I think I do. It’s only a year, right? We… We can do it, as long as we’re on the same page the whole way through.”
Lan Wangji agrees without any further prompting. He stands, knocks on the door and greets his uncle once more, looking to Wei Wuxian to say goodbye. Just like that.
“So you agree?” Yu Ziyuan asks quickly, her arms crossed over her chest. She looks out of place in the hallway, her presence too big for the narrow space. “Wei Wuxian is to be your bride?”
Wei Wuxian cringes behind her so Lan Wangji fixes her with a hard look. “My husband,” he corrects, glaring at her. She doesn’t back down but Wei Wuxian hides his smile by ducking his head away from everyone’s eyes. “Yes, the Lan family accepts the proposal. See you at the wedding.”
His uncle is silent on the drive home. Lan Wangji does not think of much until his uncle says, “Where will you live with Wei Wuxian?”
Lan Wangji continues to look out the window, watching as the cars slowly mill past. They’re in a traffic jam. If Lan Qiren was driving, he’d be screaming by now. Sometimes, Lan Wangji is grateful for the family driver. “In my apartment,” he answers calmly. Where else? Wei Wuxian lives at home still, in the Jiang family estate and Lan Wangji lives alone.
“Don’t you want to move? To have a bigger home?”
“Why? Do you think we will suddenly have children within a year?”
Lan Qiren huffs. “I did not say that, Wangji. But you’re getting married. You won’t be a bachelor anymore.”
“My apartment is big enough,” he answers, sparing a glance at his uncle who grows silent, stroking his beard. The car pulls to a stop outside Lan Wangji’s building and he steps out, muttering that he will contact Lan Qiren soon.
His apartment isn’t exactly a home but it can become one. He goes to work all day and comes home at night so aside from sleeping and the occasional leisure time in which he spends in the second bedroom which is his music room, Lan Wangji’s apartment is hardly lived in.
Perhaps it would make Wei Wuxian more comfortable to decorate. He seems like the person to have silly little trinkets laying around from wherever he has gone. Lan Wangji knows nothing about him, really, and public information is nothing that he can trust. Considering the half assed description of him that Yu Ziyuan gave Lan Wangji and his uncle, public opinion isn’t something Lan Wangji wants to risk.
As he looks around his apartment, he tries to imagine this space being occupied by another. It’s hard to envision and he does a terrible job of it. It’s hard to picture Wei Wuxian in front of him when he’s met him once but maybe… Maybe it won’t be so bad.
He’s not afraid of what’s to come, more so just full of anticipation. What is to come, really, in this quest of life? Lan Wangji does not know. But it’s a chapter that he is to share with another.
He should look at rings. Wei Wuxian seems like he likes black and red.
***
Dancing at a wedding, even an arranged one, is essential.
Wei Wuxian sees no point to it. He can dance and who in their right mind at his age knows how to fucking waltz? Well, Lan Wangji apparently knows how to, because he used to do ballroom dancing as a kid because of course he did. Lan Xichen is the same and he set these lessons up.
Nie Huaisang is the instructor, a friend of the Lan family and Wei Wuxian likes him but learning how to dance from him is testing his patience. His feet hurt, as does his body in general but he’s not quite sweating yet and Lan Wangji looks… beautiful, actually.
“Okay,” the instructor announces, holding his pretty little fan. He moves it with such grace. “Wei Wuxian, step forward to Lan Wangji. You guys are to be married, don’t be shy.”
“Easier said than done,” Wei Wuxian mutters but steps forward, his dress shoes clicking on the polished floor. He shakes his bangs out of his eyes and looks up at Lan Wangji, blinking. “Hi, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji closes his eyes and nods, much like a cat and awaits further instruction. His hair is rather simply done today, half tied high on his head while his bangs have been trimmed, two pieces to frame his pretty face.
Wei Wuxian is no way near as neat. He wrestled with his hair until he got it into a bun, his bangs hanging out. He blows his bangs out of his mouth and ends up tucking it behind his ears, sighing to himself. They’re both dressed in black, polished shoes that Wei Wuxian hates and Lan Wangji is in a white shirt, tucked into his pants. He’s even wearing slacks, while Wei Wuxian is wearing slim jeans that he regrets putting on.
“Take each other’s hands,” Nie Huaisang says quickly. “Lan Wangji on the bottom, since he’ll be leading. Xichen-gege told me you have dance experience.”
Lan Wangji does as he’s told but he hesitates with his other hand that is supposed to go on Wei Wuxian’s waist. Wei Wuxian smiles, shifting his feet and places his left hand on Lan Wangji’s chest, effectively prompting Lan Wangji to touch him.
“You have to get familiar with touching me, Lan Zhan,” he chuckles, in hopes of making it less awkward but even though they’re touching, there couldn’t be more space between their bodies. Nie Huaisang is quickly becoming the saviour of the two of them and he steps close to them, looks between them and frowns.
“Are you being serious?” he asks, almost glaring at them. He pushes them together and Wei Wuxian makes an awkward sound in his throat, their chests touching all of a sudden. “Not that close but stop being weird. You won’t learn if you can barely touch each other.”
He keeps mumbling to himself, annoyed but he steps away, turning on his foot. “We’re starting with the side basic. It’s not hard so pay attention and I won’t get angry.”
“I’d love to see that,” Wei Wuxian snorts, shifting his hand in Lan Wangji’s grasp. “You’re a bit too soft in the face, Huaisang.”
“Awh,” he pouts, flicking out his fan abruptly. “Okay. Eyes up, you move to the side in two steps to the beat, then back to the other side. Lan Wangji knows how to do this, so he can lead.”
Wei Wuxian blinks, drawing himself back to Lan Wangji. He fixes Wei Wuxian with a look and the music begins so Wei Wuxian makes a sudden sound at the movement and follows him. It takes a while but he gets into the rhythm, Lan Wangji squeezing his hand when he looks up in panic.
“Sorry,” he says awkwardly. “I’m not good at this.”
“It’s fine,” Lan Wangji says, still in motion with him. “You dance well enough for someone that has never done this before.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, feeling a little proud of that. Nie Huaisang directs the movement of how to do a simple turn and Wei Wuxian fucks it up, confusing the hand movement. He ends up with his back to Lan Wangji, dropping his hand and laughing at himself.
“Wait,” he says, stepping back to Lan Wangji. “No, I can do this, just… Let me talk through it.” He mumbles the side steps, looking down and lets Lan Wangji go, lifting his hand. He spins below it, letting Lan Wangji direct the hand movement back so they are joined and Wei Wuxian is back against him, blinking at him.
“See?” he grins. “Not bad at all, Lan Zhan.”
“Not bad,” he answers, humming. They repeat the movement a few times, Wei Wuxian getting the hang of things as he goes. This isn’t their only dance lesson so they have more than enough time to actually dance and get it all right.
Their session passes with Wei Wuxian mastering three basic moves. Nie Huaisang makes plans for the next lesson, telling Wei Wuxian what they’re going to be looking out for and he dreads the footwork he’s going to need to master.
Lan Wangji leaves, bidding them both farewell with a simple nod. He’s as elegant as always, collected in his composure so Wei Wuxian isn’t surprised that he completely surpasses him in the next three lessons.
But Wei Wuxian is a fast learner and Lan Wangji is patient, almost to a fault. It’s the fourth lesson that they’re way more familiar with each other and instantly come together to dance before Nie Huaisang can even direct them.
“As an exercise,” Nie Huaisang says, over by the stereo, “I am going to leave the room, as per the request of Lan Wangji.”
Wei Wuxian blinks at his… fiance?, surprised by the request. Nie Huaisang leaves and suddenly, Wei Wuxian is very aware of Lan Wangji’s hands on him, making him nervous. “You think you can teach me something Nie Huaisang can’t, Lan Zhan?”
“No,” Lan Wangji answers, adjusting his grip on Wei Wuxian’s hand. “It may be easier for us both if we dance alone. The more familiar, the better our chances at succeeding.”
“It’s dancing, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian chuckles, “not a math test. What’s our first dance to?” Lan Wangji simply shakes his head. Ah, they never picked one. “Do we need to?”
“Do you want to?”
“I don’t really want to dance at all, actually.”
Lan Wangji sighs, his eyes slipping closed and just to get Wei Wuxian away from him, he lifts his hand and Wei Wuxian spins, laughing to himself. “Lan Zhan, you can’t possibly want to dance in front of our friends and family?”
“It does not bother me.” Wei Wuxian spins back to him, the two of them staring at each other. It takes another moment of mindless swaying before Lan Wangji says, “Does it bother you?”
“It bothers me that I have to dance in front of people who don’t like me.”
“Who does not like you?”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian sighs, a small warning. He really doesn’t want to get into this, not when he’s already told Lan Wangji about his upbringing, albeit in very weak detail. “You know. I’ll tell you when we’re married.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t reply. He steps out, his hand holding Wei Wuxian’s and he spins again, letting go when he leans his body weight out.
“If there’s no first dance, why are we learning this?” he asks.
“We’ll just waltz. It isn’t a big problem.”
Wei Wuxian nods, uncharacteristically nervous for once. It’s not like anyone would make a scene at the wedding but it has just dawned on him that he needs to dance so he’s a little annoyed but it doesn’t matter. He remembers Jiang Yanli’s wedding and that was actually a lot of fun for her, so hopefully their wedding won’t be too bad.
God, why is he putting so much effort into something that will end in a year? Well, it’s more so he doesn’t embarrass not only himself, but Lan Wangji as well. His family will be watching and Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to offend. He has to at least have something to show when he officially marries the second son of the Lan family.
“Let’s…” He pulls out his phone, looking up basic love songs and laughs when he finds
I don’t want to miss a thing
on Youtube. “Okay, let’s just choose from stupid love song and pretend we’re marrying for love.”
Lan Wangji agrees with that, letting Wei Wuxian pick an instrumental. Nie Huaisang comes in, makes a face at the choice but pairs up basic moves with the song, having choreographed a dance to the song before.
It should be enough to please both of their families so Wei Wuxian lets himself spin beneath Lan Wangji’s arm, humming as he returns to Lan Wangji’s grasp, comfortable for now.
***
Wei Wuxian has had a few suits fitted but none have been a wedding suit and none have made his junk feel this uncomfortable. He should be doing this with his best man, shouldn’t he? Well, to be fair, Jiang Cheng is here but he’s out talking to the store clerk about dress shoes as if it’s the most interesting thing ever.
“You’re too tense,” Lan Wangji says from the doorway, crossing his arms. “Relax or it won’t fit correctly, Wei Ying.”
The tailor doesn’t verbally agree but he looks up at Wei Wuxian, as if daring him to protest. Wei Wuxian drops his outstretched arms, takes a big breath and puts them back up.
“Happy?” he says to Lan Wangji who raises his eyebrows, nonverbal agreement. “I hate this kind of thing, Lan Zhan.”
“You seem to hate a lot of things.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I’ve never planned a fucking wedding.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says once, warning him so Wei Wuxian groans.
“You already got your fitting,” Wei Wuxian mumbles, his shoulder straining. “So now I get to complain. It’s my wedding, anyway. If I don’t get to complain then I’ll go insane. Lan Zhan, have you asked for any wedding gifts?” Lan Wangji doesn’t reply, fixing Wei Wuxian with a hard look. “I’ll keep talking until you answer.”
Lan Wangji turns to leave so Wei Wuxian whines for him to stay, promising to shut up. He even zips his lips, smiling when Lan Wangji looks away, bothered but not enough to leave.
The fitting goes for another hour before Wei Wuxian is released from his mockup prison, standing around in his underwear. He puts his pants back on, grateful that he had the foresight to not wear jeans and Jiang Cheng has already left him.
“What good is a best man if they don’t even help you?” he mumbles, pulling on his long sleeve too. Lan Wangji has had his back to him for the past few minutes to give him privacy. Nice gesture but Wei Wuxian doesn’t really care. “Who is your best man?”
“My brother as well.”
“I’ve met your brother,” Wei Wuxian smiles, tapping him to turn him around. “You two are like twins, it’s uncanny. Good genes.”
Lan Wangji neither agrees or disagrees. He stares as if he’s confused but he turns his head to the shop in front of them, thinking. It’s an elaborate layout, a second story with a private fitting room, a large polished staircase going down to the bottom of the store.
Lan Wangji stands at the top of the staircase and says, “We have to practise walking together and posing.”
“I know how to pose for a photo,” Wei Wuxian almost snaps, rolling his eyes. “It’s a staircase. How hard is it to walk down stairs?”
Lan Wangji stares at him, amber eyes judging him. “Then walk down.”
Wei Wuxian smirks at him, walks halfway down the stairs and turns to Lan Wangji, placing his hands on his hips. “What’s the score?”
“Three of ten,” Lan Wangji answers, staring him down. He’s lucky he’s pretty, or Wei Wuxian would have lost his shit by now. “Your footsteps are too loud, you walked in the middle of the staircase without assistance and watched your feet the entire time.”
“Anything else?” Wei Wuxian challenges, crossing his arms.
“Three out of ten because you walked. Come here.”
Just to be an ass, he runs back up the stairs, two at a time and jumps next to Lan Wangji, smiling at him. Lan Wangji walks down the staircase to where Wei Wuxian has stopped, his hand on the railing while his other is behind his back in a closed fist. His back is straight, he isn’t slamming his feet on the stairs and his expression is neutral.
He stops, turns and looks up at Wei Wuxian, his arms straight by his side. “Do you understand?”
Wei Wuxian looks down his nose at him, irritated but he smiles and gestures for him to join him. “How about,” he starts as Lan Wangji slowly steps up the stairs, “you hold my hand and guide me down?”
Lan Wangji hesitates, his eyes averting to Wei Wuxian’s hand. Just when Wei Wuxian thinks he’ll refuse, he offers his bent arm and Wei Wuxian takes it, chuckling at him. Wei Wuxian tries to walk but Lan Wangji stands ramrod straight, forcing him to put his shoulders back, straighten up and shake his hair out of his eyes.
“Is this seriously necessary?” Wei Wuxian sighs, keeping his voice quiet as if anyone is watching. This is the least main character scene that could happen to him.
“Yes,” Lan Wangji answers, as simple as that. Wei Wuxian knows it’s necessary but he wants someone to complain to. Lan Wangji has yet to ask him to stop but Wei Wuxian doesn’t know where the line is. They’re not married yet and there’s nothing they can do about that situation so Wei Wuxian will find anything and everything he can to complain about since the wedding won’t be called off.
“Surely you have more to say about this marriage,” Wei Wuxian says as they descend the stairs. “You said you could say no, if I didn’t want this.”
Lan Wangji’s expression doesn’t shift. “I don’t need to get married. But this marriage is beneficial to both of our families and it’s only for a year. So with that information, the future deals won’t last much longer than that.”
Wei Wuxian frowns, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. This isn’t permanent but that doesn’t mean Wei Wuxian really wants to throw away a year of his life for the sake of keeping Yu Ziyuan pleased. But at the same time, this could open a way for Jaing Cheng to step up like he said and for Wei Wuxian to work elsewhere.
He’s good at his job and he knows this. And Lan Wangji doesn’t seem like that weird of a guy. Boring, maybe but that’s not a problem. It’s not like Wei Wuxian is worried he’ll fall for Lan Wangji, especially in a situation like this. Lan Wangji is a bachelor, just like him so it gives him a little bit of comfort to know he’s not completely helpless right now.
“We can practise this with Nie Huaisang,” Wei Wuxian says, offering just a little bit of help to it all. “Sound good, Lan Zhan?”
Lan Wangji nods, letting him slip away. They have another fitting in a few weeks as well as dance lessons in between so their relationship is not finished yet. There’s much more for them to learn about each other.
One year of marriage but the time before the wedding is about four months. Wei Wuxian would be freaking out if he was the one planning the wedding but all he has to worry about is himself and his ability to dance. And also walk, apparently.
As they stand on the curb, leaving each other for the day, Wei Wuxian waves to Lan Wangji. Jiang Cheng is calling him, as if he even gave a fuck about his fitting today so Wei Wuxian makes his way home, exhausted already.
There’s much more for him to think about but focusing on his schedule is occupying his mind for now. It really hasn’t set in that he’s getting married, legally binding himself to another person that he barely thought of two months ago. Wei Wuxian isn’t sure if he’s going insane or not. Shouldn’t he be freaking out by now?
Lan Wangji isn’t freaking out and Wei Wuxian has a feeling that won’t change, even after their wedding. Well, at the very least, Lan Wangji will be calm enough for the both of them.
Fingers crossed Lan Wangji holds his shit together because Wei Wuxian definitely isn’t going to!
***
They meet before the wedding once more to exchange gifts. It’s simple things, some traditional, some modern. They speak a little more and it’s there that Lan Wangji learns that Wei Wuxian truly loves alcohol, white wine being his favourite but he doesn’t mind whiskey and he tells Lan Wangji that he sometimes smokes. Lan Wangji gifts the Jiang family wine and brandy, just as tradition and Yu Ziyuan attempts to pretend she’s satisfied with this, as if he would be her own children’s groom.
The gift giving is nothing to write home about. It’s mainly just to exchange things between two families that have no connection besides this wedding but everyone is aware of the circumstances and how everyone feels towards it.
Lan Wangji doesn’t mind all too much. He sits with Wei Wuxian, the both of them keeping to themselves as their guardians speak together and Lan Wangji asks what Wei Wuxian smokes.
“I roll cigarettes,” Wei Wuxian answers, eyes on his adoptive father for a moment. “It’s not often. Only when I get really stressed. It’s a specific craving.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t have much of an opinion on smoking. He does not personally like it but that’s his feelings. He keeps the information for himself, tucked away in case it ever comes up. Wei Wuxian is a wine lover, which is another thing he has learnt especially in the weeks leading up to the wedding.
They go to fittings and sometimes eat together afterwards, just to continue to get familiar with each other. Their dance lessons wrap up and Wei Wuxian talks with Nie Huiasang about his favourite wines, some of which Lan Wangji overhears. He tells his uncle to have some for the wedding because both he and his future husband are preparing for some messes that Wei Wuxian would like to combat with alcohol.
The days leading up to the wedding go by in a flash. It’s not a big wedding and Lan Wangji hardly recognises most of the people on the guest list but when he meets with Wei Wuxian before they’re due to be married, he feels a sense of ease falling over him.
“Nervous?” Wei Wuxian asks, half dressed in his suit. “I’m so bored, Lan Zhan. I already got cut off.”
“You can drink my fill,” he answers and his fiance grins, a glitter to his pretty eyes.
And the wedding is over the top and exhausting for everyone. They dance because they have to and it goes as well as they planned it to. Other people dance, just to make everything less awkward but even still, Lan Wangji isn’t bothered by the turn out. He didn’t think he’d end up dancing with his brother instead of his mother at his own wedding but Lan Xichen is happy, at the very least.
“You’re much too tall for this,” Lan Xichen says, spinning him and now Lan Wangji knows why Wei Wuxian found this movement so awkward. “Wei Wuxian looks nice. He looks quite pretty in red.”
Lan Wangji knows that. Wei Wuxian is dressed beautifully, in wine red suit to not be too flashy, despite it being their wedding and him being the star of the show. But his hair is neat, styled with silver jewelry that glitters when it catches the light. His sister most likely pinned it all together, as it compliments his style quite nicely.
“He does,” Lan Wangji admits. He’s dressed in white, black tie and silver jewelry that Lan Xichen picked out for him. He releases himself from Lan Xichen’s hold, bowing his head politely and Lan Xichen points him to his newly married husband who’s speaking with his own siblings, a smirk on his face.
With a glass of champagne in his silver ring clad hands, Wei Wuxian is the perfect picture of elegance. While his suit was meant to not be flashy, he wears it beautifully, matching the simple touch of eyeshadow around his eyes. They didn’t want the wedding to be over the top but it had to be a
wedding
so Wei Wuxian dressed for the part.
“Lan Zhan,” he greets, tipping his glass to his lips. “My siblings, Jiang Yanli and Jiang Cheng.”
“We’ve met,” Jiang Yanli smiles and she hugs Lan Wangji instead of shaking his hand. Oh, she smells nice. Like home, whatever home should smell like. “Hi, A-Zhan.”
“A-Zhan?” Wei Wuxian laughs, looking at her when she pulls away. “Shijie, you’ve got another brother now. You’re giving me up?”
“As if,” Jiang Cheng snorts, shaking Lan Wangji’s hand quickly. He pulls away like it’s physically uncomfortable to touch him but that’s not really offensive. “It’s a nice wedding, actually. I’m surprised you can dance.”
“Lan Zhan taught me,” Wei Wuxian smiles, his eyes kind when he looks at his husband. “He’s good at that. But I’m hungry so-” He downs his champagne, hands it off to the nearest caterer and disappears to find some food. They don’t meet up around until Lan Wangji has circled through a few more people, Wei Wuxian’s face full of half a muffin he’s still eating.
The wedding isn’t so bad but it would have been more fun if Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian had been marrying for love. But even still, he sticks by Wei Wuxian for the ceremony and reception, linking their arms when people try to separate them.
Lan Xichen is tired but he smiles and shakes Wei Wuxian’s hand warmly when they get their own pleasantries out of the way again. They chat and Lan Wangji can tell his brother really likes his husband. “Walk with me,” he says suddenly and Lan Wangji lets Wei Wuxian go for the second time that night, Lan Xichen linking his arm with Wei Wuxian’s.
Lan Wangji watches the guests mill and talk. Lan Qiren is sitting by himself, Lan Xichen’s chair next to him and Lan Wangji sighs, thinking that the table would be full if his parents were here. Would they sit with Wei Wuxian’s? Would they get along?
Lan Wangji feels a headache coming on but Wei Wuxian walks back through the ceremony doors, tucking his hair behind his ears and smiles at him, taking his hand before an aunty can talk to him.
“You’re cold,” Lan Wangji says, stupidly. He was just outside.
“Your brother is very funny,” Wei Wuxian responds, touching his hair again. He hasn’t messed either his hair or makeup, which is good. Lan Wangji is wearing the same makeup on his eyes but nothing crazy.
“Do you drink a lot?” he asks Wei Wuxian when they return to sit in front of everyone to begin the actual food service. Wei Wuxian has been complaining of the position all day, his legs sore when he has to tuck them underneath himself.
Wei Wuxian hums, shrugging once. “No, I don’t know… Yes? I really like the taste of white wine. But I’ll drink anything.”
Lan Wangji nods. He immediately thinks of the alcohol he might have at home but he does not drink. But they have been gifted so much alcohol for this wedding so Wei Wuxian will be happy for a long time.
“What is your favourite?” he asks after a while and Wei Wuxian turns to him, shifting on his legs. He sits on his side, legs out and smiles at him.
“Emperor’s smile,” he replies. “It’s too good, Lan Zhan. You have to try, please. When we get home, we can…” He cuts himself off, having realised what he’s said but Lan Wangji waits for him to finish, his expression open. “We can try some. I’m sure Nie Huaisang gave us some.”
“I don’t drink. No one in my family does.”
“You’re joking.” He stares at Lan Wangji before he shakes his head. “God… really? Is it wrong?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head. “Bad alcohol tolerance.”
“No way.”
He raises his eyebrows, almost challenging. “Yes. For all of us, Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian squints, mischievous. “How bad?”
“One shot.”
Wei Wuxian hangs his head, shaking it. “No way… One shot? I don’t remember the last time I was
drunk
, Lan Zhan. But it’s okay. If we go home, can we try it where it’s safe? I should know my husband drunk, I think.”
Lan Wangji closes his eyes briefly. Already, Wei Wuxian is pushing him. “Manipulative of your husband, Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian laughs into his wine glass. He shakes his head but leans his head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. They have skipped the awkward beginning section of affection in their relationship, given that they are married now and Lan Wangji thought it would make his skin crawl but Wei Wuxian’s presence has already begun to calm him.
They have spoken on and off briefly for four months before this wedding, the awkward getting to you know part of their relationship over. They’ve learned how to dance together, how to hold each other, how to pose for pictures which Wei Wuxian hated. They’ve been fitted for their suits together, consulting about different flowers despite neither of them caring.
So Wei Wuxian leaning his head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder is exactly what it is. Easy affection between two people who are familiar with each other. He keeps his hands to himself but the position is a little awkward so he shifts and Wei Wuxian moves too. Lan Wangji holds him, his arm around his shoulders and Wei Wuxian sighs.
“When can we go home?” he asks softly.
“Soon,” Lan Wangji answers, squeezing his arm. “Rest.”
***
They don’t have a honeymoon. There’s no need to. The time they take for their ‘honeymoon’ is for Wei Wuxian to move in. He doesn’t have a lot, really but Lan Wangji lives on the seventh floor so it takes a while to get it all in. It’s mostly clothes since by the end of the marriage, he’ll be moving back into the Jiang estate.
They both didn’t want too many people touching Wei Wuxian’s stuff or coming in and out of Lan Wangji’s apartment. Wei Wuxian dumped most of his clothes in Lan Wangji’s room and they left it at that.
Living with Wei Wuxian isn’t exactly hard. He keeps to himself and works alone. He talks when he’s nervous or when he’s bored but Lan Wangji likes the sound of his voice so he doesn’t mind too much.
The first week feels strange. They talk a few times, mainly because they’re both acutely aware that this is the next year of their lives together so they should get used to it quickly. Wei Wuxian isn’t boring and Lan Wangji likes listening to him, at the very least. He’s not irritating even though Lan Wangji was dreading having to live with a personality like Wei Wuxian - he’s been pleasantly surprised with him.
Lan Wangji watches as his apartment very quickly becomes their shared home. He attempts to offer his spare room but Wei Wuxian refuses when he sees the guqin and violin on full display.
“It’s your safe space, Lan Zhan,” he says, looking up at him. “I’m not taking your safe space away from you, husband or not.” Lan Wangji appreciates that, actually. He had not thought of it as his safe space but Wei Wuxian is completely right - that’s why he has a room for his instruments, away from his whole apartment.
Wei Wuxian immediately asks how often Lan Wangji plays it and Lan Wangji is happy to share the information with him, especially when Wei Wuxian says he used to play the flute. The flute is a difficult instrument but Lan Wangji has admired it for a while.
“You should play it sometime,” Lan Wangji tells him and Wei Wuxian smiles, just short of blinding him. Nothing significant shifts, other than Lan Wangji living with someone but he’s done it before, with his brother. Though, it’s different when the person you live with is suddenly your husband.
Up until four months ago, Lan Wangji did not think anything of Wei Wuxian. He vaguely knew who he was but that was all. Wei Wuxian thought the same, since he only knew Lan Xichen well enough to pass enough judgement on the Lan family but now, he’s married to the second son and they live together. Fantastic.
Lan Wangji has nothing to hide about his family, just like Wei Wuxian has nothing to hide about his own. Yu Ziyuan despises him, which Lan Wangji learnt very quickly but now, they have a year to learn about each other and… be married.
And Lan Wangji has no idea where to start.
Wei Wuxian plays the flute. He is twenty four years old and born in October. Lan Wangji knows these facts, just as Wei Wuxian knows the same facts about him. Wei Wuxian likes spicy food, which is something they have already had to talk about.
They do have to adapt their cooking skills, since Wei Wuxian loves spice more than he loves just eating normal dishes. Lan Wangji struggles to stomach any kind of spice so now, Wei Wuxian waits until he’s served Lan Wangji’s dinner to put all his spices in. It’s an easy change for the both of them, since Lan Wangji never eats too much and Wei Wuxian loves to eat first and have leftovers three hours later.
By the end of the week, Wei Wuxian has taken his bedroom. Lan Wangji has been sleeping on the couch which doesn’t bother him much but Wei Wuxian made that their first argument as a married couple when Lan Wangji did not take it seriously at all.
But Wei Wuxian grumbled and fell asleep in the bedroom after Lan Wangji bid him goodnight, setting up the couch for a bed. It’s a pull out couch, lucky for him. He sets up his one pillow while Wei Wuxian leaves his room how it is. It’s the one room he won’t touch, as he confesses to Lan Wangji where they’re standing in the kitchen, back to each other as they cook.
“It’s your bedroom,” Wei Wuxian says as he slices some chicken. “I wouldn’t want you to decorate mine, if you were staying there.”
Lan Wangji supposes he can understand that. His bedroom is for sleeping only, so there isn’t much he misses with Wei Wuxian being in there. If he needs one of his books or clothes, he goes to get them without much of an issue.
“Have you unpacked?” he asks, scraping off his carrots into the curry they’re making.
Wei Wuxian looks over his shoulder to him, smiling bashfully. “No, Lan Zhan. I’m a little bit lazy. Work is busy, and such.”
“And such,” Lan Wangji muses, more for himself than anything. It does not matter to him when Wei Wuxian settles in physically, so long as he’s comfortable enough to spend his days here. Lan Wangji is still trying to come up with things to do, to the point where he finds himself asking his brother at work who just stares at him in confusion.
“Uh…” Lan Xichen smiles awkwardly, looking down at his laptop. “What to do with your newly wed husband? Well… Wangji, I’ve never been married so I don’t know.”
Lan Wangji should be in his own office, working. Wei Wuxian still works for the Jiangs and will until the foreseeable future so Lan Wangji is alone, sitting in his brother’s office as he tries to figure out what he should talk to Wei Wuxian about.
“What is he interested in?” Lan Xichen asks, his glasses low on his nose. “You said he plays the flute?”
“I don’t know if he’s done it recently,” Lan Wangji confesses, feeling shame in his gut at that. It’s been two weeks and he feels like he’s barely had a full conversation with his husband. “He likes spicy food. And… That is all I know.”
“Wangji…” Lan Xichen says gently, furrowing his brows. “You should… Ah, wait.” He types something into his computer, scanning the webpage before his eyes light up. “There is something called the newlywed game. It might not work out so well because you don’t know each other but it can be a good game to play to open up more questions for your lives.”
“The newlywed game?” he questions his brother and that night, Wei Wuxian echoes the same question, staring at the little whiteboards Lan Wangji pulled from his brother’s office. They’re small in their big hands but Lan Wangji hands him a marker to start.
“I’ve heard of this,” Wei Wuxian admits, blinking at his whiteboard. Red marker for him, blue marker for Lan Wangji. “Oh, red is my favourite colour. Did you know that, Lan Zhan?”
Lan Wangji reaches over to the notepad on the coffee table and crosses off the first question without a word:
what is your spouse’s favourite colour?
Wei Wuxian chuckles and reclines into the couch, his leg bent over his knee.
There’s some easy questions for them. They know each other’s Chinese zodiacs and star signs already. But when it comes to who is most likely to deal with a spider, they both nominate themselves, showing each other their names.
“Are you scared of spiders?” Wei Wuxian asks, tapping his marker against his whiteboard. “No way can handle it before me.”
“Not afraid. They can just be put outside.”
“I agree! Jiang Cheng kills them! When I was growing up, I used to have fish and we’d have the snails and stuff in the tank- This has nothing to do with spiders.” He snorts at himself, shaking his head. “But Jiang Cheng never liked my fish so.” He laughs at himself but Lan Wangji gestures for him to continue and that is how he learns that Wei Wuxian likes aquariums and is afraid of dogs.
“When I was younger, a dog attacked me. Like, I was really young so it was terrifying and now, even if I hear a dog barking, it freaks me out.” He gestures wildly with his hands when he talks which is nice, Lan Wangji notes. “Like, bad freak out. Borderline panic attack bad.”
Good to know. Lan Wangji will be sure not to bother Wei Wuxian with any topic of dogs. “I… I like rabbits,” he confesses and Wei Wuxian smiles, saying he does too. “I’ve never owned a pet, though. Nothing when I was growing up.”
“Maybe we could start with fish,” Wei Wuxian says. “And rabbits… another time.”
Lan Wangji likes the sound of that. Two weeks of marriage isn’t so bad for them. They will get the handle on it soon enough.
***
Mornings in Lan Wangji’s apartment are not eventful but with Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji finds himself forgetting his routine so he can create a new formation. Wei Wuxian is hard to wake up since Lan Wangji hears three alarms go off just in the time he prepares his breakfast.
Wei Wuxian still works for the Jiangs. When he finally drags himself into the kitchen at six in the morning, he greets Lan Wangji sleepily, his eyes heavy. “I need… I need coffee. I tried to cut it out but I think I need it.”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t say more than that but his tired eyes explain more. So Lan Wangji comes home to a brand new coffee machine and probably is glad to find that it’s white, matching a lot of what he has in the kitchen already. “Wei Ying,” he greets behind him. “Is it what you wanted?”
“Yes, Lan Zhan. Here, come watch. I’ll show you how to make it.”
From that interaction, Wei Wuxian learns how Lan Wangji likes his tea. No milk, no sugar - similar to how Wei Wuxian likes his coffee. The little tidbits they pick up about each other do wonders for how familiar and comfortable they begin to feel, now that they’re not only married but living together.
The week is more lively once Wei Wuxian is sipping his coffee in the kitchen, his eyes closed to savour the taste. Lan Wangji does not speak much on any given day so he mills around his husband before they leave together, going their separate ways once they get to their cars. Wei Wuxian likes to drive himself to work and Lan Wangji has soon adapted to that too, so that they separate in the apartment garage.
It's one morning, a month or so into their marriage that Lan Wangji pauses in the kitchen when he notes that Wei Wuxian's morning routine has changed. Normally, the other takes at least three tries to get out of bed, grumbles as he dresses himself, leaves his hair to the last second, drinks his coffee for a good thirty minutes before he rushes to put his hair up, correct his jacket and put on his shoes. Then he’s out the door, bidding Lan Wangji farewell who’s been ready for the past twenty minutes waiting for him.
So meeting Wei Wuxian in the kitchen isn’t strange but him being there before Lan Wangji is. And he’s staring at his ring at breakfast as he sips his coffee, quizzing it on his finger. He knows Lan Wangji is there, confused by his presence but he keeps staring, right at his ring.
Lan Wangji glances at him and then at the clock and says, “Are you alright, Wei Ying?”
Wei Wuxian hums absentmindedly, dropping his hand. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking.” He looks up at Lan Wangji and smiles, his eyes tired. “Are you okay, Lan Zhan?”
“Yes,” he answers, tying his tie quickly. Wei Wuxian watches him before he smiles, standing up and Lan Wangji realises he’s not wearing a tie. “Do you not wear a tie?"
Has Lan Wangji never noticed that before? “Sometimes,” he says, looking in the mirror he placed in the walkway of the apartment. The apartment feels more lived in, now that Wei Wuxian has all his things lying around. “Not all the time. And today, I won’t.”
“Why not today?”
“Does my husband want me to wear a tie?” Lan Wangji stares at him until he grins, tying his hair up in a half ponytail. “But no, I don’t like wearing ties. Even when I do, it feels gross. Tight and… just not good, Lan Zhan. You have to agree with me, don’t you?”
Lan Wangji can understand that. He straightens his blazer over his shirt and buttons it, all of it coming together. “Then don’t wear one."
The conversation ends until they’re standing in the hallway, Lan Wangji with his briefcase and Wei Wuxian with an empty shoulderbag. He rarely has it filled and often calls himself a secretary which Lan Wangji has yet to laugh at but he does find it amusing.
“Well,” Wei Wuxian says, giving him a smile. “See you tonight, dear husband.”
“There’s wine in the fridge for you,” Lan Wangji says, opening the door for them both. Wei Wuxian chuckles to himself as he follows Lan Wangji down to the car. Wei Wuxian hasn’t made his way through the wedding present wines yet so Lan Wangji took the liberty of cooling one off for him, a crisp white wine that Wei Wuxian will probably love.
And he does, as evident when Lan Wangji is somewhat pressured into trying some over dinner but he refuses. Wei Wuxian pouts and sighs, setting his glass down. “Lan Zhan, really? It’s wine. It won’t kill you.”
“Yes, it will.”
“It’s wine! It’s-” He closes his eyes, his smile strained. “That was a joke, wasn’t it?” Lan Wangji says nothing. “You’re so unfunny, Lan Zhan. A child in that heart of yours, isn't there?”
Lan Wangji doesn’t respond. He’s got an awkward air around him now so Wei Wuxian looks at his wine before he swallows the rest of it in his glass and swallows loudly. “Lan Zhan,” he says, hushed as he tries not to make a strange sound. “You don’t have to drink around me, you know that, right?”
“I know that,” Lan Wangji answers. “That is why I said no. I… I don’t like alcohol and I cannot handle it at all. No one in my family can.”
“Then I won’t offer you it,” Wei Wuxian says seriously, leaning forward. “I’ll drink anything, especially if it’s wine and you know that. If you want me to, I’ll drink yours too.”
“If that ever comes up, you may.”
Wei Wuxian smirks. That’s a good role to have in the house. Certified wine drinker.
They’re both young men with no prior relationships to break off or maintain so going to work and coming home is mainly their routine. Clean up if you make a mess but you’re in charge of your own expenses and hobbies, so long as it doesn’t disturb the other.
But one of the first issues Wei Wuxian encounters is Lan Wangji’s bedroom, once again. Lan Wangji is not fussed by having to sleep on the couch. Wei Wuxian knows this but he's still somewhat bothered by it.
The bedroom brought him comfort at first. Everything smelled like Lan Wangji and it was the most lived in room in the whole apartment. It felt like a home, in the bedroom. It brought Wei Wuxian an overwhelming sense of peace and security, something he wasn't sure he would be able to have after becoming a sort of human accessory to Lan Wangji's life.
But the room smells like him now and it's dark. The windows shake when the wind is too strong and Wei Wuxian is acutely aware of every door on their floor opening and closing as people come and go from their own homes in the building.
It didn't bother him at first but working full time and waking up at six after sleeping at two at the earliest… It's beginning to weigh Wei Wuxian down. But the road to recovery starts when Lan Wangji wakes up to Wei Wuxian sitting at the kitchen bench, lost in thought.
At first, he's embarrassed. It's not often that his insomnia gets the better of him and if it does, he's good at hiding it. But living alone has made him weak to masking himself so Lan Wangji's presence makes him jump.
"Lan Zhan," he breathes, blinking at him. "Why are you awake?"
When Lan Wangji sleeps, he turns dead like a rock. So for him to be awake, looking down at Wei Wuxian at three in the morning… Wei Wuxian almost thinks he's a hallucination.
"The light from the microwave is on," he whispers and yes, it is. He microwaved a bit of fried rice to eat but gave up halfway, the bowl sitting abandoned in front of him. "Are you okay?"
"Can't sleep," Wei Wuxian whispers, giving a strained smile. "Might call into work sick. I haven't slept in a while."
"How long is a while to you?"
"Uh, a couple days?"
"That's normal for you."
Wei Wuxian sighs. He's a grown man and living with his husband. He doesn't need to be told to go to bed or that his routines aren't normal.
"Do you want to talk?" Lan Wangji asks, sitting beside him and that throws Wei Wuxian for a loop.
Jiang Yanli was the only one that really spoke to him during his insomnia episodes and even then, she would check in and go to sleep. Jiang Cheng is never helpful so Wei Wuxian has always been alone in these things. It's a fact of his life.
"I don't know," he confesses, staring at his hands. It takes a few more moments before he finds his voice to ask, "Can you make tea, Lan Zhan? I think I want to try it."
Without question, Lan Wangji stands up and readies a pot. He closes the microwave door softly before he flicks on the splashback lighting.
Lan Wangji sets a cup down in front of Wei Wuxian after some time. He says nothing, neither pushing nor prompting Wei Wuxian to speak. He sips his tea once before finally saying, "I will take work off tomorrow, if you want to stay home."
"You don't have to do that, Lan Zhan. It's just a little sleep deprivation."
"I'm awake right now."
Wei Wuxian pauses, looking up at him before he realises Lan Wangji is attempting to lie to his uncle and brother tomorrow for him. "You can do that?"
"What will they do, realistically?" Lan Wangji nods his head to the clock and ah, it's nearing four in the morning. "In two hours, I will call in sick because I have not slept."
"Won't they question you?" Wei Wuxian laughs. "Lan Zhan, I have a feeling you never get sick. Do you?”
Lan Wangji sits back where he was before, causing Wei Wuxian to look at him sideways. “I get the worst of it. The flu, chest infections… It’s not often but it does last.”
Wei Wuxian pouts at him, trying for cute. “Awh, poor Lan Zhan. But it’s good at least.” He smiles to himself, looking down at his tea. “But thank you for having my side.”
“Why would I challenge you?”
Wei Wuxian shrugs. He doesn’t really want to get into it and Lan Wangji can already tell when Wei Wuxian wants him to drop a conversation. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’m not used to being believed about these things. Though I guess it’s not really that difficult to believe me about insomnia when I’m… sitting here.”
“If you tell me something reasonable,” Lan Wangji says, looking right through him, “I will believe you, Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian smiles. Neither of them go back to bed, talking quietly as the sun rises and their tea grows cold. Wei Wuxian does try to nap half way through the day after turning his phone off since Jiang Cheng has been questioning him all day and he really doesn’t have it in him to have a screaming match with him.
He eventually wakes up to the smell of soup later in the day, his eyes bleary. He climbs out of bed to unpack his suitcase just to find his glasses and slip them on without any further thought. His eyes refocus a little and he blinks, screwing his eyes up before he finds Lan Wangji in the kitchen, at the stove with a big pot.
“It’s vegetarian,” he says before Wei Wuxian can even ask what kind of soup it is. “Hot and sour soup, but I used tofu instead of chicken.”
Wei Wuxian sits down at the benchtop, fixing his white shirt that’s a little too loose on his body. He rubs his eyes beneath his glasses and smiles through his yawn when Lan Wangji second guesses him, confused in a miniscule way.
“You wear glasses?”
Wei Wuxian’s ears flush a little. “Yeah, not often, though. Just when my eyes are strained and stuff, I guess. Like right now.” He’s not embarrassed per se but he really doesn’t wear his glasses very often so having them pointed out is a bit confronting. “Are they weird?”
They’re not the most flattering - thin rimmed silver things and if he wears them for too long, the arms start to hurt him behind the ears but Lan Wangji takes one good lookin at him, his eyes scanning, calculating before he simply says, “You look very nice.”
Wei Wuxian ducks his head, smiling a little to himself. “Thank you, Lan Zhan. I think you’d look nice in my glasses.” Lan Wangji shakes his head and turns off the stove but Wei Wuxian is at his front in seconds, looking up at him with a sly gleam in his eye.
Neither of them speak. Wei Wuxian takes his glasses off and slips them onto Lan Wangji’s face, his husband looking down at him calmly. He doesn’t move so Wei Wuxian doesn’t touch him more than he has to, drawing his hands away without messing up his hair.
“Told you,” Wei Wuxian whispers, feeling a strange sense of giddiness in his gut. “So pretty in your husband’s glasses, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji hums, deep in his chest and takes off the glasses. He slips them back onto Wei Wuxian’s face, drawing his fingers away and pulling Wei Wuxian’s hair gently with it. He looks at his face up and down once before he leans in and says, “Go sit down and I’ll serve the soup.”
If Wei Wuxian didn’t know any better, he’d think Lan Wangji was flirting. They’ve been married for a month and a half at this point but they are still… Are they strangers, actually? Wei Wuxian doesn’t know. They’re married - surely they have gotten past the strangers part of their relationship.
But Lan Wangji feels like… What does he feel like to Wei Wuxian? Maybe he feels like a friend, given that he’s serving him soup right now, complete with shining silver and a napkin. Wei Wuxian doesn’t know, yet.
But Lan Wangji lets him talk whenever he needs to. He can talk about anything without feeling embarrassed and Lan Wangji always listens. They’ve had to talk to each other often, given that they both work and now live full time with another person. It’s more than an awkward roommate interaction that spawns out of pure necessity.
He fixes Lan Wangji with a look, his bowl of soup in his lap. Lan Wangji turns on the television, flicking on something random but he hands Wei Wuxian the remote silently, pulling his soup into his own lap.
“I don’t think you’ll like what I watch,” Wei Wuxian says. He doesn’t know why he’s trying to test Lan Wangji.
“I don’t mind,” Lan Wangji says, tucking his hair behind his ears. Very cute habit. “If you want to watch something, I will watch it with you.”
“Do you even watch television?”
“No, not often. I like movies.”
Wei Wuxian checks what he can find and puts on Word of Honor, even though he knows that they both really should pay attention to the storyline. But still, he sips the hot soup and suddenly is marveled by the taste.
“Lan Zhan!” he hisses, barely managing to keep the soup in his mouth. “This is really fuckin’ good!”
“Then eat it quietly,” Lan Wangji chastises. It’s lighthearted but basic table manners so Wei Wuxian hides his smile behind his bowl and sips the soup until it's all gone.
***
“Newlywed game,” Lan Wangji says when Wei Wuxian comes home from work, waiting on the couch for him. The apartment is so damn clean, the benchtops basically gleaming which means Lan Wangji has been home for some time. It’s eight in the evening now and Wei Wuxian should have been home an hour ago but Jiang Cheng makes his problems everyone else’s so he got cursed today.
He scratches his nose, taking a slow breath. “Ask me, Lan Zhan,” he answers, exhausted out of his mind but he drops his shoulder bag and lazily flips himself over the couch. He ends up with his legs off the couch and his head pulled on the arm rest.
Lan Wangji feels refreshed, at the very least. “What would you have as your last meal on earth?” he asks quietly.
“Hm… Lotus root and rib soup. My sister makes the best kind. I should have her make it for you sometime.”
Lan Wangji nods, keeping that for himself. He’s been at work too, but came home early since his brother wanted to finish early anyways. It’s Friday and Lan Xichen has somehow ended up with Nie Huaisang at his apartment, little brother sitting while Nie Mingjue is out of the country on business.
They ask each other a few more questions (Wei Wuxian has the worst handwriting out of the two of them because Lan Wangji is trained in calligraphy.
Who the fuck is trained in calligraphy?
his husband muttered) until Wei Wuxian seems to be too tired to wittily reply so Lan Wangji tells him to go to bed.
“Can…” Wei Wuxian scratches his scarred eyebrow, looking around. “Can you come into the room and stay until I sleep?”
Lan Wangji looks at him, tracing his eyes over him. Wei Wuxian’s shoulders are sagged and he’s not wearing a tie but his hair is flat and he probably needs his glasses. He looks like he’s been yelled at all day, honestly and if that’s showing, it’s probably not far from the truth.
Lan Wangji stands up and follows him into his bedroom. He has not been in here aside from retrieving his clothes for work. Wei Wuxian is living out of his suitcase so instead of sitting down while Wei Wuxian tries to sleep, he goes through his own chest of drawers and decides what he can move so Wei Wuxian can live with a little more order and familiarity.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian whines from the bed, immediately yawning. “Come on… It’s a mess and my clothes- Some of them need to be hung up.”
“Some of them are hanging up,” Lan Wangji answers, knowing Wei Wuxian has a few slacks and dress shirts for work in his closet already. Wei Wuxian doesn’t own any ties and Lan Wangji is a sensible man - he leaves Wei Wuxian’s underwear where it is for him to sort when he wakes up.
“Go to sleep,” he says quietly, looking over his shoulder.
Wei Wuxian can’t even respond. He’s already got his eyes closed and his breathing is evening out, his head pillowed on his arm. It’s an awkward position but Lan Wangji has a feeling Wei Wuxian is used to falling asleep in strange places. He hopes his neck and back won’t be sore tomorrow.
It’s a small nap but Lan Wangji is able to neatly pack Wei Wuxian’s clothes away and sort his own clothes to give Wei Wuxian more room. Wei Wuxian wakes up as Lan Wangji is going through his wardrobe and he must not have realised the time because Wei Wuxian says, “It’s past ten.”
“Ah,” Lan Wangji says suddenly, coming back to himself. “S… I’m sorry. Goodnight, Wei Ying.” He’s suddenly embarrassed, his ears hot but Wei Wuxian smiles, soft and tired. “Will you be okay, if I leave?”
“Yeah,” Wei Wuxian whispers, his dark eyes so warm. “Goodnight, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji really must be tired if he lost track of time. He never forgets himself like that but he almost forgot Wei Wuxian was asleep behind him, so used to his presence already.
He looks at the calendar pinned to the kitchen wall, noting the date. It will be almost two months since they got married and oddly enough, Lan Wangji’s phone conveniently reminds him of the photos from that day when he checks it for overdue emails.
They don’t look unhappy but there is one photo that the photographer got and Lan Wangji feels too happy seeing it. Wei Wuxian is smiling, their hands clasped together on a knife as they cut the cake. Lan Wangji remembers how Wei Wuxian took a clump of cake and fed him it, his cheeks red. Wei Wuxian looks so beautiful in red. The colour looks like it should be made for him, bringing out everything about him.
“Sorry,”
Wei Wuxian laughed that day and wiped the corner of Lan Wangji’s mouth where he smeared cake and when he thinks about it, his chest feels warm.
No, it’s not happening. Lan Wangji is a grown man. He doesn’t have a crush.
***
Work is boring.
“Work is
boring,
” he whines to Jiang Cheng who looks at him over his documents. Wei Wuxian has been sitting in Jiang Cheng’s office for the past hour, highlighting whatever policies he deems necessary so Jiang Cheng can put through whatever deal he’s supposed to represent to the Jin family.
“It would go quicker if you did your work,” Jiang Cheng responds, looking to his computer. There’s a notification and he squints, dropping his documents on the desk. “Get up. We have to go to mom’s office.”
“Why?” Wei Wuxian blurts out, leaning forward. He can’t imagine anything worse showing up on a schedule. “Do I have to come?”
“She just emailed and said to bring Wei Wuxian.” His brother pins him with a stare and Wei Wuxian throws his head back, groaning outloud. “Did you fuck up your marriage?”
“No! I don’t know how I could have. I made breakfast this morning, thank you.”
“Was it edible?”
“You’re one to talk,” Wei Wuxian spits, shoving his brother through the office door. Jiang Cheng shoves him back, into a wall and they keep going until Yu Ziyuan can see them through her glass door office. She looks up and Wei Wuxian elbows Jiang Cheng one last time before they slip inside.
Jiang Yanli is sitting in front of her mother’s desk, Jin Zixuan standing behind her with his hands on the back of her chair. He looks to the brothers and greets them politely with a dip of his head. He rarely speaks in Yu Ziyuan’s presence and all of them are painfully aware of it.
“Good afternoon, jiejie,” Jiang Cheng says, sitting down in front of the desk. “Jin Zixuan, good to see you.”
“Alright,” Yu Ziyuan says, pulling off her glasses to look at her daughter. “What is this about, A-Li? It must be important for your husband to be here, too.” Jin Zixuan opens his mouth but Yu Ziyuan pins him with a hard stare, silently telling him to keep quiet. “What is it, A-Li?”
“She’s pregnant,” Jin Zixuan blurts, immediately covering his mouth. Jiang Cheng glares at him in disbelief, turning to Jiang Yanli as she sighs. She definitely wanted to be the one to tell them, especially her own mother.
Wei Wuxian stands there, confused. Pregnant? So then- “Wait, how far along are you?”
“Shut up, Wei Wuxian,” Yu Ziyuan spits, slamming her hand on the table. “This is a Jiang matter, now. You can leave-”
“Mother,” Jiang Yanli says, looking at her mother with wide eyes. Jin Zixuan must be more scared, judging from how his hand is on her shoulder, shaking like a leaf. “I want A-Xian here. That’s why I requested him.” She looks to Wei Wuxian and smiles softly. “Close to three months. I… I had a feeling at the wedding but it was way too soon to know. I took a test a week later and… Well, I didn’t want to speak too soon.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, his face heating up. He feels like he should be crying but Jiang Cheng slumps in his chair, breathing heavily. Jiang Yanli takes his hand and he starts to smile, an awkward twist to his mouth like he can’t be sure what to do but it’s sweet.
“The… Boy or a girl?” he asks, hissing when Wei Wuxian slaps him in the back of the head. “What? I want to know.”
“Yes,” Yu Ziyuan says, folding her hands over each other. Wei Wuxian is surprised Jin Zixuan hasn’t shit his pants yet. “We can speak of names then.”
“Oh, no,” Jiang Yanli says, looking up at Jin Zixuan in panic. “It’s… It’s too soon for that, I think. It’s a boy… At least I think he is.” The two of them share a look, Jiang Yanli’s hand touching her husband’s on her shoulder and Jin Zixuan takes a breath, kissing her head quickly.
“Wei Wuxian,” Jin Zixuan says in a rush as he stands up straight, nodding to him. “Walk with me. We’re not needed here.”
Wei Wuxian glares at him, but Yu Ziyuan doesn’t comment so she’s clearly eager to get rid of them both. Jiang Yanli smiles, trying to keep the peace so Wei Wuxian accepts the invitation. He doesn’t want Yu Ziyuan to yell at him, just like anyone else.
Jin Zixuan looks around and finds an empty office, inviting him in to talk. As soon as the door closes, he starts talking. “Baobei wanted to ask you for names but Madam Yu will… rip off your head and probably mine if I said that in front of her.”
“She asked you?” Wei Wuxian hisses, blinking at him. Names? What names? Why
him?
“For… For names? Why? Why me?”
Jin Zixuan smiles, just a little and God, he looks so happy. Wei Wuxian is surprised he was able to keep this a secret for so long. Three whole months… Jiang Yanli must have threatened him. “She figured you would be able to come up with something nice and I agree.”
Wei Wuxian looks to the notepad on the desk and sits down, grabbing a pen. He stares at it for a few moments, piecing together names and meanings before he writes
Jin Rulan
and tears the paper, handing it to Jin Zixuan.
Jin Zixuan gazes at the paper, mouthing the name. “Jin Rulan…
Like an orchid?
”
“Raise him to live by this name,” Wei Wuxian says, smiling softly. He’s surprised he came up with that on the spot but he knows the name meanings of the Jin’s and that given that this will be the first child of Jin Zixuan’s generation, Ru will be the chosen prefix. “A gentleman cultivates his own morals which do not change from misfortune.”
Jin Zixuan nods, folding the paper and tucking it into the breast pocket of his suit. “I understand. He will honour this name, Wei Wuxian. I promise.”
Wei Wuxian snorts, standing up from the desk. “Promise your wife, not me. Go back to her before Madam Yu blows a fuse.”
Jin Zixuan’s eyes widen and he basically sprints out of the office, leaving Wei Wuxian to return to his own desk. But when he returns, the time is four and he decides he’s going to go home. Yu Ziyuan is going to be busy for the rest of the day and Wei Wuxian already wasn’t doing work when he was sitting in Jiang Cheng’s office so there’s not a point in staying.
He checks his phone as he leaves and decides to text Lan Wangji. He doesn’t use his phone often so Wei Wuxian usually leaves him meaningless messages just to be annoying. But he texts him,
are you free?
and Lan Wangji reads it immediately.
No, but it does not matter. What is it?
Meet me for a late lunch?
Are you okay?
Wei Wuxian huffs a laugh.
Yeah, I’m fine. Got some news that I want to tell you now.
Do you want me to go home?
Relax, Lan Zhan. Just meet me in the lobby of your building.
It’s funny, actually. Wei Wuxian waits in the lobby, scratching his neck nervously and a few people greet him warmly which confuses him but Lan Wangji walks through the lobby, scanning his ID and meets Wei Wuxian in the corner of the room.
“Good afternoon, Wei Ying,” he greets, his hands behind his back. Ever so polite, this handsome man. “Do you want to eat?”
“Yeah, that’d be good.” Wei Wuxian watches as Lan Wangji opens the building door for him. There’s a coffee cart nearby that Lan Wangji seems to not be bothered by and Wei Wuxian figures that makes sense due to how the silver of the metal gleams. Very clean.
Lan Wangji hands him a muffin and Wei Wuxian grins, breaking it in half to give his husband the other half. “Come on, Lan Zhan. It’s blueberry. You’ll like it.” Lan Wangji takes a breath and eats some of it, tilting his head. “Good, yeah?”
“It’s nice,” Lan Wangji admits, swallowing it. “What did you want to talk about?”
Wei Wuxian has barely processed it all but he smiles and says, “My sister’s pregnant. I… It’s a boy, they think, and I named him.”
Lan Wangji’s expression shifts. He smiles just a little, his lips parting to ask questions. “That’s good news, Wei Ying. What name did you give him?”
“Jin Rulan.” He writes in the air how it’s spelt. It’s a little messy and Lan Wangji’s eyebrow twitches as he follows Wei Wuxian’s finger but he seems to understand well enough.
Lan Wangji nods, his eyes slipping closed for a moment. “Like an orchid. A very beautiful name. How far along is she?”
They start to walk together slowly, steam going out of the manholes and the sound of cars around them. “Almost three months. I didn’t get to ask many questions since she was telling my brother and Madam Yu at the same time.”
Lan Wangji furrows his brows a touch but they leave it at that. Wei Wuxian’s disdain for the woman isn’t what should be discussed right now. “I’m glad she trusted you to name him. He will have a lot of heart with that name.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, pausing at the lobby of the building. He looks up at the damn skyscraper of a building and Lan Wangji folds his half of the muffin and hands it to Wei Wuxian. “Nuh uh, no way. Keep it, Lan Zhan. Maybe we can make desserts sometime.”
Lan Wangji takes a breath. “I don’t eat sweets.”
“When was the last time you ate sweets before this muffin?”
Lan Wangji opens his mouth, presumably to say
never
but that doesn’t fuel his point at all. He licks his lips and presses them together. “You win. If you’re going home, buy some ingredients and we can make some things.”
Wei Wuxian hums, fixing his shoulderbag. “When are you coming home?” Saying that makes him nervous, his cheeks threatening to flame. “I don’t bake a lot and it’s hard so I’d rather you there, Lan Zhan. Plus, it’s a fun activity. Married couples do it all the time.”
Lan Wangji raises his eyebrows once, nodding along. “Then I will be home at seven.”
Hm. He stops Lan Wangji with a hand on his wrist. “Do you want dinner?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head. “I’ll bring it home. Don’t overdo it, Wei Ying. I will see you tonight.”
Wei Wuxian draws away from him, touching his hand. He waves to him and Lan Wangji waits until he calls a cab before walking back into work. It’s a little thing that Wei Wuxian can’t help but keep close to his heart. It’s nice to know when someone wants him to be safe.
He shops for basic baking supplies. He gets some fruit just in case either of them want to attempt to make a pie but as soon as Wei Wuxian has that thought, he dismisses it. Pie is off the table since neither of them bake at all. It wouldn’t even be funny to see the outcome, just sad.
Lan Wangji is probably good at following recipes so Wei Wuxian will leave that to him. He gets a bottle of wine for himself and heads home, unloading the groceries. He pours himself a glass and waits in the kitchen, smiling when the front door opens right on seven.
“As expected,” Wei Wuxian says around the rim of his wine glass. He takes in his husband who looks the same as he did at four o’clock but still beautiful. “Good evening, dear husband.”
“Good evening,” Lan Wangji responds, setting down his briefcase. “Let me change first.”
Wei Wuxian sorts out the ingredients, tucking his hair behind his ears before he just ties it up in a bun on his head, his bangs hanging around his eyes. Lan Wangji comes out of the bedroom with a headband keeping his hair off his face aside from his bangs.
“Do you want to wear a white shirt?” Wei Wuxian asks but flour is white and his own shirt is black so maybe he should change. “Ah, doesn’t matter, Lan Zhan. What do you want to make?”
Lan Wangji gazes at the bananas and apples, squinting slightly. “Did you think about making a pie?”
“Yes but I didn’t buy pastry for it and I’m sure as fuck not making dough.”
Lan Wangji’s lip quirks before he grabs a banana from the bunch. “Banana bread.” He taps the tablet he keeps in the kitchen, pulling up a quick recipe. Lan Wangji types with all his fingers, his big hands splayed over the keyboard which is another detail Wei Wuxian noticed quickly. Wei Wuxian watches his fingers move with great interest, not quite straying to other thoughts until he has to look at Lan Wangji and fake innocence.
“You have a look,” Lan Wangji says simply. “In your eyes.”
Wei Wuxian squints, smiling slyly. “What look is that, Lan Zhan?”
“You tell me, Wei Ying. You’re looking at my hands.”
“You have very pretty hands,” Wei Wuxian admits, raising his eyebrows. “Did you want me to lie?”
Lan Wangji says nothing. He turns to his bananas again and says, “Turn the oven on, Wei Ying.”
“Sure, captain,” Wei Wuxian grins. He does whatever Lan Wangji tells him, letting him follow the recipe because Wei Wuxian will definitely misread something and rush the whole thing. He cuts the bananas as Lan Wangji measures and mixes. They chat idly when Wei Wuxian wants to and within half an hour, Wei Wuxian is pushing banana bread batter into the oven.
“Yes!” he shouts, shooting up and raising his hand. Lan Wangji blinks at him before he high fives him softly. Wei Wuxian grips his hand and shakes it. “We’re so good together, Lan Zhan. Should we take over the world?”
Lan Wangji squeezes his hand. “If you want to, Wei Ying.”
“I do. I think we should. You and me against the world could be pretty good, yeah?”
“Yes,” Lan Wangji says, shaking his hand in return. “You’re fine after the news today?”
Wei Wuxian snorts, lifting himself onto the benchtop as they wait. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m not married to Jin Zixuan and I’m not pregnant so… And I’m glad that… That shijie let me name him. When everyone is against me, I’m glad she’s on my side.”
“You’re her brother,” Lan Wangji whispers, leaning against the benchtop by his hip. “It is what I would do for my brother, too.”
As they talk, it starts to piece together like a timeline in Wei Wuxian’s brain. Jiang Yanli is pregnant. Jin Zixuan blurted it out before Yu Ziyuan could even know it from her own daughter and they trusted Wei Wuxian enough to let him name their unborn son. “Madam Yu didn’t even want me in that room,” he says quietly. “She… Shijie asked for me. Madam Yu would have never told me if it had been up to her.”
Lan Wangji isn’t often in this position, Wei Wuxian can tell. Family means everything to him, given how fondly he talks of his brother and that Lan Xichen does the same. Family means everything to Wei Wuxian too but not so much to the family he made his way into.
But Lan Wangji always listens when he talks so Wei Wuxian just keeps blabbering. “Jiang Cheng and I were really close growing up. Like best friends, I guess. But I don’t know. Ever since the company was entrusted to him, it just died. Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m worth to him.”
Lan Wangji threads his fingers together in front of himself, humming once. “I think… that Jiang Wanyin’s demeanor has been tested by his mother. She’s harsh on him too, though that’s not to invalidate your experience, Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian supposes that’s true. Yu Ziyuan raised Jiang Cheng with an iron fist and he is his mother’s son, through and through. “Ah, nevermind it. I’m sorry for dumping this on you. It’s a lot for both of us.”
“You are my husband,” Lan Wangji responds, looking at him softly. “I vowed that I would always listen to you.”
Wei Wuxian ducks his head to smile. “You really know how to make a man feel all giddy and tingly.” His eyes light up and he grips Lan Wangji’s shoulder, shaking him a little. “Hey, that reminds me. We haven’t talked about past relationships yet.”
Lan Wangji drifts away from him and that means he’s embarrassed. Anytime he won’t meet Wei Wuxian’s eyes, he’s embarrassed. “Lan Zhan,” he drawls, jumping off the bench and grabbing his wine to follow him. “Lan Zhan! Come on, it’s a normal question.”
“No, it’s not,” he answers, walking to his music room just to get away.
Oh, no. That won’t do at all. “Lan Zhan!”
“Wei
Ying
!”
“Come on, you’re not actually mad, are you?”
“No. But I don’t want to answer.”
“Why?” Wei Wuxian mock gasps, shoving the door open when Lan Wangji tries to close it on him. “Do you have a scandalous past?”
“No!” Lan Wangji hisses, turning his back to Wei Wuxian but he can’t escape now, unless he wants to mess up his music room. Lan Wangji would never do that so Wei Wuxian has won. “It’s nothing like that. It’s… Do we have to talk about this?”
“No,” Wei Wuxian offers, sipping his wine just for a pause in the conversation. “But I would like to know so I can know my husband better.” He’s being devious, he knows and Lan Wangji knows it too, judging from how he glares at Wei Wuxian.
“Your husband…” Lan Wangji sighs, shaking his head. He’s been defeated. “I have… I have never been with someone before. Please don’t laugh.”
Wei Wuxian goes to put his wine glass down but thinks better of it. He finds a blank sheet of paper and places his glass on it. “Why would I laugh?” He looks up at his husband, stepping closer to him. “Lan Zhan, you don’t have to be embarrassed. Did you think I would be embarrassed of you?”
Lan Wangji averts his eyes, searching for something. No contact means he’s still embarrassed. “I don’t know. I’m… Have you been with someone?”
“No,” Wei Wuxian admits, trying to stop his smile so Lan Wangji won’t think he’s laughing at him. “Nothing serious. This is my first… I guess it’s my first real relationship and we’re already married.”
Lan Wangji stares at him, a furrow to his brow. He really must not be thinking because he blurts, “But you are so beautiful.”
Wei Wuxian flushes, high on his cheeks. He’s normally good at these kinds of things - he’s not stupid. He knows he’s attractive but to hear it from Lan Wangji, said like he’s something so precious, that he can’t believe no one has gotten to him before him… It’s a bit much.
Wait, before him? He and Lan Wangji aren’t dating despite being married. But Wei Wuxian can’t lie, Lan Wangji is gorgeous and there’s nothing Wei Wuxian can do to deny that. But he takes a breath, smiles at Lan Wangji and says, “You’re beautiful too. How have you gone this long without someone snatching you up, Lan Zhan?”
Lan Wangji blinks at him, slow but open. Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what he’s doing but Lan Wangji looks so enticing, beautiful and open. It’s almost too much to look at him but Wei Wuxian can’t stop. Everything about Lan Wangji is intriguing, from the way he stands to his long eyelashes that Wei Wuxian knows is a Lan trait because Lan Xichen has the same eyes.
“I…” Lan Wangji is finally looking at him, amber eyes almost shining with flecks of gold. He won’t speak, even if he’s looking at Wei Wuxian but that just gives him free reign to say whatever he wants.
“You’re very pretty, Lan Zhan,” he breathes, too close to Lan Wangji but neither of them pull away. He can taste the wine still on his tongue. Can Lan Wangji smell it on him? Does he mind? “Are we… What-”
He doesn’t know what he’s about to ask but the oven beeps and he inhales sharply, realizing where he is. He remembers himself and takes his wine glass, leaving Lan Wangji in his music room all in a rush.
What the fuck is he
doing?
He only has a moment of clarity to pull the oven open with an oven mitt and put the banana bread on the counter so he doesn’t burn the fucking house down. Fuck! Is he insane? He was going to kiss Lan Wangji!
God, you are so fucking dumb, Wei Wuxian!
he spits to himself, shaking his head. He pours himself another glass of wine before he just grabs the whole bottle and races to his room, away from everything. What is wrong with him?
Lan Wangji doesn’t come out of the music room and that alone is enough to answer the unspoken question of whether or not Wei Wuxian completely fucked that up. Wei Wuxian finishes the bottle, his head in his hands and he falls asleep drunk, knowing he’ll have a headache in the morning.
He misses Lan Wangji in the morning, the two of them operating at different times. They don't speak and Wei Wuxian is content to let it all go. Was Lan Wangji even aware of what he was about to do? Surely not or he would have stopped him, right?
Wei Wuxian stays in bed all day, hoping the sheets won't smell like wine. He falls in and out of sleep, wasted and fitful until Lan Wangji finally comes home and knocks on his door, startling him out of his feelings.
"Wei Ying," he says softly and God, why does he have to say his name like that? "There's takeout on the counter. Are you sick?"
"No," Wei Wuxian croaks. He feels sick. "Is that what you think?"
"I'm not angry with you. The banana bread hasn't been eaten."
Wei Wuxian knows that it likely took Lan Wangji all day to figure out how to say. But the feeling is there -
You did not scare me away. You and I are fine.
Was it even scary to Lan Wangji? What did he feel? He didn’t pull away but did he even know?
Wei Wuxian has almost kissed his husband who, whatever many months ago, he didn’t think twice about at all. They weren’t friends, not even really close acquaintances. He overstepped and he’s damn sorry but Lan Wangji isn’t angry.
So why does Wei Wuxian feel so guilty?
He opens the door, startling Lan Wangji a touch and says, "Thank you." It’s all he can say right now. It’s all he has the courage to say, really.
"You smell like wine," Lan Wangji says bluntly, back to his regular tone but he doesn’t say it to make Wei Wuxian self conscious. He says it like he says everything - as if it’s a simple fact of life. "Go eat and wash up after. I'll be out once I change."
Wei Wuxian leaves the wine bottle in the room for Lan Wangji to find. It's not hard to guess he's been in bed all day.
But as he eats pad thai with enough jalapenos to make him sweat the alcohol out, Lan Wangji sits next to him, eats his own pad thai and asks Wei Wuxian about his day.
"I bought paint," Lan Wangji says when there's a lull, after he's swallowed his food. "I asked your sister what you usually like to do and she said painting."
Wei Wuxian can't help the warmth in his chest. He smiles to himself, sorting through his pad thai so his hands don't shake and sighs. "Lan Zhan… Lan Zhan. You are too good. It's cheating to go to siblings."
"You have a free pass to my brother."
Wei Wuxian will keep that in mind. Lan Xichen is way more talkative than Wei Wuxian's dear husband, anyways.
***
Sleeping on the couch doesn’t bother Lan Wangji but his back is a little irritated. He’ll prevail like he always does, though. Tea to help him sleep, a safe home to relax him. He’ll be fine, really. And it’s better that Wei Wuxian has a bed and somewhere to lock himself away if he wants to be alone.
This apartment wasn’t his home so Lan Wangji figures his bedroom being Wei Wuxian’s is the next best thing. For a while, it works. Wei Wuxian doesn’t fight him about it and is content to sleep alone. Lan Wangji doesn’t offer anything otherwise.
That’s why it’s strange that with Wei Wuxian’s track record of not sleeping too well that Lan Wangji wakes up to the sound of him whimpering from his bedroom.
At first, Lan Wangji doesn’t move. What is he to do? But there seems to be low mutterings that border on shouts after a few moments so Lan Wangji stands up to check on his husband. He doesn’t really know what to do. His own nightmares when he was a child were always soothed by his mother until she was gone and then Lan Xichen picked up the task.
Lan Wangji hasn’t had a nightmare since he was young. Wei Wuxian hasn’t had any nightmares up until now so why now? Has something happened?
“Wei Ying,” he whispers once, kneeling by the side of the bed. Wei Wuxian’s brow is furrowed, his hands screwed into fists in his sleep. “Wei Ying, I’m here.”
“No…” Wei Wuxian mumbles, his expression clearing for a second before he scowls again, his fingers clenching. He doesn’t speak again, just mumbles and groans to himself, his breath hitching on the odd occasion like he’s struggling to breathe or he’s suddenly been hit.
Lan Wangji leaves the door open a crack, goes to his music room and starts to play his guqin. It should be loud enough to soothe Wei Wuxian but not wake him up if Lan Wangji is careful. He won’t play anything extensive but if it helps then Lan Wangji will remember it.
Wei Wuxian makes another noise of pain so Lan Wangji begins to pluck the strings into a soothing melody he knows his brother once played for him when he was fifteen. The song isn’t long but it isn’t short and with every note, he weaves a pattern of story through the air, his eyes slipping closed.
He knows these songs better than he knows himself. They have been played for him, taught to him for him to gift to those he trusts and now, it’s only fitting that Lan Wangji be playing this to soothe his husband, circumstances be damned.
When he reaches the song’s end, he begins another that his uncle played when he took Lan Wangji and his brother in after their parents passed. It was not sad, despite the occasion. The song was loving and cherishing and Lan Wangji cried the whole time, silently in his room as his brother asked for the sheet music.
Lan Wangji plays the guqin until that familiar sting ignites his fingertips, his emotions colouring the stories he performs. He opens his eyes slowly, shifting his arms and looks up through the haze of his mind to his husband waiting at the door, watching him with curious eyes.
“You’re awake,” Lan Wangji says, not stopping his playing until the song is over.
“I wanted to know what you were doing,” he answers softly, walking into the room. “I was having nightmares but they stopped.”
“Do you remember the nightmares?”
“Sometimes. When they’re really bad, it’s imprinted on my mind.”
“Are you still scared?”
Wei Wuxian sits besides him, sitting more on his hip than anything. “No, not anymore. Your songs are beautiful, Lan Zhan.”
“I did not write them. But yes, they are.”
Wei Wuxian stifles his yawn, his black eyes so tired. He gazes at Lan Wangji, exhausted but his eyes are thankful and he leans his head on Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “Lan Zhan… Play more. It’s so pretty.”
Lan Wangji does just that. If it will soothe Wei Wuxian and put him to sleep then he can do that.
It’s somewhat of a routine from there. Wei Wuxian sleeps better, if at all, if Lan Wangji helps him with his music. It’s easier, since Lan Wangji can practise while it soothes Wei Wuxian. He gets his few hours of practise in during the week and helps Wei Wuxian sleep in the process, something that has become something lost to him over his entire life.
Of course, it doesn’t always work and those days are hard, when Wei Wuxian is horribly tired, bags under his eyes even though he just cannot sleep. Those days make Lan Wangji anxious too, especially when Wei Wuxian goes quiet and barely wants to eat. He still gets up in the morning and goes to work and on worse days, he goes to bed drunk just so he can finally
sleep.
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says quietly one night, when his song has finished and his husband is dozing, his head dropping down occasionally as he fights the sleep. “Go to sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
Wei Wuxian looks up slowly, rubbing one eye before he yawns. He looks tired, but only in the sense that he will fall asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow. Lan Wangji is quite pleased with that.
“Okay,” Wei Wuxian mumbles, fighting through another yawn. “Okay, Lan Zhan… Goodnight.”
His nightmares still occur, but less frequently. When Lan Wangji wakes up to the sound of his husband groaning from whatever has plagued his unconscious mind, he plays a song until the sounds stop and Wei Wuxian can sleep again. It’s protection, in the purest form. A secret shared between them that Lan Wangji can now soothe the pain of.
It gives him pride, in a way. Lan Wangji doesn’t mind staying up for another half hour to soothe his husband back to sleep, for the sake of both of their minds.
***
Wei Wuxian doesn’t think Lan Wangji is boring but he is a little bit… plain. He dresses in basic colours, keeps his hair neat and tidy and though he’s very attractive, it’s a bit easy to look past him, even when you get to know him.
But Wei Wuxian has changed his mind on him. Lan Wangji likes to cook, he likes rabbits and tea. If he could, he’d make his own tea which is one of his passions. He can’t drink, let alone handle alcohol and he’s very musically inclined.
Wei Wuxian knows that he cannot possibly know everything there is to know about Lan Wangji in their limited time together. He can only know what Lan Wangji allows him to be privy to. He was content with that. Key word being
was
.
Lan Wangji is tall - Wei Wuxian knows this. There isn’t a lot that Lan Wangji cannot reach in the kitchen and it’s his kitchen. He knows what he can and can’t reach but there’s a teapot he seems to have forgotten about which could possibly have been a wedding gift that both of them disregarded because of the many gifts.
Wei Wuxian isn’t a teenager. He can control himself in the presence of an attractive man but he chokes on his food when Lan Wangji’s shirt rides up and all Wei Wuxian sees is
ink.
Lan Wangji sets the teapot on the bench and turns to him since he’s coughing a lung out but he wheezes, points in Lan Wangji’s general direction and gasps out, “Tattoos?”
Lan Wangji’s eyes widen a fraction and he looks away, to the teapot like it’s betrayed him. He doesn’t say anything, his demeanor completely shifting. Wei Wuxian realises that he’s
shy
, his ears going bright red.
“Lan
Zhan!
” he basically barks, staring at him. “You have
tattoos.”
“Don’t speak of it,” Lan Wangji says, turning to the sink as if that will help his case. Wei Wuxian doesn’t pull up his shirt or try to touch him - he has more decency than that but he peers at Lan Wangji whose hands grip the edge of the sink, his eyes averted from Wei Wuxian. “Wei Ying, it’s-”
“Personal?” he offers, his eyes bright. “I can tell if you’re reacting like this. Can you tell me what they are, at least?”
Lan Wangji swallows thickly and looks at Wei Wuxian, golden eyes searching for some kind of judgment. “It’s one tattoo. It’s… It’s a dragon with flowers surrounding it. I never show it.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Wei Wuxian can’t help his eyes raking over Lan Wangji’s clothed back, curious because he’s desperately human. But he lifts his hand and pats Lan Wangji’s shoulder, drawing him back to look at him. “I’m sorry I saw?”
“No,” Lan Wangji rushes out, shaking his head. “It… I’m sorry for acting the way I did. You did nothing wrong.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, stepping back to give him a little bit of space. “If you want to show me some day, I’d be very happy. But no pressure. I don’t have any tattoos to exchange with you so I hope that’s okay.”
“I would not ask for anything in return.” Lan Wangji doesn’t say anything more, averting his eyes again. He’s uncomfortable to be put on the spot so Wei Wuxian just shrugs and takes his bowl to the lounge room to watch whatever show he can quickly put on.
He hears Lan Wangji sigh to himself and smiles when the sink turns on. Nice to know that it’s very easy to make him that flustered.
Their conversations are relatively normal nowadays, like two old friends that know too much about each other. They’re still learning but they gift each other as much information as they can when they talk. They wake up at the same time more often than not and go to work, come home and cook together if they can be bothered which is a pastime that has become a favourite for the both of them.
If Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to go to work, he stays home and Lan Wangji either takes the day off with him or tries to get home as early as he can. They watch whatever shows they can binge and when Wei Wuxian has meetings about how his relationship is going, he doesn’t have to lie.
In addition to the meetings, Lan Xichen has been in Wei Wuxian’s building quite often. He and Jiang Cheng are apparently trying to settle who gets what division of shares as they merge other branches of the companies or something - Wei Wuxian doesn’t know, nor does he care but Lan Xichen can’t pull out of the deal since Wei Wuxian has married his younger brother.
It’s been four months since they were married and it’s a random Tuesday that Wei Wuxian decides he doesn’t want to go to work. He tells Lan Wangji so when he walks into his bedroom to get himself ready for work, not expecting much of an answer.
Wei Wuxian watches his husband for a few moments, already sitting up in bed. Lan Wangji says good morning to him and moves on, picking out his clothes for today before Wei Wuxian says, “Let me dress you,” and grins at him. He’s failing at being sneaky since Lan Wangji knows exactly what he wears. Case and point since Lan Wangji holds the shirt Wei Wuxian is holding as he kneels on the bed, blinking up at his husband.
“This shirt is sheer.”
“Yeah, all my shirts are sheer.”
“No,” Lan Wangji answers, looking at him with a hard stare and Wei Wuxian pulls an awkward face at him. “Not all of them. If you want to see my tattoos, you can ask me, Wei Ying.”
Well, that wasn’t the answer he expected but he can work with it. At least Lan Wangji seems to be over his initial shock of Wei Wuxian seeing his tattoos. “Can you just let me be seduced?”
“Is that what you think seduction is?” He shakes the sheer shirt between them and Wei Wuxian grins, tugging on it. “Wei Ying, we are married. If you want to see my tattoos, you can ask me.”
“Okay,” Wei Wuxian says, sitting down on his legs. He shuffles back and pats the bed so Lan Wangji sits down and pulls his shirt over his head and Wei Wuxian inhales sharply.
His tattoos decorate all of his back in a huge dragon. It’s all black and white, flowers that decorate the space surrounding the beast. His entire back is tattooed and there are scars beneath the ink that Wei Wuxian smooths his fingers over curiously. They are white lines, so faint in the black ink but Wei Wuxian can see the little white streaks. They’re a part of the tattoo, beneath the surface but still there.
Lan Wangji shivers as Wei Wuxian explores the ink and he glances over his shoulder to Wei Wuxian. “The scars… It is difficult to explain, if you can see them.”
“Then don’t,” Wei Wuxian whispers, his hand laying over the dragon’s head in a way he hopes is comforting. “You don’t owe me anything, Lan Zhan. But I really like your tattoos.”
“I owe you something, as your husband.”
“No,” Wei Wuxian tuts, pressing his finger into Lan Wangji’s shoulder just to make him squirm. “Are we husbands first, friends second? Don’t treat this subject as if I deserve to know. I’m removed from that part of your life and just because we’re married doesn’t mean you owe it to me to tell me your life story, woes and all.”
“You told me yours, with Madam Yu.”
Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes. That was hardly a story - Yu Ziyuan hates him, the end. He didn’t tell Lan Wangji nearly enough of what he could have and he barely touched on the endless abuse and berating he received just for being born. Like he said, it’s in the past and Lan Wangji does not need to know about it. It doesn’t concern either of them anymore.
“But,” he says slowly, leaning himself against Lan Wangji’s bare back, “if you wanted to tell me, it would be okay. But don’t tell me because you think I deserve to know, Lan Zhan. Tell me when you feel comfortable and trust me enough with it, whatever it is."
"You don't mind?"
"Why would I mind?" Wei Wuxian pulls away as Lan Wangji turns to him, still naked from the waist up so Wei Wuxian thoroughly avoids looking at his chest just to be sure. "You really don't know me, do you, Lan Zhan?"
"When can I start to know you?" Lan Wangji returns and Wei Wuxian inhales sharply, smiling softly.
"Whenever you want," he whispers, smiling at him. Lan Wangji’s gold eyes avert and he gathers himself once more, taking that sheer shirt from Wei Wuxian and laying it properly on the bed so it doesn’t crease.
“I’m going to work,” Lan Wangji says to him, taking his shirt from the wardrobe and buttoning it up, his back to Wei Wuxian. He’s got to be doing it on purpose, his muscles flexing as he shifts the shirt over his tattoos, making Wei Wuxian roll his eyes at him. He lays down on the bed, drawing his legs up to himself.
“I’ll be here,” he answers when Lan Wangji turns around, fastening a tie around his neck. “Like I always am when I stay home.”
“Do you want to come to work with me?” His tone gives him away. He’s completely joking.
“I’d rather die,” Wei Wuxian smiles, waving to him as he leaves the room. It’s a long day without Lan Wangji but it’s still nice to be alone. And being alone all day makes it even better when Lan Wangji comes home, his eyes tired and Wei Wuxian greets him quietly from over the couch. He barely did anything, just watching television and thought about painting but didn’t move from the couch.
“Hi, Lan Zhan. How was work?” he greets when the door opens.
Lan Wangji never complains. He simply sighs and sits down beside Wei Wuxian, staring forward. “What do you want for dinner?” he asks instead of responding about work and Wei Wuxian smiles. Okay, he won’t push.
“Something spicy. Maybe a tofu soup?”
Lan Wangji nods and stands back up. He offers his hand and Wei Wuxian takes it, helping himself up. He follows him into the kitchen, sitting down at the bench and takes the tofu from Lan Wangji, cutting it for him as the other chops the vegetables.
“Long day?” Wei Wuxian asks again. If Lan Wangji didn’t want him to ask, he would have told him to drop it by now but he’ll know when he’s pushing it too far.
“Unfortunately.” Lan Wangji shakes his hair out of his eyes, watching as Wei Wuxian cuts the tofu. “Did you have a nice day, Wei Ying?”
“It’s boring without you. Should we go somewhere, pass the time?”
“Where do you want to go?”
Wei Wuxian thinks for a second, looking up at Lan Wangji. He clicks his fingers and smiles, suggesting, “A walk? Maybe we should rent a bed and breakfast and go out? We’re married, aren’t we?”
“That’s your excuse for anything outlandish.”
“Gee, Lan Zhan, if your idea of outlandish is a bed and breakfast, I think you need to start meeting new people. It’s okay, we can be in an open marriage.”
“No,” Lan Wangji says immediately, looking down at the vegetables. A beat of silence passes between them, tense and strange, like they’ve just toed a line they didn’t even know was there. Wei Wuxian certainly didn’t.
Wei Wuxian stops too, suddenly tense. He’s said something wrong. He always knows when he’s said something wrong but that never means he knows when to shut his mouth. But does it really matter? They didn’t marry for love so if Lan Wangji really wanted to, he could find a nice girl or guy and settle down with them.
Wei Wuxian licks his lips slowly, laying the knife down. “I have a question and I hope you will be honest with me, Lan Zhan.” This isn’t how he wanted to have this conversation but it’s about time he asked to get this over with.
Lan Wangji puts his hands down, setting the vegetables he’s cut aside. He looks at Wei Wuxian openly, his golden eyes clear so Wei Wuxian takes a breath and asks, “Do you regret marrying me?”
Lan Wangji takes a touch too long to respond but it’s only because he’s thinking. He eventually looks back to Wei Wuxian and shakes his head once. “No, I don’t,” he answers and Wei Wuxian believes him. “Do you regret marrying me?”
“No, Lan Zhan. I just… I wanted to make sure.”
“Have you been having doubts?”
Wei Wuxian shakes his head immediately. “No, nothing like that.” Lan Wangji isn’t a model husband but then again, Wei Wuxian has no idea what a model husband looks like. And even in his inexperience, Lan Wangji treats him so kindly. He thinks of Wei Wuxian when he least expects it and Wei Wuxian always feels so loved when he does such little things.
When Wei Wuxian has nightmares, Lan Wangji soothes him with music. They don’t sleep in the same bed but the smell of Lan Wangji on the sheets made sleeping so much easier for Wei Wuxian early on. He’s always just a door away, when Wei Wuxian needs him and he always comes to Wei Wuxian with no complaints when he needs him.
“I hope… I hope I’m a good husband to you,” Wei Wuxian confesses, looking up at him. “I know this isn’t the best situation and everything is a mess but… I hope I’ve been good to you.”
Lan Wangji circles the benchtop suddenly and stops next to Wei Wuxian. He turns him in his seat and leans his hand on the back of Wei Wuxian’s chair. Their height difference isn’t always so pronounced but Lan Wangji looking down at him like this is making Wei Wuxian rather nervous in the best kind of way.
“Do you believe you are not good enough for me, Wei Ying? As someone I hold in my life and as my husband?”
“I think,” Wei Wuxian starts, looking up at him slyly, “that if you wanted anyone, you could have them, Lan Zhan.”
“Who do I want?”
“I don’t know. We don’t know that much about each other.” A lie but at the same time, there is some truth to it. They haven’t discussed past relationships in depth yet since Lan Wangji got so embarrassed before.
“Then you should learn that there is no one I want and keep that in mind when speaking to me.”
Wei Wuxian stares at him for more than necessary before he nods. But he has an idea in his head and as Lan Wangji pulls away, back to his vegetables, Wei Wuxian says, “Have you shown anyone your tattoos?”
Lan Wangji doesn’t respond for a second, fixing Wei Wuxian with a sharp look that makes his heart sing. “No. Only Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian pushes his cutting board to Lan Wangji’s vegetables and stands up to leave. “Good. Keep it that way.”
Wei Wuxian grins when he hears the hitch in Lan Wangji’s breath. He heads to the bedroom to lie down as if he’s had a busy day but it’s mainly to stop himself from doing something impulsive. Lan Wangji has had a big day but he calms down by doing hands on things and making soup won’t be too hard. Wei Wuxian will come back out to help him out before dinner is served and if Lan Wangji feels well enough, they’ll watch a movie and go to bed later.
Wei Wuxian buries his face in the pillow, smiling to himself. Even though it doesn’t smell like Lan Wangji anymore, the knowledge that this is his bed, his home… It makes Wei Wuxian giddy.
***
Lan Wangji turns his practicing into nightly routines for Wei Wuxian to fall asleep to. They set up a pillow in the room and when Wei Wuxian falls asleep, Lan Wangji lets him sleep for a while before he wakes him, walks him to the bedroom and they both fall asleep soundly.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t know when it starts but he gets used to sleepily walking himself to bed again, dropping himself into bed without so much as a second thought. It’s good that he’s finally getting some sleep but what’s strange is when he starts waking up in his bed with no memory of getting there.
At first, he doesn’t find it weird. He wakes up feeling a little woozy, mostly confused but he’s sleeping for more than three hours a night so he can’t really be too fussed. He doesn’t ask Lan Wangji about it, mainly because there’s not really anything to ask.
They wake up, eat breakfast, go to work and then go home. Lan Wangji plays music for him until he falls asleep and then they wake up in the morning and do it all over again.
But Wei Wuxian finally figures it out when he falls asleep one night as Lan Wangji plucks the guqin. He falls asleep within minutes like it’s a spell cast on him and he can’t really complain. But now that his body is finally catching up on having a normal amount of sleep, he’s easier to ruse.
He wakes up an hour later in Lan Wangji’s arms, bridal style and he immediately flushes. “L… Lan Zhan?” he whispers and Lan Wangji stops walking, peering down at him with his amber eyes bright. “You… You can carry me?” That does wonders for hs mind but he blocks himself from thinking on that any further.
“You’re not heavy,” Lan Wangji responds, his tone quiet. There’s no need to disturb this atmosphere between them, the feeling of security that has come to be. “You need to be moved and normally, you’re barely awake enough to drag yourself to bed.”
Wei Wuxian shuts his mouth and lets himself be carried with a flush high on his cheeks. He lays Wei Wuxian down on the bed and tucks him in, pushing his bangs out of his eyes and it’s so soft that Wei Wuxian feels like crying. “Goodnight, Wei Ying.”
“Goodnight,” he says quietly, his mouth hidden beneath the blanket. He’s content to leave it at that, his heart beating out of his chest but because he’s Wei Wuxian, he plays it out for as long as he can.
He fakes falling asleep so that Lan Wangji will carry him to bed for a few nights and it does work, for the most part. They begin to stretch out the days so that Wei Wuxian is still able to get to sleep without Lan Wangji’s music always lulling him, so he doesn’t become completely reliant on it and they try different techniques when they can.
But Lan Wangji isn’t stupid. Of course he isn’t and Wei Wuxian isn’t a great actor but he likes to pretend he is. So Lan Wangji kneels next to Wei Wuxian one night and whispers right in his ear, “I know you’re awake, Wei Ying.”
Well, busted. So much for that. “How long have you known?” he answers, his eyes still closed.
“Since you started doing it.”
“Lan
Zhan
,” Wei Wuxian whines, holding his arms up. He loops them around Lan Wangji’s neck who just sighs once and picks him up without anymore questions. It’s so unnecessary - Wei Wuxian is a grown man who can walk normally but he holds Lan Wangji close and smiles to himself.
“The couch can’t be good for your back,” Wei Wuxian says suddenly, before he can even think it through and the atmosphere shifts between them, ever so slightly. Lan Wangji lays him down but he pauses, hunched over Wei Wuxian. His hair hangs down like a curtain around them, enclosing them from the outside world and forcing their eyes to meet suddenly, making Wei Wuxian’s breath hitch.
“You don’t have to sleep with me,” Wei Wuxian says quickly but Lan Wangji stands up straight, pulling completely away and throws his hair over his shoulders. Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to watch what he’s doing so he rolls over, his back to Lan Wangji and- Oh.
Lan Wangji climbs into bed, his back to Wei Wuxian. Both of them shift awkwardly a little until their backs touch and Wei Wuxian immediately relaxes, sinking into the bed and pillow with a long exhale. He feels so calm when Lan Wangji plays for him and he should feel giddy, overexcited. His stomach is churning but he just smiles, barely resisting screwing up his fists and shaking them. “Lan Zhan?” he whispers, opening his eyes.
“Yes?”
“Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Wei Ying.”
They both fall asleep quickly. Neither of them move the entire night, comfortable enough to achieve that and Wei Wuxian wakes up when Lan Wangji gets up for work, as silently as he can. He’s about to ask if he should go to work but Lan Wangji doesn’t give him the chance.
“Good morning, Wei Ying,” he greets, holding a button up already. “How did you sleep?”
Wei Wuxian yawns when he tries to respond, flopping back into the bed. It smells like Lan Wangji once again, his sandalwood hair oil sticking to the other pillow. Oh, he’s going to sleep so well from now on. “I slept well, Lan Zhan. I’m going to go to work, though.”
“If you feel up to it, then I believe in you.”
Wei Wuxian feels warm in his chest. He swings his legs over the bed and says, “Make me some coffee? I’ll get dressed.”
Lan Wangji leaves to do just that without a word. Wei Wuxian dresses quickly, a wine red button up and a black suit. He thinks about a tie before he squints at the sheer thought of it. He undoes his second button in the mirror and hums. His hair is a mess which is what he gets for falling asleep with it tied up so he wrestles with the hair tie that’s knotted in his ponytail and curses when he manages to rip out a few strands.
Lan Wangji has coffee and a plate of bacon and eggs for him when he sits down at the bench which is everything he needs right now. “Thanks, Lan Zhan,” he sighs, drinking half his coffee in one go. It’s hot but he needs it as if his brain runs off it. “Do you finish early today?”
“I can,” Lan Wangji responds, steeping his own tea slowly. “What do you want to do?”
“Paint,” he grins, feeling giddy again, despite the early morning. “Preferably you, while you play.”
“We have to proof the room,” Lan Wangji says but he thinks for a second, staring at the wall, his profile shown to Wei Wuxian. “How did you proof it before?”
“Newspaper. Sometimes a tarp but it makes a lot of noise. Maybe towels, if they’re old? I already use a rag for my paints. What paints did you buy?” Lan Wangji blinks, floored and Wei Wuxian snorts. “You have no idea.” He stands up, goes to where Lan Wangji left the paints in a cardboard box below the coffee table, shoving his hands through it. “Ah, acrylics… Hm, okay. I’ve used them before.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Well, there’s watercolours, oils, acrylics…” Wei Wuxian lists them off on his fingers, trying to think as he kneels on the floor by the paints. “It depends what you’re painting. Houses, canvas, paper - that kind of stuff. Acrylics dry quickly but I’m okay working with them. I like using ink, though.”
Lan Wangji listens to him intently, nodding once. “Would you like ink?” He’s putting it all together in his head so Wei Wuxian stops, his hand on Lan Wangji’s and hums, shaking his head.
“Not now, Lan Zhan. We can take a weekend and buy some stuff. Have you ever painted?” He shakes his head. “Then we can paint together. There’s really cool techniques and we can do a canvas together!” He doesn’t say that hanging their paintings would really make this apartment feel like a
home
. No, he’ll keep that feeling to himself.
With those plans in mind, Wei Wuxian is home before Lan Wangji. He drops by his old place to pick up some old towels since there’s no chance Lan Wangji has anything just laying around. He didn’t even realise he forgot his easel so he fills up his car with whatever he never took and by the time he lugs it all up to the seventh floor, he’s moaning and groaning and dumps it all in the hallway with a huff.
He drags his easel to the music room and lays down the towels where he can. He tries to judge where paint might fall but so long as he’s not flicking paint everywhere, he should be fine. Lan Wangji would probably kill him, no matter their marriage or relationship so he doesn’t want to risk that.
He waits for Lan Wangji to come home, sorting through his plastic tubs of paint near his easel and smiles when Lan Wangji comes home, on the phone judging from how he’s speaking to himself. He waves to Wei Wuxian when he catches his eye, standing in the hallway with his phone to his ear. He really looks like a business like that.
“Yes, thank you, Uncle. I will speak to you later.” He hangs up, pocketing his phone and says, “You brought paint.” He sounds tired, actually but his attention on Wei Wuxian makes the other smile softly.
“Yeah, mostly my stuff from my old place.” Wei Wuxian avoids saying
home
since this apartment with Lan Wangji is his home now. He doesn’t feel like he has to force himself to say that, though. He’s safe here. “What do you want to do first?”
Lan Wangji looks to the kitchen for a moment. “Should we eat first?”
Wei Wuxian agrees. Cooking is a good pastime for them so it’s easy to fall into a rhythm of cutting vegetables, heating up spices and starting rice in the cooker. Lan Wangji must have had a long day because he’s very quiet, keeping to himself and barely looking at Wei Wuxian.
Wei Wuxian talks slowly, just about what he’s been doing all day. He talks about the paintings he’s finished and that he’s planning to pick them up tomorrow, “I couldn’t fit them in my car today and there’s a fair few.” He pauses, resting his hand on Lan Wangji’s shoulder, making him look up at him. “Do you want to hang up the ones we complete?”
Lan Wangji dips his head in a nod. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and turns it off, taking a breath and sighing. “I apologise. Uncle was not in today so his meetings have been forwarded to my brother but he is out of the country. So I was put on to handle it which isn’t a problem but I wanted to come home.”
Wei Wuxian sticks his lip out a little, squeezing Lan Wangji’s shoulder. “I’m sure you did well, Lan Zhan. You could have called me and we could do this another time if you had to stay.”
“No,” Lan Wangji answers, shaking his head. “I will handle it tomorrow. I wanted to come home and spend this time with you.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, turning away when his cheeks flush. “Awh, Lan Zhan… So sweet to your husband.” The rice cooker goes off and he turns to it before Lan Wangji can comment on his red cheeks.
They eat slowly, still chatting idly. Wei Wuxian feels happy in his heart and God, Lan Wangji is tired but he’s so content with Wei Wuxian that he feels proud. He makes Lan Wangji happy which means a lot to Wei Wuxian, more than anything.
And Lan Wangji doesn’t regret marrying him, despite the circumstances. Wei Wuxian can barely piece together the last few months of them together but he feels overwhelmed with contentment. Is this what it feels like to be in a domestic marriage? Wei Wuxian feels like if his mother was still alive, she’d really love Lan Wangji.
“What’s wrong?” Lan Wangji suddenly whispers, clearing their plates into the sink. “You’re lost.”
“No,” Wei Wuxian replies, shaking his head. His mind is in shambles now. “I… I’m thinking about my mother and how much she would love you, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji pauses at the sink and ah, that’s another thing they haven’t spoken about. Wei Wuxian smiles and he doesn’t want to cry but it hits him all at once, this talk of family. Family means everything to Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian is going to be an uncle soon. He
named
his nephew and his parents should have been here for this. For Wei Wuxian’s wedding, to meet their grandchildren, considering how close his parents were to Jiang Fengiman.
But they’re not. Wei Wuxian feels bittersweet in the fact that he didn’t know his parents that well but Lan Wangji asks, “What do you remember about her?”
“Not much. But Uncle Jiang says I look just like her. I look like my father too but Uncle Jiang says I have her eyes and her wit.”
“Do you have photos of her?”
Wei Wuxian checks his phone. He can remember taking a photo of something he found years ago, a photo of him with his parents, just a little baby. He shows it to Lan Wangji who smiles, a little quirk of his lips. “You have her looks.” He looks from the photo to Wei Wuxian, his eyes sweet. “She’s beautiful, just like you.”
Wei Wuxian screws up his face, slamming his photo down. “Lan
Zhan!
You can’t say things like that! It’s correct but don’t say it so suddenly.”
“Lying is probidden.”
Wei Wuxian thinks about flipping him off but instead he just shows Lan Wangji his art supplies. He can’t really think of what to say so he throws his hands up, grabs his painting hoodie that he shoved in the wardrobe. It’s covered in everything from charcoal to ink to paper mache at one point. There’s probably coffee and wine too but most of Wei Wuxian’s clothes have wine stains so his painting hoodie is no exception.
“Okay,” he says, grabbing his plastic cups. He decided on string art which could be nice so he mixes the colours they might need and pulls out another sweater. “This one is ugly which is why I wore it but I- I also cropped it so I could make it into rags so… It’s cropped.”
Lan Wangji blinks at it and slips it on without further comment. His shirt underneath might get stained if he’s not careful but this should work. Not to mention, he looks cute.
“Okay, gloves on, Lan Zhan.” He explains what he’s doing but it’s really not difficult to pick up even with Lan Wangji’s limited knowledge. He and Wei Wuxian pour black and blue paint, dragging their strings through each one. They make swirls and little rivets that look akin to flowers.
It’s something like lilies, or daffodils. They keep going, mixing all kinds of colours until Wei Wuxian decides they should stop, before he ruins it. It’s not often that he paints like this, with no plan or much of anything but he likes what he creates, in little patterns and accidental designs. Lan Wangji likes it too, mostly because it’s all different shades of blue against black paint, making it more vibrant and pretty.
They make another, white paint with red and pink flowers and Wei Wuxian decides this is his favourite. It’s really nothing overly impressive but it’s pretty, bright and unique to both of them. Wei Wuxian grasps the canvas without changing his gloves and panics. He thinks twice about dropping it and places it down, staring at his gloves. “Fuck!” He didn’t ruin it but he definitely smudged the paint where his palms pressed down, making a mess of the white background and staining it pink.
“It’s okay,” Lan Wangji says, his fingers twitching in his own paint covered gloves. Wei Wuxian turns to him, holding his hands away from both of their bodies so Lan Wangji stares at him and wipes his fingers on Wei Wuxian’s hoodie.
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian grins, clicking his tongue. “You’re funny. At least you didn’t put it in my hair.” Lan Wangji takes off his gloves in one quick movement, leaving them on the table and he touches Wei Wuxian’s hair suddenly, the thick waves of it slipping through his fingers. “Oh, I was going to ask. My hair is really thick so I was wondering…”
He stops, Lan Wangji’s fingers drawing through his ponytail and it makes him swallow, their bodies suddenly close together. He watches Lan Wangji move but the other looks at him and says, “Yes?”
“If… If you could help me with styling and stuff.”
“Stuff,” Lan Wangji echoes, his eyes calm. Well, good to know because Wei Wuxian is fucking freaking out. Good talk. “Yes, I can help, Wei Ying. But our hair is quite different.”
“I know,” Wei Wuxian says quietly. “Mine is a mess and yours is… very pretty.”
“No, yours is textured and suits you well. Don’t put yourself down.”
Lan Wangji is always a bit like that. Wei Wuxian doesn’t think twice about saying anything but when it’s negative, Lan Wangji usually refutes it. At first, Wei Wuxian didn’t really mind - it’s nice to be complimented and it’s even more meaningful now, as they stare at each other, a little too close for friends but not close enough for two lovers, husbands as they are.
“Okay, Lan Zhan,” he whispers, positive his eyes are sparkling a little. “I won’t. So long as you agree to help me.”
Lan Wangji does agree. He leaves Wei Wuxian to shower the next night, washing his hair how he would normally and Wei Wuxian sits on the bed as Lan Wangji brushes his hair wet, to not disturb the curls. They talked about hanging up the paintings, now that they’re dry and Wei Wuxian wants to hang it where everyone can see it. Lan Wangji doesn’t mind, as long as it’s just as vibrant as it was when they painted it.
“I never cared much,” Wei Wuxian tells him now as he passes the brush through his locks. “About my hair or anything. Shijie did but she never really taught Jiang Cheng or I anything and God knows we weren’t going to learn anything from Madam Yu. Jiang Cheng keeps his hair short, you know that.”
“Have you ever had short hair?” Lan Wangji asks, his first question since coming home. He’s been quiet, lost in thought. Wei Wuxian doesn’t know why.
“No,” Wei Wuxian chuckles. “Have you?” A noise of
no, never
. “I don’t want to cut my hair but I guess it’s more professional to at least have some kind of order to it, like you and Xichen-gege?” Lan Wangji pauses, frowning at him when he smiles up at him. “Xichen-gege. He’s my brother-in-law, is he not?”
“He is. I have only heard him referred to as ge or da ge. Er ge, too.”
“What do you call him?”
“Xiong-xhang.”
“So formal,” Wei Wuxian laughs, scrunching up his nose. “Lan er gege.”
Lan Wangji exhales sharply through his nose, squinting at him. “Stop it.”
Wei Wuxian shuts his mouth as Lan Wangji towel dries his hair softly, just to get some of the moisture out. Once he’s done, he runs oil through it, just like he would to his own hair and gently wraps all of Wei Wuxian’s hair in one swirl, laying it over his shoulder.
“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian says, leaning back to look at him. Lan Wangji has a curious look in his eye, making Wei Wuxian furrow his brows but he dismisses it, grabbing his phone. “Ah, it’s not even late.”
They did not plan anything tonight but Lan Wangji excuses himself to play his guqin, requesting that Wei Wuxian not come with him. “I’m distracted when you’re with me,” he says, a casual comment rather than a malicious one so Wei Wuxian leaves him be.
Neither of them have had much alone time nowadays. It’s hard enough to avoid someone you live with, let alone be married to them even though they’re not exactly in love. But it’s funny that Lan Wangji asked him not to follow. Wei Wuxian didn’t realise he could be that distracting.
He settles down on the couch with a glass of wine and intends for that to be his only drink of the night. He likes alcohol and God knows he’s got the stomach for it but drinking alone doesn’t help much and he can tell Lan Wangji isn’t overly fond of it. Not that he’s going to stop drinking all together but they can have their opinions.
Wei Wuxian flicks through whatever’s on television but he never really watches television and he feels a bit itchy after hanging up the paintings but not painting for tonight. He sits and waits but it’s only when Lan Wangji comes back out, twenty minutes after he disappeared and announces that he still can’t focus.
“I didn’t make a sound,” Wei Wuxian whispers, smirking at him. Lan Wangji sighs, looking to the kitchen and decides to make tea to effectively wind himself down. He takes the seat next to Wei Wuxian when he’s done and offers him some so Wei Wuxian accepts.
“You’re so traditional that it’s unconventional,” he mumbles, pulling his legs up to his chest.
Lan Wangji keeps his eyes pinned forward, holding his cup to his lips. He doesn’t sip but Wei Wuxian watches his tongue peak out before he puts the cup down on the table, coaster and all. That’s another thing. Who uses coasters nowadays? Wei Wuxian only remembers when Yu Ziyuan used to berate him when he would forget because she had a stupid glass table top.
“Is that a bad thing?” Lan Wangji finally asks, his back ramrod straight. Wei Wuxian feels like he said something wrong. “Is it something to judge me for?”
“No,” Wei Wuxian answers, his tone quiet. “If that’s what you feel, then I apologise, Lan Zhan. I think it’s… interesting. I’ve never met someone quite like you. You seem to have a way to do everything, like you’ve been doing it for years, but you’re still willing to try different things or see things my way. I think that’s the special thing.”
“You are the same.” Lan Wangji lifts his cup again, hesitating before he rests it back down. There is no sound, because he lifts the cup with his pinkie beneath the bottom, to cushion the fall. “You have a way to do everything that you do, but you are willing to wait for me.”
“Wait for you…” Wei Wuxian sits back in the couch, letting that phrase sit between them. Has he ever done that? Waiting for Lan Wangji isn’t the right term… But maybe he means in the way Wei Wuxian is open minded towards him, despite his ways. Lan Wangji is unique in the way he thinks, how he responds, how he
exists
and Wei Wuxian has come to know it so well.
He lives within his space so intimately that it’s hard not to notice. Lan Wangji seems to sleep like the dead but he walks up whenever Wei Wuxian has a nightmare, on red alert to play for him. There was never any request from Wei Wuxian to help him. Lan Wangji does whatever he wants, just like Wei Wuxian in that regard, but it’s usually with more forethought and consideration towards others, rather than just himself.
Wei Wuxian is selfish. He knows that and so does Lan Wangji. But Lan Wangji does not make him feel guilty for that. If Wei Wuxian were to ask what he thinks of that trait, his husband would probably say he admires it. Wei Wuxian would never intentionally hurt someone and Lan Wangji does not mind that trait. He’s much of the same.
Their personalities, at a base level, should not work together in the space they’ve created for themselves. But they simply do, intertwining like flowing festival ribbons, tangled and woven together so easily. Wei Wuxian knows nothing about marriage or what it should look like but… this feeling of intimacy, of respect and loyalty… Is that what it should be?
And why is it that he only feels this way with
Lan Wangji
of all people? There has been no one else. It may be the situation, the circumstances in which they have come together that made no room for anyone else. But Wei Wuxian hasn’t thought about a hypothetical ‘anyone else’ in such a long time and he wasn’t scrabbling for anyone else when he found out he’d marry Lan Wangji. Why is that?
It wasn’t panic inducing to get married to Lan Wangji. What is a year of this to a lifetime? Wei Wuxian wouldn’t remember Lan Wangji’s face in a few years, he told himself. But now, as he sits on this nondescript couch and studies Lan Wangji’s face, he won’t ever forget him. Even if this relationship crashes and burns and turns out to be exactly what it was meant to be, Wei Wuxian won’t ever forget what Lan Wangji has done for him in the short time they’ve spent together.
“I think I will always wait for you,” he decides to say and Lan Wangji looks at him, those beautiful amber eyes almost glowing in the lowlight of the apartment. “Yeah, I would. Would you wait for me, too, Lan Zhan?”
“I would, Wei Ying.”
“Then what else is there to discuss?” he grins, tucking himself into the couch and sipping his tea. His eyes glitter over the rim and Lan Wangji exhales through his nose, his version of a laugh. Wei Wuxian likes the sound. More than he should, for what this relationship is.
And what is this relationship?
he finds himself asking, in the closed off corners of his mind. Wei Wuxian does not know. He’s never known anything. It’s easier to play dumb than to go ramaging through the shelves of his mind. What is this feeling he feels? Emotions are more complex than words.
He finishes his tea. He doesn’t remember the taste. He still feels Lan Wangji’s warmth beside him and wonders when he began to recognise that. Oh, it must have been so early on. This is home, it’s been home for so long, Wei Wuxian doesn’t know any different.
Home is Lan Wangji. When did that happen in his brain? Wei Wuxian blinks. He licks his lips as he tries to think but he shakes his head, out of it. What’s funny is that his brain tells him that sleeping beside Lan Wangji would solve his problems. No, it won’t.
He still says it. Lan Wangji still agrees, as if he even needed to be asked. If this is their relationship now, Wei Wuxian is happy with it. He can see how far he can drive it to his own liking, and Lan Wangji’s liking too. Isn’t marriage supposed to be about risks?
***
When Jin Rulan is born, Lan Wangji and Wei Wuxian have been married for eight months. Jiang Yanli basically found out she was pregnant after the wedding and kept it quiet until she was in the clear and Jin Zixuan blurted it out to an office full of their parents and Jiang Yanli’s siblings.
Jin Rulan is born and of course, because he’s a Jiang, his birth comes with drama and mess. Of course, it’s not the baby’s fault. How could it be? But Yu Ziyuan wants her grandson raised prim and proper and that means Jiang Cheng gets to meet the baby first and Wei Wuxian never gets an invitation.
Jin Zixuan has never liked to play by the rules and funnily enough, he’s not afraid of Yu Ziyuan anymore. Ever since he married Jiang Yanli, he’s grown a bit of a spine and has been fighting for his life against Yu Ziyuan ever since, so that Jiang Yanli won’t ever have to feel stressed again. And because of this shift, he requests Wei Wuxian’s presence at their home when they bring Jin Ling home, stating that
the man who named my son deserves to meet him at least once.
Wei Wuxian smiles when he reads the letter, clutching it tightly. Lan Wangji finds him in the kitchen reading it that night and rubs his back, taking the letter from him before he creases it.
“Madam Yu didn’t want me to see him,” he whispers, looking at him. He doesn’t know how much Lan Wangji may have heard at work but he knows that no matter what, Lan Wangji will be on his side. “But she can’t argue much with Jin Zixuan in his own home.”
“You named their boy,” Lan Wangji answers, laying the letter down on the bench. “Of course he would let you see him. Would you like me to take you?”
Wei Wuxian hums. “Tomorrow, please. Jin Zixuan said they’ve asked no one else to visit so shijie can rest.” He hesitates for a second before he takes Lan Wangji’s arm before he can leave. “Lan Zhan, Do… Do you want to meet him, too? He’s family to you, too.”
Lan Wangji thinks for a moment. “Is that what you would want, Wei Ying?” He nods, biting his lip to hide his smile so Lan Wangji nods as well. “Then I will meet him. Jin Rulan, Jin Ling is his name, yes?”
“Yes. I named him Rulan.”
“A beautiful name,” Lan Wangji comments, saying it more into Wei Wuxian’s hair than his ear. Wei Wuxian smiles slowly, looking down to the letter and blinks, butterflies in his stomach. They don’t go away, only get worse when Wei Wuxian knocks on the door of his sister’s home the next day and Lan Wangji decides to take hold of his hand and squeezes it lightly.
“Wei Wuxian,” Jin Zixuan greets, ushering them inside very quickly. “Come, come. Ah, you must be Lan Wangji. My apologies, we have never met. And… I don’t look fantastic.”
“It’s not a problem,” Lan Wangji says, shaking his hand politely. They exchange even more pleasantries until a baby begins to cry and Wei Wuxian looks at Jin Zixuan with wide eyes, waiting for him to move.
“He’s been good, actually,” Jin Zixuan whispers. He heads into the nursery, soothes his son until he’s calm and he peeks his head out, gesturing for Wei Wuxian to come in. He’s freaking out - he’s never held a baby before but this is his nephew. Not his blood but if shijie wills it so, he is.
“Are you scared?” Wei Wuxian whispers to Lan Wangji who just blinks at him, amber eyes blank. “No? Fuck, Lan Zhan. How?”
“How what?”
“Just how?” Wei Wuxian hisses, waving his hands around. “I’ve never held a baby before!”
“Do you think Jin Zixuan had?” Lan Wangji responds, tilting his head. He looks towards the nursery and Jin Zixuan sticks his head out, smiling at the both of them.
Jin Zixuan holds his baby close, looking to Wei Wuxian when he comes in. He hands Jin Ling off to Wei Wuxian without hesitation, telling him how to support his head and directing him to sit so Jin Ling can lay against his chest. It’s easier that way, since Jin Ling is so young and can’t support his own head. Wei Wuxian is close to hyperventilating but he shuts his mouth, smiling at his nephew.
“He’s a month old in a few days,” Jin Zixuan whispers, crossing his arms. “I… I want to invite you to the celebration, if you want to come. Your sister wanted to invite you, of course, and I do too.”
“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian answers, looking up at him with wide eyes. He hasn't spoken to most of his family since he got married, aside from Jiang Cheng, so it won’t be a great experience but… “I… Thank you so much, Jin Zixuan.”
He holds up his hands, no need for pleasantries, dipping his head to Lan Wangji as he exits the room. Before he leaves, Wei Wuxian stops him, nervous without him in the room but Jin Ling fusses, clutching his shirt when he tries to move. Oh, wait.
“I love him,” Jin Zixuan smiles, looking between them briefly with such tired eyes. “But I am tired, Wei Wuxian. I would like to lay with my wife for a few minutes, if you'd be so kind."
Lan Wangji lets him leave, shutting the door quietly. Wei Wuxian sits up and Lan Wangji crouches down beside him, peering at Jin Ling. The baby yawns, his eyes slipping closed again and Wei Wuxian sighs, patting the back of his head.
“He’s so small,” he whispers and Lan Wangji hums, not trying to disturb the atmosphere. “Are babies supposed to be this small?”
“They can be. Not always, though.”
“Have you ever held a baby, Lan Zhan?”
“No,”
But I would like to try,
he doesn’t say but Wei Wuxian knows him well enough so he sits up straight, gently shifting Jin Ling who’s already asleep in his arms. His eyes open, about to fuss but Lan Wangji hums deep in his chest, soothing the baby once more once he has him in his grasp. Jin Ling’s fat cheek is smooshed against Lan Wangji’s chest as the older man stands up straight, walking around the nursery slowly and that makes Wei Wuxian chuckle.
Lan Wangji doesn’t speak but after some time, he turns to Wei Wuxian who shakes his hands so he continues to hold Jin Ling as he sleeps. “We should… Is Jin Zixuan asleep?”
Wei Wuxian tells him to wait with his hand and heads to the bedroom, finding Jiang Yanli sitting up in bed with Jin Zixuan laid over her. He’s snoring softly, his head on her stomach and she smiles at Wei Wuxian, her eyes bright.
“A-Xian,” she whispers, gesturing him over. He kisses her forehead in greeting and she touches his hand, humming at him. “You’re here with A-Zhan?”
“Yes, shijie. He’s holding A-Ling… Do you want him back?”
“I’ll take him,” she smiles and ah, Jin Ling has her eyes. He’s got Jin Zixuan’s pudgy baby face but Jiang Yanli’s pretty eyes. Wei Wuxian hopes he'll look just like her when he’s old enough. “If he’s asleep, it will make it easier. He’ll probably need to feed soon.”
Wei Wuxian kisses her forehead again and leads Lan Wangji in by his hand, Jin Ling supported by one strong arm. Lan Wangji transfers Jin Lingto Jiang Yanli’s chest, his hand lingering on the boy’s head even though his mother has him supported and Wei Wuxian tugs him away. He’s glad his husband likes his nephew, at the very least but there isn’t much to judge, he supposes.
“Thank you,” Jiang Yanli says, one hand on her baby while the other is in Jin Zixuan’s hair. She gazes at him warmly, love in her eyes. “He’s done a lot, actually. I know you and A-Cheng don’t like him very much but… He gets up in the night instead of me and he’s… He’s an amazing father.”
“It’s only been three weeks,” Wei Wuxian snorts. “We’ll see. But I’ll be here for the one month celebration, shijie.”
They leave not long after that, Wei Wuxian wringing his fingers together to help himself calm down. He’s nervous for the week to come, for the celebration full of people he rarely speaks to anymore but Lan Wangji looks at him and takes his hand out of nowhere. He’s started doing easy affection for them both and it makes Wei Wuxian feel safe, protected,
supported.
“Lan Zhan,” he says when they’re in the car, one of Lan Wangji’s hands on the wheel while the other holds Wei Wuxian’s. “Thank you for coming with me. I know you’re my husband so it's sort of your job but…”
Lan Wangji shakes his head once. “Not a chore.”
“Fine. It’s your… vow to me. To always be with me, isn’t it?”
“Of course, Wei Ying. I don’t say things that I don’t mean.”
Wei Wuxian gets a thought in his head in that moment. If he were to ask Lan Wangji to have him the way a husband should, would he do it? He never promised it and they have never touched in a way that could be considered strictly intimate. But Wei Wuxian has touched Lan Wangji’s tattoos that he has never shown anyone and Wei Wuxian has yet to pay him back for that.
Is this enough? Wei Wuxian doesn’t know what Lan Wangji will say. But he has a feeling it will be positive. “Tonight, can I ask you something?” he says slowly.
“Anything,” Lan Wangji answers, his eyes on the road. Wei Wuxian squeezes his hand and they leave it at that.
It’s only when the clock has struck eight and Wei Wuxian calls Lan Wangji into the bathroom. If Lan Wangji accepts it, then Wei Wuxian will finally be happy. He just wants to be accepted, to be loved and Lan Wangji has always been enough, has always made him feel welcome.
“When you showed me your tattoos, I was happy,” he confesses, his back to Lan Wangji as he stares at the full bath in front of him. The water is so hot, the steam is escaping into the air. Maybe he shouldn’t have run it so hot but it doesn’t matter much. “And when you said only I’ve seen them, I was even happier. You make me feel special, Lan Zhan. I want to share something with you and if you… If you let me, I will be so happy.”
It’s a simple request, he thinks. He and Lan Wangji are not strangers anymore and they’ve toed the line of being friends or more than for some time now. If they were just like any other fake couple, they wouldn’t share a bed every night and Lan Wangji certainly wouldn’t carry him to bed with no complaints, despite knowing Wei Wuxian was awake.
He wouldn’t do what he does for Wei Wuxian and Wei Wuxian wouldn’t get hot cheeks when thinking of his pretend husband playing house for him, cooking his dinner and painting with him like they’re the only two people in the world that are worth it to each other.
Wei Wuxian wouldn’t even bother with inviting Lan Wangji to meet Jin Ling as his friend, let alone his husband and Lan Wangji would have never entertained the idea of doing so if he didn’t tolerate Wei Wuxian as a little more than an acquaintance.
It’s nerve wracking, what he’s doing so his back remains to Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji steps forward, almost touching Wei Wuxian from behind but he doesn’t touch, not yet. Wei Wuxian takes a breath, looks over his shoulder and says, “Untie my hair?”
Lan Wangji does just that, so gently. Wei Wuxian’s hair is a mess as always, curling in all the wrong places but Lan Wangji takes out all the bobby pins, the clips and the hair clasp, neatly setting them on the sink top. He pulls all of Wei Wuxian’s hair over his shoulders, letting it lay before he steps the last distance between them and whispers, “What next?” into Wei Wuxian’s pierced ear.
“Undress me,” Wei Wuxian answers before he loses his drive. He turns and Lan Wangji moves his hands, unbuttoning Wei Wuxian’s black overshirt. If they were friends, they wouldn’t be doing this but they are husbands, at the very least, and that clearly means more than a silly joke to the both of them.
Lan Wangji lets his shirt drop off Wei Wuxian’s shoulders, his eyes calm and Wei Wuxian calms down immediately. Neither of them are uncomfortable and that helps Wei Wuxian more than anything.
Wei Wuxian lifts his arms and Lan Wangji takes his shirt with his hands, revealing his bare skin that has seen all too much. Lan Wangji gazes openly at his scars when Wei Wuxian looks up at him, allowing him to look.
“Most are from stupid fights,” he admits, pointing to one on his right arm. “I broke my arm clean out of the skin when I was a kid.” He touches a few that litter his collarbone. “Glass, bar brawl. Some are from… other things.”
Immediately, it dawns on Lan Wangji what he’s trying to do. “You don’t need to- Wei Ying, you don’t owe me this.”
“No,” Wei Wuxian smiles, meeting Lan Wangji’s amber eyes, “but I want to share it with you. So, undress me so I can bathe.”
Lan Wangji presses his lips together minutely before he unbuttons his shirt, pulling it off and letting it drop to the floor. Lan Wangji always hangs up his things or folds them so when he’s suddenly naked, his tattoos just out of view, Wei Wuxian presses his lips together to stop himself from giving a giddy smile.
They take off their own pants and Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches when Lan Wangji touches him, his hands on his hips. “Is it okay?”
“Yes,” Wei Wuxian whispers, looking up at him slowly. “Lan Zhan, can… Can I ask you something?”
His golden eyes seem to glow somehow, in the lowlight of the bathroom. It’s intoxicating. “Anything.”
“Can you kiss me?”
Lan Wangji’s eyes widen once. He nods and Wei Wuxian waits for him to kiss him, his eyes slipping closed. It’s a small, innocent little thing when he does so Wei Wuxian raises up on his toes and pulls Lan Wangji in by the back of his head, fiddling with his hair clasp until it all falls down, Lan Wangji breathing in sharply at the feeling.
“Wei Ying,” he whispers, his hands cold as he touches Wei Wuxian’s hips, circling around his back. “The bath will be cold.”
“Then spend it with me, Lan Zhan. It’s big enough and I need you to keep kissing me.”
Lan Wangji helps him into the bath and they stare at each other, opposite each other until Wei Wuxian moves, slotting himself between Lan Wangji’s legs and he kisses him, their hair trickling water over their bodies.
The bath isn’t big enough for them to move that freely in but Wei Wuxian doesn’t care. He kisses Lan Wangji until he can’t breathe, their tongues tangling together and Wei Wuxian sighs, crowding Lan Wangji into his neck, laughing when Lan Wangji kisses and nips at his jaw. He’s giddy, trembling a little even in the hot water and oh, how did he go so long without this?
“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan… Have you ever kissed someone like this?” His voice is already strained, out of it.
Lan Wangji shudders, licking his neck so Wei Wuxian laughs again. “Only Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian smiles at him, pulling his face away from his neck. “Lan Zhan… Thank you. Thank you for being my husband.”
Lan Wangji kisses him, his hands roaming Wei Wuxian’s back. They should be bathing, washing themselves as they sit but Wei Wuxian can’t keep his hands off Lan Wangji and Lan Wangji can’t keep his mouth off Wei Wuxian. It’s flattering that he’s the only one Lan Wangji has done this to but that alone explains why Lan Wangji can’t stop touching him, leaving marks on his skin as his fingers find every little white thin scar on his back.
Wei Wuxian shudders in his grasp, huffing as Lan Wangji pulls him close, chest to chest. They’re naked and this could very much go further since Wei Wuxian is suddenly made aware of how hard Lan Wangji is against his leg but he is no better, judging from the way he’s panting into Lan Wangji’s ear as his husband bites the junction of his shoulder and neck
hard
.
“Lan
Zhan!”
Wei Wuxian hisses, gripping him by his hair to pull him away. “Are you a predator? You’ll make me bleed, you little devil.”
“The ring isn’t enough,” Lan Wangji whispers, his golden eyes alight with pure want and possession. He’s shaking. He’s so beautiful.
It takes too long for Wei Wuxian to figure out what he means, pulling his hand from Lan Wangji’s hair to blink down at the ring on his finger. It’s a simple thing, one they exchanged before the wedding and never replaced but it’s a direct sign that Wei Wuxian is married. But it’s not enough so Lan Wangji has to be a devil and leave marks on Wei Wuxian’s skin to make up for it.
“You want everyone to know I belong to you?” he asks, slotting himself further into Lan Wangji’s lap, making the other close his eyes when their cocks brush, his breath hitching. “Lan Zhan, everyone knows. I’m your husband and you promised me forever.”
“What do you want now, Wei Ying?”
Wei Wuxian pretends to think for a moment before he leans forward, his hands slipping over Lan Wangji’s wet shoulders and says, “I want you to fuck me in your bed where I’ve been sleeping every night. The sheets don’t smell like you anymore, Lan Zhan.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji whispers back, gazing at him. “Is this what you want? We… We are married but this… We cannot change this.”
“You showed me something very intimate,” Wei Wuxian says, his heart beating in his ears. “Your tattoos. I showed you my scars. I want this now, Lan Zhan, and I’ll want it tomorrow, and the next day and-”
He’s kissed suddenly, Lan Wangji’s tongue in his mouth so quickly it makes Wei Wuxian gasp, whining. Lan Wangji grips him as well as he can with the water, only pulling away so they can stand but he grabs Wei Wuxian like his hands are magnetic to his hips and Wei Wuxian wraps his legs around him, clutching his hair and devouring him.
For someone who has never been intimate with another, Lan Wangji is prepared. He owns lube and condoms as if he was waiting and that makes Wei Wuxian grin, the expiry date too far in the future for them to have been bought a long time ago. That sets his heart at ease - Lan Wangji wants him as badly as Wei Wuxian wants him.
“Did you plan to seduce me, Lan Zhan?” Wei Wuxian whispers as Lan Wangji lays him down, crawling back over him. He holds the condom packet between them and Lan Wangji sighs, dropping his head on his shoulder. “It’s cute! You tried to seduce your own husband. It’s sweet, Lan Zhan.”
“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says desperately, his fingers skating over Wei Wuxian’s ribs. He’s not doing so well, it seems, so Wei Wuxian flips them, sitting on his thighs as he grabs the bottle he needs, his hand on Lan Wangji’s chest.
“I know what I like,” he says, reaching around himself. “Let me lead this and then you can do all those naughty things you’re thinking of.”
Lan Wangji looks like he wants to argue but Wei Wuxian kisses him, smiling against his mouth. That comment seems to do the opposite effect of soothing Lan Wangji because he sits up, Wei Wuxian’s thighs bracketing his own and Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches when his finger slides in deeper.
If he had planned this earlier, he would have prepped himself and Lan Wangji watching him should make him self conscious. But those golden eyes map every minute expression, his fingers digging into Wei Wuxian’s hips to hold him steady as he watches him like a predator attached to its prey.
Wei Wuxian likes talking when he has sex. Mainly because he tends to ramble all the time but Lan Wangji seems to like the sound of his voice so he manages two fingers and tells Lan Wangji so, letting out a sigh as he scissors his fingers inside himself. His breath hitches and Lan Wangji’s eyes trace all over his face, alight and beautiful.
“Lan Zhan, your fingers are longer than mine,” he whispers and Lan Wangji doesn’t need to be told twice. He watches Wei Wuxian’s face as their hands switch and Wei Wuxian gasps, his fingers so fucking
cold
but that makes him groan, smashing their lips together, just breathing each other’s air.
“Keep going, Lan Zhan,” he whispers, his hand on his jaw. He doesn’t grip or hurt Lan Wangji, just trying to catch his breath as a haze sets over his mind. “Lan Zhan… A-Zhan,
Zhanzhan.
You won’t hurt me, A-Zhan, give me more.”
Lan Wangji presses their foreheads together, just shy of screwing up his face as he stretches Wei Wuxian until three of his fingers fit and Wei Wuxian gasps, clutching Lan Wangji’s hair with his other hand.
“My name,” Lan Wangji says, so quietly and Wei Wuxian smiles, smothering his lips over his cheek just to be an ass. He can’t kiss him properly, so he just knows he has to touch him.
“A-Zhan? A husband should call his lover by his name so intimately. I know you better than anyone, A-Zhan.”
“A-Ying,” he answers in a rush, kissing beneath his jaw. Wei Wuxian grins, moving his hand and there’s too much fiddling with the condom packet - Lan Wangji fights him to put it on himself but Wei Wuxian wins the battle, sending him a sharp look. He settles with his arm over Lan Wangji’s shoulders, slowly easing himself down, sweat over both their bodies that makes everything around them hot and heavy, thick and hard to gasp. They’ll have to bathe again but Wei Wuxian has a feeling they’ll just make the shower walls messy if they do it together.
“You want the world to know I belong to you?” Wei Wuxian whispers, raising himself up shallowly, his eyes back on Lan Wangji. He drops back down and Lan Wangji gasps, his eyes slipping closed but he opens them again, staring at Wei Wuxian with such beautiful intensity. He smooths his hand up Wei Wuxian’s back as he circles his hips, making Lan Wangji breathe slowly.
“I do,” Wei Wuxian continues, his head feeling heavy. “You married me, A-Zhan. You’re stuck with me.” He pulls his left hand away and Lan Wangji takes it, kissing the simple ring. “I want another ring, Lan Zhan. When we go-” He raises up and drops back down, keening high as he does. “When we go to that bed and breakfast- Yeah?” He’s surprised he still remembers saying that.
Lan Wangji raises his eyebrow, moving his legs up and fuck, he learns too quickly. He thrusts up and Wei Wuxian groans, trying to keep his grip on Lan Wangji. It’s hard and in a rush, Lan Wangji pulls out, flips them both and Wei Wuxian arches his back when Lan Wangji pushes his leg up for a better angle, fucking Wei Wuxian into the pillows.
“Lan Zhan-” he gasps, pulling him down and he scratches his back harshly, biting at his lip. Lan Wangji doesn’t resist him, letting Wei Wuxian kiss him dirty and moan into his mouth but when Lan Wangji tries to settle his hands to balance himself, Wei Wuxian grabs his hand and shoves his fingers in his mouth.
It works for a second, Wei Wuxian becoming proud of himself but Lan Wangji pulls his hand away, wiping his spit slick fingers on Wei Wuxian’s chest. “Talk,” he demands and Wei Wuxian huffs when Lan Wangji gets the right angle and goes for it.
Wei Wuxian keens, throwing his head back into the pillow and
oh,
Lan Wangji is too good. “Lan
Zhan,
I-I can’t… Fuck!” he gasps, the coil inside him snapping as he tries to hold back but Lan Wangji doesn't stop. Wei Wuxian doesn't want him to.
"It's good," he whines because Lan Wangji told him to talk. He’ll sing is Lan Wangji wants him too, fucking hell. "I… Lan Zhan, keep going- Faster, I can have it, I can!"
Lan Wangji hums, gazing at him and if Wei Wuxian were naive enough, he'd mistake it for love. But he doesn't know what it is, only that it exists in this moment. Maybe it's always been there and this is the first time Wei Wuxian is truly seeing it, allowed to see it because Lan Wangj trusts him.
"A-Zhan," he whines again, cupping his face as Lan Wangji keeps going, thrusting into him and making his toes curl. "A-Zhan, kiss me, please, I can't talk- I just want to feel-"
Lan Wangji does as his husband asks, licking into his mouth to shut him up. All Wei Wuxian can do is gasp and moan, whining high in his throat when Lan Wangji perfects the angle and abuses that spot inside him. No mercy, no stopping and Wei Wuxian feels stupid, his mind in a thick fog.
"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji whispers in his own version of a gasp and Wei Wuxian laughs before he feels that pressure snap, making him gasp. He comes all over himself, gripping Lan Wangji's shoulders like a lifeline, panting into his ear as the other soothes his back in an attempt to stop him shaking.
It takes a moment for Wei Wuxian to realise that Lan Wangji came too, inside him and that makes him laugh suddenly, drawing back to look him in the eye. "Lan Zhan, you…" He looks down at himself and swallows, grimacing as Lan Wangji eases himself out, making Wei Wuxian feel horribly empty.
"So much for the bath," he teases and Lan Wangji ties off the condom, seeming to ignore Wei Wuxian but he circles back and licks Wei Wuxian's belly, making him groan. "Lan
Zhan
, you don't have to do that. Come here so I can kiss you."
"Do you still want to do that?" he says against the skin of his rib, Wei Wuxian's eyes slipping closed at the feeling.
"Yes, Lan Zhan," he answers, feeling sticky and sweaty but lips meet his and he fights to lick into Lan Wangji's mouth, the taste of himself making him hum.
"Sleep here," he whispers against Lan Wangji's lips and the latter agrees, his hand managing to sneak through the mess on Wei Wuxian's body. Lan Wangji hesitates, his pupils still blown wide before he lifts his hand and Wei Wuxian sucks his fingers into his mouth, smiling dopily around them.
"If we go again, I'm gonna need some gatorade," he says around his fingers. Lan Wangji drops his head on his shoulder, cursing him lowly as Wei Wuxian laughs, his fingers doing a poor job of shutting him up. His laugh is garbled but it engites the sparks between the, making their skin tingle in the aftermath of their intimacy.
But when they finally get a hold of themselves and Lan Wangji's fingers aren't in Wei Wuxian's mouth (
Another time,
Lan Wangji said), they lay together on their backs, staring at the ceiling until Wei Wuxian reaches over and slots himself against Lan Wangji, their limbs entangling.
"I don't want this to be a one time thing," he confesses because he knows Lan Wangji doesn't want that either. "When… When a year rolls around, what will we do?"
They’ve yet to discuss their marriage in detail. This is absolutely not the time for this but Wei Wuxian is lucky to think before he speaks and Lan Wangji just fucked the soul out of him so his brain is a little scrambled. His thoughts aren’t quite catching up with him.
Lan Wangji buries his nose in Wei Wuxian's hair. "It will be fine, Wei Ying. I… I want this to continue, too." He says nothing more, his mind tired but Wei Wuxian is glad he didn’t shut him down.
Wei Wuxian smiles to himself, giddy with it all. At least he knows Lan Wangji actually likes him enough to keep him around but then again, he already knew that. "Take tomorrow off," he says, pushing his luck but Lan Wangji hums. "You will? Lan Zhan, this husband of yours is a bad influence."
"The bed and breakfast can be booked."
Wei Wuxian lifts himself up, pushing his hair out of his face. "You thought about it?" Lan Wangji nods once, his eyes warm. "Lan Zhan, are you planning to run away with me?"
Lan Wangji blinks slowly, watching as Wei Wuxian's mouth twists into a smile. "I could be," he whispers, his eyes slipping closed as Wei Wuxian presses their foreheads together.
"I'll pack our bags," Wei Wuxian grins, kissing him quickly before he lies back down. They both know he won't.
***
It’s a newborn’s one month celebration. It can’t possibly go wrong.
But it’s Jin Ling’s celebration. Therefore, of course it goes wrong. Wei Wuxian is naive, even though he already acknowledged that Jin Ling is a Jiang. But even still, he keeps a positive and clear mindset because what else is he to do? and knocks on his sister’s door, smiling ear to ear at Jiang Yanli when she answers.
“A-Xian,” she says, mainly out of relief. “So many people have shown up that I don’t recognise… Thank God you’re here.”
“Jiang Cheng isn’t here?”
“No.” She pulls him into a tight hug, rubbing his shoulder and that’s enough to make Wei Wuxian feel a sense of relief. “He’s here, as are our parents. But our grandparents, old friends of mother, aunties I’ve never met… They’re all here. And then A-Xuan’s family is so big to begin with.”
Wei Wuxian huffs a laugh, patting her back. She’s looked better but she looks better than she did when Wei Wuxian came over to meet Jin Ling for the first time. If anything, after giving birth to a baby, she has every right to look tired. She’s put some makeup on and Lan Wangji comments on her looks, sweet as always.
“Thank you,” she smiles, patting Lan Wangji’s hand that he’s shaked. “Come on in. A-Ling is getting passed around like a fruit platter. I’m worried he’s going to start screaming by the time some aunty I don’t know holds him.”
Wei Wuxian follows her into the house, Lan Wangji close behind him. It’s comforting, when Lan Wangji touches his waist as voices come in from the living room. He starts to feel a distant sense of dread in his stomach but he presses on, taking a deep breath and draws comfort from Lan Wangji’s touch and presence.
Jiang Yanli is right - there is no one he recognises besides his immediate family and some of Jin Zixuan’s. Jiang Cheng is getting passed around like his nephew, older women commenting on his looks, how he’s grown up to look
just like his mother!
Yu Ziyuan is smirking like Jiang Cheng is some trophy that if she polishes enough, he’ll shine. He’s doing a pretty good job of looking like a model son right now, even though this entire party is about Yu Ziyuan’s grandson, not her own son.
Jin Guangshun is holding his grandson, cooing at him as he sits in an old chair as if he and Jin Ling are the only ones in the room. Wei Wuxian glances at him, just to make sure Jin Ling is safe and Jin Zixuan is speaking to his own mother, looking like he’s about to cry from pride. He’s overwhelmed, probably stressed but his mother is a good woman, despite her relationship with Yu Ziyuan.
Their eyes meet and Wei Wuxian smiles softly, feeling at ease when Jin Zixuan lights up at his presence. “Wei Wuxian!” he greets, his arms out. He and Wei Wuxian aren’t that close but even still, he hugs his brother in law and Jin Zixuan sighs in relief. Lan Wangji follows, his hand stuck between Wei Wuxian’s shoulderblades just to remind him he’s there. “Ah, I’m happy you’re here. You’ve seen A-Li?”
“Yes,” he answers, swallowing. He smiles through his nervousness - Yu Ziyuan can’t cause a scene here, even though he can feel the drop in temperature from her stare on him. “She let us in. Jin Ling is okay?”
“For now,” Jin Zixuan laughs, a little breathlessly. He’s a bit red in the face, scanning the room quickly but nothing is wrong. Way too many people at one time, especially since Jiang Yanli just had a baby a month ago and has been focused on her new addition. “I’m waiting for the shoe to drop.”
“Ah, he’ll be fine!” his mother suddenly says, rubbing his shoulder. They’ve got the same face. Maybe Jin sons take after their mothers, which is good news for Jin Ling. “But if he’s anything like you, he’s a crybaby. I’m sure you’ve discovered that.”
“He was fine when we were with him,” Wei Wuxian defends, glancing at Jin Ling who’s blinking owlishly at his grandfather. Sensory overload. “But Jiang Cheng was a crybaby, so Mama Jin is probably right.”
Jin Zixuan sighs, tucking his hair behind his ears. It’s down today and he definitely hasn’t washed it. Awh. He mingles with his cousins but Wei Wuxian can tell he barely knows any of them aside from maybe two. Jin Guangyao is here, surprisingly and is speaking with a few people on the patio outside, animated with that damn smile Wei Wuxian hates.
“So far so good,” Wei Wuxian whispers to Lan Wangji, looking up at him. His hand hasn’t left Wei Wuxian’s back and now, he moves it to his hip, over his shirt just for comfort. “I feel nervous. But it’s okay.”
Lan Wangji hums, watching the room with his face in Wei Wuxian’s hair. “Why, Wei Ying?”
“Madam Yu doesn’t want me here,” he says quietly, looking at her awkwardly. She keeps side eyeing him but is mostly looking at Lan Wangji which is starting to piss him off. Wei Wuxian can’t figure out why, really. She knows they’re married - Lan Wangji has reason enough to be here so what is the issue?
“A-Xian,” Jiang Fengiman says in his ear suddenly, smiling warmly at him when he turns in a rush. At least Jiang Fengiman is friendly with him.
“Uncle! Hey, wh- Uh, I was going to ask why you’re here but that’s a stupid question.” He shifts so Lan Wangji can be in the conversation properly and Jiang Fengiman looks happy, the crinkles around his eyes more pronounced today. He’s probably been grinning so hard, his cheeks are aching.
“I’m glad you’re here, Wei Wuxian. I didn’t know you would come.” He offers his hand for Lan Wangji, looking very proud. “You’ve seen A-Ling? Isn’t he so sweet?”
“I met him after he was born,” Wei Wuxian says and immediately, a flush rises to his cheeks. He’s struck by what happened after he met his nephew and now, his life has been flipped around again, Lan Wangji’s hand on his hip making him smile. That day is a blur to him, actually. Well, oops. “Before… this. Shijie wanted me to meet him beforehand.”
They both know why. Jiang Fengiman isn’t upset. He pats Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and it makes him smile. “Good. I’m glad for that, then. She’s always been a smart one.” He shakes Lan Wangji’s hand again, patting him on the arm. “I’ve got to go back to work soon but it’s lovely to see you two. You seem… You seem happy.”
“Couldn’t even get one day off?” Wei Wuxian jokes but he knows he’s leaving before Yu Ziyuan goes off her nut. She’s been brewing in the corner, waiting to get her hands on Jin Ling so she can finally switch her focus to him instead of Jiang Cheng. “But fair. I’ll see you soon, uncle.”
Jin Zixuan says goodbye to Jiang Fengiman, his son in his arms again. Jin Ling looks tired, his big eyes drooping and Jin Zixuan decides to be a good person and hands him to Wei Wuxian gently. It doesn’t make him look like a good person but Jin Zixuan being a father is making him soft on everyone. He doesn’t care anymore. He just wants Wei Wuxian to have his own nephew for a little while.
Wei Wuxian panics, holding Jin Ling awkwardly but the baby hics and settles against his chest and Wei Wuxian huffs, his heart speeding up. He wants to enjoy the moment but all eyes are on him all at once and Wei Wuxian swallows, shifting his nephew in his arms just to get him comfortable. In the moment, he panics but at the same time, he doesn’t care. Jin Ling makes a gurgling sound and presses his cheek to Wei Wuxian’s shoulder, resting with his small arms and Wei Wuxian sighs, happy to hold him.
“Outside,” Lan Wangji whispers in his ear, looking down at him, soft. “I don’t like the looks.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, his nose on Jin Ling’s head. They step outside, a warm day greeting them and those that were outside have moved, either into the little backyard or gone back inside so Wei Wuxian walks around in the quiet with Jin Ling, shushing him when he fusses awkwardly.
“I know,” Wei Wuxian whispers, patting his back. “Life’s already damn hard, A-Ling.” He turns, looking at Lan Wangji and holds out his hand for him. “Lan Zhan, you’re too far.”
“You look nice in the sun, Wei Ying,” he says, as if there was a question as to why he was away. He holds Wei Wuxian’s hand, crowding in close to them both as Jin Ling settles. “Do you want to leave?”
Wei Wuxian looks up at him in panic. “What do you mean? Did I miss something? Did someone say something to you?”
“No,” Lan Wangji says quickly, pressing his lips to his temple and that makes him sigh, his eyes slipping closed. “Madam Yu is inside. I don’t want to cause unnecessary issues for you or Jin Ling.”
Wei Wuxian sighs, leaning into him just for comfort. Lan Wangji is always so calm. Jin Ling is close to falling asleep so he just hums, glancing up at Lan Wangji. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll put him inside. Hopefully he can sleep soon and everyone will leave him alone.”
Jin Ling will need to feed soon so Wei Wuxian kisses his head once and whispers, “May you be smiled upon, A-Ling.” He heads back in with Lan Wangji and Jin Ling is asleep, easy to hand off to his mother once they’re inside.
Jiang Yanli coos at her baby, the silence still heavy in the room. She looks up at Wei Wuxian like she’s about to apologise but Yu Ziyuan beats her to it, her arms crossed as she stands in the middle of the room. No one speaks, silent and waiting for someone to snap and Yu Ziyuan would be fucking happy to, judging from the fire in her eyes.
But Wei Wuxian isn’t interested. “Don’t do this,” he hisses, a wave of exhaustion falling over him. His shoulders drop and he is simply…
done
. “You didn’t want me here but I am, so before you make a scene in front of your grandson and the rest of your family, extended or not, your son-in-law invited me.”
“Don’t point the blame,” Yu Ziyuan spits and suddenly, it’s only her and Wei Wuxian in the room, glaring at each other. He’s done this so many times before that it feels no different than when he was fifteen, screaming at her for making Jiang Cheng cry because he failed his math test. It wasn’t Wei Wuxian’s fault, but Yu Ziyuan made it his problem because Wei Wuxian passed, and not her son. “You’re not a Jiang or a Jin. You have no right to be here, let alone with my grandson.”
Wei Wuxian forces a smile, squinting at her. “Good observation. I’m leaving so why does it matter? Do you really want to do this, Madam Yu?”
“I do,” she answers, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. God, Jiang sons look like their mothers, too. “I don’t want you here anymore. You’ve married into the Lan family so you can stay there. I hope the Lans are happy with their new son in law.”
Wei Wuxian closes his eyes so he doesn’t fly off the fucking rails but it’s Lan Wangji that’s speaks. “Is that all you think of my family, Madam Yu?” He looks at Wei Wuxian for a moment and says, “It surprises me how blind you are to Wei Wuxian’s character. He would do anything for this family and none of you care for him. That alone has made me sick to my stomach.”
“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says slowly. It’s nice to be defended, but husband or not, he doesn’t need to fight Wei Wuxian’s battles for him. Not after he’s been doing it for so long by himself. “Drop it. There’s no use arguing with a snake.”
He feels like vomiting but he keeps a straight face, moving past his family. Are they his family at this point? Jiang Yanli is close to tears, holding her son to her chest who is none the wiser, thank God, and Jiang Cheng just looks uncomfortable, his eyes off to the side.
Wei Wuxian thought better of his brother but unfortunately for all of them, he’s always been his mother’s son. He says nothing, doesn’t even look Wei Wuxian in the eye so Wei Wuxian kisses Jiang Yanli’s cheek in goodbye and smiles at her.
“A-Xian,” she whispers but Wei Wuxian shakes his head, cooing at Jin Ling before he stokes his head and whispers a farewell. He slips his hand into Lan Wangji’s and leaves, the door slamming behind them. It’s cold outside suddenly and Wei Wuxian swallows, taking a deep breath.
Lan Wangji doesn’t say anything. He drives them both home in silence. There are no words spoken between them, not even when he’s untying Wei Wuxian’s tie that he purposely put on this morning to avoid the scrutiny that was always going to come. He’s in another world, thinking about Jin Ling mostly but also the sheer amount of undiluted disgust on Yu Ziyuan’s face when he held Jin Ling in his arms.
“Am I that unloveable?” Wei Wuxian questions, finally looking at Lan Wangji, alone in their bedroom. “Don’t answer that. Never mind.”
“Everyone deserves love, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji answers, taking his hands and kissing his knuckles softly. “I am sorry no one has given you the love you deserve.”
“You have,” Wei Wuxian defends, his voice weak. “Why is it that you give me everything but my own family can’t without a screaming match? Why did I get you?
How
did I get you?”
“Because I wanted you,” Lan Wangji answers, looking up through his eyelashes. Oh, he does and that makes Wei Wuxian’s soul ache. “You got me because I wanted you. Wei Ying, I promised I would love you for the rest of our days and I hope I have honoured that.”
“Lan Zhan,” he whispers, his throat tight, “you have. So why do I feel so ungrateful?”
Lan Wangji takes him to bed, their legs tangled together. Wei Wuxian feels his eyes tearing up as he clutches Lan Wangji’s clothes, sniffling into his shoulder. “You are my forever,” Lan Wangji whispers, kissing his forehead softly. Wei Wuxian is losing his mind. “I cannot be your family but I hope one day, you can see yourself the way I see you, Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian feels tears in his eyes and sighs, wiping them away messily. God, it’s not that big of a deal which is what he always tells himself but he’s grown enough to know that this will haunt him for a very long time. But when Lan Wangji hums at him, Wei Wuxian rolls his eyes and does cry, breathing shallowly as Lan Wangji wipes his tears away, kissing his temple.
“Lay in bed with me,” he whispers and Wei Wuxian laughs, tears still coming. He cries into Lan Wangji’s chest, holding him tightly and his husband soothes his back, whispering to him and Wei Wuxian calms down a little, his breath hitching.
Wei Wuxian shifts, moving so he can cuddle into Lan Wangji’s neck, away from everything, away from the world. “Lan Zhan, thank you. Thank you- I…”
Lan Wangji soothes his fingers over Wei Wuxian’s spine. “There is no need for thanks. I promised you I would be with you.”
Wei Wuxian likes hearing it when Lan Wangji says that. It’s moving fast but it’s good, reassuring and lovely. “Would it be silly to ask that we renew our vows?” he whispers, shaking in his grasp. “I think I’ve forgotten, so you- you should remind me. And our… Our relationship changed.”
“I think addressing our relationship before vows would be more understandable.”
Wei Wuxian snorts and pulls himself up, looking down at Lan Wangji. “Do you like me?” Lan Wangji nods. “Do you
love
me?” Lan Wangji blinks so Wei Wuxian grins. “You love me in some way but we need to discover more things about each other. So… We can do that, for the rest of the year we have together. And then afterwards, we can do whatever we want, yeah?”
“Divorce is a lot of work.”
Wei Wuxian snorts at him, furrowing his brows. “Then don’t divorce me?” It should be that simple. And it is, judging from Lan Wangji’s expression, actually thinking about the probability of them divorcing. If they both think it’s a pain, then what’s the point? Wei Wuxian doesn’t want to get divorced and judging from the trajectory of their relationship right now, he doubts he will want to in the future.
Lan Wangji is everything he’s wanted, actually. Falling in love with him hasn’t been complicated because it doesn’t need to be. They support each other as husbands should, as well as just being two people who care about each other. They know intimate details about each other’s lives, things that Wei Wuxian doesn’t share with anyone because he;s never felt the need to nor had the space to express himself in such a way.
But Lan Wangji, holding him now, kissing him to comfort him or whispering words about nothing into his ear is more than he ever thought he would get in this strange story of life. It’s easy between them, to simply exist and that is more than Wei Wuxian could ever ask for.
“Lan Zhan,” he says once and his husband jums, pulling his hair from his neck and running his fingers up and down his spine. “Thank you. You trust me and come with me to these things. And you defended me. You didn’t have to but… Thank you.”
“If you want me to, I will always. But if you don’t, I will keep my mouth shut and support you.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, burning his face into Lan Wangji’s neck. He doesn’t say anything more, closing his eyes to the sound of Lan Wangji’s heartbeat and his hands on his skin when they slip under his shirt. It’s innocent enough, warming him up and making him feel secure. This is everything he needs right now and everything he wants in the future. He has it, it’s what he wants.
Wei Wuxian thinks he might have to keep Lan Wangji all to himself, happy and content.
***
After the mess at Jin Ling’s celebration, Wei Wuxian attempts to return to work, as normal as possible. But tension is high and Jiang Cheng is in the middle of it, somehow.
Wei Wuxian was happy to just ignore Yu Ziyuan like he always does and go about his work in peace. But not even Jiang Cheng will speak to him and Wei Wuxian finds his desk relatively lax with paperwork one morning and it strikes him very strangely in his gut.
It’s not because he’s good at his job - no, Wei Wuxian never overworks himself at his corporate soul sucking pseudo secretary job. He distinctly remembers going home last Friday with a thought of how he could make it look like he was actually working through it instead of it being a huge pile every single day.
But Wei Wuxian works in and finds almost nothing on his desk but a woman in Jiang Cheng’s office that makes Wei Wuxian frown. Okay, so he’s getting replaced? The girl looks stressed out but she’s glaring, listening to Jiang Cheng before he sends her out and Wei Wuxian tilts his head at her.
“As I live and breathe,” he sighs and Mianmian looks up at him, her eyes wide in surprise. Was she expecting to get told off? “Mianmian, you’ve stolen my job.”
“Wei Wuxian!” she exclaims and pulls him in for a hug suddenly. He blanks and pats her back, smiling when he pulls away. “You… Wait, what? Y-Your job? What do you mean?”
Wei Wuxian nods to Jiang Cheng who’s purposely ignoring their interaction right outside his office. Ah, isn’t that nice? How much he must mean to his dear brother. “I work for him, technically. I’m a glorified assistant, really. But family circumstances have arisen and now… Well, looks like you’re filling my shoes, Mianmian.”
She glances at Jiang Cheng, tucking her hair behind her ear nervously. “I can’t say I know exactly what this is like, but you know how I got here. The Jin family… It’s hard, Wei Wuxian, you know that. I’m sorry, I think.”
Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “Don’t worry. Actually, can you do something for me?” Mianmian nods, smiling sweetly. “Can you find me a resignation letter? I don’t want to be rude but I think you’d know how to find one in the system?”
Mianmian closes her mouth, pressing her lips together. She doesn’t want to laugh but Wei Wuxian can tell she wants to ask what happened. He presses a finger to his lips and smiles, a silent message of
it’s okay
and Mianmian nods, ducking her head to him. “Sure, Wei Wuxian, I’ll get it for you. Do you want it emailed or should I bring it here?”
“Email me it,” he answers, turning to his desk without much thought. “I’ll be here until you send it. I’ll print and take my leave.”
Mianmian leaves, her laptop in her hands. Wei Wuxian sits at his desk, glances at his brother who’s been watching him for some time but when their eyes meet, he drops his gaze. Wei Wuxian expected as much - he knows Jiang Cheng better than anyone but at the end of the day, his mother is still his mother. He’d choose her over Wei Wuxian no matter what.
And since he knows Jiang Cheng so well, Wei Wuxian knows his brother will not address this unless he absolutely has to. So Wei Wuxian drafts his letter to give his two weeks notice while he sits at his desk and when Mianmian emails him the resignation letter, he prints and signs it, blinking at it with a haze over his eyes.
He did it so fast the page is still warm from the printer and he hesitates, unsure if he should think this through properly. He should, right? It’s been a long time coming, though, so surely this will not be a surprise. It’s what Yu Ziyuan has wanted ever since Jiang Fengiman signed Wei Wuxian on as Jiang Cheng’s secretary.
But there’s no use for him anymore. They fulfilled what was needed in order to merge shares and holdings with the Lan family, with Wei Wuxian’s help and now… What? There is no use for Wei Wuxian. He was quite literally married off and now, it’s time he officially left.
It’s been ten months since he married Lan Wangji. Ten months since there was no backing out of the deals that would be made. So why is Wei Wuxian still here?
He texts Lan Wangji in a daze, asking to see him. Lan Wangji reads the message almost immediately and tells him he’s free to meet.
Do you want to go home?
he requests but Wei Wuxian says no and grabs his things. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore. He doesn’t know who he is.
Wei Wuxian calls a cab and requests Lan Wangji’s work. It takes him fifteen minutes and he walks into the lobby, paper, laptop and jacket in hand and asks to be let in. The receptionist is way too young but looks at him brightly, handing him a visitor’s pass way too quickly. They most certainly know exactly who Wei Wuxian is.
He swipes the pass, jumps in the elevator and requests Lan Wangji’s floor. He doesn’t know how long it takes to get there but Lan Wangji’s secretary is there before he can even ask for directions. He’s never been to Lan Wangji’s office, now that he thinks about it and Lan Wangji has to be aware of this or he wouldn’t have sent someone.
But Wei Wuxian looks up to see his husband heading down the hallway outside his office and his secretary drops off. Lan Wangji holds out one arm for him and Wei Wuxian jogs up to him, already smiling.
“It’s private in my office,” Lan Wangji says in lieu of a greeting, his arm around Wei Wuxian’s shoulders. “I’m glad you got here safe.”
“I don’t have a hit out on me,” Wei Wuxian snorts but follows him into the office, taking it in. The windows are floor to ceiling but the walls are lined with documents and file cabinets, like a home library. It’s enclosed from the hallway, unlike Jiang Cheng’s office so Wei Wuxian feels at ease that no one can see in unless they’re washing the windows outside or something.
Lan Wangji leans back on his desk which is immaculately clean so Wei Wuxian sets his things down on the couch and stands there, hands behind his back. “What happened?” his husband asks softly, gazing at him and Wei Wuxian sighs.
He explains it all, the no contact after the party, how weird Jiang Cheng acted and how Mianmian is his new secretary. He explains the doubts he had about his place in the family and the comment Yu Ziyuan made about the Lan family having him too. Everything has solidified itself and now, there is nothing more he can do.
“I want to resign,” he says by the end of it, his voice clear. “There’s no need for me anymore and I want to go before they just… fire me.”
Lan Wangji stands up slowly, keeping his distance just in case but Wei Wuxian smiles softly and holds out his hands. Lan Wangji takes them, stepping in close to him and for some time, they stand there in each other’s space, the silence encasing them.
“What do you think, Lan Zhan?” he finally asks, his eyes slipping closed as he takes in Lan Wangji’s warmth and comfort. “I want your opinion.”
“I don’t think it’s necessary.” His voice is so pretty, immediately putting Wei Wuxian at ease.
“Resigning?”
“No. My opinion isn’t necessary.”
“Why? You’re my husband.”
Lan Wangji sighs, gazing down at him with soft eyes. “Because, Wei Ying, it’s your job and your family.”
“But you’re my family too,” Wei Wuxian whispers, moving his hands. He wraps his arms around Lan Wangji’s waist and sighs when his husband strokes his hair, pressing his lips to his head. “I’m losing my mind, Lan Zhan. I… I want to resign before they can fire me.”
He should be angry, shouldn’t he? But it’s the simplest way to be free of so much stress. He’s not bad at his job but he was never wanted in the position. It was necessary to employ him just to give him a job but he was never crucial to development, only when he had to be married off.
Lan Wangji pulls away just to look at him and Wei Wuxian coos at the sadness in his eyes. Lan Wangji searches his face, smoothing his bangs and touching his cheeks so Wei Wuxian leans into his touch, holding his wrists.
“I’m going to resign,” he whispers and Lan Wangji kisses him softly, just because he can. Wei Wuxian sighs, exhaustion seeping through him so he stops Lan Wangji, ducking his head. “Lan Zhan, I’m going to go home. I won’t file anything until you’re home.”
Lan Wangji holds him close still, humming into his hair. “Okay, Wei Ying. I will bring home dinner, if you want.”
Wei Wuxian smiles up at him. “Can we eat it in bed?” He’s pushing it, judging from Lan Wangji’s furrowed brows but he nods and Wei Wuxian kisses him quickly. “Yes! Bring pork buns, please.”
Lan Wangji is very weak to him, Wei Wuxian knows so he can and will abuse it. He watches Lan Wangji’s expression clear before he lifts his hand and touches Lan Wangji’s chin and tips his face up to kiss him, his fingertips grazing his jaw. Lan Wangji shivers, his shoulders completely relaxing, like putty.
Wei Wuxian leaves with a final kiss before heading home. When he is home, he naps briefly before he decides to paint whatever he feels. He hates it but it’s nice to do it, letting out his creativity and frustration for now.
He reads over his resignation letter a few times before he prints it. He signs that one personally and hums at the letter, laying it on the coffee table. He sits on the couch for some time before he takes the letter again and heads to the kitchen. He can’t stop reading it, even as he makes a coffee at six o’clock so he’s lucky Lan Wangji comes home, his house keys jingling in his hand.
Wei Wuxian looks up at him and smiles in relief, his hand shaking a little around the letter. “Hi, Lan Zhan,” he greets and his husband puts the food on the counter, the plastic bag rustling.
“Come work with me.”
Wei Wuxian pauses, completely still like stone as he holds a resignation letter in his hand. That is not what he expected Lan Wangji to say even though he originally considered it a possibility when they first got married. He can’t keep working for Yu Ziyuan and if he can beat her to firing him, then he’s going to but this is… No.
He turns to his husband, trying to see if he’s joking but he’s not and that irritates Wei Wuxian. “Lan Zhan, you are not giving me a job. I don’t want to go from being my brother’s secretary to my husband’s.”
“No,” Lan Wangji answers, stepping toward him. Wei Wuxian straightens up, looking up at him because he won’t back down about this. “You would have my job. We would work together.”
Wei Wuxian blinks, his heart beating in his ears. “You… Wait, what? I’m not- I’m not qualified for that, Lan Zhan. You could be fined for that, couldn’t you?”
Lan Wangji shakes his head once. “You have a business degree. I have one too. There is no difference, other than level of experience, not qualification. But you have been cleaning up Jiang Wanyin’s messes for years, have you not? He has the same position as my brother. If anything, you would be my boss.”
Wei Wuxian places his hands on Lan Wangji’s chest to push him away, the letter beaming at him in his right hand. He takes a breath, his hands stilling and Lan Wangji holds them against his chest, solid and sure.
“You don’t have to decide now,” Lan Wangji whispers, stepping a little closer. Wei Wuxian lets him, weak to him. So much for it being the other way around. “But the position is open. I know you don’t like this kind of work, Wei Ying, but it is a job and you would be safe with my family. Only if you want it.”
Wei Wuxian hums, his eyes slipping closed as Lan Wangji noses at his jaw. “Lan Zhan… You’re doing that thing again.” Lan Wangji hums instead of asking what he means. “Distracting me so I’ll say yes to anything you want.”
“Is it working, A-Ying?”
A-Ying,
oh, this bastard. “No,” he says meekly, tilting his head back to give him more access. Weak, weak, weak but he can play that game too. “Zhanzhan, I’m still thinking.”
“Do you need to?”
“No,” Wei Wuxian sighs, dropping his letter and jumps on Lan Wangji, wrapping his legs around his waist. He laughs as Lan Wangji catches him, secure and looks up at him, their foreheads presses together. “Lan Zhan, can you give me something to focus on for a while?”
Lan Wangji walks him to the bedroom, laying him down like he’s something precious and kisses him until neither of them can breathe, panting into each other’s mouths. Wei Wuxian talks, only about the two of them and Lan Wangji praises him, his body, everything he can get his hands and lips on.
Wei Wuxian never once thought that his body was beautiful but Lan Wangji has a way of making every part of him feel precious, like it deserves to be protected. He shudders in his grasp, his head hot and the air around them heavy as they grasp at each other in the dark and Wei Wuxian sighs, shaking and twitching as Lan Wangji touches him gently, mouthing at his ribs and kissing his chest.
Lan Wangji is not as weak as Wei Wuxian thought. If anything, they’re weak to each other, only Wei Wuxian is better at using it to his advantage. But then again, it’s because of Lan Wangji that they’re like this now so Wei Wuxian supposes he’s not that good, considering he’s the one arching his back and gasping into his pillow as Lan Wangji litters him with attention that he never thought he’d deserve.
It does distract him for a while. Lan Wangji manages to keep him occupied for more than enough time but Wei Wuxian is still lying in bed, Lan Wangji on top of him, kissing his jaw, mumbling to him after they’ve made a mess that Lan Wangji took it upon himself to messily clean Wei Wuxian, swallowing around him.
“Lan Zhan,” he groans, slapping his hand over his eyes as Lan Wangji hums against his collarbone. “It didn’t work. You’re gorgeous but there’s only so much you can distract me from.”
Lan Wangji surges up on his elbow, pushing his hair out of his face. His cheeks are red and Wei Wuxian can see spit glistening on his chin so he wipes it away. “What do you need me to do, Wei Ying?”
“Nothing,” Wei Wuxian sighs, touching his face gently. Lan Wangji is too cute, really. “You do enough for me. I’m just… thinking. It’s not something so criminal, Lan Zhan.” Lan Wangji gets a look in his eye, something so predatory and that makes Wei Wuxian shove him, laughing at him. “Perv, total perv, Lan Zhan. What have you become? What did I make you into?”
Lan Wangji just hums, nipping at Wei Wuxian’s neck. Wei Wuxian sighs, letting him do it as he pats his head, turning his nose into his hair. “Ah, Lan Zhan… You are my little starlight.”
“Little?”
“Yes, I keep you in my pocket, all to myself.”
Lan Wangji hums, his eyes slipping closed as he lays on top of Wei Wuxian, cuddling into him. They fall into a warm silence, their hearts beating together and Wei Wuxian feels at ease, even though he knows he’ll be stressed tomorrow. But he’s not scared.
When he wakes up, he reads the letter as Lan Wangji dresses for work. He hands him his breakfast and kisses his temple, saying goodbye. But no way is he getting away with that.
“Lan Zhan,” he says, eyes on the paper. “Come kiss me properly.” Lan Wangji does as he’s told, pushing Wei Wuxian into the couch. He licks into his mouth before Wei Wuxian struggles to pull away, his face flushed. “See you tonight,” he says breathlessly, hanging his head. “God, what are you, Lan Zhan?”
Wei Wuxian grins when Lan Wangji hums, locking the door behind him. Wei Wuxian gets ready to go into work but not to stay. He keeps to slacks and a regular black t-shirt. It’s professional enough to not be an insult and he fixes his hair as best as he can.
He grabs his documents, dates them for yesterday so it doesn’t look so rash but in the end, he knows it doesn’t matter. He drives himself in, his heart beating loudly in his ears but Wei Wuxian knows he has to do this. He won’t ever be happy if he doesn’t move on from this.
Someone calls his name and another person requests for him to meet in Yu Ziyuan’s office. It’s one of her assistants and Wei Wuxian smiles at her stone cold face, shaking his head. “No, I need to see my brother,” he says and ignores the protests.
He opens his brother’s door and Jiang Cheng looks up at him in surprise, grey eyes flicking from him to the window wall, his mother’s assistants in shambles. “W-Wei Wuxian… What is-”
Wei Wuxian sets the documents on his desk and Jiang Cheng looks down at them, picking them up slowly. He barely reads it before he looks up at Wei Wuxian, dread on his face.
“Don’t act so surprised,” Wei Wuxian scoffs. “You’re a bad liar. Jiang Cheng, if you really gave a shit about me, you wouldn’t have just stood there like a kid when Madam Yu ripped me apart.” Jiang Cheng opens his mouth but Wei Wuxian grimaces, shaking his head. “No, I’m not here for an argument. Do you really think I’m that dumb that I wouldn’t notice Mianmian doing my work? You let me go without even telling me. That’s a coward’s move, Jiang Cheng.”
He turns back to the door and hesitates, his hand on the window. Wei Wuxian looks over his shoulder to his brother who still won’t speak, his fist curled around the letters. It’s technically his two week’s notice but he won’t be coming back - they both know it.
“I hope you can handle actually doing your job this time,” he can’t help but laugh and Jiang Cheng grits his teeth. “I’m not there to hold your hand anymore. So, good luck. Thanks for everything, didi.”
“Didi,” Jiang Cheng spits and Wei Wuxian walks away, leaving the door open. He puts his hands in his pockets and keeps his shoulders back, walking to the elevator without a hurry.
He’ll take some time off to regroup and work on himself. He wants to rediscover what makes him happy and what he likes - painting and art being one of them. Wei Wuxian just wants to know himself again and feel comfortable and confident in who he is. Lan Wangji has been with him for that growth and he doesn’t mind that, but he wants to relearn what he really enjoys.
His relationships have suffered because of his work and he’s ready to let it all go. He needs to so he can move on. His relationships have already changed since marrying Lan Wangji, having become closer with Lan Wangji’s family more so, even though the marriage was a business proposal.
Wei Wuxian doesn’t expect his phone to ring or for it to be Lan Xichen of all people. He answers it cautiously, not expecting to be yelled at but he can never be sure but all Lan Xichen says is,
“Hello, Wei Wuxian. How are you?”
Wei Wuxian laughs, fiddling with his necklace for something to do as he walks out of the building. “I’m alright, Xichen-gege. You’ve called at a very convenient time.”
“How so?”
“I just resigned.”
Lan Xichen pauses before he replies. For a second, Wei Wuxian is worried he will be disappointed but all he says is,
“Well, I hope we can discuss this further with dinner tonight. I’ve spoken with Wangji already, so can I extend the invitation to you, dear brother-in-law?”
“Awh, Xichen-gege,” Wei Wuxian laughs, swinging his car keys around his finger. “You know how to butter me up. Sure, though. Make it spicy for me.”
“It’s the businessman in me. I’ll see you tonight. Be safe.”
Wei Wuxian hangs up, shooting Lan Wangji a quick text to tease him about his brother. He expected to feel like shit after this and Jiang Cheng will definitely contact him soon enough so he’s due for a meltdown but for now, he can just exist in the support of his husband and his family, even in this limbo of their relationship.
It’s mid afternoon when he gets home, tossing his keys on the counter. He ties up his hair properly and heats up whatever leftovers Lan Wangji has in the fridge just for something to eat. He scrolls through his phone, yawning as he does before he decides to paint something, smearing light blue paint over a canvas he forgot he had.
He likes ink more than paint but that doesn’t mean he can’t work with acrylics. He puts on music and before he knows it, he’s painting a dragon. He paints a white one, completely curled around itself without much detail, the general shape splotched onto the canvas.
It’s rough and the paint is dripping a little from the wet background he smeared everywhere but he still likes it. Acrylics dry very quickly so he’s able to paint a fox in the centre of the canvas, the dragon curled around it protectively.
Wei Wuxian squints at it. It’s not over-detailed - he paints quickly and barely has time to clean his brushes between colours so he almost puts black all through the white scales of the dragon when he tries to paint the fox.
But he keeps working on it, shifting in his seat and stretching his back when it cramps up. There’s definitely paint in his hair and on his face but he gets into this headspace when he paints by himself, distant to the world so he doesn’t notice when Lan Wangji comes in, startling him so bad he yelps and drops his paintbrush.
“Lan Zhan!” he hisses, hand on his chest. Lan Wangji pats his head before he kisses his temple, ignoring Wei Wuxian’s mutterings. “You scared the shit out of me, God. When’d you get home?”
“Five minutes ago,” he answers, his eyes on the painting. “Is it us?”
“Huh?” Wei Wuxian looks at the painting again and huffs a laugh. The dragon is white, much like Lan Wangji likes to wear and Wei Wuxian has been called a fox a few times so he tilts his head, smiling. “Hm, I guess it is. Wait, I’m the fox, right? Are you calling me cunning?”
Lan Wangji hums, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “That is a stretch,” he says instead and pushes Wei Wuxian’s bangs out of his eyes. “You should wash up so we can go to xiong-zhang’s.”
“Didn’t you just get home? He needs time to cook.”
“He won’t mind. I like to go early.”
Wei Wuxian nods, tucking his hair behind his ears. He blanks and stares at his hands but the paint is dry so he just sighs in relief and goes to shower. Wei Wuxian doesn’t take
that
long to get ready but he does lose track of time often so he understands why Lan Wangji wanted to go ‘early. Early means on time considering Wei Wuxian is still standing in the bathroom an hour or so later with Lan Wangji straightening his hair for him.
He lays it over his shoulders, half up, half down and Wei Wuxian smiles, smoothing his fingers through it. “I cannot remember the last time I ran my fingers through my hair and it didn’t get caught.”
Lan Wangji kisses his head and leaves without a word, grabbing his things. He changed his clothes into something more casual - it’s dinner at his brother’s home, nothing over the top - and Wei Wuxian did the same, straight legged pants and a turtle neck.
Lan Wangji is much the same, three quarter slacks and a loose striped button up, short sleeved. “You look nice,” Wei Wuxian says as he clips his necklace behind his neck. “Come on, darling. Let’s go see your brother.”
Lan Wangji drives them and Lan Xichen lives in a nice little bachelor pad, actually decorated and… homey. Wei Wuxian takes it in, finding photos scattered around with Jin Guangyao and Nie Mingjue, even some of Lan Wangji when he was younger.
“You two have always been twins,” Wei Wuxian laughs, bringing Lan Xichen in for a hug. The older Lan even makes a hug feel like home and he pulls away, taking in Wei Wuxian’s hair.
“Ah, you look nice,” he smiles, patting his shoulder. “I’d know Wangji’s signature look on anyone, Wuxian. Very nice. Here, come in. I made a lot - rice, soup, tofu dishes. Wuxian, I wanted to make some meat but I really don’t know how you’d like it or how to cook it. I hope you don’t mind?”
“No, it’s fine, gege,” Wei Wuxian smiles, taking Lan Wangji’s hand. They sit down as Lan Xichen serves the food, laying it out on the table cloth nicely. They chat for a while while they eat until Lan Xichen gets a look in his eye and Wei Wuxian sighs. “Lay it on me, gege. You’re disappointed.”
“No, not at all,” Lan Xichen answers, shaking his head. “No, Wuxian… Wangji told me what happened and A-Yao did too. I was quite surprised but it’s… Well, can I say I’m glad you’ve left?”
Wei Wuxian huffs a short laugh, folding his arms over his chest. “Yeah, you can. But Jiang Cheng needs someone to hold his hand now that I’m gone.”
Lan Xichen thinks for a moment, glancing at his brother with the same damn look in his eyes that Lan Wangji gets when he thinks he’s got a fantastic idea. Wei Wuxian leans back and lays his arm over the back of Lan Wangji’s chair, staring at his brother curiously.
“I think,” Lan Xichen says slowly, watching him curiously, “you should come work with us.”
“Funny,” Wei Wuxian responds, squinting at him,” Lan Zhan said the same thing. I think this conversation may have been had without me. I could guess that it may have been your suggestion that I join your team?”
“I can’t deny that there is not a place in our team for my dear brother in law.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, looking at his husband. Lan Wangji’s amber eyes are soft, open and ready for any answer Wei Wuxian gives so he takes a breath. “Well, I… I need some time to think, Xichen-gege. I need to… I don’t want to be miserable again.”
There’s a lot more to it than that but his job circumstances definitely didn’t help at all. He wants to get a grip of everything he’s lost and that starts with doing whatever the fuck he wants.
Lan Xichen ducks his head. “I respect that. Wangji tells me you paint a lot. Continue with that and when you’re ready, schedule a meeting with me. We’ll sort something out.” He picks up his chopsticks and hands Lan Wangji more food and says, “Eat. You’re thin.”
Lan Wangji hides his irritation by eating what was given. It's fried tofu and Wei Wuxian can tell he likes it so he tries a piece too, complimenting Lan Xichen on it.
They talk further, mainly about Lan Xichen's position and a few off handed comments regarding their marriage. It doesn't surprise Wei Wuxian that Lan Xichen doesn't expect them to get divorced. He apparently was able to tell that Lan Wangji was actually falling for Wei Wuxian and that makes him laugh.
"But I suppose that's another opportunity for self discovery," Lan Xichen says as he packages the leftover food. He really did make a lot. "And you're already working on it." He pauses, tilting his head more to himself in thought and smiles. "I hope it goes smoothly."
Wei Wuxian doesn't thank him. He watches as Lan Wangji's ears turn red and says, "I think we should be going home. Lan bedtime and all, you know."
Lan Xichen forgets himself for a moment and snorts, his eyes widening at himself. "You're not used to it still, are you?" he says in a hushed tone, waving his hand in hopes it will get rid of what just happened.
But Wei Wuxian grins, pointing at him just to make him flush. "Never, dearest brother. But thank you for dinner."
Lan Xichen walks them to his front door, patting his brother's shoulder in farewell. Wei Wuxian is able to keep his hands to himself until they step out of the elevator but he stops Lan Wangji with a hand around his wrist and his husband furrows his brows at him.
"You tell him everything, don't you?" Lan Wangji's lips part before he nods instead of replying. "Even about the marriage. Did you… Were you sure we'd end up like this, Lan Zhan?"
"No," he answers quickly, stepping close. "I… I didn't think we'd ever get to this point. I don't do well with other people who aren't family, let alone someone who had suddenly become my husband. You surprised me at every turn."
Wei Wuxian smirks, his thoughts reeling. How did they even get to this point, actually? Neither of them saw it coming, it seems, and Lan Wangji seems quite proud of it which makes Wei Wuxian laugh.
"You had me before you even realised you did," he says, lacing his fingers behind his back. "Aren't you talented, Lan Zhan? You have me wrapped around your finger."
"I think," Lan Wangji starts and swallows, clearly flustered, "that it's the other way around. You… Wei Ying, you make everything so clear and so confusing at the same time."
"Is that a bad thing?"
Lan Wangji shakes his head once, their faces leaning closer together in this shady little parking lot of his brother's apartment building. "If it's you, I don't ever mind, Wei Ying."
"'Cause you promised me forever, yeah?" He slowly wraps his arms around Lan Wangji's shoulders, their lips almost brushing.
"I did."
"And you don't make promises you can't keep."
"Never."
Wei Wuxian smiles, his stomach in knots. Lan Wangji pushes his nose into Wei Wuxian’s temple, just wanting to be close so Wei Wuxian lets him, dropping his arms to hold his hands between them. “You’ve got me,” he whispers and Lan Wangji hums, kissing his cheek. “Hey, that reminds me… That bed and breakfast plan. Can we do it soon?”
“Soon,” his husband agrees. Wei Wuxian is happy to just move to the car but Lan Wangji stops him, holding his face and kisses him softly, making Wei Wuxian sigh against his mouth. He moves his hands, holding onto Lan Wangji’s belt and hums, losing him in the simplicity of Lan Wangji’s touches.
“Wei Ying,” he says once and Wei Wuxian knows what he’s asking for.
“Take me home, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji does, leading him back to the car. The drive is silent, but Lan Wangji’s hand never leaves Wei Wuxian’s leg. It’s a nice feeling, to be comforted and held and Lan Wangji makes it up to him, holding him close and he’s looking, watching him, searching and Wei Wuxian lets him look, blinking slowly.
“What is it?” he whispers and he doesn’t get an answer. Lan Wangji keeps looking until he shifts Wei Wuxian into his lap, making Wei Wuxian’s breath hitch.
“Thinking,” Lan Wangji finally answers, his eyes alight. “I… In a week, we’ll have been married for eleven months.”
“How about,” Wei Wuxian grins, touching his face softly, “we spend our one year anniversary of marriage in that bed and breakfast, yeah? Can… Can we just run away, somewhere no one can find us or contact us? By the beach, with a pretty sunset and… You know?”
Lan Wangji nods once. “I will look into things tomorrow, Wei Ying. Can I ask that you lay with me?”
Wei Wuxian draws him in, leaning over him as he lies down. He slots himself beside Lan Wangji and smiles at him, kissing his neck and sighing against his skin. It’s late and they’re both tired so it isn’t long before Lan Wangji is asleep, snoring softly as Wei Wuxian listens to the beat of his heart, comforted and safe.
***
Lan Wangji basically gets a shove out the door when he tells his brother he's going on a trip and Lan Xichen tells them to have fun and not get too crazy. As if a Lan can really… get too crazy. But even still, he comes home early and Wei Wuxian is already packed, ready to go in a cozy outfit for the long drive.
Lan Wangji looks down at his feet and furrows his brows so Wei Wuxian punches him softly in the chest. “We’re going to a beach of sorts, right?” Lan Wangji nods. “But it’s cold, so I don’t want to pack for the beach when it’s not even summer.”
Wei Wuxian shoves Lan Wangji’s bag into his chest and pushes him out the door, locking the apartment door behind him. “Your brother approved your absence?” he asks as they walk to the car.
“He could not wait to get me out of the office.”
"Does he think I'm going to eat you?" Wei Wuxian asks when they step into the passenger seat.. He watches Lan Wangji’s hands as he starts the car, connecting his phone to the GPS and they’re on their way rather quickly because Lan Wangji never stalls. "I do like your fingers, though."
"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji warns slowly, so Wei Wuxian shuts his mouth. No innuendos while Lan Zhan drives. Sure. Fine. “Put some music on.”
Wei Wuxian mockingly salutes and puts on whatever he thinks both of them will like. The drive takes three hours, judging from the GPS and Wei Wuxian talks, sings and does whatever he wants. He doesn’t put his feet up on the dash because he respects Lan Wangji but he does feed him fries when they stop for completely unhealthy food.
Lan Wangji doesn’t order much, not wanting to risk encountering meat so Wei Wuxian feeds him fries even though he can very much do it himself and resists the urge to kiss him because he’s driving and Wei Wuxian doesn’t really want to crash.
Their destination doesn’t come fast enough but when Lan Wangji pulls to a stop outside their private little house, miles away from their home, Wei Wuxian climbs out and looks over the car to the sun that’s just threatening to set. The colors paint everything in a fiery phoenix red, flicks of orange and yellow and pink shining on Wei Wuxian’s skin.
He smiles as Lan Wangji pulls out their bags and locks the car, his hand finding its way around Wei Wuxian’s waist. “Do you like it?” he asks softly, his eyes on the horizon too.
Wei Wuxian has never been one for poems but this must be a writer’s paradise. An array of colors so bright, he’s not even sure he’s seeing all the hues correctly. If it’s so beautiful to him, how must it seem to all the creatures that have such vast vision?
“Yeah,” he says breathlessly and ah, here comes the wind, flicking his curls around his face. He looks up at his husband, whose eyes reflect the very same colors of the sunset and smiles. “Is this one of your surprises?”
“Surprises?” Lan Wangji blurts, turning to him fully. “Did I indicate any surprises, Wei Ying?”
“No,” he laughs, knocking his knuckles against Lan Wangji’s chest. “But this would be a good time to lay everything out on me, you know? We’ve been married for a year, come… two days from now?” Lan Wangji nods once. “Yeah, so you know. The occasion is right, I suppose.”
Lan Wangji looks like he doesn’t get it so Wei Wuxian just leans up and puckers his lips. It’s obnoxious but Lan Wangji still kisses him, only once and hands him his bag. He takes the key from the letterbox, the owners putting it there just before they arrived for easy access and Lan Wangji unlocks the front door and ushers them inside.
The house isn’t
big
but it’s definitely not small. It’s two bedrooms, two bathrooms with a beautiful view of the beach. It’s bound to be expensive so Wei Wuxian doesn’t even ask, especially since everything is so clean and there’s already tea and coffee waiting for them.
Lan Wangji takes the note in the kitchen that tells them what’s in the area and a brief history about the house but he doesn’t say too much about it. He already went shopping and unloads what he’s bought into the fridge and cupboards, checking the condiments and nodding in approval.
“Everything in order?” Wei Wuxian asks, glancing at the sunset through the living room window. “You wanna walk around the beach?”
Lan Wangji nods, looking up what’s in the area and says, “Takeout? We can sit on the beach until it gets cold.”
Wei Wuxian smiles, reaching for him. “That’d be nice, Lan Zhan. What are you in the mood for?” Lan Wangji touches his hips as Wei Wuxian circles his arms around his shoulders and gives a small shrug. “Hm, then let’s do something light. Do we have plans for staying here or do whatever we want and see what happens?”
“There’s a dinner reservation for our anniversary,” Lan Wangji says, kissing him softly, their eyes open since Lan Wangji still needs to talk. “But that is in two days. We can do anything you want before then.”
Wei Wuxian likes the sound of that. It’s exactly what he wanted anyways - to get away from everything to a place where no one knows them or their jobs. Just the two of them, together and enjoying each other’s company. It’s nice and exactly what married couples should be doing and since they never had a honeymoon, this can be their short little taste of what could have been, had they gotten married like normal people in love.
But it just took them a little longer to figure everything out. Who cares?
They walk along the beach, Wei Wuxian’s sandals coming in handy despite the cold breeze. Lan Wangji takes off his shoes as soon as he steps onto the beach, the bag of takeout in his hand and Wei Wuxian holds his other hand, squeezing and grinning at the sunset.
The night sky is quickly approaching but Wei Wuxian doesn’t mind sitting underneath the stars as they eat. It’s light, something Wei Wuxian can’t really describe but it’s very good, especially with scallion pancakes.
“Thank you,” Wei Wuxian says as he looks at the slow moving water, lapping at the sand. The serene quiet of the waves and the night is enough to make him forget everything besides this moment. “For everything, Lan Zhan. You…” He feels too much in this moment, his heart leaping and beating too fast but he takes a breath and leans his cheek on his knees. “I think I love you, Lan Zhan. Can I say that? If not in a pure romantic way, just… I love you as a person and I respect you.”
Lan Wangji’s eyes are so clear, wide and gorgeous. Wei Wuxian isn’t scared that he won’t say it back, though. He knows Lan Wangji well enough at this point to know his answer. So he beckons Lan Wangji closer with his finger and smiles when Lan Wangji whispers, “I love you as well,” against his lips, desperate and rushed like it’s the last thing he’ll ever tell Wei Wuxian.
“Lan Zhan,” he whispers back, his eyes welling with tears suddenly. Lan Wangji shakes his head, their noses brushing and why is it that
that
is what makes Wei Wuxian finally breakdown? Why now, in this calm moment? He’s hit with a sudden overwhelming feeling of something he can’t even name and he feels everything crashing so he holds Lan Wangji’s face in his hands, kisses him so shakily because he just can’t control his tears or his sobbing.
Lan Wangji doesn’t care though and holds him tightly as Wei Wuxian’s breath hitches in an attempt to catch it. He feels like a child, crying over a lost special toy but Lan Wangji soothes him, bringing him back to where he belongs and letting him cry, even if his face is hot and his nose becomes snotty. He eventually wipes away his tears when Wei Wuxian shifts to look at him as Wei Wuxian tries to calm down and sinks into his husband’s arms.
“God,” Wei Wuxian hiccups, his lip still wobbling, “I’m s-so… What the hell was that, ah…” Lan Wangji just pulls him in, tucking him against his body, the sand flicking over their bare feet and getting into their clothes but Wei Wuxian keeps saying he loves him and Lan Wangji says it just as much until he starts to say
I know, Wei Ying. It’s okay, Wei Ying. You’re my first love, Wei Ying.
“I am?” Wei Wuxian whispers, looking up at him as he wipes away his final tears, puffy eyed and sore. “I knew that, Lan Zhan, but… I like it when- when you say that. You’re mine, too.”
Lan Wangji positions them in a way that they can watch the night horizon, listening to the calm waves and each other’s breathing. There’s no urgency, even with the chill beginning to creep into the air. Wei Wuxian is warm enough with his husband, holding him as Lan Wangji pulls his hair back, out of his face and kisses his forehead.
They get sand in the containers of their food but neither of them mind. Wei Wuxian holds onto his husband, looking up at him in the moonlight and smiles, his heart settling into a steady beat and his eyes beginning to soothe themselves from the crying. “I truly love you,” he says again and Lan Wangji hums, stroking his knuckles over Wei Wuxian’s cheekbone.
“Let’s go to bed,” he answers and kisses Wei Wuxian sweetly before he takes his hand. The air is cold but Wei Wuxian holds Lan Wangji, staring at him with wide eyes. Lan Wangji is quick to fall asleep when they lie down so Wei Wuxian kisses his fingers and finally falls asleep, slipping into his dreams for the first time in a very long time.
***
Lan Wangji is nervous.
He supposes it’s understandable. Proposing to someone you want to spend the rest of your life with would make you nervous so it’s not like he isn’t expecting the feelings. But waking up and cooking breakfast seems like a chore because his hands won’t stop shaking but he calms down when Wei Wuxian hugs him from behind, slipping himself underneath Lan Wangji’s arm.
“Oh, nice,” his husband grins, looking at the pancakes. “I’m up early because of this, Lan Zhan. You gotta keep me entertained.”
Lan Wangji lays his arm over his shoulders, holding him close and flips the two pancakes. “Always, Wei Ying. Make your coffee.” He’s trying to get him away, only because he’s conscious of the ring box in his back pocket. If he could spend all day touching Wei Wuxian, he would but he has plans today and it can’t wait.
Wei Wuxian sits down as Lan Wangji serves the pancakes. He’s happy with his coffee and Lan Wangji tries not to stare at him to give anything away. Wei Wuxian is awfully perceptive but only sometimes when it comes to Lan Wangji. But he won’t risk anything obvious, just in case.
The day is spent together, at the house and when they go out for lunch, just for something light, Wei Wuxian takes his hand and smiles up at him. “Hey, we should do this all the time. Like whenever we want to, yeah? Going away and just… I don’t know. Existing? With each other.”
Lan Wangji smiles softly, nodding. It’d be nice to get out of the city every once and a while. The ring box is burning a hole in his pocket and he hasn’t figured out how he wants to do this but he pauses, in the middle of the rocky path and Wei Wuxian blinks at him, furrowing his brows.
“What’s wrong?” he asks but Lan Wangji softly shakes his head once, glancing out to the sea beside them.
“There is something I need to ask you,” he says slowly before he realises how awful that sounds. “It’s nothing bad. Please believe me, Wei Ying.”
“I do,” his partner laughs, still sounding a little nervous. He’s not shaking or close to crying so that’s better than anything else. “Do… Do you want to ask me now? You seem really serious all of a sudden.”
“I don’t want it to be in public,” he whispers so Wei Wuxian steps up to him and smiles prettily. Lan Wangji can’t keep his hands to himself - he touches Wei Wuxian’s face, tucking his bangs behind one ear and takes a breath. “Don’t panic, okay?”
“Okay.” Wei Wuxian leans into his hand, his cheek squishing up like a dumpling. He always looks so cute but even more so now, his eyes sparkling. He looks to the beach and it’s private enough so Wei Wuxian takes his hand, leading him to the rockwall. They opted for a late light lunch, since their dinner reservation isn’t until eight so most people have gone on their way, back to work or their own homes. It’s the weekend so a few families are out but it’s the middle of winter so the beach isn’t exactly a destination for a fun day out.
Wei Wuxian sits down on the rockwall, his legs just shy of touching the sand that has been buffeted up against it. They’re not wearing the right shoes for this but Lan Wangji places one hand on the rock wall beside Wei Wuxian’s leg, the other in his pocket as he watches the slow lapping tide against the sand. Neither of them speak, Lan Wangji trying to figure out exactly what he wants to say as Wei Wuxian waits, fiddling with his hair.
“Can I ask that you say yes?” Lan Wangji says eventually, slowly turning his gaze onto his husband who has given him a little braid down the back of his hair, draping it over his shoulder. “Even if my question is strange.”
Wei Wuxian’s eyes are so beautiful. They glimmer and shine even in the dark and right now, they’ve caught the glow of the sun, turning them a gorgeous ruddy brown. “Yes, I can do that. Anything you ask will never be strange, Lan Zhan.”
Lan Wangji ducks his head in silent thanks and grips the ring box in his pocket. He takes Wei Wuxian’s hand, just to hold and his husband smiles, lacing their fingers together. “Wei Ying, I have nothing more to say that will come to me in this moment. If you close your eyes, then you will know my question.”
Wei Wuxian does as he’s told. His eyes slip shut so Lan Wangji acts without hesitance. He takes the ring out, takes Wei Wuxian’s left hand and slips the ring on. It’s a perfect fit and the furrow to Wei Wuxian’s brow is clear before his expression completely clears and he opens his eyes without being told to.
He stares at the ring, his chest moving with a deep exhale. His hands start to shake and Lan Wangji watches him closely, looking for doubt or repulse. Wei Wuxian doesn’t cry or burst into tears - he starts to laugh, ducking his head as he fiddles with the ring.
“You were nervous about this?” he whispers and Lan Wangji reaches for his hands, almost desperately. “Lan Zhan, you silly man. I adore you, don’t you know that? We’re already married. You want to do it all over again?”
“If it is falling in love with you,” Lan Wangji whispers, inching closer to his lips, “then I will do anything, all over again.”
Wei Wuxian grins, kissing him softly. It’s simple and it’s safe and exactly what they need. “Lan Zhan, no one is ever taking you away from me. As long as you only fall in love with me, for the rest of whatever lives we have, then you can do whatever you want.” He reaches up and wraps his arms around Lan Wangji’s shoulders. “You’re mine. As simple as that.”
Lan Wangji kisses him again, soft and simple. “I am yours. As you are mine, Wei Ying.”
Wei Wuxian hums, fiddling with Lan Wangji’s hair. His eyes are so pretty and he searches Lan Wangji’s face before he smiles again, pink in his cheeks. “I love you, Lan Zhan. Yes, I will marry you. I hope that’s what you were asking.”
Oh, he never even said it. “It was,” he says sheepishly. “I love you as well, Wei Ying.” They have so many intimate conversations that this type of thing doesn’t need the whole theatratics and overdramatics. They love each other in the rawest form of that and that is all they need to acknowledge.
“I guess this really is our anniversary now,” Wei Wuxian teases, hoping off the rockwall. Lan Wangji helps him, his hands on his hips and Wei Wuxian looks at his ring again in awe before his eyes widen. “I have to get you one! Fuck, can we do that when we go home? Lan Zhan, what kind of ring do you want? It has to look like mine. I don't want anyone to mistake what this means.”
“Do you want another wedding?” Lan Wangji’s question is serious but Wei Wuxian cringes, pulling an awkward face. “Would you like a private ceremony?”
Wei Wuxian flicks his bangs out of his eyes before he furrows his brows. “Well, we are legally married already. So do we need to? Let’s just go away, do our new vows to each other and then… You know?”
Lan Wangji buries his nose in Wei Wuxian’s hair, humming softly. They both smell like sand and salt from the ocean but it's comforting. There’s memories attached to scents and this is special for the two of them, special and lovely.
Wei Wuxian holds his hand out, showing off his ring before he grins up at Lan Wangji, looking very sly. “Lan Zhan, you sly fox. The ring is perfect for me. You remembered my engagement band size, didn’t you?” He nods and Wei Wuxian hums, pursing his lips for a chaste kiss. “Smart. But thank you, I love it. I love you. Ugh, you just know me, Lan Zhan. You’re in for it after dinner.”
“We have time now,” Lan Wangji says without thinking and his eyes widen when Wei Wuxian gets a crazy glint in his eye, looking like a cat stalking a bird. “Forget I said that.”
“Lan Zhan, you dirty, filthy man.” Wei Wuxian’s voice makes him shiver and he closes his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Wei Wuxian’s taunting eyes. “Lan Zhan, don’t you love me? Why are you ignoring me?”
“I do love you,” he says desperately, inhaling sharply when Wei Wuxian’s hands stray to his waist. They’re in public so Wei Wuxian won’t grope him but Lan Wangji opens his eyes and watches Wei Wuxian closely, their eyes chasing each other. Lan Wangji likes when Wei Wuxian gets a look like this, as it usually means trouble so he holds his tongue and lets his husband collect his ideas.
He’s trying to keep his mind tame and he doesn’t succeed until he’s laying on the bed, naked and with his back stinging as Wei Wuxian takes the bathroom to get ready for dinner. It’s Lan Wangji’s own fault though, since he stirred his husband up but it’s a little funny.
And even still, he gazes at his plain engagement ring and smiles softly. He likes the idea of a private exchange. They don’t need a big celebration and an intimate exchange of vows sounds beautiful to the two of them. Rings are enough of a statement and Lan Wangji tilts towards Wei Wuxian when his husband steps up, clad in a casual suit and fiddling with his earrings.
“What are you thinking about, Lan Zhan?” he says before he shakes out his hair, straightening his earrings. “Do you have time to straighten my hair?”
“If I dress quickly,” he answers, standing up. He’s very much naked which makes Wei Wuxian smiles, patting his ass when he walks past. Lan Wangji always dresses quickly so he fixes his shirt and blazer. Neither of them dress with many layers since they’ll be inside for dinner and Wei Wuxian still hates ties so Lan Wangji dresses casually, fitted slacks and a t-shirt beneath his blazer.
Wei Wuxian hums when Lan Wangji steps out and presents himself to him. “You look so nice in navy, my darling,” he whispers, running his fingers beneath his blazer lapels to straighten them out. “So simple. Do we have time?”
They have time. That’s not the problem. “I like your hair the way it is, Wei Ying. You’re beautiful, regardless.”
Wei Wuxian’s cheeks flush and he sighs. “Ah, fine. It’s cute when you flirt with me, Lan Zhan.” With that, he’s back in the bathroom and Lan Wangji sighs, finding it all funny. He waits in the kitchen, correcting his hair in the darkened window reflection. Wei Wuxian doesn’t straighten his hair, his curls springing over his shoulders and he takes Lan Wangji’s hand, just to twirl himself beneath his arm like he did so long ago when they practised for their wedding.
“Shall we?” he says and Lan Wangji hums, locking up the house before they head to dinner. It’s not a loud place but it’s still nice and Wei Wuxian orders wine for himself, focused on his ring as he sips from his glass.
“I’m happy,” he says and takes Lan Wangji’s hand over the table. The atmosphere is nice and even though Lan Wangji shifts, the scratches on his back making Wei Wuxian laughs into his wine glass, coughing into his hand right when the waiter asks them to order.
There’s nothing to really discuss, even though Wei Wuxian keeps looking at his ring. They’re easy going and easy to please when it comes to each other which isn’t a bad thing. Wei Wuxian gets a flush from the wine and finishes Lan Wangji’s own wine off right as they’re leaving like the classy man he is and smiles at his husband. The waiter poured it for him accidentally so Wei Wuxian keeps his promise of drinking the alcohol for Lan Wangji.
“I love you,” he says and then wrinkles his nose when he exhales only red wine. Well, so much for that promise. “Oops. Still love you though, Lan Zhan.”
“Let’s go home,” he says in lieu of an answer, taking his hand to keep him close. “Are you alright?”
Wei Wuxian snorts. “Three glasses of wine won’t kill me, Lan Zhan.”
No, Wei Wuxian’s tolerance is much higher. Lan Wangji had one sip, just to try and now his eyes feel heavy, even after a full meal. He’s thinking of dessert, only if Wei Wuxian wants something sweet but his husband holds his hand and leans against him, their heeled shoes clicking on the stone path.
“I love you as well, Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji says finally, when he realises he didn’t reply. The night is warm but neither of them are overly hot. Lan Wangji doesn’t even remember what they ate.
“Walk with me,” Wei Wuxian says and runs to the rockwall. He kicks off his shoes before he grins at Lan Wangji over his shoulder, the wind pulling his hair from his face. He’s very pretty, so pretty it makes Lan Wangji sigh dreamily.
Because Wei Wuxian is who he is, he runs along the sand and screams when Lan Wangji runs for him, grabbing him and spinning him, feeling giddy at Wei Wuxian’s laugh. He protests but Lan Wangji drops him just to hold him close and Wei Wuxian sighs, touching his husband’s face so gently, precious and sweet.
“Lan Zhan,” he says quietly and Lan Wangji is infatuated with him. Obsessed, in love, God, Wei Wuxian is everything to him. “I love you. More than I thought I ever would.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“Never. You’re everything to me.” He bites at Lan Wangji’s nose just to make him wrinkle it before he leans their foreheads together, closing his eyes. “Zhanzhan… Thank you. Just for everything. For marrying me and… Just everything.”
Lan Wangji sways them slightly, comfortable. His heart won’t slow down but he doesn’t mind it, not when it’s Wei Wuxian making him feel that way. “Thank you for marrying me, Wei Ying. And remarrying me, I suppose.”
Wei Wuxian kisses him, his back arching as Lan Wangji holds him around his waist, so close he can’t get away. “I’d marry you again in a heartbeat,” he whispers against his mouth and Lan Wangji shivers, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Oh, how beautiful it is to love Wei Wuxian and to be loved by him in return. Lan Wangji will savor it until the day he no longer can.
“Take me home,” Wei Wuxian whispers, his breath fanning over Lan Wangji’s lips. For a few moments, they don’t move because neither of them want to but Lan Wangji pulls away, only for Wei Wuxian to jump on his back. They’re too old for this but Wei Wuxian holds him as close as he can without choking him and whispers into his ear, all his sweet words making Lan Wangji shiver, right down his spine.
Lan Wangji doesn’t know what time it is by the time they’re back at the house. But he lies Wei Wuxian down and the two of them barely get fully undressed, falling asleep with their socks still on and each other’s warmth to keep them both safe.
Lan Wangji buries his face into Wei Wuxian’s chest and falls asleep with his husband running his fingers through his hair as he whispers to him. Lan Wangji is too tired to process what is being said but it’s sweet, like a delicate honeysuckle and ah, Wei Wuxian is like a blossomed flower, new beginnings and beautiful imagery all together.
He knows he must have said something lovely before falling asleep but he doesn’t know. All he knows is the feeling of Wei Wuxian around him and beneath him, his heartbeat lulling Lan Wangji into a dreamless sleep, peaceful and lovely.
***
“Lan Zhan?”
Lan Wangji looks up from his computer where he’s been drafting an email for a conference meeting for the past few minutes. Wei Wuxian stands in his doorway, plain suit and a lanyard around his neck, his wedding ring shining on his hand where it’s raised against his door. He started working with Lan Wangji about two weeks ago, with an office of his own like he deserves and things have been going smoothly so far.
Lan Wangji gestures for his husband to come in, to sit in front of his desk but Wei Wuxian walks to him, his hand behind his back and Lan Wangji blinks up at him. “Wei Ying-”
“My turn,” his husband says, smirking before he gets down on one knee and presents a black ring box. It’s a silver band, three diamonds encrusted with blue reflections when it catches the light. Wei Wuxian’s ring is more intricate, black and red with details inside the ring but Lan Wangji inhales sharply and presses his lips together.
“Do you like it?” Wei Wuxian asks but he doesn’t even wait before he slips it onto Lan Wangji’s finger. It fits nicely, because Wei Wuxian didn’t bother trying to keep it a secret and asked for his measurements up front.
“Off the floor,” Lan Wangji says, standing up with him. Wei Wuxian’s smile is sweet as he wraps his arms around Lan Wangji’s shoulders, gazing at him sweetly. “Yes, I will accept this ring and marry you, Wei Ying.”
“Good, ‘cause I was kind of worried you’d say no.” Wei Wuxian can’t even get through the joke without laughing, pulling a face that makes Lan Wangji sigh. “Hey, I’m joking, my love. Divorce is messy so you can’t ever leave me.”
“I promise to love you in sickness and in health,” Lan Wangji answers, raising his brows. “‘Til death do us part.”
Wei Wuxian snorts, kissing his cheek. “Sick. ‘Cause you’re never getting away from me. Let me know when we should do our little ceremony because I’m already writing.” He says it so casually but Lan Wangji can tell he’s nervous, trying to play it off as normal.
So Lan Wangji kisses him softly, just to reassure and hums when Wei Wuxian smiles against his mouth. He pulls away, pressing a kiss to his husband’s cheek and says, “Are you done with work?”
“Not yet. It’s two in the afternoon.” He looks like he’s in a dream, his eyes closed and his voice sounds far away, like his thoughts are occupied. “Lan Zhan,” he drawls and opens his eyes, “I think I should go away. Or you’re going to distract me from my work.”
Lan Wangji won’t be caught for that so he lets his husband go, leaning on his desk to watch him leave. Wei Wuxian doesn’t like wearing suits but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look good. Lan Wangji feels a little bit of shame but then again, Wei Wuxian is his husband. There’s no harm in checking his own husband out.
Even still, he turns his head away and looks to his computer, just to sink himself back into his work. An email isn’t hard to write and he completes it within the next few minutes and returns back to his work, drafting up notes and comments from a previous meeting that he sends through to his brother. Work is as boring as ever but when five o’clock rolls around and his husband has bothered him for a while, he turns off his computer and gathers his things.
Lan Xichen is, surprisingly, the one at his door within the next five minutes, knocking on his door. “Good afternoon, Wangji. Can I speak with you or are you going home?”
“I was going home,” Lan Wangji answers, taking his shoulderbag and putting it over his head. “What is it?” He gestures to Wei Wuxian when his husband appears behind his brother and Wei Wuxian smiles at him, making Lan Xichen shift to let him in.
“I was going to ask if you’d like to come to dinner,” his brother says, touching a hand to Wei Wuxian’s shoulder. “Wangji told me you… got engaged again? I really don’t know what that looks like for you two but congratulations.”
Wei Wuxian snorts, shrugging. “It looks exactly like it does now. We’re already married so that’s not happening again.” He gestures for Lan Wangji to follow, so they can go home. “You get one wedding out of me, Xichen-gege. Why? Did you want another one?”
“No,” Lan Xichen laughs, watching as Lan Wangji locks his office behind him. “I’ll save the second wedding for myself. But regardless, dinner would be nice. I’d like to invite your sister, A-Xian.”
Wei Wuxian purses his lips, shrugging. “I’ll extend the invite, but she has a newborn so don’t expect much.” He says that but when Friday night rolls around, Jiang Yanli is knocking on Lan Xichen’s front door, her brother opening it. “Shijie! I didn’t think you’d come.”
“I’m not so soft that I’ll die from a little bit of sleep deprivation,” she laughs and she looks a bit refreshed, even though Jin Zixuan looks like a dead man walking behind her.
“You look like shit,” Wei Wuxian snarks, inviting them inside. He takes Jin Ling immediately and the newborn fusses, just short of being two months old. He looks cute though and Wei Wuxian brings him to Lan Wangji, stroking his fuzzy head. “Such a pudgy face. Just like your dad, huh?”
Jin Zixuan is too tired to have a snappy reply. He’s talking to Lan Xichen with a smile on his face but he turns down the wine, shaking his head. Jiang Yanli accepts a glass, because Wei Wuxian pouts and she’s always been weak to him.
Lan Wangji ends up on the couch with Jin Ling, but that doesn’t bother him much. No one besides Wei Wuxian is loud but when he gets a few wines into him, he turns a little hazy and Lan Xichen becomes his favorite person when he’s a little tipsy.
It’s not that late, as Jin Ling is a baby and needs to go home in order to sleep but he’s comfortable with Lan Wangji, staring at him with his big doe eyes. “You are so young,” he whispers to Jin Ling who just blinks before he starts to yawn. “Yes. That is how I feel about life sometimes, A-Ling.”
“Be careful,” Wei Wuxian warns from behind him before he slinks his upper body over the top of Lan Wangji’s shoulders. “He’ll end up like you if you talk to him too much.”
“And what am I, Wei Ying?”
“Beautiful, delectable but unfortunately, very straight edged.”
“Would you rather I change?”
Wei Wuxian makes a noise of disagreement before he kisses Lan Wangji’s cheek. “No, my love.” He smiles at Jin Ling before he pokes his big cheek and the baby yawns again, his eyes getting heavy. It’s just past eight o’clock so Lan Wangji settles him a little, in case Jin Ling does fall asleep completely.
Wei Wuxian hums, smiling when Lan Wangji shifts to look at him properly. He thinks for a moment, his eyes flicking over Jin Ling before he says, “Should we have kids?” Lan Wangji squints at him, confused so Wei Wuxian shakes his head, smiling to himself. “No, don’t worry. I’m just talking shit.”
Lan Wangji stares at him, his thoughts reeling. Who just says that? Wei Wuxian says that. But his surprise must show on his face because Wei Wuxian kisses him, just to make him think about something else and says, “We can talk about it at home. That’s like… way in the future, Lan Zhan. I was genuinely just talking shit.”
“It’s not something to just…
say,
” Lan Wangji answers, turning his eyes back to Jin Ling who keeps half yawning, not quite having the strength to get through the entire motion. He cradles Jin Ling to his chest and stands up, finding Jiang Yanli speaking with his brother at the table. Wei Wuxian stays at the couch, hanging his head so Lan Wangji nods when Jiang Yanli looks up and silently motions for her baby.
“Oh, he’s asleep,” she coos, stroking Jin Ling’s fuzzy head like Wei Wuxian did. “We should go to bed. A-Xuan, come on. I’ll drive home.”
Lan Xichen fusses, gathering their things so Jin Zixuan doesn’t have to and within a few minutes, they’re out the door. Jiang Yanli is a new mother - she doesn’t have time to hug and kiss goodbye so she just waves to her brother and Wei Wuxian snorts, leaning against the back on the couch.
Lan Xichen tucks his hair behind his ears, smiling at them. “I’m glad they’re together. At least Jin Zixuan is getting his experiences in.”
“There’s no way shijie was going to get up in the middle of the night for A-Ling,” Wei Wuxian muses, crossing his arms. “She gave birth to him. The least Jin Zixuan is be a little sleep deprived for his own son.”
Lan Wangji doesn’t know when they leave. Wei Wuxian drives them home, in relative silence and Lan Wangji collects his thoughts before he says, “Did you mean what you said?”
“What did I say, Lan Zhan?” He didn’t drink much or he wouldn’t be driving but Lan Wangji doesn’t know if he only alluded to children just to get a rise out of him.
“Children. Did you mean it?”
“Who else would I raise children with?”
“That wasn’t the question, Wei Ying. Did you mean it?”
Wei Wuxian purses his lips before he hums. “Yes, I meant it, Lan Zhan. Not now or within the next few years, even. But… Isn’t that what married couples do, later on?”
“Not always.” Lan Wangji has never thought about having children. Did seeing him with Jin Ling really change something in Wei Wuxian? He doesn’t know how to continue this conversation now. “But… If it’s what you wanted, I would be okay with it.”
Wei Wuxian doesn’t reply. He reaches over the gearstick and Lan Wangji laces their fingers together. He huffs something akin to a laugh when Wei Wuxian pulls his hand over and kisses his knuckles obnoxiously, pressing his smile into his hand. “Lan Zhan, you are my dearest love.”
“As you are mine,” Lan Wangji responds, squeezing his hand in return. Wei Wuxian drops their hands onto his leg, holding them there for the rest of the ride home. It’s comfortable, as it always is with Wei Wuxian.
The conversation doesn’t continue, not even when they get home. Neither of them bring it up and Lan Wangji hums when Wei Wuxian unlocks their door, pulls him in and kisses him. “You taste like wine,” he mumbles and Wei Wuxian hums, agreeing before he licks into Lan Wangji’s mouth and really makes him taste the wine.
“It’s red wine,” Wei Wuxian says, hushed against his mouth. “I was fine to drive or I wouldn’t have driven.” There’s a pause between them and Lan Wangji opens his eyes slowly, to Wei Wuxian’s dark eyes. “You don’t care.”
“You don’t need to explain,” he answers. He slips his hands around Wei Wuxian’s waist, pulling them flush together and Wei Wuxian huffs, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Do you not want me to touch you, Wei Ying?”
Wei Wuxian shakes his head and grips Lan Wangji by his shirt, grinning at him before he slots their mouths together, taking control of the kiss like he usually does. Lan Wangji lets him think he can take over but he grips his hips and hoists Wei Wuxian up, making him startle. “Lan Zhan!” he gasps and wraps his legs around Lan Wangji’s waist, blinking down at him. “You are too much. Aren’t you tired?”
Lan Wangji stares up at him, silent and Wei Wuxian shivers, his mouth twisting into a sly smile. Taking him to bed is simple and making work of his clothes is even easier but Wei Wuxian fusses in bed and pulls Lan Wangji’s shirt off too so he can run his fingers over his tattoos.
“This,” he mumbles as Lan Wangji latches onto the side of his neck, sucking and biting until Wei Wuxian squirms. “This is… Ah, it’s one of my favourite things. Only I get to see these, right?”
Lan Wangji is breathless, Wei Wuxian’s nails running over his shoulders. “Only A-Ying. Always.”
Wei Wuxian chuckles, throwing his head back when Lan Wangji licks over his marks, nipping as he goes and returns to Wei Wuxian’s lips, kissing him sweetly.
It’s nothing to write home about but still, the both of them are grateful. Wei Wuxian sits back, covered in spit and sighs, his hair all over the pillow. Lan Wangji wipes his mouth and tries to leave to clean up but Wei Wuxian pulls him into his own mess and kisses him, laughing when Lan Wangji makes an awkward sound.
“I should be the one complaining,” Wei Wuxian mumbles. “You’re the one who swallowed.”
“How romantic,” Lan Wangji mumbles into his mouth before he completely breaks away, needing to be clean. They don’t have to change the sheets but they probably should, just to be sure. Wei Wuxian waits, smiling when Lan Wangji cleans him up, kissing him as he goes.
“Thank you,” he whispers and Lan Wangji lays beside him, pulling him in close. He tries to keep his hands to himself but ends up with his hand on Wei Wuxian’s ass, closing his eyes when Wei Wuxian snorts into his neck. Just because he can, he grips Wei Wuxian’s asscheek and his husband grumbles, swatting weakly at his hand.
“When do you want to do the vows?” Lan Wangji whispers into his hair, running his hand up Wei Wuxian’s side. “I suppose whenever we write them.”
Wei Wuxian hums, out of it. He pulls himself up slowly, his eyes heavy. “It’s… Let’s go away for your birthday, Zhanzhan. It’s in a few days, isn’t it?”
Lan Wangji blinks. Yes, it is and he completely forgot. Not that he celebrates his birthday that much - Wei Wuxian doesn’t either and they spent his birthday painting alone because Wei Wuxian didn’t want to see anyone. Their last year and a bit together has been a mess and Wei Wuxian leaving his job and starting a new one fell at an awkward time so celebrating a birthday and having Jin Ling be born less than a month later… This year has been all over the place.
“My birthday falls on a Sunday,” Lan Wangji says and Wei Wuxian gets the hint. They can go away on a Friday night and return Sunday night. Simple, easy and ready to relax. “Do you want to do anything?”
Wei Wuxian lays back down, wrapping his arms around Lan Wangji again. He kisses the side of his neck and sighs. “No. I don’t know. I don’t care, Lan Zhan. As long as I’m with you.”
Lan Wangji smiles to himself, kissing his hair. Wei Wuxian is soon knocked out, breathing against Lan Wangji’s skin so he pulls the blanket up and over them, holding his husband close.
It’s easy to run away and forget about a lot of things, so long as he’s with Wei Wuxian. If that’s all it takes, then Lan Wangji can be happy that he’s found someone that makes him feel that way. That’s all he wants for himself and for Wei Wuxian - to be happy and to live comfortably. Wei Wuxian has been hurt too much in this lifetime already so Lan Wangji will continue to do what he promised - love Wei Wuxian until he simply cannot anymore.
He’s already drafting the vows before he falls asleep too, his husband in his arms, where he belongs. Safe and surrounded by the scent of each other and their home together.
***
“Okay, okay,” Wei Wuxian says, sitting down on the bed. He bounces a little bit and shifts, pulling a face. It’s cold and they’ve been inside all day, wrapped up in each other as they wrote their vows. Lan Wangji finished first, collected and calm but Wei Wuxian got annoyed by his own handwriting and how to rewrite some of his own so Lan Wangji would be able to read it.
“I can read your handwriting,” Lan Wangji defends so Wei Wuxian scoffs and swaps their papers, his eyes glittering. Lan Wangji watches him, sitting down on the edge of the bed slowly as he watches his husband, taking in everything about him.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes scan over the page quickly before he looks up and furrows his brows. “Read my vows, Lan Zhan,” he fusses, flicking the page and Lan Wangji hums, looking down and begins to read.
Lan Zhan,
When I first met you, I really didn’t think anything of you. I thought you were cute but that was about it. How dumb was I? I know so much has changed since then, with us and our lives but the fact that you have continued to be with me, support me and even still fall in love with me… It’s impossible to imagine life without you now, Lan Zhan. I never believed we would ever end up like this, nor did I ever think it would be possible.
Originally, I never thought about anything in the future. I figured, ‘What’s a year compared to a lifetime?” when I married you. But now, I think exactly that, only in a different context. One year compared to a lifetime is nothing, but a lifetime with you is all that I want. I don’t want to think about when this will end or if you’ll ever leave me because I know you want me. And that brings me peace.
Stupidly, I think you and I were made for each other. This is the first time in this lifetime that we’ve found each other. Do you agree? I think that is the only way I can describe the level of love that I have for you.
Just like I did at our wedding, I promise to love you no matter what. I promise to love you even when we fight because fighting with you hurts more than anything but I know that if I am ever wrong, you would be the only person I’d trust to tell me so. You’re the only person I’d ever believe. I’m stubborn as all hell but you are everything to me, Lan Zhan. I’d listen to you.
When the time comes, and we are old and had enough, I promise to stand by your side until we just cannot anymore. I don’t want anyone else, Lan Zhan. I promise to love you at your worst, whatever that may be, and at your very best, so long as you love me too.
I have to be proud of myself for never knowing what buttons not to press. I don’t know when it was for you, but I fell in love with all the little things you did for me and continue to do. I fell in love with your voice, the way you present yourself, the way you duck your head when you don’t want to look me in the eye. Everything about you makes my head go reeling in the best way possible. You make me giddy like a teenager in love and I just can’t be without you.
I fell in love with your heart and soul because it’s just like mine. You are kind and loving, true to yourself and bullheaded when you need to be. You devoted yourself to me and I will never take that for granted. When I married you, something shifted and I think it was my soul, realising it had found you again.
Please don’t cry, unless I’m there to wipe your tears away. This is so sappy but that’s what vows are for, right? I love you endlessly, and I will love you forever, until my soul shatters and is lost to this world forever.
And then, I’ll find you again in the next lifetime and we can fall in love all over again. I love you, Lan Wangji. I just love you. Thank you for everything. I love you, Lan Zhan.
Lan Wangji takes a breath and closes his eyes, only now realising his lashes are wet. Oh, Wei Wuxian said not to cry, didn’t he? Wei Wuxian looks at him when his breath hitches and coos, reaching over with Lan Wangji’s vows still in his hand. “Lan Zhan, my Lan Zhan… You’re such a baby. It wasn’t that sappy, come on.”
“It was,” Lan Wangji mutters, thumbing his eye as Wei Wuxian kisses his other cheek, soothing him. “Wei Ying- You… Did you read it all?”
Wei Wuxian kisses his face twice before he smiles. “Yes. You drive me crazy, you know that?” He shows Lan Wangji his own vows and points out a certain line. “Did you have to mention this? You’re such a perv. I never even said anything about your tattoos.”
Wei Ying,
It is difficult to put everything that I feel for you into words. But I will attempt so please bear with me.
Meeting you changed my life. Before you, my days were plain and mundane. But you bring colour into the world like you paint everything around you and you did the exact same to my life. Every day with you feels unreal, like I’m living in a dream. If it is a dream, then I never want to wake up.
When we got married, I was confused and unsure of what to do, with myself and with you. But you were the same as I and I was no longer afraid of what was to come. We have both changed so much in this short time and will continue to change and I cannot wait to see what comes for us.
I promise to love you forever, just like I did originally. You are my life, Wei Ying. I have come to trust you so intimately, with the deepest parts of myself and I love you for everything you do. When work is boring, you are there and even though it’s simple, I look forward to it every day.
As cliche as it may be, I think you and I are soulmates. There are things I cannot explain when it comes to my heart and no one has ever made me feel the way you do. I promise to love you until my heart stops because it has always been yours, ever since we met.
When I met you, something just clicked. Like you handed me a puzzle piece I didn’t know I was missing and suddenly everything made sense. You fit into my life so seamlessly that if you were to ever leave, I don’t think I would survive. I cannot be without you, Wei Ying. I don’t want to be without you.
You light up my world and I promise to love you in return for this simple fact. I want you now, by my side, forever and beyond. If you are my soulmate, then my heart will always find you. Even if you are not, I will find you and fall in love with you all over again because this is what is right for us. If destiny turns us against each other, I promise to rewrite it.
I will be wrong with you. I will be right with you. I will hold you and tell you anything you want me to say and everything that I mean. You have my heart, Wei Ying, and I know you will be gentle with it.
I love you, Wei Ying. You are everything to me. I will love you today, tomorrow, a month, a year from now. Your trust in me is more than I deserve. I love you, Wei Ying. Forever. I would marry you again in a heartbeat, no matter what the circumstances are. Can you promise me that you will do the same?
“Yes, silly,” Wei Wuxian whispers, pecking Lan Wangji’s lips softly as he slips his eyes closed. “I will do the same. You’re my everything, Lan Zhan, you know?”
“I know, Wei Ying,” he answers, kissing him again. It makes him smile, that it’s his birthday and this is what they’re doing but his lashes are still wet so Wei Wuxian chuckles, wiping the last of his tears away.
“You really love me that much?” Wei Wuxian whispers, pouting at him. “My vows were so silly. You wrote me poetry so easily.”
“They were you,” Lan Wangji defends, pressing his face into Wei Wuxian’s hand, blinking at him. “You thought I was cute?”
Wei Wuxian tosses his head back and laughs, dropping his hands to his shoulders. He drops his head, chuckling to himself and nods. “Yeah… Yeah, I did. But I didn’t think we’d make it this far, Lan Zhan. Didn’t you think I was cute?”
“I thought you were beautiful.” Lan Wangji does not lie. This is the best time to be truthful and Wei Wuxian sinks into him, his legs hanging off the bed. “I thought you were the most beautiful person I had ever seen.”
“You’re lying.”
“Never in my life.”
Wei Wuxian cuddles up to him, tucking himself beneath Lan Wangji’s chin. “Lan Zhan… Nothing makes sense unless I’m with you. I just… I don’t know.” Lan Wangji shifts, their legs off the bed and Wei Wuxian sighs. “Lan Zhan…”
“Yes, Wei Ying?”
Wei Wuxian moves his hand, taking Lan Wangji’s so he can look at their rings together and kisses his knuckles, wrapped up in each other so easily. Lan Wangji gently moves and strokes Wei Wuxian’s cheek, his heart beating too fast. He feels giddy, like he’s drunk but that’s impossible.
Falling in love was never in Lan Wangji’s life plan. He had the basics outlined - grow up, work for his family and enjoy his hobbies. But Wei Wuxian flipped his life upside down, with all his quirks and his colourful ways and Lan Wangji doesn’t need to know which way is up and which way is down now.
Wei Wuxian is his husband. It was a fluke, a glitch in the system but it’s perfect and everything Lan Wangji never believed it could be. He thought that he was doing Wei Wuxian a favour, by marrying him to lessen the pressure from his overbearing guardian, Yu Ziyuan, but he fell in love with him in the process and now, what can he do?
Wei Wuxian made his daily life beautiful. They are so different, they couldn’t be
more
different but they still come together like koi fish in a pond, swimming endlessly around each other, souls destined to always be intertwined. Dramatically, Lan Wangji thinks that if Wei Wuxian were to die, he would die too or spend forever mourning him and he thinks, distantly, that he knows that scenario too well.
Could they have been together, so many years ago, destined to fall in love but stay apart? Lan Wangji doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. But this lifetime, they’re together and it doesn’t matter how that came to be. They have found each other, become so familiar and intimate with each other that nothing else matters to them but each other and the life they share, split down the middle between them.
There’s that many myths and legends about soulmates that Lan Wangji could spend days telling Wei Wuxian every single one but none of them would ever come quite close to the destiny he feels he shares with Wei Wuxian. Their destiny is messy - it’s complicated and sometimes, it doesn’t feel rewarding at all but every time, they come back to each other, pick up the pieces and try again.
Lan Wangji needs Wei Wuxian like he needs oxygen. It is as simple as that to him and he could spin it or say it in thousands of ways and still come back to the same conclusion. The promise to love each other forever must have rang true because Lan Wangji does not ever take his own feelings lightly and Wei Wuxian seemed to have a place in his home carved out for himself already, ready to love and live with him for more than the next year.
A promise of forever. Originally they didn’t make one but now, it holds true. As long as they have each other, nothing else matters. It sounds like a fairytale, the power of their love enough to conquer tidal waves but Lan Wangji selfishly believes in that kind of thing, only if it’s with Wei Wuxian.
“Do you love me?” Wei Wuxian suddenly asks so Lan Wangji tips his chin up and kisses him. It conveys his feelings enough for Wei Wuxian to smile against his mouth, stretching himself out like a cat. Lan Wangji holds him as tightly as he can, licking into his mouth and Wei Wuxian hums, sighing as if in relief.
“I do,” Lan Wangji answers, whispered into his husband’s skin. “I will love you forever, Wei Ying.”
“Good,” Wei Wuxian laughs and sits up quickly, straddling Lan Wangji just as fast. He stares down at him, his mouth turned up in a smug smile. “‘Cause you’re never getting rid of me, Lan Zhan.” He leans down, his hands on either side of Lan Wangji’s head and says, “My Zhanzhan.”
“A-Ying,” he answers and surges up to kiss him, taking them down together. It’s easy to make a fantasy out of each other, one that they can create and dictate together. Nothing is as sweet as Wei Wuxian’s words and Lan Wangji will paint the entire town if Wei Wuxian would tell him what to do.
Marriage is difficult but like the true enigma of Wei Wuxian, it is beautiful and enticing, only if it’s with Wei Wuxian. Loving Wei Wuxian is something Lan Wangji takes pride in. Their souls are bound to each other, now and forever, until their last breath and Lan Wangji knows that when it all comes down to it in the end, he’ll find Wei Wuxian every single time, no matter what it takes.
I will be wrong with you. I will be right with you.
I know that if I am ever wrong, you would be the only person I’d trust to tell me so. You’re the only person I’d ever believe.
I love you, Wei Ying. Forever.
I just love you. Thank you for everything. I love you, Lan Zhan.
|
A sunbeam poured through the window, casting its light over Jamie’s face and waking her up. She was laying on her back, with one arm hanging off the side of the bed and the other draped across her stomach. She was so groggy that it took her a minute to realize that Dani Clayton was sleeping very close to her. She glanced over and there was Dani’s head, resting right on her shoulder, Dani’s whole body was curled in towards Jamie, with her hands curled up against Jamie’s upper arm and her knees pressed against Jamie’s thighs. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Not good! How did this even happen? We have this whole queen size bed and Dani is sharing my pillow?! Ok, I don’t think I was an active participant in this. I’m not touching her. I haven’t crossed a line. She’s asleep and probably didn’t even realize that she migrated over here. This is fine. I just need to get up without waking her.
Taking one last second to savor all the places Dani’s body was touching her’s, Jamie very carefully slid out of the bed, careful not to wake Dani. Dani groaned and muttered something unintelligible, but did not wake up. Jamie went to the bathroom and splashed water on her face. You have got to get a handle on this. You cannot have feelings for her. It was so much easier for Jamie to tell herself that when she was not around Dani. When Dani touched her, it was like all reason and logic left her. This has never happened before. Jamie thought back to last night. They were so comfortable with one another, the jokes flowing easily. Jamie couldn’t remember the last time she had laughed like that. Being with Dani just felt so good. Stop. Just stop.
Jamie got ready and then headed back into their room to make some tea. Dani was just starting to stir.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Jamie said.
Dani yawned and stretched. She then looked very confused.
“Jamie? Why am I on your side of the bed?”
“I don’t know. You must have rolled over after I got up.”
“Oh ok, good. That makes sense.” She sounded so relieved. “I was afraid I had done something embarrassing there for a second.”
“The only thing you need to be embarrassed about is your awful joke from last night,” Jamie teased, glad that she had spared Dani some embarrassment.
“I still maintain that I have no regrets about that,” Dani replied stubbornly, finally rolling out of bed and heading towards the bathroom.
A few moments later, Jamie brought her a cup of tea while she was fixing her hair. “Thank you, Jamie. You make the best tea. And I could definitely use the caffeine.”
Jamie smiled. “Don’t mention it.”
After she was done getting ready, Dani went next door and got the kids up and dressed. Then they all went down to breakfast together. Rebecca was sitting across the table from Dani and Jamie, eyeing them suspiciously. When Miles and Flora went back to the buffet line, she decided to confront them.
“So, which one of you wants to tell me what the hell happened last night?” Rebecca asked.
Dani snickered and Jamie kicked her under the table.
“What are you talking about, Jessel?” Jamie asked, feigning ignorance.
“You know perfectly well.”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you spell it out for me?” Jamie asked, daring her to say something.
“I-, I- heard Dani scream,” Rebecca said.
“Aye, you did. Dani, care to tell Agent Jessel here what that was about?”
“Yeah, I, uh, had a nightmare,” Dani said. “Yesterday was just a hard day, you know?”
Jamie nodded like the matter was concluded. Rebecca was not convinced.
“Must have been a funny nightmare with all the laughter that came after.” Rebecca said, her tone accusing.
“Rebecca, say what it is you want to say because I don’t much appreciate your tone right now,” Jamie said.
Rebecca ignored her. “Dani, where is Jamie sleeping?”
“What? She’s sleeping on the couch. Where else? I’m not sure I understand what’s going on here,” she said innocently. Dani had not missed a beat. Jamie wasn’t sure she could be any more proud of her.
Rebecca looked down, feeling rather foolish. “I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to imply—“
Jamie interpreted her. “Yes, you did, Rebecca. Look, if I’d had sex with Dani last night, I guarantee you she would have screamed more than once,” she said with the cockiest grin Dani had ever seen.
Dani’s head whipped to the side to look at Jamie, her eyes wide. Holy shit! Did I just hear her say that?! Wait, why does Rebecca even think that is remotely possible? What is happening right now?!
Rebecca blushed and got very uncomfortable under Jamie’s stare. “I just, excuse me—” She got up hurriedly to check on the kids, who were making waffles. Rebecca’s exit gave Dani a moment to compose herself.
“Your co-worker definitely thought we had sex last night,” Dani said matter of factly. “I kind of feel like I got cheated now.”
Jamie spewed her orange juice back into its glass. What is happening today?! First, the bed situation and now this comment?! Does she have any idea what she is doing to me?!
Dani laughed and elbowed her. “That was payback. For the screaming comment.”
Oh, thank God. She’s just joking.
“Poppins, you flirt.”
“Hmm, do I?” Dani said, taking a long drink of her coffee and raising her eyebrows.
Wait, now I’m not so sure anymore. Is she joking or not? I have no idea what is going on. This got out of hand fast. I just wanted to throw Rebecca off.
Miles, Flora, and Rebecca returned to the table with their waffles, leaving both Jamie and Dani with more than a few unanswered questions for each other. Rebecca could barely look at either of them. She was mostly convinced that they had not slept together at this point, but she still had no idea what had actually happened and that bothered her. Why wouldn’t they just tell her?
“Miss Clayton, tell us again what adventure we’re going on today?” Flora asked, disrupting literally every adult at the table from their thoughts about Jamie and Dani having sex… or not.
“Today, Flora, we are going to the museum!” Dani said, mustering excitement she didn’t actually feel.
“Museums are boring,” Miles said.
“Not this one, Miles, it will be perfectly splendid!” Flora said. She seemed to have bounced back from yesterday’s scare.
Rebecca’s phone rang and and she excused herself from the table to take the call. The kids were still bickering about whether or not the museum would be cool. Dani leaned over to whisper to Jamie.
“Remind me again why we are lying to Rebecca? We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Because I don’t trust her right now. Especially not with you. “No, we haven’t, Dani. But she may not see it that way. As agents, we have to keep our feelings in check, stay neutral, you know? If we don’t, things could get… complicated,” Jamie whispered back, hoping Dani understood. Dani didn’t let it go.
“Does… sharing a bed with...with me… c-complicate things?” She managed to get out in a whisper.
“Course not, Poppins,” Jamie lied. “Just don’t want to it look that way is all.”
“Right, got it,” Dani said, hiding her disappointment.
I just lied to her. It’s actually quite complicated for me. It’s for the better though.
Rebecca returned to the table, looking stricken.
“Everything alright, Jessel?” Jamie asked, concerned. “Who was that on the phone?”
“It was nobody. Wrong number. I’m just not feeling well all of a sudden. I think it was maybe something I ate. Do you mind taking them to the museum on your own?”
Jamie got up from the table and led Rebecca by her elbow a few feet away, just out of earshot of Dani, Miles, and Flora, who had all turned to blatantly watch the conversation.
“Jessel, that’s a break in protocol,” Jamie said low. “You sure you’re feeling that bad?”
“I’m so sorry, Jamie. I think I’m going to be sick. There’s no way I can go.”
“This came on really sudden,” Jamie observed.
“I know. I’m so sorry. But I did all the recon yesterday and you studied it, right?”
“Course I did.”
“So, it will be fine. I’m really sorry to do this to you.”
“Maybe we should postpone the trip,” Jamie suggested.
“No, you know Wingrave will have a fit if you do that.”
“Oi, you’re probably right there. Not that I care much about his opinion.” Jamie glanced back and saw the pleading looks on the kids’ faces. “Fine. I’ll take them. But you owe me one, Jessel.”
“Understood. And thank you.”
“Sure.”
“Also, Jamie? I’m really sorry, you know, for what I accused you of. I shouldn’t have said that. I know how strong your boundaries are and that you wouldn’t have done that. She likes you though, you have to see that. Just be careful is all.”
Jamie scoffed. “Now I know you’re not feeling well. You’re full of shite, Jessel. Get yourself to bed. That’s an order.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rebecca replied seriously. She waved goodbye to Dani and the kids and headed back up to her room.
Jamie returned to the table. “Alright, you lot ready to go?”
“Yes! Field trip with Agent Jamie!” Miles said, finally excited.
“You sure this is okay?” Dani said quietly to Jamie. She was picking up on Jamie’s uneasy feeling.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Jamie replied.
A few minutes later, they were all piling into the SUV. This time, Dani climbed in the front seat next to Jamie.
“Is it okay that I sit up here?” She asked, checking in with Jamie.
“Sure. The whole SUV is bulletproof, so you’re as safe up here as back there.”
“Are you serious?”
“Did you really think we weren’t driving around in an armored vehicle?”
“Oh wow,” Dani said, realizing that there were so many things Jamie was taking care of behind the scenes that she had no clue about.
“Anyway, welcome to the front seat,” Jamie said nonchalantly.
“Thanks. I prefer the view up here,” Dani said, looking directly at Jamie.
Jamie cleared her throat. “Right. Well, let’s go.”
The kids were chattering in the backseat, but Jamie and Dani were quiet in the front. Jamie was focused and Dani didn’t want to distract her, but she realized that she had forgotten to talk to her about the ball the next night.
“Hey Jamie?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been meaning to mention this to you, but there is a ball tomorrow night for all the delegates at the summit. Mr. Wingrave invited me. I told him I would go. But, I realize I probably should have talked to you about it first. I’m sorry. Is that okay? It’s totally okay if it’s not.”
“Oh yeah, Agent Sharma mentioned it to me the other night. Said you’d expressed an interest in going. It’s fine by me if that’s what you want. Security will be tight there. Less to worry about. We’ll still need to be on our guard though.”
“Of course. Thanks, Jamie. I thought you might not be happy about it.”
“You made me ride a camel and you think this is what is going to upset me?” Jamie said, smirking.
“I don’t know what to wear though. Do you think we would be able to go shopping or anything?”
“No need. Once Owen told me you wanted to go, I took the liberty of procuring the appropriate attire through MI5. We have access to all kind of fancy clothes, you know? It’s one of the perks of the job,” Jamie said, turning towards Dani and winking.
“Oh? So you’ve, uh, already picked out something for me to wear?” Dani asked, both shocked and thrilled at the thought of Jamie picking something out for her. When did she even find time to do that?
“I have, yeah. For both of us. Should be delivered to our room tonight. I hope I didn’t overstep. I’m sorry if I should’ve asked you first.”
“No, no it’s totally fine. I’m sure whatever you chose is great. Thanks,” Dani said, and she meant it. Jamie thought of everything.
They arrived at the museum shortly thereafter. Jamie hung back again, letting Dani do her job, but she stayed close and kept a watchful eye. Rebecca’s recon had been good and Jamie had not encountered any surprises.
Even though Jamie was not drawing any attention to herself, Dani found herself aware of her at all times. There was just so much Dani wanted to talk to her about, but their time alone was rare. They were on their last part of the museum tour when Jamie’s phone went off. Dani watched Jamie read her message, her eyes immediately snapping up to meet Dani’s. She walked over to Dani in two strides and took her by the elbow. She spoke low so Miles and Flora wouldn’t hear.
“We need to leave. Now,” Jamie said.
“What? Why?” Dani asked, panic rising.
Jamie turned her phone so Dani could see it, not wanting to say anything aloud.
FROM: Hannah Grose
MESSAGE: Assassination attempt made on Wingrave. Attempt unsuccessful. Sharma in pursuit now. Intel suggests team of mercenaries en route to you. Get out now. Use extreme caution. Rendezvous at hotel.
Dani nodded hurriedly, her heart racing. Jamie sent an acknowledgment to Hannah and walked over to the children.
“Ok, sprouts, I hate to cut this short, but we have to go,” she said, trying to sound chipper.
“But why?” Miles whined.
“Don’t ask questions, let’s just go,” Dani said, taking their hands and pulling them along.
“But Miss Clayton! I wanted to go to the gift shop!” Flora complained.
“We’ll get you something later,” Dani said quickly.
Dani pulled the kids behind Jamie as they exited the museum and entered the parking garage. Jamie pulled out her gun as they walked and the kids’ eyes went wide. Jamie’s head was swiveling, trying to scan every inch of the parking garage for threats. They made it to the SUV and Jamie directed them to get in. Dani chose to get in the backseat this time, so she could help the kids stay calm. Jamie retrieved some items from the back and then joined them, tossing three bulletproof vests towards them.
“Put these on,” she directed, while she pulled one over her own head.
Dani’s eyes showed how frightened she was, but she knew not to question Jamie. This is serious.
“What are these Miss Clayton?” Flora questioned.
Dani found herself faltering, but Jamie stepped in to help her as she started up the SUV and put it in reverse.
“It’s like a life vest, Flora. It will keep you safe. Only very important people get to wear them,” she said, trying to throw a reassuring smile her way in the rear view mirror.
“But, Agent Jamie, we’re not going swimming,” Miles said.
“No, but we’re in a type of hot water, so you’ll want these,” Jamie said, as she pulled out of the parking garage and onto the busy street.
“Thank you,” Dani mouthed to her. She has successfully gotten the vests on both children and was now fastening her own.
“Alright kids, we’re going to play a little game,” Jamie continued. “It’s called ‘hide from Agent Jamie.’ I want you to duck as low as you can in the seat. If I can see you, you lose. You too, Miss Clayton. Everyone gets to play. Got it?”
“Oh, I’ve never played this game before!” Flora said, diving into the floorboards.
Dani was in the middle and reached into the front seat to give Jamie’s arm a reassuring squeeze as she moved to the floor, Miles and Flora on either side of her. If Jamie could keep the mood light, Dani would try to do the same for them. Flora kept calling out to Jamie to see if she could see her. Dani didn’t know how Jamie kept playing along while also driving and scanning every building and car for threats. She was amazing. Dani couldn’t put into words how appreciative she was that Jamie was working so hard not to scare the kids.
In the front seat, Jamie’s mind was focused, all of her senses hyper aware. She couldn’t focus too much on the three lives she now held in her hands. If she did that, she could make a mistake. Her training kicked in like muscle memory. Seeing a traffic jam up ahead, she turned down a side street that Rebecca had identified as a short cut in her recon. Almost immediately, Jamie knew it was a mistake. As she got halfway down the empty street, trucks shot out from alleys in front of and behind her, effectively boxing her in. In the back of every truck were mercenaries with assault rifles.
“Shit!” She exclaimed, hitting the steering wheel with the palm of her hand. They were trapped.
A bullet hit the windshield right in front of Jamie’s face. But it hadn’t come from any of the mercenaries. It came from a sniper’s rifle. The shooter fired again, another shot aimed directly for Jamie’s head. The bulletproof glass held, but it was starting to splinter. The next four shots took out each of their tires. Jamie was vaguely aware of Flora and Miles screaming and of Dani pinning the children under her body, acting as a shield for whatever came next.
“Dani, whatever happens, you stay down and you stay in the car! Do not look! Ok?” Jamie said, as she pulled her own rifle from the floorboard, not even looking back at Dani.
“Ok!” She heard Dani yell. “Just be careful!”
I’m about to take on ten men on my own, and I have a sniper on me. I’ll be as careful as I can be.
Before Jamie could respond, gunfire erupted from all sides as the mercenaries advanced on them, spraying their vehicle with bullets. Jamie couldn’t even hear the screams from the backseat anymore over the deafening sound. Almost all of the windows shattered at the same time, making them even more exposed and vulnerable. Jamie opened her door and knelt behind it, using it as a shield. She sprayed gunfire in the direction of the gunmen behind her first, before sending a round in the direction of the ones in front of her, too.
A bullet slammed into her chest, pushing her back into the car. Her vest stopped it, but it knocked the wind out of her. Jamie was pretty certain she heard Dani call her name. She had to take out that sniper first or she didn’t stand a chance. Judging by the angle of the shots, Jamie guessed he was somewhere on the left side of the alley. Laying on her back in the front seat, she looked out the busted front window and saw light reflect from the sniper’s scope.
“Got you, you bastard,” she said, pulling out her handgun. She stood up quickly, popping out through the sunroof and fired one very carefully aimed shot at the sniper. His body fell off the roof and onto the street in a sickening thud.
But, there was no time to feel relieved, because while Jamie had been focused on taking out the sniper, the remaining mercenaries had advanced on the vehicle. Jamie slid back out of the car through the driver’s side and resumed shooting at them from behind her door. But there were too many of them. She took out three in front of her, but three more came up behind her, shooting her in the back. The impact sent her falling face first on the ground.
Dani was holding the crying children close, not even trying to hold back the tears streaming down her own face. She couldn’t see much from where she was, but she saw Jamie fall. And she didn’t see her get back up. Please let her be ok. Please.
Jamie stayed down, waiting for the gunmen to get closer to her. One of them came to kick her body and make sure she was dead. As soon as he got close enough, she rolled over and grabbed his leg, throwing him off balance and sending him to the ground. As soon as he was on his back, she jumped up and sent one bullet directly into his brain. Two other gunmen were on her immediately. Once brought his rifle down on her head, and she narrowly dodged the blow. The other drew a knife. In her periphery, Jamie was aware of the last four men opening the back door of the SUV and trying to grab Dani and the kids. Jamie delivered a roundhouse kick to the man with the rifle, making contact with his face and sending him backwards, giving her enough time to turn her attention to the one with a knife who was slashing wildly in her direction. She managed to catch his hands as he aimed for her face. She kneed him in the stomach and he doubled over in pain. Using his momentum against him, she twisted the knife towards him as he fell, the knife sinking deep into his gut. She pulled the knife out and quickly threw it in the direction of the man she had just kicked who was running back towards her. The knife landed in his throat.
“JAMIE!!!” Dani was screaming.
Jamie jumped and slid over the hood of the SUV, landing on the other side as two men were pulling Dani by her legs out of the backseat. Dani was kicking wildly. Her foot made contact with one man’s face, sending him stumbling backwards. The other man held her tight. She had grabbed something inside the car to steady herself and was not going easily. The man pulled a gun on her. No!
He fired at the same time as Jamie.
She always hits what she aims for. That’s what Rebecca had told Dani. Jamie had aimed for the man’s head. He was dead before his body hit the street, his hold on Dani gone. Dani scrambled back in the car, trying to keep the children from witnessing the carnage. She saw the last three men descend upon Jamie. They were bigger and stronger than her, and she was clearly injured. Dani was terrified for her. Jamie fired her gun, but she was out of ammo. She had used her last bullet to save Dani. Her body is a weapon. Isn’t that what Rebecca had said? Jamie brought her gun up to hit one of the men on the temple, drawing blood and an angry scream from him. He lunged towards her and she hurtled herself on his back, wrapping her legs around his torso. He couldn’t shake her. The other two men were hitting her, but she didn’t let go. She had the man by the head and twisted. His body went limp when she broke his neck and she rolled off of him, springing up to fight the remaining two men. They both attacked her directly. She blocked and parried every hit, getting in a few of her own. Dani wanted to stop watching but she also couldn’t. As if realizing it was a losing battle, one of the men broke away to make another grab for Dani and the children.
Jamie knew she had to end this fight. Her attacker was wearing her down. Seeing the other man go after Dani gave Jamie the burst of adrenaline she needed. She ran towards the SUV and jumped towards it, pushing off with her legs to get some height and hurtling herself towards the man. She brought her elbow down on his face with a sickening crunch. All she had left was the man after Dani. Hearing Dani screaming her name tore at her. The man was so focused on Dani that he didn’t notice her come up behind him until it was too late.
Dani had lost track of where Jamie was and she feared the worst. Right as she was being pulled from the car for the second time, Jamie appeared. She was bloodied and had a wild, feral look in her eyes.
“Get off of her, you fucker!” She yelled as she grabbed the man by his jacket and repeatedly bashed his head into the side of the vehicle. She finally dropped him, letting his body fall to the ground.
“Dani? You alright?” She said, out of breath.
Dani could only nod in shock.
“Ok, come on out. Cover the kids’ eyes though. They don’t need to see this,” Jamie instructed, out of breath.
Dani scooted the kids out of the car, Jamie helping her out. Dani held the sobbing children close to her body as she followed Jamie. Dani glanced around the scene. There were bodies everywhere. All of them dead. And at Jamie’s hand.
Jamie was looking for a car for them from the ones parked on the side of the street. They could hear sirens in the distance. No doubt everyone had heard the gunfire.
“Are we stealing a car?” Dani asked.
“Hardly the worst I’ve done today,” Jamie replied. “We have to get out of here. Now. We’ll have the car returned.”
Jamie picked the one that looked the fastest. She broke the window and unlocked the doors, motioning for them to get in quickly. Dani got in the backseat so she could comfort the kids as best she could. Jamie was pulling wires out of the dashboard, hot wiring it. Of course she was.
Within minutes, they were speeding off, back towards the hotel. Jamie called Owen as she drove and told him as much as she could. He had been in pursuit of Peter Quint but had lost him. Henry was okay, thanks to Owen’s quick thinking. Dani couldn’t stop staring at Jamie. She had just saved all of their lives. She was incredible. Also scary. But incredible. She also looked like she had taken quite a beating and that made Dani angrier than anything.
Thankfully, they made it back to the hotel without any further incident. Owen and Rebecca were waiting for them.
“You look like hell,” Owen said to Jamie as she got out of the car.
“You should see the other guys,” she replied dryly.
“How many were there?”
“Eleven by my count. All dead.”
“You did good today, Taylor,” Owen said.
“Thank you. So did you. Let’s get them inside, yeah?”
Rebecca walked up to Jamie. “Are you okay?”
“Not particularly. Could have used you out there today, Jessel,” Jamie said.
“I know. I’m sorry. Let me help now,” Rebecca replied.
Jamie nodded in acknowledgement as she opened the car door for Dani, Miles, and Flora. The three agents hurriedly got them to their rooms. Seeing how shook up Dani was, Rebecca offered to take care of Miles and Flora, with Owen agreeing to help her.
Dani and Jamie entered their room, the door swinging closed behind them. Jamie turned the deadbolt and latched the chain. Dani stood next to her, silently watching. Neither had said much to the other yet. They had both been more focused on Miles and Flora. Jamie wasn’t really sure what to say. She wasn’t sure how traumatized Dani would be. While she was debating what to say, Dani spoke first.
“Jamie, do you, like, need to go to the hospital or something?”
Of course, she’s worried about me, Jamie thought.
“Nah, it’s nothing serious. Probably just a few bruises is all. Most of this blood isn’t mine, so—“ Jamie trailed off.
Dani stared at her, not really sure what to say to that. She wanted to make sure Jamie was okay, but she didn’t know how to be there for her. Jamie spoke again.
“Dani, let’s get that vest off of you,” Jamie said gently.
“Oh. I kind of forgot I was wearing it,” Dani said, fumbling at the Velcro.
“Here, let me,” Jamie said, taking over and immediately noticing the bullet lodged in the front of her vest near her stomach. “Jesus, Poppins, you got shot!”
“What?!” Dani said, looking down and seeing it. She started to hyperventilate. “Just get it off me, Jamie!”
Jamie quickly undid the straps and pulled the vest over Dani’s head. “Better?”
Dani just nodded. Her eyes were squeezed shut. “I didn’t even feel it, Jamie,” she said, trying to hold back sobs.
“It was the adrenaline. I’m so sorry, Dani. I thought I shot him in time.”
“It’s not your fault, Jamie. You saved me,” she said, opening her eyes. She was shocked by the level of concern she saw in Jamie’s eyes.
“Can I have a look at it?” Jamie asked.
Dani nodded. Jamie carefully pulled up Dani’s shirt and sucked in air. “You’ve got a nasty bruise forming, Poppins. The ones at close range hurt the most.”
Dani looked down at her stomach and saw the bruise forming there, a reminder of how close she had come to dying. Jamie ghosted her fingers over the bruise, the coolness of her hand was soothing to Dani.
“You’ll be okay though, Dani. I’m just so sorry.”
“Please stop apologizing.” Dani realized that Jamie was still wearing her vest. “We need to get your’s off, too.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Jamie said, quickly pulling her vest off. She winced a bit as she pulled it over her head and Dani grabbed it and helped. Dani held the vest out to examine it.
“Five bullets, Jamie!” She exclaimed. “You got shot FIVE times!” There were four in the back and one in the front.
Jamie shrugged. “Believe it or not, that’s not my record.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?! You could have died!”
“But I didn’t. It’s okay. I’m okay. Really. Look, let me get cleaned up a bit and then we’ll talk, okay?”
Dani nodded. “Okay. Do you need any help?”
“I’ve got it. Thank you though,” Jamie said, touched by Dani’s genuine offer.
Jamie went in the bathroom and gripped the counter. That was close. Too close. Jamie had done her job though and they were okay. The bruises at least would heal. She wasn’t sure about the emotional scars for Dani and the children though. They never should have had to experience that. She showered as quickly as she could, just wanting to get back to Dani. Jamie hurt everywhere, but overall, she had been lucky. It could have been so much worse. She looked better with the blood off of her face. Other than a cut above her eyebrow and some bruising, her face was relatively unscathed. Her torso had taken the brunt of it, her back covered in newly forming bruises with a matching one on her chest courtesy of the sniper. A small price to pay for Dani, Miles, and Flora’s safety, she decided. Jamie put on clean clothes and rejoined Dani in their room. Dani was sitting on the edge of the bed, lost in thought.
“Hey, you,” Jamie said gently.
“You look better,” Dani said quietly, her eyes roaming over Jamie’s body, looking for any signs of damage.
Jamie walked over to where Dani was sitting, stopping right in front of her. Dani finally burst into tears, which was exactly what Jamie had been expecting.
“Shh, come here,” Jamie said, wrapping her arms around Dani where she was sitting. Dani’s threw her arms around Jamie’s waist and buried her head in Jamie’s chest, tears streaming down her face. Jamie put one arm on Dani’s back and brought the other up to stroke her hair. She didn’t say anything. She just let her cry. She figured she needed to get it out. Jamie was used to danger; Dani was not. What Jamie was not ready to admit though was how much today had scared her, too. Not for herself, but because Dani was in the line of fire. For the first time, Jamie had something to lose today, and that terrified her. This feeling is what she had been trying to avoid her whole life. Dani mumbled something into her.
“What was that, Poppins?”
“I could have lost you today.”
“Blimey, Dani. Is that what has you so upset?”
Dani just nodded against her. Jamie pulled her closer, not even caring that Dani was hugging her so tight it hurt. If this was what Dani needed, she would give it to her.
“I’m nothing to get worked up over. It’s you and kids that I’m worried about.”
Dani pulled back a bit to look up at Jamie. Jamie held her face in her hands.
“You are.”
“What?”
“You are something to get worked up over. You can worry about me, if you want, but I’m going to worry about you.”
Blimey. This is exactly why they tell us not to get involved with people. Gets complicated real fast.
“Fair enough, Dani.” Jamie said, brushing away Dani’s tears with her thumbs. No, don’t say that! What are you doing, Taylor? You are doubling down again instead of shutting up.
But what Jamie said seemed to help, and as Dani calmed down, she released Jamie’s waist. Jamie moved to sit down on the bed next to her, their shoulders brushing.
“You think the kids will be okay?” Jamie asked.
“I don’t know,” Dani said honestly. “That was a lot.”
“Yeah, it was. I’m really sorry all of you had to see that.”
“You were incredible, Jamie.”
“Don’t say that, Poppins. I am exceedingly good at killing. It’s nothing to be proud of. You probably shouldn’t even want to be around me.”
“Probably,” Dani confessed. “I should probably be scared of you. But I’m not.”
Jamie swallowed a lump in her throat. Could Dani really be this accepting of who she was? Dani reached over and took Jamie’s hands in her own, examining them. They were cut, bruised, and bloodied.
“You see, these hands,” Dani began, “I know they would never hurt me. So I have nothing to be afraid of.”
Jamie squeezed Dani’s hands. “No, you don’t have anything to be afraid of when it comes to me. I’m glad you know that.”
They both looked at each other and smiled. There was a knock on the door adjoining to Miles and Flora’s room.
I hate whoever that is, Jamie thought, letting go of Dani’s hands.
“It’s Owen!” Never mind. He’s okay.
“Yeah, come in, mate!” Jamie called.
Owen stuck his head in tentatively.
“I’m really sorry to interrupt, but if you’re ready, we need to debrief,” he said to Jamie.
“Of course. I’ll be right there. Give me just a minute, ok?”
“Sure,” he said, backing out and closing the door behind him.
“You gonna be okay here for a bit?”
“Yeah, you go. I’ll be fine.”
“Ok. Be back soon.”
Jamie stood up, placed a kiss on Dani’s forehead, and then quickly walked away. She didn’t stay to see the smile spread across Dani’s face.
Jamie came back much later that night, after Dani had already put the kids to bed. She had two boxes in her hands.
“Hey! You’ve been gone awhile, but I got your texts. Thanks for not making me worry,” Dani said.
Jamie smiled. “Sure. Figured you’ve already worried about me enough today.”
“Yeah, I’ve definitely reached my quota.”
“Glad your sense of humor seems to be returning,” Jamie said.
“I’m still freaking out. It’s just more internal now,” Dani stated.
“That’s understandable. It takes time. You’ve been through a trauma today.”
Dani nodded in agreement and then changed the subject.
“Are those our dresses?” Dani asked.
“Yeah, but we don’t have to go tomorrow if you don’t want to anymore,” Jamie said, offering her an out.
“No, I want to.”
“Ok, we’ll go then. Hey, how are the kids doing?” Jamie asked, setting the boxes aside. She’d been worried about Miles and Flora.
“Really shook up. I think I’m going to have to get them in therapy after this trip. It was a terrible idea to bring them.”
“You’ll hear no argument from me on the matter. And have you spoken with your fearless boss?” Jamie asked, already knowing from Owen what Henry’s mental state was.
“Oh yes, I have. He seems to view his assassination attempt as a badge of honor. It’s deranged.”
Jamie frowned. “I wish he would keep his death wish to himself.”
“You and me both. So, what’s the news on the secret agent front?” Dani asked.
“Nothing I can talk about,” Jamie said, joining Dani on the couch. She looked exhausted.
“You have a mole in your agency, don’t you?” Dani stated more than asked.
Jamie sat up straighter and her eyes snapped to Dani’s, locking onto them.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because it’s the only thing that makes sense. They’re always one step ahead of us. I mean, today was a fucking ambush, Jamie.”
“I know,” Jamie said quietly.
“As far as I’m concerned, you are the only one I can trust. You are the only one who almost died today.” Then she added softly, “You have your suspicions, don’t you?”
“Aye, I do. But I need proof.”
Dani nodded, knowing exactly what Jamie’s suspicion was and why it was so hard for her to admit. Rebecca Jessel.
Jamie exhaled deeply and put her head in her heads.
“Let’s go to bed,” Dani suggested. “We can tackle it tomorrow.”
We? Does she see us as a “we” now?
“Yeah, we could both use some sleep. Start fresh in the morning.”
“We’re not going anywhere tomorrow, are we?” Dani asked, suddenly nervous.
“Other than the ball? Hell no,” Jamie said.
“Thank goodness,” Dani said, climbing into bed.
Jamie climbed in next to her, laying on her back. She winced and sat up immediately.
“Are you okay?” Dani said, worried. She sat up next to Jamie and reached a tentative hand out but then withdrew it, not wanting to hurt Jamie.
“I think laying on my back is out of the question tonight.”
“Let me see,” Dani said, reaching for the hem of Jamie’s shirt.
“No, there’s nothing to see.”
“Jamie…” Dani said in her teacher voice, which did not invite argument.
Jamie nodded her consent and Dani lifted her shirt up.
“Oh my God, Jamie. This is awful.” She ran her fingers along Jamie’s back, much like Jamie had done earlier on Dani’s stomach. She tried not to notice how muscular Jamie’s back was.
“Getting shot is a real bitch, it turns out,” Jamie said, trying to make light of it. She didn’t know how to respond to someone being so gentle with her. No one had ever wanted to take care of her before. Ever.
Dani carefully pulled Jamie’s T-shirt back down. “What’s going to be the best way for you to sleep?”
“On my stomach, I suppose.”
“Look, if you’re comfortable with it, you can lay on me. I feel it’s only right that I’m there for you, seeing as how you took all these bullets for me.”
Jamie raised an eyebrow at Dani. “Would that make you feel better, Poppins?”
“Mmm-hmm. It would.” Dani laid down on her back and held her arm out.
Bad idea, Taylor. Don’t do it.
Against her better judgement, Jamie scooted closer to Dani and laid her head on her chest. Dani guided Jamie’s arm to drape it over her own waist, knowing that Jamie wouldn’t make that move on her own. She put her arm around Jamie’s shoulder, pulling her closer. With her free hand, Dani pulled the covers up over both of them.
“Are you comfortable?” Dani asked.
“Yeah, actually, I am. But, if you —“
“Yeah, yeah, I know, if I tell anyone that you’re really a big softie even after your murder spree today, you’ll kill me, too? Is that pretty much the gist?”
“That’s pretty much it, yeah.”
“Goodnight, Jamie,” she said, placing a chaste kiss on Jamie’s forehead. “I trust you with my life.”
Jamie smiled. “Goodnight, Poppins.” Do I trust you with my heart?
|
November 1936 – Brooklyn, New York
After nearly eighteen months of having to scrape together dough from taking odd jobs and day labor Bucky finally has his union card. While the Mid Atlantic Dock Workers Association isn’t technically a closed shop, joining the Brotherhood is no easy task considering work is so hard to find these days. And despite his family ties, his dad being foreman and all, when spots open up they tend to go to fellas with mouths to feed. It helps that Bucky has earned the respect of men of Pier 12. He’s quick to laugh at a joke, he always has extra cigs to pass around and he punches his card on time. The work is boring but not as back breaking as it could be especially considering he’s one of the youngest men at the dock and is, therefore, bound to get the most unappealing assignments. Moving crate after crate on and off ships is hardly challenging so it creates the blessing and curse of having time to let his mind wander. Today, he finds himself playing the day of Mrs. Rogers’ funeral over and over his mind.
Steve and Bucky haven’t spoken in nearly three weeks, not since the day Steve buried his mother. Bucky is doing his best to give his friend the space he needs to grieve. But in his usual thickheaded fashion Steve is determined to make sure everyone in the neighborhood knows he’s no weakling who can’t take care of himself now that his mom has passed away. At least that’s what Bucky hopes is going on. His offer to stay with Steve at his apartment had fallen flat. It had been the closest Bucky had ever come to letting Steve know how he really felt- how he wasn’t going anywhere, how he could always count on him, how he’d be with him till the end of the line. Maybe in that declaration Bucky had gone too far?
Their summer in Pennsylvania had been just that— a summer. Stolen moments in Brooklyn were hard to come by. Then Bucky had started working while Steve had another year of school to finish. And when Steve’s mother took ill all his attention was rightfully on her. Back on the farm Bucky had made a rule for himself that he wouldn’t ever make an advance. Whenever they were alone together, he’d always wait for Steve to initiate, even if Bucky did take the wheel once things got started. He also never pushed Steve. Whatever they’d done, Steve started it- from that first kiss in Aunt Ida’s cellar. Bucky thinks about that kiss a lot. They’ve shared so many more since then, but that kiss- the one that told Bucky he wouldn’t lose Steve because of these wrong urges he has inside himself- that’s the kiss he thinks about most. But at this particular moment he wonders if his words have made Steve think twice about their arrangement. Or maybe now that he’s out of school too and having to make ends meet on his own he’s just getting busy building a life that he won’t have to keep secret.
It’s not like Bucky has no idea how Steve’s been doing this last month. After all, Bucky’s no slouch. He only allowed four days of radio silence before he bribed his kid sister into doing some reconnaissance. Each evening before dinner Rebecca fills Bucky in. Earlier this year Steve had found work lettering daily specials on store front windows that luckily happen to be along Rebecca’s route to school. And in the late afternoons he makes bakery deliveries to housewives who’re preparing their evening meals on Barnes family’s block. So far, Bucky’s sister has earned over two dollars for reporting that Steve seems to be alright. He hasn’t missed work, he doesn’t look too skinny and he hasn’t coughed any more than regular that she’s noticed. He has the same scowl, that even twelve-year-old Becca reads as someone who takes life too seriously. So, Bucky has had to discern that despite Steve’s loss, his mood is what’s to be expected.
Maybe it was just bad timing, Bucky is thinking. Steve is a hard read even when his feelings are in over drive. Maybe Bucky hadn’t overstepped that day at Steve’s door. That’s what’s on Bucky’s mind when he hears Rebecca’s scream.
“Bucky!! Come quick!” Rebecca calls as she runs up the dock, dodging past the bewildered security guard.
Bucky meets her half way up the plank. His heart pounding with alarm, “Bec, what is it?”
“It’s Steve, he took a wallop. It’s real bad. You gotta’ come.”
Bucky drops the ship’s manifest and without a thought he runs off the pier. He hears a distant call from one of the men to clock out but he pays it no attention.
To his relief, when Bucky finds Steve on the sidewalk down the block from his apartment he’s at least on his feet. Steve is gripping to his side, likely due to cracked ribs, and his face is a bloodied mess. Bucky fights his overwhelming need to rush up to Steve and check him over from head to toe. Instead, he slows to a light jog and affects a what he hopes just looks like a chummy smile.
When Bucky reaches Steve’s side he belies his panic with a simple quip, “Two black eyes and a busted nose. Just like the day I met ‘cha. Careful Steve, you’re gonna make me all nostalgic.”
“We wouldn’t want that,” Steve huffs a laugh and immediately winces- holding on to his side tighter, “Guess I shoulda listened better to Brother Anthony. From now on I’m definitely gonna find something to block their punches.”
“A suit of armor?” Bucky offers.
“Eh, that’s overkill.” Steve volleys.
Bucky notices that Steve’s smile isn’t reaching his eyes. “You gonna live?”
“Yeah, yeah. Not sure where though.” Steve replies. Bucky’s confused brow apparently urges Steve on, “They took my rent money. Mr. Dawson is itching to kick me out so he can raise the rent for a new tenant. If I’m late he’s gonna boot me no doubt.”
“How much you owe? I’m not quite flush but maybe I could help out.”
“Seventeen dollars,” Steve grouses as he gingerly makes his way up the stairs of his front stoop with Bucky in tow. “And before you say another word, you know I’m not gonna borrow a dime from you so don’t bother offering.”
Steve’s words don’t come as a surprise to Bucky. Everyone in the neighborhood has the same sense of pride when it comes to making ends meet, especially these days. “I know you’re not a charity case, pal. It’s just…”
“What?” Steve asks as he walks through his front door and silently waves Bucky in.
Bucky looks around the living room. He knows Steve’s mother slept in here on a rollaway cot so she wouldn’t wake Steve when she came home from her night shifts. The railroad floorplan was typical of Brooklyn tenements- a living room leading directly to a kitchen with a bathtub doubling as a breakfast table, thanks to a handy slab of wood, then in the back a tiny wash closet and a single bedroom. “Well, I’ve been socking away some dough- I’m pretty sure it’s enough to cover my share of first and last month’s, that is unless you think being roommates would cramp your style?”
Steve forgoes a turn in their typical, sarcastic banter. Instead he simply asks, “You want to live, here, with me?”
Bucky can’t quite read Steve’s tone and his face is too much of a quickly swelling mess to offer any hint at the thoughts behind his words. So, Bucky avoids being too earnest in reply. “As long as you don’t take as long in the bathroom as Becca you’d be doing me a favor. I nearly went blind when I saw her brassiere hanging on the shower rod last week.”
Steve shrugs, “splitting the rent would help me with tuition. Not that I’m going to need it right away.”
“I thought your interview with Art Department Dean was next week.”
“It was, but they stole my portfolio too. I got nothing to show. No pieces I can get ready in time at least.”
Bucky’s heart hurts for Steve. He’s lost his mother, all of his art and his shot at going to college all in the past month. Still he stands there like a rock. Not even hinting that he’s going to break. “Listen, I’ll go take the rent to Mr. Dawson right now. You get cleaned up and rest. We’ll figure out the school stuff together. Okay?”
Steve nods. “Thanks Buck. I mean it.”
Bucky, not trusting his own words, just offers a quick wink in reply then heads out the door.
***
Bucky makes up the time he missed checking on Steve so he heads off his shift an hour later than usual. It’s a strike of luck he thinks to himself as he sees two men walking towards Tiny’s Pub. He doesn’t recognize either of the men but what catches Bucky’s eye is a thin but oversized cardboard folder tied shut with twine. It’s unmistakably Steve’s makeshift portfolio. Bucky waits a couple beats and then follows them into the bar. Once inside he sits a few stools down, orders and nurses a beer. He watches on as the men have the gall to flash around what’s obviously Steve’s cash and order a round of drinks for the bar. Bucky isn’t angry. In fact, he’s calm. Deadly calm. Resolute. Determined.
Two hours later the men exit the bar out the back door and Bucky follows them into the alley. Stealthily. Efficient. In a flash he’s got one in a sleeper hold. The man quickly falls unconscious. Bucky then wraps a dishrag he swiped from the bar around the knuckles of his right hand and begins to ruthlessly pound the other man.
In seconds, the man is loses his balance as he helplessly tries to swing back at Bucky. “You’re gonna kill me!” The man shouts.
Bucky pauses and replies. “No. I’m just going to make you wish you were dead.” He kneels down starts beating the man again as he continues. “I’m going to make sure you’re too scared to ever lay a finger on anyone in this neighborhood again.”
When Bucky starts to tire from hitting the man he finishes as he grabs the wad of Steve’s cash and his portfolio and says, “Now take your friend and get the hell out of here. And if I ever catch wind that you’ve stolen anything from anyone I’m going to find you and I’m going to finish the job.” Bucky stands up and give the man a dismissive kick in the side. “Now scram!”
It’s not until he is walking back to Steve’s apartment that Bucky’s heart starts to race. He’s never been a violent man. Rather, he’s always been the sort to avoid a scrape with some of his easy charm and humor. He’d like to blame rage on what he’s done but that’s just it. He didn’t feel rage. He didn’t feel anything at all except a need to get what was left of Steve’s money and his art back— both of which he succeeded in doing. It’s not mugging if the goods are stolen, is it, he wonders.
***
Bucky strips down to his shorts, relieves himself and washes his hands, face and underarms. He’ll have to get used to not having a shower to use. Steve only has a tub. Bucky internally corrects himself, we only have a tub. He came straight to what is now their apartment after a quick stop at a corner pay phone to let his folks know he wouldn’t be home tonight. He’ll break the news that he’s moving out tomorrow. His mother will make a fuss, his pop will be proud and his sister will mope. Bucky will promise to always show up on time for Sunday dinner.
This is good, Bucky thinks to himself. I can do this. I’m not being selfish. I’m helping Steve out. I got his art back and I can help him get into college. I’m not doing this for me. He laughs for being such a lousy liar he can’t even convince himself that this new living arrangement is anything but self indulgent. He’s living with Steve. His Steve.
Bucky opens the door to the wash closet as quietly as he can.
Still, Steve stirs in the double bed that had once been his parents’ decades before. “Bucky? Will you stay in here with me?” Steve asks as he pull back the blanket offering the space behind himself.
Bucky replies by silently walking around to the open side of the bed and crawling in.
“You mind if I lean back against you? My ribs are still smarting something awful. I don’t want to roll over on them in my sleep.”
Bucky gently pull Steve back against him.
In a whisper Steve says, “I’m glad I don’t have to live, here, by myself, Bucky.”
“Long as I’m breathing, you won’t ever have to be alone.” |
It had been a tense couple of weeks after that particular visit to Shaka. Dee had checked the paperwork and her calendar a couple of times immediately she had got home. She should have been OK. She should have been protected from the consequences of her own... She wanted to say 'desires', perhaps even 'needs, but she knew she should say 'stupidity'. Even with that small possible risk it had been crazy to let Shaka cum in her. She swallowed a little as she thought about that moment. How his deep brown eyes had gazed into hers. How he had seemed to capture her soul in that moment. How she had known that if he demanded it she would give him anything in her power to give.
It had been earthy, elemental, natural. The most natural thing in the world. A man and a woman whose desire for each other would produce new life, their child. It had been the most natural thing and she had desperately wanted it in that split-second before he had filled her with his seed. She could not deny that. She had wanted it, wanted it more than anything. She had been willing to risk everything, to face the possibility of losing everything. She remembered vividly how she had held onto Shaka's strong body, held him to her as he had shot his seed deep within her. She remembered how she hadn't wanted to let him go - to break her contact with his strength, his power, his vitality.
A moment of madness. Perhaps. She had certainly thought so over the following couple of weeks. When she looked at her beautiful daughters - when she smiled at some precociously clever comment of young Davey. How could she have been so foolish? How could she have risked hurting them? Because it would hurt them, hurt them terribly. David might be a total wash-out as a husband but he was their father and they loved him, just as they loved her. As a teacher she had seen enough results of family break-downs. Some children were strong and resilient. Others were not - had to be especially cared for so that the hurt and mental scars might have a chance to heel. She was proud of her children. She believed that they would be in the first category. She just prayed that she would never be responsible for putting them to the test.
A moment of madness. Wasn't even that lying to herself? It hadn't even been one night of madness. It hadn't been the night at the club with three Black men whose names she still didn't know, it hadn't been the aftermath with Shaka taking her unprotected, it hadn't even been the night sleeping between the warm bodies of Georgia and Roni. The next morning her friends had driven her to a pharmacy. She had known why. The morning-after pill. Also, perhaps, a test of her commitment.
The latter didn't matter. Dee had her own rules, her own code. One was that you had to take responsibility for your actions. She taught her classes that and she was not a hypocrite - she truly and deeply believed what she taught. If you enjoyed the wild ride then you had to be ready to pay the price, to accept the possible consequences. Taking that pill just wouldn't have seemed right to her and it would have left her forever wondering what might have been. The odds had been massively against her getting pregnant, the risk hadn't been so great - that time at least.
So she hadn't been swept away in a maelstrom of lust and desire. She also hadn't been coerced or intimidated. It had been her own decision, a decision coolly taken while sat in the vehicle outside that pharmacy. The decision to let things work out as they would work out. The decision to own her actions and yes, if necessary, to own the consequences too.
That was what she told herself but she knew that there was another side to her decision too.
It was like mountain-climbing or driving a car at 200 mph or cliff-diving or any of a thousand such pursuits. It was the risk that made life so bright and vibrant. The wait would be like a gambler watching the roulette ball fall or the last card turn. The higher the stakes the stronger the rush and stakes didn't come much higher than those she had been playing for. She'd just have to be really careful in the future. She sent that message firmly into her brain but already knew that in the most instinctive regions, where mother nature kicked logic's butt every time, the message might not last long if it was received at all. She would only find that out as time passed.
Dee had three children - she knew the signs of pregnancy as well as any woman could. The next couple of weeks were spent being hyper-sensitive to every one of them. Once or twice she had felt the cold grip of real fear. Had seemed to sense those first signs. Had perhaps imagined them or, though she would never have admitted it, may even have yearned to feel them.
In time her body had told her that there would be no new pregnancy. Her reaction had surprised her. On the top, of course, a huge joyous crescendo of relief. But there had been that other reaction, that reaction deep down in her very being. Regret. Disappointment. She had realised with terrible certainty that there was a part of her that desperately wanted it, wanted to have Shaka's baby. No matter the risks or the consequences - it was there, deep in her soul.
Shaka had twice now said that he would wait until she was ready. If David had said such a thing she would have been frustrated beyond measure. She would have accused him of dodging the issue, of heaping all the responsibility onto her as usual. This, however, was different. She didn't doubt what Shaka wanted. She also knew there were moments when she would give him what he desired, give it joyously and without reservation, heedless of the consequences. Heedless until that next morning, those next weeks, that moment when the consequences of her decision became clear.
It was weakness on her part, she knew that. She knew that there shouldn't be any question about this. But she also knew how she had felt when she had seen that photo of Shaka's wife and children. His children were so beautiful.
She remembered again that moment when their eyes had met. Did he know? Did he realise what she felt? Had he realised it even before she had?
Shaka had allowed this to be her decision. Why? She had a real suspicion that she knew. He was confident that he would get what he wanted either way and he preferred that, when the time came, it be her decision. That would make her his even more.
Sat in her kitchen at home she felt herself shudder a little. It wasn't fear that she might be right about him. It was the very real fear that he was right about her.
***
Shaka had kept her to himself the previous Saturday. He had taken her out for a meal - really the first time that they had ventured out of an almost all-Black milieu together. The restaurant had been in the Capital but seemed a million miles from Shaka's normal stomping grounds.
Not that it had been unwelcoming. The clientele was mixed, if overwhelmingly white, and the food and service were of the highest quality.
Shaka had picked out her dress for her after she had modelled three or four for him. That had been fun in itself - the sort of fun she'd stopped getting at home years ago. Shaka's choice had been a vivid scarlet number which left her shoulders, arms and upper back exposed. The material was bunched into small pleats everywhere except over the bust. There the material stretched to clearly show the curves beneath. It was really every bit as revealing as the dress she had worn to the club that first time but there was a massive difference. That dress had looked cheap and had blatantly signalled her availability. This dress looked anything but cheap and it was just amazing for Dee to wear. It made her feel like a million dollars and look ... like an unobtainable goddess.
Shaka had already taken her to a salon. He'd handed her over to the women there and just said, "Do your magic," before leaving Dee to their gentle ministrations. Hair, nails and make-up were all given their attention. It was amazing. The hair stylist was African-American, perhaps fifty. She had appraised Dee carefully and then just gone to work. She hadn't seemed to do anything dramatic - basically she had seemed to do just what Dee's normal stylist did. However, there was some magic in those scissors. The changes were marginal but they were all for the better. It was the same with her make-up. Nothing blatant, nothing outrageous - just little touches but every one combining to make her look and feel great.
Entering that restaurant Dee had felt wonderful. She had seen herself in the mirror and knew what she looked like. It hadn't surprised her when heads had turned as she had arrived. When even the highly-trained maitre d' hadn't been able to resist letting his eyes linger that split-second too long. Dee didn't take offense. She was looking pretty darned fine if she said so herself.
Shaka was in a made-to-measure suit, material almost as dark as his skin. Not his usual outfit but Dee knew that he was wearing it to complement her own appearance. He looked so masterful and impressive - he was a big man and he could adopt a formidable gravitas at times. He had it now as he walked her to their table, as he showed her off to the other diners, to the staff, to everyone else who cared to look.
It hadn't taken long for Dee to work out what was going on. Shaka was flaunting his new trophy girlfriend. He was enjoying every glance that she drew, savouring the frustration of every white boy in the place that wished she was there with them instead of him.
Most of the other diners were of their age or a little older. This was clearly not a cheap establishment. There were some younger women there - Dee had automatically noticed them when she came in. They were there with rather older men. They were beautiful but with all the fragile glamour of youth. Dee did not feel threatened. Even less when one of the older men excused himself and Dee immediately caught his 'pretty little thing' checking out Shaka! Dee carefully placed a hand on Shaka's and saw the girl purse her lips a little and look away.
Oh it was such fun! She knew she was there with the hottest man possible and, what was even better, she knew Shaka had brought her here because he knew how good SHE looked. It was delicious - quite as delicious as the exquisite food served up for them. She was showing him off and he was showing her off.
She caught some of the older matrons looking at her with fury - some of the old boomers too. She didn't care - in fact that just made her feel even more delightfully naughty. Shaka was being the perfect gentleman - he was doing nothing to embarrass her. However, she knew that everyone there knew that she would be with Shaka tonight
Was it shallow of her? Was it vain to derive such pleasure from all of the attention that they were drawing? She didn't know and she didn't care. She hadn't felt so attractive or had such fun for ages!
***
"You enjoyed that didn't you." There was a little chuckle in Shaka's comment.
She glanced at him and smiled, biting her lip gently. "You could tell?"
He moved up and a big hand cupped her breast through the material of her dress. His thumb gently rubbed the bulge in the material made by her hard nipple. "I'm thinking everyone could - these were signalling pretty strong from the moment we stepped out of the taxi."
She giggled. She hadn't even thought about that.
"You look damn fine in this dress girl. Only seen you look better when..."
He let the sentance hang in the air. She knew what he wanted. Soon the dress was on the floor and she was naked before him, looking up into his face. Ready to be taken by him wherever he wanted her to go.
"I like the fact we don't have to rush no mo'. Got you all night to myself."
She smiled up at him. Let him know that she felt the same - as if he didn't know.
He kissed her and then took her chin between his fingers. "You are real kicking you know that teacher-girl. Maybe you're getting the idea after tonight. Most of them men were wanting you and most of the women was envious of you. Even that little blonde piece. What was that you told me once - how you a little soccer-mom all past your prime and shit. Shaka knew better didn't he."
He kissed her again, a deep lingering kiss.
"I don't have time to waste any mo'. I don't settle for less than the best. So you with me and that proves what a fly little bitch you is. Took you there tonight cos I knew I had the best. NO man there had a tighter piece on his arm. I knew it and soon as we walked in everyone else knew it too."
He kissed her neck as she put her head back and thought about all he was telling her. Felt his gentle lips on the delicate pink skin of her throat. He finally straightened up again.
"Time you only settled for the best too. This," - he kissed her lips, - "and this," - his hand cupped her naked pussy, - "need to be put aside for those that appreciate them. You hearing me, you getting that this is the real talk."
She was starting to understand. It would be another step into her new self, her new being. Another worthless aspect of her old life discarded and replaced by the true living vibrancy of life with Shaka and - she hesitated before completing the thought - men like Shaka.
"My husband..."
"That fool had his chance. How long did he have you to himself? Well, he took it for granted for way too long. Now you've found how things really is. Am I frontin ya?
"No - it's true but..."
"No buts. From now on you ain't giving this away to no fools. You are strictly off limits to white boys, ALL white boys, that straight."
It wasn't like Dee would be giving up anything of value. David's love-making had ceased to do anything for her years ago. But still...
"Yes, but he is my husband."
Shaka showed his strong white teeth in a smile as he acknowledged her acceptance of how things had to be. "Oh, you can still give the fool a treat now and then." He raised his hand and made a masturbatory gesture. "He should be grateful he's even getting that. Now, we gonna talk or you gonna let me fuck you like I been wanting to all evenin'."
Well it only seemed polite...
***
Shaka had fucked her. Except that it had been more like making love to her. He had kept his raw power in check - instead displaying a tender attention in his love-making that had only been present in cameos before. He had explored her body, every part of her body, as if it had been their first time. His skilled fingers and his teasing tongue had taken her close to a peak before he had even thought of entering her. Just being with him seemed to get her quite a way there and Shaka was a man of formidable experience and technique. After all those years sharing a bed with David she had finally found out what sex really should be. Shaka could exploit every sensitive part of her, could be relentlessly strong or almost agonisingly gentle. More importantly, he seemed able to sense what she needed and when she needed it.
It wasn't just that Shaka knew how to please a woman. It was even better that he himself took such obvious pleasure from doing so. She often saw or sensed his eyes on her. Those deep brown eyes watching her movements, noting her reactions, adjusting his moves to meet her needs. It was exquisite, almost mercilessly so at times. He would take her so far and then back off or simply keep her at that level. She knew why. He was proving his prowess - demonstrating that he could give her what she needed almost at will. Then, when she was just beginning to yearn for completion, he would make his move.
His strength was always there - even when he chose not to use it. This time he had moved between her legs and effortlessly pulled her up to him. Dee had given a little gasp of surprise and then just clung on tight. Her legs wrapped round his shoulders and her hands holding his close-cropped head as his mouth sought and found her clit. His tongue played with and explored and exploited her. Dee could only hang onto him, feel the waves of pleasure coursing through her body, understand yet again the truth that Shaka was imparting to her. So many years before she had learned the truth, before she had known that it could be like this, before she had met a man like this. So many years wasted before she had met Shaka and he had claimed her as one of his women.
Dee didn't want to waste any more time. She wanted to savour every moment of her new reality. She wanted to immerse herself in this new life totally and without reservation. But there would be a cost if she was to do that and later she would remember and accept once again that it was a price she could not pay. There was not only herself to think of.
That regret was for the future though. With Shaka there was always the joy of the present, the climactic moment. When her man would take her to those heights. When he would sense how close she was and decide to take her on and through. He heard her gasp and felt her legs quivering but did not let up with that teasing tongue until he had taken her to where she needed to be.
Only then, when she was flushed and panting for breath did he let her down and move his own body forward. Only then did he line up that big hard Black cock and start to push his way into her. Gently, easily, allowing his shaft to explore every part of her wet pussy. They did not 'fuck' this time. This time they each savoured every pleasure that the other could give them. They kissed hungrily, their tongues seeking each other, all to the accompaniment of his long strokes into her. There was no rush, there was no hurry, for tonight each belonged unconditionally to the other.
Before they had almost always ended with him in her. Tonight, though, Dee wanted to do something else for him. She wanted to show him how much he had done for her, how much she had learned. She had gasped "Let me" into his ear and he had allowed her to take the lead for once. He had lay on the bed as she had put all her skills learned from Roni and Georgia to good use. She had worked hard, with concentration and commitment, endeavouring to give him the best blow job that she could. Her sweet mouth exploring and tasting every part of his big hard jet-black shaft, a shaft at first wet with her own juices but soon cleaned by her tongue. She had nuzzled his big heavy balls and teased them, spread her warm saliva over them. She had giggled when he had given out a little groan. That taught him - see how he liked it. Well, apparently almost as much as she did.
Finally she had given him as wet and sloppy a blow-job as she could, working his shaft with her hand as she moved her mouth up and down him. It hadn't taken long. She'd finally felt his hand grasp her hair and almost at the same moment his cum had spurted into her mouth.
This was the moment of truth. Dee had concentrated on swallowing him, making sure not to waste any of him, not to disrespect a single drop of his precious baby-making juice. Five heavy spurts that almost seemed likely to fill her mouth to over-flowing but she did her job well, served her man as he deserved to be served. She took him all, swallowed and then showed him her open mouth, empty of his sperm.
She was rewarded with a smile and by the pleasure in his deep brown eyes. It felt wonderful to be able to give him something back for all he was doing for her. She felt sexy and desirable as she never had before.
Shaka savoured the moment. Dee was his favourite little bitch and she just got better and better. He knew what he wanted for her - knew what a fine little white woman like her needed to make her complete. There were some practicalities to sort out but he was determined to see what a beautiful little soul the two of them would create. He weighed his words and finally spoke. "Damn, you been learning some skills. We'll be doing that some more - until you're ready."
He watched her and saw in her eyes that she had got the message, the reaffirmation of his desire for her. The proof, once more, that only she herself was standing between her and that potential new future. If he was right about her then she would be giving that little comment a lot of thought through the weeks to come. The barriers she had built against such an irreversible commitment would be worn down and weakened once more. A little by his actions but more by her own feelings which would be given the right to flourish by his comment.
She was his. It only remained to make it clear to she herself and then to everyone else.
***
They lay together. Dee luxuriated in the pleasure of it. However, it seemed Shaka wasn't finished with her. His big hand gently felt her breast before his mouth closed on her. His tongue teased her hard nipple and then he smiled at her. "I love these."
"No kidding..." giggled Dee.
"I'm thinking you need some more jewellery."
He had bought her his hoops, his ring and her necklace. She loved them all and especially loved to wear them when she was with him. She felt a little regret every Sunday morning when she had to take off her hoops and necklace on the way home. It was symbolic of her return to 'real life', of her need to surrender her new existence and freedom.
Shaka reached across and produced a small box. In it were two small titanium pieces of jewellery. Were they ear-rings? "Soon as you've cut off that white boy husband of yours we can get you fitted up with these. They will make you look even more beautiful - make THESE look even more beautiful." He leaned down to gently lick her nipple fully erect again.
Dee caught her breath as she realised just what those little titanium items were. Jewellery that she wouldn't be taking off every time she went home. Jewellery that would ensure that she couldn't be topless in front of her husband without some very awkward questions. A new and startling commitment that he was asking her to make to her new lifestyle.
Her ears were pierced but she had never imagined having anything else done. It wasn't something that a girl, and later a woman, like her did. But now she found that she didn't reject the idea out of hand. She took the small box from him and examined the items.
She felt a little thrill as she did so. Each was a combined half ring and small bar. She could see how they would work and could also see the symbol contained within each half-ring. A black spade symbol, like the suit in a pack of playing cards, with a white 'Q' contained within it.
She had seen that symbol before. Georgia had pointed it out to her and told her what it meant. These would identify the wearer as a 'Queen of Spades', a woman that went with Black men. They would potentially identify her new self to anyone seeing them. It would be a permanent identification of herself and a permanent danger of her exposure.
That little thrill as she handled the small objects didn't go away. It was building. She held one of them up to her right nipple. She looked at it - imagined it in its proper place.
Shaka moved in. "That looks right don't it."
She couldn't help but admit that it did. Not just as jewellery but because of what it symbolised on so many levels. She imagined it. At home with David or shopping back in Ireton, even driving her girls around in he Odyssey. When all the time...
Shaka had been watching her. He gave a little nod. "I'll talk to Izeye - get it arranged for you as soon as I know you're deserving them."
When Dee looked back at him her eyes showed that delicious mixture of raw excitement and slight fear at just how naughty she was being. He loved to see that look in a white woman's eyes. Loved it even more when it was a beautiful classy little piece like this one. She really was about the best he'd ever had the privilege of taking in hand. She'd come a long way since the first time she'd walked into Silky's. Still had a ways to go of course but he was going to enjoy taking her every step of the way.
Pretty soon Dee learned that in most ways teaching at Tubman High was just like teaching at any other school. There were routines, there was paper work, there was the enjoyment of working with a good team and of educating students who were ready and eager to learn. Not all the students were so easy of course but that was also true of any school.
David had not been happy when she had told him of her new job. He'd looked up Tubman High on Google maps and had nearly blown a fuse. "You can't teach there - it's way over in the Capital!" She knew what that really meant.
She'd pointed out that his move to a new job had left her needing to find one. The local smaller suburban schools weren't exactly flowing over with opportunities and she had been darned fortunate to be offered an effective promotion at Tubman High. Of course there would be extra requirements on her time and additional duties but it had been an opportunity too good to pass up.
What she didn't tell him was that the Taylor Foundation also seemed extremely 'liberal' in ways that might prove crucial in the future. On her first tour of the facility Dee had noticed the extremely well-appointed crèche.
The school Principal, one of the small minority of male staff, was quite open as to the reasoning. "We serve a community whose children need the best possible start. If they aren't given a vision for their future by us then there are many malign influences out there that will fill the gap. We select our staff very carefully - we need to know that they are motivated to help us fulfil our aims. We need to know that they have a stake in the success of our community. When we find them we are most certainly not going to reject them simply because they need maternity leave or need help with child-care. The Foundation has spent a lot of money on these buildings and their equipment but without our most vital resource, our teaching staff, all that will be useless. We cherish our team-members and, in fact, we have recruited teachers rejected from other schooling systems for such reasons. Teachers with the highest credentials are always going to be welcome with us. Here we expect the best quality teaching from our staff and appropriate behaviour on site. If you're a quality teacher then the rest of your life is none of my goddam business - if you pardon the French. I've seen enough to know we need you on this team - there's important work to be done here and a real difference to be made. I very much feel that your place should be here - what about you Dee?"
Was David's pathetic whining going to compete with the deep-brown eyes boring into her very soul as Marcus Jones made that little speech? Well, hardly!
"You've always taught in suburban schools are you sure you could cope with a school like that. Urban children would be different - are you sure you wouldn't be out of your depth?"
Well thanks for the vote of confidence hubby! 'Urban children' indeed - as if a five-year-old couldn't see through that mealy-mouthed bit of casual racism.
She knew what the real problem was. He'd had it way too easy for way too long. Frankly she wondered sometimes that he didn't want her to tie his shoe-laces for him. He now worked closer to home and he was going to have to step up. There was the question of her 'work training seminars' every weekend but they had become non-negotiable. She needed her time with Shaka - and with Shaka's friends.
Now they had to be a partnership looking after the children. She knew the best thing would be for them to move nearer to her work but David, of course, wouldn't have that. So he was going to have to do his share.
The evening duty hadn't helped. It was apparently something the Taylor Foundation liked all of its teachers to do, at least at first. It did mean she got to leave earlier a couple of afternoons a week which helped with the children. But David had not been pleased - he'd have been even less pleased if he'd known what Mr Jones had told her.
"Dee - one of our toughest tasks is keeping our people from gang life - offering them that alternative, affirmative, road. Every day here you will be doing that but we can do more, indeed with your skills you are perfectly suited to do more. We offer special mentoring to young men who need education in life skills of the legitimate kind. You will be making a real difference."
Marcus Jones was always strictly professional with his staff. That didn't stop Dee noticing just how handsome he was. She couldn't say no to him on this - she doubted she could ever say no to him on much about anything.
***
Dee had a lot of experience teaching middle and high school boys. She knew that an attractive female teacher drew attention from the older boys that wasn't necessarily related to what they were trying to teach. It came with the territory - most definitely not to be encouraged but nothing too serious either.
At Tubman High it was a little different. Children grew up fast around these parts. They also weren't nearly as shy as most of her previous pupils had been. When she was teaching the higher classes she was dealing with what were virtually young men, standing a head and more taller than her.
She knew the subtle signs. Here you saw some not so subtle signs. It was no sort of threat - almost flattering in fact. It was a peculiar fact that Taylor Foundation schools seemed to employ a clear majority of female white teachers alongside a smaller group of African-American men and women. The boys had a lot of choices for their 'crushes' but even some of her colleagues laughed about how she was one of the boys' 'favourites.'
***
"So what we call ya?"
"What do you mean - I'm Mrs...."
Her voice was drowned out by the four young men's laughter.
"Shit thass what we call our probation officers. They all a bunch of fuckin' poodles. Can't be calling you that!"
"Shit no babe, a poodle you most certainly are not."
"Damn Malik, can't be calling her that - that ain't right!" The smaller one was laughing his ass off, nearly falling off his plastic chair.
The one with the slightly drooping eyes and a scar across his left jaw-line fluttered his fingers and the other three eased down the volume and after a few seconds fell quiet.
"See I'm Pops on the grounds that I'm six months younger but a thousand years smarter than these mothas. Malik is Malik cos his name is Malik and he got no imagination."
The one with corn-rows flipped him the bird in a friendly fashion.
Pops went on. "Quiet brotha chilling on the end - that's Bobo, cos when he was eleven he was out on the street selling genuine Chinese Rolex watches."
The quiet one, well the relatively quiet one, raised his eyebrows and gave Dee a nod.
"Finally, the little brotha whose been baggin ya - that would be Andre - called that cos his daddy was a big wrestling fan. Why he call you that again, Dre?
"Fuck you Pops. You know why - we been hangin for twelve years and more so you fuckin should. He called me that cos back in the day there was some poor old fucka called Andre the Giant."
Malik and Bobo were laughing now - just as they had every time they'd heard it over the last ten years.
Pops turned back to Dee. "Sayin' it again - so what do we call ya?"
Bobo gave a little grunt. "She a teacher-lady - call her Teach."
The others agreed to that.
Dee had been listening to the four men - noting their interaction, their familiarity and their apparent pecking-order. They were old associates - almost able to finish each other's thoughts. She'd also worked out the not-too-complicated naming conventions.
"So if you want to call me that it's because you don't think I can teach you anything..."
The four of them gave her little sardonic smiles and exchanged glances.
"Love to teach you somethin' tho, bet you'd love it too." That was Malik.
Dee didn't answer him - just gave him her sternest look. Malik seemed to enjoy it. Dee considered her options. She could call the session at an end but that would be to accept defeat and to show her new boss that she couldn't adapt to a tough situation. That would not do. She had to find a way to engage with them through the bravado.
"So why are you here? It's not a court order - you chose to come"
It seemed a fair question. The young men responded with a fidgety silence. Finally, Pops spoke, "We all a conviction off going away till our hair's grey and our cocks are limp. We all been in and out of homes and juvie since we could remember. It gets real old real quick - or worse it gets to be all there is and all there ever will be."
"Which means," said Bobo, "we is here."
"But it doesn't come natural," said Dee. She also knew that the confession of weakness hadn't come easily. These were eighteen-year-old men - full of spunk and braggadocio. Admitting it to someone they perceived as an 'authority figure' was even harder for them.
"This place don't help," Dre shifted on his plastic chair and looked around the small classroom. "Never did take to schooling. Besides," his wicked smile was back, "its a fucking waste having to meet a prime dime like you in a place like this."
Dee knew the young men were testing her - checking her out. Well, they seemed to be checking her out in more ways than one. She'd felt their eyes on her every second since the session had started. Malik was sat with his legs wide apart showing an impressive bulge in his pants. It seemed his record wasn't the only thing he had that was impressively long for one his age.
"Where else would we meet?" It was out almost before she realised it.
A bright smile. "Know a little place we can get a drink just round the corner. Me and Dre got a crib not too far way too."
They were all watching her now, gauging her reaction. These weren't her school children, they were all eighteen and her current role was voluntary. Her 'job' here was teaching these boys life skills - 'using your skills and initiative' as Marcus Jones had said.
Dee raised her hand and let the lights twinkle on the rings there. "I'm an old married lady." She was careful to say it with a smile, careful not to seem censorious.
"You not old - you just coming into your prime baby," Malik was enjoying himself. "Be real dope taking a fine lady like you round town."
"An' you married - but he a white boy, that right?" Bobo chipped in.
"Yes, David is white," she admitted. She felt her pulse quicken a little - she knew what Bobo was going to say.
"Then he don't count. You wasted on him - you need a real man."
Dee reached into the top of her blouse and fished out her necklace. Gold with an 'S' in Black enamel.
"You with Shaka?" Malik said. "Shit."
Dee smiled and nodded - the power dynamic had changed in a split-second. It always did when Shaka's name was mentioned.
Pops shifted in his plastic seat. "No offense meant to him or you, Teach, we just shooting the shit you know that. Does Shaka know you doing this course?"
Dee nodded.
"Well, as I recall, Shaka ain't overly exclusive with his stable. Not like you his wife or somethin'. You got his permission to play?"
Dee angled her head a little and gave a little shrug. This did surprise her - Shaka's name normally had them running a mile. These four weren't running - they were still real interested. Just the rules of engagement had changed a little.
"Tell him you helping Pops, OJD's boy, and his friends. Tell him we take the lead from him - like always. Maybe if he gives the OK you can wear something a little more fun next week, not that school-marm outfit."
Uh-oh. Dee felt herself reacting to Pops. These four young men from the street were being careful about it but it was clear they still wanted her bad. She imagined herself 'with' them - what they would expect of her. She struggled to suppress a shiver of desire through her body.
"Oiiiyyy," she stopped and swallowed hard. She hadn't known her mouth had got so dry. She saw Bobo smile, a confident smile. "I mean, I, think we should get on with the business at hand." She raised her hand as Malik opened his mouth to make a smart remark. To her surprise he closed his mouth again. "We just spent ten minutes working out what to call me and another ten..."
She gave them a meaningful glance and watched them exchanging smiles.
"This is what we call an Introductory session. Where we get to know each other. So I need you to tell me about yourselves - your friends can keep you straight and off the BS."
Bobo chuckled a low rumble and Malik jabbed Dre in the ribs. Pops just looked her in the eye and nodded. She was OK - she was accepted.
"Then after ten minutes each we can have a quarter-hour when you can ask me what you like. Find out a little about me."
They liked the idea of that. They liked the idea of that a lot.
"Yes, we selected this four very carefully. They just need a little nudge, a little incentive," Marcus Jones had told her. She hadn't understood what he meant at the time. She had a rather better idea now.
***
Her new friend Chris let her change at her place. Chris and a couple of other teachers lived at a new development only a couple of blocks from the school. "When I changed my life-style my husband didn't approve - but it's real good here - absolutely, definitely, no shortage of baby-minders. Young Darnell loves all his Aunties here."
Away with her long skirt and carefully modest blouse. Away with her bra - though the panties would stay for a while. She'd learned how these things worked.
She buttoned up her tight top - felt her nipples already respond. Knew how they would signal her excitement to anyone watching, notably to the four young men who would be watching her very carefully. Then a black tailored jacket over the white blouse. She pulled on a tight black leather-style skirt that finished half-way up her thigh. She wore tan stockings with hold-ups and a pair of three-inch heels. She placed her papers in a smart black brief-case. Finally, she touched up her make-up. She never wore much but this evening she had to look just right. She placed her shoulder-length blonde hair in a simple pony-tail. Then she checked herself in the mirror
She liked the look - a P. A. for a very upscale employer. The sort of woman who wouldn't have ANYTHING to do with the likes of Pops and his friends. She had to admit that she looked pretty good.
Chris just giggled when she checked her out. "Adult education, eh!"
"You think they'll like it?"
The two women laughed together. Men were sometimes so easy to predict.
***
"So each time I will set you a few tasks and - in return - in time you'll get to set me a task. Sound good?"
Four pairs of eyes fixed on her, four smiles, four pairs of pants bulging impressively where it mattered the most.
Oh yes - men were so easy to predict...
|
Chapter Sixteen
[ ν ] - εγλ - 2007 | December 24th
Buried
Three days later, Tifa stood in still, chilled silence, a cloak she’d borrowed from Claudia wrapped around her, gentle breezes whipping the rain that was falling from the sky into her eyes.
She blinked, not really acknowledging the way that the raindrops stung her cheeks or blurred her vision, not even paying any attention to the way that they lined her cloak and stained her clothing with wetness. After standing there crying, staring at the misty sky that was dark despite the early hour, she could no longer decipher where the tears from heaven ended and where her own began.
She was stuck in a haze, staring at the dirt in front of her as it muddied, crawling towards a pit that seemed endless but really only went on for six feet. Hovering above it was her father’s casket, rain pelting the dark glossy wood as it waited to be lowered into the ground.
Tifa felt a soft touch pull her from her thoughts, realizing that Cloud had dropped a gloved hand to her forearm. She turned to him, blinking away the wetness that coated her lashes, and Cloud squeezed her arm when their eyes met.
No words were spoken. Everything that he had to say was spoken through his eyes, his comfort and his understanding of her pain hidden in those deep turquoise depths.
Tifa pulled away from his stare to turn back to the casket. It had been three days since she woke to discover that her father had passed away in his sleep, still tucked beneath a blanket that had once belonged to her mother on his couch. Tifa had gone over to visit him that morning, only to find him unresponsive.
She knew that if it were not for Cloud and Claudia, she might not have been able to process this sudden onset of grief, much less handle all of the arrangements that she had to wade through in the wake of his death. Tifa knew that it was coming, but she hadn’t been prepared for it to hit so quickly, nor was she expecting it to happen while she was in town. She’d had every intention to make her peace with her father and to return home to Midgar to focus on her own life and health, leaving everything in Nibelheim behind in the past. But it seemed that the chips were not going to fall that way.
The temple priest stood in front of the small crowd that had gathered - all townsfolk, many of whom Tifa recognized but who had aged ten years - and recited a litany of old prayers over Brian Lockhart’s body that was entombed in that casket. Tifa listened to the words as they floated by, but she wasn’t paying much attention at all to them or to their meaning. Her mind was shrouded in sadness, realizing that her only living kin was gone and that she was now alone in this world.
A swirling kick in the center of her belly pulled her away from that thought, though, and Tifa lowered her hand to it. She closed her eyes and inhaled, and as if in understanding even though no words had been spoken, Cloud gave her a little reassuring squeeze.
Tifa couldn’t bring herself to perform the eulogy. There were too many layers of damage between her and her father, and she was still feeling too shell-shocked from the emotional roller coaster of this visit back home to speak coherently in front of a crowd. Instead, she stood back and listened while Jonathan Hartley, Brian’s former associate and Jody’s father, spoke on her father’s life.
“Brian Lockhart had been one of the pillars of this community for as long as I can remember,” Jonathan Hartley intoned from a foot away from the grave. “Even when we were in high school, he was a leader. This town would not be what it is today were it not for him.”
Tifa listened, but she couldn’t concentrate on Hartley’s statements. They drifted past her, bringing her back to a time that was so distant that it almost didn’t seem real to her anymore. She barely remembered her father being a young, broad-shouldered solicitor in the village whom everyone respected. Her memories were crowded with images of him red-faced and slack-jawed, his voice slurred and his body tilted with drink that slowly began to eat away at him.
And now, here they are.
She stood there in the rain and listened for a while longer, letting her thoughts descend to another place while the processions moved on around her. Her hand remained fixed to her belly, and Cloud remained fixed to her side. Eventually, the crowd began to thin and disperse, and Tifa found herself standing in the quiet of the rain, staring at the covered casket with only Cloud and his mother, Claudia, remaining.
“Tifa,” Cloud gently called her name, moving from her side to stand in front of her. He had taken both of her arms, was pulling on them gently, trying to capture her attention. “You okay? The service is over. We - we should go home.”
Tifa looked up at him, raindrops catching to her lashes and blurring her vision. Cloud’s lips were turned down into a concerned pout, and when their eyes met, Tifa felt his hands squeeze her forearms even tighter.
A palm on her shoulder reminded her that they were not alone. She turned to see Claudia move to nod at her as well, offering her a reassuring smile.
The weights that had tangled themselves up into the center of her chest began to unwind and slip away. Tifa looked back at both sets of placid blue eyes, reminding herself that although she had lost both her parents, she was never truly without family.
Finally, she let the facade of her melancholy crack.
“Okay,” she responded, turning back to Cloud and letting her hand find his. “Let’s… go home.”
Following Brian’s funeral, Tifa found herself moving through the motions of packing up their things to return to Midgar, still numb from the circumstances of the week but finding herself slowly making headway in wading through everything that had happened in that stretch of days. She hadn’t cried a single star-tear since her father’s death, she noted absently to herself, but her body still felt sore and achy, exhaustion still rippling through her bones.
Claudia had implored them to stay for at least another night, but Cloud was eager to get home to Denzel after being away for nearly a week and Tifa had already had enough of Nibelheim to last a lifetime. It would always be her home, would always have a place reserved for it somewhere in her heart. But it was far past time to move on.
Cloud was quiet while they packed their things up, but Tifa noticed that his eyes never ventured too far from her. He was giving her space to mourn and to grieve, but he was keeping an eye out for her, always making sure that she was okay, even if it was from a distance.
No matter how tumultuous matters inside her heart felt, this constant reassurance meant everything to Tifa and it put her somewhat at ease.
Their airship was scheduled to depart late that afternoon, and so once they were packed, Cloud and Tifa brought their few luggage to the front door to say goodbye to Claudia. She met them at the door, prepared to send them off. She handed Tifa a tightly wrapped brown paper bag.
“Some sweets that I baked last night,” she told her, offering her and Cloud both a warm smile. “Should hold you over on the trip… just make sure you save some for Denzel and Marlene, okay?”
“Of course,” Tifa agreed.
She and Cloud both exchanged hugs and kisses with his mother, and she stood on the front porch as they made their way to the curb where the taxi Cloud had called was waiting for them. Cloud’s hand was glued to the small of her back, keeping her steady as they went.
“It’s all over,” he told Tifa as they made their way, taking her hand to guide her.
She was inclined to agree, ready to let the depression of the day’s and week’s events slip past and be forgotten. She thought about the baby growing inside of her, reminding herself once again that it was time to move on - it was time to heal.
“You’re right,” Tifa agreed, squeezing his hand where they were joined. “I think that -”
“Tifa?”
Tifa turned at the sound of the voice, feeling something icy snap along her veins when she recognized its tenor. It had shifted slightly with time, but it was still the same, a voice she hadn’t heard in a decade but one that she admittedly could not forget.
Cloud’s body seemed to stiffen into a board at her side, only confirming the fear that was suddenly clinging to her spine.
Tifa turned, finding Jody Hartly standing on the sidewalk, having rounded a nearby corner and waiting for her by the street sign. He still looked the same, for the most part, Tifa noted - the same sandy ash-brown hair and cold blue eyes, the same tall but slight build. There were now lines etched around his eyes and across his forehead, and stubble lined his cheeks in a shadow that looked as if he had neglected to shave it away for days.
Tifa started to open her mouth. Words were failing her, caught up somewhere in her throat. She had no idea what to say to this man - her last interaction with him before she’d left Nibelheim had been so unpleasant that there were not many things she could imagine saying that would make this exchange any less uncomfortable. In fact, her greatest fear about returning to their hometown was running into someone like him.
“Jody,” was all she could manage in a whisper.
Cloud moved her behind him so quickly that Tifa could only simply blink in surprise, stunned by the way his hand was protectively shielding the front of her body.
“What do you want?” Cloud demanded instantly. His voice was low and measured but filled with a quiet rage. Tifa’s memories were instantly flooded with images of Cloud’s fistfights with Jody Hartley and boys from the village in the past, and she felt her sense of panic rise, grabbing onto his bicep in an attempt to calm him down.
Jody was peering over Cloud’s shoulder in an attempt to get a better look at her, Tifa realized, and this only seemed to make Cloud further vexed. He folded his arms over his chest.
“I didn’t know you were in town,” Jody said, more to Tifa than to Cloud.
“My father just died,” Tifa stated over Cloud’s shoulder. Just saying the words out loud brought back the deep stab of pain she had been feeling over the course of the last several days. “We are leaving now.”
Cloud growled low in his throat, seemingly ready to contribute something of his own to this back and forth. But Jody was stepping closer to them on the sidewalk.
“I - I heard,” he responded softly. “I was really sorry to hear about it, Tifa. I would’ve been at the funeral this morning, Tifa, but I had to be at the reactor, meltdown in the core.”
“You’re working at the reactor?” Cloud barked, his voice caught between a blend of incredulous and self-satisfied.
Jody directed his attention to Cloud, his brow furrowing deeply. “Strife,” he finally acknowledged.
Tifa could feel her heart beginning to pick up speed as she realized that a confrontation was on the horizon, Jody taking another step closer and Cloud visibly tensing up, his shoulders growing tight. She pulled herself away from Cloud’s hold, stepping out from behind him to make herself fully visible at his side.
Jody stopped where he was making his way towards them, his eyes falling back to her. They widened somewhat, the watery blue in his irises seeming to dull at the realization that she was standing at Cloud’s side, very, very pregnant.
“Tifa,” Jody went on without continuing his earlier train of thoughts. His attention was completely transfixed on her, and all it succeeded in doing was making her feel terribly uncomfortable. “You’re -”
“Pregnant,” Cloud snapped, his turn to step forward, rather aggressively, Tifa thought. “Pregnant and taken. So why don’t you keep it moving, Hartley? We have a flight to catch.”
Cloud’s arm quickly found hers again, pulling her in close in a possessive hold. Jody could only stand there, staring, his mouth hanging open and words unable to form.
Tifa glanced at him, remembering the humiliation of all those years ago.
Without saying a word - not even a goodbye - she turned away, letting Cloud guide her to their taxi, carefully climbing her way into the backseat.
Tifa slept her way through most of their travels back to Midgar, letting the exhaustion of the week seep away, a painkiller numbing the worst of her aches and pains. Cloud kept an arm affectionately around her shoulders and a hand glued to her belly throughout their travels, but aside from that, he was quiet and they didn’t speak at all about their run-in with Jody as they left the village.
As far as Tifa was concerned, she was happy to never speak of anything she’d left behind in Nibelheim ever again. There was nothing but pain and sadness to be found looking back over those mountains.
They were both quiet when they returned to Cloud’s apartment in Sector Five, their travels having wrought the worst out of both their bones. Tifa made a call to Barret to let him know that they were home, her friend promising to drop Denzel off within the hour. Cloud left their bags by the door, and Tifa eyed them, vowing in the back of her mind to unpack their things tomorrow. She was simply too tired to entertain it tonight.
All she wanted to do was fall into bed.
“I’m tired,” she told Cloud as she hung her coat up by the door. “I think - I think I’m going to go to bed a little early tonight, Cloud. That took a lot out of me.”
Tifa wasn’t sure if she was talking about their travel home or everything about that past week, but either way, the feeling was true.
Cloud glanced at her, widening his eyes slightly before he blinked. She was just about to turn away when he came up to her, taking her by the wrists.
“Tifa, wait.”
Tifa turned to him, looking up into his eyes. That deep aquamarine was placid and calm, and there was something pleading layered behind it. She found herself melting, unable to resist the look he pinned her with.
“W-what is it?” she asked.
Cloud looked down, and Tifa was surprised to find that his cheeks were beginning to flush. Without meeting her eyes, he gave her a gentle nudge in the direction of the couch.
“Uh, Tifa? Why… why don’t you have a seat for a sec?”
Tifa was admittedly perplexed by his sudden shift in demeanor, nonetheless allowing him to gently guide her to sit on the couch. Instead of sitting next to her, though, he crouched down on his knees in front of her, gently pushing her legs apart so that he could settle between them.
Tifa blushed, looking down at him over her baby bump. He grabbed both of her knees, offering them a gentle squeeze before he leaned forward to press a soft kiss to her swollen tummy.
“Cloud?” Tifa queried. “Is everything alright?”
Cloud’s cheeks were still warm with color, but this time, he let himself meet her eyes. “Everything’s fine, Tifa,” he responded. “I - I’m sorry for everything that’s happened.”
Tifa’s heart began to pick up in speed, unable to imagine why Cloud was apologizing. He had been there for her every step of the way, had never once ventured from her side, supported her and their unborn child even as she struggled with a sickness that was putting everything at risk. How could he ever think that he had anything to be sorry for?
She leaned forward the best that she could over her distended stomach, gently touching Cloud’s cheek with her palm. As soon as the warmth of her skin greeted his, he closed his eyes, leaning into her touch.
“Don’t be sorry, Cloud,” Tifa sighed softly. “You’ve done nothing but support me, all this time. I - I would never have been able to return to Nibelheim and face my father, much less cope with his death, without you at my side.”
“But Tifa, I -”
“Cloud,” Tifa cut him off, smiling at him when he pouted in her direction.
Cloud seemed to take the hint because he nodded, but then Tifa saw him reaching into his pocket for something. He pulled it out but kept it enclosed in his fist, holding his hand between their bodies where he was still crouched on the floor.
“Tifa,” Cloud began softly. “I - I have something to tell you.”
Tifa felt the familiar rise of her heartbeat again, unable to tear her eyes from his. “Y-yes? What is it?”
Cloud looked down for a second, squeezing her knee as his shoulders heaved. He breathed in heavily, then turned back to her.
“Tifa, I - I visited your father the other day. The… day before he died.”
Tifa just stared down at him, silent.
“I - I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t want to upset you, or for you to try to stop me,” Cloud continued to explain. “But I needed to set the record straight with him, Teef, man to man. I’m sorry.”
Tifa’s heart was now pounding, and she could feel the way her breathing grew thin in her lungs. She blinked, trying to process what Cloud was saying.
“Cloud, I don’t… what did he say?”
Cloud looked down as if gathering his bearings. His right fist was still enclosed around the tiny object, but Tifa had already discarded the thought of it.
“I -” Cloud struggled, seemingly combing over his words in the back of his mind before he uttered them. “I… I wanted him to know the truth about us, Tifa. I didn’t want to walk away from this town a second time without telling him how I felt, no matter how he felt about it or how much he hated it.”
Tifa blinked, feeling her eyes begin to burn at the corners.
“I made him a promise,” Cloud went on. “I - promised him that I would always love you and take care of you, and… that I would marry you.”
At that, Tifa felt every capillary in her blood seize and burst, her thoughts drifting to her father and how he must have taken that. But before she could say anything in response, Cloud had taken her hand and was opening his, revealing a band of platinum Mythril with a pair of light and dark green gemstones buried into a heart-shaped inset. Tifa stared down at the ring, then glanced back up at Cloud, blinking at him in confusion.
“Cloud….”
“Will you marry me, Tifa?”
Tifa stared at the ring a moment longer, then looked back to Cloud’s face. His blue eyes were wide, hopeful, pleading. His hand that held that band of jewels was beginning to shake.
Tifa thought over the words that had just drifted up towards her from his lips, disbelieving. He wanted to marry her?
Had even promised her father that he would, before he died?
“It… it was my mom’s ring,” Cloud continued when she still hadn’t responded. It belonged to my grandmother. You know that my father never married my mother, and, well…she gave it to me, so I could give it to you.”
Tifa inhaled deeply, parting her lips as she tried to formulate a response. But as if to spur her on, Tifa felt a kick low in her tummy from the baby.
“Tifa?” Cloud pleaded softly.
“Yes,” Tifa finally answered breathlessly, her voice choked as the first sobs escaped. “Yes, Cloud, I will marry you.”
And then, Cloud had his head on her belly and his arms wrapped around her waist, both of them sobbing, through joy and sadness and renewal.
And leaving the past behind.
[ ν ] - εγλ - 2008 | Feb 4th
Song of Renewal
Cloud wrapped an arm tight around Tifa’s waist, pulling her in close to him against the bitter winter chills that were currently plaguing Midgar. The bright laughter and chatter of children and families were clinging to the air around them, and Cloud shoved his free hand deep into the pocket of his jacket, trying not to roll his eyes at the slow procession of the line they were standing in at the elementary school’s auditorium.
Tifa let out a few tiny puffs of air, her breath blowing wide in the cold of the night. She was leaned slightly against him, using his body for support.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cloud asked for was had surely been the one-hundredth time that night. “I told you, you should have stayed home and rested, Tifa.”
Tifa turned to him, shining a bright smile at him, her cheeks stung pink from the cold. “What, and miss my greatest pupil’s first-ever concert? Not a chance in Hades, Cloud.”
Cloud laughed softly, squeezing Tifa to him. They were attending the school’s winter concert, the first where Denzel would be performing on the piano in front of an audience. He had been excited about it for weeks, and Tifa had been using her spare time to help him practice and prepare.
Even so, it didn’t mean that her pregnancy had gotten any easier. It was still strained by the complications of her disease, and their trip to Nibelheim the month prior and her father’s death had not helped things in the slightest. Tifa continued to put up a brave face for everyone around her, but Cloud could read through the pages of her book without even trying. He had always been able to.
But Tifa was stubborn, more stubborn than even he could control. She insisted on continuing to work at Seventh Heaven, capitulating to his and Barret’s demands only by agreeing she would reduce her hours and stick to light duties, like ledger work or helping Jessie with the recipes in the kitchen. Cloud and Barret both refused to let her anywhere near the stockroom or to lift a dish that weighed more than a cup of coffee.
Nonetheless, Cloud was able to spend more time with her. He’d started his new assignment teaching the rookie SOLDIER cadets at Headquarters, and the new hours meant he could be home before the winter’s sun had yet to go down over Midgar. He was no longer stuck with messy jobs like killing monsters, or providing security detail to bitchy executives like Scarlet, or kept away from home with long courier assignments across the globe. His work was now steady and predictable and manageable, and best of all, he finally had benefits and a paycheck that was worthy of a man trying to raise and provide for a family.
One of the school’s administrators began to move the line along, and Cloud gently nudged Tifa with a hand to her back so that they could follow the queue inside. They filed in along the rows inside the dark amphitheater, listening to the happy voices of parents and loved ones as they slid into seats. Cloud was gesturing for Tifa to sit in one of the middle rows when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Cloud, Tifa,” the voice said.
It was Marle. She had one hand on her hip, and she was offering them both a motherly smile. Tifa leaned over, making sure to give Marle a hug despite how her baby bump was in the way.
“Marle!” Tifa exclaimed. “We are so excited for tonight. Denzel has been practicing night and day.”
Marle released Tifa from her hug and stepped back with a grin. “I am quite sure,” she agreed. “He’s been staying after school every day for months now. Quite the dedication this young man has.”
Tifa giggled, but Marle was turning to Cloud then, offering him a wink.
“Seems you’ve managed with him rather well, after all, haven’t you?”
Cloud felt his cheeks grow bright and hot, and he turned away from Marle, focussing his attention on helping Tifa find her seat.
“Yeah, I guess so,” he agreed, ignoring the way that Marle burst out into laughter at his bashfulness.
He settled into a seat at Tifa’s side, helping her slide her arms out of her coat. Her belly had swelled so much in just the last few weeks alone that even the simplest of maneuverings were challenging for her. When she was finally settled and comfortable in her seat, Cloud wrapped his arm around her shoulder, holding her gently and letting his gaze fall to where her hands rested on the top of her bump.
Shining under the stage lights that streamed in from above, Cloud could see the sparkling highlights of the ring she wore on her left hand, a silent commitment of herself to him.
Cloud couldn’t help the stretch of smug satisfaction that pulled at his lips at that moment, seeing the way the twin emerald and peridot jewels shined under the lights, catching their refractions in every cut. As if noticing that he was watching her, Tifa turned to him, catching his eyes.
“What?” she asked himself softly.
Cloud let himself smile in response to her. “Nothing,” he answered. “I just think that ring really suits you.”
Tifa grinned, and Cloud realized it was one of the happiest expressions he had seen her wear in a while. She held up her hand, extending her fingers and letting the Mythril and the gems glitter in the light. “I never really thought of green as one of my colors,” she said. “But… I think you’re right. We’ve got to start planning the wedding, Cloud.”
At this, Cloud felt his stomach turn to water. He wanted to marry Tifa, but planning nor participating in a wedding was definitely not his cup of tea. He shook the thought away, instead taking Tifa’s hand in his and dropping them both to her belly, feeling for the rolling tumble of the life inside.
“One thing at a time, Teef,” he told her, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
Before she could respond, the lights began to dim and the school’s concert teacher appeared on stage, announcing the program of the school’s winter concert. Cloud sat there, holding Tifa with his arm around her, his attention focused on the stage.
As the curtain went up and Cloud watched the procession of children’s concert activities - everything from skits to choir medleys to dance performances - Cloud let his mind pass over the events of the past year. He had been in a bad place before Tifa returned to his life - he was failing Denzel, drinking too much, on the verge of getting himself fired, and was quite possibly teetering near the edge of a mental breakdown or becoming suicidal. After everything that happened - especially with the deaths of his friends - he had given up on life and had become so numb that he hadn’t even realized it.
Now, months and months later - his outlook on life had completely changed. Despite the crater that erupted between him and Tifa when they parted ways all those years ago, his love for her had never stopped burning, eternal like the flame of the Candle in Cosmo Canyon. He could admit to himself and perhaps no one else that Tifa had always been the key to his own existence - he had realized it the first moment he’d met her that afternoon in the rain in front of a jeweler’s shop in Nibelhiem - and after all of these years of separation and depression, she had helped piece him back together again, simply by existing.
Now, he had found ways to move past all of his anxiety and guilt and the worst parts of his personality that had been plaguing him all these years. He’d learned how to be a better, more attentive father to Denzel. He stopped drinking so much and put his focus on keeping his body in better health. He got the help he needed to move past Zack and Aerith’s deaths, and he’d fallen into a much better place with Tifa, so much so that she was having his baby and she was going to be his wife.
A year ago, none of this would have seemed possible to him.
Cloud let that thought drift away as the lights on the stage shifted again. This time, they revealed the school’s elementary school band, the students set in a semi-circle around the stage, arranged by instrument. Toward the middle rear, Cloud could see the piano, Denzel seated studiously behind it, a messy wave of light brown hair spilling into his forehead and shining under the lights.
Cloud had never felt so much pride swell inside of him in his life.
Tifa reached across his lap and held his hand as they watched, the band teacher acting as the conductor and leading the students through their performances of several whimsical songs. Cloud kept his attention squared on Denzel, watching as the boy, his best friend’s son who had now become his own, ran his fingers across the keys in a fashion that betrayed the skill he had learned over the past years. It reminded Cloud how destiny had pulled all of them together, how that one schoolyard fight Denzel had gotten into reconnected him with Tifa, bringing them all to this moment.
The music stopped and Cloud’s eyes widened, shocked to find that under the shift of colors of the spotlights, the other students had stopped playing and Denzel had now begun a piano solo, each note ringing out throughout the auditorium. The notes were simple but clean, and Cloud recognized them, his heart picking up speed as he watched the concentration that was molded to Denzel’s face, the way sweat trickled down his brow from the heat of the stage lamps.
Do, Re, Me, Ti, La. Do, Re, Me, So, Fa, Do Re Do.
I know this song.
“Hey,” Tifa whispered softly at his side, squeezing his hand again. “I - I taught him this song.”
Cloud blinked, thinking back to the days when Tifa had played for him in her room, to the way their romance had slowly and shakily rekindled over the keys of a piano just a few months ago. He turned to her, catching the profile of her face and seeing a single tear escape from her eye as she watched Denzel play.
Cloud was having a difficult time processing the confusing turbulence of his feelings at that moment when the song ended, and soon, the concert was over. The families in the audience began to file out, parents heading backstage to collect their children and take them home. Cloud helped Tifa to her feet, waiting with her at his side where they stood in the aisle for Denzel to join them.
Tifa wavered slightly at his side, putting her weight on Cloud again. He snapped out of his thoughts, turning his attention to her.
You alright?” he asked her.
Tifa nodded, but Cloud could see the strain in her face. He held her steady, turning back and looking for Denzel again in the crowd.
“I’m fine,” she responded, but her voice was thin. “Just… ready to go home.”
It was then that Denzel finally found them, capturing Cloud’s attention by pulling on his jacket. Still holding onto Tifa with one hand, Cloud turned to him.
“There you are,” he greeted him, ruffling his hand through Denzel’s messy flop of hair. “Denzel, you were amazing. Ms. Collins said you’d gotten really good, but you blew that out of the water. You didn’t tell us you had a solo!”
Denzel was blushing, clearly overtaken by the praise. He grinned and then looked up, his eyes searching Tifa’s face.
“What did you think, Tifa?” he asked.
Tifa smiled at him, but Cloud could feel the way she was leaning even more heavily into him. She opened her mouth, her hand seeking purchase on his forearm. Her smile quickly flashed to one of pain.
“I think,” she began, and Cloud turned to face her, taking her in both of his arms. “I think…”
She pitched forward against Cloud, one hand to her belly, her face pale, and Cloud was instantly holding her in an effort to keep her from spilling to the floor.
“…It’s time.”
Cloud paced back and forth in the waiting room of the maternity wing, waiting for the nurse to admit him into Tifa’s room. Denzel was sitting on one of the couches, momentarily distracted by the tablet Tifa and Cloud had bought him as a gift for Yule.
Tifa, apparently, had been silently sitting through painful contractions throughout the performance, but upon getting to her feet, quickly lost her water and nearly passed out in Cloud’s arms. They rushed her to the hospital - Cloud calling Barret and demanding he meet them there - and because the baby was arriving a month prematurely, she was admitted into the maternity’s ICU ward and Cloud was asked to be patient and wait until she was stabilized. The rational part of his brain knew that it was a logical and reasonable request, but he couldn’t help the panic that was erupting through him as he waited.
“How she doin?” he heard a gruff voice bark.
Cloud whirled around to find Barret had made his way into the maternity ward, Marlene at his hip. The little girl was a ball of excitement, jumping up and down at his side.
“Did Tifa have the baby yet, Cloud?” she instantly demanded, running up to him.
Cloud was immediately overwhelmed. He rubbed the back of his neck, taking a step back from Marlene and shaking his head.
“Not yet,” he answered, looking up at Barret. “Listen, you know she’s been having all of these complications, and I just don’t -”
“Mr. Strife?”
Cloud stopped his panicked explanation to Barret, turning to find a nurse in blue scrubs waving at him for his attention. Barret lifted an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Your girlfriend has been stabilized. You can go in and see her now.”
Without another word, Cloud turned on his heel and followed the nurse.
They passed through a set of busy hospital corridors, Cloud’s mind racing in tempo with his heart as he thought about Tifa and their baby, of all of the difficulties of her pregnancy and how her illness had complicated things even further.
All he wanted was for her and the baby to be okay.
“The doctor is trying to induce labor quickly,” The nurse explained as she hurried along, and Cloud found it difficult to match her pace. “The baby was in just a bit of distress, but vitals look good now. I wouldn’t worry, sir. Dr. Crescent is quite capable and everything is looking okay for now.”
Cloud could feel the way his panic skyrocketed, but even as he opened his mouth to respond, he found that his throat had dried out and the words wouldn’t come. But the nurse was paying him no mind anyway, pushing open the door to a private room and leading him inside.
Cloud found Tifa propped up on the center of a gurney in the room, surrounded by medical equipment. There were two other nurses in the room, both hovering over Tifa and taking turns examining her before flitting away. The first nurse deposited Cloud into the room and then left, and he stood there, scratching the back of his head.
“Cloud,” Tifa greeted him from across the room.
She was paler than usual and her forehead was lined with sweat, but other than that, she seemed okay and alert, aside from the way that her expression was pinched with pain. Upon noticing his arrival, the other two nurses got out of the way, grabbing Tifa’s chart and making their way out.
“Keep taking deep breaths and chewing on that ice,” one of them instructed. “You’re hovering around eight centimeters, so we’re close. Dr. Crescent will be right in.”
Tifa nodded, then turned her attention back to Cloud. She opened her mouth to say something, but then she winced and let out a sharp cry of pain.
“Tifa!” Cloud shouted, instantly making his way to her side.
Tifa blinked up at him, then let out a heavy breath. She rest a hand on her belly, the corner of her eyes pinched. After gathering her bearings for a moment, she turned back to Cloud.
“It’s okay,” she huffed. “We’re… okay.”
“Are you sure?” Cloud couldn’t help but frantically ask. He was so worried and seeing that pain carved into Tifa’s beautiful features wasn’t helping any. He grabbed her hand, his thumb stroking the underside of her palm. “Are you in pain?”
“I’m sure,” Tifa breathed. “It’s just… it’s just the contractions, Cloud. Everything is okay. The baby will be -”
She stopped again, gasping and closing her eyes in a tight wince. Just watching her made Cloud feel as if his heart was trapped in the same vice.
“Tifa…”
He watched Tifa struggle through it, and when her eyes opened again and fell back to his, she offered him a smile. She let her head fall back against the pillow, expelling another breath.
“Don’t worry so much,” she told him. “I’m just glad you’re here. You know Cloud, we hadn’t decided on a name…”
Cloud lifted Tifa’s hand and pressed a kiss to the top of it in response. They hadn’t had much time to think of such things, and Cloud had been expecting them to have an entire additional month to figure it out. And truth be told, all he was worried about was Tifa and the baby and that they would both be safe and healthy; they could figure out all the other shit later.
“Don’t worry, Tifa,” he promised her. “We’ll work it out later, okay? I just want you to concentrate on breathing right now like the nurse said.”
Tifa nodded, laying her head back again the pillow, and Cloud parked himself by the side of her bed, holding her hand and wincing every time another contraction tore through her.
The next thirty minutes passed by in a whirlwind. Before Cloud could fully grasp what was happening, Tifa was beginning to scream at the top of her lungs, nurses instantly crowding the room. Cloud was quickly shoved out of the way, and he noticed Dr. Crescent arrive, covered from head to toe in scrubs and protective sterile gear. She made her way to the foot of Tifa’s bed, calmly issuing directives to everyone around her.
Cloud hung back off to one side, his eyes glued to Tifa’s face. His heart was a runaway train in his chest, pounding so hard against his ribcage that he could feel the sharp pains of angina clutch inside him. He tried to breathe, knowing that he needed to hold himself together to be strong for Tifa and the baby, but everything was happening so quickly that he almost felt knocked over sideways.
Tifa screamed a few more times, and Cloud’s vision was beginning to blur from his own internalized panic. But a new cry soon joined Tifa’s, this one sharped and high-pitched, a bright wail that left the nurses cheering as they hovered and fluttered about.
A baby’s cry.
“It’s a girl,” Dr. Crescent said to Tifa, then turned over her shoulder to glance at Cloud, offering him a wink and a smile.
Cloud watched in fascination as Dr. Crescent cut the umbilical cord and the pair of nurses rushed the baby off to one side, checking its vitals and cleaning it off. Tifa was panting and breathing heavily, sweat pouring down the sides of her face.
A girl…
Tifa met eyes with Cloud where he stood, offering him a wan smile. Then, she closed her eyes, sighing out a deep breath of exhaustion.
Cloud made his way to her side, his heart still louder than any of the clamorous sounds around them. He took Tifa’s hand in his, feeling the sweat in her palm, and she opened her eyes to look at him.
“Tifa,” he managed to gasp. “That was… you’re amazing. Are you okay? How do you feel?”
Tifa held her smile, shaking her head from side to side across her pillow. “I’m okay…” she trailed off in response. “Just really tired. Where’s…”
Before she could finish, one of the nurses appeared with the baby wrapped in a set of striped blue and white blankets. Her crying had mostly stopped, down to whimpers that began to seep away the closer she got to Tifa. At once, Tifa sat up fully in the bed and outstretched her arms.
“I’ll let you have a few moments with her, and hopefully it will get your milk started,” Dr. Crescent was explaining off to the side. “But because she is a bit premature, I would like to get her into the NICU for monitoring for a bit.”
Cloud could only stand there and watch as Tifa gathered his daughter into her arms and cradled her close. The baby was so tiny, smaller than he had been anticipating, with just a hint of wispy dark hair on her crown. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing raspy, a tiny thumb already in her mouth.
Cloud stared, his body frozen. The baby curled up close to Tifa, cooing softly into the flesh of her breasts, and then she turned her little head slightly, her eyes opening as she blinked up at her father for the very first time.
Her eyes were blue, a deeper blue than the oceans of Costa Del Sol, the deepest royal blue he had ever seen.
She was beautiful.
“Cloud,” Tifa called, snapping him out of his daze. He glanced up at her, catching the tired smile on her face.
“We need to name her,” Tifa insisted.
Cloud blinked, watching another line of sweat pass down Tifa’s brow. He glanced back down at the baby, watching in awe as she snuggled against Tifa’s bosom in an effort to get closer to her.
Cloud thought about it, trying to imagine a hundred different names that would suit something as beautiful as this baby girl, his daughter, the product of his and Tifa’s love for one another that had been so hard-fought for over a decade.
Cloud closed his eyes, thinking of every special moment he’d shared with Tifa, of the moments they spent under the stars and of the very first moment that he had met her, the weather unforgiving as it fell down on them. He opened his eyes again, glancing at the baby before turning back to Tifa.
“Rain,” he replied.
Tifa smiled, and Cloud could see in the brightness of her eyes that she understood. Seeing the infectious joy spread across her face as she nodded in agreement, Cloud couldn’t help the way he smiled in response, and then he bent over, hugging Tifa and Rain, holding them both tight in his arms.
He would never let them go.
To the One I Love
[ μ ] - εγλ - 9/14/97
09:57:03 PM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: Hey
Dear Tifa,
It’s been a couple of weeks since you left for university. I wanted to write you earlier, but I was scared. It feels kind of funny writing that down here, but it’s true. I really wasn’t sure how you’d react so I decided to keep to myself for a while, but Tifa, I couldn’t take it anymore.
How are you doing? What’s your dorm like? Have you started your classes? What’s Midgar like? When I lived there, I remember it being really smoggy and crowded. But you’re in Sector 7, right? I’ve heard that Sector is one of the nicest ones. I hope you’re adjusting to the move okay. I really wish I was there to help you get settled the way we planned.
I’m really sorry for what happened this summer. I never meant to get you in trouble. I think your dad is being really unfair, but it doesn’t matter, I guess. The only thing that matters is that I really miss you, a lot, Tifa. I can’t stop thinking about you, not since the moment you left me alone by the water tower. You’re the only thing on my mind and it’s driving me crazy.
Please, Tifa. Let’s talk about this, okay? Please write me back and tell me that we can find a way to work this out. Just because your dad is pissed off doesn’t mean we have to break up. I promised you that we’d always be together, right? Let me keep my promise, Tifa. I will find a way to do it.
I’m sorry for everything and I hope you forgive me. Please, Tifa, give me another chance. Please write to me. Soon.
I love you.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 9/27/97
02:19:23 AM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Hey
Dear Tifa,
I hope you are doing okay. I haven’t heard back from you yet, and I worry about you a lot. I know it must be hard for you to be alone trying to get used to the city and a new environment. If I was there, I would have made sure you were okay. I would have helped you move all your stuff into your new dorm and you would never have to worry about being lonely, because I would always be there to hug you or hold you or spend time with you.
I miss you so much.
Anyway, I have some news. This morning a letter from Shinra came in the mail for me. I was conscripted, Tifa. I guess that joke about becoming another cog in the system is now a reality. I guess it’s funny, but it’s not. I’m scared, Tifa. The Wutai War is getting really ugly and I don’t want to die.
I was thinking about it all day after I opened the letter. My mom is really upset. She’s been crying all day. She keeps saying if only I would just go to college, I wouldn’t have to worry about this. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. I got the letter and so I’m leaving for Midgar in about a week.
I’ll be stationed in Sector 0, near the Shinra Building, in case you’re wondering. That’s right in the heart of the city. It wouldn’t be that hard for me to take the train to Sector 7 to come and see you, Teef. This might actually work out for the best, you know? I won’t be that far away from you, and your father doesn’t have to know anything about it, Tifa. We can be together.
Please, write me back. I’m sure you’re really busy, but I miss you so much and I really want to talk to you soon.
I love you.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 10/17/97
06:49:16 AM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Hey
Dear Tifa,
How are you? I’m kinda worried because you haven’t responded to me yet. I know that you are probably swamped with school. It’s the middle of the semester, right? How are your studies going? What classes are you taking this semester? Have you been able to play the piano much since you’ve moved out there? I really miss listening to you play. I listen to the CD you gave me all of the time, but it’s not the same as sitting next to you and listening to you play.
Anyway, I’ve been in Midgar for a couple of weeks now. I have to go through BASIC, which is a training simulation program that all recruits have to complete. Right now, based on my assessment results, they’ve placed me with the infantry, which means I’ll be on the front lines when we deploy to Wutai. I’m not gonna lie, Tifa, I’m really nervous about it. A lot of grunts have died over there, the fighting is really bad and the war has escalated the last few months. Before I left Nibelheim I was watching the news a lot with my mom, it was helping me keep my mind off things. But now, I can’t stop thinking about the fact that I’m going to be fighting in a war.
I guess the good news is the Infantry has a direct path into SOLDIER. Remember when we saw those posters of Sephiroth, Tifa, and how we used to talk about what it must be like to be in SOLDIER? Well, since I’m here now, I’ve decided that I’m going to do everything that I can to get into SOLIDER. I want to be First Class. I hope that at least will make you proud of me. Maybe your dad won’t hate me so much.
Anyway, It’s pretty early here and I have to get to training in about fifteen minutes. We get in big trouble if we report late. Everything is so strict here, and everybody is constantly yelling at me. I hate it, but there’s not much I can do about it. I’ve already gotten into trouble once and it wasn’t fun at all. I hope you are at least enjoying yourself and that college is everything you hoped it would be.
Please respond back to me when you get some time, Teef. I really miss you a lot. It doesn’t have to be anything serious, I just want to know that you’re okay.
I’ll talk to you soon.
I love you.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 12/8/97
12:12:43 AM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: Hey
Dear Tifa,
How are you? I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in a while. I’ve been really busy the last month and a half. I was deployed to Wutai at the beginning of November, and I’ve been here ever since.
This country is so much different from Nibelheim or Midgar, Teef. It’s really pretty here, you know? We’ve been stationed in some forests near the coast, just outside of Fort Tamblin, where a lot of the SOLDIER operatives fighting under General Sephiroth are located. Even the architecture is different here - most of the buildings and houses are pagoda-styled, and so many of them are painted red. Seems like it’s an important color in this country, but I’m not sure what it symbolizes. I’ve fought a few Wutain ninjas Tifa and let me tell you, they’re no joke. But so far we haven’t had any casualties in our squadron, so I’m thankful for that at least. I’m still a little scared, though. I’d never tell anyone else but you that.
There’s no mako here at all, so the air smells clean, fresh… I don’t think I’ve ever experienced anything like it before, you know? I’ve been around mako my entire life, now that I think about it. Speaking of mako, did you know that SOLDIERS are bathed in it, to enhance their abilities? We had to attend a training course on it, just in case we are recruited. I’m determined to get in, Tifa. SOLDIERS are really elite and they get all sorts of job perks.
Enough about me, though. How have you been, Tifa? I know school is probably really intense. One of my infantry mates has a girlfriend who is in college too, and he talks about her a lot. It always makes me sad, because I don’t know how you are doing. I think about you being in class or playing the piano all the time. It’s almost the end of the semester, right? Do you have finals soon? Are you going home to Nibelheim for Yule?
I wish I could see you, Tifa. I would give anything to be able to come visit you. But it looks like I’m going to be in Wutai for several months for this tour, so I don’t know when I’ll have an opportunity anytime soon. But at least we have access to email, so please, write me back as soon as you can.
I miss you so much, Tifa.
I love you. I haven’t stopped. I won’t stop, no matter what.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 2/14/98
05:38:26 PM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: Happy Valentine’s Day
Dear Tifa,
I hope you’re doing okay. I’m sorry that I haven’t written in a while, I’ve just been really busy and I didn’t want to bother you too much, since I haven’t heard from you yet. I just got back to base after being in Wutai for the last couple of months, but they’ve stationed me in Junon so unfortunately, I won’t be around if you wanted to meet up in Midgar.
Wutai was crazy which is why I really couldn’t write for a while. We lost network access around the New Year and things got really rough on the coast. I don’t know if you’ve been watching the news, but Godo finally surrendered. I’m not sure what’s going to happen next, since they sent us back to the Eastern Continent, but I think they cleaned Wutai out of all of its materia, Tifa. I feel kinda bad about it - I remember reading in a book once about the colonization that took place in the Southern Continent a few hundred years ago, and this feels a lot like that. Maybe I’m overanalyzing it, what do you think? Damn, I really wish you were here, or that I could at least call you. It was always so easy for me to talk to you about shit like this. Here, nobody really seems to care.
You started your second semester at the Academy already, right? How are things going? Have you been able to perform at all? I really wish I could see you play again, Tifa. I miss it so much. If you ever have any performances in the city, please let me know. I’ll do whatever I can to take a leave and come see you play.
I spoke to my mom a few days ago. She’s doing okay. She says the village has been pretty quiet since most of the kids went away to college or the army. Doesn’t seem like a lot of folks decided to stick around. Have you been back to Nibelheim at all yet since you left? I know I probably shouldn’t ask this, but how is your dad?
Anyway, the real reason I wrote is that today is Valentine’s Day, and I didn’t want to miss it. I know we’re not together anymore, but I wanted you to feel special. I can’t send you real flowers, so I took a picture of some lilies I saw growing in Lower Junon, near the ocean. I attached it to this email. I hope you like them and I hope no other guy is giving you gifts today. Sorry Tifa, but you’ll always be mine.
Please write me back, Tifa. Oh, and I finally got a PHS. The number is 555-7717. You can call me whenever you want, or text me, if you prefer that.
I still love you.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 3/23/98
02:15:01 PM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: It’s me again
Dear Tifa,
It’s been a few weeks. I hope you’re doing okay. It really drives me crazy that you haven’t written me back, but I can’t help myself. I miss you so much and I feel like I have so much to tell you all the time. There’s so much I want to talk to you about. You’re on my mind constantly and I have no one else to talk to the way I used to talk to you.
Well, I do have some good news. I’m on track to make it into the SOLDIER ranks. According to Lazard, the Director of SOLDIER, I’m on the recruitment list for this summer. He even assigned a mentor to me, a SOLDIER Second Class named Zack. We get along really well. He’s a funny guy, real popular around base, but a nice guy. We train and work out together, and he gives me lots of tips. He told me if I listen to him, I’ll be in SOLDIER in no time. He even introduced me to his girlfriend, Aerith. She’s a little annoying but she’s a nice person, I guess. She and Zack are perfect for each other. I think you’d really like her, Tifa. Maybe one day when I come back to Midgar, we can go on a double date together. Zack and Aerith seem like the type of couple that would love to do shit like that.
If only you would write me back, Tifa.
I’m not going to give up on you, Tifa. I know you’re avoiding me because you don’t want to cause any more problems with your father. I understand. I just… wish it was different. You don’t have to be scared anymore, Tifa. We are both not in Nibelheim anymore.
I hope things are going well for you in the city. Have you made any new friends? I hope whoever they are, that they are good to you. You deserve the best.
Please write me back. Or call. Or text.
I’m going crazy.
I love you.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 5/3/98
07:01:54 PM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: Happy Birthday
Dear Tifa,
Happy Birthday!
You didn’t think I’d forget, did you? I could never forget. You’re nineteen now, can you believe it? I remember when I first met you, you were just a baby. I’m kidding.
What are you doing for your birthday? I hope you’re celebrating and having a good time. Maybe your college friends are throwing you a party? I hope you get some cool gifts. I promise when I get back to Midgar I’m going to have a gift for you. Just promise me that you’re staying safe, okay? I worry about you being alone in that city all the time.
Speaking of Midgar, I’ll be re-stationed there this summer. It’s official Tifa - I’m going to be in SOLDIER. I join their ranks officially in June. I’ve been working with Zack for the last few months and I’m in the best shape of my life. I wish you could see me now, I think you’d be really impressed with my muscles. If I gave you a hug, it would probably hurt. ;)
I’m a little nervous about the mako treatments, though. Zack told me he was in the infirmary for a week after his treatments. And he’s way bigger and stronger than me, Tifa. You know how much I hate being sick. Send me some positive vibes, would you?
My mom isn’t crazy about me joining SOLDIER but I can tell she’s still proud of me. She can’t help but worry a lot, that’s just the way she is. She doesn’t like that I’m in the military but I keep telling her, now that the war is over, she really shouldn’t be so concerned. Most of my work is boring as hell, Tifa. Who would have thought that a fifty-foot cannon like the Sister Ray needed a constant patrol duty?
I hope you’re enjoying your birthday and not working too hard on school stuff. I know how much pressure you put on yourself all the time. Just try to take it easy, okay? You deserve a break sometimes, Tifa.
I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about you all the time. Tifa, please write me back. Please tell me what I can do to fix this. I’ll give anything to have your love again. You mean everything to me and I can’t accept what happened.
Call me. Text. I miss you.
I love you so much.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
[ μ ] - εγλ - 11/4/98
01:30:12 AM
From: Cloud Strife <[email protected]>
To: Tifa Lockhart <[email protected]>
Subject: I miss you
Dear Tifa,
Sorry it’s been so long since I wrote to you. Since I started the SOLDIER program, it’s been nonstop for me. I’ve been back in Midgar since July, but I don’t think I’ve had more than five minutes to myself since. I was sick for weeks after the mako baths, Tifa, they were horrible. I don’t know how to describe it, but it felt like I was losing my mind while being seasick at the same time. It was almost like a panic attack - I couldn’t control the way my body reacted to anything. They had to keep me sedated for days. I really thought I was gonna die.
And the training for SOLDIER is grueling, Tifa. We train for ten, sometimes twelve hours straight, and then there’s no time to do anything but eat and sleep. Even as I write this it’s the middle of the night, and I can barely keep my eyes open. But I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, not since my last letter and not since I saw you last that night when you broke up with me. Tifa, I’m begging you. I know it’s been a year but I really want us to talk about this.
I miss you so much. I miss everything about you and about us. I miss holding you and going to the movies with you, I miss our nights at Willie’s and when we would dance together. I miss driving you around town late at night and I miss eating ice cream and gravy fries at the Red Ribbon. I miss sitting on the water tower and watching the stars, I miss kissing you and snuggling with you under the covers in your room.
I miss listening to you play the piano. I realize now that it used to keep me sane, back then. Not being able to listen to you play anymore makes me feel anxious, like something is missing.
What’s missing is you.
Tifa, I know I said this before, but I’ll do anything to make things right. I know that we belong together and your father can’t stop what is meant to be. Nobody in that shitty town can. All we need is each other.
I was thinking about taking leave and coming to visit you at your university, but I don’t want to alarm you. Please, Tifa, write me back and tell me that you’ll at least talk to me. All I need is one conversation.
I miss you so much. I want to make love to you again so bad. It’s all I can think about sometimes.
I miss you. Please, Tifa, don’t make me beg. Call me, text me, write me back. Anything.
I need to know you’re okay.
I love you.
Forever.
Love,
Cloud
.
.
.
"Mail Delivery System" <[email protected]>
Date: Fri, 4 Nov 1998 04:44:24 -0600
To: <[email protected]>
Subject: failure notice
This message was created automatically by mail delivery software.
A message that you sent has not yet been delivered to one or more of its recipients after more than 24 hours on the queue on mail.midgarmail.com.
The message identifier is: 1JYIJ1-0008Ew-JK
The date of the message is: 4 Nov 1998 01:30:12 +010
The subject of the message is: I miss you
This message was created automatically by mail delivery software. Eight (8) message(s) that you sent could not be delivered to one or more of its recipients. This is a permanent error. The following address(es) failed: <[email protected]>
No Such User.
|
Nana almost regrets donating most of her clothes when she finally gets around to unpacking the boxes in her room. It helped make the move faster and she doesn’t think she’d even wear most of it, but now she’s severely limited in her options. The clothes she had gotten rid of were from a time where Iemitsu was around long enough to take her on dates, so they weren’t exactly the kind of casual that would work for a simple dinner, but damn it, Nana wants to look good. Because it’s been a while since she put herself out there last.
She takes one sweeping look at the closet and then makes her decision. Thankfully with the number of things that they’ve downsized on, unpacking wouldn’t take much more than another day if she put her mind to it (and since she doesn’t have a job yet, what else is there to do?). The dinner is in two hours, which is more than enough time to go out and shop for something nicer.
“Tsu-kun?” She calls out, grabbing a purse with a strap that crosses over her chest. It won’t stop a particularly determined thief, but it will make it a little harder, she hopes.
“In here, mama!”
She finds him in the living room, sitting cross-legged and doodling in his coloring book. He looks up and his eyes search hers in a way that makes him seem older than he is. The first she’d seen it happen, she’d been startled, but now she knows it’s his intuition and that he can’t exactly turn it off. She watches his gaze dart to her purse and then he’s up, leaving his book on the floor, crayon falling next to it.
She doesn’t have to explain anything since he seems to already know, but she still says, “We’re going shopping, Tsu-kun. Isn’t that fun?”
There’s a conflicted expression on his face that says “there’ll be people there”, but also “it will be fun” because he’s always liked helping her pick things out. It makes her laugh and it has an added bonus of putting a smile on his face. Sometimes the way he brightens up warms her up on the inside.
She waits patiently for him to find his orange hoodie and then they stop by the door, pulling on their shoes. She holds his hand and locks the door behind them.
She decides to try a mall first and hopefully it’ll be their only stop. She lets Tsuna’s intuition guide them away from potential danger, his hand tugging hers away from some shops. They pass by many boutiques, but in the end, the one that Tsuna lets her step towards is a quaint little clothing store that has pastel signs hanging on the glass. She likes the style already and shows her approval by ruffling Tsuna’s fluffy hair, which he presses into, eyes closing with a little smile. It’s so cute, she manages to fish her phone out with her free hand, snapping a picture and setting it as her background.
Inside, Nana is already overwhelmed by the choices. She flits from one shelf to another, holding shirts up to herself. Though nothing has stuck out to her as things she wants to wear to the dinner, she does end up with a decent pile of clothes that need to be tried on, so she can replace the stuff she’s gotten rid of. While she’s at it, she has fun watching Tsuna try on scarves and cute sunhats.
Still, it’s funny, she thinks. The last time she put this much thought into her outfits was when she was worried about being good enough for Iemitsu. That seems so long ago. Eventually, Tsuna starts to pick up on her distress as time ticks by and she settles for something more simple than planned. She can’t go wrong with a pale pink cardigan over a simple shirt and some nice jeans.
On the way back from the mall, Tsuna steers them around a crowd, and not because he’s uncomfortable with the amount of people gathered there. A man is being restrained, bags of money littered on the ground in front of him, and a few officers are cordoning off the section. Nana arranges herself so that she stands on the side where the criminal is, thus bodily blocking Tsuna from harm, but nothing happens the entire walk outside of the building.
She doesn’t breathe a sigh of relief until they’re back at the apartment. She peels off her shoes and then wanders into her room to change, as well as set aside the things that need to be cleaned. Getting ready doesn’t usually take her very long, but it’s been a while since she put on any sort of makeup and she’s not looking forward to applying her eyeliner. She’s vaguely aware that at some point, Tsuna has come into her room and is now sitting on her bed.
“Do I look pretty, Tsu-kun?” Nana asks, turning away from the mirror on her, exiting the bathroom. If she has to stare at her eyeliner for even a second longer, she’ll scream, she thinks. Tsuna looks up from where he’s playing with his stuffed lion and examines her.
“You’re always pretty,” he eventually says. She will never stop being surprised by the sincerity and innocence of children, Tsuna especially. She can’t resist squishing his cheeks, listening to his cute little giggles and protests.
“It’s your turn to get ready, Tsu-kun. Do you want any help?” She asks. She’s not concerned with his fashion taste, though she’s heard horror stories from other parents. She bets her left foot that Tsuna will pick a plain colored shirt and some jeans. They are simple folk, attracted to simple clothes.
Just as she thought, Tsuna shakes his head and scrambles off the bed. While he changes in his room, Nana combs through her short hair and is glad she doesn’t have to do much more than that. She wanders out into the living room and checks the clock, relieved to see that they still had fifteen minutes left. They’ll be a little early, even, which is far better than being late.
Tsuna scrambles out of his room, wearing precisely what Nana thought he would. He slips on his socks and takes a tumble that has her rushing to his side. So used to being clumsy and the pains that come with it, he tears up, but they’re blinked away by the time he stands back up.
“Are you okay? You need to be more careful, Tsu-kun,” Nana scolds, plucking at some strands of his wild hair. Any attempts at taming it have failed, but sometimes she tries. Cutting it made it worse last year and he’s finally grown it out since there. At least they’ve learned their lesson. She debates the merits of getting him a headband and puts in on the ‘to try’ list. Maybe hair clips?
Tsuna sheepishly smiles up at her and grabs her hand, signaling that he’s ready to go. They both get back into their shoes and Nana locks the apartment behind them. He slows down the closer they get to Inko’s door, showing his nerves by biting his lips and wringing his shirt hem. For Tsuna, Nana provides him what confidence she can give, insecurities tucked carefully behind her friendly smile. He’s an unusually perceptive kid, but if she fretted as much as he was right now, it wouldn’t help either of them.
Nana lifts a hand and knocks on the door. She hears a bit of muffled chatter behind the door before it opens and Nana is treated to Inko’s green eyes peeking from the opening. She’s once more struck by the depth of the green and would get lost in them if Inko didn’t swing the door open wider, offering them inside with a hurried greeting and a grin that was almost blindingly adorable.
Nana bowed, thanking her, and then stepped inside. She paused, beckoning Tsuna inside, who had stopped right outside. He poked his fingers together, but stepped in, bumping into the back of Nana’s legs. They both take off their shoes and stack them neatly off the side, taking the guest slippers Inko offered. When they walk out of the entryway, Inko crouches down to Tsuna’s level.
“You must be Tsunayoshi-kun,” Inko smiles. There’s an aborted movement of her hand, as though she was going to hold it out for Tsuna to shake, but thought better of it. Instead, she bows her head. “I’m Midoriya Inko, but you can call me Inko. It’s nice to meet you.”
Nana doesn’t have to worry about Tsuna staying quiet, because he stammers out, “Nice to m-meet you, Inko-san.”
“My son’s washing up, but he’ll be out here in a minute. He was excited to hear about our new neighbors,” Inko says, standing up. “Please, come in! Make yourselves at home.”
Tsuna is reluctant to leave her side and dutifully follows her when Nana steps forward, heading to the kitchen.
“Do you need any help, Inko-chan?” Nana asks, watching Inko out of the corner of her eye as she scuttles around the kitchen. Nana stays out of her way, near the sink, where she begins washing her hands. As an afterthought, Nana lifts Tsuna up so that he can wash his hands too.
“Oh, no, don’t worry!” Inko uses her quirk to pull bowls and silverware towards her, where she begins putting them on the table. “Um, sorry, but…” She looks over at Nana in curiosity.
“What is it?” Nana inquires, tilting her head to the side. Interestingly enough, Inko’s cheeks turn a pale pink.
“Sorry, this might be insensitive, but is it just you two?” Inko asks, looking away when a glass floats close enough for her to catch and set down.
“Don’t apologize,” Nana says, shaking her head. “It’s just the two of us. Divorce.” She doesn’t feel like explaining it to a stranger. Maybe when she gets to know Inko a bit more, she’ll find herself opening up, but until then she doesn’t want to burden her with her venting.
“Me too.” Inko blinks in surprise, but smiles. “I get it. No, um, partners?”
Nana’s smile turns playful, “Interested?” While Inko stutters, Nana waves it off with a laugh.
“Kidding,” she sings. “I’m single. No boyfriends, no girlfriends. No partners.”
“Is that why you moved here?” Inko sets down the last glass.
“Ah,” Nana pauses, eyes flicking over to Tsuna. He’s attempting to hide in his shirt. She puts a hand on his head. “There were many reasons, but for the most part, we wanted a new beginning.”
“I see, I see.” Inko seems to understand that one of the reasons was related to Tsuna, but unsure of how or why. She didn’t pry, however. Nana was relieved.
“Mom!” Calls a voice, the bathroom door opening. “Are they here?” Nana watches as a head of green hair rounds the corner. She nearly laughs when he freezes up at the sight of them standing in the dining room.
“Ah, Izuku, meet Sawada Nana and her son, Sawada Tsunayoshi.” Inko waves her son over, who comes to stand at her side.
“This is Midoriya Izuku.” Inko puts a hand on her son’s shoulder, obviously proud of him if the way she puffs up is an indication. It is so endearing, Nana has a hard time keeping her delight to herself.
“Nice to meet you, Izuku-kun,” Nana says, crouching to his level. She holds out a hand. Izuku timidly shakes it and then retreats. It reminds her of Tsuna. She tries not to make it too obvious that she’s examining him, but- Well, he doesn’t seem like he’d be a danger to Tsuna, so that’s a relief.
With a nudge to Tsuna’s side, he hesitantly steps forward and introduces himself. Izuku goes from shyly curious to interest when Tsuna asks about the hero shirt he’s wearing. From there on, Nana knows she doesn’t have to worry about either of them. Come to think of it, this is the most she’s ever heard Tsuna talk about heroes. He’s never wanted to be one, though she doesn’t know the reason for it.
They keep up the discussion even after dinner is being served. When Nana takes a bite of the curry, she can’t hold back her compliments.
“I need this recipe, Inko-chan!” Nana gushes, pleased by the spiciness. At her side, Tsuna is equally happy, digging in with a ravenousness that startles her. Thought it's unfair to make the comparison, she can’t help think back to Iemitsu, who would literally beg for her to turn down the heat. When he stuck around, she would end up making it how he liked it.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d like it,” Inko says, after agreeing to share the recipe. Nana recalls her look of concern when Nana had picked up the spoon. “I tried to make it milder, but I think I might have forgotten.”
“It’s perfect,” Nana replies. “Now that I know this is what you like, I can more comfortably return the favor!”
“You don’t need to return the favor,” Inko denies. “Besides, it was meant more as a welcome than anything.”
“Sure, sure, but I would still like to make you dinner sometime, Inko-chan.” If Nana is a little more sly than she’d normally be, she blames Inko for bringing out this side of her.
“O-oh, then, I’d love that,” Inko says after a few seconds of processing.
“Then it’s settled. How about, hm, this Saturday? Are you free then?” Nana asks. As much as she’d love to have her over tomorrow, it's Tsuna's first day at the new school. Not to mention that she still needed to buy furniture. Can’t have a guest over if there’s no table, right? She’s not going to make them all sit on the floor, after all.
“That sounds wonderful,” Inko replies, hands pressed together in front of her. “What do you think, Izuku?” She turns to her son, who pulls his spoon out of his mouth to respond.
“I’d love that!” Izuku grins, not unlike sunshine himself, and Nana blinks. Tsuna ducks his head, but she can see the corners of his lips are curled upwards, suggesting he’s smiling, too. These pure boys, Nana thinks.
“Then it’s settled,” Nana says. Looks like Tsuna’s made his first friend. She’s so happy she decided to move.
They make some more idle chit chat before it starts getting late. Ignoring Inko’s protests, Nana helps clean the table, then grabs Inko’s hands, thanking her profusely for having them over. She manages to get Inko’s phone number before they leave and on the way back, she notices Tsuna isn’t so hesitant to be around their new neighbors anymore. Nana looks down at the piece of paper with Inko’s number and holds it close.
It feels like a step in the right direction. |
Magnus feels guilty.
He knows he shouldn’t, but he still does.
This isn’t his fault. Accidents happen, and as a doctor it’s his job to help and save people’s lives.
But accidents like this don’t happen every day, and the fate wanted that a truck drove into a bus with forty eight children, nearly pushing it off the highway today. The day when he was supposed to meet Alec’s family…
They’ve been together for almost two months now. It’s still new and fresh, but Magnus feels that there’s just something special about Alexander. The way Magnus’ stomach flips every time he sees him, or like when they kiss, the word seems to stop spinning around them, or when Alec smiles, a smile that could cure more diseases than Magnus ever did.
Magnus will always be thankful for the powers that be, that sent Alec to the ER those two months ago. Or actually, he should be thankful for Jace, Alec’s younger brother, who decided to teach him how to skate. Fortunately, it ended just with a broken wrist for Alec, but for him and Magnus, it was just a start.
Alec has been nothing but sweet. He admitted, that this is one of his first serious relationships, that he’s never been quite open with people. That’s one of the reasons why he became a writer. Closing himself of in his peaceful four walls with his work. But with Magnus, he just seems to feel free. They talk about everything. Serious or not, they always find a topic they can engulf themselves in, and they ended up staying up all night more than once, because of these late night conversations. But Magnus doesn’t mind, if he had more free time, we would definitely spend it talking with Alexander.
So, it’s been going great.
And today, Magnus needed to cancel on him.
By text.
He didn’t even have the time to call. When the ambulances arrived scene of the accident, it just became hectic. Almost twenty serve injured kids, and twenty more less harmed. Magnus basically hasn’t left the operating room till now, and it’s almost one in the morning.
Alec will be mad, and he has a right to. It took him a lot of effort to set up this meeting, since his parents are very busy lawyers. They barely find time for their children with their schedules. Alec’s younger sister, Isabelle is quite occupied herself, with finishing her studies to become a forensic pathologist. Jace, and Alec’s other younger brother, Max don’t have such wild agendas, but still it was hard to get them all in one place.
Especially to meet Magnus. And he couldn’t show up.
He knows his job is important, and he did save a lot of lives today. But he’s also already been through this, with Camille.
It’s been going good between them too, until Camille decided that being a photo model wasn’t enough. She dreamt big. Fashion weeks in Paris, Milan, Venice… And she made it. It was her element, she just fitted into the fashion word. And who was Magnus to stop her from chasing her dreams.
She started to become less present in New York, and every time she came back, it was just getting worse. She turned cold towards Magnus. The only thing that mattered was her career. Magnus needed to be at her every call, when she was back in the city. She didn’t understand that he also has a job, an important one, which makes him stay late, when such accidents happen. No matter how many lives he saved, or if he was five minutes or five hours late to meet her, she was always mad. She didn’t understand. She didn’t want to.
But he kept coming back.
Until it turned out Camille has been cheating on him with a French model on her trips to Paris.
He could take a lot. Her moods, her coldness. But he couldn’t take infidelity. And he never would, no matter how lovely Camille was at the beginning.
And he knows it’s different with Alec. He’s not Camille. Even comparing these two is an absurdity. Alec has actual interest in his work, could listen to him talking for hours, when with Camille, the only thing she could talk about was herself.
But still, Magnus knows Alec will be mad.
And he was really looking forward to meeting his family. He did meet Jace, briefly at the ER, when he brought Alec in. The way Alexander talks about his siblings is just… he’s so proud and full of love for them. Magnus feels like he already knows them a bit, after all these stories he heard from Alec. Still, to meet them personally, will be a truly different experience.
And if it comes to Alec’s parents… He doesn’t actually speak about them a lot. Just recently he managed to make up some relations with his mother. His father on the other hand… They didn’t really take Alec’s coming out so well, along with his choosing of profession. His parents thought that he will take on the family business and become a lawyer like them, but he decided to take his own path by writing. Although Maryse seems to get back on the right tracks in supporting their son, Robert is a totally different story.
That’s why Alec is so thankful for his siblings and their support, and he just couldn’t wait for Magnus to meet them.
Which sadly, won’t happen today, as planned.
He finally gets to leave the ER, quickly gathering his stuff and heading outside. He needs to call Alec, tell him how sorry he actually is. That he really didn’t want this to happen, but-
As he feels the night air engulfing his body in a pleasant coolness, at the other corner of a parking he spots Alec. He’s leaning against the side of his car, dressed all in black, with his leather jacket on. When he notices Magnus he smiles softly, and gives him a little wave. The doctor quickly makes his way to him.
“Alexander-“ He tries when he reaches him, but Alec interrupts, by pulling him into a kiss.
Magnus immediately relaxes as their lips touch, feeling the tension slightly leaving his body.
“Long day, huh?” Alec asks, as they part from each other, leaving only a few inches of space between them, when he puts his hands on Magnus’ waist.
Magnus just looks back at him and can’t help the soft smile creeping onto his face, when his boyfriend eyes him with concern and affection.
“Yeah, you don’t even know.” He replies, which earns him a chuckle from Alec, and them he settles his hands on his boyfriend’s shoulder.
Alec continues to smile at him, and Magnus might have gotten a little lost in beautiful hazel eyes, that he forgot what he was actually about to say.
“Alexander…” He starts again, shaking his head lightly to get back his composure. “I’m so sorry.”
“Magnus-“ Alec tries to interrupt, but regardless, Magnus continues.
“I just…” He sighs. “I’m so sorry, I really wanted to be there today. It’s not like I-“
“Magnus, I know.” Alec ducks down his head in attempt to make eye contact, which Magnus intentionally avoids, because he knows as soon as he looks him back in the eyes, he’ll get lost again. “It’s fine.”
And then, when Alec’s soft voice rings in his ears, he can’t resist to look back at him.
He doesn’t look mad. At all. He looks concerned, but also content, like he always does when they’re around each other.
“I get it.” Alec says and nods reassuringly.
“But, I am sorry.” Magnus caries on. “You put in so much effort to organise this meeting and I-“
“It’s not your fault.” Alec’s voice is still calm, like he’s trying to convince Magnus about this.
“I know, but-“
“So why are you so sorry?” Alec asks and eyes him curiously, and Magnus loses his ability to speak again, as his boyfriends eyes sweep over him. “Accidents happen. It’s your job. It’s very important.”
Magnus knows all of these things. He’s always been telling himself that, but to hear it from Alec’s mouth, to get the reassurance he was craving to get from his lovers in the past… it feels relieving.
He must have looked at Alec, totally stunned, for quite some time. Alec’s eyes are still not leaving his, like he’s waiting for some kind of a reply, that Magnus is yet to provide.
“I know.” He finally chokes out again, his voice way to quieter than he expected. Muffled by the lump, forming in his throat.
“So, what is it?” Alec asks, clearly noticing his expression.
To be honest, Magnus expected for Alec to be the one who’s more reserved in their relationship. It wouldn’t be a bad thing, since it’s one of the most serious relationships he was ever involved in. But with everyday together Alec surprises him, by how open he is in talking about his feelings. How unafraid he is to show his vulnerability around him.
And Magnus has been always struggling with that. No matter how many relationships he’s been into, he’s still afraid of saying the wrong thing. That the other person might consider him weak and pathetic. He learnt with Camille, that showing your vulnerability is a weakness. The one time he decided not to hide his feeling from her, after one of his first patients died, he ended up being laughed at by her. She said he cares too much, that these people should be nothing to him, just a reason why he’s making money. But Magnus can’t think like that, when there are tragedies happening around him, he can’t just stay unconcerned. Either it’s within his friends or patients. He still forms some kind of connection with them.
After that, he acknowledged not to ever talk to Camille about this again, being too scared to receive the same reaction.
But he isn’t all tough. Things tend to break him, and after Camille, he’s still learning that it’s okay to feel hurt or broken. What’s important is, to get yourself back together.
And every time he manages to do it.
Even though, he hasn’t been in that kind of situation, hasn’t felt broken, since he’s been with Alec, he knows that time will come. And he’s pretty sure Alexander’s reaction will be completely different from Camille’s.
So he takes a deep breath, and begins to explain.
“I just... I cancelled on you.” He states, avoiding Alec’s gaze. “By text, I…” A hollow laugh escapes his mouth. “I didn’t even call you, I-“
“Magnus, I understand-“ Alec tries, but Magnus cuts him off.
“And you’ve never cancelled on me. And I… I didn’t want to do that too, since you’re being so great and… and I know it was hard for you to put this whole thing together, and I guess I just feel guilty, because it took so much of your time, when you obviously have better things to do. And my job just gets like this at times, but you have every right to be mad-“
“Magnus,” Alec states firmly and sighs. “you literally save lives. How could I be mad at you, when you had a valid reason to cancel?”
Magnus looks back at him, seeing the hint of disbelief in his eyes, like Alec can’t just recon that Magnus even considered it as his reaction.
“I would be mad, if you…” Alec picks back up and thinks a little before adding. “I don’t know, if you just chickened out, realised that it might be too soon, and just decided not show up, but Magnus…” He resorts, his hands wandering to cup his face. “I’m not mad. And by all means, you should not feel guilty. Okay?”
Magnus needs to blink a few dozen times to make sure this is real, because no one ever has shown such an understanding to him. And maybe it is a normal thing, maybe Magnus just got caught with the wrong people before, but now, he feels like he’s finally found the right one.
As they stay like this, Magnus still too amazed to reply, mouth hanging slightly open, Alec lets out a chuckle before he says.
“Come here.”
He gathers Magnus close in his arms, and hugs him tightly, dropping a kiss at the top of his head.
“Every job is important at some point.” Alec speaks into his hair. “But yours… you save lives, Magnus.” He repeats. “And believe me, saving a bunch of kids is more than good enough of a reason to cancel on your boyfriend.” He adds with a laugh in his voice.
Magnus pulls back lightly to look at him.
“So you’re… not mad?” He asks uncertainly.
“Magnus,” Alec’s gaze settles on him again. Eyes so honest and full of pure love. “of course I’m not.”
He smiles softly again and creases Magnus’ cheeks lightly.
“It’s just… you’ve never cancelled any of our dates or-“ The doctor starts, and Alec lets out a light laugh.
“Oh, so you wanted me to be the first to cancel?” He asks teasingly and Magnus can’t help but chuckle.
“No.” He states softly. “I’d prefer if we didn’t cancel on each other at all.”
Alec nods and pecks him on the lips lightly.
“You know it’s a bit different with me, right?” He questions after a while and Magnus waits for him to elaborate. “I mean, with my job. I practically work from home, not including the few meetings with my publisher during the month. My schedule is just more flexible.”
“Well, mine tends to be a little…elongate. Considering my shift was supposed to end like six hours ago.”
Alec laughs again, and his hands travel down Magnus’ arms to intertwine their fingers together.
“Come on,” Alec says and tugs at his hand, leading him around the car and opening a door on the passenger’s side. “You’re exhausted. I’m taking you home.”
“Alexander, you don’t need to. My car is literally there-“ Magnus tries to protest, pointing at his car at the other side of the parking lot.
Alec just shakes his head and guides him to sit in the car.
“Like I said, you’re exhausted. It was probably a very stressful and emotional day, you shouldn’t be driving now. We can come back for your car tomorrow. Now, I’m getting you home.”
“But-“
“No ‘buts’.” Alec states firmly and closes the door, circling the car to a few second later get settled in a driver seat.
Magnus just sighs and lets his head rest against the window, as he catches Alec’s triumphant smile in corner of his eye.
They drive in a comfortable silence for a while. Magnus is content that Alec’s not mad. He scows himself in his mind, for even considering it as Alec’s reaction. But still, he’s bothered with one thing, and since he’s way past hiding from Alec after tonight, he decides to lay it all out.
“Were your parents very mad?” He asks as Alec stops his car at a red light.
“Actually, I thought it would be worse.” He admits and quickly glances at Magnus with a reassuring smile. “In fact, I think they’re pretty impressed, that I’m dating a surgeon.” He adds with a teasing grin. “And you don’t need to worry about Izzy, Jace, and Max. They totally get it.” He puts his hand on Magnus’ thigh in a soothing gesture for a second, before the light turns green and he needs to place his palm back on the stick shift.
“So, how did the dinner turn out?” Magnus questions a bit later.
“It wasn’t that bad.” Alec answers, eyes focused back on the road, but his tone is honest. “I mean, dad didn’t spare me some cutting comments, both about my job and about me being gay.” He sighs heavily. “But mom actually came to my defence this time.”
“That’s great.” Magnus exclaims and sweeps his palm on Alec’s thigh to which he hums in appreciation.
“It is.” He agrees. “We actually had some fun. Dad left earlier, so… yeah it was nice.” He throws another smile at Magnus. “They still can’t wait to meet you.”
Magnus mirrors Alec’s smile, leaning in from his seat to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
“But this time, we make sure I set up a meeting on your day off.” Alec adds with a laugh.
“I guess that would be for the best.” Magnus decides.
His hand still lays on Alec’s thigh, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and neither does Magnus.
“So,” Alec prompts after a while. “Did you manage to take control over the situation at the hospital?” He asks a bit insecurely .
Magnus sometimes notices this about him. That he’s kind of scared to bring up his job, like he might convey some bad memories. And sure, Magnus has those. No matter how long he’s been working as a surgeon, losing his patients will never become easy.
But they still continue to learn stuff about each other. Over the course of the two months, Magnus found out a lot about Alec. That he doesn’t like to be interrupted while he works, even though he’s a New York Times’ bestselling author, he still is very anxious about his writing and that he never shows anyone parts of his work until it’s properly finished.
They keep figuring out stuff about each other every day. And it’s amazing. Such a journey, with the one you’re growing to love, so much.
“Yes, it’s all settled.” Magnus answers as he shakes off of his thoughts a little. “A few kids were still in the surgery while I was leaving, but nothing serious, everything is under control. But I admit, it was a horrible accident.”
“Yeah, I know.” Alec agrees. “I saw on the news.”
Magnus nods and lets out a long exhale.
“We don’t need to talk about it.” Alec’s eyes are focused back on the road when he speaks, his lips forming into a straight line. Magnus can hear the hint of nervousness in his voice. “I mean, your job. If you just want to leave it all behind when you’re out of the hospital, it’s fine. I don’t really know if I should ask you-“
“Alexander,” Magnus starts and rubs Alec’s thigh lightly. “You can ask about anything. The worst that can happened, it that I won’t answer. But I doubt that this would happen. Besides, I love talking to you. I don’t mind involving my job in our conversations.”
“I just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable or something-“
“You didn’t, really.” Magnus states, a bit more firmly. “We can talk about everything, okay?”
“Yeah, okay.” Alec seems to relax a little. His hands loosening their hold on the stirring wheel.
The silence fall between them again, both of them sitting with content smiles written on their faces.
“Will you stay at mine’s tonight?” Magnus asks then.
“If you want me to, then yeah, sure.” Alec answers simply.
“Of course I want you to.” Magnus resorts. “Besides, it’s late. I don’t want you to get over to the other side of town all by yourself.”
He’s very aware that Alec is more than capable of taking care of himself, especially with the boxing classes he’s been attending with Jace, but still, Magnus can’t help but worry.
Alec rolls his eyes, but an amused smile is creeping onto his lips.
“Then I’ll stay. You’ve had enough to worry about today.”
Magnus reaches out and kisses him on the cheek again, before speaking.
“Can we stop at the shop?” He asks. “I don’t have any food, and to be honest I’m starving.”
Alec pulls one hand away from the stirring wheel and points swiftly to the back of the car.
“I got food from the Ethiopian place you like so much on my way to the hospital.” Alec states. “I knew you would be hungry after such day.”
Magnus looks back at him, totally amazed again, at how he managed to get himself such an incredible man. Someone who will take care of him, even when he forgets to take care of himself.
He plans on returning this favour to Alec. As much as he can, for a long time.
“You truly are an angel.” Magnus says, with an pleased grin, never looking away from Alec. |
Neither man wanted to face the day. Though the water hadn't yet breached their sight through the window, they could now hear the way it lapped up against the tower walls, ever closer. Wilbur hid his face in the crook of Schlatt's neck, curled rigid at his side. True black was coming and there was nothing they could do - it was close enough now that it felt
real
.
It was all well and good when the water barely grazed the grass, or even when it came to their door - but now it was swallowing their home slowly. It slithered up the outer walls like they were prey in an ancient serpent’s maw, gradually sliding down its greedy oesophagus as it engulfed them.
Schlatt rolled onto his side, tugging Wilbur close to him. They lay there in the cool morning light, naked as they came. A day’s estimate would be a generous judgement of how long they had left. They didn't know it would come for them so fast; they didn't know how little time they would have. No one told them it was exponential.
Wilbur was crying. Schlatt could just barely hear him. He cradled him against his chest, and kissed his head over a sea of fleecy brown. There was nothing to be said - it would just be a set of saccharine false assurances. All they could do now was wait. They could hear the splintering of glass on the bottom floor, where the pressure of the water threatened to shatter the windows.
All Schlatt could think was:
let it
. Let the water burst through the windows - let it flood the tower from the bottom up. Maybe the redistribution would buy them a measly few more minutes before the inevitable. Let it push its way in through the cracks, let it split the panes into a thousand fractured pieces.
Let it devour their home from the inside. There was nothing left for them now.
This would be their last morning together - Schlatt considered that maybe they should make more of it than just cowering in the covers. He kissed Wilbur’s head once again, and crawled out of bed. He pulled on his boxers and wandered over to the food chest, taking the best cured steaks he had, and the small amount of salt in a little glass bottle. All they’d stashed would go to waste; he may as well make use of it.
He pulled the slate out of the cold furnace and used it to prepare the meats. Salt was sprinkled over them - one side, then the other. He rubbed it on the fatty edges. He washed his hands off in a water bucket and turned back to the chest, grabbing a couple of potatoes and knocking the eyes off with his claws. He took a couple of carrots by their stems in his other hand.
In one of the chairs, he sat and peeled the skins off with a small knife. Wilbur sat up in the bed, knees hugged up into his chest, and watched him work on preparing dinner. After a moment of staring, he slipped out from under the blanket, tugging on his underwear and his torn jumper, and stood by Schlatt’s side.
“Lets treat ourselves to a full meal today, huh?”
“May as well,” Wilbur kissed his head, “Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it, Wil,” He chopped the potatoes into quarters, and arranged them around the meat, with the carrots left whole.
The food was slid in, and the furnace ignited. Schlatt washed his hands off again, shaking the wet off of him and onto the floor. It was time to assess the damage - to get a framework of how long they would have left. Schlatt trotted slowly to the sill; he didn’t have to look far to see the water - it came to just below the glass. He raised his head, glancing toward the ceiling.
Not long.
Wilbur seemed to be on his tail, and he chuckled, turning to face him. He teased his claws over the line of bruises on his neck, and smiled as he felt him shiver under the touch. A sense of pride surged in Schlatt as he admired the marks. Where his teeth had pierced the skin had now scabbed over; he tried not to agitate it too much. The man, however, seemed to lean into the movement.
"No regrets about last night, then?"
Wilbur shrugged, the slightest smirk catching his lips.
"You
loved
it," Schlatt returned, "You're just a brat."
"Mm, you had no complaints."
Wilbur moved closer, touching his head to Schlatt's own. There was only an inch or so between their heights, Wilbur being on the taller end, and yet Schlatt felt so much larger. He was broader built and more imposing; he had a bigger presence. Wilbur grazed his fingers over the back of a white ear.
"This can't be it, can it?" His voice was forlorn.
"I…" Would it be wrong to be honest? "It… It might be, Wilbur. It seems that way."
The man closed his eyes, sighing softly. Schlatt could feel the weight of that breath wash over him, the suffocating pressure of knowing the end was nigh. Things were just beyond hope.
"Let's try not to focus on that, alright?" The goat forced a cheery bleat to his tone, "We'll just focus on having dinner - that's what's next for us. Then... we deal with what comes after that."
Wilbur nodded.
Drawing away from him, Schlatt wandered over to the bed again. He fluffed up the pillows, and shook out the quilt. The red of the covers did little to hide the now brownish blots of blood from the prior night. Schlatt smiled. He tucked the corners in, and smoothed out the wrinkles. Not once before today had he made the bed - it was always Wilbur's job. But he felt he should make today special - Wilbur was taking this far harder than him.
It was a long while to wait until the food was ready: at least another two hours. Outside, the gentle pitter-patter of rain began to tap on the window. Droplets beaded together and rolled down the glass in steady rivers, debouching into the great lake below.
The water level came up past the sill now, and rocked up against the glass. On its surface, Wilbur's crops lay uprooted, a reminder of his destroyed daily routine. Being limited to just the bedroom left them with little option for amusement, and Wilbur was too sad for song.
Looking through the undulating blue, Schlatt could make out figures running for the shelter in the city, arms over their heads to fight off the rainfall. A figure took pause and watched, green and white rocking in a watery smudge. Something came it's way, tugging it from where it spied on the flooding fish tank. Schlatt watched them leave in a sorrowful acceptance.
For the first time since he was a boy, Schlatt knelt, his palms together. He spoke in a mumble, and Wilbur could scant make out the diction of his prayer. Toward the end, he heard:
"
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,
Spare us, O Lord.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,
Graciously hear us, O Lord.
Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world,
Have mercy on us
."
The goatman stood with a sigh. He looked over his shoulder to Wilbur and gave a forced smirk.
"There's one of those prayers you've never heard me do."
"Bit generous to say I heard it."
Schlatt chuckled, "Welcome to the church experience - just a room of monotonous mumbling followed by 'amen'."
Wilbur laughed. He reached a hand out to Schlatt and slid it down his arm when he came to stand before him. There was something comforting to be found in the presence of another in such bleak times, a sense of solidarity in knowing that they faced the same end. Wilbur also noted that there was a contentedness - morbid as it may be - in the fact that he wouldn’t have to die alone.
Even though they could see the rise, punctuated by the movement of the rain on the encroaching flood, it still had the air of something distant. There remained a disbelief that it was really happening, a desperate desire for life that screamed ‘this can’t be it.’ Denial assured him that they would make it out of this, that Dream would intervene, that the barrier would spring a leak somehow, that something -
anything
- would happen to change their fate. Schlatt took his hand and gave a gentle squeeze.
“I always hoped I’d marry before I die,” Wilbur remarked, “Not necessarily have any children, I mean… I have a son in Fundy, and that was enough for me. But I hoped to be
married
before I died.”
Schlatt nodded, “Before this, I wanted to be
rich
before I died.”
“That tracks.”
“What would you want to do now, if you had the chance?”
“Figure out how to be less shitty,” He sighed, “Make amends with the people I’ve screwed over.”
Wilbur pulsed his hand, “Good aspirations.”
“Too bad it’s too late, huh?”
“At least you got to achieve some of it - you’re twice the man you used to be.”
Time passed surprisingly quick from there, spent in quiet, sporadic conversation. Their little talks were interrupted by the smell of their dinner - small scraps on the slate beginning to burn. They dressed for their last meal; they donned their Sunday best - the same as they had worn the day before.
Schlatt pulled the food from the oven. The meat had caramelised beautifully, charred a little around the edges and scented with smoke. The potatoes were crispy - the carrots too - but on the inside they were soft, and they cut easily under his knife. Fluffy flakes came off of the potatoes as they were given a testing slice, and vanished in the pooling liquid from the beef. He halved the meal, and drizzled the juices from the bottom of the slate over the top of the steaks.
“If only we had a drink to go with it. Bon appetit.”
They cheers-ed with a forkful each.
A few bites in, Wilbur smiled, “It’s good. Thank you.”
“Y’know, I never could have imagined this. Us, sitting down, having dinner together so… I don’t know - peacefully?”
“We should do it more often,” Wilbur joked.
“I’d like that.”
Smiling wistfully down at his plate, Schlatt gave a raw chuckle.
What a turbulent relationship they’d shared over the course of knowing one another. God knows what spurred Wilbur to stick around with him so long; he didn’t exactly give him want to. He should have been a better man, a kinder man.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
Schlatt nudged at his meat with a claw, contemplating how to say what was on his mind, “Why did you… you know.”
“Why did I go along with the plot?”
The ram nodded.
Wilbur sighed, taking another bite, “Because I care about you, and you’ll do a lot for the people you care about.”
He creased his brow, “I don’t think
most people
care enough to try and blow up their city.”
“I think
you
underestimate how much I cared about you.”
There was a slight blush on Schlatt’s face.
“I suppose there’s no loss in me being honest - I might not get another chance.”
Wilbur looked up from his plate, making sure he had Schlatt’s full attention.
“I loved you. I still do, but… That’s why I stuck around. And at the time, it felt so stupid - I knew you didn’t care about me, not really. I knew you just wanted me to do shit for you. But I stuck around because I hoped, by some miracle, I could
make
you love me. Or, at least, make you care about me a little more.”
The hybrid tilted his head, ears low.
“When you left, it ruined me. I knew that was ridiculous… and Phil told me it was better if you were gone, too, but I didn’t listen to him. I just wanted you to come back. And when you did -- Schlatt, I would have done anything for you. That’s why I’m here, I guess.”
“If you knew then what you know now,” Schlatt started, “In terms of how it would all play out, and where we would be because of it… Would you still have gone along with me?”
Wilbur paused, a heavy sigh breaking the quiet, “I don’t know.”
The rain had picked up outside, rattling against the remaining half of the window.
“I wouldn’t think so - I had a family to think about. But, at the same time…”
Schlatt sighed. The rest of the dinner was passed in silence, broken only by the rhythmic patter of rain, and the low rumble of the water’s sway against the walls. There was something strange in finding out now how Wilbur felt about him, worse still that it verified his former suspicions. He used that to get his way. He took advantage of Wilbur, and that abuse was what brought the poor man’s end.
Yet, Wilbur still loved him.
"I'm sorry."
From below came an awful clatter, chased with the rush of water. It flooded the floor with a great splash, quickly filling to the top of the downstairs window. The level outside barely changed. Wilbur’s eyes were wide with fright; his heart in his mouth. He shook and swallowed hard, glancing desperately at Schlatt.
The goat rushed to the ladder, peering down. Water continued to lurch inside, slowly creeping up the inner walls. The rain was coming down at a staggering rate, as though it sought to fill the little space made in redistribution. Overwhelming was the sound, built to a crescendo as more water filled the building, more rain clattered into the walls.
Schlatt grabbed Wilbur by the wrist, wrenching him toward the ladder, "We're going up to the roof!”
|
4.
He’s had dreams about Sirius for as long as he’s known him, but never quite like this. They’ve been graphic before -- he first worked out he could have him at the age of sixteen, of course he fucking dreamed about it -- but never quite so urgently, unrelentingly literal, or so directly linked to the real world and the things he’d like to do in it.
He follows Sirius; that's how it starts every time. What happens next is sometimes gentle and more often not, and ends the same, either way. He wakes up so hard it almost hurts, palming his cock before he's even fully conscious. The images lingering behind his eyelids are a fusion of memory and invention – Sirius' swollen, bloodied mouth moving silently, please James please, spreading eagerly around the head of his cock. When he comes, he makes enough noise that Sirius should be able to hear him through the walls - if he's going to have to suffer through this blight of unnecessary sexual frustration, he's certainly not going to be quiet about it. With any luck, Sirius will spend the day picturing him with his hand on his cock and get so wound up with wondering if he was in James' head while he was touching himself that he forgets all his bullshit and jumps him.
As it turns out, the results of this undoubtedly brilliant plan leave quite a lot to be desired. By four in the afternoon, James has failed to memorize half of the fat surveillance rulebook, eaten rather more toast than he really wanted, and been forced to accept that it is actually possible to over-polish a broom, after all. When he checks the clock again, it's five past four, and he slams the book shut, letting it fall to the floor with a satisfying thump.
For the fifth time in half an hour, he eyes the bottle of elf-sherry that represents the sum total of their remaining booze supply. On the one hand, he found it in the cleaning cupboard, and someone has written DON'T!! all over the label in an emphatic sort of way. On the other, it has a funny picture of a house elf on it, and it is undeniably made of alcohol, unlike every other worthless liquid in this squalid shit-hole he calls home. The word don't is inherently enticing, of course, but he also has a niggling sense that the handwriting is his own, and a vague but insistent recollection of vomiting in a way that was somehow deeply wrong.
This is ridiculous – he should just go out and buy something that's fit for human consumption. The walk would clear his head, and work some of the restlessness out of his system, and he hates being cooped up on a Saturday, even if it is pissing it down out there. If he leaves, though, how will he know if Sirius buggers off back to that cult? As long as he's in the living room, Sirius has to pass him if he wants to go anywhere, since they can't apparate inside the flat. It's not like he's going to bar the door or anything – it's not like he wants to keep Sirius locked up in here like some kind of prisoner. He's just being practical; he doesn't much fancy traipsing through Hackney in the pouring rain to watch Sirius suck off strangers two nights in a row, and if Sirius does insist on going back, the least he can do is give James a fair chance to talk him out of it. If Sirius would only get over himself and stop lurking in his room, they could go out together, and there'd be no need for any of this. If this sherry leads James to a disgusting and undignified death, it will be almost entirely Sirius' fault, and he will deserve to clean up any ensuing mess without any magical assistance whatsoever.
The smell makes him retch as soon as he gets the cap off. Face screwed up, he brings it as close to his face as he dares, and takes a sniff.
Yeah, no, fuck this.
Gagging, he screws the cap back on and drops the bottle on his rulebook. He must have been beyond drunk to have got as far as swallowing that. No, this won't do. Hang waiting - he wants a proper drink, and Sirius is coming with him to get one, whether he likes it or not.
Sirius hasn't locked his door, at least, and when James shoves it open, he makes no effort to stop him coming in. He's on the window-seat, a sharp-edged silhouette against shining, rain-blurred glass, with one leg bent at the knee to support a sheaf of parchment. The light from the window lends his skin a strange, muted glow that makes him look like some expensive painting, at least until he turns his head to scowl at James' approach.
“What do you want?”
“I thought you didn't hide from anyone,” is what James had intended to open with, but he finds that now he's here, he doesn't actually feel like picking a fight.
“We're out of booze,” he says instead. “I nearly drank the stuff under the sink.”
“Don't,” advises Sirius flatly. “You know what happened last time.”
“I think I've repressed it, actually. The point is, we're completely dry. Even the emergency gin is gone.”
“It can't be, I replaced it last month.” Sirius waves a dismissive hand, and turns back to his parchment. “Bugger off and have a proper look.”
“What do you mean, a proper look? I turned the fucking bottle upside down in case you'd turned it invisible - I'm telling you, we've got nothing.”
Sirius huffs irritably, quill still poised above the page.
“Well, I only drank the original. If it's gone, you've only got yourself to blame. What was the fucking emergency, anyway? It's not like Evans can have dumped you again.”
It stings less than Sirius probably means it to, and quite a bit less than James might have expected. For maybe a second, all he can see is the light from the street-lamp catching in her lovely, coppery hair as she turned her back on him, but a couple of blinks is all it takes to banish the image. The idiot part of him that finds Sirius' capacity for obnoxiousness both funny and endearing rears its head again, and the shove he gives his shoulder is too light to seem anything other than playful.
“It's a funny story - I suddenly realized I was living with a complete heartless bastard with no respect for my feelings.”
“Fuck off! You're spoiling my letter, you prick -”
“I should shove your precious letter up your arse,” says James, grappling with him when he tries to push his hand away. “Who are you writing to, anyway?”
“I was trying to write to Remus,” grumbles Sirius, disentangling their fingers. “And I do respect your stupid feelings.”
Now that James thinks about it, the moon has started to fill out again. He feels a niggle of guilt at the realization that he'd forgotten to notice. Releasing Sirius' hand, he joins him on the window-seat, moving Sirius' ankles to free up some room.
“He'll say not to come, you know.”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Offer my services, too, obviously.”
“I always do,” Sirius shrugs, budging up a bit. “You're staying then, are you?”
“What, do you mind?”
“No, of course not. You'll be bored, though – this might take a while.”
“Why, are you penning him a sonnet or something? Anyway, I don't mind. I'll be boring, too, and spend some quality time with the old rulebook.”
Sirius looks up from his letter, cocking his head. “You're going to do your homework?”
“Not much choice,” James says, summoning his book. “You heard Pembleton the other day – I'm not getting kicked out because I forgot a fucking sub-clause.”
He leans back against the window, propping one foot up on the edge of the seat so he's got a knee to support the book. He can just about feel the chill of the glass through his robes, a faint, pleasant coolness against his back, and once he shifts a couple of pillows, it's really quite comfortable here. Sirius' bare toes nudge up against his outer thigh, blue-tinted from the cold, burrowing into the non-existent space between James' leg and the cushioned seat. James lays his free hand over one narrow foot, letting the warmth of his palm banish the biting cold from Sirius' skin, and pretending not to notice the way Sirius' toes curl, or the flicker of tension that tightens all his tendons at the first moment of contact.
“You know he'd never really kick you out,” says Sirius, after a moment. “You're his golden boy; he's just trying to keep you on your toes.”
“I dunno, it didn't sound like he was bluffing. You know what he's like about the fucking rules.”
“Yeah, but he's not stupid. He's got to know you're not replaceable.”
It's as casual and matter-of-fact as every other time Sirius has bluntly acknowledged that he's brilliant, and as usual, it feels like getting a personal endorsement from the sun. James runs a hand through his hair, not bothering to hide his grin.
“An excellent point, my dear Padfoot, but rather lacking in detail. Would you care to elaborate? Tell me more about how special I am… ”
“Fucking hell, what have I done?” Sirius groans, shaking his head and failing to suppress a laugh. “Put your insufferable face back in your book, for fuck's sake, and let me finish my letter.”
“I wasn't stopping you, was I? You're the one who felt the burning need to tell me how irreplaceable I am.”
“To Pembleton, I said, not to me. Personally, I'd shove you out the window without a second thought if I didn't need you for a foot warmer.”
James laughs, giving the foot in question a quick squeeze. “I'd like to see you try.”
Adopting a haughty, superior look, Sirius makes a point of turning his attention back to his letter. James watches him for a moment or two, wondering idly if Sirius plans to make a habit of wearing muggle clothes around the flat like this. Does he know how unreasonably distracting James finds it? It's worse than if he were naked; there's something dissonant about it that tugs at James' attention, something irresistibly compelling about the contradiction between what Sirius is trying to pass himself off as and what he actually is.
Sirius shoots him a would-be-surreptitious glance, and James drops his gaze back to his rulebook. Now is probably not the ideal moment for another conversation about Sirius' feelings vis-à-vis his staring habits, tempting as it is to push his luck. He makes himself focus on the page in front of him, repeating sentences until they actually stick. After a while, it becomes less forced, and the information starts to sink in without so much conscious effort. The sound of Sirius' quill scratching away is quite relaxing, and as long as James doesn't look at him for too long, it's actually easier to concentrate now that they're in the same room. Whenever he feels himself start to glaze over again, he takes a quick break to watch Sirius stretch, or bite his lip, or smile at some joke of his own devising, then starts again from the beginning of the paragraph.
It's a good system, and it sees him through several long, tedious sections of the rulebook before a change in the rhythm of Sirius' writing redirects his attention. There's a momentary hesitation, then a fierce, hurried rush, and a moment later, the scratchy flourish of a signature. Sirius folds the letter up and whistles, causing his savage little demon of an owl to burst out of some hidden corner and flap madly around James' head.
“Fuck off – ow! - fuck's sake! Control your fucking bird, you bastard!”
Sirius just laughs, like he always does, and murmurs approvingly to her when she settles on his wrist.
“Could you at least stop actively nurturing her desire to maim me?” James objects, trying to sort out the mess she's made of his hair. “It's your fault she's like this, you know.”
Sirius ignores him, attaching his letter and sending her on her way with a fond little caress, and instructions to bite Remus' ears off if he tries to send her back without a reply. Once she's out of sight, he leans back again, producing a pack of cigarettes from under a cushion and lighting one up. His eyes drift shut as he takes a drag, cheeks hollowed and lips parted, sending coils of smoke spiralling up towards the high ceiling.
“Buying your own, now?” James says. “Aren't you supposed to be a social smoker?”
Sirius tips his head back, exhaling, and gives a lazy, one-shouldered shrug.
“You're here, aren't you?”
“Yes, but I don't smoke, do I? If anything, you're being anti social.”
“You don't mind,” says Sirius complacently, tapping ash into a manky old cup.
James could argue - for all Sirius knows, he might very well mind his living space smelling like a fucking ashtray. It would be hard to muster much conviction, though, and really he'd rather just watch him, taking advantage of Sirius' closed eyes to admire the arc of his wrist and the way his fingers taper, and to stare at his mouth without interruption.
There's also the matter of that moment's hesitation to consider, and it's not hard to guess what might have caused it.
“You told him about Regulus, didn't you?”
The tendons in Sirius' foot twitch under his hand again, and his eyes screw themselves more tightly shut. James runs a finger up the high arch of his instep in a half-conscious attempt at reassurance.
“Hey,” he says, a little surprised at the gentleness in his own voice. “I'll drop it, if you want me to.”
Exhaling smoke with a soft, ragged sigh, Sirius opens his eyes.
“I know,” he says quietly, taking another deep drag. “It's alright. I thought... I don't know. He might have heard something. Fuck knows what he gets up to these days, but he must talk to someone. He might get the wrong idea, that's all. I don't want him thinking - well, you know what I mean.”
“What, that you want to protect your brother? No one's going to think less of you for not wanting to shout it from the rooftops, you know.”
Shaking his head sharply, Sirius stubs out his fag and lights up another.
“Not that.”
“What, then?”
“You know,” says Sirius, clipped and impatient, averting his gaze. “The rumour mill won't necessarily specify which Black heir, will it?”
“What? Come on, you can't think -”
“Why not? Most people forget I've even got a brother. I bet half our year thinks I'm the twat with a snake on his arm, by now.”
James feels like he's taken an elbow to the gut. It hadn't crossed his mind, not even once. Why would it? It's mental – no one would think that. They wouldn't fucking dare, because he would actually, literally kill anyone who so much as thought about thinking it. He wouldn't have to resort to that, though, because the idea of Sirius as a death eater is so self-evidently ludicrous that even fucking Snape would never entertain it for more than a second.
“That is hands down the most idiotic thing you've ever said,” he says, sounding angrier than he meant to. “Have you actually cracked? Do I need to call St Mungo's and have your fucking head examined for real this time?”
Scowling, Sirius tugs his foot out from under James' hand. “Ha fucking ha.”
“Listen to me.” James catches hold of one retreating ankle, digging his fingers in until Sirius meets his eyes. “Anyone who's so much as heard of you knows what side of this you're on, alright? It's never been a fucking question. And as for Remus – he wouldn't believe that of you if Merlin himself popped by to deliver the news, and he'd punch your stupid face in for thinking any different.”
He holds Sirius' gaze, trying to force his own certainty into Sirius' brain through sheer force of will. The expression on Sirius' face makes his chest tighten unpleasantly – he looks like he genuinely needed to hear that, like it doesn't just go without saying, the way it obviously should.
“He would not,” says Sirius thickly, blinking hard. “Moony is far too civilized to punch anyone.”
“Well, I'd punch you for him, then.”
“How very chivalrous.” Sirius clears his throat, and uses the excuse of re-lighting his half-smoked fag to look away again. “I'm sorry for not telling you, you know. About Regulus and everything.”
“Don't worry about it,” James says, rather taken aback. He can't remember the last unsolicited apology he got out of Sirius, and as put out as he was about it, he probably doesn't deserve one for that. “You'd have told me sooner or later. I shouldn't have had a go about it, really.”
“No, you were a complete arse about it, don't get me wrong, just – I did want to tell you. When I found out, the first thing I – well, it doesn't matter now, does it? I'm glad you worked it out, that's all.”
“When did you find out?”
“April,” says Sirius, somewhat reluctantly. “Remember the day you saw that weird crab?”
“That long?” James can't help but feel a bit outraged again. “Seriously, I thought maybe a month at the outside... wait, hang on, that was the week I moved in here, wasn't it? That's why you gave me those bloody mushrooms, because you think nightmarish hallucinations somehow help with heartbreak -”
“It did help,” Sirius interjects, offended. “It took your mind off Evans, didn't it? All you cared about for hours was that fucking crab.”
“Is that why you didn't tell me, then? Because of Lily?”
“Well, it was a bit hard to tell you anything while you were crying into her old scarf and insisting your life was over, yeah.”
Much as he'd like to object to that characterization, it's hard to dispute that he did quite a lot of both those things, and for quite a long time, too. He did plenty of other things, obviously, but he can concede that helping him plot to get her back, helping him implement those plots, and helping him stagger home at six am with puke on his shoes after they invariably failed, probably didn't make it any easier for Sirius to tell him anything.
“So you've been, what, waiting for me to get over it?”
Sirius looks vaguely uncomfortable, sucking in smoke with more force than is really necessary. “I suppose.”
It strikes James that there might be some grain of truth to the idea that he can be a bit of a self-centred twat, after all.
“Idiot,” he says, in lieu of an apology. “Anyway, I am now, so if there's anything else you need to get off your chest... ”
“What, seriously?”
The blatant scepticism in Sirius' voice is frankly rather insulting. What, does he expect James to spend his entire life pining for someone who won't have him, just because she's the loveliest, funniest, most brilliant girl ever to grace the planet?
“You don't have to say it like that. I am – well, as much as I'll ever be. I'm moving on.”
There are, after all, other kinds of human.
“Oh. Well. Good for you, mate.”
Sirius leans over to clap him on the shoulder, smiling in a way that shows too many of his teeth. To someone who didn't know him very well, he might conceivably pass for pleased.
“Yeah,” says James absently, distracted by this baffling descent into awkwardness. “The point is, my undivided attention is at your disposal if you do want to talk about it.”
“Thanks,” says Sirius, shoulders slumping as his unnatural smile fades away. “I don't, really. It's not like it's going to change anything, is it? I wish he had more sense – what else is there to say?”
James rubs a thumb over the sharp little spur of bone on Sirius' ankle.
“Alright, then. Offer's open, anyway.”
“Yeah.” Sirius spends a long time grinding out the end of his cigarette. “Have we really got nothing to drink?”
“Not a drop, I'm afraid. Unless you want to brave that sherry.”
Suddenly brisk and purposeful, Sirius shakes James' hold on his ankle with a needlessly violent kick and hops off the window-seat.
“This is a travesty,” he declares, tugging a pair of unmatched socks on and rummaging around for his boots. “We've disgraced my uncle's legacy – he'd never have stood for a barren drinks cabinet… ”
Less than thirty seconds later, he's giving James his best hurry the fuck up look, already restless and raring to go.
“Are you going to sit around swotting all night then, or are we going to get smashed?”
James shunts his glasses up his nose, and shoves the book off his lap. The smile on his face feels too wide, too openly charmed to be at all cool, but he can't find it in him to care.
“I thought you'd never ask,” he says, settling a hand between Sirius' shoulder-blades as they head for the door. “Bet you fifty galleons I beat you to the bar.”
“Fifty?” Sirius shoots him a scornful backward glance. “You could at least make it interesting.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Forfeit,” says Sirius promptly. “Winner's choice.”
Alright, that is more interesting. He feels suddenly charged and alert, that competitive spark lighting up his nervous system as he quickens his pace.
“Oh, yeah? You're on.”
He tries not to think too hard about blow jobs.
He lost the bet – that much, he remembers. He lost the next one, too, though only because Sirius is a low-down dirty cheat, and he's pretty sure that was what got them thrown out of the first pub. He knows he won after that, and he knows he didn't mention oral sex at all, even though Sirius clearly specified no limits, because he is a fucking gentleman, and a bastion of true chivalry in this degenerate modern age. He remembers some wannabe death eater taking issue with Sirius' trousers, a brawl that spilled out of the bar, dodging sloppy drunken jinxes as they ran through Knockturn Alley, and laughing so hard he was sick in a bin.
What he doesn't remember is how, or indeed why, he came to be in fucking Yorkshire, throwing pebbles at the darkened windows of Remus' horrible cottage.
“LUPIN!” Sirius bellows, hammering on the door yet again. “Let us in, you misbegotten bastard! If you don't open this bastard door in the next five seconds, I will shit all over your fucking bastard doorstep, I solemnly fucking swear -”
“I don't think he's in, Pads.”
“Where the fuck else would he be? Living la vida fucking loca with all his other friends? Of course he's fucking in – aren't you, Moony, you recalcitrant fuck!?”
“Don't be a dick,” James says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “And stop shouting at the house, you look like a bloody lunatic.”
“Don't you have a key or something?”
“No, I don't have a key. Why the fuck would I have a key?”
Sirius shrugs his hand off, and turns around to glare at him as if he's the one asking bloody stupid questions.
“You pay the rent, you moron. You're practically his landlord. What kind of laissez-faire landlord doesn't even have a fucking key?”
“I'm not his landlord, Sirius, for fuck's sake. Honestly, it's a good thing he's not here, if you're just going to act like a cunt all night.”
The hard, manic gleam in Sirius' eyes intensifies, and James knows that look well enough to pre-empt the violent outburst, pulling him in for a hug that's at least half restraint hold. He keeps him there while he struggles, secure in the knowledge that escape is the last thing Sirius actually wants, whispering hey and shh and easy now until he stops resisting.
“I'm not a fucking horse, you know.”
Sirius' belated objection comes out muffled and indistinct, every syllable a huff of damp heat against James' shoulder. His body is still humming with tension, pressed so close that James can feel his heartbeat through their clothes. Holding him is so unlike holding other people that James really does wonder sometimes if Sirius is something more than human - he feels more vividly present, more alive, than anyone else he's ever touched.
“James?”
“Mm?”
“You can, uh - you can let go now.”
He's only half listening, absorbed by the soft, coarse-silk texture of Sirius' hair under his hand. There's a kind of almost-sober clarity that always reasserts itself when something needs doing, but it's slipping away with every second he spends like this, all his thoughts dissolving until sensation and impulse are all that remain.
“James?”
He seems to be stroking Sirius' hair. It feels good, so he keeps doing it, burrowing his fingers into that warm, inviting softness, and smiling to himself when the blunt drag of his nails makes Sirius shiver.
“This is getting weird, James.”
It's not weird, it's really nice, and it's patently obvious that Sirius thinks so, too. Refraining from pushing the whole blow job angle is one thing, but he's damned if he's going to hold himself back from a bit of perfectly innocent, mutually enjoyable touching just because Sirius has arbitrarily decided it's “weird”. He murmurs another shh, and applies a little more pressure as his hand follows the curve of Sirius' skull down to the nape of his neck.
“Stop shushing me,” Sirius grumbles into his cloak, squirming half heartedly. “And stop... you know. Stop that.”
James smothers a laugh in his hair. “Stop what, exactly?”
“You know what.”
“Nope, no idea, I'm afraid. You'll have to spell it out for me.”
“Whatever it is you think you're doing to my fucking hair, alright?”
“Oh, that?” James says innocently, coiling a thick sheaf of hair around his hand. “Fair enough, if it bothers you. Would you prefer something like this?”
He gives a short, firm tug on the final syllable, and Sirius makes this low, needy little noise that goes straight to his cock. He does it again immediately, harder this time, forcing Sirius' head up and away from his shoulder, heat surging through him at the sight of Sirius' flushed cheeks and wild, hooded eyes. It's just so easy to do this to him - he gets so worked up over so little contact, and it's so fucking hot that James can't think straight. He kisses him, licking into his shocked, open mouth and sinking his teeth into the full curve of his slick lower lip. Sirius makes a cut off, desperate noise, and kisses back, fierce and eager and so intense that the world falls away. Their hips press closer, realigning, and James groans at the sudden, rough friction just where he needs it, the heat and hardness of Sirius' cock rubbing against his own through two layers of cloth. It's been so fucking long with nothing but his hand, and Sirius feels so fucking good, and then that lovely mouth rips itself away from his and a violent shove sends him staggering backwards.
Knocked off balance and reeling from the sudden, senseless loss of contact, it takes him a second to process what's happening. Drunk on want as much as whisky, he feels blurred and muddled and fucking bereft, and he can't quite get his head around the fact that he is actually, seriously expected to stop.
“Back off, James, I fucking swear -”
Sirius' hoarse, snarled warning stops him dead in his tracks. Fuck, he means it. It's bullshit, and it makes no sense, but he does, he really means it.
“Why?”
There's an almost whiny note to the sound of his own voice that sets his teeth on edge. He's James fucking Potter, not some pathetic loser who's going to start begging for sex, least of all from someone who should, by all rights, be begging him. However much he wants this, however much he feels like promising the moon on a stick if Sirius will only let him rub one off against his fucking leg, he knows that Sirius wants it even more.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
That's a bit more like it – less wretched, more righteously aggrieved.
“You weren't so fucking coy when you were sucking off that oversized freak last night – do I have to beat you up first, is that it? Do you need a fucking audience, or – arrrgh!!”
Pain snuffs his sight out as he slams into a tree trunk on his way to the ground. He lands hard, hitting the grass in a crumpled heap of throbbing limbs, incapable of anything but wheezing and clutching his ribs for what feels like fucking forever. Tiny worms of light are still wriggling around in his field of vision when Sirius appears above him, glaring down unrepentantly with his wand trained on James' throat.
“Fucking psycho,” James manages to grit out between painful, panting breaths. “You – fucking - ”
“Shut up,” Sirius spits, as contemptuous as if he were talking to Snape. “If you were anyone else I'd make you rip your own tongue out and feed it back to you piece by fucking piece. Speak to me like that one more fucking time and I'll do it anyway – I'm not so gone on you that I've got no limits, whatever you might think. You expect me to be so grateful that you haven't dropped me that I'll roll over and thank you for turning me into your new favourite joke? Ha ha, Sirius is a dirty cocksucking queer, what a brilliant laugh – didn't we cover this back at school?”
He feels like he's been thrown into another tree, staring like some mindless mute as Sirius spouts this hateful fucking garbage that insults them both so much that he's not sure he'll ever forgive him for it. He's too drunk for this – he can't make sense of anything, can't understand how all the brightness can go out of the world with so little warning.
“I thought you'd got it out of your system,” Sirius rants on, fraying more with every word, his hand shaking as he gestures with his wand. “I thought – you never had to see anything, you never had to think about it, I made sure, but that's not enough for you, is it? You've got to rub my fucking face in it, haven't you, because why not, right? What am I here for, if not to entertain you? I should be honoured, shouldn't I, to distract you from the midlife crisis you're having at fucking nineteen because for once in your life you actually lost something? So you push and you pry and you get the proof you've always wanted, a proper fucking punchline, at last, and now you know I'm beneath you, so why hold back? You're pissed and you want your ego stroking and I should be happy to – to fucking – to humiliate myself for you, I should be eager -”
Sirius' voice breaks, and he throws his head back, laughing in this awful, sobbing, unhinged way that James would do pretty much anything to never hear again.
He should speak. He's making it worse by not speaking – he would never normally let Sirius talk himself into this kind of state. He would never give a misunderstanding so vast and toxic so much room to breathe. He would never, ever let this happen, and still, somehow, it is. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out - the truth seems to rot away on his tongue until there's nothing substantial enough for sound to latch onto. Every niggle of doubt he's dismissed in the last few months comes home to roost with a vengeance, bombarding him with the broken bits of everything he thought he could count on. Hindsight hardens suspicion into crushing drunken certainty, and it hits him like the end of the world -
You don't trust me any more.
“Do you know what I think is funny?”
Shut up, thinks James desperately, shut up shut up shut up
“Even funnier than the fact that it's been so long since you got laid that dry humping your pet faggot seemed like a passable way to get off? No, what really cracks me up is -”
“That's enough!”
His voice is back, though it sounds like someone else's.
“One more fucking word – one more, and we're done, do you hear me?”
He's on his feet, and his wand is in his hand, and he doesn't know what he's doing.
“You fucking snake,” his mouth is saying, without checking in with his mind. “I should have known – your whole family is poison, after all, why should you be any different?”
It's just sound, just angry white noise, until Sirius' expression collapses and reality snaps brutally back into focus, and it becomes, in an instant, the worst thing he's ever said.
Oh fuck oh fuck I didn't mean it – you know I didn't mean it -
“You -”
Sirius chokes on the word, and then he's laughing again, and he looks like a stranger, a copy of himself that came out wrong.
“Sirius -”
James reaches for him, and his hands close on nothing, and Sirius is gone. |
Prompt: I love these two! Could I pretty please have a fic about Illya being horrified to discover that he gets turned on whenever Gaby speaks Russian, and then trying to hide the fact from Napoleon and her?
His throat constricts and suddenly it’s two degrees too hot when she leans over the edge of the table. Her fingers drum along the edge of the crystal clear glass, making ripples in the vodka as she clears her throat and tries again. Her voice is low and drenched in something sweeter than honey, stickier than medovik stuck to the roof of his mouth. Part of him is horrified as his body begins to betray him so easily at the thought of her whispering those words to him.
“Da?” Gaby plays with the tone of her voice, brows going high and then settling as she pulls the glass up to her lips and throws back the last two gulps of the drink. Clear liquid dribbles out of the corner of her lips and he has to fight back the urge to reach over and wipe it away with the pad of his calloused thumb. Her not-so-small pajamas hang from her tiny frame, gap in the front, giving him a view of endless skin – just enough to stain his cheeks pink. He shifts in his seat, back pressing impossibly tight against the stiff hotel chair.
Solo nods to Gaby from over the edge of his newspaper. How he managed to get the hotel to supply him the New York Times is a mystery to Illya, one he doesn’t care to solve as Napoleon folds down the edges of the paper; “Try again and this time, lower your voice a little. This will make sure Leskov will fall victim to your charms.”
The American sends her a wink and Illya fights off an absurd wave of anger. He has no reason to be angry, they’re on a mission and it’s Gaby’s job to play distraction to a multi-millionaire arms dealer who has an affinity for women with talented tongues and coy fingers. While she distracts, Illya will remain point and Solo will infiltrate, gathering up the evidence U.N.C.L.E. needs to make the international arrest.
Gaby drags her tongue over her bottom lip, cleaning up the spilled vodka as she revels in Napoleon’s words, settling back into the plush hotel couch and putting her bare feet up on the coffee table, toes wiggling and eyes bright. She’s had too much to drink. Illya can tell by the glassy sheen in her dark eyes and the flush crawling along the column of her throat. She pulls at the collar of her striped pajamas and clears her throat; “Vi gavareetye pa angleeskee?”
She draws her ‘e’s with an effortless ease, but ends up stumbling over the consonants like they’re jagged rocks, putting too much effort into her harsher consonants like she would in her own native language. German is close to Russian but they’re not identical and it’s obvious in the way she forms her statement that she is no native speaker but he can’t help but lose himself a little. She breathes out the last word over and over, asking if he speaks English. Something leaps in his chest and he wonders if the Cowboy can hear the sound of his heart pounding against his ribs in tempo with that of a war drum.
“Illya?” Gaby still has that low husky tone that sears his skin. His breathing shallows and suddenly the hotel suite feels too small. He tears his gaze away from her empty glass and catches the curious look on her face. Her head is tilted and all he can see is the sharp line of her jaw and the swallow that moves under her skin, dragging his gaze further down to the edge of those oversized pajamas.
His hands twitch and Napoleon’s newspaper rustles which snaps the spell that she’s drawn around him. Illya quickly moves a hand over and knocks over one of his chess pieces, giving off the illusion of hard concentration now broken by annoying teammates, “Yes?”
Napoleon regards him with a curious look. The American is smarter than he looks as his restless gaze flicks between Illya and Gaby, looking for the thread of tension being pulled between the two of them. His eyes land on the chessboard and then he smirks, which does nothing for the blush that’s now touching the tips of his ears. Illya bites back an angry growl as if to warn Napoleon to keep his silence.
“How did it sound?” She asks coyly through lowered lashes and he swears she’s using that tone just to taunt him. The soft accent of hers permeates the words and he is reduced to something less than an inferno, more like smoldering embers in the wake of her tone. He dares himself to picture something more than wrestling on the hotel floor. He imagines a hand on her throat, palm slipping down into the open neck of those pajamas and then the feel of her skin on his as she urges him on his native language.
The silence ticks through the hotel room and finally Illya pulls himself together, determined to keep his hot-blooded reactions to himself, “It was good.”
“Good?” Gaby repeats his words and plays with the glass in her hand, turning it back and forth to make the ice clink together, “Only good?”
“Peril, she has done remarkable, a little shaky but it adds to the charm of the chase.” Napoleon is there to soothe away the blow of criticism no doubt. Solo folds his newspaper and makes a show of stretching out his loose muscles, he’s long since ditched his tie and jacket, but now he claims the bed calls to him like a siren.
Gaby moves her feet down for Napoleon and he leaves them with his newspaper folded under his arm, humming lightly with a slow scuff to his walk, intentionally dragging his feet just to catch any bit of their conversation. Illya doesn’t give him the satisfaction. He waits until the door clicks tight and then a minute longer before dragging his gaze to the small mechanic who’s now fishing a piece of ice out of the glass and chomping on it. The sound of ice crunching fills the room and she lazily draws her legs back up onto the table in a very unlady-like way. Her toes wiggle and he tries not to think of his hand slipping up the gaping pant legs of those bottoms and palming the warm skin of her thigh as he gives her language lessons.
“Was it really only good?” Gaby asks and she’s no longer playing with that husky tone of hers. It’s a honest one now that makes him feel the tiniest bit of guilt welling up in his stomach. He lowers his gaze from her legs and she stands now, ice forgotten and edges around the table to him. Her fingers touch his cheek and he dares himself a glance upward. She is taller than him like this, but not by much. Even if he kneels she is still barely inches taller than him. His blue eyes lock with her dark ones and he falls victim to the endless depth they provide, leaning into her touch he shakes his head, careful not to spook her. He doesn’t want her to move her hand just yet. He wants to soak up this feeling just a moment more. This is the closest they’ve been since Istanbul and that was months ago.
Illya gives in, surrenders up the word with a sigh. “Better.”
“Better?” Gaby’s voice is a whisper now and all he can think about it, this must be how she sounds in the early hours of the morning with her cheek on his pillow and her snarled hair in his hands as he wakes her for the day. It hasn’t happened yet, but he dreams – and tonight will be no different as her fingers slowly pull away from his face and she brushes past him, leaving him to become nothing but ashes as she yawns quietly, “Good, then tomorrow I’ll do better until I’m best at it.”
He smiles at her stubborn desire to conquer the harsh language and then watches as she leaves him to rub at her eyes. The vodka is catching up to her. She slowly leans more to one side as she walks, brown pony tail swinging low against her shoulder. Gaby becomes victim to another yawn and Illya stays still and content – watching her slowly pad off and drag herself into her own room. She leaves the door open and he doesn’t know if it’s for the light of the common room or an invitation for him as he watches her flop into the covers and move around restlessly. She tangles herself up and he’s still debating on moving just as a soft Russian goodnight leaves her lips. Excitement thrums across his nerves and he’s left to suffer again as his thoughts run rampant and her snores fill the hotel room. |
Ignis could not see, but he could feel.
He could feel Noctis's face against his palm, the scratch of his beard that had grown in his time sleeping. Oh, Ignis could imagine what Noctis would look like; a younger, more handsome version of King Regis, no doubt, but with eyes bluer than the sky. Noctis, the smattering of freckles against his pale nose, a few lines touching at his eyes. Regal as a king, sitting upon his throne.
He felt the lips, chapped like they always were. How many nights had Ignis felt those lips against his, against his skin, against even his soul? He always wanted to put some balm on those lips, and would deny it to Noctis when he would ask that yes, he did like the roughness. Even when Noctis still held baby-fat still in his cheeks, Ignis had loved the feel of the smooth skin and his rough lips. Such juxtaposition.
Eyelashes. Why did Noctis have such long lashes? He knew that Noctis hated them; he said they were girlish more times that Ignis could count. But Ignis would lay in bed with Noctis's face pressed against his chest and each flutter would tell him a story.
His hair was longer, now. It was dirty and gritty, and Ignis could see it—falling limply over his eyes. Even when they were dirty, rolling around in the mud, Ignis could remember that errant little hair that always stuck up in the back. How many nights had Ignis tried to smooth it down to no avail?
God.
Noctis's dimples when he smiled. The way he would so rarely do, but Ignis knew each of them just as much as he knew the plains of Noctis's cheeks and the slope of his neck.
No pulse.
Noctis.
Ignis knew, he could smell it like hopelessness and despair.
He knew every sound Noctis made. He knew each hair. He knew the smell of Noctis's skin.
He did not need to see, nor feel, nor touch, nor smell to know.
Noctis could have been sleeping, so peacefully and gently—like their last day in the Citadel, where his Noct laid crumpled in bed sheets, morning bed hair and a stubble against his cheek. Ignis had that image burned into memory. Not even blindness could take it from him.
Ignis ran his hands down until it his cold metal, and he knew this sword. He had seen the sword a thousand times as a small child, then even more as a young man and then, with his blindness, learned to recognize the sound of it as it whirred through the air.
He did not bother to grab the pommel, instead reaching both hands around the blade and pulling. Ignis knew his hands, knew the false skin that had grown back now more times that he could imagine, yet he could still remember the first time.
The car.
Noctis.
The engagement.
Ignis could only laugh, tight and wet and hot like bile on the back of his tongue, as he pulled and pulled until he heard the blade pull through metal, bone, and flesh. He had to choke back as he felt the warmth of blood against his fingers, and he knew it wasn't just his.
He would have moved the heavens and Eos itself to have it just be his.
And yet, he could see like he was no longer blind, how Noctis's body came loose from the chair and pulled forward as the sword, his father's sword, his inheritance of the city of bone and death, came out with a sickening screech.
Ignis could not hold it.
It wasn't the pain, for he had been dealt his hand of cards and knew pain. Waking with no sight, listening to Noctis scream, feeling the weight of a prophecy bear down on his shoulders. He knew the feeling of poison in his veins, of blood curdling in his stomach. The feeling of bones smashing under his skin. Organs liquefying.
He felt pain.
But this was...
This was absence.
This was the cold hand of ten years yet without hope. This was a body without air, a body without a soul. This was fate, foretold and written in the stars without his acceptance, without his agreement.
Curse the stars.
This was Noctis's blood on his hands, staining the floor red. He could see. God, he could see it. Droplets of stark red against his cheeks. Those cheeks, once so warm and full of life, the slight hint of pink hidden away like a secret. He could see the blood on the diamond patterns and the red velvet that had been so entrancing as a young man.
He once wondered what Noctis would look like upon his throne.
This was not what he thought it would be like.
Ignis felt his legs give way, and he could not stand. Not even as he felt the sun against his face for the first time in ten years. He wanted to see the sun, had wanted it for so long...
Yet Noctis was not with him, holding his hand as he felt the sun rise.
No, Noctis was peacefully asleep on his throne.
Ignis reached up and felt the man's shirt, knowing it as the ceremonial garb he was presented with before they left for the wedding.
It was supposed to be what they wore at the wedding. Even a sham wedding for peace, Ignis remembered the curve of the black fabric against Noctis's body, the way it seemed to swallow Noctis whole, into a black abyss.
He looked handsome, so regal in his mind's eye.
Ignis laid his head against Noctis's lap, letting out a sound that crossed between snarl and scream, like a wild animal ripping off its own leg. He lurched forward as he felt Noctis's cheek fall to rest against his skull.
And he screamed, screamed until his voice was raw and he could taste the blood on his tongue and he could no longer deny the sun, the treacherous sun, against his his face.
Warmth and coldness.
Ignis allowed his hands to rest against Noctis's skin as he slowly reached up to cup the unresponsive face of the one he loved, the one he promised to live for. He had promised to live, had sworn an oath to his king.
He had sworn to protect Noctis, to never allow this to happen. He had promised.
He had failed.
Ignis let his hands slide through Noctis's hair, and he leaned forward to press a clumsy kiss against his dry, cold lips.
He pulled Noctis onto the floor, cradling his head against his chest as Ignis laid in their blood, the sword right next to him. His body was numb, and all Ignis could think of was the feeling of Noctis's weight against him. Years ago, before he had the strength to understand and comprehend his emotions, Ignis learned to hide his feelings within himself, in the little box of his secret desires and yearnings. He wished he still could reach into that empty abyss of nothing to hide himself like a boy running from the darkness.
Noctis taught him that feeling was wrong, that he could not hide himself. Noctis taught him how to live.
Their last night in camp... the meal he had cooked, Noct's favorite. The kiss that left both of them trembling. The feeling of their bodies against one another, like two pieces of a puzzle coming together, clicking into place.
He could only reach out with his hand to fumble for it.
Noctis weeping into his chest as the never-ending night continued on and on.
Ignis held the sword in his hand and pressed the blade to his throat. He knew how to cut it open for the quickest death, having hunted with Gladio so many times during that year where the light began to dwindle unknowingly. The sword was so sharp he wouldn't even have to pull hard, just a light yank, and then he could be with Noctis again.
"Ignis... would you live for him?"
Ignis choked back a sob as the words ran through his head. The King, his words. They had haunted him for those long ten years of silence, and yes... Ignis had lived for him. He lived when all hope was gone, when the entire world fell to hell, when the heavens itself snuffed out the light.
All hope was lost, the daemons ran free, and Ignis soldiered on. He fought, fought until he could do so without his sight, until he knew that when Noctis came back he would be able to stand by him, stand and do what was needed.
He had lived for Noctis, waited for 3,784 days of unending night for him.
And he failed him.
"Noctis, please forgive me."
There was no reply, and Ignis felt the blade against his throat.
"Ignis, would you live for him?"
"I... I don't know what you mean."
The never-ending night, the loneliness, the despair, the loss of his entire being.
He had given everything, and had lost everything.
Noctis's blood against his hands, his blade against his throat, the memory of his smiling face and his lips on Ignis's.
Noctis was to sit upon the throne and describe the sunrise to him. It was his last promise, his vow that last night of unending night. Those tender moments where Ignis could pretend, just for a moment, that it was the truth and that he did not know Noctis as the man he was. Noctis, the man who had grown from an angry, sullen boy into a king.
And in front of his destroyed throne of skull and bone and blood in this hall that reeked of death and lies, he could hear his promise repeated back.
Protect Noct. Continuance of the bloodline. A future worth protecting.
Here was his promise, and here was the blood on his hands, the ribbons of flesh showing what his promise was worth.
Nothing.
Ignis could only bring more death into a room already tainted with it.
A future—what future was there? The others would live on, the story of the boy king pinned to his throne like a butterfly would be spread far and wide, and what was left for Ignis?
His world was destined for unending night.
He would never see the sun again.
"Ignis, please... Put the sword down."
Gladio.
"Noct.. he wouldn't want you to do this..."
Prompto.
"Ignis, would you live for him?"
King Regis.
"Iggy… please say something."
A flash of a smile and dark hair, mischievous blue eyes dancing in the sliver of light.
Ignis pushed the sword away from his throat, letting it drop with a clatter near his head, and instead wrapped his arms around Noctis, pulling his body closer. He could remember the way Noctis would starfish to him, surrounded by their blankets in the cold Lucian winters. He would have done anything to go back to that moment, the hours before this nightmare began, to be able to hold Noctis in his arms.
The stars. Noctis was given to the stars.
How could their lives be chosen upon by fate? Who was Etro, who was she, to promise life in return for death? Who were the gods to demand payment in his innocent blood to break the prophecy of kings of yonder?
How dare the stars take him.
How dare they.
"Then I... I defy you, stars." Ignis could not hold back his scream of rage as he shook Noctis's corpse—his corpse.
His corpse.
"I... I defy you. I... I... def—"
He choked down another sob and when something touched his back he swung out and smashed his hand against it, hearing the high-pitched keen of something that wasn't human.
"Umbra!"
But Ignis couldn't care about a dead girl's beast, for Noctis was gone and with him the light.
Ignis lay there on the floor, the blood drying on his body, and he found himself pulling Noctis up until he could rest his forehead against Noctis's, like he had as they were children. Someone, Ignis was sure it was Prompto, kept talking but Ignis could not hear it. All he could do was touch each inch of skin on Noctis's face, memorizing each detail, etching out a sketch of Noctis with his fingertips. Unsure, scared, nervous Noctis. Imperfect and flawed, but never one to give up without a fight. A king.
His king.
"Noctis, do you remember the beach? When we were children? I taught you the stars, and you taught me of your hopes and dreams. We laid in the sand and I... we watched the constellations and the nebulas. I wished upon a shooting star. I fell in love with you. So foolish... Noctis, please wake up. The sun has risen. It's dawn."
But Noctis did not stir.
"Iggy, Iggy, please. I need to fix your hands. You're going blue..."
But Ignis did not let go.
"Ignis, would you live for him?"
"What kind of question is that? I failed him... I can't. I can't go on without him."
The stars were cruel, and he was their slave.
Just as Noctis was, just as Noctis always was.
"You raised him as a pig for slaughter. I protected him, I stood by his side, I never let go. I believed in hope, I believed in him. And this entire time... you watched him grow and you knew."
Betrayal. A king to his son, a sword through the spine.
"You made him into a martyr, you nailed him to his throne." Ignis spit his next words. "You made me promise to protect him... for naught. All for naught."
What was the point? Why give him the illusion of a future where there could be something like happiness when the gods would snatch it away?
"Please... please... Noctis, wake up." Ignis's voice was barely even a whisper, as he nuzzled his nose into Noctis's hair, smelling the singed hair and... it was gone.
Despite falling into the eternal sleep's clutches, despite the blood, the cloying sweetness of death was gone. The smell that clung to Noctis since he was a child, marked by the stars as their chosen sacrifice, was absent.
"Noctis... my Noct..."
His energy was spent and he could no longer fight against the feeling of something pulling him down into the vast, empty abyss. Something was at his back, gently nudging him.
The bloody dog would not let him die in peace.
He wanted to turn, but found he could not. Perhaps it was the wounds from the battles against the daemons. Perhaps it was death, coming to take him away without needing his own hand to do it.
He could be with Noctis, then.
"How heavy your crown has been, my king. I would have helped you carry the burden..."
"Ignis, would you live for him?"
"I did."
Had he not proved himself, over and over? Why was King Regis mocking him, how dare the man claim to be good, all the while he played to another master...
The stars could wither and die.
"Then Umbra, you know what must be done."
Ignis's head was fuzzy and the pulling at his back was becoming more and more pronounced, and there was something happening, like a fizzle of magic when Noctis's spell would get too close. He knew that this was when he was to move, to dance with Noctis as the man swung his sword. So in sync, ready to anything the world threw at them.
They were young and foolish, so stupidly in love and in pain that the entire world could have fallen around their ears. And it had...
The search for the Astrals, Noctis's ancestors and their Armigers, their countless nights under the stars, promising that life would continue on. Noctis, whispering of his future plans for the kingdom he would one day rule. He wanted to be loved, not feared. He wanted the people of Lucis to see him as a man willing to bend, never break.
Even after ten years of waiting, Ignis clung to that dream of a brighter tomorrow all the while knowing that one day Noctis would awaken and then they could fight back Ardyn, take back the light.
Regis and Lady Lunafreya... had they known since the beginning what would happen to Noctis? Certainly. They guided Noctis by the hand, foolishly pulling him into the darkness.
Something was hot and burning against his face and Ignis wanted to reach up to grab his eyes, but doing so would have meant letting go of Noctis. No, he wasn't ready. He couldn't do it.
But the burning intensified and it was now like Ifrit, only so much hotter. His blood, his body, his mind...
Pain.
Yet he continued to cling to his broken King, grabbing for the pieces as his body began to disintegrate between his fingers. Ignis scrambled for Noctis, reaching out into the chasm of nothingness, only feeling the brush of ash against his fingers.
Then the silence.
Noctis's body...
Noctis was gone.
Bright lights, like a fire burning, purifying.
Ignis screamed.
It was pain more lasting, more brutal, than anything Ignis had ever experienced. It was standing on a livewire with all his nerves pulled taut and thin, snapping like strings of thread.
And then, like the light from his eyes had been snuffed out as he watched Altissia drown...
He could see.
Ignis had spent ten years in the dark, only visited by color when he was tucked away in the furthest corner of his dreams. There, and only there, he could pretend things were normal and that the end of the world did not linger like ash around him.
Ash.
Noctis.
The colors were blurring together, too much for his eyes to take in after the never-ending darkness, yet he could see the gold embossed pattern climbing like a tree up the sides of the chair, the red velvet, the gray marble and the white outlines.
King Regis upon his throne, frowning down upon him.
And Ignis couldn't stand, because his knees were like water and his body felt like lead. His knees hit the marble with a jolt and the King's mouth pulled down into a frown.
"Then the Crystal has shown you... it has given you its warning."
But Ignis could not understand, because there was King Regis, the same way he had looked the last day Ignis had seen him, just before they had left. Regis, sitting upon the throne... the same throne Noctis had sat upon to accept his family's curse.
Ignis couldn't hold his body up to stare at the man, the mortal man, who had ended Noctis's life. He fell forward onto his hands, a mockery of a bow before a king.
"I am sorry, Ignis. Your pain, your burden... it is heavy. But the Crystal has shown you a path—an omen. I have lived through my own. Noctis... each time it is different, another path he may choose. I have prevented my own path from coming to fruition. It is now your turn, my boy... Ignis. This is now the cross you must bear."
Ignis scratched his nails against the marble and he could see it, the way his nails bent under the pressure, the white and pink of his skin, the reflection of his face in the polished stone. The distorted picture, the tears falling onto the gray stone with white trim, too big now for Noctis's foot to fit inside.
"Glaive, please leave us."
Ignis could hear the heavy doors shutter closed and he rested his head against the stone, feeling the coolness bring some kind of semblance to reality that was spinning in front of him.
"Wh—what is this?"
"The Crystal... it has imbued powers into its servants, allowing the chance to right wrongs, to change the Stars." Ignis closed his eyes, focusing on the words. After ten years of darkness, the light was too much for him to bear. "What you have seen... what you have lived... it is the path you would have followed."
"I failed him."
Regis said nothing for a moment. "Ignis, did he bring the dawn?"
Ignis let out a hoarse, strangled snarl of a laugh. "The dawn in exchange for his life."
"Then you know of the Providence... the revelation of Bahamut... the immortal Accursed."
"And you knew—you know who he is?" Ignis's head was pounding so loudly he could barely hear the King's response. He lifted his head to look at the King, at his frowning face. He could not bear to look for long, staring back down at the tops of his hands.
"A Caelum, disfigured by time and the Daemons. Yes, I know who he is, Ignis. I could see our blood in his veins the moment he entered this room. The Crystal... it remembers him well."
Ignis curled his fingers in and watched as his tendons popped under his skin. His hands felt strange.
"You knew... how long?"
"How long did I know of Noctis's fate as the King of Kings?"
Ignis did not want to hear the answer; how much of their life had been changed, warped, violated by the King and their prophecy?
"You perhaps do not remember, Ignis, but at the age of four Noctis came into contact with the Starscourge."
Ignis closed his eyes and rested his head against the marble.
Of course Ignis remembered.
The Plague of the Stars, attacking the Queen and the Crown Prince. Despite the Oracle's power, it had killed Queen Aulea in the end. She had died with a clear heart, the Daemon's magic soothed by the Oracle's prayer.
Noctis, Noctis had not stirred.
Ignis could not remember most of it clearly, as he was still quite young himself, but he did remember the panic of the Citadel and the pink light of the Crystal glowing brighter and brighter until it engulfed the building in its light.
"The Crystal cleared the Starscourge from him and he was left unharmed, or so we thought. However, it only became clear later that the Crystal… the Crystal had reached forward only because he was the King of Kings. It was always meant to be him, Ignis. There is nothing any could have done to take away his fate."
But Ignis did not care for fate, for the prophecy that was thrust upon him by the Stars. Noctis had suffered… Noctis had died.
"You killed him." Ignis tried to keep the whimper from his voice.
He knew it was unfair, knew that it had been Regis in spirit, but it did not change the fact that Regis's sword had pierced through Noctis, his Noctis.
Truth be told, he wanted his words to hurt. He wanted them to stab straight through the king, to leave him breathless and in agony. The King's crown upon his head was lead, but his sword… that was steel and blood and Noctis.
The King said nothing, and Ignis did not supply anything further, finding his head warped with pain. The light was too much.
"I was to send you to Altissia—"
"No."
Ignis almost expected a knife to descend upon his throat, but it did not. He had never spoken back to the King, never whispered a word or even breath against his king.
But this man, this mortal man…
This was not his King.
Not anymore.
Ignis opened his eyes, staring at the pool of his own tears before him, like a sacrifice on the altar of the gods. He slowly pushed himself up, enough to look at Regis.
He looked old. Not in the way that he had the last time Ignis saw the man, as Noctis said his farewells… today. It was supposed to be today. Now, there seemed to be something so much older, so aged and desperate. Regis looked like a man who had lost it all, and Ignis wanted to remind him that he had been the catalyst for Noctis's ascension.
"The history books… during his sleep, I found them. If given just a little more time… I was close." Noctis believed in the prophecy, believed it would be him and only him to end the scourge, and there had been little time left. The scientists knew the parasite was multiplying at an increasing rate in the final year, before Noctis returned. The rate of those touched with the Plague had multiplied exponentially in the end. They had been fighting not only the daemons, but an invisible monster…
And confident Noctis…
Deep in Ignis's heart, he had known Noctis would not return. He had listened to Noctis's sweet words of comfort and wanted so desperately to believe them, because without those words Ignis would have taken Noctis's hand and entered the Citadel with him.
He would have sat together with Noctis as the sword came to greet them, and they could have curled against one another to meet the dawn.
"Then you believe you can alter the fate of the Stars?"
Ignis pushed himself, slowly and steadily, to his feet. He did not break eye contact with the King until he was standing on both feet. All his years of training, of kneeling before the man, it was at this moment Ignis truly understood.
He turned his back.
"I shall."
Ignis had never forgotten the path from the Throne Room to Noctis's quarters. He could have been blind again, surrounded by the darkness in its vast nothing and Ignis would have been able to run there.
The two Kingsglaive waited outside of the room, joking. But Ignis did not have time to give them more than a quick, "Go," before pulling the door open and throwing himself inside, slamming the lock down hard enough to leave his hand stinging.
He was so close.
Ignis almost lost his resolve there, standing between the foyer of Noctis's room and the door, and he listened to Noctis's sweet, soft breaths.
It took a moment for Ignis to pull himself together, to swallow back his own whimpers as his feet guided him forward.
Noctis was there, twisted against the sheets, his arms wrapped around a pillow, legs spread across the bed. The sheen of sweat against his brow, the slight stubble on his cheeks, the way his lips parted and moved in time with each breath.
His chest, moving.
Heart, beating.
Ignis tried to take a step forward yet his feet would let him go no further. He was a newborn foal, his feet no longer able to carry him. Ignis caught himself on the corner of the nightstand, feeling the wood corner dig into his hand.
Noctis made a small sound, shifting in the bed, and the barely noticeable light from the curtain struck his face like a kiss.
Ignis stood silent with his knees broken below him as Noctis's eyes fluttered open, soft blue and glazed with sleep.
"Iggy—wuz wron?"
He wanted to respond, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and all he could feel was his heart seizing inside his body and every breath was a rush of air that left him feeling lightheaded and woozy.
The Crystal… no.
It was no imagination. It had happened, it was real.
Noctis's body breaking into ash, his heartbeat silent. Cold lips, harsh like a frozen tundra. The blood rushing over Ignis's hands—his hands. His blood and Noctis's. The blade biting against his flesh as he pulled the sword from the throne.
"He—hey, Ignis." Something about Noctis's voice was different, stronger and tinged with worry. Ignis watched him reach up and brush at his eyes, running his fingers across the hollows of his cheeks. "Whuzzit?"
And this was too much for Ignis. Noctis was awake, breathing and whole, and the only thing keeping Ignis from falling was his hand gripping the nightstand tight.
Noctis pulled himself out of the bed, not letting go of the sheet, instead swinging his feet over the side with it still wrapped around his lower half. His eyes were still blinking, so fast that Ignis had to look away.
"Iggy… please say something."
There were no words as Noctis reached out to grab Ignis with one arm, the other tightly wound around the sheet. Ignis found himself reaching out too, with both hands and weak knees.
Noctis was unable to keep them both upright and Ignis could not try.
Warmth. His body was warm, pink and fresh, clean and soft and so inherently Noctis that Ignis could not stop himself from clinging to Noctis's back, then shoulders, then to his face.
Soft cheeks, just a hint of baby fat. His harsh lips, the stubble on his chin, the small scar under his eye.
He could feel Noct, his Noct, and he was real and this was real, and there was the little hair that stuck up in the back no matter what he did to keep it down, and there was the curve of his nose, and he was a blind man again reaching in the dark and memorizing everything by touch but now there was color and contrast and the crease in Noctis's dimple as he frowned.
Ignis couldn't stop himself from leaning forward to kiss the dimple, then his nose, and those harsh, dry lips that Ignis wished he could drown in.
Noctis was panicking because Ignis realized only later that he was sobbing out Noctis's name like a prayer.
How long they say there on the floor, Ignis did not know. All he could do was cling to Noctis, to press their lips together, to trace his fingers against Noctis's face and stomach. There were no wounds. No sword. No trace of ash.
"Ignis, Iggy, what happened? Fuck, what happened to your hands?"
Ignis blinked through the haze of tears at Noctis, who grabbed both his wrists. He cradled them within his own palms.
He looked down to see the thick white scars, the braiding of his skin in a macabre warning straight down the lifeline of both his palms.
"An omen," Ignis whispered, voice breaking. "An omen of the Stars." |
Marcel was pacing the house as Craig holed himself up in the planning room trying to dig up as much information on the club he and Marcel had walked by the previous night. He stopped his nervous walk when Brock stood in front of him and crossed his arms. "Chill out. He's working as fast as he can."
"I know. I just . . . I know something's going on at that place. You didn't see that boy's face, Brock. The way he was looking around for help when they led him in. It is burned into my brain."
They stared at each other in a heavy silence that was broke when Jonathan walked in. He felt the tension in the room and paused, looking between the both of them. "What's going on?"
Marcel rubbed at his face for the billionth time and sighed, "I think there's something going on at Silhouette."
Jonathan dropped his things on the counter beside them and shrugged off his jacket. "That high-end VIP club downtown?"
"Yeah, the one you can't get into and the wait list is three years long." Marcel huffed.
"What do you think is going on there?" Delirious crossed his fit arms and before Marcel could get a word out, Craig burst out of the planning room with his hands in the air.
"I figured it out!" Mini took a deep breath before he spit it out. "Human trafficking."
Evan walked in through the front door and let it click shut behind him. He hadn't even heard the entire conversation but when he met Jonathan's eyes he knew it was something bad and something even worse was going to go down for them to stop it. That's how their lives worked; doing terrible things to make the bad things end. Fighting fire with fire.
"Okay." Evan locked the door behind him and pulled his phone out, sending a text to the rest of the crew in the house to meet. "Tell us what you know, Mini."
For hours Craig poured over all of the evidence he had found and collected. The more he showed them the worse the feeling Vanoss had in the pit of his stomach got. Human trafficking was no joke and this was the first occurrence they'd stumbled upon and they'd still be blind to it if it hadn't been for Marcel and Craig taking that detour past the club late last night.
Craig cleared his throat, "Here's some of the video surveillance I managed to pull from their system, which is protected with firewalls like I've never seen. This is top-notch shit. There's no telling how huge this ring is."
He played them clips from inside the club, the lights were dim and there were bodies dancing everywhere. Perfection on two legs in an endless twirl and spin. Strippers, dancing until they were dismissed and were replaced with a lineup of bare-skinned humans, young and scared. They were being auctioned off one by one, pulled away by their new owners by the leashes around their necks.
"Turn it off." Evan said, his voice hard.
Craig nodded and threw some photos on the table in front of them after he clicked the television off. Tyler glanced up at him, "Who are these guys?"
Brian ran his hands through his hair, "Soon to be dead men, I'm sure."
"This is the owner of the club." Craig pointed at a man who fit every description of a mobster and illegal businessman with is thick beard and mustache. "The other men are his dealers, runners, guards. He's heavily protected for obvious reasons and that entire building is guarded like a fortress. I've check the cities blueprints, the sewage lines, the roof. It's impenetrable."
Luke sat forward, "Unless we walk in the front door, is what you're saying?"
"Exactly." Mini nodded.
"How do we do that exactly? That place is VIP only with a wait list that could wrap around Earth." Lui crossed his arms and sat back beside Nogla who nodded in agreement.
Craig rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "Well . . . sometimes merchandise flows through a business more undetected than the consumers. If you get what I'm saying."
Evan tapped a finger against his leg. "We put someone on the inside."
The room fell even more silent than it had been. "There's no way any of us fit the description of his . . . slaves." Brock added quietly.
Craig nodded, "I know. But he's always recruiting entertainment."
"Strippers?" Brian's eyebrows inched up his forehead. "You want one of us to go in as a stripper?"
"It's literally the only way. And I've already tracked down where he recruits and what the preferred body type is." Craig stated. "Which isn't a woman, keep that in mind."
"So." Marcel said. "Who fits the bill?"
Everyone eyeballed each other in the room until Craig looked at his feet, twiddling his thumbs before he looked up at his boss and chewed at his lip. Vanoss huffed, "Mini!"
"Alright!" He shrank at the look Evan was giving him. "Delirious . . . Jonathan is the perfect fit. He has the build, the skin tone, tattoos but not too many. Piercings. He's perfect."
Jonathan had been silent ever since they entered the room and he was just as quiet sitting there absorbing the new information and what it meant. He looked at Craig with steady, calm, sharp blue eyes and gave him a nod. He could feel Evan on fire beside him.
"I'll do it."
"No."
"Evan, don't." Jonathan said, finality lacing his words. "Just tell me what I need to do."
Vanoss shifted in his seat, "If you go in there, we can't protect you."
"It's called undercover for a reason." Jonathan sat up straighter. "Besides, there's always Plan B."
Evan rolled his eyes and pushed himself to his feet before leaving the room.
Marcel looked at Delirious with furrowed brows, "I don't get it. What's Plan B?"
Tyler huffed a laugh, "Plan B is we storm the castle and take no hostages."
"Plan B is we kill everyone." Luke deadpanned and his boots thumped on the hardwood floor as he walked out onto the balcony to watch the sun set.
They had one month to prepare.
The first week consisted of Evan fuming and huffing and puffing and griping. The second week he finally grew up and did his duty as leader and got everyone in the city up to speed on what was going down. He pulled together every ally they had in the city which was seventy percent of the gang population in Los Santos. Security would not be a problem and if Plan A failed, Plan B was a sure fire guarantee to end the slave ring.
The third week, Craig cornered Delirious and gave him a serious once over. Jonathan was shirtless and he was a little worried when Mini's eye traveled lower. He slapped his hand away and took a step back when he went to touch him. "What the fuck are you doing?"
"Sorry." Craig straightened the glasses on his face. "I was just looking at your tattoos. Do you have anything gang related on you?"
"Um." Jonathan though hard about it and remembered the one that Murphy Ortiz had forced on him all those years ago. "Yeah, it wasn't my choice. But it's really small."
He lifted his arm up and showed him the small three letter tattoo just above his ribs on his side. Mini examined it and shook his head, "It'll have to go. If they notice anything gang related, they'll kill you on the spot. And I'm sure they have their resources that can trace back to Murphy's group and his signs."
"How do I get rid of it?"
Lui peered around the corner and snapped his finger, "I know a guy. He's pricey but he can tattoo over it and you'd never know the old one was there."
Evan walked past without looking at any of them with his phone in his hand, typing up something for somebody and he said, "Bring him in then. We'll pay him whatever he wants."
"You got it, Boss." Lui gave a lazy salute and pulled his phone out, disappearing into the next room.
Jonathan twiddled his thumbs for the rest of the morning while everyone else busied themselves with cleaning weapons or making calls or double checking that their vehicles weren't broken and missing vital pieces. Everyone was busy except for himself and he had nothing to do but wait for Lui's guy to knock on the door. Evan hadn't been communicating with him for the past few weeks and it was understandable but he was being such a child about this whole situation. They had about a week and half left until he planted himself inside of the club. After that happened, no one knew how long he would be on the inside. It was a touch and go kind of op and he knew he could handle it. But Evan was on the fence about it, giving him side glances and sleeping with his back to him as if that would make him change his mind. Jonathan figured Evan would be spending as much time with him as he possibly could before he disappeared for however long it took him to find a weak spot in the illegal operation or get close to the target.
He was lost in thought staring out at the city below from their perch on the mountain side when he heard the doorbell ring. He heard Lui hollering that he was coming, then he heard hellos and caught Evan's bulky figure slipping past his peripherals only to disappear into the kitchen like a shadow. His nerves clenched and he tried to stop the aggravation from building every time the man acted like a sulking child.
"Delirious!" Lui got his attention when he walked into the living room with a small tan guy behind him carrying a large black brief case in his hand. "This is the guy. He goes by Droidd, nothing else. So tell him what you need done and he'll fix you up."
Lui left them in a calm silence and he felt Evan's eyes on him from across the way when he pulled his shirt over his head and pointed to the tiny tattoo on his side. "Can you cover that up with something else?"
Droidd touched his fingers to it and stretched his skin. He tilted his head side to side and then nodded. "Easy fix. What do you want me to put on top of it? Anything in particular?"
Jonathan chewed at his lower lip and shrugged, "Do an owl."
He said it loud enough for Evan to hear and he laid himself out on the couch, Droidd pulling up a chair of the appropriate height and opening up his case full of ink and needles. "Mind if I play some music? It helps me freehand."
Jonathan shook his head, "Be my guest."
The guy pulled out a speaker and connected it to his phone and hit play, letting a smooth beat travel through the room and Jonathan let his eyes close. The buzzing of the needle was drowned out by the music and the sting faded away once Droidd found a steady motion and rhythm and it was over before he knew it. He heard the clicking of a case and the man was taping a protective bandage over the tattoo.
"You guys ever need anything else, give me a call. I don't just do tattoos, I'm a jack of all trades." He said and took the money that Evan offered him.
"Absolutely. I appreciate it." Evan gave him a curt nod and saw him to the door, locking it behind him.
He risked a glance back at Jonathan who was already walking his way and he caught himself turning towards him, drinking in the sight of his exposed skin. When he closed in on him, he ran his hand through Jonathan's hair that had grown considerably longer ever since Craig told him to stop cutting it, to let it grow a bit to better fit his role he was to play. Evan liked it and he hoped he would keep it that way when this was all said and done.
Jonathan looked at him and cocked his head to the side letting his hands settle on Evan's waist. "Are you done being a little bitch?"
"Excuse me?" Evan gave a small laugh of disbelief.
"You heard me." Jonathan stared him down and Evan was forced to look away like a dog in trouble. "Are you done avoiding me and pouting like a little kid who had his favourite toy taken away?"
Evan rolled his eyes. "I am not pouting and my toy is still right here, thank you very much."
Jonathan tried to hold back the grin that was pulling at his lips, "So, I'm your toy then huh?
"No." Evan reached up for his face. His smooth milky face and dry lips that were soft like the day was long. "You're not my toy, you're my everything."
"No." Luke walked past them into the living room. "You're disgusting."
Jonathan snorted on a laugh and Evan caught his neck between his teeth causing him to hum beneath his breath. "Come on, Delirious. I feel like playing with my toy."
"Shut up, bitch." Jonathan said in a heavy rush of breath with the man's lips still trailing over his skin.
Evan hoisted him up into his arms and carried him down the hall and into their room, hearing Marcel when he passed by them. "Yeah, you guys are fucking gross. Just get married already."
Just one week left and Jonathan was practicing diligently on how his hips moved, how they rolled and how to speed them up and slow them down and use them to his advantage. He was learning how to slide up and down a pole and it wasn't as degrading as he though it would be because the woman who was giving him lessons was a work of art the way she used every muscle she had to make her movement seamless, like she was gliding, floating. He was almost there. He already had the muscle, it was just getting the movements right and he had busted his ass ten times already, but she never gave up on. She kept him on his toes and he was grateful because it was just two days until showtime and he could now dance on a pole and on someone's lap like a fucking professional.
"Thank you, sweetheart. You saved my life."
She laughed and gave him a sweaty hug before he left her for good, throwing his duffle over his shoulder and jumping in the car with Marcel who drove them home. The house was quiet and dark and tomorrow was the start of Plan A and Jonathan could feel it sinking in and he was searching the house for his person. The person he needed to bury his face against and when he felt those arms, strong and gentle, pulling him out of the hallway and into their room, he almost broke down. He almost let his nerves get the best of him. But Evan was holding those walls up for him like he always did, easing his burden by taking him in his arms and making him forget why he was running through the house seeking him out in the dark in the first place.
"Shh. Come here." Evan whispered in his ear and pulled the shirt over his head. He kissed his body like he was worshiping it and he was as he slid the rest of the fabric from his limbs.
"Are you worried about this going to shit?"
Evan shook his head. "No."
Jonathan crawled into his lap, "Why not?"
"Because you're good at what you do. I know you'll get the job done." Evan kissed at his chest and ran his hands up his back.
"What if they try to take me?"
"They won't. You are the entertainment not the product and Mini said the man in charge doesn't allow his entertainment to be touched. You're only there to be observed for your beauty and finesse."
"And to eaves drop." Jonathan added quietly against Evan's ear, hieghtening his senses.
"You know where to go for the exchange of information?"
Jonathan nodded. "Yes, I know. When I go to my temporary apartment, I'll stop by the coffee shop on the corner and meet discreetly with whichever one of you is there. I'll keep an eye out for tails. We exchange info and I'll try to get close to the man up top. See if we can't take these bastards out at the root."
Evan fell back against the sheets, pulling Jonathan with him letting his hands roam over his hard body. "Sounds good . . . I love you."
Jonathan looked down at him, frowning at the seriousness in his voice. He touched his fingers to his face, their way of saying the things that didn't have words to convey their meaning. "I love you, too. I know you say you're not worried but deep down I know you are."
Evan wrapped himself around him, gripping him tight. "Always. But I trust you. I know you can take care of yourself. I just don't like being away from you."
"Neither do I." Jonathan let his body meld with his. "It'll be over before we know it."
"Chins up! Pants down!"
A burly man's voice reverberated throughout the empty strip club that was in a bad side of town that Jonathan didn't care for. It held bloody memories. He let his sweatpants fall to his ankles like the other men standing in a straight line beside him. There were only about fifteen of them, all looking to be hired on at Silhouette.
"You." The man pointed to him and with just one look he nodded. "Go get in the vehicle. Everyone else, dance."
Jonathan grinned and he'd have to remind himself to thank Mini for the suggestions for his appearance. Apparently he was perfect enough that he didn't even need to prove that he could dance. He pulled his pants up and pulled his shirt over his head, stepping off the stage and heading toward the light of the door where he was guided to a SUV that screamed 'money'. He waited for a few minutes before four more men joined him inside the vehicle. They gave each other nods and he noticed how much they resembled him. Tattoos here and there, piercings, long hair on top of their head but cut shorter on the sides. This man had very particular tastes and for some reason Jonathan found that unsettling. The closer they drove to the club the more anxious he became but he kept his cool. He stilled his beating heart as his feet lead him inside, the dim lights swallowing them all into a permanent atmosphere were music was a constant and endless dancers gliding like breath in the air. Filthy patrons eating them alive with their eyes were scattered about with champagne glasses glue to their hands. Jonathan felt the acid in his throat and he wanted nothing more than to have a gun on him, a knife even. He could do an outrageous amount of damage with just a blade. He shook the thought from his head because he'd just got here and he had to let himself settle in before he could even think of killing anyone.
They were shown to a dressing room where they were to go to when they came to the club every day. No detours, no communicating with anyone, just go get dressed and when the time came they went out and danced. It was a sick routine, but he could handle it. Every night he danced he let his eyes subtly scan through the dark crowd, looking for the face that Craig said was the boss, the head honcho, the slaver. But an entire week went by and he never laid eyes on him. The poles were cold against his skin but he never let it stop him and he felt like liquid gold the way the people were watching him. They stared like he was the richest diamond, the seven seas, and a world wonder rolled into one.
It was strange to be admired, to be stripped by such perverted eyes on a daily basis. It sent a chill to his core and he couldn't have been happier to go to his fake apartment that night. He said his goodbyes to his fellow dancers who he had grown to enjoy the company of, but he liked to get away from that sinful place as fast as he could. He caught a cab, always keeping an eye out for anyone following him, then he would walk the rest of the way so he could stop into the cafe every other day to make it seem like it was routine. Today was the day one of the guys were supposed to meet him and a huge part of him really wanted it to be Evan. But he knew it wouldn't be him. Evan couldn't risk exposing himself this soon.
"Who should go?" Tyler asked with his arms crossed as they sat around the table.
"I don't know." Craig shrugged. "We need to get into Delirious' apartment without raising suspicions so we can scan it for wire taps and cameras in case they're watching him. He doesn't have the equipment to find the ones he can't see. If he's found any at all."
"Okay, but who's going? And how the hell do we get into his apartment without it looking like a break in?" Brian drummed his hands on the table.
"Just go in with him." Evan stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Everyone glanced up at him confused.
"How? We can't just meet up with him and go back to his apartment. That is totally not suspicious." The sarcasm dripped from Marcel's tongue.
Evan sighed. "Under the right circumstances, it's not suspicious."
Marcel stared at him like he was talking riddles until it hit him and then his eyes widened. "Oh."
"Oh? Oh, what?" Brian asked and snapped his fingers when no one would answer him.
Marcel slapped his hand away and glared up at him before straightening his shirt. "What he's saying is that whoever goes needs to make it seem like . . . like they're going to spend the night with him. Do you get it now?"
"You want us to sleep with him?" Brian's brows inched up his forehead.
Evan rubbed his eyes. "No, you fucking Irish idiot. If you sleep with him I'll kill you. You can kiss him, but only to make it seem like you're going home with him. Go to the cafe, chat him up, let him know what's going on. He'll catch on, he's smart. He'll take you back and once you're in the apartment, use the device to check for bugs. If there's some in the room, keep the act up and exchange info discreetly. If not, then get what info he has to offer and leave the next morning."
Brian ran his hands through his hair. "Okay, so we're back to square one. Who goes? Brock? Lui?"
"No." Evan stood. "They don't look like his type."
Lui rolled his eyes, slightly offended. "Well, excuse us for not all being buff Asians."
Evan cut him a look and Lui ducked his head. "Brian. You'll go."
"What?!" Brian yelped. "Come on!"
Evan's jaw flexed and the tension in the room escalated. "Trust me, I would go myself if I could. And I swear to Christ if you -"
"Boss." Marcel interrupted him and everyone eyeballed him like he was crazy to cut him off. "I'll go. I don't have a problem kissing a guy. He's one of my best friends and I know he trusts me. Brian on the other hand would probably chicken out."
"It's true, Evan. I don't know if I'm up for it." Brian rubbed the back of his neck. "I'd do it but I don't want to risk compromising him."
Evan looked between the two men and nodded, "Fine. Marcel you go. Buzz your hair, wear a loose shirt, tight jeans, sneaks, and a leather jacket. Lui, get Droidd over here and put a temporary tattoo on Marcel's neck and pierce his ears."
Lui left the room and made a phone call and half an hour later the man showed up with needles in hand to place studs in Marcel's ears and he used a semi-permanent ink to paint a tribal looking tattoo just above his collar.
Evan stood back and looked him over. Now he looked the part of an attractive guy who might be into other dudes. "Alright, you look good. Now get down there."
"Yes, sir."
Jonathan didn't know what he was expecting as he sat alone in the corner of the dim relaxing light of the cafe while the rain came down, but it wasn't the man walking through the door. He wasn't expecting to see Marcel looking ravishing as he eyeballed him across the room while he placed an order. Jonathan watched the steam coming off of the surface of his coffee as he walked over. He looked around, noticing the lack of seats. Marcel gave him a wicked grin.
"Mind if I sit here?"
"Not at all." Jonathan cocked his head to the side and messed with the cup in his hand.
"Thank you." Marcel said sweetly and Jonathan knew what he was doing when he caught his brown eyes running over his face. It wasn't weird. It was an act. "I'm Marcus."
Jonathan shook his outstretched and brushed his hair back before glancing back up. "I'm Jay."
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
Marcel had always got along with Delirious. They were both quiet to an extent and they both liked to sit in silence. So more often than not you could find them sitting on the balcony reading books together and then gossiping about the plot and the characters. It was nice and they were great friends. So the fact that Jonathan knew what Marcel was trying to do without saying it flat out was proof of how well they communicated.
They sat in the quiet cafe while the rain came down and talked liked they would if they were two strangers interested in each other. When the rain finally let up and Jonathan was letting his finger barely touch Marcel's hand he looked up at him and smirked. "So, my place or yours?"
Marcel tilted his head, "My place is pretty far out."
Jonathan hummed and slid out of his seat and jerked his head toward the door. "I'm just around the corner. Come on."
Marcel slipped his fingers into Jonathan's and let him lead him down the wet sidewalk. He felt the hairs standing up on the back of his neck and Jonathan felt it too because he looked over at him and said, "There's a fly in my ear."
"Yeah." Marcel nodded. That was code for someone was following them and he could hear heavy foot steps behind them as they entered the building and took the stairs. When the door opened up again behind them as they ascended Jonathan let out a sudden laugh and shoved Marcel against the wall and he played along when he planted his lips firmly on his. Marcel took his face in his hands and kissed back until they reached the door to Jonathan's floor. They giggled and stumbled down the hall until they reached his door; apartment 141. Marcel pressed him against the frame while Jonathan fumbled with his keys on purpose while there were lips against his neck.
They burst into the apartment and slammed the door, breaking apart momentarily so Marcel could get his small detector out of his pocket. He turned it on and kept an eye on it as they fumbled around his apartment with their hands on each other. There was no sign of wires or planted bugs and when they reached the bedroom he shut it off and sighed.
"It's clear."
Jonathan shrugged out of his jacket and headed back into the living room where he turned the tv on and played gay porn. He turned the volume up just loud enough and peered out through the peep hole where their unwanted friend was passing by slowly, listening, before he said something into an ear piece and walked back the way he had come.
"Okay, now we're clear." Jonathan said and walked into the kitchen where he opened his fridge and pulled out two beers. He popped the tops on the edge of his counter and handed one to Marcel.
"Thanks. That was so weird." The younger man sighed.
"It wasn't too bad." Jonathan winked. "That's a good look for you by the way."
"This was all Evan's idea." Marcel laughed. "But yeah, I like the look, too."
Jonathan's tone dropped at the mention of his significant other. "How is he?"
"He's like you'd expect. Barking orders and walking around with a stick up his ass." He shrugged and took a swig of his drink.
Jonathan shook his head with a fond grin. "Yeah that sounds about right."
He took a seat across from him at the cramped table in the corner of the kitchen and thunder boomed above them. Cries of pleasure could still be heard in the living room but they ignored it.
"So, have you found out anything new?"
Jonathan peeled back the label on his drink and rubbed his eyes. "Nothing significant. They tell me what time to be there and what time to leave. It's never the same and I haven't seen Miko, the boss man, yet."
"Well, Mini wants you to know that he's been doing some digging and figured out when the auctions happen. They round up so many subjects as they can and on the last Friday of each month they call in potential buyers and the richest of the rich to sell them off to."
Jonathan swallowed the rest of his drink and got them both another one. "That's disgusting."
"I know. So if Miko shows his face, it'll probably be at the auction."
Jonathan nodded in thought, "So I've got two more weeks of sliding on a pole and shaking my ass before I see this guy."
"Maybe." Marcel shrugged. "He has favorites. Strippers I mean. He keeps one or two for a while and then changes them out. It's fucking perverted."
"Does he just watch them dance in private, or does he use them as whores?" Jonathan was growing more weary the more they talked about the man.
"No idea. That's all we've dug up so far. Just keep doing what you're doing and we'll let you know something next week." Marcel threw his empty bottles in the trash. "Where do you want me to sleep?"
"You can sleep in my bed. I'll probably be awake all night."
Marcel raised a brow. "Why?"
"I don't sleep good without him." Jonathan walked into the living room and cut the porn off before settling on the couch with a book. Marcel didn't ask who he didn't sleep well without because he knew who he meant and he felt bad for him. Delirious had problems well before he and Evan started their gang and he knew it took a while to get past it all. Evan was his safe haven and as much as Delirious didn't like to admit he needed him, he did. And they all knew Evan needed Delirious. Without him he was angry and stubborn. He wasn't the same.
So Marcel settled down next to him figuring he would like the company and the quiet and he was right. Jonathan smiled at him and handed him a new book and they sat up all night reading until they both passed out on the cushions.
The morning light woke Jonathan and he cooked them breakfast.
"That's another thing." Marcel said between bites.
"Hm?"
"Evan has been cooking like a fucking mad man. Like, he's cooked us breakfast, lunch, and dinner for the past week. It's crazy. I mean the food is amazing as usual but he's obviously trying to keep his mind off of you." Marcel grinned. "It's kind of sweet."
Jonathan smiled and looked at his hands thinking about how much longer it would be before he could touch that body again, feel his warmth and his existence. He missed him.
They finished eating and Marcel double checked the apartment again for wire taps before Jonathan handed him the book he'd been reading the previous night. He glanced out the peep hole just in time to see their unwanted friend walk by nonchalantly. Jonathan grinned. The guy was an idiot at his job and he really wouldn't mind it if he had to kill him off.
He unlocked the door and looked at his friend. "There's a fly in the hall, so give it a show."
Marcel gave him a nod and walked into the hall when Jonathan opened the door for him. He turned and caught his fair face in his hand. "Thank you for breakfast. I had fun last night."
Jonathan licked his lips and let his fingers pull at Marcel's loose shirt. "Me, too. We should do it again sometime."
"We should."
Jonathan smirked and pulled at his shirt until their lips met briefly. Then he pushed him away playfully.
Marcel laughed, "Call me?"
"I'll think about it."
"Well, think long and hard about it baby."
Jonathan rolled his eyes and went back into his apartment when Marcel took the stairs. The door clicked and he locked it, sinking immediately to the floor with his head in his hands. His chest was tight and he was tired. They never called him to the club until the sun started to sink lower in the sky. So he had the rest of the day to do nothing but get lost in his head. His mind always brought him down, made him hurt. He knew what he needed, but he couldn't have it.
He needed Evan.
"How was he?"
"He was fine. He had a tail, but he never got spooked or suspicious of us." Marcel set the book that Delirious had given him on the bar.
"Has he got any news?" Craig asked, trying to hide his anxiousness.
Marcel shook his head, "Nothing. Just that they call him when they want him. He has no strict schedule. That's pretty weird in itself. And I told him all about the auction, so he knows what to look out for."
"Okay. I'll keep digging." Craig turned and headed back into the planning room where he'd holed up for the past week searching for information.
Evan eyed Marcel and he couldn't stop the question from coming out again. "How was he?"
Marcel sat down on a stool and tapped his finger against the marble. He caught his boss' eye. "He misses you. He wouldn't say it but I know him and he was doing that thing where he gets quiet and lost in thought. You know, where he says something vague and wonders off for the rest of the night."
Evan nodded, "Yeah, I know."
"And he has nothing to keep his mind off of you, nothing but his books." Marcel leafed through the pages of the book in front of him and a small piece of paper slid out onto the counter. Evan reached for it and unfolded it. Marcel watched the smile spread across the man's face and he may or may not have seen his eyes water before he left Evan alone. He had watched Jonathan write it down and hide it in the book before he gave it to him that morning.
Evan.
I love you.
Miss you.
Really wanna kiss you.
-J
"You."
"Sir?" Jonathan stopped where he was on the stage and in the dim light he saw a tall burly man wave him over.
"Come with me."
He had an authoritative tone and he recognized him from the group of men that had recruited them almost three weeks back, now. The auction would be tonight if Mini's information was correct, which he didn't doubt. So, without question he followed the man down a long hallway that he'd never had the time to sneak around and see. At the end were two tall double doors that opened up into a lavish room that was disturbingly decorated with poles and pillows and the color purple. Jonathan didn't like it.
"Stay here." The man said and disappeared through the doors they'd come through, shutting them with a thunderous click. He felt the dread settle in his chest when a deep beat started to play in the room. He felt it reverberate in his rib cage and he knew it was Miko when the man stepped into the room from what Jonathan assumed was his washroom.
"Dance."
That was all he said and Jonathan didn't hesitate, he didn't stutter with his movements as he found a pole and danced and shed his clothes until he was in his assigned black briefs. Too tight for his liking but he didn't complain, no one did, or you were fired on the spot. He assumed you got fired, for all he knew they took you out back and shot you. He wouldn't put it past them. He made eye contact with the man and he could feel the hunger in his eyes and it made him sick to his stomach. But still, he danced and swayed his hips to the music, hoisting his body up the pole, spinning, gliding around in smooth circles that impressed even himself. It was fun, just not his current predicament. This man was filth and he couldn't wait to kill him, couldn't wait to watch the life leave his corrupt perverted eyes.
"You're beautiful." Miko said, his voice deep. The music faded and Jonathan slowed to a stop, standing there in the spotlight waiting for further instructions. Miko walked circles around him, examining him. "What do your tattoos mean?"
Jonathan didn't think, he simply said what he always believed. "They mean nothing, sir. It's art and art doesn't have to mean anything."
Miko gave a short laugh, chewing at the cigar in his mouth. "That is very true. Your body and the way you move is art in itself. But, I assume you already know that. I want you to dance in my exclusive lounge tonight until you are dismissed. I know men who would appreciate your beauty, men who would pay to see it again and again. You could make me a lot of money."
Jonathan watched him smile and he knew something wasn't right, but he would play along until he figured it out.
Meanwhile...
"How do I look?" Evan asked and he held his arms out and turned in a circle.
"Like a rich bastard with too much time on his hands." Tyler said plainly. "You look the part."
Evan messed with the thick rimmed glasses on his nose and straightened his suit. "Good. Let's go. The auction starts in an hour."
Evan, Brock, and Brian got into the SUV with Luke at the wheel. "Mini make sure they can see how much money I have in the bank. I need this to go as smoothly as possible. The richer I look the better chance I have of getting in to this guy's social club."
"Yes, sir." Craig said over the ear piece.
Luke turned in the seat as he backed them out of the driveway. "You sure it was a good idea to keep Jonathan out of the loop on this?"
"Yes, if he knew I was coming it could distract him. I can't risk that."
"So what exactly is the plan once you're inside?" Brian asked brushing his hair back and fixing his tie.
"I don't know. I'm gonna wing it." Evan adjusted his cuffs. "See what I can find out about how this operation works."
He could here music beating faintly in his ears.
Jonathan was being led to the upper floors that no one was allowed to visit under any circumstances. He'd seen very stingy looking rich men taking the elevator before, smirking and turning their nose up to anyone that looked at them. He was curious to know what was so special about this lounge of Miko's. The room was very dark, with dark blue recess lighting shining down on the small catwalk in the center of the room. There were poles everywhere, as usual, but at the end of the walk was a large rotating platform and he really didn't want to know what that was for. He sincerely hoped he never found it. He hoped they were all dead by then.
His fingers twitched when a man walked by with food and wine on a rolling cart and before he could stop himself he let his hand silently remove a small blade from a fruit tray. He had almost nothing to hide it with but he managed to tuck it into the band of his briefs, praying it didn't slide down and cut off anything important. He was led to a room in the back where there were other strippers waiting for orders. He gave them a nod and peered through the door as a few men at a time filtered into the room, wearing sharp suits and serious looks. Miko was with them and Jonathan knew that this was it. This was his opportunity to kill him, because with a blade he could do it silently. The dark would hide him and he'd be gone before anyone realized.
Brian opened the door for Evan and he stepped out, straightening his jacket and brushing his hair back. He adjusted his glasses that had an undetectable camera built in so Craig could record everything as evidence if they needed it. The men at the club doors checked his identification and invitation, patted him down, and scanned him with a small metal detector before letting him in. He was immediately overwhelmed by the sweet smell of champagne and something else he couldn't quite identify. I small squeaky fellow walked up to him and greeted him with a hand shake.
"Hello and welcome to Silhouette, Mr. Smith. Now, seeing as this is your first visit with us for an auction, Mr. Miko Valharrez would like you to join him upstairs in his private lounge for a special welcome. We reserve our finest products for auctioning above for guests of stature such as yourself. So, if you'll follow me I'll take you there now."
"Thank you." Evan gave him a curt nod and heard Tyler in his ear piece.
"That is so fucking wrong. They reserve their finest products. Their products probably don't even know they're products."
"Shut up, Tyler. Let him get up there first." Craig scolded. "And make sure Adam and the other gangs are in position around the club if shit hits the fan before he can get out."
"Yeah, I'm on it."
Evan's stomach dropped slightly like it did any time he rode in an elevator. He kept his hands in his pockets, fiddling with the hard plastic blade in his hand the guards had failed to find. They reached the top and he was led into a small dark lounge illuminated only by dark blue lights above the catwalk that stretched out in three different directions. Music was already thrumming in his ear and beating in his chest, two men dancing and sliding against poles as he was guided to a seat. Before he could get to it a man he recognized only from photographs grabbed him by the shoulder and smiled.
"Mr. Smith, it's good you could join us. The show has just begun. Please have a seat, you shall not be disappointed." Miko sat him down and left him there to watch the men on the walk do their act, which was very impressive to say the least.
(Listen to this as background music for this part: Majid Jordan - U)
The songs changed and he refused to drink his champagne as the people came and went. The man closest to him leaned over in his chair and said, "This your first time?"
"Yes." He said calmly.
"This is my third time. I never buy, I just like to watch. They're beautiful, yes?" The man said in a tone that Evan didn't like, he'd probably kill him first if it came down to it.
"Gorgeous. Why don't you buy? Are they too expensive for your taste?" Evan smirked over at him and the blonde pursed his lips and crossed his legs.
"Oh, no. Not expensive, I have one of my own already. Like I said, I come for the show." The accented man licked his lips and Evan almost gagged. "Miko always saves the best for last. Here he comes now."
Evan glanced back at the black curtains at the back of the cat walk and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand at full attention. His fingers gripped the arm rests beneath them and he though his teeth might break he was clenching his jaw so hard. Jonathan was barely visible in the dark blue lights but that was the point, so you could only see the shadows being cast off of his prominent features. It defined every muscle he had and made the thin layer of sweat on his skin glisten like fucking diamonds. Evan had never seen anything so beautiful in his life and he found himself sitting forward in his seat against his will. The anger swelled in his gut at the fact that Jonathan was Miko's finest product and was being sold like a dog, but he couldn't stop the lust he felt. The lust he always felt when he laid eyes on the man.
His blue eyes were like crystals in the dark and his body moved like liquid to the beat, slithering like silk around the pole in front of him. He owned it and he was proud, watching the way Jonathan completely took them all in his hands and made them speechless, their glasses clinking down onto their tables when the distraction became too much.
The blonde leaned over with a sick grin on his face and said, "This is my favorite part."
"What?"
"The part where they figure out they're being sold."
Evan cut his eyes over at him and decided that everyone in the room was going to die tonight, the blonde first. Miko's voice rang out over the music, Jonathan kept dancing, mesmerizing his audience and making them putty beneath his hands. "There is one other thing about art. It's expensive. We start out at the minimum, 1.5 million."
As soon as the words left his lips two men in suits stepped onto the walkway behind Jonathan who had stopped dancing and was looking around the room confused. But he relaxed once he realized what was happening. Evan knew that look well, it was the calm before the storm and he smirked behind his glasses, pulling the blade from his pocket and letting it rest in his palm. He heard Tyler and Mini in his ear telling everyone to be ready. They had an army outside waiting.
"2 million." A voice rang out.
"2.5."
"3."
The men pushed Jonathan onto the rotating platform and it spun him around slowly like he was jewelry on display and Evan couldn't wait to let the blood flow. He was waiting for the right moment. Jonathan spun and Evan locked eyes with his in the dark and held up all five of his fingers, Jonathan blinked twice in acknowledgment.
"4 million!"
"4.5"
Evan gripped the blade tight. Jonathan let his fingers slip into his waist band when his back was turned to the small audience once again.
"FIVE!"
Jonathan stuck the blade through one guard's throat before it went through the other one's eye. Evan felt the warm blood gushing across his hand as the blonde next to him choked around the knife in his throat. Evan made it quick and four more men were dead by his hand and he heard silenced bullets piercing the leftover men that tried to run. Jonathan had grabbed the dead guard's gun and he was off the stage with it pressed against Miko's sweating forehead.
"This piece of art isn't for sale." He pulled the trigger and Evan was secretly glad that it was dark because the man's brains were surely scattered so far that they went up the wall.
Evan grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the elevator, but Jonathan pulled him towards the stairs instead. "Trust me, this way."
They ran down the stairs as quickly as their feet would let them and burst into a dressing room once they reached the bottom floor. The men inside jumped and their eyes widened at the blood on them. Jonathan held up a hand, "Ricky, they're selling the strippers too, not just the kids they bring off the streets."
"What?" The dark hair man furrowed his brow with towel in his hand.
Jonathan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "Miko just tried to sell me off for five million dollars, Rick! Every one needs to get out, right fucking now before they realize they are all dead upstairs. Do you fucking understand?! Find all the dancers and get the fuck out the back way that I showed you. Now!"
The man, Ricky, didn't waste anymore time and everyone followed him out into the stairwell and disappeared.
"Boys, the entertainment is coming out of the back, don't fire." Evan said over his ear piece. "Everyone else is expendable as far as I'm concerned."
"Roger that!"
Evan and Jonathan tore their way through the lobby, picking off anyone who posed a threat or got in their way. The guards at the front door were already dead and Evan could see Luke waiting out front in the SUV. He escorted Delirious and got him in the back seat shutting the door behind him. He rolled the window down and Jonathan pulled him in for a quick kiss.
Evan nodded to Luke. "Take him home. We'll be right behind you."
He watched the vehicle speed away and the men from all across the city that were on his side filtered into the building, cleaning house behind them. There was no one left alive and they scattered when the cops were on their way. They left the evidence out for them to find out they were a slave trading front and let it go from there. The feds would clean the rest of the ring up, so Evan hopped in the car with Marcel and the others and they drove back up the mountain to their quiet home in the shade of the trees.
The rest of them were waiting up and he spotted Droidd sitting there with them. He appreciated the guy and he was good at what he did. Evan stuck his hand out and Droidd shook it, not minding the dried blood covering it. "You're welcome to stay. We could use the help."
The man nodded a quiet thanks and helped Evan out of his jacket that was too tight for his liking. He had broke the buttons off when the blood started spewing. He sighed and Marcel loosened his tie. They were all suspiciously quiet, but he was too exhausted to care and he let Tyler guide him down the hall to a hot shower that was already running for him. "Clean up, you're gross."
"Thanks." He flipped him off and shut the door.
The heat was like water in mid-July after a run, like fresh air.
"Hey." Luke got his attention as they drove off. "You okay?"
Jonathan shook his head and picked at the blood beneath his nails. "Maybe."
Luke knew what he meant and he didn't ask again. He went back to driving and let his friend stare out the window as the traffic went by.
Jonathan felt the reality of what just happened sink in and he felt the world settling on his shoulders again like it always did when he thought too hard about life and how the world worked. They'd just saved countless lives, but this was just one city, one slave ring. Just one. There were probably hundreds of thousands out there across the nation that no one knew about, that no one could stop. They were lucky to have found this one considering how long it went unnoticed in their own town that they thought they knew everything about. It was disturbing. They were only humans. Humans with limitations that could only do so much, whose influence could only reach so far. To have control over Los Santos was a feat in itself and they were giving everything to keep it that way. This was their life. His life.
And he'd almost been sold for five million dollars. He wanted to laughed. Of all the things he could've gotten into, gang wars was never something he dreamed of doing. But he was good at it and being with the crew made him realise that he was good at other things too. Anything anyone threw at him, he could master it and toss it back ten time better. He was the fucking backbone, the middle man and he was proud of that even if it chipped away at his sanity. Not that he was sane to begin with, but Evan balanced him out and took away the pain. He made him forget that life was pointless and reminded him that it could be whatever you wanted it to be. All you needed was a gun and a sidekick.
Jonathan walked past the guys, giving them a tired wave and heading straight for the shower. They didn't bother him and he was grateful. He needed to be alone until he couldn't stand it anymore, until he needed Evan to bring him back from the dark pits of his mind where his nightmares and bloody memories roamed free.
"Come on guys, let's leave for the night. Go stay at the hideout down by the docks with Adam and them." Marcel offered up and put his already packed back on his shoulder.
"Why?" Brian asked and sipped at his drink.
"One day you'll understand, but I know Delirious better than most of you. He just went through a lot of shit and he was away from the one person that keeps him calm and sane." Marcel stared the man down. "It's been too long since they've been with each other and Delirious needs a little time to get back to normal. He needs Evan to let him know that he's not a slave or someone's cattle to be sold and slaughtered or that the world isn't a complete shit hole that we're wasting our time in."
The room fell silent and one by one they scatter to their rooms, packing their bags for the night and loading up in their vehicles. They drove down to the docks where the boys greeted them with open arms, understanding the situation and offering them beds and food for as long as they needed.
(Listen to: Majid Jordan - A Place Like This)
The house was dead when Evan stepped into the hallway after he cut the shower off. The towel wrapped around his waist, water trailed down his back from his hair and he stepped across the hardwood into the living room. He stopped and listened, but the only sounds were the fan blades pushing air around the room.
"They left." Jonathan said from his dark corner by the open bay window. He watched the red and blue lights flashing within the city.
Evan let out a breath, relaxing, knowing that Jonathan was there. His quiet presence always keeping him warm and content, but he knew Jonathan needed to get his mind away from the blood and the empty apartment he inhabited for weeks. Evan knew he was drowning in his thoughts, so he didn't say a word, just walked to the shelf and pressed play on the stereo where an endless playlist was always poised and ready for dark nights such as this one. Nights where they both needed to stare out at the sky and let the music take them somewhere other than here.
He turned the volume up until neither of them could hear themselves think. The only light was the moon and it cast a grey-blue hue over the furniture and Jonathan's milky face as Evan pulled him to his feet. He let his scent fill his nose and their bodies shifted back and forth, barely moving, just slightly. Enough to set the chill bumps loose across their skin where they touched. Evan ran his fingers over his face, tracing his jaw, letting his eyes adjust to seeing his perfection once again.
His lips that were an unspeakable shade of pink, so deep he though at times he bit them himself. His skin so fair he almost didn't want to touch it for fear of ruining it, smudging his sins across it, tainting it with the blood that was always on his hands. His eyes that flooded his soul with something bright and warm and everything he couldn't describe. Like his favorite flavor, color, and smell combined. That was Jonathan. He was a puzzle that Evan had pieced back together but was frayed around the edges, slowly smoothing itself out the longer he opened himself up to him, the more he let Evan whittle down his insanity.
They didn't speak, instead let their heads rest against each other's while the bass thrummed in their chests, reminding them that their hearts were beating, feeling slightly offset by the rhythm of the music. Jonathan let the air flow through his lungs and felt the horrid images fade from his mind the longer Evan's hands held him there, running over his bare body. He closed his eyes and reveled in the feeling of him, the feeling of his overwhelming presence, his strong fingers that were as gentle as the breeze, that alpha demeanor that guided his lips to his own, that smell of sweet spice and earth that had him twisting his fingers in his hair.
Evan's lips were at his neck, being gentle, licking at the smooth expanse of skin that was filled with ink and art that had no meaning. It was a colorful representation of his mind and soul. The part he couldn't explain, the part that come out in drawings and littered the walls of their room with stunning images and colors until there wasn't a space left. Evan kissed at the colors, kissed every inch of flesh he could find as he pulled him to the couch and into his lap. Their tongues clashed in a slow wordless conversation that only they understood, until Jonathan couldn't breathe and Evan was laying him down and making him shake. He made him forget what his own name was, replacing any coherent though with touch and feeling and pure pleasure that crawled up his spine and slipped past his lips in the form of sounds so sweet Evan didn't want it to end.
He made it last for as long as their bodies allowed until they couldn't hold back the wave of absolute bliss that they'd only ever reached with each other. It was a blur as they walked to their bedroom and slipped beneath the sheets and down into a sleep they both desperately needed. They slept for days it felt like, waking up only to tuck their heads beneath the other's chin and fall back into a slumber that brought them both back to normal, back where they needed to be.
"Mm." Jonathan mumbled against Evan's chest.
"Mm?" Evan responded.
"M'hungry."
Evan laughed and it came out deep and rich. Jonathan looked up at him and smiled. "That was the prettiest thing I've ever heard."
"And you're the prettiest thing I've ever seen." Evan ducked his head for a kiss that started another heated battle of teeth and tongues and laughter could be heard echoing throughout the empty house as the sun flooded through the windows while wind rolled in.
The world outside woke up. Life went on about it's boring day.
But Evan had his guns and Jonathan had his sidekick and life was whatever they wanted it to be.
-w.a.l.k.
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Subsets and Splits
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