#its about sending a message

[bloodpen-to-paper]

The Bolas Code: Philza leaving most of Bad's stuff after looting but taking away the gas mask

[mech-tech-bec]

[wholesomesmith]

The issue with sitting in a pile of money is that if it's set on fire, it all goes up in smoke.

All it takes is some gas and a match.

[joffyworld]

Oh boy here I go resubbing again

real shame I gotta hide all that bone work, it turned out great.

Support me and get this for as little as a dollar, along with back content and other nsfw works.

[dukeofthomas]

I find the fact that the confrontation at the end of UTRH is often summarized as Jason asking Bruce to kill the Joker for him fascinating.

Because that's not what happened.

Jason holds a gun up to Joker's head, gives Bruce another, and tells him that if Bruce doesn't do something (shoot Jason), he will kill Joker.

Jason doesn't give the gun to Bruce so that he would shoot Joker. He isn't expecting Bruce to pull the trigger on the clown. He's asking Bruce to do nothing. To be inactive. Because that will still be a choice, and despite having done nothing, everybody clearly agrees that Bruce would still, at least in part, be responsible for Joker's death.

...And to me, this moment is a kind of- microcosm, of the rest of Jason's point. Because after being captured and carted off to Arkham, the villain will escape again, and will kill more people. The only way to truly prevent that from happening would be to kill them; Bruce refuses to do so, and I respect his right to choose such a thing for himself, but it is still a choice, and if we agree that Bruce's inaction during the confrontation would leave him at least partly responsible for the Joker's death, then we must also agree that his inaction in permanently preventing the Rogues from killing more people means he is also, partly, responsible for all of those deaths.

[bamsara]

Hey

is solar lunacy discontinued?

Nah I just stopped sharing the chapters publicly because people were being weirdly hostile about my update schedule, so rn the only people who's seen the updates is myself plus one other person. I'll prob continue to wait to share the writing tbh until I feel like its chilled out more

[richardsphere]

So there's a strange "defense" of Miraculous I've seen crop up on occasion. The idea that everything wrong about the Lovesquare powerdynamic is deliberate and will all be explored next season (lets put aside that this defense has been cropping up for 3 seasons now). The claim that Soon(TM), the writers are gonna make the characters face the concequences and explore the fallout of the entire jenga-tower of BS they've been "carefully" setting up all along... Which... isnt a defense I vibe with, cause it fundamentally boils down to "its not a Kids Rolemodel Show, its a deconstruction of a Kids Rolemodel Show". It's a defence that would place Marinette alongside Tyler Durden, Walter White and Rick Sanchez in the "you werent supposed to relate to them" pantheon. And while i think there are plenty of reasons that deconstruction is a usefull tool (even if i hate the dime-a-dozen "Childrens Fairytale but its depression" and "Superman, but psycho"' decon-stories out there). I'd argue 'Kids Rolemodel Show' is the one genre that should never be deconstructed, or at least not in the slow-burn,long-form way the people arguing this claim the show to be doing. And i hold that stance for one simple two-part reason: Poe's law, and the fact that the deconstructed genre is aimed at an audience with absolute zero media-literacy. (reminder: "5-6 year old kids" is the one audience where that is not an insult, simply a statement of fact.) A show aimed deconstructing a genre with an audience for whom it may actually be their first big piece of media is legitimately dangerous. Because there is no way a 5 year old can be expected to tell "deconstruction of a formulaic kids cartoon" from "Formulaic kids cartoon". The idea that "they've been making Marinette into a bad example deliberately and are going to reveal the entire show to have been a carefull ruse in season 6/7" is supposed to be a defense? Its frankly absurd. A 6 year kid who watched the show when it first aired and idolised Ladybug, could be old enough to drink by the time S6 reveals she was supposed to be a bad example. A little girl who based her relationships on the way Mari pursues romance would have a restraining order by the time the show indends to pull this twist. And some of y'all are claiming that "actually its a long-form deconstruction" is a defense? I legit don't get y'all.

[lowoliet]

ok look i understand the point that the "superman isn't woke you're just evil" posts are trying to make but superman also very much is woke. like. by definition it is woke. that's the point. it's not just saying 'be kind' it is deliberate political commentary

[skunkes]

does anyone else relate to dis btw. I keep thinking about it since someone posted it around the same time I was having this realization about myself

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

you are so whimsical i qant to check out this mdzs (..??) because of your whimsical nature thank you sorry im very high and your art moved me emotionally

This is simultaneously the sweetest and funniest thing someone has sent me, thank you.

[hermioneismyrealname]

But isn't nice when the smell of blood acts as a warning too? Like clear the room, the faint jingling would be heard eventually, but the smell to fear always hits first. Although it'd be a shame for no one to witness the brilliance of that dress. I want to know if it's arrow proof.

A Cocktail Dress Made Out of 2,652 Pennies

[dreamsy990]

some of the less nice thoughts about being aroace

extras below the cut

sketch

closeups on my favorite panels

bonus: adios

[yourhighness6]

It's funny to me when people insist that "ATLA was really feminist" as if there wasn't really only one feminist message which was the very generic "girls can fight too" spiel that every 2000s show had going on whenever they briefly tried to jump on the feminism bandwagon or whatever

[cliopadra]

Oh my god, I forgot tumblr had an inbox.

[penumbra-mayhem]

And All That Follows (ch. 2)

aka: Put Your Ear Up to My Wall, Mistake My Heart for A Drumbeat

David fights to keep everything quiet, Asher takes on a new role, and Milo finds Tank (for better or worse).

Ch. 1 // Ch. 3 // ao3 // 4.6k words

(TW: death, car accident, grief, implied/referenced self-harm, vomiting, gore/blood, violence)

EDIT: new title (formerly known as The Fall of an Alpha, but i hated that name so i chose a new one)

————————————————

Sept 3. 2017, 11:52 pm

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David’s phone started vibrating as soon as he pulled away from the morgue. He’d placed it in his backseat—a habit Gabe had instilled in him years ago so he’d never be tempted to text and drive.

He ignored the buzzing, willing the rain battering against his car to drown out the sound. It worked; his phone eventually went silent, and David’s full attention was brought back to the barely visible road he was traversing.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

Another call. He contemplated pulling over, but Gabe’s voice hummed in his head: Patience. Not everything needs an answer right away. He decided against it. Whoever was calling would realize he wasn’t available and leave a message. 

The call ended.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

It started again. And again. And again. And again. As soon as a call ended, another began. He could feel them in his skull, like the buzzing was coming from his brain. Like his head was a freshly shaken wasp nest.

The wasps traveled down into his gut, twisting and tightening his intestines. They kept traveling, moving to his extremities. His hands went numb. Then his feet. He couldn’t feel the steering wheel. Or the gas pedal. Or the brakes. His vision began to tunnel.

No. He didn’t have time for this. He had a job to do. He needed to focus. He needed to get back to his apartment safely. He needed to get the key. He needed to go to his dad’s house. He needed to get into his study. He needed to throw up.

David found himself pulled off on the side of the road, doubled over in the rain, emptying his stomach into a bush. How embarrassing, throwing up like a little kid. That’s enough, he thought to himself, get it together. He stood up straight, but the movement was too quick and he found himself doubled over again.

Everything in him burned as it came up. It stung. 

Retreating back to his car, David quickly checked his phone. Missed calls, voice messages, and texts from various pack members flooded his screen. Someone must have found out what happened. None of them seemed urgent—nor from Asher or Milo—so he put his phone on ‘do not disturb’ and returned it to its place in the back seat.

When he sat down behind the wheel, the wasps were gone. David started the car again and continued back home.

————————————————

Asher cradled his phone, rocking gently in an effort to appease his bawling body. He told himself he had until Milo texted with an update. Then he would pull himself together. His abdomen ached as wave after wave of mourning slammed into him.

He mourned for Gabe. The officer had said he’d died at the scene, but had it been instant? Had he suffered? Did he know he was dying? Did he try to move his legs only to realize he was paralyzed from the waist down? The neck down? Did he frantically gasp for breath as his lungs slowly, agonizingly filled with blood? Had he tried desperately to pry his arm from where it was pinned to reach his phone and call his son just one more time?

He mourned for his pack. Gabe was the founder. They’d never been without him. Would they survive? Would they break into dissension? Crumble apart without leadership? Asher had heard of the devastation past packs had gone through following the death of an alpha or a founder. Gabe had been both. And the pack didn’t even know he was gone. David had said he’d tell them tomorrow at the meeting, but was that the best way?

He mourned for David. David, whose family was already so small. Who already struggled to feel and show his emotions. Asher had seen the initial impacts of this loss. Cold. Detached. Devoid. Would David recover? Was this a wound he could ever heal from? Was he in pain? Asher assumed so, but if David was, he hadn’t shown it. Was he putting on a front, a wall he wouldn’t let anyone see behind? Or was he numb? Was that worrying David? Did he feel guilty he wasn’t feeling anything for his dad’s dea—

buzz buzz

Asher jumped at the vibration in his hands. He rose from the floor and stumbled over to the couch, wiping his face with his shirt. Milo had texted:

At Tank’s place, door was left open

Asher’s stomach dropped. His fingers were a messy flurry as he texted back:

shit

txt updts

or call

davids not bakc

He waited for a reply.

————————————————

Milo pulled into the parking lot of Tank’s apartment complex. He’d past the site of Gabe’s crash on the way, scanning for a glimpse of Tank or their bike. Thankfully, he’d found neither.

But he saw Gabe’s car, and that alone almost sent him into a spiral. No wonder Tank had sounded so wrecked; the driver’s side had crumpled like paper.

As he raced through the parking lot, Milo caught a glimpse of Tank’s motorcycle parked in a large puddle to his right. He’d been right; they’d come back here. Thank god.

Once at the entrance to Tank’s building, he pressed the buzzer for their door and waited. Nothing. He pressed it again. When he was met with the same result, he started pressing every button, hoping someone would let him in. Eventually the door unlocked, and he pushed through.

Milo bounded up the stairwell to Tank’s apartment, slipping and catching himself several times on the rain-slick steps. His throat tightened when he turned a corner and spotted their door at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.

As he walked towards it, he texted Asher:

At Tank’s place, door was left open

After a few moments, his phone buzzed with a series of replies:

shit

txt updts

or call

davids not bakc

When he reached their door, Milo pushed it open further and crept into the apartment. The curtains were all drawn and the lights were off, but Milo could slightly make out a series of objects on the floor. He felt around for a switch and flicked on a light.

All the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen were open and empty, silverware and broken dishes littering the floor of Tank’s tiny studio. Milo could practically track Tank’s movements, following the dents along the wall where they had hurled each cup and plate and fork and knife.

Then his eyes landed on blood—a piece of broken glass on the floor, glistening crimson along its sharp edge. Milo trailed the fat red drops to the closed bathroom door. The sight and faint smell of Tank’s blood made his head spin.

“Tank?” he called out.

A smear of blood glinted on the door handle. He gave two soft knocks. “Tank, please,” he tried again, “I know you’re in there.”

A wretched voice answered from the other side of the door, “Go away.”

He ignored them and tried the handle, grimacing at the slick feeling of fresh blood on his hand. Luckily, they’d left it unlocked.

Pushing the door open, Milo peered inside the dark bathroom. Tank was a huddled mass in the corner of their shower, head buried in their arms.

“I said go away, Miles!” they shouted, raising their head just enough to glare at him over their arms, eyes glinting with fury.

Milo flinched but didn’t leave. Crouching down, he spoke in as calm of a tone as he could muster, “Where’re you hurt, Tank?”

“Get. Out.”

“I’m not gonna do that,” Milo replied, “Can I turn on the light?”

“No,” they snapped.

“Okay." Milo took out his phone and turned on his flashlight instead. He tried to ignore the trail of blood leading to Tank as he opened up their mirror cabinet, then the one under their sink.

“What’re you doing?”

“Looking for your first aid kit.”

“I don’t have a first aid kit,” they sneered.

Milo shined his light at Tank, who shrunk against it, burying their head again in their arms. They were soaking wet from the rain and shaking terribly. He cast the light away from them.

“Just leave!” they moaned.

“No. You’re injured, and since you have nothing to treat it with, I’m taking you back to Ash and David’s,” he retorted.

A snarl gurgled up from deep in Tank’s chest as Milo approached.

“You can growl at me all you want, I don’t give a damn.”

The snarl grew louder the closer he got. But once he kneeled down in front of them, it began to change, breaking up and losing its bite.

“I know,” he whispered, tears welling in his eyes as Tank began to cry, “I know, Tank.”

He placed a tentative hand on their arm. They trembled under his touch, but didn’t pull away. 

“Just come with me, please. You don’t have to talk about it. You can be as angry as you want. I don’t care. I just want to make sure you’re safe,” Milo said as he set his phone down, flashlight to the floor.

“I-I am,” they lied, their sobs warping their words. 

“You’re bleeding from somewhere, I saw the blood in the kitchen and in here. So no, you’re not,” Milo countered. 

“…it’s n-n-not b-bad,” Tank lied again. 

“Can I see?”

Tank hesitated, then raised their head. Milo couldn’t make much out. He flipped his phone around, so the light pointed up at the ceiling.

He choked down a gasp at the sight of Tank’s face. The gash just under their left eye was deep, blood still pumping out slowly, drenching their cheek and dripping down their neck. It was in their hair, on their clothes, on their hands.

“Not that bad, my ass,” Milo muttered, “Tank, this needs a healer.”

“No. No healers,” they choked out, tears leaving trails in their blood.

Milo knew accepting any sort of medical help was difficult for Tank. They never talked about it, but he assumed there was some sort of trauma or pride or fear stopping them. He was trying to be understanding, he really was, but it was all too much. It was late, he was spent, Tank was bleeding, and Gabe was dead.

“Fine,” Milo spat, “You either go back to Ash and David’s and let me sew it up, cause it’s going to need stitches, or I stay here and call a damn healer. Your fucking choice.”

That shut them up. Their sobs subsided and they glared with all the fury left in their trembling body before muttering, “Okay. I’ll go with you.”

————————————————

At the sound of the front door opening, Asher sprang up and raced to the hall. "Tank?"

David stood in the doorway, rainwater dripping like tears from his lashes. He looked as stoic as before, but now a sickly tinge covered his features. 

"David," Asher breathed, "Was it...was it him?"

"Yes," he muttered, walking inside and shutting the door, "What happened?"

"What d'you mean?"

"You thought I was Tank." David stopped in front of him. 

"I just uh...hoped..."

“What happened?” David repeated, his voice low and tense. He didn’t have the time nor energy for hesitation. His stare bored into Asher, demanding an answer.

"T-Tank saw Gabe's car," Asher spluttered. David's eyes widened. "They called Milo when they saw it. He had to tell them what happened, he—we couldn’t lie to them. Milo went to their place. He texted me when he got there but he hasn’t updated since.”

Of course. Of course they couldn’t have just waited to tell anyone until David got back. Or until tomorrow, like he told them. David pulled out his phone, turning off ‘do not disturb’. There were more missed calls and texts, but none from Milo or Tank. He pulled up Milo’s contact and called him. 

“Hello?” Milo’s voice oozed with trepidation. 

David’s was dry and sharp. “Is Tank ok?”

“…yes. We’re heading to my car now, we’ll meet you back at your place.”

“Are they hurt?”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David started getting another call. He ignored it. 

“Um…” David could tell Milo was choosing his words carefully, but for David’s sake or Tank’s he didn’t know. “Yes, but it’ll be ok.”

David gripped his phone tighter, but kept his rising worry out of his tone. He needed to stay level, anything less would just be detrimental to everyone’s safety.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Take them to a healer.”

David heard Asher mutter ‘fuck’ behind him. There was a long pause on Milo’s end, filled only with the sound of rain and Milo’s breathing as he walked. 

“Milo.”

Finally, he replied, “We’ll be at your place soon.” And with that, Milo hung up.

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

The buzzing in David’s head started again, echoing those from his phone. He stuffed his phone back into his pocket as he stormed past a bewildered Asher and into his bedroom. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“David? David, what did Milo say? Is Tank ok?” Asher called out as he followed, making the wasps in David’s head angrier. He watched David tear through the drawers of his desk, searching for what, Asher didn’t know. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

Asher called his name several more times before David seemed to hear him. He whipped his head around.

“Is Tank hurt?”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Yes,” David replied before continuing his search, “But Milo says it’s fine, so I’m hoping it’s not too bad. They won’t go to a healer, no surprise there, so they’re coming back here.”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… 

“Who is calling you?”

David finally found what he was looking for; he pulled out the key and clipped it onto his key ring. “The pack. Someone must have found out. Maybe the wreck was on the news or someone saw it like Tank did. They’ve been calling since I left the morgue.”

David pushed past Asher again and started heading towards the front door. He fought back the wasps in his head. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… 

“Are you going to answer?” Asher asked as he followed. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“No.”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Why not?”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

He opened the front door. “I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… “At the pack meeting.”

“David they can’t wait that long,” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… “They already know. Or they’ve at least heard rumors. You need to talk to them.”

“Well, I don’t have the time!” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz… “I’ve got to get to my dad’s house and figure all this shit out,” David growled. The wasps were winning; he was starting to lose focus. He turned to leave. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“Then let me do it.”

David paused. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

“What?” he asked over his shoulder. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

Asher’s voice took on an edge David had never heard from him before, “Let me go with you and answer the calls,” buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…“I’ll still be near, so you can get to your phone if you need to. But this way, you won’t be distracted, and the pack won’t be left in the dark all night.”

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David wanted to say no. Having Asher near right now felt like a liability. But he was right. buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…The pack already knew, and keeping them in the dark was only going to incite panic. That and David needed the buzzing to stop, both from his phone and his head. 

buzz buzz buzz…buzz buzz buzz…

David unlocked his phone and handed it to Asher. 

————————————————

“Hey, can you see who just texted me?” Milo asked, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. 

Tank wiped their hands as well as they could on their jeans before picking up Milo’s phone. 

goin w david 2 gabes

key undr mat

b back l8r

“It’s Ash,” they reported, “He’s going to Gabe’s place with David? He said the key is under the mat and they’ll be back later.”

“Why’re they—nevermind. Can you text him back and let him know we’re almost to his place and also ask if David has a suturing kit? Password’s 0209.”

Almost to ur place, u got a suture kit?

tank???

The one and only, how’d u know?

u txt dif

y do u hav milos phone

He’s driving

oh rite

r u ok

Im fine, suture kit?

david says in bthrm

Gotcha

y do u need it

Dont worry bout it

————————————————

“…yeah Kelsey, it’s true…I know…we don’t know that yet…yes, tomorrow morning at 11…okay…hey, you text me if you need anything…okay…okay, I’ll see you tomorrow, try and get some rest…I will…bye K.” 

Asher ended the call and trotted after David, who was already unlocking Gabe’s front door. He rubbed his eyes in the brief moment of silence before David’s phone started buzzing again. 

“Hey, Mika…yeah, it was a car crash…”

David was stuck in the doorway. The foyer loomed before him, both nauseatingly familiar and eerily alien. His childhood home was now as much a husk as his father was. It made the wasps in David’s stomach writhe. 

Asher was staring at him, David could feel it. So, he took a step inside. Then another. And another. It almost felt like trespassing. 

There was a David who used to live here. Who at seven years old had learned the virtue of honesty when he admitted to breaking the kitchen window. Whose first loose tooth was yanked out by a string attached to the front door. Who used to visit every week after he moved out. Who mended the roof and repainted the baseboards. Who spent countless hours listening to his father’s stories by the fireplace.  

That was not this David, the David treading across the floorboards like a thief. 

He reached his father’s study and unlocked it with the key he’d retrieved earlier. Asher ended his call and said, “I’ll be in the living room. Let me know if you need anything.”

David nodded and walked into the study, closing the door behind him. 

It smelled like him: rosemary, leather, and something distinctly Gabe. The scent should’ve been comforting, but it just stirred the wasps up, making him lightheaded as they whirled.

David switched on the desk lamp. Everything was just as he remembered:

Books lined the walls, organized alphabetically by last name. Stacks of paper sat neatly on the outskirts of the desk’s surface, leaving the middle open for work. A lumpy mug David had made in high school held a collection of pens and pencils. 

David walked around the desk. Three picture frames adorned the polished oak. The first held a pack photo from the previous year’s Solstice. The second held a candid of David’s mother, sticking her tongue out at the camera as she ran through a yard sprinkler. The third held a picture of Gabe and David on their most recent camping trip, their faces wild and beaming. 

On the back of Gabe’s chair hung his jacket. David felt the black leather—soft with use and dedicated upkeep. 

The wasps were stinging his eyes; David pressed his fingers into them, seeing sparks as he crushed the bugs behind his eyelids. He collapsed into the seat and focused on his breathing, forcing the wasps in his chest to move in an orderly fashion. Not here. Not yet. He had a job to do. 

David opened the largest drawer of the desk and began to gather what he needed. 

————————————————

"Shit, Tank, this looks really bad.”

Milo sat back on his heels; the cold of the tile seeped through his pants and into his skin. Tank stayed still in their position on the bathroom floor as Milo leaned in again, holding the needle tight in his hand.

After a moment, he leaned back again, exclaiming, "Fuck, I don't know how to sew stitches! I mean, my mom taught me to sew but skin is so fucking different than fabric. It moves and bleeds and-and, for fuck's sake, it's your face, can we please get a healer?"

Tank scowled but didn't reply, biting the inside of their cheek to keep from snapping.

"Alright, fine. Okay. But I'm gonna have to go slow. I don't know what I'm doing and, again, this is your face," Milo warned them.

"Just let me do it, then," Tank muttered. 

He dismissed the offer, "No, you've got your shaky hand."

"I can use the other."

"No, cause that's not your dominant hand. You've got to do this with your dominant hand, and that's your shaky hand. You're gonna scar real bad if you—”

"I don't care about scars."

"You'll care about this one."

"I have other scars on my face, I really don't care."

"You'll care about this one."

Tank looked away, the weight of the night and how they got there in the first place pulling them back down into silence. Seeing he’d won, for now, Milo breathed deep and tilted Tank’s head up slightly with one hand. He held the needle close to their cheek, whispering, "Okay. I'm gonna start."

Tank winced as the needle pierced their skin, and Milo almost called the whole thing off. But he kept going, and they quickly stopped wincing.

Milo was laser focused, doing his best to keep the stitches small and tidy. But when he was about halfway done, a tear rolled down into the gash, stirring Milo from his concentrated state. He used a gentle thumb to brush away the tears on Tank's cheeks.

"I'm not crying cause it hurts," Tank whispered, "It doesn't hurt."

"I know," Milo murmured, "...almost done."

Despite the circumstances, a sort of morbid satisfaction stirred in Milo at the sight of the bloody rift closing under his hand. It felt good, felt right, to be pulling something back together when everything was falling apart. 

When he finished the last stitch, Milo placed a large bandaid over the gash. Tank stared down at their hands while Milo put away the suturing kit. 

As he began scrubbing the dried blood off his hands in the sink, Tank explained:

“I didn’t mean to do this, you know.”

Milo stayed quiet, giving Tank the space to talk more if they wanted. But the silence just made them feel more pressured to defend themself.

“Well, I did mean to throw that glass, I just, I didn’t mean for it to throw itself back at me,” they clarified.”

“Okay,” Milo said. His tone came out of his mouth light, but fell heavy on Tank’s ears. 

“I wasn’t trying to draw attention to myself,” Tank asserted, their anxiety rising.

“Okay,” Milo repeated. The discussion didn’t need to go any further. He didn’t even know why it was happening in the first place. 

Tank blinked tears from their eyes. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t purposely pull everyone’s attention from Gabe.”

Milo turned around and leaned against the sink, trying to defuse them, “I believe you, Tank. I know you. You would’ve let yourself bleed out in that shower before ever coming to me or anyone else for help. Especially tonight.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Of course it’s a bad thing, Tank!” Milo threw his hands up, gripping tightly onto his braids.

“How is that a bad thing?!?”

“Because you can’t—I just—ugh, I can’t have this conversation right now. I need…I don’t know what I need, but it’s not any more of this,” Milo shot. 

Tank’s face twitched from the blow. They staggered to their feet. “Fine. Then I’ll leave.”

“What? Tank, no—”

“You stitched me up. Thanks. Now I’m leaving.” They threw open the bathroom door. 

Milo followed them down the hall, grumbling, “Tank, you don’t even have a ride.”

“I’ll walk.”

He rolled his eyes. They were being ridiculous.  “That’ll take you forever, especially in this weather.”

Tank whipped around, hissing, “I don’t give a fuck. You don’t need me here, you said it yourself.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Well it sure did fucking sound like it.”

They stormed towards the door, but Milo slipped in front of them and blocked their path. 

“I just meant I don’t need to talk about that anymore!” he exclaimed, gesturing to Tank’s cheek, “We can talk about Gabe. We can talk about how we feel. We can talk about the future and the pack and what this all means going forward. Or we could not talk at all! But I don’t want to talk about shit that’s already happened. I don’t want to talk about shit that didn’t even happen in the first place. That’s not productive.”

“I don’t care about being productive,” they spat. 

“But you care about David, right? If you won’t stay for yourself or for me, stay for him.”

“He’s not even here.”

“But he’ll be back. And you know how he gets; he’s going to need us.”

“He doesn’t need me.”

“Yes, he does,” he groaned. 

Milo’s phone began to vibrate. 

Tank cried out, “No, he doesn’t! He doesn’t need my mess on top of everything else going on.”

As Milo dug his phone out of his pocket, Tank shoved past him and raced out the front door. 

Milo’s heart stuttered at the name on his screen. He rushed to the open door, yelling into the storm, “Tank, stop! Tank, please come back! Tank!”

Tears welling in his eyes, he leaned his weight against the door frame and answered the call. 

“Mom?….yeah, it’s true. Gabe’s dead.”

Wails erupted through his phone, scraping Milo hollow. 

————————————————

David found everything in under ten minutes—unsurprisingly, given how organized Gabe was and how pressed David was to leave. 

When he’d gathered the last of what he needed, he locked the study and walked into the living room. Asher was pacing, on another call of what seemed an endless barrage. He glanced at David and was summoned by a jerk of the latter’s head. 

The two left the house and drove back home, Asher answering calls and texts the whole way back. When they reentered their apartment, they heard Milo’s voice trickling down the hallway:

“Yeah, I know…no, but I’m sure we’ll find out more tomorrow…Oh, David and Ash are back. I’m gonna talk to them and then head over…no the rain has died down, I’ll be fine…yeah…okay, I will, I promise…okay, see you soon…I love you too, ma.”

He looked up at David and Asher. 

“Is Tank okay?” Asher asked. 

“Huh?” Milo replied in a daze. 

“They had to get stitches?”

“Oh right…um, yeah they fell on their way to their apartment after they saw the crash. The rain made their stairwell slippery and they busted their face open. But I stitched them up, best I could,” Milo lied. 

Asher nodded before getting another call. He answered, walking away into the kitchen. 

“Where are they now?” David asked, clutching a  handful of manila folders, a briefcase, and a familiar jacket. 

“They uh,” Milo looked away, “They left.”

The buzzing picked back up in David’s head. “Left?”

“…we got into a fight.”

David breathed out slowly, muttering under his breath, “Tank.”

“No, no, it’s my fault! I was distracted, I wasn’t careful with my words, I wasn’t listening to them. They left, I don’t know where, and I was gonna chase after them but then my mom called and…” Milo wiped the back of his hand across his face. 

The sight of Milo’s tear-streaked cheeks turned the hum in David’s head into a cacophony. 

“I think I’m gonna stay at hers tonight,” Milo croaked as he gathered his things, “She’s really upset.”

“Of course,” David replied, internally cursing that he couldn’t bring himself to say more. 

“I um, I’ll be at the meeting tomorrow. I’ll text Ash for the details,” Milo babbled. He stopped by the front door. “David. If you need anything, you text me. Or call me. You hear?”

“I hear,” David lied, the buzzing in his head drowning everything out.

[borealing]

i was going a little off about how well the squid game 2 narrative is put together as an act 2 of your classic act 1: establish, act 2: deconstruct, act 3: destroy (either the system or the players) dystopia narrative (in this case the act is a season but e.g. in the hunger games it was books) but unfortunately i was with my parents and cheering when thanos got chin stabbed and to defend (?) myself i said "i promise im not enjoying this as much as it seems like i am. im actually enjoying it more"