#vaguely disappointed u left out link's earring though :^)

[randomoranges]

tonight i went on my evening walk with my mom and ran into a student and her family. she lives on the street behind mine. it was a pleasant chat but as we went our seperate ways, i made the comment about how strange it was and how can u imagine if id been wearing some shirt with a curse word or something

and it made me think. about the teacher persona and how the line btwn teacher and private life are often blurred together. what would a reaction be if it was Something Even Bigger - what if i was kissing a SO of the same gender - what if i was wearing such and such clothing - doing this - at this place - existing in a context that is other than teacher?

the incidents mentioned are real. stories that have been on the news. teachers whove posted bits of their real lives that then lost jobs, despite never doing anything wrong on the job.

the colleague bit is also true. it happened at the school i work at a few yrs ago. 

anyways.

thoughts and such

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

 It’s a perfect night out for a walk and so, after dinner, they put their shoes back on and head out, taking advantage of it being Friday night and not too brain dead. There’s a gentle breeze announcing the upcoming end of summer and the first soft tendrils of autumn and it’s nice – a good break from the oppressive heat of a few weeks ago.

 Étienne, as always, links their arms together and chatters away as they walk. Edward is happy to listen and offers insight when needed.

 They’re halfway through their walk when they hear a loud “M Édouard?!” and Étienne let’s go of Edward’s arm on instinct.

 A few steps later, it turns out that the voice belongs to one of Edward’s students and she’s out walking with her parents, the family dog and her sister.

 The girl is excited to see her teacher not at school and then nearly does a double take when she realises that M Étienne is also out walking with M Édouard.

 There’s polite chitchat that goes around – general comments from the kids, pleasantries from the parents and all the while, both Étienne and Edward put on pleasant smiles while one recurring thought runs through their head. Are they still safe?

 They hadn’t been doing anything untoward, but even if the girls hadn’t noticed anything, surely the parents must have seen that they’d been walking together with their arms linked.

 Étienne hates that he’s bothered by it, while Edward wonders if this is going to turn into a thing.

 “Do you live nearby?” The mother asks and the question is open enough that they can save face if they want to.

 But do they?

 There’s nothing criminal to what they’d been doing. An evening walk just like this family. They had lives outside of work and what they did after school shouldn’t matter to anyone. Yet, for some reason, Étienne and Edward both feel as though they’d been caught red handed committing some heinous crime and the feeling is nauseating.

 “Other side of the bridge, that ways about,” Edward motions with his hand and his student exclaims that her house is that way as well, because of course it would.

 As it turns out, they live on the street right behind them and Étienne marvels at how they’ve never run into each other before.

 The sister asks where he lives and Étienne laughs, thankful for the innocence of children. Because, obviously, two men walking together at night would not be living together.

 He’s relieved.

 He’s also a little saddened.

 Disappointed, really.

 Étienne gives as vague as an answer as possible and satisfied, the girls chatter excitedly amongst themselves, while the adults wrap up the conversation and then leave, wishing each other a lovely weekend.

 Once they resume their walk, Étienne can’t find it in him to link their arms together and Edward takes an extra step to the side. They walk, silent, lost in their own thoughts, and it’s only once they’ve crossed on the other side of the overpass that they glance in each other’s direction.

 They share a look that seems to ask if any of what had happened was real, and finally, Étienne cracks first, a desperate chuckle escaping. Edward joins soon after, a full on nervous laugh and soon, both of them are wheezing at the absurdity of the situation.

 It is both a coping mechanism and unwinding, but when they finally catch their breath again and resume their walk, it feels less loaded. Edward steps back close and Étienne lets their hands brush together, until he wraps a finger around Edward’s own.

 “Perhaps we should move. Change names. Jobs. Leave the country.” Étienne offers, only a little serious.

 “I’m honestly surprised it took this long for us to run into a student.”

 They look at each other again and fall silent, contemplating the situation.

 “Do you think the parents know? Or the girls? – Do you think this will get out?” Étienne voices the questions that had been burning both their minds and the fears that come with it. It’s one thing mentioning in the school agenda that discrimination won’t be tolerate against religion, skin colour and sexual orientation, but it’s another to put it in practice towards staff. There’s a million and one different ways to make it look like they’re being canned for something different, if the school wants to.

 “I don’t know. I honestly don’t know and I don’t know what would be worse. God – and we weren’t even doing anything bad.”

 That’s the problem with teaching. There is no such thing as a “private life.” They’ve heard the stories. One “bad” photo on social media and a career finished. One bad day that leads to dismissal. They’re lucky they have elementary students, but still.

 Edward remembers the horror fiasco that had happened a few years ago to a colleague of his. An innocent video that had been cut and changed look as though his colleague was saying hate messages. It had blown out of proportion. Parents had been frightened. The police was called. Interventions were made. The man left the school, on his own terms, deciding it would be best for him and the school. Even though he was innocent. Even though his words had been taken out of context. Even though he’d done nothing wrong.

 Would this happen to them?

 It’s a sobering thought.

 Yet, Edward isn’t ashamed of who he is. Neither is Étienne. They are proud of who they are. They believe people should be allowed to be themselves.

 Then why is it that they feel such fear?

 “I guess we won’t know until Monday,” Étienne says, trying to be reassuring, “We’ll play it by ear and hope for the best. As you said, we weren’t doing anything wrong.”

 “Yeah – you’re right...” He falls quiet for another moment and then lets out a frustrated puff of air, followed by a short laugh, “At least we weren’t in a strip club,” He says, trying to be light.

 “What?”

 “When I was doing my internship. One of the teacher’s at the school, he told us of this anecdote. He’d gone to a friend’s stag party at a strip club. And one of the stripers was a student of his – I forget if she was a current or former student. He was mortified, but she recognised him and went right over, calling out to him as if there was nothing wrong. I mean – there’s nothing wrong with working in a club, but the relationship dynamic makes it a little awkward. Or – I would feel awkward. I wish I had her level of confidence though – not be afraid that a student seeing us together might cause a minor scandal and our jobs,” He adds as an afterthought.

 Étienne reaches for his hand again, gives it a squeeze and then links their arms together. Edward sags against him and is happy when they turn on their street, close to home, where it’s safe.

 “We’ll be fine – whatever happens, we’ll be fine.”

 Edward wants to believe him and hopes Étienne will be right.

 --

 It’s a different evening, days and weeks and months and maybe even years later. Different yet similar. Another late September evening with a gentle breeze and the promise of autumn to come. It’s night time by the time they go out for their evening walk and it’s a little chilly – a perfect excuse for Étienne to link their arm with Edward, as they’re often known to do.

 They chatter away, about one thing and the next, and Edward is happy to listen and provide feedback when needed.

 They’re halfway through the walk, when they hear a shout of “M Édouard?!” and approach the voice, Étienne never letting go of Edward’s arm.

 It’s a student from Edward’s class, who is surprised to find his teacher out for a walk and not in a school setting. He’s with his own family; parents, an older sibling and the family dog. The kid does a near double take when he notices Étienne and can’t seem to wrap his head around the fact that he’s run into two of his teachers outside of school, even if he thinks it’s cool.

 The adults exchange polite conversation and eventually the older sibling asks if they live close by. This time, Edward does not shy away from his answer and says that yes, they both have their place not far from here, on the other side of the overpass.

 Both student and sibling seem amazed, remarking on how they live literally a block away from there. Étienne laughs, commenting on the smallness of the world, and telling them to come by their street at Halloween, to get candy – at the house with the haunted garage.

 The kids’ faces light up, eager and excited, and the older sibling knows where the house is – having gone a few years back and how cool it had been. Amused, the adults wrap up their conversation, and after wishing each other a pleasant weekend, both groups head their own way.

 FIN

[mithranqueersmusings]

I Think I'll Love You Too III

Chapter: 3/?

Rating: U

Summary: George and Ringo have been going out officially for a couple of months. Ringo anticipated that dating a stripper would be complicated, but he didn't understand exactly how complicated it would be.

Tags: Modern AU, Established Relationship

Pairing: George Harrison/Ringo Starr (Background McLennon)

AO3 link here / Fic masterlist here

Ringo hadn't been back to The Helter Skelter since he and George had started dating, much to the disappointment of John who had been begging constantly. However there cane a point where George began to grow suspicious, evidently he was worried that his relationship history was beginning to repeat itself. Not that he expressed any of these concerns to Ringo, instead he dropped passive aggressive hints and made vague comments which unfortunately reminded Ringo of the potential downsides to dating. Once the clues had been deciphered, Ringo vowed to return to the club the following night which seemed to please both John and George.

"You're not gonna get jealous are you?" George had asked while getting ready for his shift "Because if you are, just don't come."

Ringo certainly wasn't enjoying the harsher side of George but he understood the defensive tactic well "Of course not." He sat behind George who was doing his makeup in the mirror and wrapped his arms around his waist "What have I got to be jealous about?"

"I'm just saying..." George leaned in to the touch "You might think you won't get jealous, but when you see me rubbing my arse on some ugly bloke you might flip."

"George." Ringo said sternly "Stop worrying, please. I'll be just fine."

"Hmm, if you're sure." George sounded distracted as he coated his eyelashes in mascara.

Ringo had headed back home when George had left for work, he saw no use in hanging around the club so early in the evening. He caught up on some much needed sleep, his body was still rather exhausted. When night fell, John was excitedly knocking on Ringo's door. Awakening feeling groggy and disoriented Ringo shuffled over to open it. John burst in immediately, swinging the door so violently that Ringo had to jump backwards to avoid being hit.

"Jesus!" Ringo scolded "Could've taken my nose off."

"I'd be doing you a favour." John joked with a grin, collapsing onto Ringo's sofa "You got anything to drink?"

"Nice to see you too." Ringo scoffed, closing the door.

The two of them shared a few cold beers before heading out to the club, blasting the radio as they drove through the night. John was eager to see Paul, even though they'd spent the last few nights together, it was refreshing for Ringo to see his best friend so happy.

Ringo had forgotten how loud the music had been, the vibrations rattling in his ears as they made their way past the bouncer and into the warmth of the club. It was relatively packed, unsurprisingly for a Saturday night, but luckily their usual seats at the bar were free. John didn't even have to order a drink, as soon as he sat down he was being served without a word. Ringo supposed it would be an impressive sight if they weren't in a strip club, the thought passed his mind that John had paid the bartender prior just to make him look cool.

Ringo didn't recognise the dancer on stage, they had short platinum blonde hair and intricate tattoos dotted across their skin. Neither of them paid much attention, far more invested in their own conversation. Eventually they were shooed away from the bar to make room for other customers, so they sat at the back of the rows of chair and continued their nonsensical discussion as best they could.

"Ey up." John's tone changed as he nodded his head towards the stage "Someone's got their eye on you."

Ringo didn't register the words entirely at first, both his thoughts and visions gradually  blurring as he drank more and more. John nudged Ringo to direct his attention, the dancer was making their way through the throng of customers who were eagerly waving money in the air. Gradually they maneuverered over to Ringo and John, swinging their hips with their eyes glued to Ringo.

"Shit." Ringo breathed with a hint of a laugh.

He looked around the room to see if George was around, but there was no sign of him. As the dancer got closer and closer, Ringo figured there was nothing he could do but humour them and to get the whole thing over with as soon as possible. He could hardly complain, it was the guy's job after all. John seemed ready to burst into a fit of laughter upon witnessing Ringo's dilemma, his face scrunched up in an attempt to keep it in.

It was strange to compare the difference in emotion Ringo felt when being singled out by this new dancer versus how he'd previously felt with George; surprisingly the nerves were still present but were far more of a negative rather than actual excitement. Ringo leaned back in his chair a little in an attempt to gain some distance from the blonde dancer who had begun gyrating in front of him, but the gesture was mistaken for encouragement as he only intensified his lewd movements. John's laughter began pouring from his pursed lips, luckily the music masked the noise so that the dancer took no notice.

Ringo felt a hand on his shoulder, he assumed it was John trying to further his discomfort but then he heard shouting behind him and he knew something was up. Turning his head, Ringo saw an extremely pissed off looking George.

"You trying to be funny?" George was yelling, his hand possessively pressing down on Ringo's skin.

The other dancer seemed unfazed, passing George a momentary glance before reaching his hand forward to caress Ringo's cheek; at least that's where Ringo assumed he was aiming for it never reached it's destination. George gripped the dancer's wrist, the anger in his face melting away into a strange kind of satisfaction.

"Watch it." George spoke in a low voice, Ringo hardly even heard it.

By this point John was unable to restrain his emotions, his mouth agape in shock for a few moments before laughing again; George paid no attention to him, his dark eyes fixed solely on the blonde in front of him. He tried to shake George's hand off, it was causing quite the scene, but couldn't. After a few more moments of struggling, George released his grip and the dancer shuffled sheepishly away and attempted to finish their number with the little dignity they had left.

Ringo started laughing now, mostly because he was nervous, but was silenced when George ordered him to meet him outside. John gave Ringo a look which said 'good luck' with a mixture of both encouragement and worry.

In the cold air of the night Ringo felt himself sobering up a little, he hadn't fully registered the whole situation but it still felt pretty comical to him, though that may have just been the alcohol.

"You alright?" Ringo broke the silence, offering George a cigarette who snatched it.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." George mumbled as he lit it.

"One too many 'yeah's there, I think." Ringo chuckled.

George just looked at him, saying nothing. Ringo knitted his brows together in worry.

"Er- You gonna say anything?" Ringo shifted his weight between his feet awkwardly.

George said nothing for a few more moments then finally said "I'm sorry."

Ringo laughed again "Sorry? For what?"

"I..." George broke off his speech with a huff "That was out of line. On my part, I mean."

Ringo rolled his eyes and moved closer to George, interlacing their fingers together "Don't be daft, George. I get it."

"But- I just..." George sighed, Ringo had never seen him so internally frustrated, he tried to speak again but Ringo silenced him with a kiss.

"You don't have to explain yourself to me." Ringo said firmly, his hands cupping George's cheeks.

"I- Alright..." George huffed, closing his eyes in an attempt to dispel the frustration "I really hate that new prick."

Ringo laughed, breaking whatever tension was laugh "I can tell. What's his deal anyway?"

"Oh, I dunno." George flicked his cigarette away "Think he's jealous of me or something. Can you blame him?"

"Not at all." Ringo hummed happily, planting a short kiss on George's now cold lips.

Ringo could feel the tension leaving George's body: his shoulders lowering, his breath slowing. He wondered whether he'd ever be able to have a drama-free night at this place.

"You wanna go back in?" Ringo offered, rubbing his thumb on George's cheek before pulling the hand away entirely.

"Sure, sure." George still seemed a little distracted, Ringo knew he wasn't being told everything "Let me get you a drink."

"If you're offering." Ringo smiled, leading the way back into the humid club.

"Will you stay until I finish?" George asked, sounding almost shy "Please." He added after a moment.

"Of course." Ringo held the door open for George to walk through.

Inside George led them over to the bar where he ordered another round for both Ringo and John. He placed a brief kiss on Ringo's cheek then vanished into the crowds. Ringo let out a huff of air, managing to find John who had moved to the front of the stage and was hollering even louder than the music. It was no mystery as to why, Paul was currently onstage spinning around the pole in a way Ringo only assumed was incredibly difficult. He was wearing no shirt yet a multicoloured tie was hanging around his neck, his trousers a sheer black material with relatively high platform boots on his feet.

When John realised Ringo had returned, he offered him a cheesy grin which revealed how drunk he really was. His face lit up when Ringo offered him yet another drink, accepting it gladly and downing it almost instantly.

"Everything alright?" John yelled into Ringo's ear, his eyes not moving from Paul.

"Yeah." Ringo shouted back, it was all that needed to be said.

As soon as Paul had finished his number, he sought John out in the crowd instantly and the two disappeared giggling excitedly into one of the private room. This left Ringo alone to think and, more importantly, drink. He spotted the blonde dancer serving drinks later on but avoided eye contact as best he could.

George had been appearing and disappearing throughout the night but Ringo didn't really mind, it wouldn't be too long until the club was closing for the night. Ringo tucked himself away in a distant corner, finishing an array of drinks and scrolling through his phone aimlessly.

Eventually John resurfaced, dark bruises dotting the skin of his neck, with a very satisfied grin. He didn't hang around for too long, helping Ringo finish some of his drinks, before excitedly saying goodbye to head to Paul's for the night. It was a relief to Ringo, he no longer had to worry about getting him home safely.

George appeared only several minutes later, his skin covered in a sheen of sweat from exertion. Ringo smiled at him drunkenly, stumbling up from his seat and banging into the table which knocked a few empty glasses over.

"Ready to go?" Ringo asked "You're sober enough to drive, right? Because I am not."

"Sure thing." George pulled Ringo close to his body "I'm bloody knackered, let's just get to bed."

Ringo made a noise of agreement "Lemme just have a piss, then we'll go."

"You don't wanna go in there, trust me." George scoffed, nodding his head towards the toilet "It gets blocked every night, it's dead grotty."

Ringo curled his lip up in disgust "Really? I don't care, I'll just-"

George stopped Ringo from turning away "No, no, really, it's dreadful. I'll just get us home quick, alright?"

There was a strange tone to George's voice, at least Ringo thought so but his senses were considerably dulled from the alcohol. Ringo gave him a quizzical look but allowed himself to be pulled out of the club all the same, his stomach feeling a little sensitive as the car pulled out onto the road.

George was silent, his hands gripping the wheel tightly as he drove. Ringo wasn't quite sure what was awaiting him when they were fully alone back at George's place, but he knew it was something big.

[ignis-scientia-estrogen-brigade]

I meant to have this chapter up last night, but there was so much I wanted to include and not quite enough narrative time to let it all unfold the way I’d intended for it to, so I got a little hung up stringing together all the details.

I have two more planned chapters of this fic left to wade through (the final one being the sin wagon you’ve all be waiting for) before I resume fulfilling my headcanon and art requests; it might be pertinent to mention that an invasion of visitors will be descending upon my house next week just in time for the annual San Diego Comic Con festivities, so this blog may go dark for a few days due to that. Never fear, though—I’m itching to get back to the drawing board my tablet and stylus, and look forward to firing up my picarto.tv stream again in the near future!

(SFW; Click on the link above or the cut below for the full text of Chapter 3.)

Ophelia doesn’t even ask for permission to accompany him on his walk home this time; she’d scrubbed down the kitchen and taken final inventory while Ignis had stood around twiddling his thumbs as Cid slurped down the last of his darkshells, and she’s already waiting for him at the back alley entrance of the bazaar when he finishes shutting the lights off and locking up the restaurant.

“How long have you known Mr. Sophiar?” she asks, trailing beside him as he steps off onto his usual path back toward his apartment.

He tries not to let his annoyance show, despite wanting nothing more than to be alone and nurse his misgivings in silence. “Over ten years now.”

“So you knew him before the nights grew long?”

“I did.”

“Was he always this cantankerous? I know there’s a certain precedent set for crabby old men, but he seems to have a particularly large chip on his shoulder compared to most.”

“Approximately. Although I do believe he harbors a considerable measure of guilt pertaining to a falling out he had with a close friend some years ago. We all have our daemons in the closet, I suppose.”

“And what, might I inquire, are your daemons?”

Her teasing cadence matches the playful elbow she nudges him with; the strategist clamps down on his jaw and wills his irritation away. “Crustaceans.”

A laugh. “Crustaceans?”

“Indeed. Dreaded creatures—their pointed pincers terrorize me in my dreams. A Karlabos murdered my mother, as it so happens.”

Her giggles ring out through the alleyway, and the sound of musicians hocking their final numbers before packing their instruments for the night drifts in the strategist’s ears. His fingers graze a nearby wall as they round the corner—the one he recalls having been graffitied with Dis Town Iz 2 Hot 4 U many years prior—and Ophelia’s laughs fade on the evening wind.

“Speaking of jokes,” she says, as they near the front steps leading up to his apartment, “I hope you know I was kidding earlier.”

He reaches for the keys in his pocket and frowns. “About?”

“About not being married. It is rather curious to think someone hasn’t snapped you up by now.”

His frown deepens as he struggles to find his keys. “I’m hardly a piece of fish bait.”

“Sorry—I only meant that there’s quite a bit to your appeal. I’m surprised a handsome man like yourself doesn’t have a harem of beautiful women waiting outside the doors of the restaurant hoping for an autograph.”

“I’m not sure I would categorize myself as handsome. At least, not anymore.”

The strategist can already sense the question hovering on the tip of her tongue. “At the risk of dancing around the obvious,” she says carefully, “I was wondering if I might ask you about your sight.”

The hackles on his neck are up again, but he forces an indifferent air. “There’s not much to say, really. I can’t see anything at all.”

“Then why do you wear that visor of yours?”

“Ah.” He finally manages to withdraw his keys and inserts them into the door. “I suppose ‘anything’ is a fairly broad generalization. My right eye is somewhat sensitive to light, and the visor helps to keep the glare of the sun from irritating it too much.”

“So why do you wear it indoors? I’ve never seen you take it off, not even on rainy days.”

He can no longer conceal the exasperation in his tone, and he turns to face her. “Because I don’t like distressing Mr. Tostwell’s customers. There’s a reason why the lenses are frosted—it saves other people from the bulk of the view.”

If he had expected to frighten her and send her scampering off down the alleyway, he is sorely disappointed. “Don’t be absurd,” she replies, her voice gentle. “Your face isn’t distressing in the least.”

In hindsight, the strategist surmises, Ophelia likely wasn’t aiming to remove his visor against his will, and was only intending to run a few fingers tenderly across his cheek. Even still, she ought to have known better than to reach for a blind man’s face with a hand he couldn’t see coming; he raises his own the instant he feels soft fingertips gliding along his chin, deflecting her wrist as he flinches away.

“Sorry,” she says quickly. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“It’s fine.” He gropes for his visor and readjusts it back across the bridge of his nose. “Although for future reference, I’m not particularly the touchy-feely sort.”

He can hear her dismay as her feet shift on the steps beneath them. “Did I do something wrong?”

Other than invade my personal space without my consent? Not at all. The strategist searches for anything to say that might disentangle himself from this delicate predicament without completely deflating her ego; when nothing immediately comes to mind and he’s left grasping at straws, he heaves a sigh and falls back on the oldest excuse in the book. “It’s not you, truly—it’s me.”

His ears then pick up on the sound of her footsteps slowly moving away from the landing. “You know, Ignis,” she says quietly, “you could’ve just told me you weren’t interested, rather than insulting my intelligence. I may not be the cleverest woman in Lucis, but I’m certainly not stupid.”

Walked right into that one, he thinks. “Ophelia, I—”

“Really, it’s all right. I’m a grown woman—I can handle a bit of rejection.”

He props a frustrated hand on his hip, rubbing at his throbbing temple with the other. “Might I persuade you to grab a cup of coffee with me? I think there’s a stand still open near the Coernix Station.”

Her suspicion is obvious even without the use of his eyes. “I thought you just got through patronizing my company.”

“As friends—perhaps get to know each other a little better.” He withdraws his keys from the door and pockets them once again. “Maybe even take a moment to address those pesky closet daemons.”

She remains silent for several heartbeats, until he hears the sound of her footfalls angling away from the steps. “Lead the way.”

His memory of the path leading to the 24-hour convenience store is a little hazier than the one he took to work every morning, but he sets off in a vaguely southwest direction with Ophelia trailing closely behind him. She resumes her morose silence, tiptoeing quietly along the cobblestone sidewalk and never crossing the plane of his forward motion, until the echo of the back alleys gives way to an open pavilion and his occluded eye slowly begins to register the bright lights of the gas station’s neon sign.

The coffee kiosk was actually situated a fair bit away from the Coernix Station, nearer to the wide concrete balcony overlooking the northern end of Taelpar Crag, but close enough to the minimart to capitalize on weary travelers in need of a quick caffeine fix. The strategist generally preferred to brew his own Ebony at home, for reasons that become more apparent as the two approach the stand; he can smell the aroma of underroasted Arabica beans wafting in his nostrils, and his nose wrinkles at the thought of actually having to pay good gil for what amounted to watered-down cat urine.

But it gives him something to keep his hands occupied with, rather than shoving them awkwardly in his pockets while he endures his companion’s loaded silence, and soon they are retrieving their warm paper cups from the kiosk clerk and settling in on a nearby bench.

“You’ve been asking me a lot of questions about myself this evening,” he says, turning his blind gaze in the direction of the valley’s gaping abyss. “Thought maybe you’d consider fielding a few of my own.”

The sound of Ophelia blowing softly on her hot beverage mingles with the stirring of the breeze. “A fair compromise.”

“I’m a little curious to know what exactly happened to your parents, if that’s not too personal an inquiry.”

He then hears her take a slow, deliberate sip of her drink, as if contemplating his words carefully. “Without coming across as calloused,” she says finally, “my father already had one foot in the grave.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’d been fighting an infection for quite some time. Not a starscourge infection, mind you—we probably would’ve been immediately banished from Lestallum if that were the case—but he’d had a history of long illnesses, and it was only getting worse toward the end.”

“Was your mother ill as well?”

“She was not. But she’d heard of an elderly apothecary living in the back hills of Malmalam Thicket who might be able to help him when the doctors here no longer could.” Another sip, another moment of contemplation. “I told her leaving the city posed too great of a risk to their safety, what with all the daemons running about, but she wouldn’t listen. Looking back, I suppose she just couldn’t bear the thought of living life without him. As it turned out, she didn’t have to for very long.”

He grips at the sides of his cup and furrows his brow. “I’m terribly sorry. I imagine that must have left quite the hole in your heart.”

She shifts on the bench beside him, but she doesn’t appear to grow despondent; if anything, the strategist picks up on the slight uptick in her voice. “You would think so, but you’d be surprised. My parents and I never ended a phone call without telling each other we loved one another, and it was the last thing I said to them before they left. At the very least, I haven’t tortured myself into madness by dwelling on sentiments left unspoken.”

Her words cut through him like a dagger between his ribs, and the weight of the skull pendant around his neck suddenly feels as heavy as a boulder. “That’s… very admirable of you.”

“I spent my fair share of time cursing the Six, just as anyone would. But I’ve learned it’s a wasted effort to be ladened down with such remorse, and it’s hardly reasonable of me to cry foul when so many others have lost as much and more.” She then prods him jovially in the shoulder. “I’ve certainly had questionable men leave me with bigger regrets.”

It’s her unbridled earnestness, Ignis realizes, that sets her apart from his former protégé; there was no mystery surrounding Ophelia, no great onus of responsibility that required the complete tempering of all human emotions, and the fact that she was able to remain even remotely positive in the face of such adversity slices through the strategist’s melancholy like a sliver of light through a storm cloud.

“I apologize for my abrasiveness earlier,” he says, swirling his untouched coffee around in his cup. “It seems I’m still nursing a few regrets of my own.”

Rather than acknowledging his admission with a verbal response, Ignis feels her hand reach over and gently squeeze his forearm. His own hands are still wrapped around his cup in a vice grip, and he picks at a rough spot on the waxy rim as a quiet lull descends over the bench.

Then: “What was she like?”

He looks up from his beverage and stares at her for a long moment, although his eyes see nothing but darkness in return. “It’s a funny thing,” he whispers. “I can scarcely remember the sound of her voice, but I’ll never forget the way she used to look at me.”

But it wasn’t only the emerald orbs that had peered past his spectacles and directly into his soul that the strategist recalls to mind, nor was it the fiery red hair that had smelled like lust and restraint and all the delightful things that made her exactly who she was that visits him in his dreams every night; it was her smile he remembers most of all, the one she forfeited when he touched her just where he knew she liked it, when they were behind closed doors after a long day of maintaining rigid facades and could both finally let their guards down, and it was only a small kindness that his precious memories of her had not been purged right along with his sight.

“Was it you who put a stop to things?” Ophelia asks. “Or was she the one who ended the relationship?”

“The latter, more or less.”

“How did she do it?”

“She died.” His voice falters slightly, but he bites down on the inside of his cheek and ignores the painful wincing in his chest. “At least, I presume she did. She was working at the palace when Insomnia fell.”

Ophelia’s side of the bench falls silent for a moment, until he hears the sound of her hair shaking softly against her shoulders. “Was there no evidence of her whereabouts after the invasion? I personally saw hundreds of people fleeing the city before they garrisoned the bridge—is it possible she could’ve escaped in the confusion, somehow?”

“I tried searching for anything that might’ve revealed to me what ultimately happened to her, but the Citadel’s records were all either lost or scattered.” His fingers have resorted to bending the edges of the cup’s rim absentmindedly as he scours his mind for memories he’d long since locked away. “Even Cor Leonis couldn’t tell me very much, and he was her superior officer. Only that she’d been on patrol duty during the peace talks, which was the last time he saw her alive.”

“Did she have any family? Perhaps they might have some leads, if they still walked among the living.”

“Her parents resided in the north, according to her work documents I had access to when I was employed as a royal retainer. She also had a sister living here in Lestallum, although it was unclear whether she had any contact with the family.”

“A sister?”

He nods. “She’d evidently eloped with an Altissian merchant some years back. I could never bring myself to seek her out, though.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because”—he’s gripping the cup so hard now he can feel the paper walls begin to fold in on themselves—“because I never wanted to ask, since I never quite wanted to know the truth of it. She either perished in the fall, or she went out of her way never to look for me.”

Ophelia’s fingers release his forearm, and she runs a hand across his shoulder. “I’m sure if she knew how much you loved her, she would have.”

But her gentle touch isn’t enough to soothe the aching beast inside him, and the tears he’d hoped to stem begin to pool in his one open eye. “It’s hard to say, because I never actually told her so. I thought there’d be time enough later to settle our feelings, when the life we wanted wasn’t quite so at odds with the vows we made to the crown. And now I fear she died never knowing how dearly I loved her.”

“You couldn’t have predicted what was going to happen. Nobody could have.”

It wasn’t so much the lack of foreknowledge, the strategist concedes to himself, that haunted him the most; it was the awful reality of knowing she had almost assuredly been pregnant even before she herself did, because of course he knew, because it had been his job to notice the little things, because he hadn’t believed for even a millisecond that the nausea and indigestion she’d experienced the last few nights they were together had anything to do with the stress surrounding the peace accord. He’d left for Altissia silently fretting about how to properly handle the situation, hoping only that Noct would eventually come to understand the necessity of him stepping down from his duties as royal advisor so that he might step up and take responsibility for his utterly irresponsible actions.

But it didn’t matter anymore, because both Noctis and the redhead were gone—the latter likely buried under a mass grave he’d unknowingly tread upon the last time he ventured into the city—and Ignis was left with nothing but the weight of a skull pendant around his neck that served only to remind him of the unbearable burden of living.  “Apologies for unloading on you like this,” he says, righting himself in his seat and resuming a firm grip over his emotions once again. “I suppose in the grand scheme of things, she was a drop in the bucket of everything I’ve ever lost.”

Ophelia’s hand falls from his shoulder, and she lets out a long sigh before finally speaking. “Ten years is a long time to carry that weight on your heart, Ignis. Don’t you think it’s time you forgave yourself?”

He rises from the bench and gropes for the balcony’s railing, emptying his cold coffee over the edge and out into the wind. “Truth be told, I wouldn’t even know how to start.”

Her footsteps stop beside him, and her clothes rustle as she leans agains the balustrade. “You could start by seeking closure. All you have to do is ask around—Lestallum’s not that big of a city, and a Lucian woman married to an Altissian merchant certainly narrows the playing field down quite a bit.”

He then feels the sensation of her fingers entwining in his, but there’s no trace of opportunism in her touch; it’s merely another display of the earnestness that has come to define her, and the strategist closes his own hand around her palm as the tightening in his chest suddenly eases a tad.

“I could even assist you, if you’d like.”

Her voice is quiet, her proposal modest and unobtrusive, and Ignis glances down at her for a long time before offering her a weak grin. “That would be… rather helpful, thank you.”