beauclary

[beauclary]

@ziggyturner

Perfect Match (2025), dir. Yang Huan

[beauclary]

the shock of an unexpected embrace from behind is what throws him off-balance more than anything ; beau clary is a sturdy man, and after years of evading tackles on the field, it would take more force than whoever had just run into him to cause his footing to fumble. and make no mistake, he has never ( and will never! ) be one to refuse a hug and, as a matter of fact, more often than not? he's the one offering!

but for a split second, beau has absolutely no idea who's suddenly rushed up behind him and thrown themselves onto his shoulders. his sister's never been one for enthusiastic morning greetings ― that's more his bit ― and, much like himself, ember has been caught up in so much melancholy that he's almost certain it isn't her particular brand of effervescence. and if he's got eyes on ziggy across the diner, then who could it―?

beau freezes when he hears that voice, and then all at once, he's beaming. not because of the words themselves ― he thought he missed everything about the world before, but just a few simple questions stir up a flood of memories that suddenly have him doubting such a conviction, handsy fans and aggressive admirers ― but because of who it is that's saying them. he knows that voice!

bright laughter tumbles from him, full of disbelief and wonder and amusement, loud enough to carry through the diner and turn a few heads. ( public displays of happiness are too rare a sight within these walls anymore! ) it can't be helped. he wasn't sure he'd ever see her again. beau thinks back to days earlier when he'd heard news of more new arrivals, how casually he'd tucked that knowledge away with intent to greet whomever it was once they were let out of quarantine. probably for the best. he might've tried bangin' down the door if he'd known it was hope in there!

his arms are open and waiting to be thrown around her the second she jumps up to greet him, and he spins her around in an embrace that's arguably long enough to make the both of them a little dizzy by the time he finally slows to let her down. he just can't help it! heck, he can't remember the last time he'd been so excited! ( yes, he can ― he'll never forget how it felt when ash told him he'd spotted ziggy just outside the wexley! or when he'd opened his apartment door to find his sister standing on the other side! ) the room may be spinning a bit, but it doesn't matter because his gaze his fixed on her.

❝ oh, goodness gracious, i can't even begin to ― well, i'm just so ― aw heck, c'mere! ❞ beau yanks his petite friend back into another hug with ease, but this one is admittedly a bit less intense. it's enough to simply hold on to her for a moment and relish in the fact that she's really here, standing in front of him right now. ❝ i been wonderin' 'bout you somethin' fierce lately, little lady! ❞ when he pulls away again to hold her at arm's length so he can really see her, there are tears in his eyes, joyful and awed. ❝ weren't worried or nothin'― ❞ that's a bald-faced lie and they both know it, ❝ ―seein' as how you went survivin' the wilds of georgia an' all, but gosh darn if i'm not happy to see you! i can't believe you're here. how've ya been? where've ya been? tell me everything. you get your breakfast yet? ❞

//int. rosie's diner - morning. 26th april. @beauclary

Hope and Dante had already come to a mutual understanding before they arrived at the building that they had people they needed to see before regrouping to understand what the fuck was going on in this building, Santi telling them of who was still there, still alive. And all of a sudden, Hope knew this was where she should be.

The last two days of isolation hasn't been too bad, considering how long she locked herself in that greenhouse, this was paradise; clean water, something to eat, a bed to lie in, a roof over their heads, walls to keep them safe. She spent it acclimatizing back to certain creature comforts they haven't had in months. Even her plants were happy, there was a visible shift in their mood being able to be static for once, maybe even actually sink their roots somewhere. But most importantly she had been brimming with excitement.

Once the initial interviews and tests were done, her smile was brimming once she was left alone in quarantine, rummaging for a separate container for a very specific plant she has saved for a very specific person. Sure, it once might’ve been just symbolism to mourn and she might’ve just named it Beau to get her through the roughest patches of loneliness, and she might've talked to it at night alone to not go insane. But now it felt like it was all worth it for even trying to save a small cutting of the red buckeye from the botanic garden and lugging it around this whole time.

The moment she was let out, similar to Dante, she had an immediate goal - annoy the shit out of her college bestie. With an small army of seedlings and plants in her arms, she was off looking for that football dork of a man, a betrayal of their degree as she'd like to joke. The moment she spotted him in the diner for morning rations, she carefully placed down her plant babies on a booth table, and landed the sneaky assault, full on tackling into Beau from behind with all her might, voice giggling with a dramatic mocking swoon like of one of those annoying fans he had, "oh my god, is that football star, the Beau Clary??? I've been dying to meet you, can you sign my arm?"

Her small framed tackle obviously had zero strength to actually throw off the bulkier taller man, but her arms held on and squeezed tight around his torso before letting him go and stepping back so that he could face her wide grin. She wasn't much of a crier but her gaze had been watery to see him again now that she could look up and actually see his face. She did a little hop and jump to be able to throw her arms over his shoulders, murmuring into the hug, "missed you beau-y, you big doofus, literally thought you died flinging footballs at these chompers."

[beauclary]

♡ PAUL MESCAL w magazine

[beauclary]

REPOST AND BOLD WHAT YOUR MUSE CAN DO. ( italics for what they could do, but have never attempted to. )

swim   /   scuba dive   /   read and write   /   do calligraphy   /   ride a bike   /   ride a unicycle   /   ride a motorcycle   /   drive   /   draw   /   sing   /   play an instrument   /   maintain a rhythm   /   converse in a language   /   converse in more than two languages   /   converse in more than four languages   /   do basic maths   /   do algebra   /   understand structural formulas   /   read a floorplan   /   assemble ikea   /   build a working piece of furniture   /   build a house   /   sew a button   /   customise clothes   /   make clothes   /   bind a book   /   use a vacuum   /   clean windows without leaving streaks   /   boil water   /   make pasta   /   remove the pit of an avocado   /   cut bell peppers   /   cook   /   bake   /   basic first aid   /   cpr   /   close a bullet wound   /   fire a gun   /   load a gun   /   shuffle a deck of cards   /   shuffle a deck of cards one-handed   /   play or read tarot   /   use matches   /   use a lighter   /   make a fire without either   /   code   /   start a computer   /   hack   /   steal a car without keys   /   pick a lock   /   kick down a door   /   throw a punch   /   put an opponent smaller than them into a chokehold   /   put an opponent larger than them into a chokehold   /   intentionally break a bone   /   make a cast   /   chop down a tree   /   put up a tent   /   make a knot   /   create a shelter without tools or brought materials   /   make a cocktail   /   cut a line of cocaine   /   change a diaper   /   recite a nursery rhyme from memory   /   recite an important religious code from memory   /   recite the table of elements from memory   /   recite all pokemon in the pokemon song from memory   /   recite a 10-digit code 24 hours later after only reading it once   /   tell a person’s zodiac sign   /   tell a person’s age   /   play football   /   play basketball   /   play another ball sport   /   ice skate   /   use an audio recording device   /   use a camera   /   tattoo   /   do a piercing

[beauclary]

a flash of genuine surprise crosses her gaze and lord almighty, beau does his best not to let it show how much that stings. had she really thought for a moment that he'd do anything less? heck, there were still times he found himself beatin' his own self up for not doing more! that's his baby sister, after all, and ain't a single one of them knew where she went off to. he'd always hoped it was because she'd gone off to find herself, to find the fame they all knew she deserved, that one day she'd come back home and tell them all that she was the next big star! maybe that's just him being the same silly, sentimental boy he's always been ― hopelessly hopeful, always looking for silver linings on even the stormiest of days. he can't help it.

❝ 'course i did, dixie. ❞ the words aren't in any way accusatory. he does not intend to use them as a weapon. no, it's a gentle confession, soft and melancholy and earnest in a way that only he can be. beau holds her gaze when he speaks, even as his own begins to well with tears. ( who is he kidding? they were already there! ) he tugs an embroidered throw pillow onto his lap and wraps his arms around it, rests his chin atop the seam. the fabric rustles softly when he shakes his head, a bittersweet and watery smile lifting at the corners of his lips. ❝ don't you dare apologize for nothin' ― don't go makin' me use your full name like mama, i don't wanna hear it. ❞ he reaches out a hand and gives her knee a reassuring squeeze before settling back against the couch. ❝ i don't care none 'bout excuses, but i do care what's been goin' on with my baby sister. talk to me. ❞

and she does. beau, to his credit, gives her every single fiber of his focus and attention as she speaks. he makes no move to interrupt her, but the subtle shifts in his expression tell her he's listening intently ; the concerned furrow of his brow, the widening of red-rimmed eyes and the falter of what was supposed to be an unwaveringly supportive smile. he wasn't a good man. she doesn't have to say anything more than that for beau to know everything he needs to know about joshua. he knows she wouldn't say that lightly. there's a protest on his tongue when she confesses that he'd been the reason none of them heard from her, but he bites it back before it can slip out. she's away from this man now, and anger won't do him any good in this moment. he wants to approach this delicately.

the moment her voice cracks and her walls come crumbling down, beau is on the move ; the pillow is tossed to the floor as he pulls himself across the cushions to close the gap between them, and the moment he's close enough, beau pulls dixie into his embrace without even a second's hesitation. she feels so small like this in his arms, so broken, and damn if beau can't feel his own heart shattering into a million pieces at the sight of her tears. ❝ you ain't never gonna be too much of a mess for me, you hear me? i don't wanna hear that nonsense, ❞ he murmurs the reassurances into the crown of her head as a hand raises to pet her hair. the other rubs small, soothing circles on her back as he holds her close. goodness gracious, he's just so glad to have her back! ❝ it don't matter what you done. i don't care. you got me now, and ain't nothin' you could do i wouldn't have your back in, ya got that? we're in it together, dixie. we always been in it together. ❞

beau’s open show of emotion always was an envy for dixie. she never felt so free to do the same despite being able to cry on command or switch to any emotion needed. that was acting. the raw unfiltered emotion her brother could express was real and so visceral she almost felt it herself. dixie knew it wasn't the same though. she couldn't imagine what it felt like to get that intense of release and be so keenly tapped into yourself to identify just what it was you were feeling. probably why he was such a good football player, too. don't aske her why it made sense in her head, it just did.

“you did?” the question came out in a higher pitched shock. lord almighty, what a damn burden she'd been hadn't she? here dixie thought not pulling them into the mess was for the better. then they didn't have to deal with jason's bullshit. it was honestly bad enough she had to deal with it and that she'd let it go on so long. "i'm real sorry, beau, i really am. i know there ain't much excuse i can give that will make a lick o' sense, but— " she paused there to pull her knees up inside her oversized sweatshirt, her hands already covered by the sleeves while she chewed on the cuff a moment. better than her nails. mama always pitched a fit when she'd chew on her nails.

"jason and i got hitched and i thought it would make things better but it didn't," dixie really didn't want to dive into depth of everything that went on between them, all the things he did and said. the way he would put down her family and how much she actually let him get away with. she'd played the strong independent woman so long, it was embarrassing to think of all the ways she let him control her. "he wasn't a good man, beau. and i was stupid for lettin' him convince me i shouldn't talk to you or mama or anyone back home." she sighed. "i was stupid for lettin' him get away with a lot of things, over and over, making the same mistakes. then i got locked up and well, i guess in the end it was less about interruptin' your life and more about not wanting you to, to, to think—" that was the breaking point. her lip quivered and the next time she opened her mouth, a sob came out instead.

"i just didn't want" gasp of air, "you to s-s-see what a mess," small sob, "i'd become." she got out in choppy bits before covering her face completely with sweatshirt covered hands, out of pure embarrassed vulnerability.

[beauclary]

eyes wide and blue as the ocean ( okay, maybe back home, but not so much here in the city where the water is murky with pollution and muck ) follow the man's hand as it rises to disappear partway into his mouth and concern flashes briefly across beau's features. his head falls into a curious tilt and he clutches the equipment in his arms a little tighter so that he can take a half-step forward without losing anything else from the precarious bundle. ❝ did ya hurt yourself? ❞ he asks, earnest. his gaze creases at the corners in an inquisitive squint, as if by looking hard enough, he thought he might be able to assess the damage through the taller man's mouth. he can't.

instead, he offers a smile that's caught somewhere between confused and concerned as he's stared blankly at. at least, until the guy breaks the silence, that is. beau shakes hi head just a little, brows furrowing as he registers the words. for a second, he wonders if he's missed something ― was he saying something when beau had his headphones in that would've provided context? he's not sure, but he's also not bothered. he needs his eyes, too. ❝ you and me both, brother, ❞ he agrees with a chuckle and an easy shrug. ❝ there's still a whole lotta good worth seein'.❞

when the other man extends a hand ― is it a greeting? ― beau looks down at his own, wondering if there's some way he can shuffle things around to still maintain his manners. but then he's pulling his hand back just as quickly and beau blinks at the blunt assessment, but he can't really argue it either. at least he has the decency to look sheepish about it all. ❝ oof― thank ya buddy, ❞ he offers quickly as he moves to catch the dumbbell before it rolls out of his overflowing grasp again. ❝ listen, i was just runnin' all this over to the gym right quick, but you give me just a second, i'm comin' right back ― i'll help ya clean this mess of a minefield up, seein' as my own fault. ❞ it's the least he could do. beau doesn't give the other man a chance to accept or decline his offer before he's jogging over to the gym, dumping an armful of weights and ropes and bands a few feet past the doorway. ( he's gonna be in and out of here all day, he'll clean 'em up later! ) and then he's back, already crouching down before he's even fully slowed to a stop to begin collecting bits of scrap metal. ❝ beau clary, ❞ he says, an unprompted introduction as he flashes the other man a smile. ❝ i'm sorry again about all this, really. i should'a been payin' attention. hey, what's your name, man? ❞

Like walking into a goddamn human-sized brick, Gray stumbles back, one step, two step, half a step, the plastic box of sharp-pointy-jagged scatter-scraping across the basement floor along with the heavy thunk-thunk of a bunch of weights—if the force of the collision hadn't moved him, one of them surely would've landed on toes. For a long moment, all Gray could blink, eyes moving across the minefield of scrap littering the floor, absent-mindedly sticking a finger into his mouth at the prick-prick-prick of blood leaking out of a cut from where he'd already injured himself handling it.

Eyes lifting to the brick—man—as he starts apologising, talking about Dolly Parton, all Gray can do is stare at him as he sucks on his finger. Everyone in this building has been gloom, doom, or escape room, that he's met anyway, and this man is a sparkling beacon of light and sunshine. Frankly, it's almost painful to look at, but in the way that stupid people burn their eyes out looking at a solar eclipse because it's so fascinating. Ugh, he's gonna get his eyes burned out. Might as well happen.

"I need my eyes," Gray mutters around his finger, before sticking the same hand out, pausing, then takes it back with a scrunch of his nose when his awareness comes up for air long enough to realise that isn't what he'd meant. "You made a minefield." Still, with an expression that looks like he's three seconds from committing a murder—really just his resting expression—Gray bends over and shoves the dumbbell that nearly landed on his foot into the man's hands, before looking around the floor to start gathering together pieces of sharp metal.

[beauclary]

❝ ain't she just? ❞ there's a sense of pride that can be heard in his words as he agrees wholeheartedly with sada's sentiment. beau grins, his own anxieties temporarily set aside in favor of a moment of praise for his sister. she deserves it! beau has always tried to be his sisters' biggest supporter ― not just dixie, but bonnie and orla, too ― and he'll never not have a moment to sing their praises. ❝ you should'a seen her collection of trophies an' ribbons back home, i tell ya what ― broke all sortsa records competin' in those pageants when we were kids. ❞ beau would know ― he was often in attendance! the clary children were winners, their mama made sure of that.

the athlete has to shift and maneuver himself a bit to settle in the chair ― he'd say comfortably, but he's not sure how comfortable he'll ever really feel alone in this office with her ― and then he turns his attention back onto sada, awaiting her permission to speak. to his credit, beau does well to keep a sincere smile lifting his features until she does. it takes longer than expected.

and then he nods, clearing his throat and scooching toward the edge of the chair as if he'd not just spent two minutes trying to find the best way to sit in it. ❝ right, um... right. okay. ❞ he feels almost as if he's giving himself a pep talk before a game. ( lord knows he's just as nervous! )

❝ well, see, the thing is, ms. vang, it's just that i been real worried about ziggy lately. and ... when i say lately, i s'pose i mean ever since they got to the wexley after all a' this, y'know? and i just ... well, i know it's selfish of me, ma'am, but i can't help but thinkin' how much i ― well, it ain't even a word i like to use, but if i can be honest with you, i really hate the thought of them goin' out there again. they already been through so much. and i know ― i know everyone has, but ... if there's anythin' i can do, or ― or if i could go in their place, too, i just ― ❞

beau pauses. he knows he's rambling, and he's already made his point. he's told her what he wants. but he does have more, still, to offer. after a a second's breath to collect himself, he continues. ❝ i was, um ... i was thinkin', too, we got a whole lotta wasted space up in that greenhouse right now since i'm utilizin' the garden beds more'n anythin', but i think that, um ... well, i think that cannabis would be a vital crop to start growin'― ❞ his voice lowers instinctively as he says the word, almost as if it still mattered anymore that it was technically an illicit substance, ❝ ―an' i think that i could do it well. and zig, they're good with plants, too, they could take it on as a project maybe...? ❞

"Of course. She's a very talented girl. Had the world not ended, I could have seen her being very big." Heck, she could be bigger even in this world were it up to Sada, considering how very much Dixie reminded her of herself when she was a much younger woman.

Regarding him closely as he lowered down into one of the purposefully smaller chairs across the desk from her almost throne like leather wingback, it flicked up the corner of her lip as she watched him have to fold himself up a little to fit in the chairs. Somehow, from the posture to the gestures, mixed with the bovine eyes that dominated his face, it all made him look almost childish.

With another long draw off the joint that curled up over a scarlet cupid's bow and along the sharp line of her cheekbone's cliff, Sada regarded him for just a half beat more than was comfortable, enjoying the game of keeping his already nervous energy at notch above comfortable.

"Go on."

[beauclary]

the steady, muffled rhythm of soft snores drifts through the apartment ; familiar by now for all the hours he's spent in here, beau has allowed himself to settle into the score of sleepy sounds, relaxed by them in the same way one might be soothed by the metronomic tick of a clock. the gardener has spent the better part of his day here ; he'd arrived at the apartment not long after breakfast rations were served, pressing a kiss to his partner's cheek as they exited the diner and promising he'd find them again later. that was this morning, and a quick glance stolen at the window tells him they're fast approaching dusk. it's literally been hours.

beau doesn't mind. of course he doesn't! if he had, he might've taken ash up on the offer to abandon his bedside and seek out more enriching activities in one of the few, fleeting moments of consciousness he'd caught from his friend. instead, he writes even just the notion of leaving off as nonsense and settles into an armchair not too far off from the bed. the gesture is just as much out of guilt as it is compassion and love ― there might not have been much that beau could've personally done to prevent whatever godawful things they'd done to his friend, no, but that didn't stop him from thinking that just maybe...

that sort of thinking is never helpful, though, and beau knows this. what is helpful is sitting vigil by ashton's bedside and making sure that the poor man can actually nap in peace without worrying someone's gonna come interrupt it. it's not really so much of a nap as it is a whole dang daytime sleep, and beau's glad for it. clearly he needs it. beau bides his time well ― he tidies the apartment up, heats a simmer pot of sweet herbs on a hotplate and opens a few windows to air the place out now that the weather's warmed a bit.

once he's satisfied, beau settles back in the chair at ashton's bedside with a selection of books from his shelves ; the man's got quite the collection, spanning a range of literacy levels and subjects. the vast majority of them, however, seem to be about space, and he's delighted to spend an afternoon reading about a subject his friend holds so dear. after all, beau does love the stars too! he's quick to realize that several of the volumes he's picked out are a fair bit beyond his comprehension level.

( it's a little humbling, not going to lie ― he knows he's not the most well-read, but even so, he's college educated. and in a science field to boot! )

he's flipping through a book clearly meant for children about the universe when ashton begins to stir in the bed beside him. brows lift at the sleep-slurred question and beau offers him a soft smile. ❝ ain't like i got anywhere pressin' to be, ❞ he points out as he closes the book, setting it in his lap and folding his arms over the glossy hardcover. ❝ and anyhow, i wasn't doin' nothin'. ❞ he doesn't mention the tidying he'd done, instead nodding to the stack of books piled up on the floor beside him. ❝ figured i could broaden my horizons a little. ❞ if he's concerned about the state ash is in, beau tries his best to hide it from his expression. instead, he offers a genuinely curious, ❝ how'd ya sleep? ❞ it's an easier question than the one he wants to ask ― how are you feeling? ― but he figures he can work up to that.

//int. ashton’s apt #306 - dusk. 23rd april. @beauclary

After Charlie left that morning, Ash was really starting to feel the effects of being awake for one, the heroin withdrawals for another, physically and emotionally exhausted from crying for last. Yet he couldn’t do anything about it but lay in bed and ride it out. He was in and out of consciousness for most of the early day, battling the nausea, and headaches, and pain, vaguely aware of someone visiting - Beau? Ash couldn’t really remember. He was spoken to, he said some words, and then he succumb to some kind of surface level of sleep with the mixture of everything assaulting his senses.

By the time he clawed through unconsciousness and the heavy weight suffocating him, the sun had lowered to filter into his windows, looking to set soon and usher in the night. He groaned at the pounding in his head intensifying the more he pulled himself awake, the nausea getting him to at least sit up, feeling the room spin with him as he did. But once his vision could focus again, Beau was still seated on a chair by his room, reading one of his books. “You’re still here?” Ash rubbed his eyes and the tear stains away, blinking until the blurry figure cleared up to morph into Beau, "told you it's fine, you didn't hafta stay and sit here doing nothing," he weakly chuckled but gaze clearly appreciative of his friend's gesture.

[beauclary]

@beauclary asked: 💕 our muses’ romantic relationship

[beauclary]

headcanon: we've talked about this but now i'm IMMORTALIZING IT Beau and Ash had a friendly beef between NFL and NHL and which is the superior sport /jk and in part of that beef, they each taught each other the sport itself for fun, so Beau on skates and ice and Ash tossing footballs. Suffice to say they're probably better at each of their own sport but make for great comedy

beau tries not to be too discouraged when ash takes to football far faster than he manages to find his footing ― literally ― in hockey. his struggles on the skates are almost cartoonish at first and he is adamant that his body was not built to be suspended on razor-thin blades, but eventually he sort of starts to get the hang of it. the great NFL vs. NHL debate continues to this day, and it's unclear if there will ever be a winner, regardless of what either of them tries to say. ( @ashton-ryder )

[beauclary]

Ember and Beau's favourite game is 'fuel paparazzi dating rumours' and then laugh at them in interviews.

how many saturday mornings have been spent with the two of them sprawled on ember's bed scrolling through buzzfeed articles trying to pinpoint whether ember is in a relationship with football star beau clary or award-winning photographer ziggy turner? their platonic love triangle perplexed countless fans who frequently posted their theories on tiktok and x before the end of the internet.

[beauclary]

@beauclary @lindsohalloran @judahfisher @doctorvikjain

On anon or not, tell me what YOUR headcanons for my muse are.

[beauclary]

[beauclary]

moodboard meme 2.0 Send an emoji and I’ll make a moodboard

@beauclary asked: 💛 our muses’ relationship ( if it's not too late ily )

[beauclary]

natasha

[beauclary]

when ziggy shifts, beau moves in tandem with them ; even now, with his mind a million miles away, the way his body turns to mirror theirs is natural, intuitive ― he does not need to think about the way his body must shift to accommodate theirs, his limbs moving of their own accord without any conscious direction from him. they are burned into his muscle memory for life. a watery chuckle escapes him at the reassurance and beau shakes his head. ❝ now don't you go talkin' about the love of my life like that, ❞ he whispers, his voice soft and his words earnest. his hand holds tightly to theirs where it rests in his lap, a lifeline. ❝ i ain't gonna stand for it. ❞

and he won't. even just the idea of ziggy being unable to thank him is as absurd a notion to beau as a pig taking flight ; it's never been about the gratitude, after all. heck, it's never even been about him. the fact that he has even been blessed to be present to be their rock is a privilege the likes of which beau could never put into words. not a day goes by, in fact, that he does not thank his lucky stars that he should even be so fortunate as to have them to hold, to comfort. they, who'd been through hell and back to come find him, to be with him, after everything fell apart! what a strange juxtaposition of feelings, for his heart to crumble as it soars.

when his head falls into a nod at ziggy's words, it is not because he wants to concede. no, in a perfect world, beau would be able to pack up these feelings neat as a parcel on the porch step and tuck them away until they're all but forgotten, hidden away not just from his partner but from himself. he would continue to be that rock for ziggy, strong and sure and unwavering even in the face of the storm of uncertainty that roils the horizon ahead of them. it's a guilty sort of feeling that gnaws at his stomach, acknowledging the truth ― if he could've kept it from them forever, he just might've.

( what kind of man does that make him? )

but there's no hiding it anymore, not when every night for the past week or more has woken then both to the sounds of his frantic, panicked cries. it's funny, the way he can't seem to make himself remember the same reassuring words he's murmured into ziggy's hair as he held them close in such countless, similar moments the second the tables have turned ; he can't make himself believe them. he's not just a sinner, he's a hypocrite!

the steady, soothing pressure of their thumb against his knuckles is the only thing that manages to keep him grounded ; such a simple touch, but when it comes from ziggy that's all it takes to keep him from spiraling. his hand trembles in theirs, and he tries to narrow his focus on willing it to stop. ( for a professional athlete, he is exhibiting exceptionally poor control over his body in this moment! ) he draws in a shaky, staggered breath and nods again. he knows that ziggy means it when they say that, that they truly believe that there's nothing he could say to change their opinion of him. to make them love him any less. but they don't know, do they? why would they ever think that he could even be capable of―

and then they're telling him to let go of that dark cloud and beau can't help the choked sound that escapes him as he tries to swallow down a sob that's suddenly threatening to tear from his throat. he's only half-successful and it comes out in a harsh, wet gasp instead. wide blue eyes dart around the rooftop with a level of anxiety, of fear, that he's never before displayed before they finally settle back on ziggy. he's clutching their hand so tightly he's afraid he might hurt them, but goodness gracious, he can't let go. not now.

not of their hand, anyway, but maybe ... just maybe, he can let go of this cloud.

❝ my daddy, you know he ain't ― he weren't never in the picture, that he, uh ― , well, that he was in an accident when me an' my sisters were all real young, left my mama to raise us, ❞ beau begins, his words still barely above a whisper. he didn't ever tell ziggy much about his father ; he never told anybody much of anything about the man, made a point of it. ain't no use dwellin' on the past, he would say if anyone ever brought him up only to offer their condolences. i don't remember him much. and beau clary's not a liar, but if you say anything enough, it starts to sound more and more like the truth.

❝ well, he, um ― he weren't never a good man, zig, ❞ he continues, and his lower lip is trembling now. his voice wavers on the words, almost as if it has to stretch high and tight to squeeze past the lump in his throat. ❝ i don't ― i don't know if there's a heaven no more ― don't know much of anything no more ― but i ― i know that if there is, he ain't there. he ain't there. ❞ he takes a deep breath and swallows hard before he exhales, tries to hold himself together. he's scared, god, is he scared! ❝ a-and i know ― i know it weren't an accident b-because― ❞

they wanted to say ‘ i know ’ when the declaration of love was returned, not to be cocky but in pure honesty. it was no secret in the beginning of their relationship they'd felt that beau was extremely out of their league. and he is, but that doesn't matter anymore. they know he loves them and they love him just as much, if not more, and that's all that matters. instead of waxing poetics and reminding him of this, however, they were shushing apologies and turning further towards him. giving room for beau to wrap his atheletic trunks around their waist while their lithe stems spidered out on each side of him.

“shhh, now, you have nothin’ to apologize to me for, i been a downright trasheap of a mess since I got here and you've been a rock the likes I'll ne’er be able to thank you for.” ziggy lifts one of their hands from his lap and brushes a few unruly curls from his forehead. “give me a chance to hold you down for once, aye? i may not look it but i promise i can do quite a bit of heavy lifting.” not as much as they used to be able to do physically but emotionally? they'd likely gained more capacity than they've lost. 

they drag their thumb back and forth across the back of beau's hand. “of course,” they nodded, concerned encouragement. trying to make and hold as much space for him as he needed. the words something real awful didn't sit well with ziggy, though, not even a little bit. there's no way this sweet man could have done anything so bad it would make ziggy think a stitch less of him. the man was a saint amongst saints for fuck sakes, the only sin they could think of him committing is maybe some nights out partying a bit too hard or what they did behind closed doors but that was far from a something awful. ziggy would argue that was something maybe wildly unholy, but still very, very, very good.  

“baby, please, there isn't anything you could say that would make you love me any less. tell me, let go of that dark cloud, sunshine.”

[beauclary]

@emberwexley asked: 💛 our muses’ relationship