#*sighs fondly.* So many good memories of broken muses

[retvenkos]

within these lines | t.l.

Little Women - Theodore “Laurie” Laurence x Reader, fluff requested by @mywinterbucky​ - sorry for the wait!

tw: none

word count: 1.6k

prompt: “you still have that?”

A/N: sorry timothee chalamet fans, but the gif is of christian bale’s laurie because sometimes you gotta switch it up, y’know? after all, variety is the spice of life.

Summary: The world had come in between Laurie and (Y/n) five years ago, but neither time nor distance could keep them apart for long.

There’s something elusively romantic about the teenage years. Despite any tragedy that reaches the hearts of the young, there is something infinite in youth that takes such melancholy and spins it into something beautiful beyond recognition.

It was in their teenage years that (Y/n) was torn from Laurie’s embrace - two friends on the cusp of being something more. A “perhaps” that ended in ellipses, each dot like the thousands of miles that separated them. All through their childhood, they had been together, and up until the moment (Y/n) was whisked away to England, they had constantly been at each other’s side. To have known someone so fully and to lose them so completely was a tragedy that often left the soul barren. But they were teenagers at the time, standing at the precipice of adulthood, and their minds preserved a beauty that existed in their youth - something unique and not likely to happen again; gold-spun.

When (Y/n) was plucked out of Laurie’s pocket and ripped from his heart, there wasn’t much else to do than wander. Laurie passed the days on his own and when he wasn’t lost amongst the memories of his youth, he was writing letters to (Y/n) when he ought to have been studying and fashioning poetry when he should have been sleeping. There is something elusively romantic about writing to someone you don’t have the address for - something that lies in the yearning of one’s being and the void that is left behind.

As the years wore on, Laurie grew out of those rose-colored teenage years, but his heart still beat to the rhythm of a sonnet. Across the ocean, (Y/n) was much the same. Although less of a poet, (Y/n) was a dreamer, and when they closed their eyes, they were there in the gardens of their youth, with a boy they had once thought of loving at their side.

It was a muddy, April day when Laurie felt a particular kind of ache settle in his heart. (Y/n) had told him, once, when they were hiding in the study of his grandfather’s house rather than practicing the piano, that muddy, grey mornings were their favorite. He had laughed at them back then, even after (Y/n) insisted that grey mornings had a comforting sort of calm about them - something that made sense to Laurie, despite it all. (Y/n) had insisted on the beauty of drab mornings, and when he told them that loving dull skies was like loving the taste of over-boiled tea, (Y/n) told him that they loved that, too. “After all,” they had said, “that’s how you make it when your grandfather is away, and there’s no one here but us.”

“But it’s not any good.”

“To me it is.” At their statement, Laurie made a face, and (Y/n) laughed like a spring breeze. “As is anything that is made with love.”

Laurie’s cheeks bloomed with a soft red at the mention of something so sacred as love, and he hid his flustered feelings by fiddling with the papers on the study desk. On a few pages, Laurie saw his own messy scrawl, and on a couple of others, he saw (Y/n)’s curled handwriting.

“Why don’t you make a list, then?” Laurie searched for a blank piece of parchment and set one down in front of (Y/n), giving them a quill and inkpot. “Make a list of everything you can think of that’s made with love.”

“Why?” And the curiosity in (Y/n)’s voice was gentle.

“So that I may make a list of my own, and we can learn to love the list of the other.”

(Y/n) smiled.

That had been many years ago, but Laurie could still remember the soft, subdued smile that (Y/n) had given him that day - an expression of contented awe. He had associated that look with muddy, April days a long time ago, and there was something particularly melancholic about a memory so beautiful and so full of love.

And a long time after, Laurie was still in the study, now in his early twenties. Sitting in a newly upholstered seat, he pulled out of a small tin box a stack of old papers filled with curled handwriting. At the bottom of the stack lay the list from so long ago, well-loved and well revised, with additions like “poorly done sketches from the neighbor children,” and “broken seashells from the beach,” written in minuscule letters.

Laurie was reading number twenty-six (“the singing of birds on Sunday mornings”) when a voice spoke from the stillness.

“You still have that?”

Transcending time and distance, Laurie would have known that voice anywhere.

“(Y/n)?”

Laurie's old friend, leaning against the door of the study, giggled from delight, and not a moment later, Laurie had them wrapped in a hug, his years of loneliness only tightening his grip - warm, enveloping, and ferocious, like he would do anything to never lose them again.

“Laurie, you’re going to crush me!”

“Wasn’t that on your list, though?” Laurie pulled away, holding (Y/n) at arm's length, looking into eyes he hadn’t seen in years - bright and strong; beautiful beyond belief. “Number thirty-one: ‘hugs you think will crack your spine.’”

(Y/n) hummed fondly. “And if I remember correctly, your number thirty-one was hiding in the closet during parties, whispering stories by candlelight.”

“You remember?”

“Of course, I do,” (Y/n) said earnestly, their brow creasing slightly, as though they were surprised at his question. “I have it right… here.” (Y/n) reached into the inside pocket of their coat, pulling out an old and fading envelope. They gingerly pulled out a piece of old parchment, reading the first sentence on the page. "Number one: 'the too-small gloves that you made me.' You really should have written my name - had anyone else  found the list, they would have been terribly confused."

“You still have it.”

(Y/n) smiled, and the expression was there - that contented sort of awe that never failed to make Laurie feel seen and, perhaps most of all, loved. For a moment, the two just stood there, within arm's length, holding onto each other and marveling at all the other had become. There was something elusively romantic about the moment; something heavenly that had been captured in every poem Laurie had ever written and every dream (Y/n) had ever fathomed.

“I missed you, Laurie.” And those four whispered words held a fragile sort of intimacy that could be shattered with a voice much louder than a sigh.

“And I missed you more than you could ever know.”

(Y/n)’s breath hitched.

Laurie stepped away suddenly as though a spell broke. He turned his back to (Y/n), his cheeks already starting to flare, and scanning the study for another chair - something for (Y/n) to sit in, close to him, at last.

“Ah, here.” Laurie pulled a chair closer to the study desk. “You can sit there and tell me all about your adventures in England. Would you like any tea?”

He turned to face (Y/n) once again, and they had a mischievous smile on their face. “Over-boiled, I’m guessing?”

Laurie chuckled, looking downward to hide the embarrassment that crept up onto his cheeks. “I think you’ll find I’m much improved. I’ve had five years of practice since you were last here.”

“Five years,” (Y/n) mused, walking over to their seat and sitting gently. “It’s funny, it feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve been in Massachusetts, but it’s only been five years.”

“Five years is a long time,” Laurie supplied. “A lot can change.”

“But a lot can stay the same. Or, at least I hope.”

The two friends looked at each other. For a moment, it felt like the world slowed around them, and they were nothing more than the teenagers they had been five years prior when they were writing silly lists of things that were made with love.

“Well,” (Y/n) started, “I suppose I have stories I could tell, but I want to know about you."

"Well, I want to know about you!"

(Y/n) scoffed and shook their head, an expression that was beautiful, akin to the breaking of a new day.

"Well, this town has been like it's always been." Laurie relented, relaxing in his chair. “The March sisters have been less willing to spend time with me lately, since my mood has gone sour. but you’ll be glad to know that I have plans for getting back in their good graces, soon.”

(Y/n) leaned forward, putting their elbows on the desk and steepling their fingers, as though whatever they were talking about was of great importance. On instinct, Laurie leaned in as well, two conspirators in an empty house. "Well, now we're getting somewhere, Mr. Laurence."

Laurie stifled a chuckle, (Y/n) clearly struggling to do the same. "Indeed we are, (Y/n) (L/n)."

They both broke, and laughter filled the room, the sound echoing through the floorboards, unearthing the past where they had done just the same when they were years younger, but much the same.

Laurie sighed. "How is it that after five years of being apart, nothing has changed?"

"Well, I know you, Teddy, nothing can change that." (Y/n) smiled, gentle but full. Laurie felt a tugging on his heart - something almost painful if it weren't for the care in (Y/n)'s eyes, wrapping him in the most comforting sincerity - a gravity more divine than existing. "Even when we were far from each other, I had your list and my memories; you were the most full thing I ever had."

"I didn't know if you'd remember."

"I always remembered you."

Laurie breathed.

“Well,” (Y/n) began, something in their voice a little unsure, endearing Laurie already, “Now that we know we both remembered and kept the list of the other, I have to ask: did you learn to love my list?”

“I did.”

(Y/n) seemed pleased. “Even muddy, April mornings?”

Laurie chuckled, the feeling warm and pleasant in his chest - like a thunderstorm in June. “They were the first I learned to cherish.”

They smiled at each other once more.

-- taglist: @locke-writes, @brokenandheadoverheels​, @coffee--writes, @swanimagines, @amortensie // message me if you want to be added!

[rheawritessometimes]

A Not-So-Bad Deal

{ Childe x GN!Reader }

{ Summary } Babysitting Childe has its ups and downs. Series Masterlist

{ Warnings } Swearing, Injury, Physical Intimacy, Mild Spice, PDA, Not Beta Read, Barely Proof Read.

{ Notes } Reader is implied to have commitment issues. Accidental flirting, because intentional flirting is awkward and hard. Didn't explicitly state what each breakfast item was, but they're based on popular Russian breakfast foods. Ahah, not me setting myself up for yet another part?? Masterlist

{ Word Count } 2,955

The sentiment of spending Childe's recovery with him being a simple endeavor was quickly thrown into the garbage when you were awakened before the sun had even begun to peek over the horizon to the sound of what you were sure was a break-in. Rolling out of the bed with your sword materializing in your hand was done entirely on instinct, you were still too groggy to have any proper thought. Stealthily exiting the room, you made your way to the source of the noise, the kitchen.

Needless to say, you were more than annoyed to find that the 'break in' was actually a familiar Harbinger making breakfast, tearing apart the kitchen in the process. Your sword dematerialized as you brought a hand up to massage your temples to ward off a headache. Childe was humming cheerily in the middle of the mess of ingredients and cookware, some of which you were certain had not been necessary to whatever it was he was making. There was no way that many bowls were necessary for any recipe.

The Snezhnayan flashed a bright grin when he saw you, but the gesture did nothing to ease the scowl that had settled onto your features. That didn't seem to dampen his mood in the least, he merrily continued preparing what appeared to be enough food to feed a lot more people than were currently occupying his apartment. Was he expecting a lot of company this morning?

"I thought we made a deal that involved you resting and not cooking enough to feed a small army at ass in the morning," you remarked, the sarcasm laid on thick enough to be dripping from each word. Much to your frustration, this only made him laugh as he turned the stove on.

"Well, I usually wake up early but this morning I had nothing to do since someone broke my bones. So, I decided to make a nice breakfast for my guest to enjoy with me," he responded with faux innocence, though there was laughter in his voice that easily gave him away. His words were still effective in making you feel a little guilty, so you wordlessly brought the dishes you were fairly certain he was done with to the sink and began washing them.

The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet after that, you were busy cleaning a mountain of dishes and Childe's focus was on frying a few eggs and cutting up a bowl of strawberries. You were mindful to stay out of the way as Childe cooked and he made an effort to set the cookware he was finished with beside the sink for you. The rhythm you two had quickly settled into felt startlingly domestic, something you reminded yourself not to like, and certainly not to get used to.

"Maybe I did make a little too much," the Harbinger muses somewhat sheepishly as he looks at the table he had just finished setting. It was without a doubt too much food for only two people, the table at risk of collapsing under the weight of it all. You could only nod in agreement.

"Your guard might appreciate a plate," you offered, as though one more person would make much of a difference against the mountain of food. You had to admit, everything did look delicious. The table was laid out with fried eggs, some porridge, a few sandwiches with sausage on them, what appeared to you to be some kind of crêpes, pancakes of some sort, the bowl of cut strawberries, and a kettle of tea. It would be no trouble finding people willing to eat the excess food.

"I suppose my subordinates deserve a nice breakfast," the redhead sighs dramatically, "They're lucky they have such a nice boss."

"Mhm, and if you ever fall out with the Fatui you could certainly find a job as a cook," you reply after sampling a forkful of his work. Living in Liyue had you more accustomed to chopsticks, but it was evident after going through Childe's kitchen that he did not own a pair. As a witness to his attempts at using them, you weren't very surprised by this finding. A fork was easy enough to figure out, anyway.

"I'm glad you like it," the redhead responds with a grin, quickly busying himself with his own plate. As he eats, he begins to talk about having similar breakfasts with his family in Snezhnaya. This turns into him recounting learning how to make these dishes with his mother and you quietly listen along, making the occasional comment and smiling fondly at his memories and the way he became more animated as he spoke about his family.

The sun had emerged by the time each of you had eaten what you could, and you cleared the plates while Childe ordered his guard to distribute the remaining food to his subordinates stationed in Liyue. You were halfway through cleaning the dishes when the Snezhnayan waltzed into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He contented himself with watching, not bothering to even offer his assistance.

"I was thinking we should do something. I've been cooped up for too long. Maybe a casual hike up Mt. Aozang?" he suggested, causing you to pause in your ministrations and glance back at him with a raised brow. No hike up Mt. Aozang would be a casual one considering the terrain and potential enemies of the area.

"It's been less than a full day," you pointed out, "And, hm, what was it? Oh yeah, and you have a few broken ribs."

"What are a few broken ribs to a Fatui Harbinger?"

"It's a no, Childe," you firmly insisted, causing him to groan and mumble about you being a 'spoil sport'. It was easy enough to ignore him as you finished up with your small chore.

"I'm using your shower," you informed him once you turned away from the sink. He only hummed in response, still pouting against the counter. It was all you could do to not roll your eyes at his childish behavior.

"What am I even supposed to do for six weeks if I can't go out and fight things?" he whined, and this time you did roll your eyes.

"Well, maybe you can still improve your fighting," you mused, "Have you ever tried working on your strategy? Because that could definitely use some improvement."

The Harbinger huffed indignantly at your words, taking the mature route and sticking his tongue out at you as you left the kitchen to take a shower. He could pout to himself in the kitchen while you had a relaxing shower.

The apartment's bathroom was on the smaller side, but it was still easily workable and didn't feel at all cramped. You had brought with you your own toiletries, but that didn't stop you from poking around Childe's well-organized things out of curiosity. There wasn't anything of particular interest so you decided to just get cleaned up and figure out what to do for the day.

Leaving the bathroom wrapped in a towel and feeling refreshed, you made your way to the guest room to pull out something to wear for the day. You decided on something comfortable, it didn't seem like you'd be going out today anyways and if you did you could always change into something more suitable. After getting dressed and taking care of a few more things, you left the guest room in search of Childe.

It was a simple task finding the Harbinger, he was seated at the table flipping through the pages of a book. You were more than surprised to see it was a book on battle strategy, although you noted it was one focused on group tactics to be used in war organization. You supposed it shouldn't have been any great shock to find he had such books, considering his position as a Fatui Harbinger who was known for his knack for combat. But to actually find him taking your advice was not something you had expected.

"Finally done with your shower?" Childe asked, looking up from his reading, "Good, you were stinky."

His tone made it clear he was joking, and you gasped in mock offense. You both laughed at this, his cerulean eyes shining with amusement. You weren't sure you'd ever seen eyes more beautiful than his.

"Anyways, I was thinking we should go for a walk around the harbor and have a late lunch a Wanmin. Then we can just wander looking for stuff to do, or we could go out to that one boat. Or maybe Zhongli will be at the market and invite us for tea," Childe suggested, setting the book down on the table. You raised your brows at his 'plan'.

"It's been a long time since I've had any time off and I don't know what to do," he justified, crossing his arms over his chest. You only shook your head, smiling softly at his pout.

"Alright, I wouldn't mind a walk around the harbor, at least. Lunch at Wanmin sounds good too. We'll see what happens afterward," you conceded, watching his expression immediately brighten. Just a walk shouldn't be too strenuous, so you weren't terribly worried about his bones. Plus, you wouldn't be able to keep him in bed all day and this was a much better alternative to him going out and finding a fight.

"Let me just get changed into something more presentable."

It wasn't long before you were walking along the docks of the harbor with Childe. You were hand in hand with him, the redhead had grabbed your hand early on, intertwining your fingers with a cheeky grin. You didn't resist when he did this, comfortable with showing the small amount of affection even in public.

Looking out across the calm waters of the harbor, you couldn't help but think it matched the blue of the Harbinger's eyes. While he had an excellent poker face when necessary, Childe's eyes were often very expressive, allowing an easy read of his mood at a glance. Smiling fondly at the thought, you squeezed his hand gently before moving on.

The rest of the day progressed just as pleasantly, both you and Childe enjoying the sights of Liyue before getting lunch at Wanmin as he'd planned. After eating, you browsed the various stalls of Liyue's busy market, admiring the vast array of goods on display.

As the Snezhnayan had earlier predicted, you did meet Zhongli at the market and he did invite you two for tea. You wondered if he had planned it with Childe, but the polite man seemed entirely surprised to have encountered the both of you.

Tea with Zhongli turned out to be quite a lengthy endeavor, and you were rather exhausted by the end of it. He had recounted the history of Liyue well into the evening, in a way that reminded you of a professor during a lecture. It was Childe who was finally able to excuse the both of you, after several hours of education on the historic importance of Silk Flowers.

"Well, I did make a promise that I would rest, so I'm afraid we must be going."

"Ah, yes. It is always good to keep your promises," Zhongli agreed sagely, his words carrying a strange gravity. With polite goodbyes, you left with Childe to return to his apartment. The walk back was through darkness thanks to the hour, but the streets of Liyue were lit and there was still plenty of activity.

It was no surprise that both you and Childe were ready for bed by the time you made it through the door. He mumbled out a mostly unintelligible apology for how long tea with Zhongli had lasted before kissing the top of your forehead and disappearing into his room.

You stood in the hallways shocked by the affectionate gesture for a few seconds before deciding it would be best to just go to bed and forget about it. Surely the action was purely the result of exhaustion.

This time when you woke up the sun had already risen. Silently, you thanked Morax for not having to wake up to Childe's noisy breakfast-making. Even if his cooking was really good, without sleep you'd eventually become rather cranky, to put it lightly.

Exiting the spare bedroom, you found the Harbinger sprawled out on the couch looking through a stack of papers. You assumed it was Fatui business, something which you wanted nothing to do with at the moment. Maybe at another time, you would be interested in their secrets, but as of right now, they weren't really your problem.

"How are you feeling? In any pain?" you asked casually, making your way to the kitchen to retrieve some ice. Regardless of his answer, it was still advised to ice his side regularly.

"Mm, I'm fine. Took some of the medication earlier," he replied, most of his focus still on the documents in his hands. You briefly wondered how often it was that the Eleventh Harbinger did paperwork as opposed to fieldwork. You would have assumed he had a secretary or something for this kind of thing, though you supposed it made some sense for him to do it if he wasn't out in the field.

Leaving the kitchen with another makeshift icepack, you noticed he had set the papers down on the coffee table and draped an arm over his eyes. You raised a brow at this but didn't say anything as you placed the icepack on his side and sat on the couch where there was space beside his legs.

"I don't think I can last six weeks like this. I'm already dying of boredom," he confessed, raising his arm to see your response.

"I'm not sure I can last six weeks either," you replied snarkily. It seemed lost on him as he nodded in agreement before furrowing his brows and scowling at you. Realization.

"Hey, wait! What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, sitting up quickly and wincing at the resulting pain. You picked up the icepack that had slid down and pressed it against his side until one of his hands came up to hold it in place.

"It means I think sometimes you're a bit much," you laughed in response, ruffling his hair and causing his scowl to deepen. He swatted your hand away from his hair using his free hand, and you only smiled in amusement.

"I'll have you know I'm a fucking delight and you adore me," he asserted, staring you dead in the eyes with a challenging look. Now that he was closer, your eyes were drawn to the light smattering of freckles that crossed his nose and dusted both cheeks. From a distance, they weren't really visible, but now you could clearly see them.

"Mhm," you agreed absently, bringing a hand up to lightly cradle his jaw, swiping your thumb slowly across his cheek. It was only when he started leaning in that it dawned on you exactly what you were doing and how intimate it seemed. By the time his lips were pressed against yours, heat had risen to your cheeks and you were certain your face was a brilliant shade of scarlet. Luckily his eyes were closed so he couldn't see you in such a state, but you had a feeling he was able to feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.

Despite your flirtations having been unintentional, you didn't push Childe away. Instead, you wrapped your arms loosely around his shoulders and fell into the slow rhythm he had set. You heard the soft thump of something being tossed onto the coffee table, but you were distracted from that when his hands found your sides and he pulled you into his lap.

A soft breath left you when his lips moved down to your neck to place gentle kisses there. The featherlight touch had goosebumps raising across your skin and you were almost embarrassed by your body's reactions.

"Alright, maybe six weeks won't be too bad," Childe murmured against your neck and you could feel his smile. It made your heart flutter, you weren't sure you liked that.

"Oh, what made you change your mind?" you asked innocently, a hint of laughter in your voice.

"Mm, I wonder." His lips began trailing back up your neck and over your jaw until he sealed them over yours again. The drag of his tongue across your bottom lip had you opening your mouth for him without a thought. In response, he pulled you closer to him, one hand reaching up to tangle in your hair.

When he finally pulled away, he smirked at your flushed appearance and the fact you were a bit breathless. The way he looked at you made butterflies flutter in your stomach and when his ocean eyes dropped to gaze at your lips you felt the overwhelming urge to flee.

"I need to go. I want to get you some proper icepacks from Baizhu and I should probably do some grocery shopping for you," you blurted, standing up. His arms fell easily away from you, but he looked up at you with a surprised and what you thought might be a slightly hurt expression.

"Um, okay," was all he could say as you retreated to the guest room to get dressed in something more appropriate for going out in public. Changing didn't take very long and you made sure to bring Mora along as you fled the apartment with barely so much as a 'goodbye'. Childe was still sitting stunned on the couch as you breezed out the door.

Running away was always a good way to deal with your problems.

[kkaeyva]

work of art

𐐪𐑂 includes: delusional corrupted!albedo

𐐪𐑂 summary: even when the world ends, you will always be part of his canvas.

𐐪𐑂 genres + warnings: angst, major character death, blood mention, swearing, spider mention, food mention, that’s about it i think

𐐪𐑂 note: today i woke up and chose violence on readers’ hearts

𐐪𐑂 word count: 1.3k

albedo’s eyes flutter open to welcome the presence of the morning sun filtering through the window. he hums something quite monotone as he lifts the covers off of him, sitting up to observe the room, as he always does.

“good morning, love,” he presses a gentle kiss to your skin and tries not to flinch when his lips meet glass, cold like it’s been frosted over from chilly winter air. the blonde makes a mental note to make you a warm coffee, maybe something to wake you up— but for now, he’ll focus on himself first. (you are still asleep, after all.)

his blue eyes dig into the bathroom mirror, just barely under enough to penetrate the surface of the cold glass like a pebble into a still lake. he recognizes the person who stares back at him, though he’s not sure he’d call him a friend. a foe would not be a good title either. he blinks himself out of his trance and reaches for his toothbrush.

albedo doesn’t cough very often, and when he does, it’s only a natural reflex to clear his throat; this is one of those times.

“my throat’s quite dry today,” he observes as his fingers brush over the diamond-shaped tattoo that sits upon his neck. the skin feels rough under his fingertips, so he gulps down a glass of water to wash away the feeling. (it does nothing to help though, and albedo is left feeling more unnerved than before.)

the breeze adopts a faint melody of whispers and rhymes; characteristic of mondstadt, albedo thinks. though he was always neutral about the weather, he clearly recalls how rejoiced you used to get whenever you felt the sun on your skin. he smiles absently at the thought and considers stepping outside today, for your sake. and of course, just for your sake, he gives in to the urge.

he steps over sticks and rubble as he walks out into the open. the sun shines as it always does, as if it ignores the issues of the world below; narcissistic, as things are. he turns the other cheek when the sunlight extends a ray to caress his skin with fiery warmth.

nevermind, he sighs as the door creaks shut behind him, this was a bad idea.

the controllable, indoor lighting is much more his style. it works with him when the weather does not; a cooperative being. as such, it illuminates something in the corner of his eye, as if it were the guidance at the end of a tunnel: his forgotten, blank canvases collecting dust.

and, just to humour himself, he picks a less dusty one up. it’s not too big nor small, able to sit comfortably on his well-worn easel. there’s nothing in the room that inspires him, he realizes, but he also doesn’t want to make the trek to dragonspine. (the sun is not very comforting at the moment, you see.) he settles on a tried and true muse— you, of course.

so he begins.

the curve of your jaw is natural to him. so is the way you pucker your lips and the way your eyes crease when you smile. the tone of your skin and how the shadows dance along it has long since been committed to his memory. he makes quick work of painting you, but he feels something is missing. there should be something or someone beside you, smiling and enjoying the environment in the painting just as much.

right, he almost laughs at his own naïvety, he has to be there beside you.

(now, albedo isn’t one to draw self-portraits very often, but he tries to paint himself as accurately as possible when he does. and so he brings a mirror.)

albedo stares perplexedly at the same reflection he ignored this morning. no, no. he must’ve remembered himself wrong. he definitely does not recognize the person staring back at him. it makes him want to cry.

where has the brightness in his eyes gone? and the dark circles around his eyes weren’t there last time he checked. he looks sickly, a pool of guilt and hatred in his eyes. the star at his neck has morphed into a disgusting shade of violet, with spidery legs extending from it like someone smashed a hammer directly into glass. the broken expression he sees in the mirror makes his mind spiral.

he rushes outside. the sun burns as if he poured one of his potions directly onto his skin. it doesn’t matter to him at the moment, though, because surely—

the tall, overarching buildings of mondstadt are now only piles of rubble and ruins littering the ground. there is no wind, not even a light breeze. the statue of the anemo archon is what he assumes to be the giant, grey figure laid down on its side as if it was a god defeated in battle.

like the statue, albedo crumbles. he falls down onto his knees and it brings a stinging, painful shock throughout his body but he really can’t afford to care about that right now.

did he...

did he do this?

he wants to scream. his throat restricts him, much too dry to even let out a hoarse whisper.

he wants to cry. when his tears flow down his face, it feels thick; disgusting. it feels like blood— not his, though. (it’s so much worse when it isn’t his.) he can’t name whose blood it is; there are too many names going through his mind: lisa, jean, amber, venti, sucrose, klee, you. (oh, you.) his tears spill down his face. he gets up only to run away from it, away from the blood. he seeks your comfort as he rushes through the house (please please please be there—)

where are you?

where have you gone?

albedo picks up the picture frame on the nightstand. (funny how it perfectly reflects in the lighting— archons damn this controllable fucking lighting! leave him alone! let him wallow in his own self-destruction!) your smiling eyes look at him fondly. he doesn’t deserve your kindness, does he? but he really, really needs it.

he traces your face with his hands, covered in the transparent blood of all those he cared about and more, and flinches when he meets the icy, cold glass. his mind connects the dots at the last minute. he barely registers the sound of glass breaking as the picture frame hits the floor with a shattering impact.

there is only one last place for him to go.

he stumbles to his easel. the canvas is safe, thank the archons, though his palette and paintbrush have fallen to the floor, long since drying and staining the hardwood with the colours of you.

he gasps lightly, in awe, when you positively glow, not exactly like the sun, nor like the candlelight of the house’s ceiling lamps— something new, something different. something he fears he is too corrupted for. something he wants to protect for the rest of his life.

albedo lifts his hand to caress your face, only to reel back in horror when the only half-dried paint sticks onto his fingers and stains his skin with your colours. your beautiful, perfectly sculpted face is now smudged— just as delicate as he remembers.

and even though you look like you are melting, fading away from his life, he smiles, basking in your light. his throat starts to burn again when he tries to say “i love you,” and the paint on his hands feels more like (your) blood when he tries to wipe it off— he’s become numb to the horrifying feeling, even just for a little while. he’ll spend his time loving you, even if his memory dies like paint going down the drain when he washes it off the palette. he cherishes you so, even when his neck looks and feels like crackled glass. he’ll paint you over and over again, and when he runs out of paint, he’ll find more. he’ll create more, no matter what.

(why?

because you were always a work of art.

and you always will be.

now, would you say the same about him?)

[emerald-amidst-gold]

I am once again asking for more Fane x Solas fluff <3

71. Waking up and just laying in bed, admiring how calm and cute they look when they're sleeping in your arms.

AH! AHHH! Friend, you have chosen my bread and butter! My ultimate, favorite thing to write Fane and Solas because it's so tender and cute to my soul! Fluff for you! Fluff for ALL! *dances while throwing around flowers*

***

Fane was a dominating force. Immovable as a wall upon the field of battle, inherent madness and Veil-born rage mixing to create an indomitable force as it crashed and sliced with spectral claw and stagnant blade alike. Cool and collected when faced with the chessboard of war, commands concise and pragmatism deemed heretical and callous to some. Emerald and gold orbs baring down upon the enemies of an organization he had never wished to be apart of, but found himself leading, ancient ideology and phantasmal gavel knocking against the familiar stone, echoing to the Fade and back with the verdict of, 'Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.'. The dragon was feared by many, even as they knew not of his true identity, but Solas knew the truth. A truth so interwoven with complexity that it was misunderstood.

And that was that Fane, deep down inside, in blessed hours of solitude, was no more than a person who desired to be cherished, to be cared for, and that was what Solas saw now, as he lay on his side, just...watching a normally hard, scowling, but most of all, ethereal face born of love and devotion find respite amid a tumultuous storm, lips lax and brows unfurrowed.

"It is rare that I wake up before you, my dragon..", Solas whispered to the morning air, keeping his tone hushed enough so as not to wake a sleeping dragon. It was far earlier than normal for him, the sun just slightly peeking up over the lofty mountains of the Frostbacks, but he found, for once, he didn't mind being vaulted from his dreams and the Fade if he got to see this view.

Fane's face was calm, peaceful, ivory, but inked visage free of a sneer. Snowy hair was mussed more so than usual, making Solas reach up tentatively to try and tame an errant, short lock, but only let out a quiet chuckle refused to yield. Every aspect of his heart was tenacious it would seem.

"I wonder..", Solas murmured, shifting a bit to lay on his stomach, propping himself up with an elbow and resting his chin in his hand to peer down with quiet serenity at his slumbering heart. "..was it your love, you desire for me that shaped you, or was it your spirit? One so tenacious and bright as to bend the laws of magic and life?", he asked the air, shivering lightly from where the furs fell from his bare shoulders, but it only had him feeling warm as it reminded him of the snowy creature below.

A regal, sharp pointed nose twitch a bit, a quiet sniffle following it as a minor irritation invaded it, but it soon passed to allow a weary visage to find shelter once more, smooth and calm. Solas smiled tenderly, unable to resist the desire of lightly stroking the backs of his fingers against that very face he so adored, so cherished.

"Mm..", Fane hummed out gruffly, but showed no signs of actually rousing. Solas chuckled at that, taking his hand away to delicately trace along faded green ink, a pinch in his heart nearly ruining the blessed atmosphere of this chilly, dewy morning.

"You should never have known the weight of these shackles, my heart.", Solas whispered, voice tinged with soft sorrow as he continued to trace the vallaslin of Sylaise, the bearer having chosen them to hide his face, to hide his pain. "If I had only done things differently, then perhaps..", he trailed off with a sigh, stopping his path of painful memories harnessed in ink and snow. There was no use mourning what he could not change. His dragon was here, alive, and that was what mattered.

Even as the rest of the bore but a fraction of that life to him, to them.

A sudden warm grip against one of his forearms had Solas startling a bit, blinking as he tore from his typical musings to see two glittering, but still slightly hazy emerald pools gazing up at him, the gold that was normally prevalent like ebbing fireflies masked from sleep and quiet emotions.

Solas smiled a bit, sour mood slowly ebbing away like the sleep in draconic eyes. "Good morning, ma'isenatha.", he murmured in greeting, humming fondly as a lightly calloused thumb stroked his forearm. "Sleep well?"

Fane nuzzled into the pillow a bit, a semblance of a nod. "Sorta..", he muttered out, voice deeper than usual and rough, pleasantly, pleasantly rough. Solas began to card through snowy, short locks, worrying a tip between his fingers and smiling fondly as a content sigh slipped from pale lips.

"Every victory counts, vhenan.", he assured, leaning down to press a light kiss to a lax temple, holding the side of Fane's head reverently and using a minor, minor bit of magic to soothe a headache he knew was always there first thing in the morning. "Even if that victory is small; it is worthwhile."

It hurt sometimes that he could not do more for Fane's night terrors and trauma born memories, but the ward on his mind was potent and even Dreamer abilities made it oddly difficult to pierce that particular veil. Even so, they would find a way to dispel it and he would give his dragon the freedom that he deserved.

"Mm..", Fane hummed out again, slowly starting to doze off again as his deep breathing began to slow once more, broad, scarred shoulders rising and falling with the action. Solas chuckled, but allowed the man before him to sleep. It was still early after all. They did not have to be up for a few hours yet.

"Go back to sleep, ma lath.", Solas encouraged with a tender whisper, slowly guiding himself back down and resituating the covers over both him and Fane, the latter letting out a lazy, but grateful grunt. He made sure they were perfectly nestled before shifting closer to the beacon of heat, chuckling as a muscled arm instinctively wound around him, shutting his eyes to greet the call of sleep with willing consent. "I am not going anywhere without you. I promise.", he murmured as he laid a soft kiss against relaxed lips, smiling a bit as the gesture was lightly reciprocated before burrowing into a warm neck.

That was his vow; to never abandon the one that had broken barriers, real and imaginable, to reach him, to connect, to support him again. The path would be long, they could die, but not without seeing each other's face one last time as painful and as bitterly sweet it could be for they would both be lax, calm, and accepting as neither one found themselves alone at blackness' siren call.

***

Fluff and angst! *froths at the mouth* I AM SLAVE TO IT.

[lovelylogans]

debutante

previous chapter | chapter two | next chapter

part of the wyliwf verse.

warnings: mention of creepy adults/pedophilia, transphobia, memory loss problems, food mentions, kissing/making out, arguing, 

pairings: logince, moxiety

words: 21,995

notes: there are spoiler warnings for the first three seasons of downton abbey, and dee and logan have a discussion of journalistic ethics that includes a mention of a teacher that is creepy toward teenage girls; it’s an abstract idea for the sake of argument, there is no actual creepy teacher, but i wanted to put a warning in here anyway.

⁂

he really needs to get on patton about getting a new rug for his bedroom, virgil muses.

his bare feet are resting against the hardwood of patton’s floor. patton, who usually clings to inanimate objects with an intensity fueled almost entirely by reminiscing, even patton had admitted he probably should let go of the raggedy bedroom rug, and he’d been meaning to replace it, but. he hasn’t yet. so virgil’s sitting on patton’s bed, waiting for patton to finish brushing his teeth and washing his face, so that they can curl up in bed and go to sleep. 

that’s a new thing—it’s not entirely new, but new enough that virgil feels too awkward to just curl up in patton’s bed and wait for him to come back. so. virgil is sitting here, in his pajamas, thinking about patton’s bare bedroom floor and his need for a new rug.

and not thinking about the various strides he and patton have been making in their relationship, slow but sure. virgil knows that patton’s really excited, and eager to move forward in their relationship, and virgil is too, but, surprise surprise, virgil’s anxious about it, so patton’s been very understanding about moving at a much slower pace than he’s used to—“you’re worth it, honey,” patton had said, his chin hooked over virgil’s shoulder as they cuddled at night, “there’s no rush at all. it’s been this long, ya know? i want to do all of this right,” and really, virgil did not deserve patton, he really didn’t.

there’s the sound of bare feet padding down the hallway, though, and virgil looks up, smiling despite himself, as patton opens the door. 

“hey,” he says warmly, closing the door behind him and shutting off the light—the lamps on the bedside tables are still lit—and patton continues his path, only detouring to lean down to kiss virgil sweetly before he sits down on his side of the bed. 

“hey,” virgil echoes, and at last swings his legs up on the bed, settling back against the pillows. “how was your day?”

this part he likes a lot, too—this, sitting in the same bed, talking about their days. it’s cavity-inducingly domestic.

patton hums, already squirming to be under the covers, and virgil copies him; they’ll move to cuddle once they’re done talking, virgil knows, so he mostly just stays where he is.

“the usual,” patton says. “um—got news of a wedding incoming, so i’m sure i’ll be going nutty about that in… a year and half or so.”

virgil knows that the weddings held at the inns hold some of patton’s favorite and least favorite parts of the job—helping make people happy, seeing people fall in love all over again, making everything so beautiful and lovely, but also, bridezillas and flighty grooms—and he smiles, mentally calculating. “you don’t usually get fall weddings, right? that’s mostly a spring/summer thing.”

“i know!” patton says brightly. “i hope they timed it nice so that it’s a warm fall day, and they get all the pretty leaves falling, and the sun hits the ceremony just right…”

“that sounds nice,” virgil says honestly, because it does—a picturesque fall wedding, sookie making some fancy version of an apple fritter for appetizers, a pumpkin-flavored cake. “fall wedding, i mean. it’s so pretty here in fall, i know we get boosted tourism because of it, but. not many weddings.”

“not many weddings,” patton agrees, and squeezes his arm. “and it’s a lesbian wedding, too, so from the conversation we had, i really think they’re gonna lean into the whole witchy-alternative vibe. the word celestial was thrown around a lot.”

“oh, that’ll be really fun,” virgil says, refining his mental image—black dresses and a tux, maybe, star-studded hairpieces, lots of fairy lights. “you’ll have to remind me when it’s actually being set up, i want to see how they decide to decorate. you never get to do witchy lesbian alternative celestial-themed weddings.”

patton laughs, and leans in a little closer to virgil. “no, i can’t say i’ve ever gotten to help out with a witchy lesbian alternative celestial-themed wedding. so that’ll be fun!”

patton continues with other work things—he has a much sooner wedding in spring, and unfortunately it is not a lesbian wedding, but a double wedding of two sets of insufferably rich twins, so there’s a lot to deal with there—before he winds down and says, “well, that’s about it with me, really, how ‘bout you?”

“um, pretty calm, pretty typical,” virgil says, before he reaches over and squeezes patton’s thigh. “oh, before i forget, the middle davis kid—”

“yeah?”

“—going by brick for now, while they’re trying to figure out what fits better,” virgil says. he leaves his hand on patton’s thigh, because. well. he can.

“brick,” patton says, delighted. “oh, that’s a great nickname for them—every time i see them, they’re insistent that they’re gonna bulk up and hit a growth spurt any day now.”

virgil allows himself a grin—brick is a pretty ironic nickname for a skinny little korean-irish kid who’s been hankering for their growth spurt since they could have possibly hit puberty, and now at age fourteen it was definitely becoming a bit more plaintive, but they also said it’s because they have the subtlety of a brick, so it fits in at least one way.

“they are still using they/them pronouns, right?” patton checks.

“yeah, still they/them,” virgil says. “you’ll have to ask them if they’ve added any pronouns when they turn up for your get cultured day—which is why i brought it up, brick brought by their dress for me to try and alter so that sequins don’t constantly scrape, so that’ll be a fun little challenge.”

“ooh, i hated wearing sequins at their age,” patton says sympathetically, and pats virgil’s arm. “good luck with that one.”

“other than that, though, today was mostly boring, my interesting stuff all has to do with the debutante ball,” virgil admits, rubbing his thumb back and forth over patton’s thigh. “oh, except for the part where kirk’s trying to sell topical funny t-shirts now.”

“ah, kirk,” patton says fondly. “where would the town be, without kirk and his seemingly millions of part-time jobs?”

“yeah, well, the best he could come up with today was rudy ate oatmeal, so i’m not really holding out hope for the funny t-shirt business,” virgil says.

patton snorts, and then tries to pretend he hadn’t—but, really, kirk becomes way less aggravating when you take him as comic relief. virgil knows, it’s the way he’s managed to stand all of kirk’s eccentricities over the years.

“anyway, yeah, that’s about it,” virgil says. “how'd the dinner go—i mean, i know emily at least gave you the dress, so that went okay, right?”

patton shrugs a shoulder and says, “i guess. i mean, i have a feeling this isn’t over, but… gosh, you should have seen her and logan stare each other down.”

“intense, huh?” he prompts, when patton goes quiet. he squeezes his thigh again, because physical touch is one of patton’s top two love languages. he knows, they took the test together.

patton chews his lip, before he says, “he looked like me. back then, i mean. the look on his face. my mom must’ve seen it a million times when i was his age.”

virgil squeezes a little tighter.

he knows that patton’s teenage years were rough. again, patton doesn’t really like to talk about them—virgil doesn’t blame him—but virgil did see patton struggle through the later end of his teens, and he was there for him when he’d broken down in tears. now, with as old as he is, as removed as they are from it, having seen logan and roman grow up and realizing how truly young patton was when they first met, the thought of teenage patton—struggling so fiercely in a house full of people who hadn’t understood him just made him, how hard patton had had to work to get a better life for himself and his son, the years of therapy patton had gone through—just made him want to grab patton in a hug and never let go.

“so,” patton says, pauses, and lets out a sigh. “i don’t—i don’t know. it went okay. but seeing logan copy me like that, i just…”

virgil leans over to kiss patton on the cheek.

“the difference between you as a teenager and logan as a teenager is massive,” he says lowly. “because logan’s got you, and me, and roman, and ms. prince, and rudy. he’s got this whole bizarre town. you had you, and christopher, i guess, but he didn’t understand. you’ve learned coping mechanisms that you passed onto logan, so he knows other ways to redirect his feelings. if he’s being rebellious to help protest something he thinks is sexist or unjust, i think that’s a pretty good reason to rebel. you did a great job with him. he’s a great kid. yeah?”

“yeah,” patton says very quietly. “yeah, he is.”

“you’ve come really far,” he says, and leans to see patton better, and gently pokes at patton’s cheek, just to make him smile, and he adds, “plus, i’d think if teenage-rebel you came to the future to see that your son’s protesting the gender stuff you’d been struggling with, i think that would’ve made you pretty happy, huh?”

and, yes, patton does smile at that, and something in virgil relaxes at the sight.

“yeah,” patton says. “yeah, i think it really would’ve.”

“well, good,” virgil says, and kisses his cheek, before he decides to just kinda go for it and lean in to wrap his arms around patton, initiating the cuddling early. “so, other than that déj�� vu—”

“it went okay,” patton says, wiggling into virgil’s arms. “i mean—still weird to look at the dress that my mom bought for me. but other than that, it was okay.”

virgil hums sympathetically, and presses a kiss to patton’s head.

“well,” he says. “i’m gonna adjust it so that it’s logan’s dress, and his dress only. does that help?”

he feels patton smile against his collarbone.

“you know,” he says musingly. “i think it really does.”

⁂

logan has never walked into a store afraid to touch something before.

granted, most stores he walks into are grocery stores or convenience stores; clothing stores, sometimes, mostly before the school year or whenever roman decides he simply must check out the latest collection of things that the outlet mall in woodbridge had to offer. most of the time, the stores logan knew were quiet, maybe with some inoffensive music piped in, with products he knew how to use, or how they looked.

this was not the case in a bridal boutique.

which is where logan and roman are; though logan had the dress once intended for his father, roman still needed to get his own, and had so enticed logan to come along with him to help him choose.

it’s a saturday afternoon, and they’re technically on a date. there’s a bookstore just across the street, and a frozen yogurt parlor near there, and a thrift store they could dive into so logan could see the second-hand books and roman could hunt for some kind of retro statement piece.

logan inspects his hands again. there’s a stray inky blue smear across his hand that must have gotten there when he was taking his notes earlier today. he eyes the pearly-white tulle suspiciously, and takes a step closer to the center of the room, away from any of the merchandise.

objectively, he knows that touching these delicate, temperamental fabrics and testing the sensation of them by running his hand along the skirts won’t harm them, but. logan has laid eyes upon the price tags in this room. he is not going to even slightly risk ruining these dresses, somehow. 

roman’s spinning some kind of tale for the bemused, yet seemingly enthusiastic dress attendant—something something debutante ball, something something drag family induction, something something the most experimental stuff you’ve got!—and logan considers a dress a shade of blush pink so light it’s practically white, with a delicate, lacy flower overlay, the whiteness of the flowers being the only thing to really give away the pinkness of the dress itself. he wants to reach out and rub the material between his fingers.

he also knows that, with the location in the store and the quality of the material, the dress likely costs upwards of five thousand dollars. possibly more. maybe even double.

“logan!” and logan looks away, to where roman’s waving him back toward the dressing room section. thank god, somewhere to sit and not worry about accidentally tripping over a dress and leave an irreversible mud print from his shoe, or something.

the attendant burbles something along the lines of “so supportive!” that logan doesn’t really listen to, and doesn’t really have to respond to, because she’s pointing roman in the direction of a dressing room and logan gets to sit down in a chair and finally not worry about catching a ragged edge of his fingernail in a veil and accidentally ripping it in two.

logan waits until the attendant leaves, and says, “you’re really getting a dress from here?”

“it’s not all high-end,” roman says. “they have some old samples that they’re desperate to get rid of—that’s the kind of thing i want.”

logan nods, absorbing this, and his shoulders start to relax. obviously, roman’s monetary discretions are not up to him, at all. considering it comes from either his mother or working at his mother’s studio, therefore it should primarily be roman’s concern or ms. prince’s concern, but it is reassuring to know that roman isn’t about to ransack his college fund to get a pretty dress he’ll wear once as a prank.

the attendant comes back with armfuls of tulle, which roman claps his hands at with excitement, and steps into the dressing room with her. the door closes behind them, and logan can just barely hear their muted conversation beyond the door.

logan digs around in his backpack and pulls out his history textbook, his history notebook, and a pen; he may as well study while roman’s getting primped.

he gets through about a third of the chapter on enlightenment ideals by the time the door opens again.

he puts down his pen and glances up in enough time to carefully fold his lip under his teeth in an attempt not to laugh.

roman makes sure the attendant is occupied with adjusting the train before he pulls a blech! face at logan, one he’s accustomed to seeing whenever someone attempts to serve roman anything with cauliflower.

blech, logan thinks, is right. the fabric looks like it’s made of aluminum foil. it’s all bunched up in the front, like the dress is made of paper that’s been crumpled up by a giant hand, but there’s a long train in the back, and the whole thing is bedecked with big, chunky gems, like plastic rhinestones.

of the pair of them, roman’s always been the more fashionably-minded one, but even logan can tell this dress is not good.

“what do you think?” the attendant asks.

“it’s…. unique,” roman says diplomatically, smoothing his hands along the fabric; the bodice is strange, and clearly not fitted to suit roman’s chest. “definitely on the right track toward campy. but, um—”

“you tend to favor golds over silvers,” logan offers, which is true; one of roman’s signature colors was gold for a reason. “the crumpled look isn’t the best, either. you could certainly pull off a, um—”

he makes a hand gesture, and roman offers, “high-low skirt.”

“—right, high-low skirt, but the bodice isn’t the best, either,” logan continues. “something more theatrical would suit your personality, certainly, but i think that’s more in terms of, you know. a very outdated dress, or maybe something ostentatious, but not—”

“not this kind of ostentatious, yeah,” roman finishes for him, and the attendant looks between them, seemingly starting to question why she took in two teenage boys to try on dresses. the look falters, though, and she pastes a smile onto her face—professionalism must prevail, logan supposes.

“back to the dressing room, then!”

she trots roman out in a few other options—an a-line dress with a lacy bodice and a tulle skirt, a trumpet dress with chantilly lace and a sheer back, a relatively simple a-line dress that roman keeps twisting around in to gleefully poke at the massive bow perched at the small of his back—and logan offers commentary when asked. as she sees roman adjust the bow again, the attendant smiles.

“you like the bow?”

“i like the bow,” roman agrees, grinning. “i look like a birthday present.”

“all right,” she says. “i’ll bring out something a bit more experimental again—”

at the looks on their faces, she adds, “not quite as avant-garde as the first dress. actually, it’s fairly old-fashioned, but i think it might have that theatrical aspect you’re looking for. i’ll go back and change you out of this one and bring it back for you so you can take a look, does that sound good?”

roman agrees, and accepts her hand down off the stand, with a wink at logan, before they go off into the dressing room together. logan turns again to his history textbook; he’s nearly done with the chapter, which means one less thing to stress about when he should be focusing on a date with roman.

he can hear roman laugh from inside the dressing room and, unbidden, the corners of his mouth lift, too. either this dress is hilariously terrible, or roman’s thrilled at the idea of wearing this dress which he thinks is perfect for him.

when roman hops up onto the stand, logan honestly can’t tell which it is.

it’s like some fashion designer decided to stick every terrible fashion trend from the eighties onto one dress. there are big, puffy balloon sleeves made of tulle, secured with rosettes, in addition to typical spaghetti straps with smaller rosettes all over them; there’s a panel of beading down the bodice; there’s an overlay of rows and rows of ruffly tulle over a skirt of satin.

and, of course, there is a big, fluffy bow, perched right at the small of roman’s back.

it is extra. it is absurd. it is dramatic.

“i love it,” roman says gleefully. “oh, my goodness, it’s so much!”

it is, of course, roman.

“you look beautiful,” logan offers, and roman flashes a radiant smile in his direction, before he turns to offer his exuberant thanks to the attendant, who seems relieved (”we’ve had that sample longer than i’ve worked here, i’m sure they’ll be thrilled we’re rid of it!”) and takes roman into the dressing room, to help him out of the dress and go ring him up.

logan packs up his history book with some satisfaction; he has succeeded in taking notes for this chapter, which meant that frees up some time tomorrow, which meant he could probably work to get ahead in his latin class.

or, more likely, his dad would insist he go out and do something fun, despite the fact that he’s clearly doing something fun now. and yes, fine, he’s brought his textbooks, but clearly there was time to study here, so logan will provide this chapter of notes as an example as to why studying in the midst of a date was necessary.

logan slings his backpack over his shoulder just as roman emerges from the dressing room, in the same outfit he’d been in before he’d enlisted on a dress-shopping extravaganza; despite the fact that he’s wearing a red linen button-down tucked into a pair of high-waisted, dark-washed jeans, along with a dark overcoat to fight any of the last of the spring chill, a look that still seems very put-together—it seems almost like he’s a little underdressed, after all of the wedding dresses.

he doesn’t voice this—underdressed or not, roman constantly looks lovely—and instead he offers his arm, saying, “shall we go pay?”

“we shall,” roman says in an officious british accent, probably making fun of logan, just a little, but he laces his arm through logan’s anyway, and tugs him out of the dressing room area, to the front, where he chitchats cheerfully with the attendant and takes the truly massive garment bag, hoisting it above his head to avoid letting it drag on the ground.

“virgil’s going to have a hell of a time with this dress,” roman says gleefully. “should we go and grab a cummerbund for him? you know, just to make things easier for him.”

“he’s going to complain the whole time he gets all dressed up,” logan points out.

“i know,” roman says brightly, and tugs logan again. “c’mon, let’s go drop this in the car so we can go get fro-yo. i hope they’ve got gummy worms, i wanna make the super-fruity bowl this time.”

“so it falls to me to make some chocolatey flavor, i suppose,” logan says; for the pair of them frozen yogurt, unlike lucy’s, is prone to sharing, and as to avoid unfortunate flavor combinations, such as pineapple tart and whoppers, each of them make a bowl for each flavor—one for fruity flavors, and one for chocolatey flavors. “do you think i should combine coffee and fudge brownie?”

roman kisses him on the cheek, even as he’s pushing the door of the dress store open. “you’re a genius, my darling love.”

logan realizes in the middle of a bowl of coffee-chocolate frozen yogurt that roman’s managed to get him to leave behind his textbooks in the car, along with the dress.

he can’t bring himself to mind all that much.

⁂

this plan straight out of the plot of an early 2000s movie, if early 2000s movies had meaningful and visible trans characters, is somehow working.

dee still can’t believe it, somehow, even after a weekend of getting texts from known-but-aren’t-supposed-to-be-known members of secret societies like the porcellians (the porks, to those in the know, and dee is most decisively in the know) and the clairs and the skull and dagger and the sphinx club and the order of the gorgon’s head—truly the secret society names at this school were something else. 

he’s consulting his list on his way to meet up with logan to give him a morning update (could use some more involvement from the knights of the lamp and the old crows, and if he’s truly dreaming big he’ll try to crack all twelve of the twelve peers) when he glances up to see logan at his locker, looking truly startled as he’s being accosted by a freshman, who is waving a piece of paper at him with a fierce look on her face, her voice loud, but dee can’t quite make it out over the chatter and clatter of the morning crowd getting their books for the morning, and catching up over the latest weekend gossip.

as he gets closer, he realizes who it is. poppy mcmaster, whose legal full name is so genuinely atrocious that he could only feel pity for her when he’d scanned all the freshman’s files early in the year. who in their right minds named a child coppelia parthenope mcmaster and expected them not to get brutally bullied? unless, of course, they somehow preternaturally knew that poppy would turn out with the kind of aggressive, single-minded ambition whose brashness made her preschool teacher cry.

he mostly knows her because their families move in similar social circles, as ten generations of mcmaster have attended harvard. she stands at all of 5’2”, quite a bit shorter than logan, and yet she seems to be threatening him.

dee sidles closer to get a better look at her—dirty blonde hair pulled half-up, intense dark brown eyes, chilton uniform in perfect regulation—and approaches right as she’s saying, “some discretion, for the love of god—”

“dee,” logan says, spotting him. “um, this is—” and he glances at her, eyebrows furrowing. “you didn’t say your name.”

“coppelia mcmaster,” dee says, partially to show off but also because, coppelia. “or are you going by parthenope again? or something short for parthenope, anyway.”

poppy scowls at him, fierce, and snarls out, “poppy.”

“of course, of course,” dee says placidly. “poppy. how long has it been? i don’t think we’ve spoken since your bat mitzvah. mazel tov, once again.”

“todah,” poppy says, with the kind of tone one usually reserves for saying thanks for a present they resoundingly dislike. “you’re involved in this whole debutante plot, aren’t you?”

“well, yes,” dee says. “logan’s brainchild, of course, but one could say we’re co-parenting.”

poppy then proceeds to shove a familiar piece of paper into his hands, and she says, “mr. gardiner nearly saw and grabbed this if i hadn’t pretended it was a participation sheet from the student council.”

dee sucks in a breath, turning over the sign-up sheet—oh, wonderful, they have gotten another member of the twelve peers—but his eyes also land on the Contact Logan Sanders for details.

“thank you,” dee says at last, and turns his eyes to logan. “how many of these are up around the school?”

“three,” logan says. “that one included.”

“well, we’ll have to take them down,” dee says decisively. 

“what?” logan says.

“you’ll get in trouble,” poppy says. “detention, suspension, maybe.”

“we are planning to disrupt a large social event for the daughters of the american revolution,” dee says, and glances at logan. “as you can likely imagine, social protest is not exactly the kind of press attention chilton would like to receive.”

logan scowls, and says, “tinker versus des moines—”

“—was a public school,” poppy says impatiently. “i know you came from the backends, sanders, but this is a private school. different rules apply to us.”

“plus, we’re recruiting for protest,” dee says. “i’m not sure how well the tinker test will hold up for us, and i’d rather not find out. the word’s been spread enough, we can further recruit over private text message and dms.”

logan concedes this point with a nod, and he says to dee, “i’ll defer to your judgement.” then, to poppy, “thank you for interfering. that would have complicated matters unnecessarily.”

poppy shrugs, and says matter-of-factly, “it’s common knowledge that either of you will likely be editor when i enter the franklin junior year, i may as well attempt to establish myself as one of your proteges this early on to improve my chances for being assigned the better pieces junior year, and to provide an even clearer path to editor senior year.”

logan looks startled at that, and dee turns admiring eyes to poppy—he’d known her ambitions, of course, but planning this far in advance was preparation that dee could appreciate.

she says to logan, “do you have an escort yet?”

“um,” logan says. “no. no, i don’t.”

“all right then,” poppy says, and fishes out a reporter’s notepad from the side pocket of her backpack, removing a pen from her breast pocket, scrawling, and then ripping out the paper and handing it to him. “consider the slot filled. i’ll do it.”

logan looks at the paper—her phone number—and then back at her. “you’re joining?”

“obviously,” poppy says. “the clairs are involved. my cousin was a clair, her mother was a clair. the connections you make with clairs last the rest of your life. if this helps me get closer to joining with them, i’ll do it, just so i won’t have to spend all year killing myself to get in. plus my mother has been insistent i attend a debutante ball for ages now, she’ll be crushed i’m doing it in a tux, and crushed that i’m not going for the puff route like her, but these are the sacrifices we must make.”

she doesn’t sound particularly sorry about crushing her own mother, but logan acknowledges this with a nod, digging around in his own backpack for a flyer before handing it to her.

“everyone is going to attend a sort of crash-course in debutante ball culture,” he says. “the dance, the bow, the curtsy, so on. here is the address and any supplies you should bring. do you already have a tux, or should i send you some information for rentals?”

“rentals,” poppy says, and exchanges a look with dee—dee knows logan wasn’t raised in all this, but seriously, a rental?

“i take that as a no,” logan says, undeterred, before he zips up his backpack again. 

“fantastic,” poppy says. “i was wondering about the strategy for establishing a working relationship with you, i’ve known him,” she flicks a dismissive gesture toward dee, “for years. it just so happens that this route will also help take care of my social life and allow me to enact some form of teenage rebellion, because it’s been scientifically proven that teenagers who rebel constructively form a robust sense of self and are more likely to a have a clear sense of direction, beliefs, or relational commitment, and those who don’t may find it hard to settle or focus on building a meaningful and satisfying life. this is excellent multi-tasking.”

poppy looks delighted. logan looks like he might be developing a headache. dee has found this a typical reaction to people within proximity of poppy.

⁂

virgil looks up as the bell rings and immediately steps out from behind the counter.

brick is struggling cheerfully with a stack of tupperware in their arms, and virgil takes the top few so that brick can see.

“i got it,” brick complains.

“i don’t want you tripping over chairs, i’m sure you can handle the weight,” virgil says. “i was thinking you could set up over at this table here—right by the door, but out-of-the-way enough so that you don’t have to deal with anyone bumping into you. that cool?”

“yeah, that’s cool,” brick says. “thanks, virgil!” and immediately sets down the tupperware on the table in question. virgil follows suit, setting down his own load, and arches his eyebrows, impressed.

“you guys could put fran and lucy out of business with all these baked goods,” he says.

because that’s what brick is here for—the first shift of kids manning a table for a bake sale, to raise funds to make sure the sideshire kids can afford their slots in the debutante ball. 

brick stares at him for a few seconds.

“sarcasm,” he elaborates, because brick doesn’t really pick up on that too well, most of the time.

“got it,” brick says. “um, i’m gonna go help ellie—they brought a few other things, so save up that comment for them, i’m sure they’d get it.”

“need any help?” he says, knowing full well that brick will say—

“nah, i got it!” brick says, and darts out of the diner again. virgil waits by the door, just in case they need someone to open it for them—which they do, brick with another load of tupperware, and elliott with a poster tucked under their arm, a register in hand, and a plastic jar under their other arm.

“hi, elliott,” virgil says.

“hi, virgil,” elliott says.

“right over here,” virgil says, gesturing to the table, “do you need any help?”

“um, do you have tape?” elliott asks, frowning. “i just realized i don’t have any.”

“tape, got it,” virgil says, and ducks into the back to see if he’s got any in his office.

by the time he’s come back out, brick and elliott are already seated behind the table, arranging the last of the opened tupperware, with the plastic jar having a sign taped over it saying DONATIONS FOR THE BALL, and virgil pauses to dig a ten out of his pocket, dropping it in the jar before he hands over the scotch tape.

“thanks, virgil!” brick cheers, as elliott quietly thanks virgil for the tape and goes about taping the poster to the front of the table. it’s definitely homemade—there’s glitter, and marker, and there’s a little flyer taped beside it that explains what exactly they’re trying to do at the debutante ball.

“you want drinks?” virgil asks, tucking his thumbs into his front pockets. “on the house.”

“ooh, cocoa, please!” brick says. “the—the minty one. do you still do the minty one?”

“i still do the minty one,” virgil says. “peppermint should be a year-round flavor. ellie, you want anything?”

“cocoa/coffee,” elliott says.

“that stunts your growth,” brick points out.

“i’m taller than you,” elliott tells brick, who bristles and immediately opens their mouth, and virgil ducks out to get their drinks.

by the time he brings back the two steaming mugs, brick is finishing off their tirade with “—i’ll end up built like korra, and then you will see.”

“drinks!” virgil says, and sets the mugs down in front of them. “uh, just so you know, we hit one of those weird lulls, so we’ve probably got half an hour or so before things start picking up for dinner rush.”

both of them make noises of acknowledgement.

“so,” virgil says, settling in a chair near them. “elliott, i know you were thinking about what you were gonna wear slash do, did you decide that?”

“i, um,” elliott says, fingers tracing the rim of the mug. “i thought i’d wear, like, a half-dress half-tux thing. i dunno if i’m gonna debut or escort yet, though, that kinda depends.”

“that sounds cool,” virgil says encouragingly. “do you have a picture?”

elliott does, but since it’s only partly designed—their sister liked messing around with fabrics like that—it turns out all the sideshire kids who are planning on going to the ball are in a groupchat, so after elliott’s phone pings with a message from there, there’s a brief tangent that ensues because elliott sends out virgil says hi to everyone and a picture of the bake sale, so virgil gets to hear about everyone’s plans which is also cool. and he also records a video with brick that brick pinky-promises to just send in the chat, so he ends up learning one of the latest memes that the kids are watching these days. god, he’s old.

“the debutante thing’s really awesome,” virgil says. “i kind of wish i’d gotten the chance to do it back in the day.”

elliott looks up at him, and says, “you do?”

“yeah,” virgil says. “i mean, i’m not roman or anything, but i still wear makeup a lot of the time, i’ve got a few makeup palettes, i wore some skirts back in the day—”

brick’s head snaps up at that, and they say, “you did?”

virgil blinks—he’s not sure why this is surprising, but.

“yeah, i did,” virgil says. “i bet i’ve probably still got them buried in my closet somewhere. my heels, too.”

this also gets elliott’s attention.

“you do?” elliott says.

“i mean, maybe,” virgil says. “i might have donated them, i dunno, but—”

“why don’t you wear skirts or heels anymore?” brick says.

“well, right now?” virgil says, and gestures to the outside. “it’s cold. but, uh—i don’t really know.” 

and it hits him—he doesn’t really know. he just kind of kept going for jeans.

“just a habit, i guess,” he continues to the kids, because i don’t know is a bit of a weak answer. “it’s easier to match things with jeans. plus, it looks kinda weird to wear a nice flowing skirt and then just, like, a hoodie and a pair of sneakers i wear all day because i stand all the time. and wearing heels while i stand all day is just asking for a sprained ankle.”

“yeah, that makes sense,” elliott says. “sneakers kinda clash too.”

“but you wear boots too,” brick says, and points. “you’re wearing boots today.”

virgil glances down at his combat boots, the ones that he’s also got the gel foot insoles in. “well, yeah. i guess i am.”

“and leggings or tights would probably help with cold,” elliott says.

virgil looks between them, and says, “you two want me to wear a skirt, don’t you?”

“yes,” they both chorus, unapologetic.

virgil pauses, considering this. well. he definitely has at least one skirt, maybe more, they’re probably just tucked away where he doesn’t see them everyday. and he is fully down for these kids running in there and shaking up the patriarchy. and he does support men, or anyone on the gender spectrum who doesn’t fit soundly in the box of “woman,” wearing more traditionally feminine clothing, as long as they’re comfortable with it. and the surprised looks on these kids faces when he’d mentioned he used to wear skirts more often, and then the studies he’s read of how much representation means to kids...

he turns and calls out, “jean?”

“yeah?” jean calls from the back.

“i’m gonna run upstairs for a second, would you mind keeping an eye on things out here?”

jean calls back an affirmative, and brick and elliott exchange a look, before turning back to virgil.

“are you—?”

“maybe,” virgil says, standing, feeling a strange sort of excitement just from their excitement, but also, it’s been a really long time since he’s worn a skirt, and he’d liked wearing skirts. “again, i can’t remember if i’ve donated ‘em, but—”

“awesome,” elliott says, while brick is nodding along with them, wide-eyed.

“all right,” virgil says, and then, “uh, cool” and makes his awkward exit, heading upstairs for his apartment.

it takes a bit of digging, but he does manage to find where he’s stashed his skirts over the years. he’d even managed to fold them neatly before he put them away, so they’re not even that wrinkled or anything. and then he remembers the various struggles of matching an outfit with a skirt, because in his mind, a skirt outfit has to be at least a little fancy, and so after he examines and discards nearly every shirt in his wardrobe he ends up pairing a plum, long-sleeved button-down with a black pleated skirt that falls down to his ankles, even after he tries to make the skirt a bit high-waisted.

and then he gets a little more carried away, and smokes out his dark eyeshadow and pops some purple glitter in the crease and the inner corner and does a little cat-eye for the eyeliner and puts on plum lipstick, before something in his brain says back away from the makeup products, you are in danger of re-enacting your teenage emo phase, and so he does, not without a bit of a longing look at the black eyeshadow, because this is fun. why hasn’t he done something like this in so long?

he has to pick up his skirt one hand as he walks his way down the stairs, before he tugs aside the curtain that covers up the stairs that lead up to his apartment, and steps out from behind the counter.

brick and elliott swivel to look at him in almost-hilarious unison. and then they just. stare.

oh, the staring. the whole staring thing is why he hasn’t done something like this in so long.

virgil clears his throat, running a hand through his hair to make sure it isn’t too messy. “is it that bad?” he tries to joke.

“i,” brick says, voice strangled, “am gay.”

“uh,” virgil says, unsure of what to really say to someone less than half his age declaring that, then, “i’m with patton, happily so, and also, i am way too old for you, you are a kid.”

elliott rolls their eyes, and says, “they mean you look, um. good. you look really good,” and then they elbow brick in the ribs. brick shakes themself.

“yeah!” brick says. “you look. good. you look good!”

the bell above the door jangles, then, which means brick and elliott are distracted by attempting to sell baked goods, and virgil escapes to behind the counter, ready to start up for the dinner rush.

(he does take a few seconds to remind brick and elliott that anyone over eighteen is too old for them, at the moment, and the dangers of grooming, and also he is here if they need to talk about being concerned for anyone or if they need someone to talk to, in general, before brick says, “ugh, fine, jeez, you sound like the guidance counselor” so that takes care of that particular situation, virgil guesses.)

virgil does get a few compliments on his appearance, throughout the dinner rush, and also a few questions about why he’s dressing up nice, which means he can direct their attention to the baked goods table (brick and elliott leave after a couple hours, and so a couple more sideshire high students start their shift) and the cause that they’re raising money for, so. things are going well.

he ducks back in the kitchen, for a minute, when the staring gets to be a bit Much and he needs to take a second to breathe. he’s not super anxious, necessarily, it’s just—well, he frequently has the thought people are looking at me, which tends to make him anxious, and that’s true tonight, so. he needs to take a bit of a breather. and so he cooks.

cooking’s been a good outlet for his anxiety, ever since he was a kid and didn’t really get what anxiety was, ever since he was an asshole teenager who had recently been wrangled into his first therapy session by his parents following a doctor’s diagnosis. it’s almost always the same—if you follow the same directions, you’ll get the same result, almost always. and, sure, it could be an outlet for creativity, too, if he so chose, but right now he’s grilling burgers and assembling salads and making pasta. it’s an adventure in multitasking he does almost every day. he knows what to do, and so he does it.

he feels calmer by the time they’re in the midst of the dinner rush, partially because of the time spent in here, but also because the increased business is something that’s also familiar and somewhat comforting. so he chances poking his head out of the kitchen door, evaluating if he’s ready to enter back into the fray and start helping out with the waiters. 

he pokes his head out just in time to see roman, logan, and patton sliding into a booth, and he breathes a soft sigh of relief—those are people he can definitely go over to and not start to feel nervous just because they’re looking at him.

he’s about to fully step out and make his way over unnoticed by everyone else, except—

roman looks up, and makes eye contact with him, and declares “virgil! i came as soon as i heard!” loud enough that virgil can hear it over the background music and the dull roar of the dinner rush conversations.

virgil winces a little, before he sheepishly walks over to the table. he probably should have expected this, given roman’s vocal and often repeated desires to give virgil a makeover.

all three of them come into view—roman, eager at last that virgil is stepping outside of his typical fashion comfort zone; logan, mostly neutral if a bit curious; and patton, who is staring at him, eyes wide behind his glasses, and visibly swallowing. a flare of heat burns to life in virgil’s stomach at that, and so he turns his attention to roman, so that he doesn’t start blushing and his thoughts don’t become immediately obvious.

roman looks him up and down, surveying him, before he says, “you look like a goth femboy version of a librarian fantasy.”

virgil runs a hand down the skirt, a little self-conscious. “oh.”

“but,” roman says, pulling a face at him, seemingly detecting virgil’s mood change, “at least you’re showing some sense of style. this is an improvement over your daily wear, believe me. one would even say substantial.”

“oh,” virgil says, more sarcastic this time, with an eye-roll to boot. 

“however,” roman says, “can i request that you at least extend your color palette to something that would not look at home as a poster for an emo pre-teen? and your foundation, virgil, you do not have warm undertones, you have neutral undertones, if you’re going to start wearing makeup more you need to have a summer and winter foundation—”

virgil reaches over to flick roman’s ear, and roman complains “heyyy” before logan glances up at him.

“why wear a skirt today in particular?” logan says.

“oh,” virgil says, and jabs a thumb in the direction of the bake sale table. “y’know, i figured i’d support you kids. people ask me why i’m all dressed up and so i get to point ‘em there, and then, you know, solidarity,” he says, taking his skirt in hand and swishing it a little. “win win.”

“all right,” logan says and looks across the table at roman, cocking his head.

“roman,” he says. “what is a ‘femboy.’”

roman folds his lip under his teeth.

“um,” roman says. “well, y’see—”

“i’ll get you some waters!” virgil says, before he has to bear witness to roman explaining that concept to his boyfriend and his boyfriend’s dad. he knows that a femboy is just people who are male or non-binary presenting themselves in a feminine way, the word kind of started around his teenage years, but he also knows that particular expression on roman’s face means that virgil has probably missed some segment of Youth Internet Culture that might provide the backstory behind the newfound popularity of the word a bit… complex.

by the time virgil comes back, logan is jotting something down on one of the notecards he carries around with him all the time, and roman looks normal, so the conversation must not have been too awkward, but patton—

well. patton looks at him, once again looks like he’s swallowing his own tongue, and turns his face back down to the table, but not before virgil can spot the pinkness in his cheeks.

oh. interesting.

virgil has to swallow himself, before he readies the notepad.

“what do you want for dinner?” he says, in a tone that is perhaps a bit gruffer than normal, and patton immediately and not-very-subtly puts a hand over the back of his neck to hide that that’s going pink too.

very interesting.

virgil doesn’t get much of a chance to observe this interesting phenomenon—it is dinner rush, after all, and he’s got other customers—but when he does observe it, it brightens that low flame in his stomach, like someone slowly turning the knob on a gas stove, and patton grows gradually more bold. 

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably assume that he’s a generally shy boyfriend—hand-holding and kisses aplenty, to be sure, but fairly unassuming when it comes to public displays of attention.

looking at patton’s general personality, one would probably not assume that patton is a flirt.

but he is—he is absolutely a flirt, and a startlingly adept one at that, so when virgil swings by the table perhaps a bit more frequently than he usually would, patton stares at him with a little smirk on his face and with zero shame as his eyes roam over virgil’s face, his arms, his mouth. 

patton looks up at him from under his eyelashes, biting his lip just so, and virgil nearly drops patton’s plate—and notices, distractedly, that patton has managed to use virgil’s distraction to finesse his way into a helping of fries instead of the vegetables or salad that virgil would usually suggest.

and when virgil brings over the bill, handing it to patton, patton takes the bill and then takes virgil’s hand and kisses his knuckles with a cheerful “thanks, honey!” and virgil has certainly forgotten any anxiety that might stem from someone staring, because it’s patton who’s staring at him.

patton, who had gotten so flustered at the sight of virgil in a skirt that his eyes nearly popped out of his head; and now, patton, resting his lips against his knuckles for just a moment, lingering, and virgil feels like an elizabethan maiden about to make her way to the fainting couch because of it.

virgil excuses himself to settle the bill, and also maybe rest a cool hand against his own cheek. honestly. it was a kiss on his hand.

he’s about to go back the table and hand back patton’s card, but he glances up as the bell jangles, roman and logan already leaving, and patton stepping close to the register, his hands behind his back, rocking up onto his toes and back onto his heels.

“hey,” virgil says, and shakes himself, before he offers patton’s card. “um. here.”

“thanks,” patton says, tucking the card into his pocket, before he bites his lip. “um. could we go up to your apartment and get the book i asked to borrow?”

what book, virgil wonders, before patton hastily adds, “if you have time, i mean, i don’t wanna—take you away too long,” and oh, he wants to go—okay. okay.

“i have time,” virgil answers, maybe a little too quickly. “um—sarah,” he calls, “me ‘n patton are going upstairs for a little bit, so—”

“we’ve got things down here,” sarah says, “go, go” and so they go, patton reaching out to grab virgil’s hand and squeeze, running a thumb over his knuckles. and so they ascend the stairs.

virgil shuts the door behind them, and turns to face patton.

“i was, um,” patton clarifies. “i was asking to come up here to see if you wanted to kiss for a little bit.”

“i know,” virgil says, then adds, because consent is important, “i do.”

“oh thank god,” patton breathes out, and before virgil can get out a response, patton surges up against him, rocking up onto his tiptoes and pressing virgil back into the wall, and virgil barely has the time to wrap his arms around him before patton’s kissing him with searing heat.

patton is a remarkable kisser, genuinely the best that virgil thinks he’s ever been fortunate enough to kiss, and patton knows the precise angle to tilt his head and the precise way to possessively splay a hand at the back of virgil’s neck to make the kiss deep and heady and excellent, a kiss so downright lascivious that virgil’s thoughts about retiring to a damn fainting couch doesn’t seem near dramatic enough.

virgil is distantly aware that patton must be rocked up onto his tiptoes, and he splays his hand at patton’s waist, squeezing him gently, giving himself the excuse that it might help patton keep his balance a bit better, and also because his hand fits so beautifully at patton’s waist it could make virgil cry, the warmth of him even through his sweater and the way he can feel patton breathing in unsteady breaths, so maybe virgil isn’t the only one who is losing it here a little.

simultaneously, like they’ve choreographed it, they stumble back together until patton’s knees hit the arm of the couch and virgil practically falls on top of him, virgil barely breaking the kiss to make sure he hasn’t crushed him before patton’s twining his fingers into virgil’s hair and dragging him back into the kiss, wriggling a little so that his thigh is pushed between virgil’s, and virgil groans into his mouth, patton greedily swallowing the sound.

time goes a bit fuzzy, then, everything narrowed down to patton’s breathy gasps and the slick slide of his lips and the warmth and pressure of a thigh between his own and patton’s wandering, unabashed hands in his hair, on his back, wandering down to give him a cheeky squeeze, gripping at his thigh, like patton’s using the touches to punctuate a sentence that virgil has no hope of reading but it sure sounds nice anyway. 

and then there’s a loud sound—someone’s dropped dishes downstairs—and they break apart, the pair of them looking toward the apartment door, startled, and as soon as it sinks in what it is that’s happened, they look back at each other.

patton’s smiling up at him, plum lipstick smeared all around his mouth, coy and unashamed, but with a little quirk at the corners that tells him that make out time is probably over. it is an image that immediately sears itself into virgil’s brain that will probably pop up at incredibly inconvenient moments, but he cannot really feel bothered about that right now, because christ is that unexpectedly hot.

virgil clears his throat, because there’s never exactly a non-awkward way to end something like this, that is until patton’s brow creases and he reaches forward to touch virgil’s lips.

“oh, no,” patton says, a little distressed, “i messed it up!”

“i can redo it,” virgil promises immediately, barely even thinking of the words before they’re out of his mouth in attempt to make that coy little smile come back, and he clears his throat to try and make his voice go back up to its usual octave, not the gruff and low near-growl that came out of his mouth. “um—you kind of have—”

patton’s brow creases even more, before he wiggles a hand free from under virgil and smears a finger beneath his bottom lip, holding it up to see for himself, and he giggles.

“i guess i do,” he says, and beams up at virgil. “be a dear, would you? i don’t wanna walk out there and make it too obvious that we’ve been mackin’ on each other this whole time.”

virgil nods, and, regretfully, rolls off of patton to go to the bathroom, attempting to steady his breath the whole way. 

he bends to get the makeup remover from under the sink, and straightens, at last looking at himself in the mirror.

he looks thoroughly kissed.

his plum lipstick is smeared all around his mouth, down his chin, which shows off how his lips have reddened and gone a little swollen; his black hair is ruffled, especially sticking up in the back; and the generally gobsmacked, slightly stupid look on his face is a dead giveaway that he’s been spending time kissing patton.

there’s the soft padding of footsteps, arms wrapped around his waist, a face pressed between his shoulderblades, before patton pokes his head around him to see himself in the mirror, too.

he bursts into more giggles at the sight of them—matching messy lipstick, matching messy hair, matching slightly stunned look, except on patton it doesn’t look stupid at all, it looks like he’s thrilled with himself, a smirk playing around the corner of his mouths, like a particularly flirtatious cat who’s caught particularly prettily painted canary.

virgil can’t help but grin, too, and patton arches up to press a deliberate kiss to tendon of virgil’s neck, and virgil’s grin turns into a groan, more out of frustration than anything.

“what?” patton says, smiling playfully at him in the mirror. 

“if you keep doing that,” virgil says, and then he’s at a loss for words, but patton seems to get it, slipping out from behind virgil but still leaving an arm wrapped around his waist.

“i don’t particularly want to stop, either,” patton agrees, before he reaches up to turn virgil’s attention away from the mirror, and so that he’s looking directly into patton’s eyes instead. patton continues, voice lush and full of promise, “i’d keep you up here all night, if you wanted, but, well.” 

“we’re taking it slow,” virgil says ruefully.

“we’re taking it slow,” patton agrees. “plus, you’ve got a diner to close, and i’ve got a kid at home who’ll probably stay up too late reading if i don’t bug him about bedtime.”

“yeah,” virgil says, but he can’t help but sigh a little—they’ve both agreed that moving slowly is the responsible thing to do, they’ve talked about it a lot, first to agree to slow then later to refine their mutual definitions of slow, which turned out to be pretty damn different at first, but. well. 

“i know,” patton agrees fervently. and he really does—he’s literally the only other person right know who understands exactly how virgil’s feeling, and that sets him at ease more than anything.

“all right,” virgil says, and peels back the top of the makeup removal wipes package, removing one. “lemme see your face.”

patton obligingly tips up his chin at virgil, smiling.

virgil cups the underside of his jaw and works to clean off patton’s face, gently rubbing away the plum smears around patton’s mouth with a purposefully soft hand. 

it takes a few wipes for virgil’s lips to twitch up into a smile, too.

“stop it,” virgil scolds, without any heat.

“stop what?” patton says, still smiling.

“you’re smiling at me,” virgil says. 

“what, i can’t be a little happy that i spent some quality time with my fella?” patton asks. 

virgil ducks his head, because that’s one of his top two love languages, and patton knows it. instead, he says, “‘course you can, i am, too. but you’re gloating.”

patton’s grin widens, and virgil sighs, lowering his hand—he won’t be able to help patton at all with patton grinning up at him like that.

“i have,” patton says, “the prettiest fella. i’m allowed to feel at least a little smug that you’re the belle of the ball tonight, darling.”

“stop,” virgil grumbles, looking away.

“what?” patton says. “it’s true! you’re gorgeous, honey.”

virgil mutters under his breath and rubs at the back of his neck—he isn’t the best with accepting compliments, he never has been, especially when it comes to things like this.

but, well—

“so,” virgil says, staring at the makeup wipe in his hand. “you… liked it?”

“liked it?” patton says.

“y’know,” virgil mumbles, and gestures vaguely up and down his body—the skirt, the makeup. “it.”

patton grins up at him, and tugs him down a little so that they’re eye-to-eye.

“i,” patton purrs, “love the skirt.”

it takes a little bit longer to get polished back up after that. and if, perhaps, virgil walks around the diner a bit more at ease than before, with a bit of a stupid smile on his face even after patton blows him a kiss on his way out of the door, well. that’s virgil’s business.

⁂

christopher calls when logan’s studying at the diner. his dad’s already headed home, most of his dinner conversation having been rhapsodizing his deeply-held desire to put on his pajamas. virgil’s busy behind the counter settling everyone’s bills now that the bulk of dinner rush is over.

it’s still unusual enough to logan that christopher brings himself to call semi-regularly now—even stranger that it’s weekly, and on a set schedule. wednesday nights at seven. he even remembers to call precisely on schedule, most of the time. but still—every time his cellphone buzzes and lights up with a photo of him and christopher and dad at a sanders-hosted thanksgiving a few years back, he’s surprised.

it takes quite a bit of work to unlearn sixteen years that consisted mostly of irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled, logan supposes.

“hey, kiddo!” christopher says brightly.

“hi, dad,” logan says, digging around for a bookmark, before giving up and placing a clean knife in his science textbook to mark the page and closing it. 

a moment later, logan curses his mental preoccupation with studying and the upcoming phone conversation he’ll have to have—the napkins are right there.

“so, what’re you up to?”

“studying.”

“you’re always studying,” christopher says, and there’s something in the tone that sets logan’s teeth on edge; he knows that christopher isn’t exactly academically inclined, and in fact would likely be better described as an academic anarchist, seeming to disdain upon the opportunities and privileges he was given with no strings attached that logan would almost certainly kill to have, not to mention many other people who would put it to better use, but. it’s not the time to pick a fight, logan supposes.

“yes, well,” logan says. “i have science test this week.”

“you’ve always got tests.”

“chilton is an academically rigorous school,” logan says, in a tone that implies he’s explained this a hundred times, because he has. “and i would like to maintain my position as a competitor for the top of my class. how are… things?”

this allows him a brief reprieve—since the official collapse of christopher’s business, not too long after he’d visited last fall, he’s been picking up a variety of odd jobs and temporary work, whatever catches his interest—christopher spends about five minutes explaining that he’s found some temporary work at a bar, now, to make some spare cash as he looks for something more permanent during the day. 

“—but yeah, that’s about all that’s going on with me right now.” a pause. then, christopher prompts, “how about you?”

logan shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “not very much. the test. i think i did well on a pop quiz on monday—”

he explains his various schoolwork and extracurricular activities—christopher hums in all sorts of places—before he adds, “oh, and roman and i went on a date on saturday.”

“hey, finally, something fun!” christopher says. before logan can even say something like but the debate team’s mock trial was fun, he says, “what’d you do on your date?”

“we had frozen yogurt,” logan says, “and roman wanted to go to a thrift store to get some things, and we both got a couple books, and roman got something for the ball, so that’s good—”

“whoa,” christopher says, “hang on, rewind. the ball?! what ball?”

logan winces.

because, well. it’s complex to navigate building a relationship that he initially blackmailed his father into, rather than have him propose to his dad. it’s even more complex to figure out how to handle a dad who had, for sixteen years, mostly showed up in irregular, unscheduled visits and not showing up when the visits are actually scheduled. 

he has a dad. for the vast majority of his life, patton has been the only biologically-related adult on whom he could rely. if there was ever anything a parent needed to be involved in, whether it be a parent/teacher conference, or parent’s night, or a parent volunteer for his classroom—he’s always penned down patton sanders without a second thought. virgil, occasionally, if he’d known that his dad had a scheduling conflict, but—always, patton first. that’s just the way it is. christopher had never even stepped foot in sideshire before last fall.

but now, well. now, he has to navigate should i have asked him to come back for this? because the rules say he needs his dad to escort him. 

and for so long, he has been so used to only having one of those. (well. two, but one biological dad. the other one kind of adopted him on sight and now he fusses after logan getting proper vegetable and protein intake.)

having both parents be involved in your life is even more unnecessarily complicated than i could have anticipated, logan thinks, before he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“um, yes. a ball. the daughters of the american revolution debutante ball, to be more specific.”

“you’re kidding,” christopher breathes out. “jeez, what kind of dirt does emily have on you that you had to recruit your boyfriend to escort some girls, too?”

logan blinks. “i have no idea why a handful of soil would motivate me to do that?”

“no, like—” christopher begins, and, perhaps, logan was overemphasizing his usual ignorance for use of slang just to give himself a break.

“well, that isn’t the case, regardless,” logan says, before he decides to just get it over with. “he was getting a dress. we both have one. we’re going to be the debutantes, not the escorts.”

there’s a pause.

“is this a gay thing?”

logan cringes, ever so slightly—christopher sounds more bemused than anything, so logan doesn’t think it’s a necessarily passive-aggressive comment, rather a more genuinely ignorant one.

“no, it’s not—” logan says, and pinches the bridge of his nose a little harder. “it’s not, um. a gay thing. we’re recruiting a lot of chilton students and sideshire kids to join in, it’s more of a public statement than anything.”

“oh,” christopher says, still with that tone of bemusement. then, “a public statement of what?”

“we’re making a statement about how sexist it is that society still deems it appropriate to trot young women around like that,” logan says. “we—the boys, i mean—are wearing dresses as a gesture of support and solidarity with them.”

“oh,” christopher repeats.

there’s an even longer pause.

“how many people did you say you got to join in?”

“we’re almost at forty, the last time i checked,” logan says, and christopher whistles lowly.

“your grandma’s gonna throw a fit.”

“we told her, actually,” logan says. “i wanted to see if she still had the dress she was going to make dad wear.”

“and how’d she take that?”

“she’s making me wear heels,” logan grouses, and christopher laughs.

“well, can’t say i expected her to be especially nice about anything,” christopher says. “so, tell me all about this massive prank you’re cooking up, then, i knew that some of my teenage troublemaking had to rub off on you somehow.”

though logan wants to say it’s not a prank, he supposes that it doesn’t exactly harm the movement if christopher thinks that; it’s not like he’s about to tell christopher the real reason, after all.

but logan tells him, all about the chilton kids, and the sideshire kids, and the upcoming Culture Day that his dad and isadora were organizing, and the bake sale that the sideshire kids were doing to raise money to actually enter into the ball in the first place, and the way logan’s had to hide sign-up sheets from teachers, and it seems to go okay. 

that is, until christopher says, “hey, i guess if you’re going as a debutante, you need your dad to escort you, right?”

“oh,” logan says, and coughs. “um, actually, dad’s already doing that.”

there’s another long pause.

“oh.”

“i mean,” logan says, and shrugs, even though christopher can’t see it. “you’re saving up for other things, you hardly need to come out from california just to do this.” 

“i would’ve,” christopher says, defensively. “if you’d asked.”

“right,” logan says, and the sarcasm slips through before he can even really attempt to modulate it into something resembling politeness.

“i would’ve,” he repeats, more insistently. “i know i haven’t been the best—”

“look, i have to get back to studying,” logan says, cutting off whatever platitude about i know i wasn’t present for you throughout your childhood, when you most would have needed the stability of your other parent, but i am trying now after you had to blackmail me into not upsetting your life, “next week, we’ll talk?”

another pause. a defeated sigh.

“sure, kid,” he says. “yeah. i’ll talk to you next week. same time. love you.”

logan flounders, for a moment, before he says, “next week, then, bye,” and hangs up before christopher can return the farewell salutation.

logan takes a moment to lift his glasses so he can press the base of his palms into his eyes, before he resettles them on his nose and opens his science textbook again.

the conversations with christopher are… something. they tend to go cordially most of the time, even, it’s just—

well. like he’d thought earlier. he’s so used to having one parent, and christopher only ever making contact irregularly. no guarantee for birthdays, no guarantee for christmases, no guarantee for thanksgivings. no guarantee for if logan really wanted to lean on someone, if he’d be there, solid and steady, or if logan would be sent sprawling to the ground. metaphorically.

it’s a bit like that cartoon that logan recalls, as a child—lucy, holding the football, insisting that she wouldn’t yank it away at the last second, leaving charlie brown tumbling head-over-heels.

christopher has insisted that he wouldn’t yank the ball quite literally since logan was born. forgive logan if sixteen years of ending up flat on his back hadn’t exactly endeared him to exactly trust that christopher would hold the ball steady, even if christopher had ended up being much more punctual and consistent with phone calls than expected.

it’s just—difficult. to adjust. to really believe that christopher might stick around, this time.

he suddenly feels his (already immense) sense of respect for patton rise all the more, because he trusts people like this all the time, no matter how many times he’d ended up flat on his face; logan’s thought it naivete for so long, that now that he’s attempting to practice it, he finds himself… well, if he’s to continue the metaphor, he’s found himself unwilling to even attempt the run-up to the ball.

logan attempts to shake himself, as if the thought is something that he can dislodge, like water in his ears. he refocuses on his textbook and readies his pen for any notes that he needs to take. which he does, for a while, his pen scratching a familiar rhythm under the quiet rush of other people’s conversation, and the soft, inoffensive music the diner plays, that is, until the plastic of the pen cracks under the force of his grip. logan scowls, and tosses the pen aside.

“here.”

logan looks up, startled; virgil’s standing over him, holding a small plate. he’s wearing another skirt today—purple, and it falls just below his tights-clad knees.

“what’s that?”

virgil sets down the plate, careful to avoid any notebooks, pens, or textbooks. there’s a slice of loganberry pie on it, which is actually logan’s favorite, despite the downside of the many puns his dad has made about logan liking loganberry pie.

“you look like you need pie.”

“i do?” logan says cluelessly.

“pen tossing usually signals the need for pie,” he says.

“you,” logan says. “brought me pie.”

virgil arches his eyebrows. “i could take it back.”

“thank you,” logan says quickly, sliding the plate toward himself, as if virgil would snatch it away, and virgil snorts, reaching out to ruffle logan’s hair before he retreats back to the counter, and—

and it really is just the sugar that has logan’s shoulders relaxing as he stares at his science notes, he tells himself.

⁂

the science test is predictably grueling. logan sits at his lunch table, his brain still tracking over various formulas and small facts he’d memorized, as if in a half-stunned stupor.

there’s the sound of a tray clacking on the table. logan looks up, startled.

dee, in his usual cape and hat, looks over at him, and arches his eyebrows as if daring him to say something. after logan blinks at him owlishly, dee resumes settling himself, as if he has sat at logan’s lunch table a great many times and not at all as if this isn’t the first time he’s done this.

come to think of it, logan’s uncertain if he’s ever even seen dee during their lunch period before. he sets aside the question of then where does he eat??? and instead reaches into his lunchbox, grabbing something at random to start eating.

a clementine. okay.

logan starts peeling the clementine as dee gets his lunch tray in order, and dee says, very casually, “would you like to come over so we can discuss arrangements?”

logan’s fingernail catches; he resists the urge to curse as he punctures the fruit, and instead reaches for a napkin to wipe his hand dry of juice.

“arrangements…?”

dee looks at him. “for the project.”

logan’s test-addled brain then proceeds to panic and mentally trace over every single one of his shared classes with dee, attempting to pinpoint how on earth he possibly could have overlooked an upcoming project, before—

oh.

“i—yes,” logan says, and resumes peeling the clementine. “yes, that works out fine, i think. um—do you live near a bus stop?”

dee flaps a gloved hand at him dismissively. “i’ll have one of the drivers take you back home.”

one of the drivers??? then, he has even one driver???? what on earth necessitates plural drivers???

“i… sure,” logan says, rather than comment on that, “i’ll text my dad and tell him i’ll be home late.”

dee nods, and so logan eats his clementine in sections as dee’s lunch tray depletes with a rate of speed that would already be impressive if not compounded by the fact that logan doesn’t even really see him eat, before he pulls out his phone and texts his dad, I’m going over to Dee’s after school, I’ll let you know how long I’ll be there when I have a better idea of the time frame.

he’s walking to his next class when his phone buzzes, and he glances at his phone. 

Dad: okay!!! say hi to the adults and be on your best behavior! love you, have fun!!!

he is uncertain how much ‘fun’ will weigh into the activities for any event at dee slange’s house.

⁂

dee’s pretending to be on his phone almost the entire time a chauffeur drives them back (he could have driven, but he hadn’t felt like it this morning, so therefore he didn’t have his car in the afternoon) but really he’s looking out of the corner of his eyes at logan.

logan is sitting stiffly, and he has been since he’d gotten into the car; it’s as if he’s nervous he might scuff up the leather if he moves. he’s holding his backpack in his lap, and his eyes keep darting to the driver, suit-clad and silent, and out the window, before glancing at dee, and then back out the window. 

as they creep up to the gate, and the chauffeur inputs the code that’ll open the gate so they can drive up the maple-lined driveway, to the house, dee has abandoned the ruse entirely, because logan looks the most confused dee’s ever seen him look.

the look only grows more obvious once they break past the trees, and logan actually gets a good look at the house; dee knows the townhome was designed to be magnificent, especially on first glance, but he’s been so accustomed to it that seeing logan’s eyes dart from the fountain in the middle of the driveway to the sprawl of primroses and lavender and hydrangeas and all the rest of the landscaping, and the towering height of it all, the brick crowded with overgrown ivy and climbing roses. the historic townhome may not have multiple wings, and it might not really hold a candle to the ultra-modern mansion where his parents live, but it still, certainly, is impressive.

“you live here?” logan says, stunned.

“obviously?” dee says.

he’s tempted to say something like if you ever saw my parents’ house, maybe pull up that old e-edition of a magazine that had covered it once, just to see logan’s eyes pop out of his head, but the chauffeur puts the car in park and logan’s saying “thank you, sir,” and scrambling out of the car as quick as he can.

dee arches a brow, and the chauffeur moves to open the door for him, because he was raised with manners, jesus, wasn’t this emily and richard sanders’ grandson? one would think he’d know something about how to comport himself.

his brain provides several mental images, though: the little yellow clapboard house logan lived in, the absurdly picturesque tiny town full of brick buildings and repurposed barns and colonial charm, logan’s voice saying, my dad and i were effectively homeless until i turned six, and feels a strange clenching in his chest. 

dee shoves it down and arranges his face into his typical boredom by the time he’s walking up to the front door, logan quickly falling into step behind him.

he opens the door—the chauffeur’s going around to the servant’s entrance—and by the time he’s stepping through the door, nanny has materialized at his side, and looks only slightly surprised that there is another teenage boy with him.

logan is too busy looking around at the entry hall—the rugs, the paintings, the furniture, the post-its stuck up on the front door—to really notice any of that, for which dee can’t help but breathe a little sigh of relief.

“hello, we have a guest,” nanny says. 

“i told granmè,” dee says, and his stomach sinks as nanny gives him a sideways look, as if to say you know better than to let that serve as a notification system anymore, before she refocuses on logan.

“your name, young sir?”

“um, logan,” he says, looking boggled that he’s being called sir, and adds, “sanders. logan sanders.”

“emily and richard’s boy?”

“their grandson, yes,” logan says, looking to dee for some kind of help; dee would shrug at him, if he wasn’t kind of enjoying watching the usually unflappable logan flounder a little bit.

nanny nods, and says, “welcome to the lavandelands,” which is technically the townhome’s name, but they only ever use it to introduce the house to new visitors, so dee forgets the townhome has a name at all until it comes up again—it’s the same with the manor, which is technically the hearthfields. logan doesn’t seem to notice, nodding at her like he can’t think of anything else to do.

nanny turns to dee, instead, and asks, “would you care for any refreshments?”

“just the usual tea should suffice,” dee says. nanny looks at logan.

“um,” he says again—dee is a little delighted, because he has never heard logan get so knocked off-center before, and after all this attempted antagonizing about his grades all it took was bringing him to his house—“just—just water’s fine. thank you.”

nanny nods, says, “i’ll be with your grandmother in the greenhouse. mr. sanders, it was a pleasure to meet you, please have mr. slange ring for us if you require anything,” and sweeps off.

“you have a greenhouse?” logan says blankly.

“we have a greenhouse,” dee confirms. “you can see it later, if you’d like. shall we go study?”

logan nods, and falls into step behind dee; dee considers going to the dining room, the way logan did when they were making posters at his house, but he wants nanny, bertie, ingrid, and martha to have plausible deniability in case his parents demand to know if they’d heard anything about this, and so he leads logan up the staircase and into his room.

it’s been cleaned today recently, he can tell; it smells like the lemon candles he likes, the ones martha lights whenever she airs out his room, so the room is in its tidiest iteration; vacuumed rugs, swept and mopped hardwoods, dust-free surfaces, with a made bed and no mess anywhere anywhere.

it practically seems like a hotel room, if not for the legal pad on his desk with his handwriting on it.

and of course, logan crosses almost immediately to the desk; dee only catches on a minute later, when he bends slightly to get a better look inside the vivarium.

“luke, leia, and han, right?” logan says, glancing at dee for confirmation before scanning the plants and rocks; dee crosses over, too, and gestures toward the rock in the back corner—mostly hidden by plants, but the sun lamp shines directly upon it.

“they like to nap here,” dee says, and he’s right—luke and han are curled up, sunning themselves, and logan makes an ahh noise when he spots them too.

“they’re larger than i expected,” logan says, staring at them, eyes lit up with curiosity.

“mm,” dee says vaguely. “females tend to be longer and bulkier than males. leia’s biggest, she’s a little over two feet.”

“where is she?” logan says. “you said she was the checkered one.”

dee tries his hardest not to seem surprised, but—logan remembers his snake’s markings. from a a throwaway comment he made nearly a month ago. 

“probably hiding,” dee says. “she likes to stick near the water, so she’s probably curled up under the lip—”

logan kneels down, all the better to see, and he says, “i see her!”

“asleep?”

“i think so,” logan says, and frowns. “i’m not as familiar with snakes as i am with other reptiles, though.”

dee blinks. “which reptiles are you familiar with?”

“frogs, mostly,” logan admits. “lots of frogs and toads would be around the pool, when we lived at the inn, and they’re very common in the pond there. salamanders and lizards, sometimes, during summers. i had a brief phase of hunting for reptiles and bugs, i thought i would be a reptile research journalist, or something—i kept bringing them home and dad had to pretend he wasn’t scared of any creepy-crawly bugs or scaly things, he’d call over virgil so that there was someone i could show all the bugs to who wouldn’t get freaked out.”

dee has a mental image, then, of logan—shorter, and baby-faced, holding up a salamander and babbling to this mysterious virgil about its various properties, who would nod and ask questions and generally care what a child thought, his dad shoving down his fear long enough to listen to logan, because it’s something that interested him, something that logan cared about.

and then a memory of himself, hip-deep in snake research books, trying to tell his new adopted parents all about why snakes were so interesting and cool, and receiving three snakes for his first birthday state-side and overhearing maybe she’ll shut up about the stupid snakes now, his mother saying at least we won’t have to see them, they’ll be in her room, maybe she’ll stay there more and children should be seen and not heard as nanny and martha tidied up the wrapping paper from his birthday party—

he squashes the not-jealousy with extreme prejudice. 

“oh, and the occasional turtle,” logan adds, breaking dee’s train of thought. “not many snakes, though; not many of the inn’s employees were keen on letting the five-year-old try to find out if one was venomous or not, so i’d be stuck watching if they ever found one.”

“...right,” dee says, unsure of what to really say to that. also, he’s a bit busy listening to the purposefully-heavy footsteps coming down the hall.

“so i’ve never seen snakes up close like this,” logan finishes, and dee just. nods.

fortunately, a knock on the door breaks any lingering awkwardness; dee calls out “come in!” and nanny comes in with a tray of a typical afternoon tea.

“just leave that on the storage bench, thank you, nanny,” dee says briskly, and so nanny sets the tray of snacks on the bench at the base of dee’s bed, before she presents a water bottle to logan, and says, “there’s a chilled glass for you on the tray.”

“oh,” logan says, and takes it. “um. thank you.”

almost as if he’s unable to help it, his fingernails tap-tap-tap against the water bottle as he looks at the design, whatever sense of culture shock that might have faded after looking at the snakes rearing right back.

“thank you, nanny, that will do,” dee says, and nanny nods to him, before she departs and closes the door on the way out.

“this water bottle is made of glass,” logan says, as if it’s a question.

dee arches an eyebrow at him. “do you not like water served in glass? do you only like plastic containers for your water? shall i call for nanny to get you a plastic cup?”

“no,” logan says, “no, it’s just—” and he squints at the label, before he looks up at dee and says, “this bottle of water is from a glacier.”

“you can keep the bottle, if you like,” dee says, “we have plenty more.”

“the source is only accessible from the ocean.”

“yes, i heard you,” dee says. “it’s not like i would already know this, since i have lived in this house and had that water for years, but do go on.”

“our goal was to create the world’s first luxury premium glacier water product with unmatched quality—purity—elegance. created from an award-winning source, from the hat mountain glacier in beautiful british columbia, canada, we have captured the hearts of water connoisseurs worldwide,” logan reads from the label, and looks up at him. “dee.”

“i don’t understand what your issue is with the water,” dee says, even though he’s very aware that logan’s issue is primarily you even have fancy WATER?! but it’s fun to see how absolutely bemused he is over it. “if it’s good enough for water connoisseurs worldwide, it should certainly be good enough for you.”

logan hesitates, before he sits on the bench at the end of dee’s bed, and picks up the chilled glass. oh, nanny set out to impress, that’s one of the nice crystal glasses that granmè only ever really brings out for parties.

it also has the added benefit of logan’s eyes becoming even rounder behind his glasses, and looking between the water bottle and the glass, as if weighing if he’s blue-blooded enough to consume it, or if he’s so much of a commoner that taking a sip of it will cause him death, like the false grail in indiana jones.

evidently, the combined hayden-sanders genes must win out, because he carefully pours himself a glass, and then looks even more hopelessly confused when he turns his attention to the tea tray.

really, dee at the start of the school year would be clapping his hands in absolute glee at how much he’s managed to catch logan off-guard.

“are these cucumber sandwiches?” logan asks faintly.

“ooh, yes,” dee says, plucking one for himself and promptly shoving it into his mouth, fast, so that sanders won’t notice while his attention is captured by their snack. “plus pear and stilton, here, and ham-brie-apple, and pesto chicken, and those ones are prosciutto-fig, i think. of course there’s scones and clotted cream, battenburg, crumpets...”

“you,” logan says, looking hopelessly lost, “you just asked for tea?”

dee looks at him, amused, even as he’s pouring himself a cup of tea. “my grandfather was english, sanders. it’s afternoon tea.”

logan blinks, before he says, “i didn’t know that. that your grandfather’s english, i mean.”

“and my grandmother’s french,” dee says. “my particular branch of slanges relocated to the americas much later than your branch of sanders did.”

“you know that?” logan says, startled.

“of course,” dee says. “sanders’ came over on the mayflower, daughters of the american revolution, et cetera et cetera. our grandmothers have been friends for years, did you really think i wouldn’t know?”

he waits a beat, before he adds, “and, well. know your enemy.”

“i suppose you took that much more seriously than i did,” logan says at last, before he reaches for a safe option—a blueberry scone—and cracks it open, spreading it with jam.

“yes,” dee says pridefully, “yes, i did.”

logan rolls his eyes, even as he plops a generous helping of clotted cream on top—

“oh, cornish method, interesting,” dee says, just to see that confused look come rearing back, and is immediately satisfied—

before logan shakes himself, and says, “why did your grandparents relocate here, anyway?”

dee tries his very best not to brighten too obviously, it’s just—it’s been so long since someone so blatantly handed him an excuse to spin stories on a platter.

“well, that’s a very interesting story,” dee says, leaning back, “and really, it all starts with my great-grandfather. or, rather, my great-grandfather’s very distant cousins. you see, my family had a lordship—”

logan looks at him, surprised.

“—a very minor lordship,” dee says, “technically barons, not dukes or anything. you probably wouldn’t have heard of them, it’s not like they were major members of the house of lords or anything. anyway, my great-grandfather didn’t know that, because again, he was a very distant cousin, and the main line of the family had three daughters. no women could inherit.”

logan frowns. “sexist.”

“mm, quite,” dee says. “anyways, they were counting on a closer cousin to inherit—a second cousin, i believe—but he tragically died in a boating accident, and so the family came calling to my cousin—who was a solicitor at the time—and brought him to the estate, which was called,” dee quickly casts about for an alike-enough name, “...upton priory.”

and so dee goes on cribbing details from the first three seasons of downton abbey, changing names and having a merry old time. logan gets close to realizing—he says “that sounds rather familiar, actually,” when dee reiterates the whole plotline of his supposed great-grandfather’s valet getting arrested for supposedly murdering his wife, to which dee says, “it was quite a scandal, perhaps you’re remembering the details from your grandmother, goodness knows she’d find it fascinating,” which buys him even more time until he kills off his great-grandfather, the matthew stand-in, after the birth of their second child.

logan frowns, and says, “well, that’s rather sad, but—i thought you said your grandfather was eldest? why would he give up a lordship?”

“why else, sanders?” dee says, and gestures expansively. “love.”

logan arches his eyebrows, and takes another sandwich—he seems quite partial to the pesto chicken and ham-apple-brie—and says, “go on, then.”

and so dee goes on stealing details and weaving a story, this time from the king’s speech, explaining how his grandmother was a divorcée (she is not) and his grandfather wanted to marry her anyway, as they’d met and she’d become his mistress during an outing to new york (possibly true, but in the same way that the moon landing being faked is possibly true) but as she was a divorcée (again, untrue) and he was a prominent member of the church of england (as far as he knows his grandfather was a catholic) to have a lord marry a divorcée had caused quite the drama between the family, and then dee cribs even more details from downton abbey to describe the fight, mounting and dramatic and full of high passions, going on for another fifteen minutes, until his grandfather finally decided—

“to abdicate the throne?” logan finishes dryly; they’ve picked the tea tray mostly clean of snacks, by now, and logan’s long since finished his water and has stolen a cup of tea. “i didn’t realize you were a descendant of edward the eighth. should i have been calling you your majesty this whole time?”

dee tries his very hardest not to pout, but he does cross his arms. “how long have you suspected?”

“around the time you said he gave a lordship ‘for love,’” logan says, “but i knew for sure when you started talking about how your grandmother became a mistress in new york. she’s french.”

“damn!” dee says, not really angry at all, but still, he had to keep up appearances. “i managed to fool brad with that whole backstory until he saw the king’s speech five years later.”

and then dee waits; he waits for logan to get mad, or to snap at him for wasting time, something that dee will attempt to brush off and maybe even laugh at. he waits for logan—journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded logan—to react to what was dee, essentially, lying straight to his face for about half an hour.

but then:

“well, that’s brad,” logan says, “it doesn’t take much to fool him, i’d imagine.”

dee smiles, pleased. “no, it doesn’t.”

“so where was the other stuff from?” logan says. “upton priory, i mean. i’m assuming that doesn’t exist. i know the story from somewhere.”

he’s… curious.

he’s curious??? dee repeats to himself—this is logan, who is, as stated, journalism-obsessed, fact-checking, scientifically-minded—he doesn’t seem mad. he just seems… intrigued.

this bears much more investigation that dee would have thought prior to inviting him over.

“downton abbey,” dee allows. “i can’t believe you caught onto the historical significance of edward the eighth meeting his mistress in new york, and yet i throw three season’s worth of downton abbey at you and not even a little bit of recognition.”

logan shrugs. “i’m not very good with pop culture. that’s more—” and very suddenly he looks like he wants to slap a hand to his forehead, if logan was at all prone to dramatic, cliché gestures like that. “roman. he was going on for days about matthew dying in the same season they killed off sybil, that’s where i heard all of it before, it’s from roman.”

“the boyfriend,” dee says. 

“yes, the boyfriend,” logan says, “who is very excited for the excuse to wear a pretty ballgown, by the way.”

dee accepts this for the subject change it is, and digs out his notebook and a pen.

“right, then,” he says. “as previously discussed, i’m handling chilton participants, and i’m pleased to announce that with the addition of ana salazar, the entirety of the clairosophic society are involved.”

“oh, excellent,” logan says, and so dee goes on listing chilton students they’ve enlisted—he’d been right, recruiting the puffs and the skull and dagger had caused a wave of wannabes to join in too—and they discuss setting up a form for people to ensure that they’ve paid their way in, dee eventually digging out his laptop and making a couple drafts of one. 

as he does that, logan talks about the sideshire students (behind on payments, but they’re doing an ongoing bake sale at virgil’s, which, dee doesn’t know how small town things work, but he supposes he should trust that logan knows what he’s talking about) and logan taps his own notebook with his pen, going over all of the entrants and discussing anything that needs finer-tuning—not very much on their end, it turns out, but they’ll definitely need to have another meeting after what logan’s dad is apparently calling get cultured day, where he and logan’s boyfriend’s mother will teach everyone the dance they’ll need to know and the proper way to curtsy and so on.

logan scans over his notes, nodding in satisfaction, before he says, “we were a bit oversaturated on debutantes, the clairosophic society should help balance things out with escorts.”

“ana wants to go with janey,” dee corrects. “so she and janey are already taken, but otherwise—”

he blinks. “ana and janey are dating?”

dee looks at him, amused. “you know nothing about the social stratosphere at chilton, do you?”

“i don’t have much tolerance for gossip,” logan says. 

“really?” dee says. “i’d think that as a journalist you’d keep an eye out for these kinds of things.”

“i don’t report on gossip,” logan says. “what do i look like, francie jarvis? anyone else who lives and breathes that rag?”

“what, the jefferson?” dee says. “are you kidding? that’s the most useful thing that chilton’s ever provided me, and i’m including the education, here.”

“useful?” logan repeats, looking as offended as dee had expected him to look when logan would catch on to dee lying his ass off for half an hour straight. interesting. 

“well, admittedly, they can be rather behind when it comes to certain things,” dee says thoughtfully, “but the chaos that happens on the day it comes out? masterful.”

logan frowns. “i thought you wanted to work on the franklin.” 

“oh, i do,” dee says. “like i said, they’re not exactly cutting edge, i can do better with a well-coordinated social media check than they can do with an entire staff full of rumormongers. the whole,” and he flaps a hand, “truth and investigation thing, for the franklin, that’s interesting. besides, the franklin has more effect when it targets adults; with the jefferson, they just want to confirm that the algebra and the calculus teachers are having an affair, which they are—”

logan looks perplexed. “how do you—”

“—don’t ask,” dee says. “believe me, i wish i didn’t know.”

his eyes narrow, as if to say why should i believe you? which, good. he’s learning.

“but in the franklin, one can publish a deep-dive anonymous investigation and get shady male teachers tossed out of the schools on their ear for their too-frequent uniform checks and saying that uniform skirts are distracting. the franklin has more real-world power.”

“not that an investigation of an adult potentially preying upon teenage girls isn’t important,” logan says, “because it certainly is, but journalism isn’t about acquiring power. it’s about holding those in power accountable.”

“isn’t that the same thing?” dee points out. 

“no,” logan says. 

“but it is,” dee says. “because the concept of holding power is so multi-faceted. everyone’s idea of power is different. the upper class has power, the president has power, the people protesting have power. people like francie jarvis and tristan have power, but then, so do you and i. but all of those kinds of power are different.”

“well, that i agree with,” logan says cautiously, and then he frowns. “how do i have power?”

dee looks at him. he looks at him harder.

“what?”

“you’re kidding,” dee says. “you’re a sanders and a hayden.”

“the haydens are not particularly pleased that i am a hayden,” logan says. “the haydens would adore nothing more than to tidily remove me from the family tree.”

interesting.

“but they can’t tidily remove you being a hayden from everyone’s memory,” dee points out. “and, well. power can be privilege.”

“well, i certainly have privilege,” logan says. “i’m white, i’m a cis male, i’m attached to an affluent family.” he frowns, and amends, “families, i suppose.”

“oh, good,” dee says. “you’re a sane person who recognizes white privilege, i won’t have to kick you out.” 

also—attached to an affluent family, not part of an affluent family. more intrigue.

“anyways. you have plenty of power—take chilton, for example. say you wrote that piece on a pedophilic teacher that i was talking about. it would be due to your actions, your hard work and diligence, that removed him from his post. that doesn’t seem like power, to you?”

logan shakes his head, and repeats, “that’s what journalism’s about. just because there are effect from the story i write, to hold said teacher accountable, that doesn’t mean that is personally driven from me. that would be a response—from parents, from students, from headmaster charleston, eventually. there are responsibilities that journalists have, important ones, and we serve a purpose for society. perhaps the story has a powerful impact, or the story is emotionally powerful. that doesn’t mean that i am powerful. i didn’t direct people to fire him, i didn’t influence anyone. i would have presented the facts and exposed his wrongdoings, that’s all.”

“well, i suppose it does depend on your definition of powerful, that’s accurate enough,” dee says thoughtfully. “but the more philosophical idea of what is power? isn’t what i’m trying to address, at the moment, i’m addressing you. another example, then—academically, you’re powerful. tristan dugray would pay a tidy sum for any one of your study guides.”

logan frowns. “i wouldn’t cheat.”

“yes, yes, you’re very moral and ethical, good for you, you’ve passed the after-school special test,” dee says dismissively, “but specifically, for this definition of power, it’s a certain level of strength. but that’s a different kind of power, than, say—”

“tristan dugray never getting in trouble for his foolish pranks because of who his father is,” logan says.

“right,” dee says, “although you’re wrong on that front, he’s a prank on a bad day away from being sent to military school, but—yes, you’re seeing my point. power varies, power changes.”

“well, i never disagreed with that,” he says. “but those aiming for power—their main idea is almost never let’s be a journalist! unless they’re decisively within the yellow journalism era, or if they are fictional character charles foster kane. and even then, he was a media magnate, his attempts at journalism were just to manipulate public opinion and make a lot of money.”

dee sighs longingly and says, “if i were white, that would be my ideal era to work in.”

“what,” logan says, and suddenly they’re talking about yellow journalism—logan is very boring and against it, because he likes things like accuracy and facts—and then logan looks like he’s about to blow steam out of his ears when dee tells him that his ultimate career goal is to write for and maybe run something like the national enquirer, which leads to even more discussions on journalism, things like what qualifies someone to be a journalist and who decides what journalism is, and they’re on a little side-tangent about journalism as portrayed in films when there’s a knock on his door.

“mister slange, mister sanders, dinner is ready,” nanny says, and dee tries his best not to startle, because—logan’s been here for three hours. and he has not once gotten annoyed at dee for reasons outside of journalistic, ethical, or moral debate, and even then, logan seems to set all of that aside relatively easily.

and dee, apart from making up his entire ancestral backstory, has barely even lied.

“coming!” dee says, and then to logan, “i hope you like snail caviar.”

an expression of panic pops up on logan’s face, and dee laughs at him.

“kidding,” he says reassuringly. “it’s french onion soup and croque monsieurs.”

logan looks relieved, and he even laughs, and then proceeds to bump into dee, the way that friends on tv shows jostle each other when one tells a particularly biting joke, and then logan pauses, looking at dee.

very suddenly, dee thinks, oh.

does he think he’s my friend?

they’ve been debating for the better part of two hours, and dee lied to him for half an hour, and dee has been purposefully throwing as many rich-people things into conversation as possible to get logan looking baffled, and logan thinks that they are friends.

is that what friends do?

dee clears his throat, before he grabs logan’s bicep in a way he hopes is normal and does not at all give away that he has not had a friend since he immigrated to the united states, and says, “come on, then, i’ll let you stick your head in the library on the way.”

“you have a library?!” logan asks eagerly, following along as dee tugs him down the hall, and dee tries his very best not to smile too openly.

⁂

dee’s house is…a lot. it’s a lot.

(dee had pulled up a picture of his parents’ house to show off how it could be his own personal xanadu, when they’d been talking about citizen kane, and logan has mentally tabulated the publication he was talking about to fact-check that, because that—that was just absurd, even more so than this one.)

but the smell of french onion soup and croque monsieurs—essentially french ham-and-cheese, either sandwiches or baked lasagna style—is a little more comforting. logan knows these smells, baking bread and ham and melting cheese and onions—granted, virgil’s diner does a french onion soup, but he’s sure it’s not as fancy as what he’s about to eat with dee.

and, as they cross into the dining room, his grandmother, seated at the head of the table.

logan’s technically had lunch with mrs. slange before; it had been at the country club, and he’d been more preoccupied with glowering at dee, but he has met her and spoken with her. she’d been nice; she’d spoken to his grandmother quite a lot about landscaping, and flowers. azaleas in particular, he’s fairly certain.

she’s a rather diminutive woman, her already short stature shrunk down even more from age; her hair is thin and pure white, fluffing up in a way that makes logan think of dandelion fuzz. her face is wrinkled, especially with smile lines around her eyes, her mouth. she’s wearing a cardigan over a button-down, much like his grandmother wears on particularly casual days, but whereas his grandmother prefers solid colors, mrs. slange’s cardigan is white with embroidered pink and purple flowers; it matches her pastel pink button-down. 

by all accounts, she should register in logan’s mind as a fragile old woman; a nice one, one that seems to have more concern about her flowers than anything else. but there’s something glinting in her eyes—flinty, icy blue—that reminds him very much of dee, despite the fact that they are not biologically related.

it’s cunning, logan thinks, or intelligence—she must have both in spades, to help raise someone like dee.

she smiles at dee, and says something in french—logan can manage a basic spanish conversation due to his proximity to the princes, and he’s taking latin classes, but he’s absolutely hopeless with french unless he lucks out and they say something with a latin root word—and dee responds in kind. logan notes that their accents are different. logan puts together, barely a second after he notices, that one of haiti’s two official languages is french.

logan spares a second to wonder if dee can speak the other, haitian creole, before his grandmother turns to him directly and says—something in french. he has no clue what.

“il ne peut pas parler français, granmè, utiliser l'anglais,” dee says, looking almost a little amused at logan’s expense—well, logan can put together he can’t speak french, use english, just based off of context clues.

she starts a sentence in french, pauses, furrows her brow, as if unpuzzling it, and then continues in lightly accented english, “welcome to our home.”

“thank you very much for having me,” logan says, his dad’s be on your best behavior! text at the forefront of his mind, with his dad saying evelyn, right? i always liked her shortly behind. “your home is beautiful; the landscaping’s lovely.”

her wrinkled face settles into its worn lines she smiles.

“mer—” she begins, shakes her head, takes a breath, and then continues, “thank you very much. the roses are finicky little things, this time of year, i’m quite pleased with how they’ve turned out. i think they’ve thrown their last primadonna fit until fall rolls around again.”

and from there, it’s easy to prod her into conversation as they eat the soup course—logan mentally apologizes to virgil, but if he’d taste it, he’d probably agree that this french onion soup is better than his, too—just by asking about the various plants she tends to favor, the particular conditions that each seems to like. the conversation seems perfectly fine, if not for dee staring at the pair of them out of the corners of his eyes, as if monitoring their conversation to make sure neither of them says anything unseemly. 

which is a little unsettling—logan doesn’t think he’s said anything horribly rude to an old person lately, unless one counted his paternal grandparents last fall—but the conversation seems to be fine. logan admits that most of his knowledge of plants is theoretical, scientific, which prods her into asking about their shared science course, and dee takes over that conversation.

it’s fine. the whole dinner is fine, and it seems to be going well, even, and he keeps on thinking so and thinking so as he digs into the main course of croque monsieurs, and she says—

“how do you find the meal, christopher?”

it takes logan a second to register what’s wrong with that statement, and, as soon as it does, unwittingly, his eyes flash to dee.

dee has frozen, fork halfway to his mouth. it’s like he has to buffer for a moment before he visibly stiffens, setting the fork down. logan is about to excuse it as a slip of the tongue—she had known both his parents, surely, perhaps it was just a misstatement. most people in his grandparents’ sphere exalted his resemblance to christopher, even though he was quite clearly a carbon copy of patton excepting his sharper bone structure, straighter hair, and thinner frame, until—

“logan, granmè,” dee says, in a very gentle tone that does not at all match his fists curling up on the table. “this is logan, christopher’s son. do you remember? we had lunch with him and emily.”

her brow furrows, and she says, “right. of course. logan.”

she quite sounds like she thinks that dee is pulling one over her head, and she’s going along with it, the way one did when a small child was pulling an incredibly obvious joke on them.

she maintains that tone and slips a couple more times—christopher, how are straub and francine? as logan’s halving his croque monsieur; christopher, didn’t you say you were going out to california? when the maid, as tight-faced as dee, is setting dessert on the table. 

and it dawns on him, slowly: why dee had to prompt her to use english, when she was born speaking french, and why it had taken her a few seconds to clearly switch over in her head when dee went from french to english at the drop of a hat; why there were so many post-its near the front door; why the household staff had seemed surprised at a visitor, despite the fact that dee had told his grandmother he was bringing home a guest; why his grandmother had said she’s coming out less and less lately, it’s been a while since we’ve had a good, long chat; dee keeping a keen eye out, as if he’s monitoring what they’ll say; not for him, logan realizes, for her. 

she has a disease. she’s aware enough that her gardens are in splendid shape, she’s aware enough that she clearly knows who dee is, but. but she can’t remember who logan is.

it is an exceedingly awkward dessert.

he can’t deny the chocolate-raspberry souffle is absolutely delicious, though.

⁂

the dinner is over. nanny is taking granmè to the library. logan and dee are left alone at the dinner table.

dee has been mentally preparing for this since his grandmother’s first slip—comebacks, things to say, particularly acerbic and witty things he could summon up if logan is rude about it. he’s ready. 

that is, until logan just says, “can i see the greenhouse?”

dee blinks at him. “what?”

“the greenhouse,” logan repeats. “you said i could see it after dinner. can i?”

okay, dee thinks. changing the setting of the argument. he isn’t sure what logan’s play is here, but—

“sure,” dee agrees, and stands, purposefully languid and unhurried. “follow me.”

and so he leads logan through the narrow hallways of the house, mostly ignoring logan as they go (“is that a velázquez?” he demands of a painting, which dee doesn’t really deign answer to—of course it’s a velázquez, does his family seem like the type to settle for a framed imitation) and at last comes to the door of the greenhouse, which he opens without ceremony.

logan walks in. dee expects him to maybe go to sit down, and ask dee why his elderly grandmother thought he was his estranged father, but no—logan beelines straight for the hostas.

well. okay. dee trails after him, meandering vaguely around the greenhouse. logan’s route seems to make sense to him, and only him, but he pokes his nose close to each plant, adjusting his glasses on his nose as he crouches to examine the soil, the roots; if dee was walking into this situation with no prior context, he’d think perhaps that logan was an enterprising botanist who had just gained entry to a highly regarded greenhouse.

but logan is just in the greenhouse of an old lady with memory problems, who he did not know was an old lady with memory problems until she repeatedly referred to him by his father’s name. 

and so dee follows as logan examines fauna, and flora, and the goddamn soil. everytime logan hums with interest, dee thinks it’s a precursor to the beginning of this conversation, but no, he’s just humming at the plants. the plants. they’re plants, his grandmother’s plants, so he’s used to his grandmother being very fond of them and rambling about them even if he’s mostly indifferent about them, most of his emotion toward plants being if it makes granmè happy. the key word in that sentence is granmè. he does not particularly care if these plants make logan happy. he cares what logan will say about his grandmother.

they’ve looped three-quarters of the way around the greenhouse by the time dee’s patience runs out.

“well?!” and it tears out of him in a kind of snarl. logan, from where he’s crouched beside the lilies, blinks at him, his fingers resting on the arm of his glasses, as if he’s about to adjust them again.

“what?”

“what,” dee repeats, then, “what?!” and before he can even think about it, he has his bowler hat in one hand, thwacking logan over the head with it.

“ow!” logan says, clearly more out of the surprise of being thwacked when he wasn’t expecting it. that, or logan is a big baby, dee didn’t even swing that hard.

“what,” dee repeats, jamming his hat over his head again before logan can see any semblance of hat hair, “what, are you kidding me, sanders, of all the times to go quiet when you clearly have questions, you choose now?! say something!”

logan blinks at him, before he says, very slowly, “about…”

“my grandmother,” dee snaps. 

“ah,” logan says, then, almost like he’s reciting something for his latin class, “i am… sorry that she is ill, and i respect your privacy during this time?”

dee actually leans forward because of the force of the Look he is giving logan.

“you know i’m bad at this kind of thing,” he says defensively. “what do you expect me to say?”

“i don’t—!” dee says, and nearly throws up his hands, but he is not allowing himself to get that carried away. “i expect you to say something! not just wander around the greenhouse and let me wait and see if you say something stupid!”

logan looks at him, and says, “was that insensitive of me?”

dee’s eyes must look close to popping out of his head, because logan’s hands are already rising to protect the crown of his head, like he expects dee to hit him with his hat again.

“do you,” he says, and gives dee a strange look, “do you want to talk about it?”

“not particularly!”

“that’s what i thought!” logan says. “i assumed the prior agreement of you wanting to speak to me about anything that particularly affects you would take precedence—”

agreement, dee mouths, and mentally backtracks, until—

“my parents wanting to out me and you coming up with this whole debutante plot and my grandmother having dementia are two different categories!”

“i didn’t think that a statement like ‘if you want to talk about it, i am here’ needed categorization!”

“the previously agreed upon ‘it’ was specifically about my parents’ plot to out me by way of american daughters of the revolution!” dee says, near-hysterical.

“okay!” logan says, “okay, fine, i put forward the terms of that particular definition of ‘it’ being broadened to anything particularly troublesome in your life and wait on your acceptance, or your proposal on how exactly to renegotiate ‘it’, does that help?”

dee stares at him, jaw hanging open, and says, “there is no way that you are an actual person, are you serious?!”

“i don’t know what you want from me,” logan says, near-mournful, and the absolute absurdity of the situation sinks in enough that dee starts laughing.

his parents want to very publicly out him without his consent, his grandmother has dementia that will only get worse and worse and it will only be a matter of time before his parents realize what is happening and send her into a nursing home and force him to move back in with them, the household staff who are the closest people he had previously considered friends have no choice but increase their focuses on spying on him for his parents in order to distract them from noticing anything wrong with granmè, or else risk unemployment, and logan is here talking about renegotiations like they’re on a legal team, and talking sure as shit isn’t an option, so dee can’t do anything but laugh.

“christ,” he says, and half-crumples, half-slides to the ground beside logan, who looks very bemused. “putain de merde, sanders.”

“i’m assuming that’s impolite,” logan says primly, and dee snorts.

“yeah,” dee says, in the same tone would say duh. “yeah, impolite, let’s go with that, shall we?” 

logan pauses, for a few seconds, as if allowing dee to get his bearings, before he says "dementia?" with a tone of curiosity that has dee swiveling his head to glower at him.

"sorry," logan says, not sounding particularly sorry.

"journalist habit," dee mutters, beating logan to the punch for his own excuse.

"yes."

they sit in silence for a little longer.

"i didn't know she knows that particular side of the family," logan says. "the haydens, i mean."

"oh, yes," dee says absently. "we probably lunch with them about twice a year, sometimes more—less now, though, now that they've moved away."

"huh," logan says, then, "what are they like?"

"what, you don't know?" dee says, glancing at him.

"not particularly," logan says. "i've only met them three times, and considering i was still in the hospital post-birth for one of them and was learning how to crawl for the other—"

"huh," dee echoes.

how weird it must be for logan, to hear that dee's had more regular interactions with his grandparents. both sets, probably; he would have remembered if logan had gotten dragged into various family gatherings the way he has.

"they," logan says, purses his lips, and says, "the haydens were particularly transphobic."

"yeah, well," dee says. "that doesn't surprise me."

"homophobic too," logan says, and he glances at his hands before he looks sideways at dee. "deviant was the exact word used in my presence. i'm assuming there was more, but dad kicked me out of the room before i could hear anything else."

dee rolls around various replies in his mouth. he could offer sympathy, or something equally socially accepted and something dee would have no problem letting roll off his tongue like a well-rehearsed monologue.

but.

he would tell all of those monologues to people who don't know that he's trans, that have never been to either of his houses, that have never listened to him spin a lie for half an hour and not be mad about it. he would tell all of these monologues to someone who didn't know that his grandmother has alzheimer's.

so dee doesn't offer a monologue. he offers something that he assumes logan might appreciate, something he'd recognize in a fellow colleague: curiosity.

"which dad?" dee asks. "patton or—"

"patton," logan says, cutting him off. "christopher walked me out, though, to make sure i actually stayed out."

another pause. it seems like curiosity hasn't been the outright wrong move, so dee strives for more questions.

"are you close?" dee says. "with christopher. i've only met him a couple times."

logan's mouth twists downward at the edges.

"i don't suppose you'd be willing to offer definitive parameters for close, would you?"

"no, not really," dee says. "closeness is subjective."

logan shrugs a shoulder. he looks almost uncomfortable.

"what?" dee says, interest now piqued—because if he didn't know any better, he'd say logan looked guilty.

"i," logan says carefully, "might have blackmailed him."

"you what," dee says, turning to face logan head-on, not even bothering to hide his shock. or his delight. he doesn't bother hiding that either.

"after the visit last fall, he," and the corners of his mouth twist down even further. "well, that doesn't matter anymore. anyway, i dug up as much of his public financial and legal records that i possibly could and made him a deal that i'd extend equal efforts in getting to know him as he would getting to know me. we have a standing weekly phone call now."

"you blackmailed him?" dee says gleefully.

"with public information," logan says huffily. "it's not like i hired a private investigator or anything—"

"nuh-uh, nope, you used the word blackmail," dee says merrily. "you don't even have to justify it with saying where you got the information, you still used information you dug up on him to coerce him into a deal. that is the textbook definition of blackmail."

"i don't know if it's the textbook definition—"

"nope!" dee says. "nope, i'm not listening to your semantics. you blackmailed someone."

"you don't need to sound so thrilled about it," logan grumbles.

"are you kidding?" dee demands. "this is by far one of the most interesting things i've ever heard about you. please tell me there's more misbehavior like this in your past—no, no, wait! i'll figure it out myself!"

"good luck with that," logan says. and then, almost randomly, "everyone says i look like him."

dee stays quiet—give the interviewee time to consider their answer, if it's short, mel had lectured once. always leave a couple of seconds for them to think about if they want to add on to their answer before you move to an entirely different question.

"i mean," logan says, and runs a hand through his hair. "other than this, i don't particularly understand why. i pretty clearly favor my dad—ugh, patton, i favor patton, this is the problem with two dads—but everyone says i look like christopher. my grandparents—both sides—their friends, a couple teachers. it's usually rather frustrating, and though i can't prove it, i have a feeling it's somewhat rooted in transphobia, for most of those friends."

he pauses a beat, as if understanding where he's going with this particular line of conversation. dee suddenly feels a lot less excited about the potential for uncovering any more of logan's past misconduct.  

"but," logan says. "it, ah. it makes more sense, if your grandmother has more recently had contact with that particular side of my family—"

"don't," dee says, and the exhaustion in his voice almost stuns him.

"don't what?"

"don't," dee says, and flaps a hand. "don't make excuses for her. she has alzheimer's, she's not stupid. everyone's patronizing her now and i hate it, even though i find myself doing it sometimes, it's like everyone's scared that they'll somehow catch the alzheimer's if they don't talk to her like she's a toddler."

and now logan's the one who's quiet, just for a little bit, like he's strategizing how to carry out the rest of the interview. 

except, dee thinks, this isn't an interview. this is a conversation. this is that talking thing that logan offered so readily, back when dee had come out, back before logan came up with this whole absurd debutante plan. 

it's just—difficult. to consider turning this strategizing, conniving part of his brain off. he isn't sure if he ever has, ever since he was first notified it was there in the first place. why would he turn this piece of himself off when it protected him, when it kept him aloof and above it all and safe to conduct himself in the way that felt most true to him? if it took lying and manipulating along the way, so be it. he has no patience for attempts at moralizing the way he lives his life. immanuel kant was a fucking moron who would have gotten himself and his friend killed because he decided his perfect duty was to always tell the truth. what was the point of something like truth if it hurt you? if it put you in danger?

it's not even a choice. 

or, at least. it has never been a choice. because logan is no murderer at the door, or machiavelli-wannabe gossip, or high-society rich person who held so much more power than one could even think of through backdoor deals and secret donations, who had adopted a poor orphan from haiti because it might look good as an accessory, and people would think them charitable, and they would barely even thinking about that poor orphan from haiti growing into their own person with pesky, inconvenient things like wants and needs and opinions.

telling the truth would logan would be... telling the truth to logan. logan, who lived in a tiny, pleasantville knockoff town with things like dance marathons and punnily-named cat-themed stores. logan, who had once blackmailed his own father in order to obtain a standing weekly phone call. logan, who had a trans dad, and who had a boyfriend that he had brought to the school dance, and danced with him, and kissed him, and it didn't even occur to him to care who might see, who might disapprove.

logan, who was once homeless and penniless, and who had extended various sources of information that dee had in his hands, ready to drop into the public eye at any given moment.

logan, who had just sat and talked about citizen kane with him and didn't catch onto three seasons worth of downton abbey but immediately clocked a reference to wallis simpson. logan, who had looked helplessly confused at the sight of fancy water and finger sandwiches and afternoon tea. 

logan, who might think that they are friends.

it might become more of a choice then, dee thinks. 

so when logan asks, very quietly, "how long have you known that she's sick?" it only takes dee swallowing down the saliva rising in his throat to be able to answer.

"she was diagnosed about three and a half months ago," he says. "but i've known something's wrong for a lot longer than that."

logan swallows, too, and dips his head in a brief nod, as if to show he's absorbed the information.

"i'm sorry," he says.

dee could say any number of things: she could live as long as twenty years after her diagnosis, but it's more commonly four to eight years. or one day she's going to forget who i am and i am absolutely terrified. or when my parents catch on they're going to send her away to a nursing home, and i won't be able to live here anymore, and i'll go crazy if i have to stay in that house for too long, their screaming and shouting will drive me crazy. or you don't even know the half of it, the household staff that you probably think are so nice and who practically raised me have no choice but to spy on every little thing i do because otherwise they'll get fired.

but for as much as dee can briefly turn off that part of his mind, he cannot turn it off all at once. there is no way he's opening the floodgates of information like that. they might be friends, but dee isn't in hysterics. he can control himself. he can control this. 

"yeah," dee says, and tips back his head to look up at the ceiling; half of it is glass, leading up to where it joins the rest of the house. the sky is bleak and black tonight, with no moon or stars in sight. "yeah, me too."

⁂

the chauffeur closes the door behind logan, and logan has to fight the urge to jump, even though the chauffeur was also holding the door open for logan to get into the car in the first place.

he has to shake himself before he turns to look at the front door of the lavandelands; dee is standing outside, letting the light spill out of the house and backlight him enough that logan can see him leaning against one of the columns, one arm casually wrapped around his stomach. his bowler hat overcasts his eyes.

"your address, sir?" the chauffeur says, and logan has to fight the urge not to jump again. he tells the chauffeur the address to virgil's, anyways, and turns his head to look at dee again.

haltingly, he lifts his hand and waves, just a little bit awkward. dee's shadowed form doesn't move.

there's a brief moment where logan's left with his hand raised in the air, and he cringes to himself ever so slightly before he starts to lower it.

but then, dee lifts a gloved hand, and tosses logan a lazy, three-fingered salute off his bowling cap, and logan tries to smile a little bit. he can't quite manage it, but he's pretty sure the chauffeur isn't judging him for not looking pleasant enough, as the chauffeur’s a bit busy pulling the car into a neat, three-pointed turn, before beginning to drive away.

logan glances over his shoulder, just enough to see dee, shoulders slightly slumped, re-enter the house. logan lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and redirects his attention to his phone, which he's mostly been neglecting this entire bizarre sojourn at dee's.

he takes enough time to text his dad and virgil that he'll be dropped off at virgil's, so he can pick up a study snack before he heads back to their house, and reassures his dad that he doesn't have to wait up for him or anything. 

he reads a text from roman—a brief complaint about a girl in his dance class, not one of the ones he teaches but the class he actually takes, and logan sends a response that he hopes sounds like the proper, thoughtful response to a mostly inconsequential venting message from his boyfriend.

and then he sits and stares at his homescreen, still that selfie of roman, his dad, and virgil that they took last fall, when he was staying at his grandparents, before everything with thanksgiving and patton's pneumonia had rather tidily messed that week up.

because he has his dad, and his other dad, and virgil, who consists as a dad figure, and he has ms. prince, in her way, and he has roman, a wonderful supportive boyfriend who he has always been able to talk to throughout most of his life. he has rudy, even if he has never particularly leaned on rudy as a means of support. he has maria, and meredith and mark, and his host of cousins from the danes side of the family. he has his grandparents in their own strange ways, even if their relationship prior to this school year would best be described as stilted. he has friends from sideshire high and his teachers and mentors that he left there.

dee has practically no one.

it seems so obvious, looking back at the start of the school year, how dee had seemed so desperate to cling to his academic superiority over everyone in the grade, because that's what he has. he has an ill grandmother, and exceptional grades, and three snakes. he has a former nanny and the rest of a household staff who seem more preoccupied with his grandmother's care. he has his secretive stance in the chilton social ladder, but he didn't have friends. 

logan worries his lip between his teeth. he is incredibly ill-equipped to handle this kind of situation. honestly, he's probably fortunate he only escaped with dee hitting him with his bowler hat; anyone who attempted to have an emotion-centric conversation with logan knew that he wasn't exactly the ideal person to talk to. that's never been his forte.

it has always been his dad's. his dad, who dee had seemed fascinated with, who certainly had a certain level of similarity in their life experiences. and though logan, of course, would never betray confidences...

he could, perhaps, offer some of his vast support system for dee to partake in. leave the choice to him, of course, but. but at least logan would have tried.

and so logan takes a breath, and sends out a text.

Logan Sanders: Dad, would it be all right if I asked Dee sleep over the night of the Culture Day you're planning with Ms. Prince?

[interstellarflare]

However Long It Takes || William Schofield

1917 (2019)

~PART TWO~

Warnings: Slight gore, swearing.

Summary: He first met you in the summer before the war. Since then, you had been the only thing on his mind. Now, he will do whatever it takes to get back to you.

Author’s note: 1917 SPOILERS! If you haven’t seen the movie then please don’t read! I have now changed my original plans, and am attempting to make this a four-part series, so stay tuned for more! Also, apologies for the incredibly long chapters. In addition to this chapter, I wrote this late at night, so please ignore any spelling mistakes. I was tired and wanted to write, so please enjoy!

Though his letters became less frequent, Will sent as many of them as he could.

You looked forward to the days when they arrived, you were anxious to see how he was coping on the front line. His letters usually contained as small gift, usually a pressed flower he managed to find on his way to and from his post. At some point, a small and delicate rose was encased in a letter addressed to you, Will telling you that one of his close friends, Lance Corporal Tom Blake, had traded a packet of old cigarettes to get it, not that the young man smoked anyway. ‘You should give it to your girl back home’ Blake had told him, having given Will the rose ‘She’ll love it I reckon, pity you can’t send her a cherry blossom’. 

You laughed to yourself quietly, as Annabelle and Catherine were asleep in the next room. With tearful eyes, you pressed a gentle kiss to the paper, sighing heavily as you gently placed the letter and the rose on top of a discarded book atop your bed. There was still much to do before Mrs Schofield came home from the bakery, where she had been all day.

Not too long after Will left for the war, Mrs Schofield had asked you to move in with them after your mother had moved to the country to take care of your grandparents. You had kindly obliged, and it had made the Schofield family’s life incredibly easier. As you cleaned the dishes, you hummed quietly to yourself, the humming eventually turning into soft singing. It was a wordless lullaby that your mother used to sing to you when you were little, and now you sung it for the Schofield sisters to fill their dreams with faeries and sugar plum castles. You did your best to shield those two little girls from the horrors of war. They were your only light in this dark corner of the world that you inhabited.

So many men had not returned home, the thought of Will being one of those men...

Your humming ceased into silence, the dishes in the sink sat unmoving in the soapy water as your hands clenched into tight fists, your knuckles turning white wrapped around the dishcloth. The thought of losing Will, the thought of him not coming home sent cold shivers down your spine.

The door to the Schofield home opened and closed swiftly, Mrs Schofield entering with a tired sigh. She made her way into the kitchen where her weary eyes met your own with a kind expression. “Are the girls asleep?” she asked quietly, once again sighing heavily as you nodded wordlessly. The older woman collapsed into one of the chairs beside the dining table, placing her head in her hands as she closed her eyes. Deciding to finish the dishes later, you moved to sit opposite Mrs Schofield, quietly pulling out your own chair whilst sitting down wordlessly. “How were the girls toady?” the older woman asked lowly, running a stressed hand over her messy greying hair. You smiled “They were well behaved...” you began as you looked towards Annabelle and Catherine’s closed bedroom door “I took them for a picnic up by the cherry blossom orchard, they enjoyed the sunshine for a change”.

Mrs Schofield smiled, chuckling in amusement at the painted image of her daughters running and chasing each other through the rows and rows of cherry blossom trees. Being children again. The trees themselves were not in bloom, but it would have been a joyous sight to behold. It had been the first time they had laughed in the years Will had left. “I’m glad you are here Y/n...” Mrs Schofield mumbled tiredly, yawning as she struggled to keep her eyes open “you have made this war a whole lot more bearable by being there for my family, and for Will”. Small tears welled in your eyes at her kind words, a lump forming in your throat as you choked back a shaky sigh. “You should write to him more...” you spoke slowly, swallowing that hard lump as you cleared your throat “he knows you are busy, but he asked how you were in his most recent reply and-” 

“I don’t...” Mrs Schofield interrupted suddenly, her eyes opening quickly and narrowing on your form. Taking a deep breath, she continued “...I’m too scared to write. What if the one time that I do, he gets blown to pieces before he can even read it”. You mouth fell agape in shock, your eyes wide with disbelief. “He is your son! How could you say something like that!?” You quietly exclaimed, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the edge of the table tightly. Mrs Schofield shook her head with a grumble “You know that this war will take more lives-” “And you think that your own son will be one of them!? I cannot believe that you would believe such a thing!-”

“Mum?”.

A quiet voice from the kitchen doorway. As your turned, your chest tightened at the sight of Annabelle and Catherine, bleary-eyed with stray strands of hair sticking up in awkward angles. The house was completely silent as both girls stared between the two of you, confusion enveloping their expressions. “Is everything alright?” Annabelle mused, her voice low and quiet. When no response came from their own mother, who instead chose to remain silent and avoid her daughter’s gaze, you sighed heavily as you stood from your seat. “Everything is fine girls. Now come, let’s get you back to bed” you spoke sweetly, walking towards them with a kind smile all the while ushering the young girls back to their room. Before you left the kitchen, you turned back to Mrs Schofield with a disapproving stare. “Write to your son...” you spoke angrily, watching sadly as the said woman ignored you completely. It was hard for her, for everyone in this town. “It would mean the world to him if you did”.

When no answer came in response, you sighed heavily and left Mrs Schofield to her own devices and made your way to Annabelle and Catherine’s room. Ignoring their sad gaze, you lazily removed your shoes and sat on the end of Catherine’s bed, sighing heavily as you did so. Annabelle clambered from her bed into her younger sister’s, the two of them sharing an uncertain glance. “Will isn’t coming home, is he?” Annabelle spoke timidly, lying down beside her sister with her eyes slightly glazed. You moved to lie down between them, wrapping your arms around them and bringing them close to your side. “Of course he is! He’ll come back, I know it” you tried to say positively, giving each of them a tight hug while they closed their eyes to return to sleep. It was hard to remain so positive, let alone this optimistic. But you hoped, prayed that Will would eventually come home.

William chuckled to himself as he read your letter, his eyes taking their time in tracing your cursive handwriting:

I took your sisters to the cherry blossom orchard yesterday. While they might not have been in bloom, they enjoyed it nonetheless. It was the first time they have actually enjoyed themselves since your departure. I have also taught your sisters how to read much more...challenging novels. They have grown up so much Will, they are becoming beautiful young women. Strangely, Annabelle has developed a liking to Shakespeare. Even though she has no understanding what is written, she seems completely fascinated by the story of Romeo and Juliet.

Catherine has found her own artistic talent in drawing! I have encased a drawing of hers inside this letter, as she desperately wanted you to have it.

Your mother wishes you well, Will. She is planning to write to you soon. She misses you greatly, we all do.

I hope you will be home soon, my love. I will wait for you for however long it takes.

Forever yours, Y/n.

P.S. Tell Tom that I found the rose a beautiful gesture. You are lucky to have such a good friend by your side.

Placing the letter aside, Will reached back inside the envelope to remove a small piece of paper. Unfolding the paper brought a large smile to his face, as the multi-coloured swirls of Catherine’s drawing formulated a dazzling memory. Although the majority were stick-figures, the drawing was of the night he had met you, dancing in the town square on that magical summer night. William was amazed, he hadn’t thought that his sisters had been watching. Then again, he supposed that the two smaller yet distinct figures hiding by the lamppost was them anyway. With a feather-light kiss to the paper, will removed the tobacco tin from within his coat pocket and carefully opened it, as to not make a mess of the contents inside. As he placed the drawing and your letter inside, Will’s eyes caught a glimpse of your picture. You had sent it in your first letter to him.

While the photo itself was in black and white, he knew the look of your crimson dress anywhere. You stood amongst the cherry blossom orchard, your (hair/colour) hanging loosely and dotted with stray petals. “Another letter from your girl, eh?” Tom mused from his side, the silence behind the front line broken by the Lance Corporal’s laughter. Slightly embarrassed by his friend, Will chuckled deeply as he placed the tobacco tin back inside his coat pocket. “Yes, it was-” “Did she say anything about the rose? The Frenchman I traded with was a right bastard”.

William laughed louder, he wished he could have seen your face when you beheld the rose. “She did...” he began, smiling fondly “she said and I quote ‘I found the rose a beautiful gesture”. Tom snorted, shaking his head slowly as he spoke “Well I’m glad, she seems like a wonderful woman”. The two of them fell into a comfortable silence, casting their eyes towards the sky to stare up at the flickering stars. The silence was unnerving. Usually, there would be some sort of artillery shelling occurring, but now it was unbearably quiet. “Do you think this war will end?” Tom asked somewhat casually, his tone laced with sadness and uneasiness. Will turned to look at his friend with a bewildered expression “I hope so, I’m sure many of us would like to go back to our families”. A low hum came from Tom as he shifted in his position in the grass. “I wonder how my brother is, I haven’t heard from him in a while, you know...”.

As Tom spoke continuously about his brother, or various other topics, Will found himself slowly succumbing to the lull of sleep. He was tired, so very tired, and all he wanted to do was dream of home. To dream of being at home with his mother, with his sisters, and at home with you.

William knew that Tom was standing beside him, his hand outstretched in waiting. He knew, because of the shadows dancing across his eyelids. He didn’t want to wake, having heard the majority of the conversation with Sergeant Sanders moments prior.

Pick a man, bring your kit.

Reluctantly, Will opened his eyes. At first, he eyed Tom’s extended hand skeptically, before lifting his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes. Without a second thought, Will took the hand before him, and was hauled to his feet in one swift movement. As Will grabbed his helmet and rifle, an uneasy feeling settled within his stomach.

He wasn’t sure what Blake had picked him for exactly, but something told him that this would be no easy task.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List: @prideofnewberk @4lendow-norris @blogbykate @strangethings-everywhere @arcaneloki @baekchelor @geekyfer​ @fandom--0verdose​ @gecrgemackays​ @fenderenderender​ @travelingmypassion @thylalock​ @aathepenguin @sexyskywalker​ @ms-baekhyun​ @stardustx0918​ @socialambivert​ @annaabner​

[ecto-american]

White and Nerdy

Holiday Truce Gift for @idiot-cheesehead-archenemy based on their request for Vlad’s slice of life outside of the Fentons.

On FFN and AO3

Summary: Contrary to belief, Vlad does have hobbies other than spinning in a fancy chair with his cat thinking of evil plots. For example, every Tuesday he dedicates the day to hanging out with his best friend as they both indulged in their crippling, long term addictions: World of Warcraft, with a pinch of Dungeons and Dragons.

Rating: K+

Warnings: Some cursing

Other Notes: Everybody is gay or trans, and you can't stop me.

Running a multi billion dollar empire was stressful, to say the very least. And of course, when you own those businesses, it was easy to work as much or as little as you pleased. Not that Vlad ever found himself taking off too much from work. No, no. He loved running his empire, the meetings and decisions. Whenever he took too much time off, the halfa found himself restless. Vlad craved a full schedule, and he needed things to look forward to.

Though of course, he wasn't all work and no play. There was one day of the week Vlad always, with the exception of business trips, took off or would take easy: Tuesdays. Tuesday was raid day.

And on that Tuesday morning, Vlad paid no mind as he could faintly hear the front door being unlocked and closed. His best friend, his actual best friend (NOT that fool Jack), had keys and was permitted to come over whenever he pleased.

Vlad continued his morning routine lazily, carefully shaving and grooming his beard to his preferred style. Brushed and styled his hair in it's normal ponytail, and he dressed himself. Any other day of the week, Vlad would be putting on his Italian brand name custom suits, always freshly pressed and ironed by a maid. But today was raid day, and so he instead was wearing sweatpants and an oversized Packers sweatshirt. He slipped on his football slippers, and he went downstairs to his computer room.

Not his office, which was expensively decorated with only the most fine and formal, shelves lined with important titles. His computer room, which was expensively decorated for a whole other reason. As he opened the door, he smiled at the shelves full of figurines of his favorite characters, accessories adorning the walls. He knew that most would have a stroke, since he never kept anything in the original box, despite having the entire collection of figurines, statues, busts, everything that would make the most dedicated fan drooling. That was simply stupid in Vlad's eyes, it was made to be admired and displayed, not kept in a box. If any were to break, he could simply buy another, no issue.

They lined shelves that were all over the brightly lit room, with cabinets below that held their boxes. While he didn't keep them in boxes, he of course, still kept them. There were also some books, mostly related to the lore but also game guides and manuals.

He admired his collection for a moment before turning his attention to the middle aged man getting comfortable in one of the three computer setups Vlad had, the far left one. All the setups were, of course, only the best and most advanced, with each desktop having three monitors and leather chairs. Each desk was a large U shaped one, set pressed to each other and near the back wall for the outlets.

"Hey, morning!" Edward Lancer greeted him warmly. Both men were morning people, clear by their chosen professions and schedules. Ed was in his own lounge wear, sweatpants with crocs and an old college t-shirt. "I brought McDonald's." He gestured to the bag that was left on Vlad's desk, alongside a cup of coffee clearly from Vlad's own kitchen.

Had it been any person other than Ed, Vlad would have been mortified over McDonald's. But even billionaires couldn't resist their breakfast, and it was only on Tuesday that he was able to privately indulge. Ed never judged.

"Thank you!" Vlad replied brightly. Ed had his own meal in front of him, sitting facing away from the keyboard as he took his time eating. Vlad joined him, sitting at his desk and doing the same, allowing them to talk face to face as they ate.

"Are you ready to fight the dragon later?" Ed questioned as he cut up his pancakes. "Since we're resting, I've been trying to figure out what spells I should prepare for the day to fight it." Vlad snorted, shaking his head.

"Knowing Harriet, she'll likely make the dragon a red herring that goes down with ease and dick us over with the actual boss that'll be invincible to half our party because it's immune the attacks that destroy the damn dragon," Vlad replied before taking a big sip of coffee. Burning hot, but delicious. Ed chuckled in amusement.

"She's always made it fair though," Ed replied. "Her boss battles are never unbeatable."

"Yeah, but she makes every campaign some Water Temple level meets 90s point and click mystery game difficulty and outrageous puzzle solving," Vlad grumbled.

"I like it, it's good critical thinking practice," Ed replied. "I've used some of her puzzles in the games I DM for the students. Really makes them think rather than just attacking everything. I swear, one of my students, Nathan, he just loves rolling to attack every NPC I make."

"Sounds like a ninny," Vlad said as he took a bite of his greasy fast food. The best part about the summer was Ed not having to teach. They could dedicate the whole day to hanging out. Of course, Ed took up a summer job, but he was able to secure Tuesdays off.

"A bit, but a good kid," Ed always spoke fondly of his students. "You should come in sometime for a game, it'd be fun."

"I think I might," Vlad agreed thoughtfully.

Of course, going to Casper High was always hit or miss. Daniel was there, and it was always nice to be able to check in on the little badger. But as mayor and a billionaire that funded several scholarships, it would be nice publicity to go and have some face time with kids. Many of his high school interns had graduated and left for college, and he was in the market for some new ones. Might be able to find some promising new future employees too. Hm, he'd have to see where he could fit a Casper High visit into his schedule when school began. Vlad would worry about that another time.

"How's their gay club?" Vlad questioned. "You guys just formed one, right?"

"It's got a steady group of kids who come in, very good kids. Many have supportive parents now," Ed explained. The teacher had paused, giving a small sigh. "It's a double edge sword for me. On one hand, I'm so grateful that so many of them can be who they are. But...I don't know. I hate that we never got to have that."

Vlad nodded understandingly. He poked at his breakfast, feeling hunger temporarily leave him as those depressive memories came back.

"I'll forever be thankful that Mother wanted to apologize and make amends before she died," Vlad spoke. "But I'm sorry she missed out on so much because of what I had to do to become happy. At least she passed away recognizing me as her son."

The last memories of his mother was depressing. Elderly and sick with cancer, even with all the money Vlad began to throw at her once she reached out to him after nearly twenty years of refusing to speak to him. Whether his sister wore her down, or it was deathbed regrets. It was an emotional two years, being able to see his mom again.

"Mine's in better shape than me, and they're still calling me by my old name," Ed complained. "I don't think it'll ever change. I try to keep a relationship, cause of the kids, but I don't know if it's even worth it anymore."

Silence hung in the air as they separately mourned for what it all cost them. Of course, it was worth it. Absolutely worth it to be happy, to be comfortable and finally as they should be, but it didn't make the cost any less harsh of a price to pay.

"Their generation will be better," Vlad said firmly. Ed nodded in agreement. "Please let me know if any of them need binders or anything of the sorts."

"I will. I've been thinking about starting a clothing drive for them," Ed explained. "I can probably get the school on board with it if we market it as for the lower income students too. Dressing how you want makes a big difference."

"You get the details sorted out, and I will absolutely financially back you," Vlad promised. Ed smiled.

"Thank you. I may start working on that to propose for this school year," Ed mused.

For the bumbling oaf that Jack was, Vlad had to admit that he was a very loving and caring man. A bit too caring, honestly, it was a bit of a flaw. He had immediately accepted Vlad, and later on his own son. It always warmed him to remember that Daniel had two parents that had immediately gotten him everything a young trans man could ever need. No hesitation, no questioning.

Ed took a final bite of his breakfast before humming happily. He wiped his hands as he pushed to toss his empty containers into the trash can.

"Enough being sad, let's raid," he suggested. Vlad hurriedly took his last two bites before nodding in agreement.

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The raid was broken up with greasy Chinese takeout for lunch, brought to them by a staff. Another guilty pleasure Vlad rarely indulged in. Then, of course, it was a return to games before they changed into their normal attire, sitting down to a home cooked dinner by staff. By the time they were finishing up, their other guests had begun to arrive for the evening plans.

Vlad always hosted the game. It just always made the most sense. He had the most room in his house, nor the distractions of family. Not that he disliked Lance nor Ed's children, they were great, but there was nothing that ruined the immersion of dragon slaying quite like teenage dramatics. And he thought that playing with toddlers in the house was frustrating.

The four sat in yet another room in Vlad's mansion that he had dedicated fully to the hobby. A large round table with Harriet Chin sitting furthest from them. A DM folder that separated her papers from there, just low enough that the halfa could see her smirking to herself as she reviewed her plans. Ed sat to her left, with an empty seat in between them. Another empty seat in between him and Vlad, and yet another separated Vlad from Lance Thunder.

Vlad honestly didn't really know the man that well yet. He was one of Harriet's coworkers that she had dragged into the summer game, as Vlad and Ed needed a third person in the party for this campaign. Their normal fourth and fifth friends, Joe and Frank, were spending the summer with their daughter and their newborn granddaughter. He already missed the pair terribly, especially Frank. Frank would often join in on their World of Warcraft adventures. But Lance was gay, and that made him okay enough for Vlad to accept him into their little queer circle with little complaint.

"I wouldn't get her a car unless she had good grades," Vlad gave his two cents into the conversation. Something about Lance's daughter wanting a car. Lance nodded.

"That's what I've been saying, but Alan keeps saying that if Star had her own car, she could begin driving herself to the library and to school to study, but I just don't buy that," Lance agreed. Vlad knew by now who those people were. Alan was Lance's husband, Star was Lance's daughter from his first marriage. Vlad had seen pictures of Star before. She was a spitting image of Lance. "She's more interested in being with her friends."

"And what does Rene think?" Ed questioned about the ex-wife's opinion. Lance shrugged.

"She doesn't think Star needs a car," Lance replied. "Public transportation isn't bad here, she can always borrow one of our cars, and lots of colleges won't let you have cars as a freshman anyway. So it'd be sitting in the driveway in a year or so for a year anyway."

"Star's going to be a junior, right?" Vlad questioned. Lance nodded. Vlad mentally went over his garage of cars. "When she's able to have a car on her college campus, I'll happily give her a good deal on one of my cars if she has good grades. I'll probably be retiring one of my cars by then. Of course, it's not going to be some beat up piece of junk." Lance's eyes widened.

"I'll definitely keep that in mind," Lance smiled warmly at him.

"Vlad sold my oldest, Ophelia, a car about five years ago. Car still runs like it's new," Ed spoke up.

"Ophelia just began graduate school, didn't she?" Harriet questioned, finally speaking up. She had been nose deep in her campaign notes. Ed nodded.

"She got in at the University of Chicago, full ride," Ed beamed with pride, and Vlad was very proud too. Ophelia, his precious goddaughter, was like a niece to him. Very smart, quick-witted and the only one who could match Ed's passion for literature. Of course, Vlad provided her with that full ride scholarship, as he did with her younger siblings, and eventually he would do the same for Ed's remaining two when they got to that point. No niece or nephew of his was going to college with student debts. "George is set to graduate soon too, this is his last year. Before med school anyway."

Ahh, little Georgie. Vlad got to spend a lot of time with him. He was one of Vlad's interns at Axion Labs. A strong willed boy, good head on his shoulders. Sometimes a little too honest, but the world needed more people like that. Whenever the billionaire stopped by Axion Labs, he always paid a visit to his favorite intern. It was always those times he spent with Ed's children that Vlad regretted not having his own.

"So how's the cat, Vlad?" Harriet asked, giving a small smirk. She could always seem to sniff out his emotions. Damn journalists. They were a bit too observant. Vlad rolled his eyes.

"How's yours?" he asked back. She chuckled.

"Bandit's the happiest boy alive, I just got him a nice new cat tower," she replied. Vlad nodded.

"I just had a new cat house for Maggie built," Vlad told her. Of course, he was never going to admit to his friends, most of them knowing the ghost huntress, that he named his cat after a long term crush. "It's going to be installed in the next week or so. You should bring Bandit over then. Maggie loves him."

"Oh I might," Harriet hummed happily. "It's been a while since Bandit got to hang out with Maggie."

"Does anybody want a drink before we begin?" Vlad questioned.

"Can I have a glass of rosé wine?" Harriet questioned. The billionaire smirked.

"Of course," he replied. He glanced to Ed and Lance.

"Uh, just gimme a beer, you know what I like," Ed shrugged. Lance thought for a moment.

"I may just have some wine too," Lance spoke.

Vlad nodded, and he stood to go to the intercom on the wall. All of the rooms in his house had it for his staff. He pushed it, and he requested the drinks, alongside what he knew to be choice snacks.

Almost as soon as Vlad had sat down, a male staff member came with a tray. It was full of cheese and crackers, popcorn, chips and fondue. Another staff member came with drinks and glasses.

Vlad picked up a beer like Ed, cracking it open and taking a long drink. Of course, in any other company, he'd indulge in wine. Beer was not something one could normally drink at a formal business function, and so he always took advantage of the times he could freely have some.

They began. A small discussion, and as the billionaire expected, the dragon went down easy. Suspiciously easy. Harriet gave the group before her a mischievous grin just over her DM folder. Vlad didn't like this, or that look in her eye.

"So you guys defeated the dragon," the reporter replied slyly. "But there's no loot to collect on him. The dragon dissolves and melts away. Everybody roll for perception and add your stuff. Then tell me what you got."

Oh, he definitely did not like this a single bit. Vlad eyed her coldly as he picked up his dice. Ed and Lance did the same.

"Visual or hearing, I'm missing an eye so I'd have to roll disadvantage otherwise," Ed reminded her.

"Hearing!" Harriet chirped. He nodded.

"Uh, sixteen then," he replied.

"Ten," Lance said.

"Twenty-two," Vlad spoke.

"You hear nothing," Harriet told Lance, pointing to him. She moved her finger to Ed. "You hear a small noise, two voices. But they're a bit muffle, you can't quite make out the entire conversation. But you do hear some words. The general jist of the conversation you can make out is that these individuals have realized you killed the dragon and are here." Harriet pointed to Vlad. "You! However, you can hear everything. It's a rough voice of a masculine figure telling somebody to prepare for battle, somebody has killed their precious dragon. They're going to detect your thoughts to determine your next movements before making their next move."

"I cast detect magic," Vlad replied. Harriet's eyes sparkled.

"It failed," she announced gleefully. Vlad internally groaned, and he could see Ed looking confused. "So what will you guys do."

Lance scratched his temple as he stared at his character sheet. He was not just new to the group, but to the game itself. The weather man studied his sheet for a moment as he tried to think. He took a long sip of his wine before speaking.

"Well uh, I think my guy is just gonna look for the treasure, cause I didn't hear anything," Lance said slowly. "And I'm still really interested in the promised gold."

"I tell him to not, because we should be careful," Ed spoke up quickly. "Because of what I heard."

"You tell your party what you heard?" Harriet questioned. She had leaned back in her seat, a leg over the arm of the chair as she held her beverage. The lesbian lightly swirled her wine in her glass before taking a long drink.

"Yeah, I tell my party what I heard," Ed clarified.

"And I'll tell them what I heard," Vlad agreed. "Because I need these people alive to keep me alive. They're my meat shields." Harriet snickered.

"So the prince never mentioned anything but a dragon being in here," Ed said slowly. "It must be another adventuring party trying to get the treasure. Prince Yamum said he did send several people to collect the family amulet."

"I say we kill them," Vlad suggested. Ed looked at him in disapproval, and Vlad shrugged. "My character's selfish. He doesn't want to share the loot with this party, and he doesn't want to share the rewards for returning the amulet."

"I agree," Lance said slowly. "My guy doesn't want the competition."

"No, no!" Ed said sternly. "We are NOT killing him, he may have useful information for us or be able to help."

"There's two voices, so that's a five way split between treasure," Lance pointed out. Vlad glanced to see Harriet's reaction. She was grinning like a fool, with that distinctive sparkle in her eye. She was absolutely up to something, and she looked like a true super villain. Evil plots forming her mind. Vlad trusted her with nothing, and yet he admired this chaotic evil lesbian. Harriet was his villain goals.

"Harriet, I swear on your grave," Vlad began his threat, only to stop with a frown at Harriet's devilish giggle.

"The individual detects your negative and violent thoughts," she announced cheerfully. She finished off her glass, shifting to have both legs over the armrest, her back against the opposite one. "And they have deduced that you're a threat that needs to be taken care of. Congratulations, boys. You're encountering the real boss." Vlad scowled.

"I knew you were going to do this, you always pull some weird bait and switch thing!" Vlad complained. Harriet smirked. "Lemme guess. It's a, it's a, god what would be the worst thing to fight right now." Vlad racked his mind for a possible enemy. "A rakshasa? Probably with a shield guardian too."

Harriet's smirk only widened. And Vlad knew he was correct.

"Roll for initiative, bitch."

[artificialqueens]

Searching, Waiting, Looking -Ch05- (Trixya) - Pichitinha

A/N: hi folks! My muse has been visiting me lately so this chapter came faster than expected – and I have half of the next one already! We’re past of the middle of the story with this one so I do hope you enjoy it and stay with me until the ending! As usual I am @pichitinha here and this can be read on AO3. Let me know if you liked it!

Summary: Of course Trixie will be the decorator to Shea’s wedding - with years of experience in her bag there’s no way she’ll leave her best friend hanging. Sure, she never intended for that to become practically a full-time job as the wedding planner alongside Sasha’s crazy best friend Katya, but hey, everything for your friends, right?

Chapter 5 - We all talk, but we don’t listen

One good thing had come out of Pearl’s visit: she’s now the official - free - DJ for the wedding. She’d been meaning to offer for a long time, apparently, but wanted it to be a secret from Shea and Sasha. Trixie’s heart is twice as big as Pearl promises she knows she’s good and that she really wants to give this to them so she obviously says yes. By the look on Katya’s face she’s in awe too.

Finding a DJ is then instantly crossed off Trixie’s list and even if she didn’t really put any effort in the task being completed, she feels a sense of accomplishment that is really wonderful. One by one the list is getting smaller and Trixie is more and more convinced that they’ll really manage to throw the perfect wedding. She really, really hopes they do.

She and Katya also manage to rearrange their schedules so that they’re mostly free at the same time for the next month or so which will leave them with enough time to do all of the initial appointments they had planned before Katya has to travel to Boston for a few days for her nephew’s first birthday. Trixie’s hoping to get a lot of things done by then, she doesn’t feel right at the idea of planning and doing things by herself while Katya is away.

That could be because she has way more fun when Katya is with her for these tasks, but mostly, she tells herself, it’s because they’re a team.

“So! Cake tasting!” Katya greets her as she opens the passenger door and joins her in the car, a wide grin on her cherry lips.

“Wrong, gift listing.”

“Ugh,” Katya fakes annoyance. “Can we put extravagant weird things on the list?”

Trixie looks at her briefly, considers her offer. ��One weird item each and that’s it.”

“Yes! I knew you were fun!”

“Excuse me, I have been nothing but fun with you since we met.”

Katya looks at her then, a glint of something Trixie can’t recognize in her eyes although she can feel it’s warm, and nods. “That’s true, you have.”

Trixie blushes despite herself, focuses back on the road and they drive in silence for the next ten or so minutes except for the radio playing lowly.

“Are you excited for Boston?” Trixie asks when she feels that the silence has extended too long, even if it’s a comfortable one.

“Oh my god, you don’t even know! My nephew is the cutest thing, I can’t wait to smush him again. And mom always makes the most ridiculous parties unnecessarily, there’ll be more food than our family needs for like a month much less one afternoon. But it’s great, it’ll be great. I really miss them.”

Trixie smiles fondly, can feel the happiness and love in Katya’s voice as she speaks of her family, but feels something pulling inside her at the same time. She doesn’t want to, but it’s hard. “I’m happy for you. If you need tips for decorating, I’m your gal.”

Katya nods smiling. “I might take you up to that. You’d be horrified at my sister’s decorating skills.”

Trixie merely hums and smiles in response and even though she’s looking forward because they’re almost at the first store they’re supposed to go, she can feel Katya’s gaze strongly on her.

“What?” she asks.

“Nothing. You just seem a bit down.”

Trixie shrugs uncomfortably. “I don’t mean to sound… well, like I’m gonna sound, but I wish I had a family like yours.”

“How so?”

“I get along with them, don’t get me wrong. Especially now that I live away my relationship with my mom is always improving, you know, now that I’m no longer under her wings. But my childhood wasn’t exactly picture perfect and certain things just remain broken, I guess.” She sighs as she stops the car, looks earnestly at Katya. “That sounded more poetic than I meant it to. I’m just saying that as good as things are now, we’ll probably never be a close, happy family.”

Katya knits her eyebrows together. “My family has issues, too, Trixie.”

“Oh, of course, I didn’t mean- sorry.” She sighs again, closes her eyes forcefully. “I always get a bit more sensitive on the subject this time of the year. I’m sorry.”

Katya motions to her wrist, stops her from opening the door of the car. “Something in particular?”

Trixie gulps, sees the worry and questions in Katya’s eyes and decides that she’s way past pretending she can’t - or doesn’t feel like - telling things to Katya. “My dad left around this time when I was like eight. And my step-dad moved into our house around the same time a year later. None of these memories are particularly good.”

Katya’s mouth falls agape and Trixie feels bad for ever having said anything. It’s been almost twenty years, these things should resurface as quickly as they still do. She’s probably just ruined a perfectly fine outing with a friend.

“Trixie. I had no idea, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s nothing,” she downplays it, even though it sort of isn’t.

“No, it’s- it’s tough. I’m sorry you went through that.” She looks positively upset and Trixie hates herself a bit for deflating Katya so much when she’d been so excited about her trip home.

“It’s been a long time. My dad wasn’t a great man and my step-dad moved away a few years later, my mom recovered, we all managed to pick up our financial situation. All in all it’s been good. I promise.”

She isn’t exactly lying. They are all better now, good. Happy even. Or almost there, as Trixie tells herself.

“Okay.” Katya nods, apparently okay with ending the discussion. They exit the car and enter the antique store that Sasha had provided the address for. Trixie is absolutely not surprised at Sasha’s first choice of gift store and given Katya’s face neither is she - although she herself looks more excited to be in such a place than anything else.

“We’re not here to buy anything for us, this is gift listing.” Trixie tells her as Katya picks up one, two, three useless trinkets with wide eyes, enamored with the place.

“Not even one?” She asks with a pout, resembling a child.

“I’ll give you ten minutes once we finish running through their list,” Trixie offers as she shows Katya the paper she has with Sasha’s handwriting detailing what is it they expect from that store. It’s just a few things, the whole thing should take less than half an hour, so Trixie’s happy to let Katya indulge herself for a little while afterwards. She looks cute with the crinkles around her eyes as she smiles.

They move to the register to understand how the whole “making a list” works and true to Trixie’s expectation it takes them twenty minutes once she gives the woman behind the register her list. Despite the old nature of the store they have a website and they setup sheaandsasha.goodoldstuff.com and promise the list will be available there by the end of the day.

Katya takes fifteen minutes to choose what she wants to buy - which ends up being lots, several small useless trinkets that Trixie rolls her eyes at but smiles regardless, and soon they’re heading to the second store which turns out to be a regular place with proper house and kitchenware even though the third place is also weird, but the rest of the day goes by smoothly, no more mentions of either of their families or negative pasts.

Trixie still allows them to include an extravagant weird item to the final gift list though, on the last store, and somehow both she and Katya manage to separately choose two stupid decoration masks - she picks up a jason one and Katya a phantom of the opera. She truly hopes someone buys them, and knowing their friends, they probably will.

*

“How many flavors are we in for?” Shea asks when the four of them enter the fancy dessert store which Trixie has assured them is not as expensive as it looks.

“As many as you’d like and can handle. Their menu has around a hundred.”

“A hundred it is,” Katya declares moving forward, passing all of them at the door.

“You don’t even care for cake,” Sasha chimes in and Trixie quickly turns her head at that.

“You don’t like cake?” she inquires shocked.

Katya shrugs. “I don’t really care for sweets.”

“What?” How does Trixie not know that yet?

“Just not really my thing. I’m excited for the cake though, it’s their wedding cake and I’m gonna have a piece at the reception and it’s gonna be great.”

“How can you not like sweets?” Trixie asks still in shock as they all sit down, Katya by her side at the square table.

“Most importantly why did you come to the cake tasting?” Shea asks with a playful glint in her eyes.

“Because it’s a wedding thing, I’m the planner. I had to come.”

“False,” Sasha clarifies looking at the extensive menu.

“Sort of true actually, Trannika asked me to make sure Shea wouldn’t buy a weird flavor.”

“That was one time!”

“You bought her a coconut cake for her birthday. She’s allergic!”

Shea rolls her eyes and grabs the menu. “Fine. But there’ll be-”

“No raisins!” Trixie and Sasha say together and then they all dissolve into laughter.

“I like raisins,” Katya ends up confessing.

Trixie just groans as Shea high fives her.

They go through the menu until they’re happy with asking samples for about fifteen flavors which Trixie already thinks it’s too much but will try them nonetheless.

“So, how are things going?” Sasha asks both of them when they’re settled and waiting for the cakes.

“Good! We did the gift listing already and I started on the decorations and we’re-”

Sasha interrupts her quickly. “I meant with your lives, the wedding is not the most important thing.”

Trixie blinks then, surprised. The wedding sort of is her primary thing at the moment. And it’s not even hers.

“I am making myself a wonderful skirt with a shiny black fabric embedded with small red demonic eyes, it’ll be amazing,” Katya replies easily through Trixie’s haze, seems delighted at the horrible piece of clothing she’ll gift herself.

“It’ll be hideous, you mean,” Trixie offers. She looks to the other side of the table and fake-whispers as if it’s a secret. “I was with her when she bought the fabric, it’s truly horrendous.”

Shea raises her eyebrow and Trixie hopes for her to just not. Shea really ought to quit.

“Where did you guys buy it?”

Oh no.

“This fabric store really, really far away that Trixie took me to kill me before she changed her mind.”

She rolls her eyes and hopes Shea will let it go. “I was not gonna kill you, it’s just my favorite store and it happens to be out of town.”

Shea does not let it go. “You took her to Javi’s?” Her tone is extremely surprised.

“I did.”

“Why the surprise?” Katya asks confused.

“Because apparently it’s her favorite store and she never takes anyone there.” Shea answers somewhat smugly and Trixie would really love for her to shut up.

Katya looks at her, then, questioning but smiling, and she’s about to try to reply when thankfully about three waiters appear with several samples of cakes and glasses of water on several different plates.

They take their time explaining the flavors and then they’re supposed to try all of them getting sips of water - carbonated, which Trixie hates - in between to clean their palate and it pretty much kills any conversation they might try to have while there.

When they’re finished and Shea and Sasha agree on a cake - which Trixie and Katya are happy to sign off on as something their guests won’t want to kill them over - the sun is setting and they are fuller than they expected to be.

“Do you guys wanna come over and have some wine to try to push the cake down?” Katya offers as they walk to her car parked a couple of blocks away.

“Yes!” Trixie agrees immediately, as she had never been to Katya’s place and was really curious about it, but as she speaks she can also hear the other’s voices.

“That’s not how your stomach works,” Sasha says.

“We can’t,” Shea refuses.

“That’s fine. You coming, Trix? Or reschedule?”

Shea gives her a look and she considers how much she wants to see Katya’s apartment versus how much bullshit she’s willing to take from Shea.

“Reschedule? I probably shouldn’t be getting drunk today anyway, I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow.”

“That’s smart and responsible, how are we friends?”

They all laugh and gather inside Katya’s car and one by one she drops each at their place - Sasha, Shea and Trixie, as apparently Trixie lives the closest to her. It’s only when Trixie’s inside her apartment that she sees the text that Shea sent her, which considering the time she did as soon as she herself got home.

Shea: you know i’ll stop teasing if it’ll get you to do something, right?

She sighs and locks her phone again. The last thing she wants is advice from Shea.

*

If there’s one thing Trixie’s come to not expect, is to see Willam actually in the store, working, but that’s what greets her when she goes to work one morning a week or so later.

“Willam?” She’s partially sure her brain is making Willam up but to be honest why would her brain even bother?

“Hey,” Willam greets dismissively from where she’s sat, flipping nonchalantly through an old decor magazine.

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” she replies as if it’s obvious, doesn’t look at Trixie once.

Technically yes, she does work there. But that’s more of an honorary title than a proper job - Willam got herself a gigantic insurance check a few years ago after a car accident that left her completely unscathered except for a chip on one of her Louboutins and she hasn’t really worked since. She hangs out with Trixie at weddings a lot and pretends to help about as much as she actually does but mostly she goes for the free booze. Trixie doesn’t mind, usually, Willam is a fun person to have around and at the very least it grants her some company or someone to carry stuff around. Plus Trixie doesn’t have to pay her so that’s great.

“Right. I’m afraid I don’t have any tasks for you to do today, though.”

Willam gets bored, from time to time, and hunts down things to pass her time. Trixie usually asks her to do something very boring that she keeps putting off but she’s been so busy lately she can’t even think about anything to ask.

“Don’t you have to go anywhere? I can drive. I love driving.”

Willam hates driving and that’s a testament to how bored she is at the moment.

“Not really. I do have some phone calls to make, though? There’s that office party tomorrow and I need to make sure the flowers and other things I have arranged are okay.”

“Yeah, alright. Ain’t got nothing better to do anyway.”

Willam settles down with Trixie’s work phone and her little planner where the numbers and the arrangements are written and Trixie shuts her brain off to finish some manual decorations she’d stupidly decided to do.

She only comes out of the stupor when she clearly hears Willam’s voice say, “Hi Katya, this is Willam, Trixie’s assistant - sometimes out, sometimes in the bedroom. Who would you be?”

“Willam!” She’s out of her chair in a second, bumps her hip on the counter Willam is perched on and hisses for one second before grabbing the phone. “Are you insane?” She puts the phone to her ear to apologize to Katya but it’s silent.

“I didn’t call her, you idiot. I did see her name on your planner a lot though. Who is she? Are you finally getting some?”

“No,” she denies firmly, grabs her plannerfrom Willam’s hands. “Why are you snooping around? All you needed was on one page.”

“I finished and I was bored. Gossip with me, please, I need entertainment.”

Trixie sighs heavily. Why is it that everyone just assumes she’s banging Katya? Willam hasn’t even seen her. What the fuck.

“There’s no gossip or entertainment. She’s Sasha’s best friend, the one I’m planning their wedding with.”

“And you wanna bang her,” Willam concludes.

“No! Will you- why does everyone keep saying that? We’re friends.”

Willam shrugs. “You can fuck your friends, I do it all the time.”

“Well good for you but I don’t want to fuck her, so.”

“Then why does everybody say you do?”

Trixie would love to know that herself. “Beats me.”

“Do you guys talk a lot?”

Trixie doesn’t want to entertain Willam’s theories but she also thinks that maybe explaining this once and for all and making someone believe it would help her general situation, so she keeps talking.

“I mean, yeah. There’s lots of wedding stuff to take care of.”

Willam doesn’t buy it. “Do you only talk about the wedding?”

Trixie can feel her cheeks reddening. “Not exactly. We have things in common, she’s fun. We’re friends.”

She thinks back to how Katya’s quickly become one of her best friends but she bites that back. She’s probably already said too much for Willam’s inventive mind and may have dug herself into a hole.

“And do you hang out a lot?”

“Again-”

“Non-wedding related?”

They don’t really hang out unless their plan is to work on the wedding but they do get distracted from that often. Having lunch here and there means nothing, right?

She shrugs. “I mean, not much.”

Willam just nods and stays silent and Trixie thinks that’ll be the end of it. She’s wrong.

“How terrible would it be, though? If you guys hooked up?”

“Willam!”

“It’s a serious question. You’ve been single for a while, you clearly like her. Is she hot?”

“She’s- I don’t like her!”

Willam rolls her eyes. “As a friend or whatever,” she says as she makes quotations marks with her hands. “Really, Trixie, it’s fine if you’re attracted to your friends.”

“I’m not attracted to her and you know I’m not a huge fan of the whole sex without feelings thing. And why are we discussing this? I don’t want to sleep with her. You don’t even know her!”

Willam stares at her for a while and smirks. “This,” and she points at Trixie’s figure, “is why we’re talking about this. You are way too bothered by my questions. Why are you so stressed if you don’t like her?”

That renders her speechless.

“I’m- I’m just tired of people insinuating this, ok?”

“Who’s insinuating this?”

“Everyone! Shea, Pearl, Kim-”

“So literally the people that know you better than everyone else?”

Speechless again. Goddammit, Willam.

“That’s not- you’re twisting things!”

“Or maybe you like her and are in deep, deep denial? I’m just saying this because between meeting and going on a first date with your last girlfriend there was a five month gap. I know, Trixie, I was there.”

She was. And she pushed Trixie day after day to ask her out or make any sort of move. Insisted that she had a crush and had to act on it. And it annoyed Trixie to no end.

And she was right back then.

But she isn’t now - she can’t be. Trixie doesn’t like Katya and as wonderful as Katya is she doesn’t want to like Katya. Liking friends is never good. It only ends in disappointment, one way or the other.

Trixie knows that better than anyone.

“But you are wrong now, okay? I don’t like her and I don’t want to sleep with her and I just want to be her friend. Okay?”

Willam shakes her head so lightly that Trixie could have imagined, but she ends up agreeing. “Okay.”

“Can we drop this now? I have work to do.”

“Sure. I’ll leave you to it. You look like you’ve got some steam to let out and I don’t want to be in punching range.”

Trixie doesn’t reply, merely nods as Willam gets her purse and moves to the door. Once the little bell indicates that it’s open, Willam’s voice reaches her again.

“You know I mean well, right?”

Trixie takes two deep breaths before she turns around to reply, but Willam is gone by then.

She knows it. She knows they all mean well. They’re all just wrong. She doesn’t like Katya.

She doesn’t.

*

The week following Willam’s impromptu boredom-induced-work day goes by much as the one before, she has lots of her usual gigs to tend to and so does Katya so they limit their shared plans to a minimum, although they do see each other still, including one day where they plus Shea and Sasha visit a few caterers and decide on the best possible menu - the advantages of having two people who’ll eat anything plus two vegetarians, one of which is less than healthy -, and one day where Trixie takes Katya to a fancy music school so she can ask an old friend who owes her one to play the violin at the wedding - Why do you always take me to weird places? Katya had asked. Because you’re weird, Trixie had answered. Katya thought that was fair.

Now they’ve done everything they had planned to do before Katya’s trip where she’ll be away for little bit over a week and Trixie tries not to worry because all of their plans seem to be on track. Katya insists that on her last free day before flying to Boston they have lunch together - no agenda, just fun, you need to relax - and how can Trixie deny any of that, really?

What she doesn’t expect is that Katya means lunch at her house with her cooking.

“You can cook?” She asks when Katya calls to confirm and give Trixie her address.

“I can read and follow direct recipe instructions, yes.”

“Am I in for food poisoning?”

“You’re in for a delicious meal with great company and mediocre wine. Or mediocre company and great wine, I don’t know your wine knowledge or your tolerance levels towards me.”

Trixie laughs and feels her stomach twisting a bit. She’s overthinking every word she says to Katya since Willam had run her mouth and planted things in Trixie’s mind. She’s now paranoid that she’s acting like she likes Katya, that maybe she’s giving that vibe, and she doesn’t want Katya to get the wrong idea. She’s no idea what she would say if Katya went for it. Katya won’t, obviously, Trixie’s grounded by the knowledge that Katya is way out of her league anyway and that makes it easier. But she doesn’t want to give that impression. Because it’s untrue.

Katya’s company is one of the best Trixie can think of, but she can’t say it now, not when her head is going over and over the possibilities and how that might read and Willam’s voice is on repeat in her subconscious, tempting her, making her second guess herself.

“My wine knowledge allows me to make any company tolerable.”

That seems like a safe line and sure enough it makes Katya laugh. It warms Trixie’s heart because she loves making Katya laugh - correction, she loves making her friends laugh. All of them. Even if strictly scientifically speaking Katya’s laugh is the cutest one.

Trixie sighs as her thoughts diverge again. She knows herself better than Willam or anyone else knows her. And she doesn’t like Katya. She can’t like Katya. Katya is wonderful and would most certainly be a wonderful girlfriend, but to someone other than Trixie. Because Trixie doesn’t like Katya.

“Anyway, food should be ready by one, ok?” Katya is completely unaware of the stupid thoughts going on Trixie’s mind and she’s glad for it. She confirms and they end the call and Trixie’s left wondering how she got there, overthinking, worrying so much.

Now it’s all about Katya and Willam’s fucking words that make more sense than Trixie wants to admit - why does it bother her so much? She may lie to Willam but the answer to herself is that she doesn’t know. But the issue is a lot deeper and she knows it. When was the last time Trixie wasn’t worrying. Before the Katya… situation, there was always something. Her last girlfriend, her family. Shea.

She used to be so carefree. Is this what growing up feels like?

She occupies herself for the rest of the morning, tries to get rid of those thoughts and anxieties. She wants to have a fun, relaxing lunch with her friend and she doesn’t need to be distracted by thoughts. She doesn’t need to overanalyse everything - what if Katya’s wearing something pretty? Does she say anything? Would that insinuate something? Or would not saying something do so instead? These are things Trixie hasn’t had to worry about since she was probably a teenager and she loathes her friends a bit for implanting those thoughts in her head again.

When it’s time for lunch she does the only thing she can think of: she brings another bottle of wine just in case. They say that alcohol brings out only what you really feel, right? That’s exactly what she needs. To reassure herself she doesn’t feel what everyone says she does. Her and her true feelings only.

“I brought more wine!” she announces as soon as Katya opens the door.

“You think I’m serving you cheap wine, don’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know, my wine is definitely cheap.”

Katya grins. “It’s a match, then!”

Katya hugs her as she crosses the door and Trixie’s reminded of how good at hugging Katya is. She never halfasses a hug, none of the one-arm thing almost everyone does. It’s comforting and Trixie likes it. And she won’t let herself overthink it.

Katya’s place is exactly as Trixie thought it would be, there’s useless stuff all around but it’s somehow super organized and it’s small but welcoming and the decoration should terrify Trixie’s eyes but it somehow works, much like Katya’s fashion style.

They sit on opposite sides of her very small table and Katya’s made a vegetarian version of a shepherd’s pie which actually tastes amazing. Their knees brush from time to time and Trixie gulps more and more wine each time it happens. She’s feeling a little buzzed already and they keep drinking as they keep talking even as the food is long gone. Trixie was right, the alcohol is helping. She’s just enjoying the company.

They move to the couch when the chairs become a bit uncomfortable, but Trixie’s wine bottle accompanies them since Katya’s is empty.

“You okay, Trix?”

“Hm?” she asks around her glass, all too aware that they’re both in a mild drunken state already.

“You look a little spacey, I don’t know.”

Trixie shrugs, but her mouth runs off a bit with the help of the alcohol. “Did you know you’re the only person who calls me Trix?”

Katya’s eyes actually bulge a bit. “Really? Should I stop?”

“No, no,” she denies it faster than she can think about it. “I like it.” She does and it’s weird because no one calls her that specifically because she used to hate it. Thankfully, she doesn’t voice that last part.

Katya smiles lazily from where her head is perched on the back of the couch and it’s nice and calming. Maybe this truly is the relaxing afternoon Trixie thought she’d have.

“Can I ask you something?” Katya breaks the silence and something in her tone puts Trixie on edge.

“Sure.”

“Have you really never taken anyone to that fabric store?”

“Uh. No.”

“Why? And why me?”

Trixie herself doesn’t know the answer. “Never seemed appropriate. Now it did.”

“Hm.” She seems to consider a for a while, focuses on the lightbulb over their heads. “Can I ask something else?”

“You can ask things without asking if you can ask them, Katya.”

Katya laughs but readjusts herself so she’s almost entirely looking at Trixie and she feels compelled to turn in her direction as well, sips again at her wine for something to do.

“When I went to your apartment last time it looked like you wanted to kill Pearl. I thought you guys were good friends?”

“We are,” she defends herself immediately. “And it wasn’t that bad, she was just getting on my nerves that day.”

“She was so nice, though.”

“Yeah, she just-” Trixie stops and finishes her glass before pouring herself more wine. Maybe she’s regretting her alcohol idea now, but it’s too late to back down. “I had this plan with you and she appeared out of nowhere. I just don’t like impromptu things.”

“Right,” Katya says and also finishes her glass. Trixie might be wrong but it looks like she’s smirking a bit. Trixie won’t press it.

“My turn to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Remember when we first met? You said that you mostly photographed weddings because they pay much more.”

Katya nods. “I did.”

“I may be wrong but you looked so sad when you said it.”

Katya just blinks.

“Well?” Trixie prompts.

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

She does and Trixie can see it, it’s like she doesn’t want to talk about it, but she’s drunk almost an entire bottle of wine by then and just as she hoped her filters are wearing off. “Why do you not like doing weddings?”

Katya sighs, seems more displeased with the topic, but Trixie is even more stubborn when drunk so she won’t back down.

“I don’t dislike them. I’m just not a fan.”

“Why?” Trixie needs to know why Katya doesn’t like weddings. She doesn’t know why, but she does.

“I’m just, I don’t know, call it skeptical. Being with the same person forever? Seems like a lot, doesn’t it?”

“You don’t believe in being with one person forever?” Trixie’s heart is thundering for some reason.

Katya opens her mouth but closes it soon after. Whatever she was going to say, she clearly won’t anymore. She’s not meeting Trixie’s eyes.

“I just think it’s unrealistic. Don’t you?”

“Not if you find the right person, I don’t.”

“I think- I think I’m too old to believe in all that now.”

“We’re the same age, Katya.” She’s more and more defensive at each sentence said but she can’t stop.

“I just think that there was a time I believed in it. And that time’s gone by.”

Trixie wants to ask why, wants to press it and figure out why Katya doesn’t believe in forever or for the foreseeable future even. But she doesn’t, because her heart is beating fast and her blood is buzzing in her veins and she’s feeling something which she can’t place, but it keeps her mouth shut.

They’re silent for a long while after that, Trixie’s trying to put her thoughts in order. Her brain is not fully operating and contrary to what she thought would happen she wishes she was sober. She doesn’t know why Katya’s words sting so much - she doesn’t care, she shouldn’t care, it has nothing to do with her whether or not Katya believes in marriage or forever or whatever it is. Because she doesn’t like Katya.

Right?

“I wanna get married someday,” she whispers at some point, probably by the time they should already be trying to talk about something else.

Katya gives her the most intense look ever, her deep green eyes clouded by so much that Trixie couldn’t possibly try to understand, much less in her state.

Katya just raises her glass then, doesn’t break eye contact or change her expression. “Cheers to that.”

Trixie isn’t sure what any of this means, what their talk even was. She just clinks her glass against Katya’s.

“Cheers.”

[janeykath318]

Meet Your Daughter: A Pirk Fic

@mrseclipse9856

“I see congratulations are in order, Kirk,” Admiral Richard Barnett told the young woman in civies with a baby strapped to her chest. After resigning from the fleet seven months ago, Jen Kirk had come back to San Francisco to see her mother get her captain’s stripes, undeterred by having a two week old newborn in tow. Her abrupt departure from Starfleet just after the Nero tragedy and graduation had been the topic of much speculation, but Jen had hidden away from the world in her old hometown of Riverside, Iowa until her daughter’s birth. She had braced herself for a barrage of questions and eyebrow raising silent judgment from the brass, knowing most of them already had a pretty low opinion of her. The worst part, however, was facing baby Emma’s father, who just so happened to be one of said Admirals now and had no idea he had offspring.  

“Thank You, Admiral,” she said graciously. “I thought this might help explain why I chose to leave the Fleet.”

“Very good reason,” he smiled back at her. “You doing okay?”

“We have our ups and downs,” she admitted, looking down at Emma’s little head, “but we’re getting along okay. She’s a pretty content baby. Adjusting to the weird sleep schedule has been the challenge for me.”

“Ah, yes, I remember those days,” he replied fondly. “She’s a real cutie, though.”

“I think so too,” Jen agreed.

Nearby, she could see Admiral Pike engaged in tense conversation with her mother. The man had barely acknowledged her presence and when he’d seen what she was wearing, well, he hadn’t so much as looked at her. It was deeply Disappointing, but not surprising, given how things had ended between them. Nevertheless, she’d have to find a way to talk to him.

Politely taking her leave from Barnett, she approached Winona and Chris, steeling her courage to face the man who’d broken her heart.

“Excuse me, Admiral,” she announced in her most polite, formal tone, cringing at how stiff she sounded. Pike looked like he wanted to flee, but Winona’s stern gaze held him firmly in place and he finally nodded, not really looking her in the eyes.

“Of course. Here, or in private?” he asked.

“Private.” Jen admitted.

“Very well. We’ll go to my office. Captain?” he asked Winona, indicating she could come too if she wished.

“Nope. This is between the two of you,” Winona declined. “I’ll wait out here. Try to act like adults,” she implored them and they both flushed. Chris still looked spooked at being near her, but slowly made for the door.

“After you,” he said, waving her to go first. He’d always been the gentleman like that, Jen recalled with a pang of nostalgia for the good old times before he’d let the fear of what the brass would do ruin everything. He’d used to treat her like a queen when they were alone.

Now, they were just two awkward exes and she was about to unleash the proverbial elephant in the room.

Once in his office, they faced each other with a silence so thick, Jen felt like the gravity had been turned up. Unable to stand it long, she took a deep breath and spilled her secret.

“Chris-- I mean, Admiral,” she began, bouncing on her heels a bit to settle down Emma, who stirred restlessly.

“I hate to spring this on you like this, but I tried repeatedly for months to contact you and was ignored so I decided now was as good a time to spring this on you as any: Meet your daughter, Emma Renee Pike.”

She let these words sink in as the Admiral turned a sickly shade of whitish green and gripped the edge of his desk for balance.

“You’re kidding me.” he said faintly. Jen shook her head. There was no other possible man it could have been.

“How?.......” He looked like he was going to pass out. Jen felt slightly sorry, but it was his own fault he’d ignored her calls and changed his number.

“Oh, you know how, Christopher,” she said with an evil grin. “I could give you the exact details of the exact night she was conceived if you wish. I figured it out when I was trying to keep myself from puking my guts up early in the pregnancy.”

The greenish white shade swiftly changed to a dark red as he flushed at the suggestive tone and use of his full name. She knew how it riled him up being called Christopher and she’d once taken full advantage of said knowledge. Even now, it was still useful.

Chris sat down hard, swallowing and staring at the baby as if he was just now seeing her.

“Daughter.” he said faintly. “So this is why you disappeared after you resigned.”

“Yes,” Jen admitted. “I decided I couldn’t end it--end HER, but with all the publicity and still hurting from the breakup, I went home to Iowa.”

“Makes sense. When was she born?”

“Two and a half weeks ago. Bones was there and helped me through it, best friend that he is.”

“So that’s where he went all in a hurry,” Chris mused. “About bit my head off when I asked where he was going. Now I know why.”

“Yep. Bones doesn’t like you very much at the moment,” Jen informed him.

“That’s putting it mildly,” her ex admitted with a rueful expression. “Glares daggers at me whenever I run into him. If looks could kill, I would be murdered many times over. Did the labor go okay?”

“I was told It was typical for a first time birth,” she sighed. “But for a few hours, it was indescribably awful. I probably cursed you in twenty different languages. When they mention a ring of fire, they aren’t kidding!! But she was more than worth it, the sweet little darling.”

She dropped a kiss on the baby’s head. Emma had fallen back asleep and was the epitome of newborn angelicness.

Chris cleared his throat and looked awkward again.

“You were pregnant when we were fighting Nero then.” he stated. “When did you find out? Before or after I ended our…...thing.”

That irked her. How dare he call it a thing?

“A relationship. We had a relationship, Chris,” she corrected him coolly. “As for when I knew, I found out after I collapsed on the bridge on the return to earth while you were still in surgery. When I woke up in sickbay, Bones yelled at me, fixed me up, and then told me I was pregnant. He offered to murder you in cold blood. Be glad he takes his oath as seriously as he does.”

“I am,” the repentant looking admiral admitted.

“I should have just told you once you were awake and cognizant, but I couldn’t deal with facing you then. If you thought us being together was too risky, what would you have said about me carrying your unborn baby? By that time, I decided I was going to go through with it and didn’t want you to talk me out of it.”

“Jen, I’m very, very sorry you had to go through that alone,” he apologized.

“Don’t be,” she said firmly before he could continue. “She’s a precious baby and the light of my life. All I need from you is to know whether you want to be involved in her life or if you’d rather treat her like a dirty little secret, in which case we’ll get out of your hair and never trouble you again. I’m not here to blackmail you or beg for money. Much as I hate the way you dumped me, you do deserve to get the chance to know your kid.”

She could see him wince as her pointed words hit home. The ball was in his court now. Gently adjusting the sling so Emma’s head was visible, she turned so Chris could get a better look. The look on his face went from weary regretfulness, to interest, to fascination, to awe in a matter of seconds as he looked his fill of the adorable infant.

“Wow!” he breathed, getting back up and moving around his desk. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen one that small. She’s beautiful, Jen. Takes after you.”

“I think she has your stubborn chin and scowl, though,” Jen commented, trying to ignore the pang of bittersweet joy at his subtle compliment. She was relieved to see he was beginning to relax a little.

Cautiously, Chris took a few steps closer and Jamie’s heart lurched again as the smell of his cologne brought back more memories. She’d loved his scent and used to nuzzle against his jaw on purpose to smell it. Chris would usually kiss her head and pull her close with a light chuckle.

“I, uh, hope you don’t mind I gave her your last name,” She said, scrambling to think of something to break the awkwardness.

“Of course not,” he said softly, still gazing at Emma. “It’s amazing she survived all the stuff you went through during the Nero crisis. That’s one tough little girl.”

“Her dad survived Romulan torture and her mother survived ice monsters, and Vulcan beat downs, so I’d say she comes of strong stock,” Jen agreed proudly. “Speaking of which, I’m glad to see you walking so well,” she continued, genuinely glad to see the progress he’d made. When she’d left, Bones hadn’t been able to say whether he’d ever walk again. Now, he was getting around pretty well, with only the occasional use of his cane for support.

“That’s the result of six months of pain, sweat, and a general desire to spite the entire universe,” Chris admitted ruefully, glancing down at his legs. “My therapists were saints to put up with me for so long.”

“Now that sounds more like the Pike I know,” Jen grinned. “Bones said you’d surpassed his wildest expectations.”

“He hasn’t said a thing like that to my face,” Chris snorted. “Just gives me a hard time. He may have saved my life, but he definitely wasn’t happy about it.”

“What can I say? Bones is loyal to a fault. The one person I can always count on,” Jen added, perhaps a tad passive-aggressively. “It might be awhile before he forgives you.”

Chris wiped his hand over his forehead in a troubled manner and sighed.

“Jen, I admit I made a terrible mistake by underestimating how much you’d be hurt by ending our relationship, but I don’t know what I could have done that wouldn’t have threatened everything you worked so hard for.”

“You didn’t KNOW that, you just assumed it,” Jen retorted. “You didn’t even give me an option of riding it out with you. Whatever it was, we could have faced it together. You know they would never have had any evidence that our relationship influenced my grades or was coerced and technically, Bones got my on that ship against your knowledge when I was supposed to be grounded. Sure, we would have probably taken some crap, but they wouldn’t have enough to kick either of us out. It’s all a moot point now, since I ended up leaving anyway. Your doing the “right thing” had the exact result you were trying to avoid. We thought we were careful. I still don’t know how my birth control failed, but it did and here we are.”

“If I’d had had the self-control to wait until after graduation, to act on my feelings, we wouldn’t have ended up in this mess.”

“Maybe, Maybe not,”Jen shrugged. “But the question remains, will you accept Emma as your daughter or try to pretend she doesn’t exist?”

Chris paced back to his chair and sat down, leg starting to stiffen up from standing too long. He was very taken with Emma, but clueless about fatherhood. And how could he be involved without embroiling all of them in a scandal? Jen didn’t need that stress on top of caring for a newborn.

It came down to a simple choice: take responsibility and be a good father, risking censure and scandal, or protect his career by turning away and permanently breaking all ties with both Jen and Emma?

The stifled part of him that was still very much in love with Jen violently objected to this as well as the newly awakened part that had a definite interest in helping parent this tiny little one, who was now blinking awake and revealing big, beautiful blue eyes.

“Oh, my.” he whispered, eyes suddenly welling up. “Jen, I have no idea how this will work, and I have no clue how to be a…..dad, but I would like to be in her life, and maybe in yours again, if you’ll let me.”

Jen wasn’t sure about that last part, but for Emma’s sake she was glad he’d offered. She allowed a relieved smile to curve up her lips.

“Thats…..wonderful, Chris, and way more than I expected when I came out here.” That stung him, but he knew he deserved it and bowed his head in acknowledgement. He used to be the one she confided in, looked up to. He’d been both dazzled by her and very proud of her as she’d headed for the career he knew she was capable of. Now, he’d only just met their child two weeks after her birth.

“Tell me what I can do, Jen.” He implored, meeting her eyes full on and getting lost in their blueness for a moment.

“You can start by communicating. Maybe give me your new number? Come to Iowa for occasional visit. Tell the Brass the truth when they ask why you’re always going to Iowa. Maybe ask Phil for tips: he’s got experience in the parenting department.”

Chris smiled. That he did. Phil had a grown son from his late wife Alicia and very lively twin red-headed daughters from Cait. He’d heard plenty of crazy tales of mischief, cuteness and woe from his best friend. Phil had stuck by him after Nero and made him get the right help as he worked through the trauma and difficult physical therapy. He’d also disapproved of Chris’s treatment of Jen, but didn’t say much about it, preferring to let McCoy do that part.

“Certainly. Is yours still the same?” he asked, pulling out his device and looking at the contact list.

“Yeah,” Jen confirmed, getting out her own and carefully punching in the code he gave her. “There we go! The first step.” She slipped it back into her belt just as Emma started to fuss.

“Uh-oh, sounds like someone’s ready to eat again,” Jen crooned. “You’ve been such a good girl for mama! Time for a well-deserved meal.” Reaching around her back, she untied the ends of the long piece of fabric that held the baby to her chest, then sat down in the chair across from the desk and eased Emma out of it onto her lap, pulling her out of the wrap and grinning down at her.

“Hi, honey, you getting hungry?”

Emma confirmed this with a little wailing sound that melted Chris’s heart. Heaven help him, he was falling for her already. He got up from his chair and engaged the privacy glass.

“You go right ahead and feed her here, if you want to. I’ll clear out and try to pacify her grandma by informing her of our agreement. I forgot how intimidating that woman was until I caused you grief.”

Jen smirked. “Maybe don’t do it in the future, huh? Just a thought. The whole “mama bear” saying exists for a good reason. We protect our offspring fiercely.”

He smiled at her and Jen’s own heart melted a little. She’d never been able to totally resist his smile, even now when she wasn’t sure if she would be able to forgive him for a while.

At least, he’d accepted Emma and not forced a paternity test. That would have been the ultimate sign of distrust and made her even more wary of him.

“Thanks, Chris,” she told him. “We’ll plan on talking more before I go back, right?”

“For sure.” he confirmed, and slipped out the door, leaving Jen alone to feed the baby.

Wide-eyed, he leaned against the wall to catch his breath as he slowly processed what had just happened. Jen had popped back into his life. He was a dad. She didn’t punch him in the face. She was going to let him co-parent their daughter. Their daughter was beautiful and tiny and precious. He was suddenly terrified.

“Hey, breathe Chris,” a voice said beside him. Winona and Phil stood there, looking both worried and amused at the same time.

“I was an absolute IDIOT.” He declared, once he’d calmed himself down. “Utter, utter fool. She’s gorgeous, Winona. I think I already love her.”

Winona’s expression softened. “I’m glad you’ve seen the error of your ways and yes, Miss Emma Renee Pike is the most beautiful baby in the galaxy. Did you and Jen reach a truce?”

“I think so,” he said, still a little dazed. “I’m gonna need help, though. Phil, I have no clue. How do you be a dad?”

“Trial and Error and a lot of love and patience,” Phil answered. “I think you’ll do fine. Congratulations, by the way. What a way to find out, huh?”

“Like I said, I was an idiot. Thought she’d be better off without me in the long run.”

“And maybe she will,” Winona put in. “But that’s a later discussion. I’m thankful you two are talking again. She missed you terribly.”

“And I missed her,” Chris said honestly. “I’m going to start by working on winning her trust back so we can be civil and cooperative parents at least. Anything else…….well, it’s much too soon to say.”

He tactfully left out the part where he was still hopelessly in love with her and wanted to win back her heart as well as her trust. No more cowardice for him. Chris Pike was on a mission.

[ka-za-ri]

Galene (Prompto x FemOC)

Genre: Slice of Life Rating: SFW Pairing: Prompto x Female OC????  Wordcount: 2,113 Suggested Listening: 月に照らされ、風に揺れる華 -- Hanafugetsu Tags: @roses-and-oceans @r-e-g-a-l-i-a @sweetchocobae @rubyphilomela @thirsty-angst-lord @hypaalicious (???? Is this ok??? IDK if ppl wanted to be tagged bc lmao it’s not Ignis) Notes: Yeah, that’s right. You CAN believe your eyes. It’s not Ignis. My muse is out of control and wanted me to do a character study on Prompto. Because of that one post floating around that said he was neglected as a child. Hooo buddy, I had feels. No beta in sight, more experimental stuff. 

GALE′NE (Galênê), a personification of the calm sea, and perhaps identical with Galateia, one of the Nereides, is called by Hesiod (Theog. 244) a daughter of Nereus and Doris.

--

Prompto Argentum lived on a borrowed name and made up time. What he wished to belong to him was created for a purpose not his own. He hid this fact through a smile that was brighter than the sun and wider than the skies along with a laugh and louder than the storms. Prompto Argentum was made up of fragments and of broken promises.

As beautiful as the city was, the world beyond it seemed so dreamlike to him. What photos he could take of the jagged horizon were always too blurry, imperfect, idyllic, manufactured. He wanted many things in life, trust, friendship, acceptance, but more than anything, he wanted sleep. Tucked into the corner of the city, a commoner dressed as a Crownsguard in training, he wished for space, a place to think to hear what thoughts could be his and his alone.

Loneliness was something he was familiar with. In a gated community filled with older folks who kept more to themselves than their neighbors, he found solace in capturing moments in time through his camera when his heart skipped a beat at the beauty that surrounded him. Through the click of a shutter and a shy glance up to make sure no one was watching, he hoarded images, hoping, praying that they would live for him. Life for him was perfectly serene, and he had warm memories of trying to take pictures of the void of stars at night above the water.

Prompto found himself walking a lot. Most of the time, it was in the dead of the night when it was quietest and his thoughts almost seemed to collect correctly. Strolling the streets, he learned the corners and the quaintness of his neighborhood as the critters of the night scampered off, eventually leading him to the beach. He never needed music to listen to when his feet lead him to the water. The sound of gently lapping waves accompanied the beating of his heart and provided the booming baseline to his footsteps being the only sounds that he needed to think, to breath, to believe that he was real.

He often counted stars during those long walks, thinking them as a reflection of the freckles on his face. Each constellation he matched fell from the heavens to kiss gently at his cheeks and take a little bit of the stress he felt away from him. As the waves caressed at the corners of his consciousness, he could almost believe he was once born, and not made to be human. As the tide fell when the moon retreated, so did the tension of being and all that was left was his ability to believe.

Fondly, most fondly of all, he remembered the first night to the beach. He sat on a rock that was still holding onto the last vestiges of warmth from the sun, staring out into the darkened waters as moonlight rippled and played across the surface. It was the first night he didn't need his camera to capture the magic of the world around him. As tempting as the water seemed to be, the first nip of autumn air prevented him from dipping his toes into its inky depths. As brightly as he shone during the day, he could not let anyone know how weak he was to illness. That night, he recalls most fondly of throwing the windows to his room wide open so that he could continue to listen to the restless ocean just past his reach.

--

Six weeks of regularly walking at the beach and Prompto Argentum began to hallucinate.

There's no way she's real.

Thursday night, just past 3 AM on a routine walk, the peaceful lull of waves was interrupted by the unfamiliar sound of splashing and a voice that shone brighter in the dark night than his smile in the sun. Someone, laughed and sang during his hours of the dead when he was sure no one was awake.

Down by the pier she danced in the dark, glassy waters of the night, laughing and squealing at the fish that darted and danced by her legs. She sang loudly, off key and off tune to songs from at least three decades ago. The way she moved smelled strongly of chrysanthemums and orange blossoms in the summer. Despite the chill of autumn setting in, she flailed and swam in the darkened water as if it was the middle of summer.

Under a waxing moon which nestled between Castor and Pollux, Prompto Argentum met a goddess who was drenched in the light of the stars while moonbeams dripped heavily from her eyelids.

She didn't notice him until he was only about thirty paces from the end of the pier.

"Oh, hello! I didn't think people were up this late! What's up? Couldn't sleep?" Her first interaction reminded him of a wide-eyed curious child, naive to the world.

"I usually take a walk down by here to help me go to sleep" He replied, skeptical, and sure he was still strongly imagining everything.

"No, no. There has got to be a better reason why someone like you would be up this late, walking around here like you've never seen water before." She disappeared underneath the dark surface of the water and Prompto felt himself sigh in relief, realizing the moment was over. When she appeared again, at the edge of the pier, arms crossed on the wooden planks, hair swirling around her face in a tangled mess, he felt his heart stop. "Come on now, there's got to be a story behind all of this."

"There really isn't a story to any of this. It's just... nice and quiet here." He shrugged before coming to his senses that yes, there was someone there and yes, they were speaking to him. He couldn't help but wish that his camera was with him to catch the way the moonlight made her hair looked curled and wild.

"Quiet is the only good thing about this place, really." She scoffed.

"Well, I mean, it's better than during the day when it's all noisy."

"I guess you have a point there." She sighed and shifted her weight a bit, making the planks of wood groan slightly. "There's literally nothing to do here though. All the people are old and no one ever swims in the water during the day. I mean have you seen how much trash there is?"

"Wait, then why are you in the water now?"

"Because I want to be. But that's beside the point. You never really answered my question. Why are you here? There's no way a pretty thing like you grew up here. All the old grannies would be spoiling you rotten to the core. Did you move here recently?"

"I... I grew up here. I just, don't really go out much. But I just started coming to the beach recently. How did you figure?"

Maybe it was just the way the water lapped at her waist as she clung to the edge of the pier that made her seem like a sprite straight out of a fairy tale. Or perhaps it was the moonlight casting a glowing halo around that made her seem absolutely surreal and ethereal to him. Still, a deeply skeptical part of him truly wanted to believe he was imagining this whole scenario.

"Well, first, there are no younger people here. I'm just visiting my folks for a little bit. Been away for a while. I'm an ornithologist y'know. Most of my studies are on chocobos, but I really like to run around finding the big ones, like ruhks! So, my reasearch takes me all over the place." She let out a dreamy sigh and settled her head back down on her arms. "It's nice though, coming back for a bit and taking a dip every now and then. Secondly, if you need to take a walk around here to lull you to sleep from the city sounds, you must be one hell of a light sleeper, kid."

"I'm not a kid! I have a name. It's Prompto. And you'd best remember it. I'm training to be a Crownsguard." Prompto huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Look, it's just, nice to walk around here at night. It's like you, coming back to your parents' place."

As much as he tried not to show it, he felt a twinge of envy that she even had a place with parents to come back to. What with how often he saw his own folks, it was difficult to swallow the bitter feeling that was rising from the back of his throat. She, as carefree as the world, had the one thing that he wanted.

"No, no." She countered, shaking him out of the foul mood that was sinking through his skin. "You see, those are two different things. I'm coming back here because I have a familial obligation and it's a free room for a few days before I have to head out again. You, on the other hand willingly bring yourself to walk around in the dead of the night so you could experience 'peace and quiet.' Prompto. You may be a Crownsguard in training, but man, you're weird. Have you ever heard of earplugs? They work miracles on loud noises, and you'll get a lot more sleep that way 'cause y'know, you're not up and about in the dead of the night."

Any chance Prompto had to reply was cut short as she floated off to play with more invisible fish in the impossibly dark water. Prompto didn't really have much of an answer to her question. He could have easily found the quiet he wanted in other ways, but he chose to seek the water as if it was the only place that mattered to him. Perhaps it was that magnetic draw to it that eventually brought him to her.

How sorely he wished he had his camera to catch the stars as they flickered in the night sky while she laughed and sang songs he had only briefly heard in snippets while browsing radio stations.

The rest of the night, he sat at the edge of the pier, feet numb and dipped into the water, watching as she swam around, laughing and talking to her fishy friends. The part of him which thought it was all an illusion at first became the part of him that yearned for her to talk to him and not her silent, swimming friends.

By the time the night waned and Prompto got himself to bed, he refused to open his windows. The sound of waves that night were too loud with the sound of free will and singing fish.

~~

In the morning, at his front doorstep. His shoes and a bright pink sticky note with a message scrawled on it:

Goofball, you left your shoes at the end of the pier. At least the grannies here were nice enough to point me in the direction of your place. You're lucky I'm not your shoe size because I would have made these mine if I could.

The place her name should have been was smudged and illegible. His shoes had been spitefully filled with sand and he couldn't help but laugh at her petty nature. Six, I should have asked for her name...

The rest of his day, the whole scenario of their conversation haunted him. The scrap of paper with her written note burned in his pocket and he found himself constantly fidgeting with it. He found himself forgetting most of what he was supposed to be training for and ending up with more bruises that day than he cared to talk about. Not that there were a lot of people he could talk to about them in the first place.

By the end of his scheduled day, out of sheer frustration and impulse, the weightless note became an unbearable burden to him and he threw it in the garbage.

He destroyed the one and only memento he had from a conversation with a water goddess. Though the object itself was temporal, the memory of her moon drenched figure lived forever in Prompto's mind. And he would chase that image forever move with his camera in hand.

Prompto Argentum lived on borrowed time and makeshift memories. However, he'd now count the pictures he's taken and they would more than make up for the lost time that wasn't his.

[rheawritessometimes]

A Terrible Deal

{ Childe x GN!Reader }

{ Summary } Babysitting Childe has its ups and downs. Series Masterlist

{ Warnings } Swearing, Mention of Injury, Medication, Mention of Violence, Physical Intimacy.

{ Notes } The second part of Let's Make a Deal with minor edits. Masterlist

{ Word Count } 3,076

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It didn’t take very long for the sentiment of Childe’s recovery being a simple one to be thrown in the garbage. Long before the sun had even begun to peek over the horizon you were awakened by the sound of a break-in.

Rolling out of bed, your feet silently met the floor. Your sword materialized in your hand as you crept out of your room, briefly wishing you had a shorter blade. Something small would be nicer in the limited space of the apartment, but anything was better than nothing.

Any grogginess you had felt faded as you neared the source of the sound, whatever intruder was in the apartment was not stealthy as they searched cupboards and drawers in the kitchen. You didn’t even need to sneak around, the loud banging of things being thrown around the kitchen was cover enough. Adjusting your grip on the sword, you prepared to face the intruder.

Needless to say, you were more than annoyed to find that the ‘break in’ was actually a familiar Harbinger making breakfast, tearing apart the kitchen in the process. Your sword dematerialized as you brought a hand up to massage your temples to ward off a headache. Childe wore a cheery expression in the middle of a mess of ingredients and cookware, some of which you were certain had not been necessary to whatever it was he was making. There was no way that many bowls were necessary for any recipe.

The Snezhnayan flashed a bright grin when he saw you, but the gesture did nothing to ease the scowl that had settled onto your features. That didn’t seem to dampen his mood in the least, he merrily continued preparing what appeared to be enough food to feed a lot more people than were currently occupying his apartment. Was he expecting a lot of company this morning?

“I thought we made a deal that involved you resting and not cooking enough to feed a small army at ass in the morning,” you remarked, the sarcasm laid on thick enough to be dripping from each word. Much to your frustration, this only made him laugh as he turned the stove on.

“Well, I usually wake up early but this morning I had nothing to do since someone broke my bones. So, I decided to make a nice breakfast for my guest to enjoy on their first day staying with me,” he responded with faux innocence, though there was laughter in his voice that easily gave him away. His words were still effective in making you feel a little guilty, so you wordlessly brought the dishes you were fairly certain he was done with to the sink and began washing them.

The two of you fell into a comfortable quiet after that, you were busy cleaning a mountain of dishes and Childe’s focus was on frying a few eggs and cutting up a bowl of strawberries. You were mindful to stay out of the way as Childe cooked and he made an effort to set the cookware he was finished with beside the sink for you. The rhythm you two had quickly settled into felt startlingly domestic, something you reminded yourself not to like, and certainly not to get used to.

“Maybe I did make a little too much,” the Harbinger muses somewhat sheepishly as he looks at the table he had just finished setting. It was without a doubt too much food for only two people, the table at risk of collapsing under the weight of it all. You could only nod in agreement.

“Your guard might appreciate a plate,” you suggested, as though one more person would make much of a difference against the mountain of food. You had to admit, everything did look delicious. The table was laid out with fried eggs, some porridge, a few sandwiches with sausage on them, what appeared to you to be a form of crêpes, pancakes of some sort, the bowl of cut strawberries, and a kettle of tea. But you had to admit, everything looked delicious, it would be no trouble finding people willing to eat the excess food.

“I suppose my subordinates deserve a nice breakfast,” the redhead sighs dramatically, “They’re lucky they have such a nice boss.”

“Mhm, and if you ever fall out with the Fatui you could certainly find a job as a cook,” you reply after sampling a forkful of his work. You weren’t even sure if it was possible to leave the Fatui once you were a Harbinger. A simple retirement might be out of the question for Childe.

Living in Liyue had you more accustomed to chopsticks, but it was evident after going through Childe’s kitchen that he did not own a pair. As a witness to his attempts at using them, you weren’t very surprised by this finding. A fork was easy enough to figure out, anyway.

“I’m glad you like it,” the redhead responds with a grin, quickly busying himself with his own plate. As he eats, he begins to talk about having similar breakfasts with his family in Snezhnaya. This turns into him recounting learning how to make these dishes with his mother and you quietly listen along, making the occasional comment and smiling fondly at his memories and the way he became more animated as he spoke about his family.

The sun had emerged by the time each of you had eaten what you could, and you cleared the plates while Childe ordered his guard to distribute the remaining food to his subordinates stationed in Liyue. You were halfway through cleaning the dishes when the Snezhnayan waltzed into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. He contented himself with watching, not bothering to even offer his assistance.

“I was thinking we should do something. I’ve been cooped up for too long. Maybe a casual hike up Mt. Aozang?” he suggested, causing you to pause in your ministrations and glance back at him with a raised brow. No hike up Mt. Aozang would be a casual one considering the terrain and potential enemies of the area.

“It’s been less than a full day,” you pointed out, “And, hm, what was it? Oh yeah, and you have a few broken ribs.”

“What are a few broken ribs to a Fatui Harbinger?”

“It’s a no, Childe,” you firmly insisted, causing him to groan and mumble about you being a 'spoil sport’. It was easy enough to ignore him as you finished up with your small chore.

“I’m using your shower,” you informed him once you turned away from the sink. He only hummed in response, still pouting against the counter. It was all you could do to not roll your eyes at his childish behavior.

“What am I even supposed to do for six weeks if I can’t go out and fight things?” he whined, and this time you did roll your eyes.

“Well, maybe you can still improve your fighting,” you mused, “Have you ever tried working on your strategy? Because that could definitely use some improvement.”

The Harbinger huffed indignantly at your words, taking the mature route and sticking his tongue out at you as you left the kitchen to take a shower. He could pout to himself in the kitchen while you had a relaxing shower.

The apartment’s bathroom was on the smaller side, but it was still easily workable and didn’t feel cramped. You had brought with you your own toiletries, but that didn’t stop you from poking around Childe’s well-organized things out of curiosity. There wasn’t anything of particular interest so you decided to just get cleaned up and figure out what to do for the day.

Leaving the bathroom wrapped in a towel and feeling refreshed, you made your way to the guest room to pull out something to wear for the day. You decided on something comfortable, it didn’t seem like you’d be going out today anyways and if you did you could always change into something more suitable. After getting dressed and taking care of a few more things, you left the guest room in search of Childe.

It was a simple task finding the Harbinger, he was seated at the table flipping through the pages of a book. You were more than surprised to see it was a book on battle strategy, although you noted it was one focused on group tactics to be used in war organization. You supposed it shouldn’t have been any great shock to find he had such books, considering his position as a Fatui Harbinger who was known for his knack for combat. But to actually find him taking your advice was not something you had expected. If you had observed for a moment longer you might have noticed Childe was only pretending to read, the books around the apartment were mostly just decoration.

“Finally done with your shower?” Childe asked, looking up from his reading, “Good, you were stinky.”

His tone made it clear he was joking, and you gasped in mock offense. You both laughed at this, his cerulean eyes shining with amusement. You weren’t sure you’d ever seen eyes more beautiful than his.

“Anyways, I was thinking we should go for a walk around the harbor and have a late lunch a Wanmin. Then we can just wander looking for stuff to do, or we could go out to that one boat. Or maybe Zhongli will be at the market and invite us for tea,” Childe suggested, setting the book down on the table. You raised your brows at his 'plan’.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve had any time off and I don’t know what to do,” he justified, crossing his arms over his chest. You only shook your head, smiling softly at his pout.

“Alright, I wouldn’t mind a walk around the harbor, at least. Lunch at Wanmin sounds good too. We’ll see what happens afterward,” you conceded, watching his expression immediately brighten. Just a walk shouldn’t be too strenuous, so you weren’t terribly worried about his bones. Plus, you wouldn’t be able to keep him in bed all day and this was a much better alternative to him going out and finding a fight.

“Let me just get changed into something more presentable.”

It wasn’t long before you were walking along the docks of the harbor with Childe, hand in hand. The redhead had grabbed your hand early on, intertwining your fingers with a cheeky grin. You didn’t resist when he did this, comfortable with showing a small amount of affection, even in public.

Looking out across the calm waters of the harbor, you couldn’t help but think it matched the blue of the Harbinger’s eyes. While he had an excellent poker face when necessary, Childe’s eyes were often very expressive, allowing an easy read of his mood at a glance. Smiling fondly at the thought, you squeezed his hand gently before moving on.

The rest of the day progressed just as pleasantly, both you and Childe enjoying the sights of Liyue before getting lunch at Wanmin as he’d planned. After eating, you browsed the various stalls of Liyue’s busy market, admiring the vast array of goods on display.

As the Snezhnayan had earlier predicted, you did meet Zhongli at the market and he did invite you two for tea. You wondered if he had planned it with Childe, but the polite man seemed entirely surprised to have encountered the both of you.

Tea with Zhongli turned out to be quite a lengthy endeavor, and you were rather exhausted by the end of it. He had recounted the history of Liyue well into the evening, in a way that reminded you of a professor during a lecture. It was Childe who was finally able to excuse the both of you, after several hours of education on the historic importance of Silk Flowers.

“Well, I did make a promise that I would rest, so I’m afraid we must be going.”

“Ah, yes. It is always good to keep your promises,” Zhongli agreed sagely, his words carrying a strange gravity. With polite goodbyes, you left with Childe to return to his apartment. The walk back was through darkness thanks to the hour, but the streets of Liyue were lit and there was still plenty of activity.

It was no surprise that both you and Childe were ready for bed by the time you made it through the door. He mumbled out a mostly unintelligible apology for how long tea with Zhongli had lasted before kissing the top of your forehead and disappearing into his room.

You stood in the hallways shocked by the affectionate gesture for a few seconds before deciding it would be best to just go to bed and forget about it. Surely the action was purely the result of exhaustion.

This time when you woke up the sun had already risen. Silently, you thanked Rex Lapis for not having to wake up to a break-in Childe’s noisy breakfast-making. Even if his cooking was really good, without sleep you’d eventually become rather cranky, to put it lightly.

Exiting the spare bedroom, you found the Harbinger sprawled out on the couch looking through a stack of papers. You assumed it was Fatui business, something which you wanted nothing to do with at the moment. Maybe at another time you would be interested in their secrets, but as of right now, they weren’t really your problem.

“How are you feeling? In any pain?” you asked casually, making your way to the kitchen to retrieve some ice. Regardless of his answer, it was still advised to ice his side regularly.

“Mm, I’m fine. Took some painkillers earlier,” he replied, most of his focus still on the documents in his hands. You briefly wondered how often it was that the Eleventh Harbinger did paperwork as opposed to fieldwork. You would have assumed he had a secretary or something for this kind of thing, though you supposed it made some sense for him to do it if he wasn’t out in the field.

Leaving the kitchen with another makeshift icepack, you noticed he had set the papers down on the coffee table and draped an arm over his eyes. You raised a brow at this, wondering how long he had been reviewing the documents, but didn’t say anything as you placed the icepack on his side and sat on the couch where there was space beside his legs.

“I don’t think I can last six weeks like this. I’m already dying of boredom,” he confessed, raising his arm to peek at your expression.

“I’m not sure I can last six weeks either,” you replied snarkily. It seemed lost on him as he nodded in agreement before furrowing his brows and scowling at you. Realization.

“Hey, wait! What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, sitting up quickly and wincing at the resulting pain. You picked up the icepack that had slid down and pressed it against his side until one of his hands came up to hold it in place.

“It means I think sometimes you’re a bit much,” you laughed in response, ruffling his hair and causing his scowl to deepen. In retaliation he used his free arm to wrap around your waist and pull you closer to him, resulting in you sitting on his lap. The movement must have hurt his ribs, but he didn’t show any outward signs of pain.

“I’ll have you know I’m a fucking delight and you adore me,” he asserted, staring you dead in the eyes with a challenging look. Now that he was closer, your eyes were drawn to the light smattering of freckles that crossed his nose and dusted both cheeks. From a distance, they weren’t really visible, but now you could clearly see them.

“Mhm,” you agreed absently, bringing a hand up to lightly cradle his jaw, swiping your thumb slowly across his cheek. It was only when he started leaning in that it dawned on you exactly what you were doing and how intimate it seemed. By the time his lips were pressed against yours, heat had risen to your cheeks and you were certain your face was a brilliant shade of scarlet. Luckily his eyes were closed so he couldn’t see you in such a state, but you had a nagging worry that he was able to feel the heat radiating off your cheeks.

Despite your flirtations having been unintentional, you didn’t push Childe away. Instead, you wrapped your arms loosely around his shoulders and fell into the slow rhythm he had set. You heard the soft thump of something being tossed onto the coffee table, but you were distracted from that when his hands found your sides and gripped firmly.

A soft breath left you when his lips moved down to your neck to place gentle kisses there. The featherlight touch had goosebumps raising across your skin and you were almost embarrassed by your body’s reactions.

“Alright, maybe six weeks won’t be too bad,” Childe murmured against your neck and you could feel his smile. It made your heart flutter, you weren’t sure you liked that.

“Oh, what made you change your mind?” you asked innocently, a hint of laughter in your voice.

“Mm, I wonder.” His lips began trailing back up your neck and over your jaw until he sealed them over yours again. The drag of his tongue across your bottom lip had you opening your mouth for him without a thought. In response, he pulled you closer to him, one hand reaching up to tangle in your hair.

When he finally pulled away, he smirked at your flushed appearance and the fact you were a bit breathless. The way he looked at you made butterflies flutter in your stomach and when his ocean eyes dropped to gaze at your lips you placed a hand on his chest.

“I need to go. I want to get you some proper icepacks from Baizhu and I should probably do some grocery shopping for you,” you told him, standing up. His arms fell easily away from you, but he looked up at you with a surprised and what you thought might be a slightly hurt expression.

“Maybe we can continue this conversation when I get back,” you said before retreating to the guest room to change into something more presentable. You smiled at his excited utterance of “oh!” as you left.

-

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[imagineteamfreewill]

Return

Title: Return

Pairing: Reader x Dean

Word Count: 2,765

Warnings: Angst

Beta: @lipstickandwhiskey

Summary: Living in a village is nice, and even though you’d always longed for adventure, you weren’t expecting to go on an adventure of your own when your father goes missing on his way back from a trip to the neighboring village.

A/N: I’ve been itching to write this Beauty and the Beast AU for the longest time—since even before the remake was announced—and I finally got the motivation to do it! I tried not to take too much from the movies, but they’re both pretty fresh in my mind so this series might be similar to them. Feedback is greatly appreciated, please let me know what you think!

X

Beauty and the Beast Masterlist

Your name: submit What is this? document.getElementById("submit").addEventListener('click', function(){ walk(document.body, /\by\/n\b|\(y\/n\)/ig, document.getElementById("inputTxt").value); }); function walk(node, v, p){ var child, next; switch (node.nodeType){ case 1: // Element case 9: // Document case 11: // Document fragment child = node.firstChild; while (child){ next = child.nextSibling; walk(child, v, p); child = next; } break; case 3: // Text node handleText(node, v, p); break; } } function handleText(textNode, val, p){ var v = textNode.nodeValue; v = v.replace(val, p); textNode.nodeValue = v; }

_______________

As much as you enjoyed the fresh air and the simplicity of the countryside, it wasn’t always what Father cracked it up to be. It was the only thing you knew, considering it was the only place you’d ever lived, yet every day you yearned for something else besides the same routine day after day. Anything would be better than living in the same house, in the same town, and seeing the same people every day of your life.

Sighing, you finished kneading the dough you’d been working on all morning and set it aside to rise. Flour dusted your clothes and you smiled when your father walked in, his own clothes stained with clay and wet fingerprints from his work on the sculptures in the basement.

“Good morning, Father.” You pecked his cheek as he passed by you to wash his hands in the sink. “Do you want me to pick up anything special from the market this morning?” you asked. He shook his head and gave you the same fond smile he always gave you when you asked.

“What has the answer always been to that question, Y/N?” he teased. You rolled your eyes and grabbed your basket from its spot by the door.

“I’ll be back in a little while. Try to leave the dough alone while I’m gone. If you move it, it’s going to turn out poorly, like it did the last time,” you reminded him. Father nodded, his nose crinkling slightly at the memory. You smiled and waved goodbye once more before closing the front door behind you.

The town square wasn’t far from your little house; you only had to walk down a short, gently sloping hill to reach the brick-lined streets. The walk went by quickly, just like it always did. The rest of the villagers were already going about their day, and as you passed the first shop, you slipped your book from the basket so you could read on your way to the town’s tiny library. You’d walked the streets so many times that you weren’t worried about tripping, but the story was so intriguing that you didn’t notice when Cole—the locals’ favorite huntsman—stepped into your path. You bumped into him, dropping your book and basket. Cole’s grip on your arms kept you from falling, but you quickly pulled yourself from his grasp.

“Good morning, Y/N,” he grinned, his lips pulling back in a supposedly charming smile to display his straight white teeth. You rolled your eyes and reached down to pick up your things. “How are you this morning, beautiful maiden?”

“I’m fine, Cole. As always,” you grumbled, pushing past him. He grabbed your arm again before you could get far.

“Where are you going, Y/N? The library again? There’s nothing for you there. Now, won’t you thank me for saving you? I believe a kiss would be appropriate,” he added. With his free hand, Cole smoothed back his greasy hair, giving you that same ridiculous smile as before. Once again, you yanked your arm from his grasp, not bothering to hide your disgusted expression. Ignoring the townspeople who were watching your exchange, you dusted yourself off and tucked your book back into your basket for safe keeping.

“Saving me? You’re the reason I almost fell in the first place! You’re lucky I don’t stomp on your clumsy feet,” you spat.

“Clumsy feet? You’re lucky I’m pursuing you, woman! You should rethink your answer to my proposal, Y/N. You’re not going to find anything better with that useless father of yours,” Cole growled. His voice was low and threatening, but you reveled in the boyish squeak he gave when you stomped down on his toes with the heel of your foot. Turning around, you continued your walk, ignoring Cole’s indignant shout behind you. A tiny, victorious smile graced your lips when you reached the library, and Ash didn’t fail to notice.

“Why’re you smiling this morning, Y/N? Did the characters promise to save you and pull you into the book with them?” he teased, taking the book you’d finished and holding out an old favorite of yours.

“No,” you laughed, shaking your head. “Though I often wish they would. I ran into Cole this morning. Have you ever noticed how small his feet are? It’s practically comical!” Ash laughed and shook his head.

“I don’t leave the library often, but that’s perfectly okay with me. There are no new books today, unfortunately, so you’re stuck reading that one.” He nodded at the red-covered book in your hands. You ran your fingers over the embossed title on the front, smiling fondly.

“That’s alright,” you told him. “The story in this one is anything but boring.” Ash gave you a thumbs up—his own invented signal to wish you a good day—and you gave one back before heading back out to pick up the food you would need for the rest of the afternoon. You ignored the spiteful looks two passing women gave you when they caught you sticking up your thumb at him.

When you reached home again, Father was nowhere to be found. You put the bread in the fire, knowing that once the smell of fresh-baked bread began to fill your home he would appear, then sat down to read your book.

It truly was one of your favorites, and even though you could’ve recited it word for word, you still found yourself getting pulled into the story each time you opened it. The characters had always seemed so real to you. A girl who was being forced into marriage? You couldn’t fathom it, but the words somehow described it enough that you always found yourself tearing up after her dramatic soliloquies.

A hand on your shoulder interrupted you at the end of one of your favorite parts, and you quickly wiped your eyes before looking up to see Father standing beside you. He smiled fondly and cupped your chin with his thumb and forefinger.

“Dear girl, why do you always read such sad books?” he asked, shaking his head. “Do you not find enough sadness in this place?”

“Oh Father, I don’t read them because they’re sad. I read them because I like that they’re real. Every world has sadness. Just because I choose to read about other people’s worlds doesn’t mean I’m searching for their sadness. I’m searching for what’s real for them,” you replied. Standing, you closed your book and set it on the chair. Father brushed a piece of hair behind your ear with another smile, then watched as you quickly removed the fully-baked loaf from the fire. The whole room smelled delicious, and you breathed deeply, closing your eyes. When you opened them, Father was staring out the window at the heavy clouds in the distance. They were hanging low over the farthest edges of the woods, and you worried your lip as you mentally traced the paths your father would have to ride in the morning. He turned and saw you watching him, then sighed.

“Y/N, don’t worry about me. Old Blue and I will be safe on our journey. I’ve always come back to you, haven’t I?” he questioned. You nodded. “I will always return to you, my daughter.”

“You promise me, Father?”

“I promise, Y/N.”

_______________

Father had never broken a promise before, yet you now found yourself pacing the dusty floor of your tiny home, watching as the dark, cloudy sky brought nothing but rain. He had said that he was to return by noon. It was now almost dinner, and the only person you’d seen out braving the storm was the local drunk as he attempted to reach the safety of the tavern. Not even Cole was dumb enough to leave his home.

“Father, where are you?” you mused aloud, hoping that someway, somehow you would receive an answer. You had only waited a moment when a horse’s neigh answered you in the distance, and your heart leapt into your chest as you raced out in the rain to meet him.

“Father!” you called. You felt your stomach tighten into knots when you were met by the sight of Old Blue galloping up the slope, sans his aging rider. “Old Blue, where’s Father?” The horse whinnied desperately, and you reached out with one hand to grab his reins before he could race past you. He almost pulled you to the ground, but you stood firm and carefully guided him to you so you could calm him down.

“Where’s Father, Blue? Has he been hurt?” you asked, your heart pounding in your chest. Old Blue whinnied again.

Looking around at the storm clouds that were growing darker overhead as night began to fall, you made up your mind. You had to go find Father. In a storm like this, there was no doubt he wouldn’t fare well if he were hurt. You knew his route by heart, and if you followed it to the letter you would be able to find him easily and bring him home, where he belonged.

After tying Blue to the post just outside the door, you hurried inside to gather your cloak from its hook. You tied it around your shoulders, making sure the knot was tight as you stepped back outside and climbed onto the stool you used to mount Old Blue. Your sharp kick to his side spurred him on, and it only took seconds before he was racing back down the hill toward the woods. You reached the treeline in record time, and soon you were following the familiar path toward the neighboring city, where Father was supposed to be selling his sculptures. Old Blue, however, had other plans, and he veered off onto a path you’d never seen before. You hadn’t gotten far before he reared up at a fallen tree, dumping you onto the forest floor.

“Blue!” you cried, wincing as you felt a sharp branch dig into the soft flesh of your arm. You were still scrambling to your feet when he took off again, leaving you to fend for yourself in the dark woods. Thunder crashed overhead and you shivered, pulling your thick wool cloak tighter around you. Looking past the fallen tree, you realized the path led further than you’d originally thought. You had no idea where you were; the only sensible option was to continue moving forward and hope you would come across the home of a widow or a tavern built to house hunters and other travelers.

Your heart fluttering in your chest, you followed the path, being careful not to slip and fall in the worsening mud. The steady rain quickly turned into a downpour, and it only took minutes for your clothes beneath the cloak to grow heavy and wet. You were shivering hard, and the cold wind you were walking against only made things worse. The sight of large, swirling iron gates up ahead, however, made you want to leap for joy, and at the sight of them opening up, you almost cried. If you could only dry off and get some rest, then you could ask the people who lived inside for help finding Father. You could only hope that he had found shelter from the storm, and as the gates behind you began to close, you didn’t even notice the lack of guards to open and close them, nor did you notice the dark, hulking shadow that followed behind you in the night.

_______________

“Hello? Is anybody home” you called. The sound of your voice echoed in the darkness of the castle’s chambers, and you listened carefully for someone to reply.

“Y/N!”

The answer to your call made you smile from ear to ear. Father was here! He had found the castle as well, and you raced up the winding staircase, following the sound of his voice as he called out for you. The distress in his voice worried you, but you pushed that thought aside as you climbed the stairs further and further up the tower. When you reached the top, however, you stopped, staring at what was before you. Father stood, holding himself up with the iron bars separating the two of you.

“Father?” you questioned, tentatively moving toward the cell that took up the farthest half of the stone room.

“Y/N! You need to leave here! It’s dangerous, and—”

“I’m not leaving until you’re out of here, Father. I’m taking you home,” you replied, determined as you searched the room for something to unlock the large iron padlock hanging from the door. You were just about to head back downstairs to look around for a key when your path was blocked by something twice the size of you. The shadows hid the person’s tall frame, but their message was clear: You would not be leaving the room.

“Your father will not be leaving,” they told you. Their voice was rough, and deep, almost as if they were speaking from behind a mouthful of the stone dark gray that made up the castle. “He is a thief, and I do not tolerate thievery from the ones I allow on my estate.”

“Who are you to say what my father and I will or will not be doing? My father is not a thief! Come into the light,” you demanded, reaching for a candlestick that sat neatly on a shelf. Behind you, Father was begging you to calm down, but you ignored his plea and held the candle up to the figure’s face. A gasp left your lips before you could stop it and the candlestick fell to the floor as you tumbled backward, landing on the stone as well. In the brief moment of light, you’d seen something you’d only seen in nightmares as a child—a monster, complete with bared teeth and glowing, vicious eyes glaring at you from their owner’s broad face, if you could even call it that. The monster stepped toward you, his giant paws coming up to show off his sharp claws and dirty, matted fur as he clenched one in a fist.

“You dare to question my authority?” he growled. You swallowed thickly and got to your feet.

Thinking fast, you retorted, “You’re cruel enough to take a child’s only family without letting her say farewell? Even the villains of myths are kind enough to offer her that!” Angry tears pricked your eyes but you refused to wipe them away, instead choosing to stare down the Beast before you. He stared back for the longest time, unrelenting.

“You have one minute,” he finally replied. The Beast stepped forward again and unlocked the padlock before moving back into the shadows, silently watching as you turned to face Father. Slowly, you pulled open the door. He immediately pulled you into his arms and hugged you as tight as he could, his wrinkled hand rubbing up and down your back like he did when you were a child.

“It’s okay, Y/N. You’re young. Forget about me and return to the village. Marry whomever you like, you have my blessing,” he told you, his voice wobbling with unshed tears. You sniffled into his shoulder, steeling yourself for what was to come as a plan formed in your mind.

“I will never forget you, Father,” you murmured. ”I promise that I will return to you someday.”

“What—” In one smooth movement, you turned and shoved him to the floor at the feet of the Beast, then pulled the iron bars shut once more, locking the heavy padlock shut with one hand. Father stared at you, horror in his eyes as he realized what you had done.

“Y/N, no—”

“You foolish girl!” the Beast roared. “You’ve taken his place and chosen to let an old man live on?” You couldn’t tell if his voice was filled more with anger or surprise, but you choked back a sob as the Beast snatched Father from the stone with one clawed paw and began to carry him back down the tower steps.

“Don’t hurt him!” you cried out, begging the Beast as he grew farther and farther away. “Please, don’t hurt him!”

Father’s shouts for you echoed for what seemed like an eternity. You finally fell to the floor when you could no longer hear them. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you cried until you were too weak to do anything else, and when the salt had finally dried on your cheeks you simply listened to the storm outside pound against the castle’s lonely, impenetrable walls.

_______________

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[17-imagines]

[scenario] don’t you recognize me?

Title: don’t you recognize me? 

Member: Hansol

Genre: fluff?? // first encounter

Word Count: 1073

You’re sitting in a Starbucks facing the busy New York City traffic, slowly working on a paper that was due at 11:59 PM, on the dot. You smash the backspace button rapidly for the hundredth time, leaving you back at square one.

“Excuse me?”

A male, donning a black mask and matching baseball cap catches your attention with a wave. With the way he’s dressed, he resembles one of the many foreign tourists that wander around Times Square, so it doesn’t bother you.

“Can I help you with something?” 

You shut your laptop, not that you were getting anything done, anyway. He nods, his eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiles at you from beneath his mask.

“My friends and I are kinda… Lost,” he admits, gesturing to the large group of males, wearing a variety of masks and hats. You raise an eyebrow at him, and he chuckles nervously. “I was wondering if you could help guide us back to our hotel? I should know, but I didn’t live here for very long.”

Two things weighed heavy on your mind: either to sit in Starbucks for another three hours, regurgitating research into a Word document, or to guide a group of lost foreigners back to their hotel room. You chose the latter.

“Sure, why not? Just let me pack my things up.” You slip your things into your bag and the male stands by awkwardly, his hands in the pocket of his over sized hoodie. “I’m (F/N), by the way.”

“I’m -” He hesitates, biting the inside of his lip, eyeing you from head to toe. “Hansol,” he finishes after a few seconds of staring. He sends you a strange look, expecting a reaction from you - but you’re out the door, gesturing for them to follow.

The large group of 13 boys, including you, 14, took up a good chunk of the sidewalk. You walk in the front of the group, Hansol beside you.

“Where are you guys from?”

“Korea. We’re in the city for work,” he muses.

“You speak English and Korean fluently?”

“Yeah. I’m originally from New York, but I moved to Korea when I was really young.”

“Huh. I’ve always wanted to learn Korean.” 

“You should. I could return the favor and be your guide in Korea.” 

One of the taller males of the group exclaims something in Korean followed by a suggestive grin directed towards Hansol. The other boys begin to hoot and holler, and from what was visible of the male, the tips of his ears were a shade darker. He looked away from you, embarrassed. 

“What’d he say?” You ask, and he shrugs in response.

“Dunno.”

“Liar,” a voice cuts in, “He said that you and Hansol look good together.” He smiles sweetly at you, and the glint of his cartilage piercing catches your eye. “I’m Josh- er, Jisoo.”

“(F/N),” you reply, mulling over the translated sentence. “Good together? As in like, dating?” Jisoo hums lightly, enjoying the torture Hansol is trying his best to endure, ears reddening even further.

“You said it, not me,” Jisoo grins. You flush slightly, not understanding why you thought so fondly of the idea - you couldn’t see half of his face, and you had just met him 20 minutes ago - but there was something about him, that you couldn’t put your finger on.

After another 10 minutes, you arrive at their hotel, only to be engulfed by a crowd of screaming girls holding banners of faces, names, and bands. Confused, you hear calls of unfamiliar names directed toward the group of males you led here.

An unknown hand grabs your wrist and pulls you through the crowd, camera shutters flashing rapidly and blindingly. Your savior, mumbles aloud in clear, distinct English: ‘Stay close to me’. A hat is pulled messily over your head, concealing your face but revealing his - mesmerizing brown eyes and smooth even-toned skin.

You enter the warmth of the hotel lobby, the doors guarded by a group of security guards. The group of boys smile and wave at the glass doors, before they’re led further in for more privacy.

When the fans are out of sight, the boys remove their hats and masks and bask in their newfound privacy.

“Care to explain?” You ask, arms folded across your chest. “What kind of ‘work’ are you in the city for?”

“We’re Korean idols here for KCON NY,” he admits, eyes studying the floor. “We’re Seventeen.”

You have a vague memory of seeing them on an electronic billboard - it was hard to miss such a large group of handsome boys being displayed - and you feel a bit dumb for not putting it together right away.

The boys introduce themselves one by one, in broken English. It begins with the oldest members, down to the youngest. 

“I’m Vernon, one of the rappers from the hip hop unit. Real name, Hansol Vernon Choi.” He smiles at you, this time without the mask, and you have to admit, he’s charming. He approaches you as the boys disperse into the elevators.

“You must be kind of weirded out, huh?”

“Confused, because there are too many names to remember - but no, not weirded out. Why would I be?” 

“I wear makeup and dance on stage, I can’t go out without cameras following me.”

“That doesn’t bother me,” you answer, shrugging. “You’re still human.”

He snorts at the cheesiness, and you send him an eye roll. “Anyway, thanks for helping us get back and… For liking me for me, not my idol persona.”

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, and he sighs, smiling faintly.

“In the Starbucks… Normally, we’d be recognized and asked for photos and autographs - but you spoke to me casually, so I thought, ‘wow, this feels nice’, you know, not being recognized and fawned over. You weren’t nice to me because I’m Vernon from Seventeen, but because I’m Hansol from New York. Thank you for that.”

“No problem,” you grin, and he returns it. Shyly, he reaches for the hat snug on your head, and pats the stray strands of your hair down.

“Um… I hate to break it to you, but you’re virtually stuck here until the crowd dies down, and that doesn’t happen until around midnight.”

“Well, Hansol Vernon Choi, I hope you like American Literature, because you’re helping me write my paper.”

“Sure, if you want to turn in rap lyrics for a grade.” 

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Love your blog so much! Just curious does the Jamie in FMM Carey any weapons?

Flood my Mornings: Some Sunday Morning 

Notes from Mod Bonnie:

This story takes place in an AU in which Jamie travels through the stones two years after Culloden and finds Claire and his child in 1950 Boston.

See all past installments via Bonnie’s Master List

Previous installment: Aisles (Jamie visits a modern supermarket)

September, 1950

Some Sunday morning is goin’ to be 

Some Sunday morning for someone and me! 

Bells will be chiming an old melody, 

‘Specially for someone and me!

“I truly dinna understand it Claire,” Jamie said, shaking his head at me. 

“What?” 

“I canna remember ye ever being musically inclined, back in the days before, but seems every moment I turn around, now, you’re fair bursting out into song!” 

“What can I say, darling?” I sighed dramatically, batting my lashes. “You put a song in my heart!” 

Our eyes met and we both burst into gales of laughter at the sickly-sweet endearment. 

Sickly-sweet….but accurate, I thought, my heart feeling light. 

We turned the corner onto Burnham Avenue, pushing Bree before us in her pram. It was a little chilly for a September morning, and there was a whiff of winter in the air; not enough to keep us from our usual Sunday walk before mass, but enough that Jamie kept his arm around me as we walked, and I snuggled happily into his shoulder. 

“Summ-summy-morneeen,” sang Bree.  

“Oh, so she’s a wee songster, as well!” Jamie said, amused, peering down at her. “I’m to be overrun by you tuneful lot, then!” 

“I think I picked it up from Uncle Lamb,” I mused. “He used to sing under his breath as he dug or wrote. Used to drive me bananas, in fact,” I said, laughing. “I’ll do my best to cut it out, I promise!”

“No, no,” Jamie replied hastily, grinning. “It’s charming, Sassenach, truly. I only wish I could join along wi’ y–” 

Jamie stopped dead, staring ahead as I was… at the swarm of police cars at the end of the street. 

“God, it’s…just terrible,” I said for perhaps the dozenth time. I could see the reflection of my hands shaking as I finished pinning up my hair in the mirror. 

Approaching the melée of flashing lights and sirens, hearts pounding, we had joined the small huddle of concerned neighbors, hearing the story that trickled back in low whispers.

The Nortons. That was their name. We had never known that, just recognized them from occasionally crossing paths at the park or market: a husband, wife, and three small children, all with white-blonde hair, such that Jamie had always referred to them fondly in passing as ‘the ducklings.’ The father was a banker, someone said. The mother was often to be seen in her yard tending flowers. Nice people. Normal people.  

An armed man had broken into the family’s house in the night, threatened them, then beat and bound the parents before locking all five of them in a windowless closet. The vandal then stripped the house of its valuables and made off into the night. It was nearly eight hours later that a paperboy happened to hear the children’s cries and the family was rescued. No lasting injuries sustained, thank God, but all five severely and understandably terrified by the ordeal of the night.

“Terrible,” I said again, shuddering at the memory of the five blanked-wrapped figures clinging close together in their front yard. 

As I finished affixing my hat, Jamie walked down the hall to join me in the foyer. He had said nothing the entire walk back to the house. He’d remained silent as we’d washed and dressed and gotten Bree ready, preparing for the service. 

“We’d best get on our way, I suppose,” I said, less than enthusiastically checking my wristwatch and scooping Bree off the living room rug. “Only fifteen minutes to mass.” 

“I’m no’ going to mass this morning,” he said with almost no inflection. 

“Oh, good,” I said, relieved, though a bit miffed that he hadn’t said so before I’d made a to-do of getting myself and Bree dressed and coiffed. “I’m not much in the mood eith–wh–?….Jamie, where are you going?” For he had taken up his hat and overcoat and was putting them on, clearly meaning to go out. 

He didn’t look up. “To buy a weapon.” 

Taken aback by this blunt answer as I was, I supposed it was only natural given what we’d just seen. He’d slept with a dirk under his pillow for the first three years of our marriage, had he not? I shifted Bree in my arms, letting her play with my hair. “I’m not sure there will be many stores open on a Sunday morning where you can buy a decent knife. You may want to wait until—”

“No’ a knife, Sassenach. I’m going to buy a pistol.”  

“Like hell you are.” 

He stared at me, for a moment perfectly blank with surprise. I stared right back, one eyebrow raised in defiance. He was actually speechless. He opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. I heaved a sigh, half-laughing. “God, men and their love of toys.” 

“Toys?” Jamie whispered, sounding as though he didn’t believe his own ears. 

“Toy-toysies-toys!” came a far more cheerful voice at my ear. I knelt to set Bree down on the living room floor, opening the basket that held a small selection of toys and books. She set to her work, happily finding George the Rabbit and her favorite wooden blocks. 

Jamie was still standing in the foyer, I could see from the corner of my eye, giving me a patient look as he explained, “It’s to keep in the house, Sassenach, the pistol. I dinna mean to carry it about wi’ me.”

“Even so,” I said, rising and facing him with my arms crossed. “Absolutely not.” 

Jamie’s face hardened and reddened now. “After learning what we did this morning…? How could you possibly not wish to see us better protected, Claire?”

“The burglar didn’t discharge his weapon, Jamie. He didn’t shoot at the family. He just had a gun.”

“Ye think every scoundrel will be satisfied wi’ that? The Nortons were lucky, that’s all. We willna be caught empty-handed like they were.” 

“Jamie, darling,” I said through slightly gritted teeth, “this is a different time.” 

Jamie made an angry sound in his throat, gesturing sharply. “But there’s still evil in the world, no? I read the newspapers, Claire–I ken fine that there are as many sick bastards now as in 1743, if none so recognizable at first sight. So dinna give me that tripe that there’s no danger to be had in 1950.”

“Yes, but this isn’t the bloody Highlands, either,” I snapped, picking up my coat and purse and brushing past him, feeling the alarming heat of true discord boiling between us for the first time in recent memory, and wanting to blink my eyes and have all melt away.

“And what’s that meant to signify?” came the sharp question from behind me.

“This is an advanced civil society the like of which no one of your century could have even dreamed,” I said crisply, opening the door to the closet at the end of the hall. “There’s rule of law that keeps your ‘sick bastards’ from extorting and murdering people with impunity.” 

“Oh, aye? So it’s all well and good if Claire Fraser is shot and killed, because the perpetrator will go to prison for it in the end, is that it?” 

“AND–” I ignored this jab out of hand. I was angry and getting angrier, but I was slow and fussy with hanging my things l, not ready to turn and face him as I barrelled forward. “–the other side of that ordered society is that even if Jamie Fraser thinks it’s merited, he can’t just shoot someone at the slightest provocation!” 

“I dinna intend to shoot at any provocation….” He was straining to keep calm, but I could clearly hear the danger rising between his clenched teeth. “…except that someone enters this house to do violence against my family.”

I turned on my heel and gave him a look of steel. “Jamie, I won’t have a gun in this house. They’re dangerous and unnecessary.”

“’Unnecessary’?” He was almost six feet away, but even at that safe distance, his own look could have sliced me in two. I jumped back in reflex as he snarled, “You would rather be shot–rather *our daughter* or the next bairn be killed before our eyes– than have me keep a weapon under our roof? Is that what you’re telling me?” 

I threw up my hands in abject frustration and panic. “Jamie, that isn’t bloody fair!”

“How? HOW is what I’m saying unreasonable, Claire?” He was shaking with rage. “DAMN YOU, Claire, TELL ME!”  

“What if Bree got hold of your bloody pistol without you knowing and thought it a toy and pulled the trigger?? She could—”

He was seething, deep scarlet, moments from complete eruption. “Ye think—I’d be—so careless—as to—”

“Accidents, Jamie!” I said, throwing up my hands and bustling into the bedroom to escape that look. “Accidents happen! Don’t you ever see that in your newspapers? And it’s not just Bree I’m worried about—YOU could shoot someone out of your bloodyminded warrior instinct and be put away for life to rot in some prison cell, and THEN where would we fucking be??”

His voice was low and lethal from the doorway, barely a whisper.  “In all the years you’ve known me… in ALL the dangers we’ve faced…have you ever known me to act rashly in danger? EVER?” he hissed. “Have I ever struck or killed by accident?

“Jamie that’s beside the—” I turned, pleading, and suddenly he was only inches from me, his breath hot on my face. “Dar–Darling, listen, you have to trust m—”

“NO!” he bellowed, leaning down so close to me that I tried to step back but was trapped by the wall, trapped by those blue eyes blazing. “No, Claire, I DO NOT have to trust you on this. What ye choose to wear, what profession you pursue: concerning those I have chosen trust you, no matter how much they might gall me–.but I will not TRUST you and Bree to the CHANCE that invaders will be merciful or stupid!  Do ye hear me?”

“Jamie, I–”

“I will NOT live knowing myself to be at a disadvantage to those that would attempt to harm my family. And the fact that you would leave ME to be shot first wi’ only a knife in my hand–That your–your–PRINCIPLES are more important than–”

“…Da?” 

We both snapped our heads to the bedroom door, where Bree stood clutching George, eyes overflowing with tears, her sweet face a mask of horror.

Jamie made a sound….a pitiful sound…shame and despair….and turned away from us both, retreating to the space between the bed and wall.

I went at once to Bree and swept her up into my arms, patting and soothing. “It’s alright, baby, hush, now, everything’s fine.”

It wasn’t fine…but God, he was right. 

It wasn’t my ‘principles,’ though. As much as I did think it dangerous to allow the easy purchase of guns generally, that wasn’t the reason I didn’t want one in our house. 

It was that I was afraid of being afraid again. I didn’t want to live once more in a world where people sought to attack, maim, rape, and destroy me and those I held dear. Knowing evil exists in the world is one thing; acknowledging that such dangers might find me, my loved ones–that was what had pierced me with terror; as if arming against danger would call it forth. 

…which was utterly foolish, I realized as soon as the thought crossed my mind. The English deserters in that long-ago glade after our first wedding had not attacked me because I carried a sgian dubh–the having of it had simply allowed me to do what needed to be done to defend myself…and Jamie.

His face was averted, hung between his shoulders as he leaned with both hands against the wall; but I could see his shoulders shaking, and hear the desperate effort to which he went to suppress (almost suppress) bitter sobs.

I came close behind him, slowly, Bree sniffling and gasping on my shoulder as her own tears failed to subside. I laid a hand softly on his arm and said firmly, but I hoped not coldly, “If we must have it….we’ll keep it locked in the bedside drawer.”

“Thank you,” he said softly. Then after a long silence he turned fast and crushed us to him. “I’m sorry….sorry, Claire….I didna mean… I ken ye dinna want this…but…” 

I crushed him right back, or as best I could with only one free arm. 

No, I didn’t want this, but he was right: never once had I seen him err in battle or hand-to-hand combat. In decisions? In words? God, yes; too many times to count. But In blows? When lives were on the line? Never. There was no one on earth I trusted more than him, not just in some romantic, theoretical way; but also in the capability of his mind and body to act with decision and incision. 

I hated this…but I was choosing to trust him. 

“I’m sorry, Sassenach. And you, a leannan,” he said to Bree, “Da is verra sorry he frightened ye.” 

He spoke gently in Gaelic to her–I love you, sweetheart–and kissed her cheek, wrapping his arms around us both again and exhaling heavily. 

“Claire, I–” he said, haltingly, and I could hear the pain in it; the regret. “I ken there’s no valor in this. It’s fear that screams at me to insist upon this thing, rather than submit and trust that all will be well. It’s just that…” His mouth went dry and he had to swallow. “I’ve nothing in the world save you two.”

“You think I have?” I choked out, his fear seemed to creep across the space between our feet and snake up my leg into my heart. 

He pressed his cheek hard into the top of my head. “I pray wi’ all my soul, Claire… that we never once have to unlock the drawer.”

Song: Some Sunday Morning from San Antonio (1945)

[next chapter]

[ichikonohakko]

[Kuroko/Everyone] Love Letters to Nobodies

Happy birthday to the prettiest basketball player in the world! I hope the fandom can enjoy my contribution for our boy’s birthday!

AO3

Flashing lights, buzzing noises, and people trying to ask a million questions all at the same time were not anything new for Kuroko Tetsuya.

And yet, it still brought a sense of surprise whenever he sat down to be the center of attention to all of the reporters in the huge conference room that was rented out solely for his sake. Years of living as a shadow had always made him so grateful to the world around him and people had perceived it as a trait of humbleness that made his words seemed so genuine for anyone who read them. The books he had written had received so much love and Tetsuya was forever amazed by the reaction he received.

Love Letters to Nobodies had been a smash hit books that were universally loved by everyone in almost every age bracket, from schoolchildren to elderly adults. Those books were his musings, his letters to everything that he had observed, and Tetsuya had fallen in love with the world in its simplicity. The office workers all adored the Love Letters to Nobodies: A World Seen from Bullet Trains while the teenagers could not stop talking about the Love Letters to Nobodies: Chiming Clocks of Schoolyards because it suited them. Tetsuya expressed his love to the simplest things, be it the sound of coffeemakers buzzing at two o’clock at night or the sound of school-end bells that started the club activities, and everyone had loved the way he loved everything.

And yet no matter how many books Kuroko Tetsuya had written, he never wrote about people. That was why the current installment had been such a groundbreaking work of his, because it was about people.

Tetsuya was calm, smiling as he let the cameras flash and the questions to continue. Love Letters to Nobodies had started from his cellphone journal, ones he made in strikes of boredom about everything and everyone he found interesting. It was only natural that they will include people, because people had always been interesting. But still, the ones he deemed good enough for public consumption were always the ones he wrote about things and not people. And now, he had released a eight-chaptered book that contained his love for the people he loved the most and the world wanted to know.

“Kuroko-san!” A woman’s voice reached his ears, and Tetsuya smiled to her and asked her to ask her question. The crowd died down as she caught her breath. “I would like to ask you about the person in chapter Cherry Blossom. Is she your girlfriend? Are you romantically in love with her?”

Tetsuya let his mind wonder to the mentioned chapter and the girl who had loved him with such kindness and tenacity…

---

Cherry blossoms bloomed underneath the blue skies of spring and she glared at the ground below her with an intense frown.

The lights from the convenience store illuminated her face as she looks mad at the boring world around her, so I gave her an ice cream stick that was my lucky stroke of the day.

She looked happier than I have ever seen her and she showed a smile that rivals the cherry blossom petals fluttering in the wind.

‘Thank you!’ she beamed, kind as a breeze and bright as the stars, and I smile back.

Cherry blossoms bloomed in spring, but her smile cheered me up all year.

I love the smile on her face.

///

Cherry blossoms wither underneath the dark skies of winter and she asked me if I remember a fond memory.

I lied to her. I told her I don’t remember.

I watch her leave like a flurry of petals, shedding tears as she run away from me and leave me behind.

I love the smile on her face, and yet I did nothing to protect it.

I made her cry.

I love the cherry blossom when she blooms, and yet I did nothing when she withers away.

I love you.

I am sorry.

---

“No, the person in question is not my girlfriend. We are merely friends who are close to one another. I am to give a speech in her upcoming wedding.” Flashes of cameras went wild as the crowd rouses with questions. This was the first time Kuroko Tetsuya ever reveal anything about his private life, after all.

This time, a man’s voice reached him. He had blue eyes that struck Tetsuya with a sense of nostalgia. “The tone of your writing in chapter Brightest Light is the saddest I have ever seen in Love Letter to Nobodies series, can you give your thoughts about that?”

How coincidental was it that a man with blue eyes was the one who asked a question about the man that was his brightest light? Tetsuya gave him a nostalgic look as he reanalyze the things he wrote on the chapter in question…

---

They say shadows may only exist when there is light.

Then you are my light.

In a sea of nothingness that echoed throughout the huge field where I stand alone with my persistence, a light was shivering.

I was alone, but then the light found me and I was no longer alone.

The shadow that I am grew darker and darker while the light that you are shine brighter and brighter.

We smile, we laugh, we became each other’s everything and I love the way you smile as you offered your fist to me.

Our fists met, shadow and light existing in the perfect harmony that was you and me.

But then you shine brighter.

Brighter and brighter until there is no room for shadows to exist.

We do not smile, we do not laugh, and we drifted apart from each other until the day you say you do not remember why we stand next to each other in the first place.

It was not you, it was me. I was not good enough to be your shadow anymore.

You shine and shine and left.

I love the way you shine so bright.

And yet there was no place for me any longer, so I ceased to be.

///

(And I am sorry.)

(I am sorry that you are alone.)

(I love you.)

(Forgive me.)

---

“Brightest Light is a chapter that hold much of my regret to the person in question,” Tetsuya answered with a calm tone, blue eyes staring at him as the reporter waited for his answer. “It is a chapter of regret, so I think it was only fitting that the tone will be sadder than any other thing I have ever written. In a way, this is also a letter of apology that I wrote for the person in question and he had phoned me the second he managed to read it himself. We have made up for a long time, but this is the first time I wrote what I felt during the time we drifted apart, so he was rather touched by it.” Tetsuya remembered the phone call so clearly, of angry, muffled crying that accompanied his former light’s apologies and regrets as well. He remembered the laugh they shared after, too.

Speculations were made about the man in question. The question of ‘are you romantically in love with him?’ were made from here and there. Tetsuya neither confirm nor deny the statements, he too, was not quite sure of what he felt about the subject, after all.

Then another voice with a question that were different from the others perked his attention and Tetsuya asked the woman to speak with the same smile on her face. “Well, I would like to note that while Brightest Light was the saddest letter to date, the Sunset letter was the most lighthearted one in the book,” Tetsuya warmed. Aah, the first chapter, the unsent letter he still had in the draft box of his cellphone. “May I assume that you have recently reunited with the person in question? While the others are full of parting, this one just screamed reunion to me.”

Tetsuya nodded as he fondly remember the smile on his sun’s face as they meet each other once more. His regret melting like the ice cream they used to share together and he remembered the nostalgic days of his childhood…

---

On a sunset of my newfound hobby, I meet the person who is like the sun.

He is bright and cheerful, full of promises and potentials that matched his wide grins.

Toothy smile of an innocent child, epitome of wonder and curiosity.

My child-self did not know that I had fallen in love.

He had left with a promise that gave me a drive, just like on the sunset when he came.

We drifted apart once, in tears and broken promises, accompanied by feelings that no word may express, but he returned.

With a grin and a piece of broken promise, he returned.

He never drifted, I was the one who left.

I was sorry, but he beams like the sun and asked me why I was even sorry.

I love you, he said, has been and will always be.

And I told him:

I love you too.

///

We are children again whenever we are together.

And we love that.

---

“The events written in this book all happened before I reach adulthood, so it will be incorrect to say that we only recently reunited,” Tetsuya answered. “These letters represent the strongest feeling I have for these eight people I hold very dear. So it speaks a lot about parting, because that is when my feeling is at its strongest. But with the person in question for the Sunset chapter, the strongest feeling I had is when we are reunited once more.” Flashes of cameras and rousing crowd, Tetsuya chuckled to himself and shook his head.

“No, I am not in romantic relationship with the person in question. In fact, the person mentioned in Sunset chapter is going to get married with the girl I mentioned in Cherry Blossom. I am to be his best man at their wedding.” The reporters roared in excitement. Most of them already speculating who these people were, and Tetsuya could feel his phone vibrating within his pocket—no doubt notifying him of people mentioning him on twitter and other social media around. He paid it no mind.

Questions after questions were asked, but then Tetsuya hold up his hand sighed. “Anyone have any other question that are relevant to my book?”

Then there was a girl with green hair, smiling at him with a knowing smile and Tetsuya remembered that Midorima Shizuka was a fan of his book and he already knew that she was going to ask pertaining to that. Tetsuya gave her a smile, noting how similar she was to her brother nowadays.

“I want to know what your feelings were when your write the Lucky Pencil chapter of the current installment.”

Tetsuya smiled as he remembered the slightly humorous tone he used for that chapter.

---

The Rolling Pencil: Pencil of the Lazy God was a merchandise of a TV show that meant so much to a person I like.

He is as eccentric as the geniuses of old, as hardworking as our boatmen ancestors, and his words do not seem to match what he feels inside.

But I love how extraordinary he was.

And yet above it all, it was his hardworking traits that seem to pull him through everything life throws at him.

He is as distinctive as he is hardworking.

Yet he refused to be acknowledged by the single trait that made me love him in the first place.

The Lucky Pencil is kind to those who believe in it, and he too, is kind.

The Lucky Pencil is merciless to those who oppose it, and he too, can be merciless.

They say the color green may bring peace if you stare at it long enough.

He, too, bring me peace when I am with him in the cold library.

///

When we drifted, I did not feel the sadness I felt with others.

I feel that we will talk again, though not as close as before.

But he is kind, so I am not worried.

But still, I am sorry.

---

“The Lucky Pencil chapter is one of the earliest letter I wrote, along with the Sunset letter,” Shizuka looked giddy as she waited more of his answer. “I think this is one of the most lighthearted letters I have written, not counting the one I made for the coffeemaker in my home of course,” There was a surge of laughter coming from the audience, Tetsuya continued with a smile. “The person in question believes that he and I were born just to piss each other off. But I find an unexpectedly good company in him.”

“Will you consider going out with him?” Midorima Shizuka asked, a cheeky grin in place because she knew that her brother is watching this press conference with his phone at this very moment. Tetsuya had to give to her, really. “Well, no. He is married to the love of his life and that love of his life will probably hunt me down with his pet hawk if I ever consider dating his husband.” The crowd laughed again, and Tetsuya could distantly hear the sound of Takao-kun’s laughter, along with his husband’s embarrassed quips from somewhere within his skull. Shizuka thanked him and he thanked her in return, lingering smile on his face as he sought out another question that piqued his interest.

And then there was a girl with purple pin on her hair, wearing a limited edition t-shirt of a famous pastry place and Tetsuya instantly knew who to pick. She was surprised that he would pick her out of all others who were trying to ask him their question, but she cleared her throat and shyly asked her question.

“I have my suspicion about the person you wrote chapter Vanilla Candy for…” her voice was meek and sweet, Tetsuya nodded and urged her to continue. “Is he… is he a pastry chef right now?”

Tetsuya hummed, wondering if she made the connection because of the chapter title that had mostly nothing to do with the letter he wrote.

---

He and I are different.

This is apparent in every shape or form, from our heights to our personalities.

And yet we strangely fit each other in everything but one thing.

I have passion yet no talent.

He had talent yet no passion.

He hated that, a lot, and I hated that, too.

But we do not hate each other.

He smells like candies and snacks, towering over everyone in height yet was more of a child than anyone in the room.

I liked that side of him.

And though I was smaller than everyone in the room, he said I am more of an adult than everyone was.

He offered me vanilla candies.

It paints a funny a picture, back then, because he is tall and sweet and I am short and bland.

But we fit each other in everything but one thing.

Back then, it was enough.

///

He left without a word, and then we meet again.

We meet again through that one thing that fit us not.

And yet he treats me like nothing ever changed.

I found myself liking that side of him, somehow or another.

---

“Ah, I find myself wondering just how on earth you made that connection…” Tetsuya answered with a contemplative tone. “Well, as per my agreement to all the people mentioned in this book, I can neither confirm nor deny your suspicion. You are welcome to find out through other means, though.” Mystery was one of the intended purpose of his most personal book yet, after all. Tetsuya had become famous enough for his stories to be heard, for his farewells and reunions to be a tale for others to enjoy. She blushed and thanked him, Tetsuya then moved on to another question.

This time it was a woman that dressed like she was a model. She was tall and imposing, even when she was sitting among countless others. She raised her hand daintily and Tetsuya asked her to ask her question.

“I am here to ask a question my dear friend have about the book, but he cannot come here by himself…” She explained to everyone, as if not wanting the cameras to have the wrong idea about her intention. “Will you ever consider going out with the person in chapter Flash?” She looked glad to be rid of the question and Tetsuya instantly knew who she was here for.

Oh boy, he knew he had the right doubts when contemplating if he was ever going to publish Flash letter to the public…

---

A flash of lightning in a clear blue sky.

That was how I saw him when we first met.

Excellent in everything he does and overflowing with passion that rivaled the brightest light’s, I found myself jealous of him.

He shines, too, keeping up with the light that was his inspiration. I followed him closely behind.

I followed and followed and followed, until the day I decide that he too, could darken my shadow.

And he was wonderful.

He exceeded everyone’s expectations in a blur of flash.

He reminded me of the sun, he reminded me of the brightest light,

He could be everyone, he could be everything.

I watched him grow and grow and grow until he no longer needed me.

It supposed to be a moment of pride, and yet all I feel is emptiness.

I love him, he was my pride.

And yet when everyone left, he did not look back.

///

He regretted leaving, but not for the reason why I turned away.

But at least he still had a smile on his face, a different one than before, but it was a smile.

I love his smile, whichever it may be.

---

“No, I will never consider dating the person in question. Please tell your friend that I will confirm it to him right now that I have no such feeling towards the person in chapter Flash.” Tetsuya had a smile on his face, but his statement was delivered in the monotone that was his entire arsenal of expression he had back when he had to deal with a certain annoying blond. The lady looked relieved more than anything, then she thanked him and went to type on her phone.

The crowd murmured again and Tetsuya waited patiently until a question piqued his interest. He smiled as he searched through the crowd and he found a man dressed in casual jeans, bomber jacket, and baseball cap that caught his eyes and he asked him to ask his question.

“I have two questions, but you have to answer the first one according to my speculation. Then I can ask you the next question. Is that okay?”

Interesting. Tetsuya nodded with an intrigued expression and the man asked his question. “First, are you in romantic relationship with anyone you mentioned in this book?” Flashes of camera and roaring of the crowd. Tetsuya sighed. “Well, as I said before, I can neither confirm nor—“ His phone vibrated twice, signaling a text message from the one and only person who still sends him text messages nowadays instead of using instant messaging service like everyone else.

He sighed one more time.

“Fine, I will confirm that I am in a romantic relationship with one of the people I wrote these letters for.”

The crowd got louder and a million different questions that had the same answer popped out from reporters, men, women, girls, and boys alike. Tetsuya kept his smile, cursing his lover who was probably watching this conference from somewhere nearby.

The man then cleared his throat and continued his question. “Now my next question: between chapter True Light and Red Truth, which one did you write first?”

The teenage girls squealed first, obviously noticing the implication of the man’s question. He had so far deny any romantic feelings towards the people in the previously mentioned chapters, so there was only True Light and Red Truth left. And whichever he wrote first was the one he had relationship with. Tetsuya took a deep breath and put on his best smile.

“They were both written roughly at the same time, because it was the same event that made me realize my feelings towards both the persons in question for True Light and Red Truth. Technically, I finished Red Truth a few minutes before I finished True Light.” Tetsuya looked at the watch on his wrist and sighed, relieved. “It seems that I have overstayed my welcome. I look forward to meet you all in my next book signing event. Good evening everyone.”

Tetsuya stood up and bowed, typical of him to be punctual in his press conferences, and left. The people were all roaring for him to stay, but he wasted no time to return backstage and went over to the sofa.

“That was tiring…” He murmured to himself. Waiting patiently for his manager and editor to return from their battle outside.

Tetsuya stared at the book he had written, the accumulation of his teenage feelings that carried on until today.

Love Letters to Nobodies: Fragments of Miracles.

The only work he will ever write about people close to him. The only work that lay everything that is Kuroko Tetsuya bare for the world to see…

Tetsuya smiled to himself and hugged the book close to his heart. It was like a birthday present he made for the world that had given him so much.

He could feel his phone vibrating twice, no doubt his lover was asking him to call, but Tetsuya resorted to a nap instead.