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tsarisfanfiction · 1 year

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Eclipse: Chapter 11

Fandom: Trials of Apollo Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Adventure Characters: Apollo, Hades And they're back together again, at last! Only took four chapters... I have a discord server for all my fics, including this one! If you wanna chat with me or with other readers about stuff I write (or just be social in general), hop on over and say hi! <<Chapter 10

APOLLO XI

Together again Let the arguments commence Find a compromise

Apollo had not been expecting Hades to come back, and the fact that he had did not put him at ease. To begin with, having his uncle with him had been somewhat of a reassurance – Hades was more powerful than he was, and having the back-up of another god of his calibre was definitely not a bad thing.

Then, he had learned about Asclepius, and there was no reason why Hades would be with him here, now, which boded well in any way, shape or form for his son. If Hades had come back, it was definitely not to help Asclepius, and his uncle’s power might have been a reassurance when they were working together, but now it was at least as intimidating as Orion had been.

To make matters worse, Apollo could tell that unlike him, Hades had not had a difficult encounter with something almost capable of destroying him – his uncle looked fresh and untouched, almost as he had when they had arrived.

Golden ichor was still slipping down Apollo’s own throat, where Orion’s bite wound hadn’t quite healed yet. Hades knocking away his arrow had been the uncomfortable confirmation – he was in no condition to fight his uncle.

That did not mean he would not try, depending on Hades’ answer.

“Why?” his uncle repeated, and Apollo watched in some surprise as he hooked his blade back into its sheath; it did not mean anything in terms of how dangerous Hades was, but it was still a universally recognised symbol of non-threatening behaviour. Combined with the sincerity behind his original words, that if he wanted Asclepius dead he would not have helped them first, the action painted a picture that contradicted with what Apollo knew his uncle thought of his son. “Because I came to a… realisation.”

Apollo couldn’t tell if it had been hesitation or a deliberate pause before the strangely-emphasised final word, but immediately chalked it up to the latter – Hades was not one to hesitate, but he was certainly capable of dramatics.

“What sort of realisation?” he asked suspiciously; behind him, Asclepius shifted his weight awkwardly and Apollo wanted to hiss at him to stay still. Hades had yet to look at him, or otherwise acknowledge his presence directly, and Apollo dearly wanted to keep it that way.

“It does not matter,” Hades said brusquely, brushing him off, and Apollo growled, because it certainly involved his son and therefore definitely mattered to him.

“What sort of realisation?” he repeated, more forcefully, and the dark flickering flames of his uncle’s eyes glared at him.

“Do not push me, nephew,” he snapped, “or I might change my mind about not smiting that god cowering behind you where he stands.”

At the threat to his son, Apollo bristled, but it was not an idle threat and he knew it; Hades did not make idle threats. “What do you want?” he asked instead, and felt Asclepius step up closer behind him, moving a little out to the side before Apollo put out a hand to stop him.

He could not stop Hades, but he could still shield his son.

“I want to do what we came down here to do,” his uncle said. “Which had nothing to do with this son of yours, and everything to do with the occupant of this place summoning my son, and by extension, another one of your myriad of children.”

Was he expecting Apollo to prioritise one son above another? Apollo narrowed his eyes at him. “I am not abandoning Asclepius.”

The noise Hades made could almost be considered a sigh. “Unfortunately, I am aware of that,” he said. “Which is why I suggest a compromise.” The word sounded like it pained him to say, and it certainly wasn’t something Apollo had ever anticipated coming out of his uncle’s mouth, but while he wasn’t sure he was going to like whatever it was his uncle was about to suggest, if it kept Asclepius safe – from Tartarus, and from Orion, who would not be held by his bowstrings forever – then he was going to be backed into accepting it.

“What sort of compromise?” he asked warily, grasping the front of Asclepius’ chiton without looking as he sensed his son trying to step up next to him again.

A weak but determined hand tugged at his in turn, Asclepius apparently unappreciative of Apollo’s attempts to keep himself between his uncle and his son, but he didn’t relent.

When Hades’ dark eyes turned away from his to bore directly into Asclepius instead, he doubled his efforts to push his son back again, and was rewarded by a slight stumble as the less powerful god was forced to succumb to Apollo’s greater strength.

“A change in your punishment,” the god of the dead said, apparently choosing to directly address Asclepius, rather than continue conversing directly with Apollo. Apollo didn’t like that in the slightest, nor did he like the fact that Hades had started prowling around so that he was no longer between the two of them. He promptly repositioned himself, and got an irate look from his uncle. “Don’t be childish,” Hades chided him. “I am not about to attack him; you can stop attempting to be a pathetic guard. Rest assured, you do not inspire any confidence that you could stop me, regardless. Instead of this ridiculous behaviour, perhaps you should focus on cleaning yourself up.”

“I can look how I want,” Apollo snapped back, the barb at his appearance stinging more than he wanted to admit.

Hades didn’t reply, instead returning his attention to Asclepius, who was gently pushing against Apollo’s restraining arm. Reluctantly, Apollo let him go.

“Asclepius, you are not forgiven for your actions of contempt against me and my domains,” Hades began, “and- Apollo I am not talking to you,” he snapped when Apollo went to protest again that it was his call to make the Physician’s Cure for Leo. “I am aware of your involvement, but it is not your punishment I am amending, so I suggest you stay quiet before I change my mind.”

Furious, but unwilling to push Hades too far, Apollo’s mouth closed with a clack. His essence was simmering with anger, and he forced it to channel itself into fixing his appearance – yes, it grated that he was effectively doing as his uncle had told him, but it was that or do something rather more rash, and dangerous for his son.

“You swore that you would not make that Cure again,” Hades continued, “an oath you broke, and will face consequences for.”

Apollo couldn’t help himself. “He already has!” he raged, gesturing at their surroundings, and his son’s ichor-stained chiton. “What do you call this, if not consequences?”

“Father.” A soft hand rested on his shoulder, and Asclepius came to stand next to him. “Please, let him speak.”

“Asclepius-” Apollo turned his head to look at his son and his voice died in his throat at the look of acceptance on the younger god’s face.

“Lord Hades is correct,” Asclepius told him. “I did break my oath.”

“But-”

“You provided me the means with which to do so,” his son acknowledged, “but it was still my choice to make it once more, and thus, my punishment to bear.”

Apollo wanted to argue against it, but serious blue eyes silenced him far more effectively than any of Hades’ threats, and he wilted.

“You called this a compromise,” he reminded his uncle, aware it was a surrender and hating himself for it as he once again turned to face the older god. “What is this compromise?”

“If you stopped interrupting me, you would know by now,” Hades pointed out disapprovingly. “Clearly,” he continued, his eyes leaving Apollo to focus on Asclepius again, and Apollo had to fight not to put himself back between the two, “leaving you down here, while something I, personally, have no qualms about, is going to cause a severe distraction for your father, as he’s already proven.”

The look Apollo got was not an impressed one, although unless Apollo was imagining it, the dark eyes lingered specifically on the last of the ichor as it evaporated away.

“So, for the time being,” Hades said, lightly emphasising the last two words, “I will suspend your sentence.” The god of the dead stepped forwards. “That is not to say that you will walk free; as you are doubtless aware – both of you,” he stressed, “- my brother will not permit you to return to the Overworld, and to attempt to do so would be to only increase your punishment.”

Zeus would be furious if he caught wind of even a change to Asclepius’ punishment that he had not authorised; Apollo was already well aware of that, had known that he would need to find somewhere safe to house Asclepius while he petitioned for a change in his sentence. Hearing the reminder from his uncle did not reassure him in the slightest.

A glance at his son showed resignation on Asclepius’ face.

“Therefore,” Hades said, “you will be imprisoned within my palace until your father and I finish with our business down here. Upon our completion and return, I will determine a new punishment for you that suits my wishes, as the one directly offended by your broken oath.”

“Not back here,” Apollo insisted immediately. “Not back here.”

“That suits my wishes,” Hades repeated, but Apollo wouldn’t back down. Not on this.

“No,” he repeated. “This was too far. This is not a punishment, this is a torture, and I will not stand for it.”

“Father,” Asclepius said. “Please.”

“No.” Apollo couldn’t be pacified on this, not even by his son. “No, Asclepius. Hades promised a compromise, and sending you back down here once we’re done with our quest is not a compromise.” He glared at the older god. “Not back here,” he repeated. “If your steadfast position is that he must still be punished, then mine is that he does not come back here.”

Hades met his glare evenly and said nothing for several long moments. Apollo had to resist the urge to shelter his son once more; Asclepius would not let him, his son apparently resigned to his fate in continued punishment, and it would do them no favours.

Eventually, the older god nodded. “Very well,” he said flatly. “Asclepius’ punishment shall not involve a return to this Pit. However, that is the only concession to your wishes that I will make.”

It wasn’t good enough, but Apollo was well aware that nothing short of total acquittal was good enough, and that was beyond anything Hades would be willing to allow. More importantly, it kept Asclepius safer – if Hades was changing his punishment, then it had to be kept secret from Zeus, which meant that his son would be imprisoned somewhere in the Underworld.

It was far from perfect, but it kept Asclepius safe from both Zeus and Orion, which was far more than could be said for Tartarus.

“I understand,” he said after a moment, his shoulders slumping slightly because it still felt like a defeat, for all that it was a small victory, and hoped he had not just sentenced his son to an eternity of torment in the Fields of Punishment.

Next to him, Asclepius gave a small bow. “I appreciate your mercy, Lord Hades,” he said.

“Say that after your respite is over and your new punishment begins,” the older god told him, before whirling where he stood and beginning to stride away, back up the incline of Tartarus. “Come. You are worse than useless to us down here. I do not doubt your father will be completely distracted until you are out of this Pit.”

“Not completely,” Apollo grumbled, but he chivvied his son to walk ahead of him, pressing a hand against his back and sending some more of his power into the weaker god as they moved. His son looked wrong as an old man, and he could tell it was still an appearance of necessity rather than preference.

“Father, save your strength,” his son protested. “I will be able to rest and regain my strength in Lord Hades’ palace while I wait for you to finish your... quest?” The question was clear, and Apollo realised that his son did not know why he and Hades had entered Tartarus in the first place.

Then again, he also hadn’t learnt of Phoebe’s death before being cast down; how cut off had Zeus kept him from current events?

“There is a voice calling Hades’ son down here,” he explained, hearing his uncle make a disparaging noise from ahead of them. “He and his boyfriend – one of your much younger siblings,” he added with a small smile as he thought of Will, and how Asclepius would like his brother. The smile then faded as he remembered that he’d left his mortal son in a coma, so the pair of them still would not get to interact, “then received a prophecy dictating that they would come here.”

“At which point your foolish father decided that he would rather try to control one of his so-called uncontrollable prophecies and insisted on taking William’s place,” Hades interjected.

“William being..?” Asclepius inquired, and Apollo had to smile again.

“Will is my son,” he said. “Like you, he inherited healing abilities over most of my domains. I couldn’t let him come down here. He and his boyfriend, Nico, are also currently sheltering in Hades’ palace.”

“One could argue that being confined with my son when he is determined to get out is a punishment in and of itself,” Hades commented, his tone almost light. “Apollo is wrong; they are not sheltering in my palace, they are confined to it, much like you shall be, and rest assured that either of them get out while you are there, your punishment shall increase a hundredfold.”

“Father doesn’t know Hades and I took their places,” Apollo clarified hurriedly, and Asclepius made a noise of acknowledgement.

“They are being hidden and protected, I take it?”

“You will be another guard,” Hades stated plainly, and that was hardly resting, but Apollo couldn’t complain because having a god he implicitly trusted to directly watch over the two demigods was nothing short of a tremendous relief. “Nothing gets in, and they do not get out.”

“I understand,” Asclepius promised.

“Nico is a master of shadow travel,” Apollo had to say, because that was by far the easiest way for the son of Hades to get out if given the opportunity, even though he doubted Nico would even try as long as Will remained unconscious. Hades scoffed.

“My son cannot shadow travel out of my palace without my permission,” he said. “However, he does know his way about the palace impressively well for a living child.” The better than Asclepius does went unspoken but Apollo heard it clearly; he trusted that his son did, too. “Do not let him leave his room.”

Asclepius murmured another acknowledgement and then the trio of gods fell into silence. At the front, Hades seemed content not to speak any further, while Apollo stewed in the awkwardness of what to say to the son he had barely seen in millennia. It was a topic difficult to address at the best of times, let alone in the depths of Tartarus – and with his uncle in ready earshot. Anything he thought to say quickly fell away unspoken, words unwilling to be aired where anyone – and anything – could hear him.

Three gods were at least as much of a spectacle as two had been, drawing monsters like moths to a flame, although nothing dared get close enough to challenge them. Perhaps Hades’ sword, glowing a dark purple and broadcasting an aura of obliteration, was warning them away, or perhaps they had enough common sense not to challenge a trio of gods.

Apollo’s quiver was full once more; when not under immediate attack it took very little time to manifest a new bunch of arrows, all bristling together at his hip and waiting to leap into his hand with barely a thought. The last of the ichor had finally dissolved from his form, too, his injuries sealed up and his form flawless once more. It had taken longer than it should, and Apollo wasn’t certain if that was because of the general ambience of Tartarus, or if something had affected his essence when he had let it out, unrestrained and exposed, during the earlier fight, but it had still healed, and that would do for the moment.

After some distance, and at about the time Tartarus started trying to tear up their feet in earnest once more, Asclepius had forcibly pulled away from Apollo’s attempts to bolster him. Now, he had lost the look of an elderly man entirely, and appeared closer to Hermes’ preferred appearance of modern times, with mostly dark hair speckled lightly with early greys and the beginnings of crows’ feet crinkling in the corners of his eyes. Mortals who did not know them might have taken Asclepius to be Apollo’s father, rather than the other way around, but at least he would no longer be mistaken for his grandfather. His chiton was still torn where Orion’s arrows had found him time and time and time again, but a snapped word from Hades had Asclepius dissolving the ichor staining the fabric – with far more effort than it had taken Apollo – and leaving all three of them looking like a force to be reckoned with.

With that in mind, it was no wonder the watching monsters were keeping their distance, although the Phlegethon lay before them, and Apollo knew he and Asclepius, at least, would temporarily lose the calm and unaffected look as they once again crossed the fire river.

Hades didn’t even falter, wading through the flames as though they did not exist. Apollo had known his uncle would be less affected than him, but seeing him emerge the other side completely intact, as though it hadn’t even been there, reminded him how much more powerful the Big Three were.

Asclepius chose to grow and jump the river, and Apollo elected to do the same; having his form stripped back to ichor and little else in front of Hades did not appeal to him at all. It did not spare either of them from the entirety of the river’s wrath, however. Searing cold flames reached up hungrily, licking at his feet and calves like a starving beast, flaying him until drops of gold trickled down into the torrent of fire.

Asclepius was worse off; while Apollo’s wounds were only flesh-deep on his form, easily melded back together and the ichor vanished before it could land on the glassy fragments that made up the floor of Tartarus so far up, his son’s ichor dripped liberally down from where his feet and lower legs had all but been obliterated.

But his son was a god of healing, superior even to Apollo in the art, and in the brief time it took for Apollo’s own form to become flawless once more, Asclepius’ feet and legs entirely reformed, if still stained with ichor.

Hades waited for them to heal without comment, dark eyes flickering over both of them only briefly before instead scanning their surroundings, presence leaking out just enough for Apollo to feel it, but hopefully not enough to agitate the denizen of the Pit himself. It was enough to prevent any monsters from attempting to make an opportunity out of an apparent weakness – not that Apollo’s aim with his bow was at all affected by simple flesh wounds to his legs, but not all monsters could be trusted to think critically (or even think at all).

Having crossed the river, they were on the final stretch back to the exit to the Underworld. It was still not a quick journey, time and the shards of glass beneath their feet stretching on what felt like indefinitely, but with almost suspiciously little difficulty, the three of them arrived at the edge of the cliff where the air felt different, a little less oppressive than the cloudy miasma that covered most of the Pit, and Apollo could recognise it as the same place where he and Hades had landed, however long ago that had been.

“Asclepius.” Hades broke the silence as he strode across to Apollo’s son, full of purpose. A pale hand clamped onto the youngest god’s shoulder and inky flames flared. Apollo darted forwards, a protest on his lips, but Hades pulled his hand back a moment later and Asclepius appeared unharmed.

That didn’t stop Apollo from thoroughly checking his son’s shoulder, finding a residue of Hades’ essence implanted into his form. There was something dark in there, a promise of destruction, of death, and he snarled at his uncle.

“That will guide you directly to my palace,” Hades said, seemingly unconcerned by Apollo’s reaction. “Do not attempt to go elsewhere; it will not end well for you.” He then glanced deliberately at Apollo, who glared at him furiously, before returning his gaze to Asclepius. “It will also mask your sensation of life from the rest of my realm. Do not speak to anyone except the two living demigods inside my palace, or Thanatos if he crosses your path. If possible, do not interact with anyone else at all.”

“I thought you intended to escort me straight to your door,” Asclepius observed, but even Apollo had to shake his head at that, as much as he hated it. If he could, he would have loved to guide his son out of Tartarus and into safety, but that meant losing even more time, increasing the risk of Zeus working out exactly where he had disappeared to.

And if he was honest, it had been difficult enough bringing himself to return to Tartarus after his final bout with Python.

If he left Tartarus now, he could not guarantee that he would be able to return.

His only consolation when convincing himself the first time had been that at least the serpent himself would not be there, but he had not expected Orion to revive so rapidly. With his bane, the giant his equal and opposite and unkillable waiting…

No, if Apollo left now, he would not return.

Hades was the one to say the words. “Our task down here is not finished,” he said succinctly. “We will join you when we are done, and not before. Now: climb.”

For the first time, Asclepius showed some hesitation. Perhaps it was the daunting climb out of the Pit designed to keep everything in, perhaps it was fear that despite Hades’ assurances, Zeus would find out and descend upon him.

Apollo didn’t know, but he didn’t – couldn’t – hesitate. In the blink of an eye, his arms were wrapped tightly around his son, pulling him in close and holding him as though their existences depended upon it.

He heard Hades make a noise of derision, but ignored him.

“I am so sorry, my son,” he whispered into Asclepius’ ear, closing his eyes as his son’s arms came up to wrap around him in turn. “You did not deserve any of this.” Not Tartarus, not his former punishment, not his death and forced ascension, and if some tears leaked from his eyes onto his son’s shoulder then it was only right. “I love you.”

He hadn’t been able to say those words to his son in four millennia. Asclepius’ arms tightened around him.

“And I you, father,” his son whispered in response, provoking a quiet sob as his throat tightened and his heart fluttered.

Then his son let go, pulling away from Apollo’s embrace. He resisted, for a moment, before realising that Asclepius was right, that he had to go, and releasing him with a supreme reluctance, hands skimming his son as the younger god slipped away.

“Lord Hades willing, we will see each other again soon,” his son said, before offering the god in question another bow.

“Climb,” was Hades’ only response, turning away from both of them, and leaving Apollo to watch alone as Asclepius reached for the cliff face to begin his ascent.

Chapter 12>>

#trials of apollo #trials of apollo fanfiction #riordanverse #riordanverse fanfic #pjo apollo #pjo hades #pjo asclepius #tsari writes fanfiction #eclipse

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theimaginatrix27 · 1 year

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Actually, no, I am going to talk about this

I have long known that Juliet Marillier disapproved of fanfiction. She wasn't going to stop people from writing it, but she didn't approve of it.

I recently looked at her FAQs on her website, which she's updated and refined since I was last able to read any of them. And what she says about Fanfiction is more than a little upsetting to me, and in some ways may explain why fics based on her works are so sparse on the ground.

"I understand that fan fiction is a sort of tribute – it means readers like my books enough to want to create new stories about the characters. But I would much rather people invented their own characters, settings and story ideas. I know a whole lot more about my characters’ lives than I ever put on the page, and I believe their stories should be exclusively mine to tell."

This hit me like a freight train. It's been a long time since I saw any of this, and I understand the author is in her seventies now, so she's from a generation where this opinion was commonplace.

But this is the attitude that is a big contributing factor to why my writing stalled.

When I was in High School, I tried to put aside all fanfiction ideas and focus on original ones. I was fourteen and thought the story of my most complex fanfics at the time could have the fandom stuff stripped out and I could still have a complete story.

It never got past the first book of what I thought might be a trilogy of stories about fairies. I wrote two incomplete drafts and then abandoned it.

My Sisterlands story, on the other hand, has grown alongside a fanfiction story (the fic now known as the Maginite Chronicles). Some aspects of both came about because of the other. The stories share characters. They have grown with one another and with me.

In the 2010s, I got my own computer and was able to explore the internet at my leisure. I discovered fanfiction websites and fell down a rabbit hole of truly wonderful stories. And suddenly my brain was teeming with new story ideas! I was inspired!

And yet, I felt guilty for focusing any of my attention on these fanfic ideas, because I was still under the misguided belief that my original ideas were superior to my fanfiction ones, that fanfiction was frivolous and pointless and unoriginal, and I should be concentrating on stories that could make me money and not crib off other authors' works.

And it stifled my creativity. It stifled my motivation. It made it so much harder for me to write fic, but also my originals.

There were other factors to why I didn't write as much as I wanted to over the past decade. Some of it was self-inflicted. Lack of ideas has never been one of my problems, though prioritising which story to write at any given time is very difficult for me when I have so many in me.

But I fundamentally disagree with Juliet on this here. Others have said it better, but once you've released a story into the world, unless you plan to write sequels, you don't get to decide you're the only one allowed to tell stories about these characters forever.

Maybe I know more about my characters than others do. Maybe I know more about my setting than others do. Maybe there's going to be stuff that gets cut from the books before they're published because it's the best thing for the story told in those books.

But do you think I'm going to tell people they can't play with the dolls I donated to the public library because they're mine! Nobody else can play with them! You're only allowed to watch me play with them!

No! Of course not! That's ridiculous! I already donated them! They were paid for, they're meant to be shared! Like any story is published to be shared!

"That means I don’t encourage readers to write fan fiction based on my work. I don’t like readers to share those stories online, though I can’t stop them from doing it. However, writers of fan fiction should note that if they infringe my copyright they could find themselves in trouble with my agent and the publisher. I love the fact that my readers are writing and I encourage them to continue. Just be original, folks."

I know there are legal restrictions on published authors, so they can't read fic. I also know I wouldn't be the storyteller I am without fanfiction. The Sisterlands wouldn't exist without fanfiction.

Juliet you write fairy tale retellings! That's fanfic! That's not original! Your books are based on fairy tales and folklore, you don't get to sit on your stack of fairy tale retellings and tell us to create your own original characters and settings. My fairy tale retelling series is fanfic of my favourite fairy tales, told in a way I like, with characters I put names to and fleshed out, but that began as fairy tale set pieces! And they also wouldn't exist without books like yours!

I don't know when she posted this version of her views. The website doesn't make that clear. And she's got some progressive messaging in her novels if you know where to look.

But if she can't see nothing is original, including her own work for the reasons outlined above, I don't think I'd be able to convince her now, even if I hadn't annoyed her when I was freshly online and eager and sent her a dozen emails full of enthusiasm and questions. And a few requests I didn't know would be quite beyond her at the time, but I hadn't found all the writing resource websites I have since then.

Also look at the series you've abandoned for financial reasons and then try to justify why people who want more shouldn't write the continuations you can't because publishers won't take them.

#Fanfiction #Writing #Trix Rants Rarely #And I wish this wasn't coming from an author whose work I so deeply respect

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forabeatofadrum · 2 years

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You know what fuck it actually, answer all the writers asks that you haven’t already answered yet PLUS another #25 if you have already answered it bc you can be proud of multiple scenes HAPPY EL WOOWOO WEDNESDAY

I should've seen this coming. I am putting this under the cut because this got long. Again, I should’ve seen this coming.

I’ve already answered 5, 8, 9, 13, 18 and 25.

1) is there a story you’re holding off on writing for some reason?

I MEAN... look at my many, many WIPs. I think the main reason for holding off a fic is because I got stuck, or because I want to prioritise other fics. I’m trying to not take on new projects, but instead focus on older ones (famous last words, probably).

2) what work of yours, if any, are you the most embarrassed about existing?

Anything written pre-2015, unless I have rewritten them (like This Charming Man or the SBL/Glee crossover). That, except for JTWLYT, even rewritten it’s bad. I don’t mind, You gotta start somewhere, right? Because otherwise I don’t really mind any fics. Like, I wrote a Glee/Animal Crossing fic once and it slaps.

3) what order do you write in? front of book to back? chronological? favorite scenes first? something else?

Mostly chronological, but it doesn’t really matter. So yeah I write what I have in my mind. For example with Ljubim te, I of course knew there were going to be 24 chapters since it’s the Advent, so I plotted out a little bit what happens in all chapters and by now each chapter has at least something.

4) favorite character you’ve written

Jack motherfucking Zimmermann, even though I have abandoned my boy and I haven’t written proper Check, Please! fic in all of 2022. I want to finish two Zimbits WIPs this year, though. Maybe the attic vs. roaches debate breaching containment will bring me back to this fandom. Aly, what would you rather have? A person living in your attic, or 1000 roaches living in your attic?

6) something you would go back and change in your writing that it’s too late/complicated to change now

Oh I change things without shame. I do point it out in the author’s note, in case someone notices.

7) when asked, are you embarrassed or enthusiastic to tell people that you write?

This is a difficult question. WAIT NOT ALY THIS IS ME AFTER POSTONG THE ASK I FORGOT TO ANSWER THIS ONE I WILL DO THAT LARER CAUSE I NEED TO GO TP UNI NOW!!

OKAY ALY I AM BACK (and also hello to others!)

So, this is a difficult question because I have the Fear of Being Perceived by people I know IRL. Not necessarily because I think they will judge me, but this is just something I’ve ever had. This is also why I am not going to karaoke night tonight. As a result I do not tell people I write, but not because I am embarrassed. I have just always kept my online and offline lives separately, you know? And this has only grown over the years. I have, like, one person I know IRL follow my personal blog and I created this blog because I do not want him to see my stuff. It’s literally in the bio of this blog. This is also why my name isn’t on here, although I do not mind when people use it in asks or replies. It’s not foolproof, I am aware, but it’s how it is.

But I am also fucking proud of my work and I an enthusiastic. This is why I love ask games like this or communites on Discord. I put a lot of time and effort into my work so of course I love to blabber about it. The person I mentioned above? Yeah, he knows I write fic. But I made him promise to not go look for it. Now I did meet some people who unabashedly talk about what filth they post on AO3. And I told these people I write fic to. But I am always feeling that hesistant feeling. I told them vaguely about Bakery fic and So Much Better, but I am never going to send them the link so if they want to find it, they can, but I will not be the one giving my AO3 away. (Rip. I never kudo their fics either for this reason, cause my AO3 account will pop up).

Aka it is just kind of weird.

10) write in silence or with background noise? with people or alone?

I CAN NEVER WRITE WITH PEOPLE AROUND. This is why, when I visit my parents’ house for the weekend, I write less. I recently told Jenna (@thnxforknowingme, not Ushkowitz) that I am shook that she can write at work. I cannot relate.

I don’t like silence in general. I always have sound on, but it doesn’t really matter what. I am currently listening to The Last Five Years lockdown version, but I also just put on video essays that I have seen before, or gaming music, or YouTuber content. Only when I have a specific song/playlist for a fic, I tend to actively choose what I put on, like the playlist for River fic was on repeat during the writing. And Nothing Matters When We’re Dancing is my song for “damn Baz, you live like this”/Time After Time. That kind of stuff.

11) what aspect of your writing do you think has most improved since you started writing?

Uh. Everything. But I am also not too harsh on myself. I was 13. I am 24 now. And my English has improved. Fun fact, I did not know the difference between make out and break up for a very long time.

OH AND I LEARNED HOW TO DO PROPER PARAGRAPH BREAKS

12) your weaknesses as an author

Movements. Setting. That kind of stuff. When two people are in a scene and talk, I love the dialogue but I am constantly like “oh God, what else is going on in this scene?”

I am writing a scene for Ljubim te with Kurt and Sunil in a restaurant and I am constantly like “DON’T FORGET THEY NEED TO EAT!!!”

14) do you make playlists for your current wips?

Not right now. I don’t make playlists for my fics that often, unless I want to integrate the music into the fic (again, see River fic). Or I make a playlist AFTER I am done, like my Myosotis playlist.

15) why did you start writing?

Fanfiction? When I first read Harry Potter when I was around 11, but I used to write stories before that. Shout out to TEENZZONE and my first ever gay character that I made when I was 10 and then I got scared cause oooooh homosexuality scary!!! ooooh taboooo!!!! and erased it and made him marry a lovely woman named Daisy but then years later I was like “fuck it he’s bi then”

16) are there any characters who haunt you?

Oh, uh? The first ever gay now bi character from TEENZZONE I guess. Fuck, was Danny his name, or was Danny the guy who came before Daisy? Look, I was 10. Ik zat in groep 7, of misschien zelfs 6. It’s been 14 years.

17) if you could give your fledgling author self any advice, what would it be?

It doesn’t have to be perfect. I am not a published author. This is all for fun. Besides, I read a lot of fic that maybe aren’t “that good” in the eyes of whoever decides what’s good, but I still enjoy them and that’s what matters in the end. I write for me and me alone and hopefully people like it too and we will all have a banging time.

19) when it comes to more complicated narratives, how do you keep track of outlines, characters, development, timeline, ect.?

Not

Jk jk

I often have a little section in my doc with “Information”, like a timeline or people’s names or what is happening when. The one for Ljubim te has the names of my OCs and the street names of where Kurt and Blaine live. I am thinking of also making a timeline, because there are some time jumps between chapters, although I also try to point out what month it is in the chapter itself.

20) do you write in long sit-down sessions or in little spurts?

Depends on how inspired I am. I write when I have an idea. Sometimes things snowball from there, sometimes it’s to only add one line.

21) what do you think when you read over your older work?

Define older. As I said, everything before 2015 I pretend I do not see, but after that I actually reread a lot of my stuff. Hence the “I write for me and me alone” mentality. I reread Mendacious this week. And I haven’t read the Anyway series in years and I kind of want to.

22) are there any subjects that make you uncomfortable to write?

There are too many to list, but from the top of my head: non-con/dub-con, detailed slavery or kidnapping or something like that, graphic violence, MPREG, fic with one being a minor other an adult.

23) any obscure life experiences that you feel have helped your writing?

GIRL MY MAIN STARTING POINT FOR KLAINE FIC THESE DAYS IS “WHAT PART OF MY LIFE CAN I LIFT FROM??”

Mendacious: a conversation I had with one of my friends about internalised homophobia

River fic: lol (my broken friendship) (it’s almost Real Blaine’s birthday) (ah, then it will have been 4 years since I last saw him)

Ebb & Flow: my love for Splatoon 2

Bakery fic: me being obsessed with a documentary about rich people in Dubai

Ljubim te: I miss Ljubljana

So yeah, sometimes it influences the plot (Mendacious and River fic) and sometimes it is more a starting point for me to build upon, but it’s my liiiiiiiife it’s not or neverrrrrr-

Also, okay, I am writing this Snowbaz fic called Just Some Guy from an outsider POV and that is coming from me very much believing that Baz is not that hot. Simon is just in love with him. Sorry Baz fans.

24) have you ever become an expert on something you previously knew nothing about, in order to better a scene or a story?

Expert? I wouldn’t say that, but I do learn about obscure things like Broadway orchestra subbing. And of course I had that entire chapter about neurobiology in Myosotis sylvatica. But I can’t say I am an expert on things.

25) copy/paste a few sentences or a short paragraph that you’re particularly proud of

You can get some All the pretty things lore as a treat.

“As if in every lifetime you and I have lived, we’ve chosen to come back and find each other and fall in love all over again, over and over for all of eternity. And I just feel so lucky that I found you so soon in this lifetime because all I want to do, all I’ve ever wanted to do is spend my life loving you.”

This is how All the pretty things ends. Obviously it is not my writing. This is a direct quote from Glee. I may hate the proposal but they went hard with the speech. But I knew I needed to end the fic with this quote, since it actually inspired the entire premise of the fic. They hop through all these dimensions and in every one of them they find each other to go on to the next. And they grow stronger in the process. I do not know if this fic would be this fic without this quote.

For my own writing, I am really happy with the “emotional climax” of Paradiso 1 and Time After Time, but shhhhh spoilers, you gotta read that for yourself. But a shareable part that I am admittedly obessed with is from The Naked Truth:

We’re acting like a bunch of hormonal teenagers, but I don’t care. We’re high on energy and love. The moment we get to my flat and I close the door behind us, I press him against it and he laughs.

Again, there’s so much laughter.

Is this what love is like? Endless exuberant laughter? I revel in the sound of his joy.

I wrote this because I used “he laughs” or “I laugh” or “we laugh” A LOT in this fic up to the point that it was making me wonder if it’s bad writing, so I just put it in the story. Hooray.

ALY I FUCKING DID IT.

#ask #blurglesmurfklaine

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daswarschonkaputt · 2 years

Note

so the ending of between the sheets just left me gasping. literally! like it was so fucking powerful?! especially the last line. i was reading it at 3am in complete darkness and it was quite an experience.

i particularly love this part from your end notes for chapter 8:

This is Khun Korn's final miscalculation: Porsche isn’t a pawn, or a queen. Porsche is the player on the other side of the board.

so i was wondering if you would ever continue this with a sequel or maybe a oneshot set in the universe? or will you wait for s2 and see what happens?

either way, ill be cherishing this fic for a long long time. i can't wait to read your abo fic! especially cause porsche has a HUGE leverage over korn so the game has to end if korn wants a grandchild.

i get this question a lot, lol.

as of current, there are no plans for a sequel to sheets. i'm enjoying that it's finished, and i don't want to start another massive wip yet. if there is a season 2, and it inspires me, there might be a sheets sequel. but. we'll see.

but i've been thinking lately about what would go into a between the sheets sequel, even if it wasn't about porsche's war game with korn. so here are a few things i've been playing with in my head:

the wik fandom freaks out about their idol's injuries (bandaged hand, and cut on forehead) which is how chay finds out that kim and porsche had a Chat

chay goes to porsche about it, prepared to yell at him for beating up his boyfriend, only to be shocked to discover that porsche seems to get on with kim??? and is trying to get kim and kinn to make up????

chay's life is very hard

speaking of chay, i want an inevitable showdown between chay and macau where chay runs into him at a function and is an incredibly petty bitch to him, because if porsche can figure it out, chay can too

the other chay scene i want is chay learning self defence with chan and arm, because he doesn't want to be a liability to porsche. he keeps this a secret from porsche, though

meanwhile, kinn and porsche are incredibly in love, and incredibly steady

i think khun korn probably tries to test their devotion a few times, and kinn and porsche don't even flinch. they are committed to this and to each other.

porsche spends probably the next few months after sheets establishing himself as a credible threat, and also as kinn's man. porsche and kinn are a very good combined force -- porsche has a lot of the soft people skills that kinn lacks. people like and respect him. people fear and respect kinn.

one scene in particular i want to have is porsche talking to chay about the fact that kinn wants him to go back to university. porsche's degree was in hospitality and management, and kinn wants him to convert it into a straight up business degree, which isn't insane, there's a fair bit of overlap of the classes, but porsche is uncertain. it would help him from a reputation perspective, in the theerapanyakul business, but... as difficult as porsche found the adjustment, porsche has excelled as kinn's bodyguard in a way he never did at university. chay points out that porsche has never been able to prioritise his studies before. chay tells porsche it's up to him, but he thinks porsche should do it.

i think porsche probably does in the end, and i think he turns out to be better at it than he thought he'd be. it probably helps that kinn proofreads his assignments for him.

the other thing i have definitive thoughts about is the huge main family vs. minor family showdown, but that ties into the vague plans i have for vegas/pete in this universe

without going into too much detail, pete forms a connection with vegas that's basically vegas being literally tied to a chair as pete spits straight facts about vegas's mental state and childhood to him

vegas: you think i'm scared of you? my own father's done worse to me than you have!

pete: have you considered... your father's a piece of shit?

vegas: shockedpikachu.jpg

i think the reversal of the dynamics from canon would be interesting, because pete would have a more dominant role in the relationship. i think pete's feelings towards vegas become less about empathy and connection than they do... i guess protective? he feels responsible for vegas, like it's on him to take care of him. i also think pete would be less tolerant of vegas hurting him.

i think vegas tells pete a lot of things to try and incite pete into hitting him, or hurting him, because that would put the situation back into something he's familiar with and knows how to handle

vegas telling pete that he drugged and assaulted porsche is one of these things

pete's very placid and nonreactive during most of these, just sort of takes what vegas says and doesn't react much, even if he thinks the shit that's coming out of vegas's mouth is awful in the extreme

much like pete would have preferred to be torturing people, i think vegas would have preferred to be tortured

he doesn't know what to do with this

he doesn't know how to handle someone who listens to his worst actions and doesn't flinch

he doesn't know if he can keep believing the lies he's told himself his entire life, about what he's worth, and how his father treats him, when it turns out that he's almost living a better life as the main family's captive than he did as his father's heir

i think the romantic/sexual part of their relationship probably hangs in a tortured limbo, a bit

because i think vegas would definitely try to kiss pete, and start something, even chained to a table, just to try and provoke a reaction out of him

because pete has a position of absolute power over his life at this moment

and nothing vegas does has any effect

and he gets desperate, he needs to have something he can do, some leverage he can have over pete

and i think pete would not be... unaffected, but that he would misread this a little, and see it as evidence for the way he has completely and entirely shattered vegas's world, and forced himself into a position of absolute focus there

i think vegas tries to leverage the fact that they kissed and pete kissed back to try and escalate things further, maybe imply that chan won't like to hear about it and pete's just plain, "i already informed him about it."

the other small thing i want to have in this section is pete, as like, a reward for good behaviour to vegas, taking news of vegas to macau, and macau trying to kill him. (he doesn't get that far.)

i do think lines get crossed, a little. i don't think it's entirely about the interrogation, at times, for pete. i think a lot of the compassion is genuine -- one abuse victim reaching out to another.

just as this fucks with vegas's head, it fucks with pete's, too.

okay MEANWHILE, porsche and kinn have been ruminating over the minor family issue, because with vegas in their captivity, the instability is getting worse

gun's barely holding onto the reins.

so porsche is like, "we need your father to fake his death."

so that's what they do.

the attack goes down a little differently in canon, because the main family are fully prepared. big's with chay, in a safehouse outside the city. chan and porsche are commanding the troops, so to speak.

during the attack, the cells where vegas is being kept are breached, and they break him out. on his way out, he runs into pete, who has a gun, and they point their guns at each other. and then vegas lowers his, and walks until pete's gun is touching his forehead. he dares pete to kill him.

pete can't.

vegas kisses him, sticks his hands in his pants, they get a bit frisky, but then someone calls out for vegas, and he goes.

pete sits there, clothes a mess, gun in hand, and he sobs. and then he gets up and does his job.

anyway, that's about all i have. gun probably dies, and korn would have even more reason than in canon to offer porsche the minor family ring (probably as like an engagement gift or some manipulative shit), pete definitely resigns, but the casualties are almost certainly lower. tankhun and chay are almost certainly not in the compound.

most of this is very up in the air, to be honest. shit like this i wouldn't know fully until i wrote it. so, you know. take it all with a pinch of salt. but those are my very messy and incomplete thoughts about an immediate sequel for sheets.

#fic: between the sheets #asked and answered #sheets dvd commentary #the sequel question #i get this so often guys #please let me enjoy it being DONE for a bit #canon typical content warnings apply #including consent issues #but now in a new flavour!#consent issues cw #torture cw #nothing graphic it's just bullet points

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cathedreal · 3 years

Text

en pointe. [Corpse x Female Reader]

・❥・Corpse x Female Reader ・❥・Genre: Fluff, hurt comfort ・❥・Word count: 1.5K+ words! ・❥・Requested: Yes! By the incredible 🩰 anon! Thank you so so much for putting in this request! I was thrilled to receive it! I was a dancer for about 14 years (including ballet) and this fic made me remember how much I love being on stage. I really miss it now. ・❥・The request: hello again! could you write something about and the reader, who’s a ballet dancer, arguing because he’s been promising to go see her perform but the show is running it’s last performance? Cheers! ~ 🩰 Request a fic/hc | Request List | Join my Discord server | Buy me a Ko-Fi

“You promised!”

“And I’m keeping to that promise,” Corpse replies, wrapping his arms around your frame. “Things have just been insane lately, that doesn’t mean that I forgot.”

You sigh softly in response, your shoulders dropping. Corpse pulls you closer and you lean against his chest, your fingers tangling in his shirt to absentmindedly play with the edges of it.

“I know, I don’t blame you,” you finally say, your lips finding his easily. “But the show is running its last performance…”

You bite your lip, trying to hide the disappointment that wraps around your heart in thorns, squeezing enough to make it bleed. Corpse notices immediately.

You like that he knows you so well, that you have fallen into such an easy rhythm in your relationship that gauging each other’s mood has become second nature. There is comfort in knowing that someone understands you so fully that you often don’t feel the need to explain yourself because the other already knows.

But, in times like these, you really wish that Corpse wasn’t able to read every single expression that crosses your face, that you couldn’t see the guilt in his.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Corpse assures you and drops a kiss on your forehead. It’s sweet yet fleeting and he soon pulls away again.

“You have to go,” you fill in for him and he nods, brushing through your hair one more time before moving to his office, closing the door behind him to shield you from the noise.

You sulk for the remainder of the day and it doesn’t slip by Corpse who watches helplessly as you frown, more to yourself than to him.

“I’m trying, Y/N,” Corpse says, reaching out to take your hand. “You don’t know how much it fucking pains me that I can’t easily go.”

“You don’t know how much it pains me that my boyfriend can’t even come to my performances that have been going on for a damn long time even though I always support said boyfriend in everything he does.”

It’s a low blow, you immediately want to apologise but instead you clench your teeth and breathe in and out deeply.

“Don’t,” Corpse says when you open your mouth to apologise and you snap it shut again, guilt filling your body until you feel like you’re going to choke on it. “I deserved it.”

“You didn’t!” you immediately protest but Corpse shakes his head again.

Corpse takes out his phone then and you watch incredulously as he types something, wondering what could be so much more important right now.

You wonder if he’s on Twitter, liking some tweets of fans which he seems to prioritise more than your relationship. It’s a nasty thought but you still have it. You never claimed to be perfect.

“What are you-“ you finally ask, needing Corpse to say something, do something to fix this mess. You want to shake him hard, urge him to finally choose you when he holds his phone up.

Thank you for your purchase.

“You… Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” Corpse replies and the corner of his mouth quirks into a small smirk of self-satisfaction. You don’t know if you want to kiss it off his face or whack it with a pillow. Maybe both.

“You have a stream that day,” you say stupidly and you wish that for once in your life you would just shut up already. Now you’ve planted that seed in his mind and he will cancel the performance. Again.

“I know, I’m cancelling it,” Corpse says and watches with wide eyes as your bottom lip curls outwards. “The stream,” he says quickly, wrapping you back up in a hug.

You both move back until you’re half sitting, half lying on the couch, Corpse’s cheek lying on your chest. “I’m sorry for being such a dick sometimes.”

“You’re not-“

“I am,” he says and looks up at you with sad eyes. “I should have come earlier but work always had my priority and I fucking regret it so much. I’m scared of suddenly becoming irrelevant and losing everything I built.”

“I know, I know you are,” you whisper and brush through his hair reverently. “I understand, I always have.”

Corpse shakes his head. “I’m more scared of losing you,” he finishes as if he hasn’t heard you. He takes your hand in his own, kissing your fingertips softly. Corpse takes his time and you let him, trying to keep the tears at bay. “You don’t have to understand anything. I should have been there and I wasn’t and now I’m making up for it.”

“Thank you,” you can only croak out and lose yourself in the kiss Corpse presses to your lips.

You don’t see Corpse before your last performance. It’s the early morning when you walk into the theatre, greeting some of your friends before you fling your stuff somewhere and put your earbuds in. You spend longer on stretches that morning, wanting your body to be loose as you go through some of the more difficult parts of your choreography meticulously. There is much more pressure now that you know Corpse is going to be in the audience and you want to impress him. You want him to be as proud of you as you are of him.

Hair and makeup are next and you strum your fingers against your leg impatiently as you move your brush with the other hand.

“Nervous?” Rose, one of your best friends in the company, asks. She puts her hands on your shoulders, rubbing the tension out of them sweetly.

“My boyfriend is coming so now I feel like more is at stake,” you reply honestly, relaxing back a little in your seat when you realise just how much you have been clenching your body because of the stress.

Rose smiles at you through the mirror and wraps you in a hug from behind. “You’re going to do great. You’re always great. Don’t worry too much and have some fun.”

You hold onto those words until you’re in the side wings, hopping en pointe, lowering yourself down slowly to keep your feet warm and flexible. Nervousness is clawing at your throat now, your stomach rumbling with nauseousness.

This is your job and yet… It always feels like so much more. It’s your passion, the one craft you have worked your ass off to master, it’s the ambition you now get to share with Corpse.

The moment you walk on stage, every bit of nervousness washes away when you fall in fifth position easily. You are aware of the eyes on you, the lights shining just a little too brightly into your eyes and Corpse sitting somewhere in the crowd.

Your movements are fluid, you almost feel like you’re dancing on air and you know that you look like it too from the applause when the first scene ends. Your confidence spikes and you’re no longer worried that Corpse won’t like what he sees, that he is not as impressed with you as you are with him. You know he loves it because you dance like you’re born to do only that.

The audience is too dark to see everyone clearly with the lights blinding you but when the lights dim for a moment you catch a glimpse of curly brown hair, a mask covering half of the man’s face, and you know it’s Corpse watching you.

Nothing else matters anymore at that moment, just the glance you share. You perform then like it’s just for Corpse, as if he’s the only person in the audience, silently cheering you on.

When the curtain finally falls and the applause dies out, you want to run to Corpse immediately but it’s not that simple. Costumes are to be returned and there is one bobby pin poking you in the head that you crave to take out of your complicated up-do.

It takes a while but once you can finally go, you almost fall in your haste to get outside. You take a big gulp of the cool night air and then you spot Corpse, waiting for you with a big bouquet of flowers, waving at you sheepishly.

“I won’t be such an idiot next time,” Corpse mumbles into your ear when you finally fall into his arms, tears threatening to fall from your eyes. “I can’t believe I could have seen you do this more than once and I didn’t take that change. I feel so stupid now.” “You’re not,” you tell him, leaving a smear of red lipstick where you brush your lips against his cheek. “I can do this at home too.”

Corpse looks at you and you can finally see his eyes up close, the awe and the yearning for more clearly written in his gaze.

“You’ll do that?” he asks, cupping your cheek to graze his thumb over your cheekbone.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I will.”

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mousewithpinkshoes · 3 years

Text

Garvez fic sneak peek

I was dared to post a snippet by @onlinescrabblegame and @luvofyourlifeliv so here you go!!

This is part of my undercover AU fic, it’s gonna be super angsty and dramatic. This snippet is my retelling of the events of 15x5, where Matt and Luke are kidnapped- enjoy!!

Being tied up in a dark warehouse really made you think about your life.

Luke felt ridiculous even as that observation crossed his mind, but it was true. As he sat there, fidgeting on the ass-numbingly cold concrete, he couldn’t help but wonder about seemingly inconsequential things.

Like the conversation he'd had with Matt that morning, about how he made the time to spend with his wife. He'd been having the same fight with Lisa over and over again about how busy he was with work, and the things Matt had told him hadn't helped much. It wasn't that he didn't try to make the time for his relationship, he just had so much going on- having two dogs to take care of made it hard for him to prioritise.

Now, though… sitting in the dark, it was a little bit easier to recognise the truth; he found it hard to make time with Lisa because he didn't really care about having time with her- not the way he knew he should care.

None of that would matter if he didn’t make it out of there alive, so he braced himself against the pillar behind him and, with Matt's help, they both struggled to their feet.

Before they had much of a chance to come up with a solid plan, Chaycon and his partner reappeared, and it was clear he wanted to take his chance to gloat.

“Is there anything you want me to tell your girl, when I see her?” Chaycon quipped, a menacing grin on his face.

Instantly, Luke’s mind flashed with images of blonde hair, a sunshine smile and the teasing lilt of a voice calling him ‘newbie’. A cold ball of dread coiled in his stomach, and he clenched his jaw hard to prevent an outburst. He wasn’t about to give Chaycon the satisfaction of knowing his words had gotten to him.

“Bastard” He ground out, spitting on the ground at his feet, later he’ll realise that he didn’t think of Lisa, even though he should’ve. Later, he’ll wonder when exactly Penelope became someone he considered ‘his’.

Luke vaguely heard Chaycon repeat the same question to Matt, but his ears were ringing- he wasn’t sure whether it was because of the grenade from earlier or the blinding rage he felt.

“I will take as much care with them, as my boys are about to take with you” Chaycon all but laughed. Luke’s thoughts raced back to Penelope, the very notion of Louie laying even a finger on her made him want to tear his throat out.

A few hours later, Chaycon was dead, the Rolling Devils were practically disbanded, and Luke was on the jet nursing his bruises with a glass of scotch. His mind was still racing, but for the moment he was just glad to have both Matt and Tara by his side, safe and sound.

He knew he needed to have a difficult conversation with Lisa, and sooner rather than later- he couldn’t stay in a relationship with her when he knew he had feelings for someone else. It simply wasn’t fair, to either of them.

“What’s going on in that noggin, Luke?” Tara asked, knocking her knee against his with a grin.

He laughed, shaking his head in an effort to clear it; “just the usual, thinking about how long it’s gonna take for the bruises on my face to disappear. It makes the girls at the doggy daycare nervous when I show up visibly injured.”

“You take your dogs to a place called doggy daycare?” She asked, incredulous, and he shrugged.

“It’s good for them to not be at my place alone whenever I’m working, and they get to spend time around other dogs. Don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging! I just think it’s adorable that ex-army ranger tough guy Luke Alvez takes his fur babies to daycare on a regular basis.” She snorted, “I respect it.”

Luke just rolled his eyes, “yes, they are my furry children.”

Thankfully their playful banter succeeded in lifting the leftover tension on the plane from the stressful day. The rest of their flight home passed comfortably, if a little more quiet than usual.

Back at the office, as soon as the elevator doors opened the team was greeted by their very own, extremely relieved, technical analyst. She descended on them in a flurry of wild hair and frantic babbling, hugging Tara so fiercely she was almost knocked off her feet.

“I am so happy to see you all, I’m glad you’re okay!” She exclaimed, squeezing Tara’s shoulders before turning to hug Matt, who let out a surprised laugh but patted her on the back.

“Thank you, for helping to find us.” Matt murmured, an audible lump in his throat.

By the time she let go of Matt, the rest of the team had wandered to the bullpen, leaving just Luke behind. Patting him on the shoulder, Matt walked away as well, and then the two of them were alone.

For a moment, Penelope just looked at him, some unidentifiable emotion dwelling in her eyes. Then, she shuffled forward and enveloped him in a hug, resting her forehead on his shoulder and inhaling slowly.

Luke smiled, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. He could feel the slight hitch in her breath that told him she had been a lot more scared than she would ever let on, but he knew better than to say anything.

Finally she stepped back, brushing her hand lightly over the bruises on his face with a frown. Luke smiled to reassure her.

“So you really do like me, huh?” He asked, a hint of teasing in his voice, and she laughed quietly.

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she mumbled, biting her lip. Then she smiled, “newbie.”

#criminal minds #garvez #garcia x alvez #luke alvez #penelope garcia #criminal minds fic #tw kidnapping #tw violence #mouse wrote something wow

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ladymaigrey · 4 years

Text

Enneagram and DD/Defenders – Part 2 – Matt the Reformer

Find all the posts in https://ladymaigrey.tumblr.com/tagged/enneagram (or go to my blog and look for “enneagram” tag)

gif courtesy of @dead-fandom-support-group (see her other enneagram gifs here)

TL:DR – The Reformers are perfectionistic and idealistic, with strong drives to “do good” and little patience for any perceived failure. Quick to anger and guilt-prone. Certain, stalwart and arrogant on the outside, they question themselves on the inside: are they actually “good”? are they sure they are right?

When under stress, they can become narrow-minded, self-centred and dramatic (movement towards Type 4 - Individualist).

For balance, they need to learn how to relax and let-go a bit - let the world spin on its own for a little while (acquire some characteristics from Type 7 - Enthusiast).

Matt: in addition to fitting Type 1 description (and often going towards Type 4), also has some characteristics from Type 2 – Helper, particularly the tendency to put the needs of other’s before one’s own, to the point of martyrdom.

The Reformer - in general

The Reformer has a strong value system about what is right and wrong and is quick to judge themselves and others in accordance to these norms. They are perfectionistic, but practical. They struggle to tolerate ambiguity or subjectivity, preferring objective facts and categories. They like to plan, organise, control, impose order over chaos.

The Reformers are their own harshest critics. They can be quick to anger if they see themselves or others falling short of their ideals. Yet anger often causes guilt, if they believe that a truly “good” person should not get angry. Therefore, anger is often suppressed out of conscious awareness. Still, it tends to come out in expressions of righteous indignation, sarcasm and guilt.

They are quick to argue, moralise or instruct – because they Know How Things Are Supposed To Be. Yet, internally, they are often worried that they are wrong, that they are not Good. Although they may question themselves on the inside, outwardly they will struggle to shift from their position because admitting they are wrong is too threatening to their idealised self-image.

The Reformers are over-responsible. At extreme, they can get burned out with carrying their unrealistic “shoulds” and “musts”. They struggle to relax and have fun.

According to Wagner (1980, p. 60) “They identify with St. George slaying the dragon, crusading to make the world a better place to live in.”

Research participants identified (or identifying) as Type 1, also tended to have high Conscientiousness (Big-5) scores and high Sensing (S), Thinking (T) and Judging (J) scores in MMPI test.

Matt the Reformer

Judging on the basic outline and, particularly, that St George quote, Type 1 fits Matt well.

His definition of “doing good” is to defend the little guy against injustices and stand up to the unjust strong and teach them a lesson. He is perfectionistic, highly conscientious and disciplined when it comes to his goals - a legacy of his Dad’s insistence on academic diligence, Stick’s drilling, and his internal drive to protect and see justice done.

He is very certain of his direction on the outside, defending his position with a bull-headed obstinacy to rival the Punisher, but he questions himself on the inside. He is often plagued by worries that he is not, in fact, “good” or “just” at all – worries that he most likely internalised from his childhood, from those who admonished “Be careful of the Murdock boys, they have the Devil in them.” Therefore, he feels like he must forever prove his goodness to himself. He is over-responsible to a ridiculous degree, taking it as a personal goal to prevent all injustice he “can” (i.e. that he is within an earshot of, and his earshot is looooong). Whenever he “fails” - guilt and rage follow. Rage (and violence), in turn, feed into his guilt and self-doubts about being “good”. Sometimes it seems that he is more guilt-ridden than an old farmhouse is ridden with termites.

For all of Type 1s’ practicality and need to control, when it comes to pursuit of goals and facing threats, they tend to make decisions instinctually, based on the product of their perceptions and gut-response. Matt Murdock is an allegorical embodiment of this concept. He responds to what his senses tell him – responds immediately and, often, drastically, without pausing for thought or communication with significant others. For type 1s (and other “gut” types 8 and 9), this often stems from the belief that “life is a battle, and their weaknesses must be tested” (Zuercher, 1992, as quoted in Hook et al., 2020), and THIS IS THE MOST MATT-DESCRIPTIVE STATEMENT I’ve ever read in a peer-reviewed psych article!

In addition to Type 1 characteristics, Matt shares some Type 2 characteristics (in Enneagram parlance, that would make him a Type 1 with a Type 2 wing). Specifically, Matt seems to take pride in denying his own physical and safety needs in order to meet the needs of others, as per his self-imposed responsibilities. This type of martyrdom is more characteristic of Type 2s (Helpers). At the same time, the occasional over-the-top drama that goes with that martyrdom is characteristic of Type 4 (Individualists).

Although, to be fair, it is always difficult to judge psychological state purely from behaviour. So, it is debatable whether his tendency to put his needs last is driven more by his Type 1 perfectionism (i.e. his internal need to do “good” overpowers his other basic needs), or his Type 2 martyrdom beliefs (i.e. the belief that his suffering is immaterial, and even required, in the face of the suffering of others, and that he only matters when he helps others). As @ceterisparibus116 and I discussed sometimes ago, it seems that martyrdom tendencies tend to raise their head when he has faced some kind of “failure” or setback - when he is feeling low regarding his life and identity. At such times, it is perhaps a heightened need for self-sacrifice – to prove his goodness and worthiness through meeting the needs of others to the detriment of his own - that may contribute to some of his more painful (and draMattic) physical excesses.

Then again, human psychology is a mudbath and it is never clear which rising bubble is driven by which underlying motivation.

(As an aside, I do think that the DD-fandom (myself included) has embraced the Type 2 martyr!Matt more than the canon actually suggests. He is often written in fics as forgetting or forgoing his basic needs (including food, sleep and medical care) in order to constantly give of himself to others. I wonder if, on some level, it reflects the real-life tendency to react to Type 2s – the “humble” Helpers – in a more positive or warmer way than the “arrogant” Type 1 do-gooders.)

Anyway.

When faced with crisis and failures, Matt does tend to move towards Type 4 (Individualist), as suggested by the Enneagram theory. He becomes dramatic in his sense of uniqueness and messiahnism; also – self-isolating, liable to be impulsive and making self-destructive decisions. His thinking narrows down myopically to the sole pursuit and defence of his goals. Although his goals as Daredevil revolve around “saving” others, being Daredevil is a large part (if not the whole) of what defines his life’s meaning to him. Therefore, his narrow focus at these times of high stress, and his prioritisation of Daredevil’s goals above the feelings and goals of significant others, is suggestive of a strong core of defensiveness/self-protectiveness. The righteousness of his aims is, in part, a psychological mask; it is a demand for others to excuse his poor relational behaviour on the basis of the specialness of the burden he chooses to bear.

That is not to imply that, when Matt stands up for his identity and his goals to his friends, it should only be regarded as a sign of self-centredness or depression! Telling those, who persistently refuse to accept someone’s truth, that ‘this is who I am’ – as he does to Foggy in Seasons 1 and 2 – can be a sign of positive self-regard and self-esteem. Similarly, when Matt gravitates towards the Type 4 Elektra and attempts to embrace some of her ideals of putting personal wants before duty, it is driven by a healthy impulse to balance the obsessive nature of his goals. Or, at the very least, to share the burden.

Matt is also capable of behaviors that, according to the Enneagram, balance some of the unhealthy extremes of his Type 1 characteristics. Although he is serious and driven most of the time, he is also capable of relaxing and having fun (which is a type 7 characteristic – the balance archetype for Type 1s). Although Matt is perfectionistic, it isn’t driven just by guilt and fear - he also wants to reach his targets (e.g. excelling in law school) for the sense of achievement it gives him (which is a Type 3 trait). He practices some mental and emotional self-care, leaning into the benefits of meditation which, at least in theory, should allow him to switch off from his over-thinking and judging, and simply be touch with his internal sensations without reactivity.

Finally, I think the fact that Matt doesn’t totally disavow his anger but, instead, finds a productive release for it while punching crime in the face, is overall a healthy(-ish) impulse. His anger has a specific role in his goals. Therefore, he has, at least partially, solved the dilemma that plagues Type 1s, i.e. that their anger means they can’t truly be “good”. Only partially though, as he certainly still has plenty of self-doubts and internal guilt trips (see the “why did God put the Devil in me” conversation with Father Lantom in Season 1).

Wagner (1980) advises that, in order to achieve psychological balance and free themselves from the overwhelming perfection of their world-altering goals, Type 1s need to learn that,

“The universe is not perfect, yet, but it is unfolding as it should. Be patient, God isn’t finished with me, yet.” (p. 113)

To me, this advice seems similar to the idea of the Tapestry that Father Lantom spoke of to Matt (see conversation between Matt and Sister Maggie in S3e13). Enneagram, being theistic in its origin, makes many allusions to the perfection of the Process by which the world works and of the Divine Thought guiding it. This axiom states that all moments and all creatures within this process are perfect in themselves and in their place. Perceptions of imperfection come from the Ego, which is of the mind, not of the Divine original essence. Serenity – the lost virtue of Type 1s – comes from trusting the perfection of the process and the Divine Love guiding it.

By the end of Season 3, Matt appears to have made some steps towards accepting this premise. At least - intellectually. Maybe.

References

Wagner, J.P. (1980). A descriptive, reliability, and validity study of the Enneagram personality typology (Doctoral Dissertation). Retrieved from https://ecommons.luc.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=3108&context=luc_diss

Zuercher, S. (1992). Enneagram spirituality: From compulsion to contemplation. Ave Maria Press.

#enneagram #psychology #reformer #matt murdock #daredevil #defenders

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zuzuslastbraincell · 4 years

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fun world-building facts about the eyeliner incident:

so the main canon divergence is that roku killed sozin, instead of just chilling in his cottage for ~50 years. he ended up leading a coalition force against him, in prep for civil war, although was able to bait him out to an erupting volcano and kill him at the age of 40 or 50 or so. roku then lived for another 100 years (hardly out of character for an avatar to do so).

roku went further, though, and after killing sozin, declared there would be no more fire lords in the avatar state. this split the fire nation into monarchists and anti-monarchists, essentially, and there was still a fair bit of civil unrest/war after sozin’s death because not everyone agreed.

a lot of monarchists ran off to the colonies after sozin was killed, to protect their assets, to protect their lives, as a place to hide out until the storm blew over (it did not blow over) and to regroup for a next assault (which did not succeed).

this was fine, until a second phase: roku wanted to give the radicals in his coalition a leading voice in the next government to be. a lot of people disagreed. in the colonies (many of which had officially been handed back to the earth kingdom), there were riots, lots of dissent, etc. amongst fire nationals.

when the north western earth kingdom became the site of resistance against radicals in the fire nation (as roku’s opposition to sozin was based on a coalition of liberal nobles and bureaucrats & emerging radical workers syndicates), a lot of monarchists & ultranationalists ended up emigrating with the initial wave of noble émigrés, and eventually, some of the more liberal nobles supporting roku turned against them as well. (this is also how roku’s youngest daughter, rina, who was married off to a sozin loyalist in a hostage situation organised by sozin, ends up in the earth kingdom - she and her husband defect, and initially support roku, but seeing the radicals that he is genuinely helping and supporting, they move to the earth kingdom). the reputation of this second wave depends on province - ex-soldiers are always hated, and the north west & regions in close proximity despise the fire nation, but the east & ba sing se has always been quite hospitable, & many have dual bases in ba sing se and the northwest. the ba sing se nobility, over time, mingle more and more with high profile fire nation émigrés who have property.

fire nationals in the earth kingdom are thus culturally different, usually, to fire nation citizens in the modern fire nation. more likely to be monarchists, more likely to hold sympathetic sentiment to azulon etc. (though most agree - publically - that sozin went too far, even if they think azulon should have his crown in private), and a lot of their styles of fashion, music, art, dance etc. is based on a lot of “antiquated” “old fashioned” fire nation traditions with some earth kingdom ideas mixed in. to fire nation residents, they just look at least 80 years out of date.

fire nation descendants in the earth kingdom are more likely to be involved with particular organised crime syndicates (the triads, as opposed to ones with other names). this is because after the war ended abruptly with sozin’s death, a lot ex-mercenaries and ex-soldiers stationed in the colonies/northwest began to find work/business through protection racketeering (in absence of organised govt. in the north-western earth kingdom). even in the modern day, the north west has problems with corruption, control, and is economically quite deprived despite having massive resources and that’s an after-effect of colonialism and attempts by the national government to ‘penalise’ the officials in that region for colluding with fire nation nationals/ex-colonists (very exasperating for genuine earth kingdom officials, and earth kingdom locals). roku did try and help the region but he’s generally disliked for lots of reasons & was trying to stop the fire nation from collapsing after supporting the radicals (a controversial decision!) and facing counter-revolutionary violence. i think roku felt like he neglected the fire nation for the earth kingdom in his youth and that’s why sozin was able to get as far as he did, so i think he made the very difficult decision to prioritise trying to sort out the fire nation. hence why yu dao is in a bit of a state. i imagine yu dao (republic city) is a big buzzing city but has those same problems with organised crime we see in lok.

the sozin dynasty, as azulon & his descendants are called, aren’t an exception to this involvement in organised crime. a lot of people were actually quite sympathetic to a young azulon after his father was killed at around the age of fifty or so, including fire nationals in the earth kingdom, but also the nobility in the earth kingdom, themselves staunch monarchists, who saw sozin as the problem and not the system of monarchy itself. all of this allowed azulon & his family to flee the caldera & manage to transfer a number of their assets with relative ease; they were never penniless, despite the sob story you might here.

azulon set up links with local businesses who were run by sympathisers, as well as organised crime syndicates, and through wise purchases, good advisors, & some savvy of his own, shifted from aristocracy to bourgeoisie with relative ease, & bought/negotiated their place at the negotiating table, to eventually come to be considered the lead stakeholder in those crime syndicates (with enough distance, though, as not to be suspicious). very much saved his name from being a laughing stock through his own ability there, but if you’d hear the story told, people who say that folks were deferential to him in part because of his lineage (sometimes, but not always true - the revolution had caused people to doubt).

regarding his sons, iroh had far more involved in organised crime and illegitimate business than ozai, who essentially looked after the more boring legitimate side of things (but took that role seriously and expanded it beyond being a simple front). iroh actually had a worse reputation up until azulon died, and was just considered a very competent but cut-throat political/business leader/general player with a lot of very very shady links that couldn’t quite be proven, but also like, was famously quite charming and well-liked in the high society ba sing se network. like, i want to be honest to show iroh here - he was bad! in the show, he was a war criminal! i mentioned he was a war profiteer (largely because ‘war criminal’ doesn’t make as much sense imo), and that was almost definitely regarding civil wars/coups that have been attempted in the fire nation & earth kingdom. this stopped when lu ten ended up being shot in the crossfire during a turf war and rather than pursuing a violent vendetta, iroh stepped out of the spotlight and let ozai take over the reigns more.

anyway, after zuko was burned for attempting to stand up to ozai, iroh basically faked his own death and completely ditched anything left of what he’d spent his life building in order to whisk zuko away and invent new identities for themselves in the fire nation (ironically) where they worked as tea shop workers (yes. li and mushi, still canon). i don’t think they live in the caldera, since cameras/photos mean it’s easier to be tracked, and zuko probably lives somewhere quiet-ish like ember island. zuko has a decent adolescence, considering, after he’s estranged. no “find the avatar” in this universe, for fairly obvious reasons.

i’m not an expert in organised crime by any means but hopefully this all makes sense. a lot of what azulon/iroh/ozai is doing, through the purchase of land, the control of business, the use of organised crime as an illicit form of govt. essentially is a form of colonisation, where the region is deprived due to fire nation business interests and in earth kingdom control in name only. corruption and close ties between ba sing se and fire nation émigrés mean that centralised govt is underfunding & turning a blind eye to it (which, in canon, ba sing se does, ‘no war in ba sing se’ etc.). most of the colonisation efforts are centred in the north-west, but azula is brought up in ba sing se given it’s far more reputable/prestigious, though she’s undoubtedly been to both places.

as for what’s happening in the fire nation, i feel like aesthetically it’s a little different - ba sing se is ancient buildings with sky trains, lots of urban sprawl & a very wide and endless city, whereas i imagine the caldera is a very tall city due to limited space available, more skyscrapers in the fire nation due to limits in islands. also, the fire nation has sea trains and submarine trains/tunnels, because. politically? haven’t quite decided but they’re some flavour of anarchist-communist (was reluctant to use that word in the fic itself because people have all kinds of interpretations of it, often very negative knee-jerk responses to it, but essentially: community-owned services and businesses and spaces instead of privately-owned ones, with egalitarian principles enshrined into the culture & identity now) over there if i’m honest, with lots of democratic councils. obviously i don’t think it’ll be perfect and i imagine ‘the national question’ is something that comes up a lot, with some difficulties between national & regional identity (imo the fire nation is very diverse, we see the sun warriors and then the sages who help korra in s2 are from different groups/cultures than the militaristic one that rose to prominence in the 100 year war and i hc a lot of that regional diversity was steamrolled for sozin’s imperialist project).

ANYWAY

there’s a reason i made this post on my main last week:

this is getting very long but hopefully this is some insight into what i’ve been thinking about when i made this AU

#very long and lots of politics #disclaimer: i am a leftist and that informs how i look at these issues #(if that wasn't obvious already)

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iffeelscouldkill · 4 years

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Adjusting [Part 4: Arkady]

A/N: Hey! In honour of us getting a confirmed release date for TSCOSI Season 2, here’s a fic update! (No I was not planning to post this anyway tonight, what are you talking about)

This one’s another long chapter, so strap in, folks! As always, a big THANK YOU to @dragonsthough101 for beta reading and for all the encouragement and enthusiasm! <3

CW: This fic contains a fairly brief description of a panic attack, from the POV of the character experiencing the panic attack. If you want to skip it, stop reading at the line “Everything is very still.” and skip to “They gravitate over to the kitchen table...”

---

The sound of gunfire echoes around purple-tinged sand and silver rocks, the alien landscape of a desert planet that sinks, spongy under RJ’s feet as they run for their life, head down to present less of a target. There’s a fiery pain in their right leg, running from the thigh right down to the shin, and though RJ clenches their jaw and forces themself onwards, it buckles, sending them crashing to one knee in the sand.

“RJ!” Sana shouts. She’s about thirty paces ahead, supporting a blood-soaked and half-conscious Arkady.

“I’m fine – go, get to the ship,” RJ calls, but Sana doesn’t budge. Cursing under their breath – and feeling a sudden kinship with Arkady every time she’d complained about Sana prioritising the crew’s safety above her own – RJ forces their leg to lock and pushes off from the soft sand, wobbling into a standing position. There’s another hail of bullets, closer this time, and RJ almost trips forward in their haste to move- and then stops.

Wait a minute.

“RJ!” Sana calls again, this time with a note of panic in her voice. She looks like she’s debating sprinting back across the distance between them to find out what’s wrong, but doesn’t want to abandon Arkady.

RJ waves a hand at her, motioning her down. Arkady has roused enough to give Sana a confused look, but both of them sink down towards the sand.

In the echoey canyon that they just emerged from, it had sounded like the gunshots were coming from all sides. RJ had been baffled as to how so many shooters were still pursuing them, as they thought they’d managed to take out virtually all of them, but there hadn’t been time to figure it out. Now, out in the open, RJ can tell: there’s only one shooter.

“Kid,” Arkady hisses, her voice carrying just far enough to reach RJ in the quiet. “Get out of the goddamn open.”

RJ ignores her, scanning their surroundings. They’ve narrowed down a rough area that the shots are coming from: an outcrop of metallic rocks on a ledge about twenty metres up. The spot is almost completely shielded, but it’s also difficult to shoot from. The shooter can’t get a clear shot at them, which is why they were laying down so much fire: trying to confuse them, make them panic, and run into the path of a stray bullet.

It also means that RJ can’t get a clear shot either, unless…

RJ flails as if losing their footing on the sand, turns and crumples dramatically backwards. They hear Arkady swear, and Sana say, “Wait here- I’m going back-”

From this vantage point they can see through a gap low in the rocks, and sure enough, there’s a dark shape beyond, sunlight glinting off the dull metal of an old-fashioned automatic rifle.

“Got you,” RJ mutters, and fires.

A muffled cry of pain can be heard across the distance, and RJ jumps to their feet in a shower of sand, adrenaline and triumph numbing the searing pain in their leg. They catch up to Arkady and Sana, who are frozen in the middle of getting to their feet.

“We can go now,” they say. A delighted smile spreads across Sana’s face, while Arkady looks torn between annoyance and grudging respect.

“Glad you made up your mind,” she snarks.

They make it back to the Iris without incident, where Violet is there to work the airlock as usual. She pales at the sight of them.

“Arkady- Sana- RJ! What happened? We couldn’t get you on your comms-”

“Yeah, sand’s a bitch,” pants Arkady, who seems to have rallied some more at the sight of her girlfriend. She pulls the useless, sand-encrusted comm link from her ear and tosses it with a flick of her hand at Violet, who just catches it. “That weird purple storm you saw? It jammed all of our devices.”

“You’re covered in blood-”

“I’m fine,” Arkady insists, though the fact that she can barely stand upright is undermining her argument quite a bit. “I’ve been worse.”

“Sana Tripathi to all crew,” Sana is saying over them. “Krejjh, we’re gonna need a quick getaway. RJ took out the last of our pursuers, but we think some of them might have gone for backup. We can’t afford to hang around.”

“Aye aye, Captain Tripathi.”

“Brian, Park, keep an eye out for anything on our tail.”

“Roger that.”

“Will do.”

Sana turns to RJ, Arkady and Violet, who are still clustered around the airlock. “Arkady, you’re going to accompany Violet to the medbay for urgent attention, and no arguments.”

“For once, I wasn’t gonna,” says Arkady with a wince, her voice strained. Violet moves forward to take Arkady’s weight, and Arkady leans on her gratefully. The height difference makes it a little awkward, but Violet is also clearly stronger than she looks.

“Captain, I’m going to take a look at that shoulder as soon as Arkady’s been patched up,” Violet says in that gentle-but-firm way that no-one ever tries to argue with (except Arkady, but even she doesn’t try particularly hard).

Sana nods, hand going to the dried patch of blood on her shoulder. The bullet had only grazed her, but it hadn’t been pretty at all, and they’d had to improvise a bandage in a panic out of a scarf that Arkady had been using to keep the sand out of her face.

Violet turns a sharp gaze on RJ, who straightens reflexively, letting go of the safety rail they’d been leaning on. This proves to be a mistake as they put too much weight on their injured leg, and they can’t conceal the resulting flinch.

“What happened to your leg, RJ?” Violet asks. It’s mild, but there’s no-nonsense steel lurking under her tone.

“I’m uh, not really sure?” RJ admits. Their pant leg is caked in violet sand, ragged and torn; there’s no visible blood, but it could easily be concealed under the sand. “It’s uh, it’s kind of painful, but I don’t think I got shot. There were bullets ricocheting off the rocks, though, and some shrapnel might have hit-” They’re rolling up the leg of their pants as they speak, and then stop as the wound comes into view. ‘Some’ shrapnel is an understatement: RJ’s leg is peppered with tiny pieces of glittering metal, including one fairly large and pointy-looking piece sticking out of their lower thigh. Dried blood is streaked along the length of their leg. Sana sucks in a breath.

RJ laughs a little, nervously. “Um. Ow?”

Violet passes a hand over her face. “Okay. I’m gonna get those out of you as soon as possible, RJ. In the meantime, try to keep your weight off your leg – actually, that goes for after I’ve dressed the wounds, too. Luckily, none of it seems to have gone in too deep.”

“Arkady, you might have some too,” Sana says. “She and RJ managed to draw most of their fire-”

“Arkady more than me,” RJ puts in, as if it wasn’t already obvious from Arkady’s multiple injuries. “I guess I didn’t seem like that significant of a target.”

“-but it was kind of hard to tell what was a bullet and what was debris, with sand whipping up all around us.”

“Yeah, if I never see another sandstorm, it’ll be too soon,” Arkady mutters.

“Wonderful,” Violet says dryly. “Is it too much to hope that the sand might not contain any toxic or harmful substances?”

There’s a pause, as Sana, RJ and Arkady look at each other. None of them had thought of that possibility.

Violet sighs. “I’ll prep some equipment and try and get a sample to analyse from Arkady’s comm link.” She holds up the inert device. “I haven’t tried it out yet, but the medbay in this ship has some equipment that should be able to do the job.”

“You could probably get a good sample from our clothes, too,” says Sana. Violet nods.

“Sana, RJ, I want you to – carefully – change into some clean, loose-fitting clothes and then come to the medbay. Try not to touch your wounds directly.”

Both Sana and RJ give their assent to her instructions. It’s a little weird for RJ to see Sana, as the Captain, taking an order from someone else, but Sana acts like there’s nothing unusual about it at all. They’ve known some commanding officers – okay, a lot of commanding officers – in the Regime who acted like they would lose all their authority if they were seen deferring to a subordinate for anything, which led to a lot of bad and stupid judgement calls. They know now that the mark of a good leader is someone who’s willing to listen to the people under their command.

Violet turns back to Arkady, her face softening.

“C’mon, soldier,” she says quietly. RJ isn’t sure if this is a pet name or just a reference to ‘brave soldier’, but either way, it makes Arkady go pink. Sana looks impossibly fond of the two of them.

Arkady looks back at RJ, and RJ braces for some kind of threat about breathing a word about that to anyone else, but instead Arkady says, “Good shot earlier.”

For the first time ever, she doesn’t call RJ ‘kid’.

“Uh… thanks,” RJ barely manages in their surprise, but Arkady doesn’t even seem to hear it, already letting Violet help her down the corridor to the medbay.

---

The whole crew is a little on edge for the rest of the day (or what passes for ‘day’ when you’re hurtling through the black void of space). The excursion on Enlil was meant to be a simple pick-up and drop-off job, which was why Sana had thought it might be a good first outing for RJ to accompany them on while also providing some extra backup. But someone had tipped off the planet’s local security force – a sort of combined police force and militia – to their presence, and minutes after completing the trade, they’d found themselves fleeing from a dozen armed pursuers.

They got the payment, and more importantly got away safely (ish), but it’s a stark reminder just how little they can afford to let their guard down.

Dinner is a lively and extra-loud affair, all of the accumulated tension of the day (of the past two months, really) welling up and spilling over. For once, RJ doesn’t mind. They boost themselves up, gingerly, onto one of the bolted-down metal chairs decorated with Sana’s colourful homemade cushions, being careful not to jolt their leg, which has been expertly cleaned and bandaged by Violet. (The sand, to the best of Violet’s assessment, did not contain any toxic elements, but was still not great to have in an open wound for obvious reasons).

RJ watches Jeeter haphazardly throwing ingredients into a huge stock pot while Park looks on with a slightly pained expression. As Brian gets distracted by a compliment from Krejjh, he quickly claims the spoon, adding some spices from a small tin and a few other flavourings from little bottles in precise, measured amounts, before replacing the spoon just as Brian turns back around.

The noise and the activity is… familiar. Reassuring. It helps to drown out the images of purple and silver in RJ’s head, of sand whipping against rocks and gunshots echoing through a vast canyon, so vast it seemed like they’d never emerge from it. Of thinking about those few crucial seconds, out in the open, and what might have happened if they hadn’t made the shot.

(RJ always makes the shot. Every single time, in the Academy and afterwards, they had always made the shot. RJ believed then that they couldn’t afford to miss – for the sake of their reputation and their career, for the respect of the senior officers that they’d worked so relentlessly to earn.

But since becoming part of a crew and having more than just their own wellbeing riding on their steady hands and the aim of their gun – RJ has learned the real meaning of can’t afford to miss).

Sana passes out bowls of the stew that Brian has concocted, unknowingly aided by Park. It’s pretty good – the vegetables and meat are bland (RJ can’t even identify them, which is probably for the better) but the spices give it flavour and the tiniest kick. Park slides into the seat across from RJ; the crew officially don’t have designated seats in the kitchen/dining area, but unofficially, they totally do, and Park’s chair is padded with two cushions: one on the seat, and one on the back.

RJ can’t say how it happened, but Park had always sat a little awkwardly on the unforgiving chairs, and there was a tentativeness to his movements whenever he shifted, like he was in pain and trying to hide it. Evidently they weren’t the only one who noticed, because a second cushion had mysteriously appeared on ‘Park’s’ chair one day, and that had been that.

“Dinner’s pretty good,” RJ tells Park, under the combined volume of Krejjh, Brian and Sana’s jokes and laughter. Arkady is there too, also propped up on multiple cushions, after she’d loudly and persistently refused to have dinner brought to her in the medbay. “I’m already sick of being stuck in there. I’m not helpless, Sana,” she’d snapped. Sana and Violet had exchanged a look over her head that spoke volumes.

She looks paler than usual, but she keeps up a determined level of snark and banter like she’s daring anyone to question her health.

“Tell that to the cook,” Park responds mildly to RJ’s compliment, picking up his spoon.

“I am,” RJ replies with a smirk. Park’s only response is the slightest raise of his eyebrow.

“I heard you got to do some sharpshooting, earlier,” he says instead, changing the subject. RJ brightens, realising that with everything that was going on after they got back to the ship, they’d never got a chance to tell Park what had happened on Enlil. Sana must have said something about it to him.

“Yeah, finally,” RJ says, and Park grins fleetingly. He knows RJ has been itching to help out with some of the (infrequent, always extremely cautious) drop-offs and supply runs, but Sana had been reluctant to take the risk.

“I know how capable you are, RJ,” she’d said gently the last time she turned them down, while RJ had done their best to hide their disappointment. “It’s not that I don’t trust your skills. But I don’t want to send anyone else out into the field unless it’s strictly necessary, and I’m sure that Arkady and I can handle this one. As soon as we get a drop-off where I think we’ll need more backup, I promise that I’ll bring you in.”

She’d sounded sincere, but RJ had been privately sure that the promise was just meant to pacify them. They’d been genuinely taken aback when less than a week later, Sana informed them that she wanted them to accompany her and Arkady on the next drop.

“We’ve never been to this planet before, and neither Arkady nor I are familiar with the terrain,” she’d explained at the crew meeting, handing RJ a topographical map of their destination while RJ quietly exploded with excitement. “By the looks of things, there’s a lot of open ground, but also some spots where we could be vulnerable to ambush. I think three pairs of eyes will be better than two.”

She’d been completely correct about that, although the planet’s intermittent sandstorms had not been in their intel. Either way, RJ doesn’t think that Sana and Arkady would have made it through in one piece without their help.

They should be pleased at that thought, to know that they were critical to the mission, but instead it makes them feel slightly sick.

Everyone lingers in the kitchen after the meal finishes, and soon enough Sana breaks out a bottle of engine room-brewed moonshine and cups are passed around. RJ prepares to decline, as usual, but to their surprise Violet passes them a cup of something else – it’s bright orange, slightly sparkly, and smells sweet.

“What’s this?” they ask.

Violet shows them the bottle, which is silver with an orange bolt of lightning down the side and shimmering writing in Chinese characters. “It’s an energy drink!” she says cheerfully. “I lived off it when I was in grad school. If you down it in one go it’ll give you a kick like you wouldn’t believe. We used to knock it back instead of shots sometimes – the buzz wears off quicker than alcohol, but you also get less of a hangover. I stashed some away in case we ever needed to pull an all-nighter or something.”

RJ looks doubtfully down at the drink and then glances at Park, who responds with a shrug and half a smile. His expression somehow conveys both, ‘It’s okay if you don’t want to,’ and ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

“I promise it’s completely safe,” Violet says, reassuringly. “Here, I’ll join you.” She pours herself out a small amount of the vibrant drink. “Cheers!”

She clinks her cup gently against RJ’s and then downs it in one go. After a moment’s hesitation, RJ follows suit. There’s a burst of intense, teeth-rattling sweetness and then a fizzing sensation like something went up RJ’s nose. They shake their head rapidly. “I… wow,” they say. Everything seems very bright all of a sudden. Violet is laughing as she puts down her cup.

“Oh my god!” she exclaims. “I feel like I’m 22 again.”

“How do you feel?” Park asks RJ, nursing his own cup of moonshine.

“I feel…” says RJ, and then gets distracted by how the ‘l’ sound rolls off their tongue. “Feellll… I feelllll… great! Really really good.” They beam at Park, who looks a little uncertain, but smiles anyway.

“That’s… good. Well, cheers.”

---

Twenty minutes later, RJ is laughing hysterically at a joke that Krejjh just made – in Dwarnian.

“It’s the- it’s just- it’s the way they said lequezzek…” they wheeze, trying to explain the joke to Park, who is staring at them in some consternation. They wipe one eye. “Ah, you kinda had to be there.”

“I… was there,” Park tells RJ.

“Hey, your pronunciation is really coming along,” Brian says approvingly to RJ, who brightens and sits up straight.

“You really think so?”

“Heck, yeah!” Krejjh chimes in. “Hey, say ‘Dwajjhah Ferin’.”

“Dwajjhah Ferin,” RJ repeats, trying hard to get the ‘jjh’ sound right. Brian and Krejjh look at each other, and Krejjh grins.

“Excellent Dwarnian ‘jjh’ sound. For a human.”

RJ throws their arms up in the air, almost clocking Park on the ear. “I’ll take it!”

Not long after that, Sana notices Arkady struggling to keep her eyes open and, over her half-hearted protests, firmly instructs Violet to accompany her back to her room. “I’m going to turn in too,” she says. “Not that I wouldn’t love to stay up with you guys, but it’s been a pretty long day and I think the adrenaline crash is finally starting to hit me.”

Her eyes linger on RJ, who stares back, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. “Don’t stay up too late, okay, guys? Get some rest,” she says.

“You got it, Captain,” says Brian as Krejjh salutes. “Hey, RJ – wanna come back to our room to watch the pre-season 17 finale of Sh’th Hremreh?”

“Yessss!” RJ cheers, jumping up.

“You’re welcome to join us, too,” Brian says to Park.

“I… thanks, but I think I’d be a bit lost,” Park declines politely. “McCabe-”

RJ, who is bouncing on the balls of their feet with impatience, looks over. “Hm?”

“Just be sure to drink plenty of water. I know Violet says that stuff gives you less of a hangover, but I think it’ll help.”

RJ rolls their eyes exaggeratedly. “Okay, Dad,” they groan, but they grab a bottle of water from the fridge before following Krejjh and Brian out. “Night, Park.”

“G’night.”

---

By the time the credits roll on Sh’th Hremreh, RJ has to admit that the effects of the energy drink Violet gave them have thoroughly worn off, and they’re feeling pretty beat. Krejjh has actually dozed off, and is snoring quietly against Brian’s shoulder.

“D’you wanna keep watching?” Brian asks quietly. “We should probably save the actual finale for when Krejjh is awake, but we can watch an episode of something else.”

RJ considers it, but reluctantly shakes their head. “Thanks, but… I think I do need to sleep,” they admit, stretching their arms up over their head.

“That’s fair. How’s your leg?”

“Uh…” RJ hasn’t really thought about their leg since dinner. The energy drink made every part of them feel fuzzy and light, so it hadn’t seemed like a concern. They hope they haven’t accidentally overdone things, although it’s not as if they’ve been running around the corridors. Well. They might have raced Krejjh to Brian and Krejjh’s room. It seemed like a fun idea at the time.

They stand up experimentally, testing how it holds their weight. It definitely throbs, but it’s a dull throbbing, and it doesn’t feel like it’s about to give way beneath them. “I probably should have stayed off it more like Violet said,” RJ admits. “But I think it’ll be better after some rest.”

Brian grins, an expression that RJ can just make out in the glow of the holo-screen. “Not really following medical advice is kind of a time-honoured tradition on this ship. It’s a miracle Violet hasn’t given up on all of us and left us to our own devices.”

RJ knows he’s joking, but the idea of Violet not being around to help in the aftermath of situations like the one they were in today is more than a little horrifying. “You guys didn’t even have a medic before she joined the crew, right? How did you manage?”

Brian shrugs in that easy way of his. “Arkady has a fair amount of field experience dealing with injuries, which I expect she picked up, uh… during the war,” he says. “Krejjh too, though obviously their knowledge is mostly applicable to Dwarnians. Sana and I know basic first aid, and Campbell – you met him when we made a stopover in Neuzo – has some skills and some contacts who don’t ask too many questions. We would sometimes go to him for help if we were in a bind, medically speaking.”

RJ nods slowly. It makes sense, although it also raises a number of other worrying questions. Namely, what if they’d been stuck out in the middle of the Deep or in hostile territory and weren’t able to get in contact with anyone? What if something really serious happened?

Brian correctly interprets their expression. “Mostly, it’s best not to think about it,” he says cheerfully. “Overall, we were pretty good at not needing any help, but it did happen occasionally.”

“Maybe I should learn some first aid too,” RJ says, thinking about possible worst-case scenarios on unknown planets and the fact that there’s only one of Violet. “Just in case.”

Brian smiles. “No reason not to. Violet could probably teach you stuff that the rest of us don’t know.”

After saying goodnight to Brian (and a still-sleeping Krejjh), RJ starts off in the direction of their room, but then reconsiders and heads towards the kitchen. Maybe it’s the lingering advice from Park to stay hydrated; maybe RJ just wants to sit and nurse a cup of tea and stare into space for a while.

They aren’t expecting, upon entering the kitchen, to find Arkady already there, reaching for the box of tea at the top of the cupboard and wincing as she pulls at her stitches.

“Uh…”

Arkady whips around so fast RJ is positive she must have pulled something else. She relaxes slightly when she sees RJ, obviously afraid it might be Violet or Sana. “Hey, McCabe. What are you doing up?”

RJ shrugs slightly as they step further into the kitchen, letting the door whoosh shut behind them. “Same as you, I think. I came to get some tea. Should you be… doing that?” Arkady has turned back to the cupboard and is slowly stretching up again to try and grab the tea. She huffs in exasperation.

“Don’t you start.”

“I’m just saying, we do have a stool,” RJ points out reasonably, going to fetch the foldaway stepping-stool.

“I don’t need a stool,” Arkady retorts. RJ thinks it’s meant to sound deadpan, but it comes out a little petulant.

“Well, I do,” says RJ, carrying it over and setting it down next to Arkady. “Move over.”

Arkady rolls her eyes, but moves aside to let RJ climb onto the stool and grab the box of tea, newly replenished thanks to a recent supply run.

“Why do you guys keep it on the top shelf, anyway?” asks RJ, setting the box on the kitchen table. “Is it because of…?” They nod at the scrawled NOT FOR YOU, JEETER on the lid of the box.

“Oh, that?” Arkady seems surprised, like she’d completely forgotten it was there. “It’s a joke, kinda – Jeeter doesn’t drink tea normally, but he has a habit of raiding our stash sometimes when he’s really sleep-deprived. And he always forgets that he’s allergic to rooibos, so. I wrote that as a reminder.” She flips open the top of the box and considers the contents.

“I… see,” RJ says, brow crinkling. They don’t really, but that tends to be the case with a lot of things involving their crewmates, so they decide not to spend too much time worrying about it.

Instead, they pick out a bag of peppermint tea and wait for Arkady to choose her flavour – lemongrass and ginger – before quickly plucking it out of her hand. “I’ll make these!”

“Kid–” Arkady grabs at RJ, who dances out of reach. “Listen, I can make my own goddamn tea–”

“Sure, but if I don’t make you sit down then both of us are going to get in trouble with Violet, and also I think you’ve already popped a stitch,” RJ shoots back. Arkady looks down and swears as she sees the tiny spot of blood that’s leaked through the bandages around her side onto her shirt, and grudgingly sits down at the kitchen table.

Smug, RJ rummages around for two clean mugs and drops the teabags into them. They pick up the kettle and carry it over to the small, pump-operated sink to fill it with water.

Intent on their task, RJ almost doesn’t notice it until the last second – out of the corner of their eye, a glint of light off silver rocks, off the barrel of a gun—

The kettle goes flying with a loud clatter as RJ whirls around. “ARKADY, GET D-”

Then they stop, heaving breaths in the middle of the kitchen, their leg throbbing. There’s nothing there.

Everything is very still.

But RJ saw it, they saw–

A glint of light, reflecting off the fridge, in the corner of their eye. Not an attacker. Not silver rocks and purple sand.

“-kid, can you hear me? RJ. RJ, can you hear me?” Arkady is suddenly right there, her face serious and intent, bending down to RJ’s level. “Kid, I need you to breathe with me. You’re having a panic attack. Breathe in–”

RJ is confused. They are breathing in. Aren’t they? Then they register the sharp, panicked breaths that they’re taking, their side beginning to ache from the strain. Oh. A panic attack. Right.

It feels like their lungs are already full to bursting, but RJ manages to drag in a breath.

“And out…” Arkady demonstrates, and RJ copies her. It’s helping to even their breathing out, but RJ’s muscles still feel like they’re locked in fight-or-flight mode, a non-existent threat pinging at the back of their brain.

“And again,” Arkady instructs, and she starts counting as RJ breathes in, and then out again. Her tone is matter-of-fact, with no attempt to sound soothing or sympathetic, and weirdly, it helps ground RJ. Plus, Arkady seems like she’s done this before. Maybe a few times before.

They gravitate over to the kitchen table, RJ breathing more normally but still keyed-up and tense. Their head is light from sucking in air, and their hands feel strangely tingly. They blink as Arkady pushes a hot mug towards them. At some point, she must have cleaned up the kettle and boiled some water for tea.

“Thanks,” they say, voice hoarse. They realise they should probably give some kind of an explanation about what the hell just happened. “Uh, that was…”

“Do you want me to get Violet?” Arkady asks, over them. RJ blinks.

“No, I- it’s not a medical condition, I swear. I mean, I don’t think it is. I just…” They think back to the glint of light, and then immediately try not to think about it. “I thought I saw something, and I panicked.”

“It was the refrigerator, right?” says Arkady. “Reflecting something.”

RJ looks at them, surprised. “Yeah, I- how did you know?”

Arkady shrugs. “I figured it might be something that reminded you of earlier. And since there’s no purple sand in here…” RJ laughs at that, very weakly. “I didn’t suggest Violet because she’s the ship’s medic,” Arkady goes on. “She knows a lot about this kind of stuff. She could…” Arkady gestures vaguely. “Talk to you about it.”

RJ really doesn’t have much desire to talk about what happened, although they know they probably should. “You seem like you know some stuff,” they point out. Belatedly, they remember the tea, and take a sip.

“Having a guh- uhhh, having a close… that is, knowing someone with anxiety will do that to you.” Arkady coughs as if trying to cover up her almost-slip of the tongue. RJ hides their smirk of amusement behind their mug.

“I don’t have anxiety. I don’t think, anyway,” they say slowly. “I’ve never had problems coping with combat situations before. They ran us through all sorts of simulations in the Academy. I learned to shoot in any conditions, under immense amounts of pressure.”

“Yeah, but how much actual field experience do you have?” Arkady asks sceptically. “Those were just simulations. It’s not the same as… actual war.”

She sips her own tea, a dark look on her face, and RJ is forcibly reminded that Arkady fought in the war – was probably a teenager when she did. There’s an awkward silence as they try to think of something to say. “No,” they say eventually. “I guess I don’t have any… experience with that.”

Arkady straightens up suddenly, squaring her shoulders. RJ remembers her popped stitch and hopes she isn’t putting any additional strain on it. “If this is the part where I’m supposed to delve into my dark past and tell you a story that inspires you, you’re shit outta luck,” she says flatly. “You want touchy-feely, you can go wake up Sana.” RJ laughs for real this time.

“I’m good. I promise,” they say. “Uh, but. Thanks for…” They falter, trying to be sincere but not wanting Arkady to make fun of them. “…Not freaking out,” they finish.

Arkady looks a little taken aback, like she wasn’t expecting to be thanked. “It’s no big deal. Really.”

At the mention of Sana, something occurs to RJ that makes their heart drop to the bottom of their stomach. They don’t want to voice it aloud to Arkady, though. Unfortunately for them, she reads it on their face anyway.

“You've got this scrunched-up look on your face,” she remarks. “Whatever it is that’s suddenly bothering you, spit it out.”

Her tone is impatient, but fortunately RJ has spent enough time with Arkady by now to know that she sounds like that most of the time, so they know not to take it personally. Well, too personally.

RJ worries at their lip, and then bursts out, “Please don’t tell Sana what just happened.”

Arkady’s face does something complicated; she looks halfway between baffled and annoyed. “You think I’m – what – going to rat you out to the Captain?” A slight laugh creeps into her voice.

RJ is too worked up to be reassured, though. “It took so long for her to agree to send me out on a drop-off, and I know that I had a bad reaction just now, but I can guarantee it won’t reoccur and I won't let it affect my performance on-”

“Oh my god,” Arkady interrupts, running a hand over her face. “Kid, listen to me. First of all, never try to keep things from Tripathi. It’s pointless, and she’ll only pry it out of you anyway and then be disappointed that you tried to hide it from her. Save yourself the bother.”

Arkady shakes her head slightly. “Second of all, the Captain isn’t going to bench you because you had a bad reaction to something that reminded you of a combat situation. If she did, I’d never-”

She catches herself, but RJ is able to mentally complete the sentence. I’d never be allowed to go on a drop-off or supply run.

“Look,” Arkady says. “You can’t “guarantee” that something like that isn’t gonna happen to you again, maybe in the middle of a job. When it happens, you deal with it, and you get on with the job. If you can’t do that, then maybe you should stay behind on the ship. But if you can deal with it just like you would anything else unexpected that happens, then I don’t see the problem.”

She gives RJ a flat look, as if daring them to find a hole in her logic. RJ has to admit it makes sense. It’s going to take a lot longer than they realised to shake the mentality that was drilled into them at the Academy, and under the Regime: optimal performance, optimal efficiency. The idea that anything less – any mistake – is unacceptable. That being human is unacceptable.

They realise they haven’t said anything yet. Arkady doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response, and has gone back to drinking her tea. Maybe she can tell that RJ’s taking in what she said, but they still want to give some kind of acknowledgement.

“Yes,” they say, into the silence. Arkady raises an eyebrow at them. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Arkady replies.

“Uh, thank you,” RJ adds, because they feel like they should say it, even though Arkady definitely won’t want them to. They drink some more of their now lukewarm tea.

“Ugh, don’t thank me,” Arkady says, predictably. “And speaking of not telling the Captain things: we’re not telling her that I just gave you a goddamn pep talk.”

RJ smirks. They can’t resist pointing out: “Didn't you just say it was pointless to keep things from the Captain?”

“I did. I also forgot to tell you about the exception to that rule,” says Arkady breezily.

“Which is?” RJ asks, already knowing the answer.

“Me.”

RJ snorts a little. It’s a relief to be back on the familiar ground of trading snark back and forth and not thinking about panic attacks or worrying about what will happen the next time they need to pick up a gun. They wonder if they’d be able to sleep now if they went back to their room. Maybe, after a couple of audiobooks. They’re still only midway through the collection that Park gave them, and Park has been talking about persuading Arkady to connect to the local network on their next stop-off so that he can download even more.

RJ realises that they never got the chance to ask how Arkady came to be awake and making tea in the kitchen so late at night. It’s probable that she’d say it was none of their business – and isn’t, really, except for the fact that they’re crew, and they were on a drop-off together earlier where RJ watched Arkady get shot, more than once, in part because she was trying to draw fire – and attention – away from RJ and Sana.

Arkady’s finished her tea, but she hasn’t made a move to get up and either refill the mug with more water or make her excuses and go back to bed. Instead she’s staring into it, brow furrowed, like she’s thinking about something unsettling. There’s shadows under her eyes.

“Are you-” RJ begins, and then second-guesses themself. Except that now Arkady is blinking at them, confused, which means that RJ needs to come up with something to say instead, damn it. “Uh, I mean. Could you… not sleep?”

Arkady looks momentarily annoyed by the question, and RJ prepares to walk it back, but then her face clears and she just looks tired. “The pain makes it… difficult,” she admits, grudgingly. “And before you say anything about painkillers, the kind that Liu gave me have some weird side-effects if you keep taking them for too long, so I don’t wanna risk it.”

“And she can’t give you something else?” RJ asks, because well, it’s the obvious question.

“We’re running low,” Arkady says, shortly. “Meds have always been the hardest to get our hands on, even when we’re just moving them, never mind for our own usage. There’s even more of a shortage now. Black market prices have gone up – we think the Regime is requisitioning more, either because they’re expecting to need them, or just to keep them out of the hands of ‘insurgents’. And back-alley doctors, abortion clinics and anyone else they’ve decided doesn’t deserve to have them.”

RJ feels the now-familiar wave of anger at being confronted, yet again, with evidence of the Regime’s callousness and pointless cruelty towards the people it’s meant to be protecting. Normally when this happens they keep quiet, uncomfortable with voicing outrage towards something that, until recently, they were completely complicit in. But this time, they can’t keep it from slipping out. “Fuck that.”

Arkady just nods, though RJ thinks there’s something approving in it. “Point being, I’d rather go without for a few hours and be sure that we still have enough in reserve for an actual emergency.”

RJ looks at the spot of blood on Arkady’s side, dried now but still there, and wonders what would class as an ‘actual emergency’ in her book if not this. No doubt if it were Sana who had been hurt (well, hurt worse than she was), Arkady would be making a very different argument. But RJ isn’t Sana, which means there is no way they would get away with pointing that out.

“Are you planning to stay up all night drinking tea in the kitchen?” they ask instead.

Arkady’s mouth lifts a tiny bit at the corner. “I was planning to kill a bit of time doing that, then head down to the engine room and do some stretches. Gentle ones.”

“The… engine room?” RJ is completely nonplussed. They know Arkady and Violet go there fairly often, but they figured it was for a specific reason, not like… recreational engine room time. “Don’t you brew moonshine in there?”

“Not all the time,” Arkady says. “A batch lasts us a while, so we only brew some every few weeks. You want to steer clear of the engine room while that’s going on, but otherwise it’s fume-free, and pretty roomy. Have you even been down there yet?”

RJ has not.

Which is how they somehow find themself in the middle of the engine room with Arkady at something like three in the morning, moving slowly through a series of Tai Chi stretches.

RJ can safely say they never predicted that their night would end up like this. But as they finally fall into bed half an hour later, gradually dozing off with an audiobook playing in the background, they feel pretty okay with how it turned out.

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firefrightfic · 4 years

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Hey if you don't mind I have a life question to ask. So I just started working and it's my first job ever and I can't believe how both physically and mentally draining it is😩 To be honest being in this fandom and consuming it daily either via comics, tumblr, fanart, discord, or ao3 has been how I spent most of my time for years now, as it makes me truly happy, and maybe that's embarrassing. 1/2

I do feel ashamed for it, but reading about two male fictional characters falling in love in 10000 different ways is my biggest source of dopamine in life right now and I can't describe the sort of feelings I get when I read a good fanfic that will make my heart swell. A few thing can measure up, lol. 2/? Which brings me to know, where as a newly employed adult person, after a full day if work I literally have zero time or energy for doing all these wonderful things, and I've barely had time to skim through everything but I crave browsing tumblr and keeping up with new fanart, or reading new fics and comics and all, but I have so little time before I'm dead to the world 😩 3/4 Honestly this feels like a withdrawal,I feel empty and sad as I'm falling behind and I also miss my otp while new fics keep piling up but my time is non the more free. Have you perhaps ever felt like this?How do you balance between work and catching up with the fandom all the time(and managing to write even)? If you have any advice to share or if any of your followers who will see this can confirm ever feeling like this, I'd be glad to know that I'm not as pathetic as I know I am lol.Thanks!4/4

First of all, I want to say you are in no way pathetic, and your love for fandom and your favourite pairings is nothing you should feel ashamed or embarrassed about. What’s important to you is important to you. It’s not like we flip a switch when we grow up and get jobs that causes us to lose interest in fandom and only have interest in ‘responsible adult things’ from thereon out. I say this as a 33 (almost 34) year old person who has been chugging along in fandom spaces since my early teens. There are a lot of folks out there who will try to tell you fandom is a waste of time or childish as you get older, but you should never listen to those people. So long as it continues to give you comfort and joy in your life, embrace it.

Secondly, this ask hit hard in a lot of ways, because lately I feel like I too have been struggling to keep up with things. The past year has been rough for me (for all of us), and as someone who works retail, the last couple months especially have been incredibly busy and exhausting to the point that I also have a massive backlog of fics to read, things to watch, and most distressingly for me, have found it very difficult to sit down and write the way I used to. I don’t think I’ve really written anything of significance since the early part of November, when I was attempting NaNo. Not to complain about that to you or anyone else, just suffice to say I totally know how you feel and have been in the same position many times before.

Part of it may be that you’re still adjusting to working, and eventually you will start getting used to the daily grind and find you have more energy left over at the end of the day. This is not a guarantee, though, especially since I don’t know which field your new job is in. Some positions are more mentally draining, while others take a more physical toll (and some jobs do both). I think, honestly, the hardest part is to recognise that your fandom experience cannot be the same as it once was and while that sucks, it also doesn’t mean it has to end.

My advice moving forward is three-fold. First of all, make the most of your days off. This isn’t always easy, given days off work also tend to come with family responsibilities and chores -- those other pesky real life needs that you can’t accomplish whilst working, but whenever you can, indulge in what you love. Your brain and soul will thank you for it.

Secondly, prioritise. You may not be able to keep up with absolute everything anymore, so think of what matters most to you in your fandom experience. The characters, the pairings, the comics... I’d love to read almost every comic DC puts out for example, but I just don’t have the energy to invest in every single storyline or character journey out there. I also write more than I read fic these days, but that’s me as a fic writer. I only follow a few authors and rarely go actually looking for fics in the tags. Plus, you can also generally keep up with canon news through fandom orientated websites (or if you’re in discord servers, trust friends there to update you on any important developments).

Thirdly, and most importantly, remember fandom isn’t an obligation. Don’t let it start to feel like work as well, or that you’re failing if you can’t keep up with everything you once did. Growing up is hard, as is having to work, but fandom should remain a safe space for you. One that rejuvenates, rather than adds to the exhaustion of the daily grind (and if that ever changes, difficult as it is, it’s okay to let things go).

I hope this helps. And that hopefully soon life eases up for the both of us, as well as anyone else out there that’s struggling right now ♥

#asks #rl woes #also to those waiting on answers on other asks #yeah #this is also why I'm taking some time #I promise I'll get to them eventually though #look after yourselves out there everybody #Anonymous #adulting #fandom

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lavenderek · 4 years

Note

hi, A/3 volunteer back again! i hope i can answer your questions properly, but i’m on mobile so sorry if i get a bit confused. it’s also going to be quite long but i hope you can figure out which questions i’m replying to. let me know if you need any more clarification!

1 - as tag wranglers, we don’t moderate content via deletion, etc - we just move fics into the correct tags, and it’s typically on a fandom basis (for example, i might solely wrangle for something like the supernatural fandom only). i’ve never come across ‘problematic’ tags since most of the time, it’s just sorting tags into like... more general tags? so example - someone tags a fic with ‘kinda fluffy kinda angsty’. we would then kind of make it so that tag redirects to ‘fluff with angst’, even though it still appears as the original tag on the fic. does that make sense? i’m also a little unsure of the other questions you had here - which is totally my fault, i’m in the middle of writing an essay for uni that needs to be in in like... 12 hours and my brain is frazzled - but if you were asking about a situation where if i was concerned that a single user had a collection of fics that were all entirely based upon something illegal and reported their entire account to mods, would it be deleted - i’m not sure. tag wranglers are kind of like low-level moderators, and we’re not what would typically be thought of as moderators since we simply reorganise content versus actually removing it. since the reporting process is typically through the site itself and is handled by an entirely separate team, i cant speak for how they think or what their process is.

2 - it’s up to our judgement as to if we want to report it, but again, the tags we wrangle are VERY general. tags like ‘dead dove don’t eat’ and stuff that are typically full of polarising content arent something i’ve come across, because i think they make up a minority of most fandoms when put against tags like ‘fluff’ and ‘angst’ and even stuff like ‘chocolate’, lmao. i’m not certain what happens when a report is processed and the fic is found to be removable - what i do know though is that with fics that are seen as breaking specific laws (i.e depictions of CSA, slander, etc) mods are often a lot more hard-handed for several reasons (reputation both within the community and in terms of the fact they could very much get in legal trouble). again though, i’m a low-level moderator and don’t see that side of the process. however, if i report something and it’s not taken down, i’m not implicated in any way. it’s been a while since i’ve been on the site and reported anything so i’m not entirely certain if reporting is 100% anonymous or if you have to supply details like email, but i think if you DO supply things, it’s to ensure you aren’t mass-reporting someone (bc i think that counts as targeted harassment). email is also possible to fake, so i think you can make the process anonymous if you want to. as for how often i personally report fic - not often. i’m a CSA victim (which is why this topic is touchy for me tbh), and i don’t like to go through the process because i find it arduous - you have to give an explanation as to why you’re reporting the fic, and i find it triggering at times. i’ve also never been in a position where i have found a fic while actively volunteering that i feel has been necessary to report, so i can’t speak for that either. all of that being said - i’ve heard of and seen on one occasion fics and entire accounts be deleted for harassment/slander - in particular, i’ve heard multiple times that accounts dedicated to purposely like... making fun of? or like technically harassing? kpop boy group members have been taken down because even though their content is ‘technically’ fanfiction, it’s obviously just there to incite hatred against a specific person. so, imo, if mods are quick on taking down accounts obviously run by 14 year olds in fandom drama writing numerous fics where boyband member A calls boyband member B stupid and tells him nobody likes him, i think they’re very likely just as serious about taking down more serious content. that’s just my opinion and my personal experience though, and it’s distinct from my volunteering.

overall, on the whole topic of CSA on the website - it’s really tough even just as a basic content moderator. there’s lots of reasons as to why people post it, and though people are very obviously welcome and encouraged to think critically about everything, it’s a fact that the topic is really really difficult to manoeuvre (culture, who is posting it, when was it posted, why it’s being posted aka vent fics, etc). as i said, i’m a CSA victim myself, so i understand the frustration, but it’s too nuanced and difficult a topic to be able to say ‘ban it all’. however, i do think the site is doing their best to crack down on stuff that is very obviously on there for one specific reason, and i also think generally, they’re changing things so people are able and sometimes encouraged to anonymise themselves by not giving any profile info and to protect themselves by turning off comments completely, etc. i find that you can make it really easy to curate your posting experience so that essentially, you can post but nobody can really interact.

3 - i like tag wrangling! i got into it because i saw a position on the front page of the site and decided to go for it. it wasn’t very taxing to get into and you don’t have to put much work in - a couple of hours a week is enough, and they’re understanding about work/uni/etc. it’s easy to meet other people through volunteering, and they ensure everyone is over 18. i don’t read through fic myself - just through tags, and then i sort them into their proper places. if something is tagged wrong, we don’t get in touch with the author, we just do our best to reorganise the tag so it redirects into the correct place - again, for instance, if someone writes a fantasy AU that they tag with ‘high fantasy prince/princess AU’ and that tag doesn’t exist, we would sort it into the main tag for a royalty AU or something like that. re: monetisation of fics: technically, monetised content is not allowed on A/3 - if someone is advertising their patreon or kofi in their authors notes or profile, you’re supposed to report it just as a general user. i think it’s because it puts the site at risk of being sued or something? but as a low level mod, i don’t HAVE to report these things unless i see them while i’m tag wrangling (aka i see a tag like ‘my patreon is XYZ!!!!! send me money!!!!!!’) and i personally don’t report monetised fics because ... i don’t find it a prominent issue, lmao. people are also learning to avoid it by being like this is my tumblr or this is my twitter, and when you click on their social media they link their patreon or whatever There instead. also, idk who decided the colour scheme! i think it was just like a generally agreed upon thing with the site designers. i also think there’s been convo for a few years about dark modes and stuff on the site, but i’m pretty sure the site has to get a few more things out of the way before they’ll prioritise that (i know they’re trying to work on a better moderating system for things like spam and harassment atm bc the spam filter absolutely sucks dick lol). i’ll totally drop a mention like WOW, wouldnt it be AMAZING if we could have this SPECIFIC COLOUR SCHEME, tho <3

thank you so much for responding!!! this is really cool to know, i've never even seen a post by an a*3 worker before so you're a total unicorn right now

heh uni-corn because you're in uni. sorry i'm tired too

good luck on your paper!

#haters #who is this even #long post

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lailaliquorice · 5 years

Text

throw kindness around like confetti

did I just write over 4k words on periods? yes, yes I did

so this was fun, inspired by this post from @soft-boi-six. periods are hell on earth as I’m sure anyone with a uterus will agree and I love jane being the mother hen/period fairy just as much as I love everyone deciding it’s her turn for a little tlc. never written a 5+1 fic before but I actually quite enjoyed it bc I could get each of the little bits done pretty quickly. tagging @tenpin-boleyn bc it was her suggestion that this should be written that ended in this c:

Living in a house with six women meant that periods were a common thing being dealt with. And as not only the assigned mum friend of the group but also the one who seemed to suffer the least every month, Jane had very willingly taken on the additional position of ‘the period fairy’. She already kept a close eye on her friends to make sure they looked after themselves so it was easy to add another thing to her watch list, and was always on hand with anything they needed when the time came.

Headaches and migraines were something that Catherine dealt with often. It hadn’t been hard to work out that they were linked to her emotions, since anxiety attacks were often plagued by stabbing pains at each temple and stressful days would usually trigger tension headaches that made it near impossible to do anything. But by far the worst were the skull-splitting migraines that accompanied her periods, leaving her bedbound for at least a day each month as the slightest movement was agony.

They always arrived like clockwork around an hour after she woke up on the first day, giving her enough time to get herself prepared and bunk down in her bed before the worst of the pain arrived. Occasionally she had less warning though, and when she was woken up one morning by a pulsating agony on one side of her head she knew it was going to be bad.

For a few minutes she stayed absolutely still and tried to breathe through the pain, terrified that if she sat up it would make everything so much worse. But she knew she had to get up before she could cocoon herself in her duvet for the rest of the day. With immense effort and a lot of stifled groans she forced herself to sit up, pausing for a moment on the edge of her bed to regulate her breathing again before she dared to stand up.

After the necessary bathroom trip she embarked on the mammoth task of getting downstairs, eyes only open a crack to look where she was going as the bright lights of the kitchen assaulted her vision. Every noise felt like thunder as she fumbled around in the medicine cabinet for the painkillers she needed, planning on just grabbing them and a glass of water before getting herself back into bed.

“Catherine?”

She let out a cry of pain as the voice sent agony shooting through her skull, clamping both hands over her ears and hunching forwards.

There was quiet for a moment before a gentle hand touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry love, it’s just me,” Jane whispered, and slowly Catherine was able to drop her hands when the pain subsided a little. “Caught you off guard, has it?”

“Mhm,” Catherine hummed. She couldn’t look at Jane, her chin on her chest as she kept her eyes shut against the pain.

“Here, let me help,” said Jane, nudging Catherine into taking a couple of steps backwards before she took over rummaging through the cupboard. Quickly she found the migraine tablets that Catherine got from the doctor, frowning when she looked inside and saw the box almost empty. “Did you set that reminder on your phone I asked you to last month?” she asked quietly, tutting a little when Catherine shook her head. She’d suggested a tracking app so that Catherine knew when she needed to renew her prescription and take her tablets in advance, aware that Catherine wasn’t always the best at prioritising her own health.

Catherine fidgeted nervously as Jane took her hand and pressed two tablets into her palm, swallowing them with a tiny sip of water. “Sorry,” she murmured.

Jane was surprised to see a tear tracking down her cheek when Catherine tilted her head up. “Oh love, there’s nothing to be sorry for,” she sighed with a smile, rubbing a soothing hand over Catherine’s upper arm. “Let’s get you back into bed, hmm?”

Giving Jane the tiniest nod in agreement, Catherine let Jane take her by the arm and help her slowly up the stairs. As Catherine eased herself back onto her pillow Jane made sure the curtains were fully closed and the light was off, before getting a cool flannel and laying it over her forehead in the hope that it would help with the pain.

“Call me if you need anything, alright?” she whispered as she tucked the duvet over Catherine’s huddled form.

Catherine hummed quietly, and with a quick kiss on her forehead Jane left her to try and get some sleep.

II.

Anne always found it fitting that her cycles were as unpredictable as she was. It did make life more difficult though; she could never predict when she’d be on for a show, and would usually end up calling in sick very last minute when the sudden onset of cramps left her unable to stand let alone dance. Her attempt at using tracking apps resulted in her phone being as confused as she was to when she’d be on next, so she abandoned all hope of getting an advanced warning and just accepted what she got.

Somehow though, Jane had managed to work out her own way of knowing. Anne wasn’t as much of a morning person as she and Aragon were but she was by no means a late sleeper, usually announcing her presence in the kitchen by 9:30 every morning except on her days off. Whenever Anne hadn’t appeared by half an hour later Jane knew she was either ill or on her period, and if she’d been fine the evening before it was fairly safe to assume it was the latter.

When the clock struck 10:15 Jane headed upstairs with a box of supplies she’d managed to pull together, consisting of pads and painkillers as well as a bar of chocolate. Anne was still curled up under her duvet when Jane peered around the door so she just left it on the end of her bed, figuring that Anne would come and find her if she needed anything else when she woke up.

That turned out to be less than a minute later, when Jane’s progress down the stairs was halted by a screech of “HOW DOES SHE KNOW!!”

Jane didn’t try to restrain her laughter as she turned round and headed back up the stairs, opening the door to see a very dishevelled Anne sat looking at her with an exasperated grin. “Seriously, how do you know? Even I never know!” she said, pretend outrage in her voice.

“It’s the mum senses, love,” Jane said with a wink, using Anna’s term for her innate ability to know when one of them was either in pain or doing something idiotic.

Anne groaned dramatically, one hand on her stomach as she stood up a little hunched over. “Honestly you’re probably right. Can I have a hand?”

“Of course.”

Hurrying across the room, Jane put an arm around Anne’s waist and let her sag into her side. She knew Anne didn’t like staying cooped up in her room alone when she wasn’t feeling her best so she didn’t bother suggesting she should stay in bed, instead just helping her downstairs to the kitchen. While Anne was in the bathroom Jane warmed up a hot water bottle for her, giving a sympathetic wince when Anne shuffled back through the kitchen into the living room.

Anne was curled up on a sofa with a blanket when Jane walked into the otherwise empty room, glancing up when she heard the door open and reaching out her arms in a grabbing motion towards her. Jane chuckled as the hot water bottle was snatched out of her hands, though her amusement turned into empathy when Anne pouted up at her as she pressed the hot water bottle against her stomach.

“You poor thing,” Jane said, sitting down beside her. Immediately Anne curled up into Jane’s side and rested her hear on her chest, letting out a quiet sound of contentedness when Jane started to run her fingers through her hair. It wasn’t often that Anne was clingy with her to quite that extent, that was more Kat’s style, but whenever she was unwell she always craved physical contact more than usual.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence, Jane glanced down at her and asked “Would you like me to call in sick for you today?”

“Yeah.”

“Would you like me to stay here with you for a while?”

“…Yeah.”

Jane smiled at Anne’s nervous answer, tightening the arm around her shoulders to hold her close for as long as she needed to.

III.

Anna was very good at just dealing with things. If she was under the weather she’d just dose up on cold medicine and power through, if she was hungover she’d just put her sunglasses on and get on with it, if she was injured she’d ignore it and insist she was fine until Jane managed to restrain her long enough to assess it. That was what she did; get up, get shit done, crash afterwards.

That didn’t mean she didn’t suffer in the process though. And that was especially accurate when it came to her periods, as in her opinion she could only describe them as ‘the back pain from Hell’. What was even worse was that the pain always outlasted her period itself, which as far as she was concerned was just unfair.

When she stood up to get into her costume before a show and felt the first twinge of pain in her lower abdomen she paused in her tracks, groaning quietly as she let her eyes fall shut for a moment. She’d be fine for the show if she took painkillers fast but she already knew the rest of the day and the next few as well would not be enjoyable at all.

“Anna? What’s the matter?”

Anna looked over at Jane’s concerned voice, wondering at first what she was doing in the other dressing room before remembering she was with them today since her mirror lights weren’t working. “My uterus is playing the jaws theme song,” she joked, straightening up and taking her costume off the hanger.

“Oh,” Jane said with a nod, watching Anna for a moment before she asked “What’s the jaws theme song?”

There was a moment’s pause, before Anna, Anne, and Aragon were all howling with laughter. “Sorry babes, oh shit,” Anna choked out between laughs, one hand on her stomach as the pain was aggravated by her laughter. “Someone gimme a hand, we gotta keep showing her these references,” she said, grinning at the very confused Jane.

Anne grabbed her phone from the desk and quickly pulled up a clip from the film to show her, who watched the screen with wide eyes as she tried to take in what she was being shown. “So it’s a warning for something coming,” Jane clarified, looking pleased with herself when everyone else nodded. “Right, ok. What’s coming?”

Anna rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she deadpanned “My period.”

“Oh! Why didn’t you just say! What do you need?” Jane was instantly asking, yanking her bag from under the desk and opening a side pocket to reveal enough tampons to kit out a menstruating army.

“Did you buy a year’s supply or something?” Anna asked jokingly, shaking her head when Jane held out a fistful towards her. “No no, I’m good thanks. Just some painkillers if you’ve got any.”

Sure enough, Jane unzipped another compartment of her bag to pull out an enormous box of double-strength ibuprofen tablets. “Here you go love, and I’m sure we can find you a hot water bottle for when we get home. At least it’s only a one show day today,” she said, smiling sympathetically as she passed Anna a sheet of tablets.

As she’d expected she managed to get through the show without any trouble at all, ignoring the building ache in her back that worsened right before the megasix. The minute they were off stage though she was trudging up the stairs towards the dressing rooms, throwing open her door and crashing heavily into her chair with her head rested on the desk.

A hand on her shoulder alerted her to Jane’s presence behind her. “How are you feeling love?” she asked quietly.

Anna just groaned in response, lacking the motivation or the care to come up with something more coherent.

Jane squeezed her shoulder, tugging her lightly until she sat up to see Jane stood there holding the clothes she’d worn to the theatre. “Come on, just got to get changed then we can go home and put a film on or something.”

Anna smiled faintly. Home and family was a nice prospect.

IV.

It wasn’t uncommon for Kat to end up in Jane’s bed in the middle of the night. Their rooms were next to each other so it wasn’t far for her to go in the darkness, and it meant that Jane was usually woken by her nightmares anyway so Kat didn’t feel quite so bad about bothering her. It wasn’t just nightmares and flashbacks that drove Kat to seek the comfort of her mother figure though, sometimes if she was feeling particularly miserable she would just want someone warm to huddle up against to make her feel better.

Jane was only dozing lightly when the sound of her door shifting over the carpet broke through the sleepy haze in her mind, so she rolled over and put her arm out as the mattress dipped and someone curled into her side. She cracked open an eye to check it really was Kat – occasionally when Anne’s night terrors were bad enough to drive her down the attic stairs she’d end up in Jane’s bed and even Cathy had turned up once – before she murmured “What is it sweetheart?”

Kat just groaned at first, tightening the arm around Jane’s stomach. That was enough to tell Jane that it wasn’t a nightmare that had brought Kat in, since if that had been the case the simple question would have been enough to coax out a tearful explanation. “Don’t like it,” she whimpered, her voice muffled by the material of Jane’s nightdress.

“Please tell me what’s wrong, darling,” Jane pressed softly, a twinge of worry in her chest.

After another few moments of silence, Kat mumbled an almost inaudible “Period.”

Jane nodded in understanding. “You just don’t feel good, do you?” she said as she stroked a hand over Kat’s hair. Her eyes were still closed though she didn’t need to see Kat to sense the discomfort in her tense body.

The pitiful hum of agreement drew a sympathetic noise from Jane, rubbing comforting circles into Kat’s tight shoulders in an attempt to get her to relax a little. “It’s alright love, I’ve got you,” she whispered, smiling a little as some of the tension in Kat’s arms lessened. “Have you taken any painkillers?”

At the tiny shake of Kat’s head, Jane pushed herself into a sitting position while ignoring the unwilling noise from Kat as she was dislodged from around Jane’s waist. “Sorry darling, but you need to take something,” Jane pointed out, chuckling lightly when Kat was still reluctant to let her go. “I promise I’ll be back in a second and we can go to sleep then. Ok?”

“…ok.”

Jane smiled, placing her hand on Kat’s head for a second before she wiggled out of her arms to get out of bed. Her footsteps were quiet as she padded down the stairs in her socked feet, very aware that Anna was probably asleep on the floor below, and thanks to her recent reorganisation of the medicine cabinet it was only a couple of minutes before she found what she needed and was heading back up the stairs with painkillers and a glass of water.

“Here you go love,” she said as she tapped Kat’s shoulder to get her attention, keeping one hand on the glass as Kat took the tablets just in case she dropped it.

As soon as she’d finished the water, Kat murmured “Sleepy time now. You promised.”

Chuckling quietly, Jane agreed “That I did,” as she climbed back into bed and opened her arms for Kat to curl back into her side. “Try and get some rest, hopefully you’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Yeah,” Kat breathed out in quiet agreement, her body much less stuff as she wrapped an arm around Jane's waist and rested her head on her collar.

It was a few minutes of comfortable quiet before the last ounce of tension seeped from Kat’s limbs as she fell asleep. Jane smiled as she let herself relax too, happy to sleep herself now that she knew her baby was safe and looked after in her arms.

Cathy hated being ill. More than the physicality of it she hated not being able to do things, since any day not spent being productive was a day wasted as far as she was concerned. Aragon and Jane had given her many strict talking-to’s about that point of view, telling her sternly that she didn’t need to be creating something every hour or every day, and as much as she tried to take their words in she still hated whenever she was struck down so badly she had to give up on her work and take a day’s rest.

That meant that more often than not she hated the first day of her period. It didn’t happen every time, but when it did she would wake up feeling absolutely fine until she stood up. That was when her stomach would flip and she’d find herself racing to the bathroom as she was seized by nausea.

She didn’t hear the footsteps rushing down the hallway as she coughed into the toilet bowl. She felt the hands pulling her hair back and knew they were Jane’s even though she couldn’t risk looking up at that moment, just focusing on the gentle touch on her shoulder as something to ground her. After what felt like eons of heaving and shaking, Cathy rested her forehead on her arms as she let out a rough sigh.

“Easy love, you’re alright.”

Jane’s voice sounded miles away, but Cathy nodded weakly as she tried to regulate her breathing. She could feel herself shaking like a leaf and hated it. “I’m fine,” she croaked, trying to sit up unassisted but pitching over sideways into Jane’s arms as her strength failed her for a second.

A quiet chuckle above her made her glance up into Jane’s amused yet worried face. “Are you?” she quipped lightly, adjusting her arms so that Cathy was propped up more comfortably. “Is this a stomach bug or is it that time of the month?”

“The latter,” Cathy answered with a slight groan as her stomach rolled again. She glanced at the toilet, her body tensing, but thankfully the feeling passed within a couple of moments and she just flopped back into Jane’s chest.

“Let’s get you back into bed, hmm?” Jane suggested.

Cathy nodded as she let Jane help her to stand, supporting her as she swayed for a moment before finding her feet. After reassuring Jane she would be fine for a moment she shut the door to sort herself in the bathroom, cleaning her teeth too since her mouth felt disgusting, before letting Jane take over again.

“Can I get you anything love?” Jane asked as Cathy sat up in bed and pulled the covers around her lap. “Water, painkillers, some soup or something?”

She was reluctant to try eating anything but knew Jane would pester her about giving her body what it needed until she gave in. “Some water and chicken soup would be nice, thanks,” Cathy said with a smile, then pointed towards her desk as she added “And can you pass me my laptop please?”

Jane frowned, sitting down on the edge of the bed with a hand on Cathy’s knee. “You need to rest, love. The work can wait for another day,” she said gently, giving Cathy a concerned look.

“I know, but I’ve been working on a new project lately that needs researching. I just wanted to make a few notes,” she protested, sighing at Jane’s pointed glance. Backtracking a little, she changed her tone and asked “Alright, what if you keep an eye on me and I promise I stop if I’m tired?”

“I think that’s the best I’m going to get from you,” Jane agreed with a laugh, patting Cathy’s knee as she smiled. “Let me go and get those bits for you then I’ll bring my embroidery in. I’m warning you though, first sign that anything’s wrong and you’re going to bed!”

Cathy laughed tiredly as Jane walked out the door, resting her head against the pillow propped between her and the headboard as she waited for Jane to come back. As much as she hated not being productive, she could admit that it was nice to have someone watching over her every now and then.

( +1 ) VI.

For the most part, Jane was lucky enough to not suffer too badly with her periods. She would joke with the others that it was fate taking it easy on her after the way she’d died, but she was secretly incredibly grateful since any pain in her stomach brought on flashbacks from those terrible last days. It meant that she could be there for her friends too, something that put her maternal tendencies to good use.

But every now and then there was a month where she felt like death all over again.

She could already recognise how unwell she felt by the time she even opened her eyes. Her stomach hurt, she felt lightheaded without even needing to sit up, and she could already feel the uneasiness fluttering in her chest. But she still gritted her teeth and sat up, trudging to the bathroom before making her way downstairs. It was a two show day that day and she’d already overslept, she had to get moving.

“Morning Jane!” yelled Anne as Jane walked into the kitchen, already running round in her usual chaotic manner. “I’m in charge of breakfast! I’ve got eggs and toast and holy crap are you alright?”

Jane stopped and blinked as Anne actually stopped to look at her with her eyebrows halfway to her hairline. “What? Oh I’m fine love, please don’t worry about me.”

Anne glanced over at Cathy as she walked over, both of them wearing unconvinced expressions. “Are you sure? You look a little off-colour,” Cathy said gently.

“Little off-colour my ass,” called Anna bluntly from where she was sat at the kitchen table with Aragon, the three of them all turning to look at her. “Babes, no offence but you look paler than I used to be. Even for you that’s a bit much.”

Jane managed to laugh weakly at that, genuinely appreciative of Anna’s humour. She still wasn’t ready to back down. “Honestly, I promise I’m fine. I’m just… just…”

She didn’t finish her sentence since her body chose that moment to come over all faint, her vision blurring for a second before she jolted back into awareness. Cathy and Anne had reacted quickly enough to grab her arms but there was another body pressed close behind her keeping her upright. “You can tell us what’s wrong,” said Kat’s voice softly in her ear, “let us take care of you for a change.”

Jane nodded then, sighing before she managed to stand alone with the three of them still standing by to catch her again. “Just having a bad period I suppose. Feeling a little lightheaded,” she said, smiling tiredly at her sisters as she looked between them all.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Aragon asked as she and Anna walked over.

Rolling her eyes in the face of Aragon’s knowing look, Jane muttered “You can’t mother me Catherine of Aragon that’s my job.”

“Not today it’s not!” Anne said brightly, before she cleared her throat and clapped her hands. “Right you lot, Operation Mum is a-go! All hands on deck!”

Jane had no idea what Operation Mum was, but she was happy to let herself be walked into the living room by Kat while the others continued to busy around the kitchen. Anna appeared first with some painkillers and a blanket which she draped over Jane and Kat on one of the sofas, followed by Cathy with a bowl of chicken soup and Anne with a hot water bottle. Lastly came Aragon, who had enlisted Anne’s help to carry in six mugs of hot chocolate.

When Anna started flicking through films on the TV, Jane paused after a mouthful of soup to protest “But we’ve all got two shows today!”

“Shh,” Anne insisted, curling up under the blanket on Jane’s other side. “We’ve got time. Now just let yourself be mothered for once in your life.”

When Jane looked down at her snuggled into Jane’s side just as she’d been when it was Anne being taken care of, she couldn’t find it in herself to fight them anymore. After she was finished with her breakfast she hugged the hot water bottle to her stomach as she relaxed between Anne and Kat, glancing over at Cathy and Anna on the other sofa and Aragon in her armchair. Her wonderful little family.

She would always be the mother of the group, and that was just how she liked it. But sometimes she could let her wayward children take care of her when she needed them the most.

#six the musical #six the musical fanfiction #six the musical fanfic #jane seymour #catherine of aragon #anne boleyn #anna of cleves #katherine howard #catherine parr #laila's writing

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panda-noosh · 5 years

Text

Butterfly {The Rockstar Series}{Lance x Reader}

The Rockstar Series: a series of fics documenting rockstar!Voltron falling in love.

Words: 17.5k (oof)

Summary: Relationships never seem to work out for Lance. Maybe he was just destined to be the player.

Genre: angst

Warnings: nothing really

Notes: masterlist - support my writing or ask me about commissions! - aaaaand the rockstar series is over :( i had so much fun writing these characters in this world, and i hope you guys enjoyed reading their little adventures, too. until next time, i suppose :) xx

---

The sound of the door slamming was becoming much too familiar.

Lance didn't even flinch this time. He simply closed his eyes, continuing to lean forward with his head in his hands. The argument he and Allura had just suffered through was replaying in his head, her strained voice, the reason she failed to see – he was a busy man, and she knew that. He had a career to focus on, and yet she insisted on thinking she should come first at all times.

Maybe she should. At this point, Lance was so unsure about his own feelings that he could very well have been wrong. Maybe he was the bad boyfriend. Maybe it was him who needed to put more effort in. Maybe Allura had a point.

Whatever it was, Lance was too tired to focus on it right now. He let the echo of the slamming door ring out for a few more seconds before he stood up, grabbed the notepad of lyrics and threw it at the wall. He wanted to scream, but the others were in bed. He wanted to cry, but he wasn't even sure what he would be crying over, so he bit his lip and clenched his fists and hoped it would have the same effect.

It didn't. That night, Lance crawled into bed – on his own, yet again – and tried his hardest to convince himself that everything was going to be fine. Up until this point, his life had been everything he'd ever wanted it to be. He played venues. He had fans. He was on tour with some of his best friends – he had no reason to be upset.

The routine would continue; Allura would realise she had yelled for nothing, come crawling back to Lance, and the two of them would be fine for another day or two. The next argument – Lance could only hope – would be a little less explosive, something he could handle with a calmer voice.

However, the more Lance thought about it, the more he was beginning to think that perhaps it was no longer his job to handle it. Maybe he should just stop trying.

---

When Lance and Allura first met, it had been an immature case of love at first sight.

Lance will admit to that. He had fallen in love with her looks long before he'd fallen in love with her personality, though he would be a liar to claim her personality hadn't won him over in the end. She could be snarky, a little bossy, a little self-obsessed, but these were all things Lance could deal with, because she loved him and he really, truly believed he loved her, too.

It was just difficult sometimes. Nights when he showed up to bed late, she would yell at him and start crying, asking him why he prioritised everything else over her. Lance would grab her elbows and try to calm her down, tell her on a continuous loop that his workload was just a lot right now, that Allura was always in the back of his mind, that he was sorry, sorry, sorry.

Over and over again, he was sorry.

During their first few meetings, Allura had Hunk's partner on her arm. The two of them were best friends, and seeing Hunk and his partner get on so well – even after all this time – put Lance under a bit of pressure to show off the same amount of affection for his partner. Whilst Hunk and his partner giggled and whispered in the corner, Lance grew increasingly uncomfortable with the way Allura was looking down at her phone, ignoring him completely despite her previous protestations about the fact they didn't get to spend much time together.

And Lance knew it was bad to compare relationships – Allura was trying, but it was getting to the point where Lance didn't even want to try any more. Yes, Hunk and his partner managed to make it work, but that didn't mean Lance had the same skill.

Maybe he was just forever destined to be known as the player of the group.

Maybe he should just learn to embrace that name. It was easier than dragging this out.

“You know, Lancey-boy.”

Lance's head snapped up. He hadn't even realised he'd been holding it in his hands again.

Hunk was stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing a pair of duck pyjamas. On his face was a green face-mask. Under his eyes were dark circles.

“Next time you and Allura start fighting, can you maybe tone it down a little bit? This is the third night in the past week I've been woken up to the sound of Allura stampeding through the fucking hallways.”

Lance squeezed his eyes closed, rubbing his knuckles into them as if he could somehow push the memories away. “Yeah. Sorry, man. I'll – uh – tell her to tone it down.”

Hunk scoffed. “As if she'll listen.” He hopped down off the single step and marched into the kitchen. He tugged open the fridge, examined the contents thoroughly. “What were you two fighting about this time, anyway?”

Lance winced. He hated that term – this time. More than once. A common occurrence. And yes, he knew he and Allura had been fighting a lot, but that didn't mean he liked being reminded of it.

“Uh, just something stupid,” Lance replied.

“The usual?”

Lance raised a brow. Hunk spared him a glance over his shoulder, a Ritz cracker hanging from his mouth – Keith liked his biscuits cold, because he was strange.

“You know what I'm talking about,” Hunk said. When Lance remained silent, he scoffed and clarified. “She doesn't like that you work late, you're too caught up in your music dream to not work late, the two of you clash, yadda yadda yadda. So on, so forth.”

Lance blinked. “That is eerily accurate.”

Hunk shrugged. “I only base my conclusions on what I've heard, and that seems to be the majority of your arguments.”

“Do you think it's bad?”

“Every couple argues.”

“Not as often as us.” Something squeezed in Lance's chest. He wanted to burrow away and hide. “And not about the same thing, over and over. There's nothing I can do about my work schedule. We're busy people, and she knows this.”

Hunk sighed, kicking the fridge closed. With the packet of cold Ritz crackers still in his hand, he leaned against the fridge door, staring at Lance through the creepy eye holes in his face mask. “You could come to a compromise.”

“We've tried. Allura doesn't want compromise. She wants me.”

“Like a girlfriend would,” Hunk said. “She wants to spend time with you. Do you want to spend time with her?”

“Of course I do-”

Hunk narrowed his eyes. “Lance.”

Lance froze.

Voice low, Hunk said, “Do you want to spend time with her?”

And, in that moment, Lance could have honestly punched Hunk square in the face.

The little bastard knew Lance so well. That was the complications that came with being best friends with someone for longer than seven years – Hunk knew Lance like the back of his damn hand, meaning Lance could get away with absolutely nothing, no matter how hard he tried.

Lance pursed his lips and looked down at the table. “Does it make me a bad person?”

“Look, Lance.” Hunk kicked away from the fridge and walked over, placing a heavy hand on Lance's shoulder. “It's normal for feelings to get lost. Allura's a pretty girl, but looks won't entertain you. Looks won't appeal to your personality. You two are just. . . different. You want to rock out and have fun on stage, and she doesn't. Maybe you've just grown out of each other.”

Lance closed his eyes. Grown out of each other.

“So what do I do?”

“You end it.”

Lance's head shot up. Hunk popped another cracker into his mouth, winced and said, “Does Keith really eat these like this?”

“How can you say that to me so casually?” Lance exclaimed, voice shriller than he meant it to be, heart thundering more than it should have been.

Hunk reeled away. “What?”

“You just told me to break up with Allura like it was no big deal!”

Hunk pointed the packet of crackers at Lance. “It's only a big deal if you make it a big deal.”

“Oh my-”

“To be honest with you, Lance-a-million, I never really liked Allura in the first place. She's always had a vendetta against me for that whole mishap with H/P/N – you know, where I thought she liked you instead of me.” He chuckled at the memory. “Yeah, Allura's never gotten over that, even though H/G/N and I have been going out for nearly a year and a half now.”

Lance groaned. “You're too blunt, man.”

“You asked for my advice. I gave it to you.”

“But you could have sugar-coated it for me. I'm sensitive.”

Hunk shrugged, patting Lance's shoulder a final time before he started towards the door. “If you need help with anything, you know where I am.” He glanced back at Lance. “Right behind you, playing the drums on stage. Don't forget our show tomorrow, Lancealot!”

Lance rolled his eyes, trailing his hands through his hair as Hunk disappeared down the hallway. His mind was a boggled mess. He knew he wouldn't be sleeping well tonight, but at least he had tomorrows show to look forward to.

He could lose himself to the crowd then. He could forget his problems – just for a few hours.

----

God. Butterflies were beautiful.

You had countless songs dedicated to their beauty – as weird as that was. You didn't write songs about people you thought attractive, didn't write songs about true love, or struggles in general; you wrote songs about butterflies.

To the untrained eye, you supposed the songs could be interpreted as something completely different. A person in the midst of heartbreak might very well listen to your song and think wow, I relate so much only to find out later on that you'd written the song about the gorgeous pattern of a lycaenidae's wings. You would never tell them they were wrong – you loved discovering different interpretations of your lyrics.

You lay back in the grass. It scratched at your nose. Bees buzzed around you, but they were easy enough to ignore when you left them alone. Your fingers were splayed out on either side of you, your lyric book discarded with the pen clipped in the centre crease; you didn't want to think about work right now. The world was bright, and you didn't want to miss it.

“What are you doing?”

You tilted your head, just slightly, just enough to make out the shape of Mikhail as he waded towards you. He was wearing a big coat, the collar flicked up, a wide-brimmed hat on his head that completed the look of detective you knew he wasn't going for, but had somehow stumbled upon anyway. Tiny blonde hairs pricked him in the eye, but he merely winced instead of brushing them out of the way.

“Gathering inspiration,” was your reply.

Mikhail raised a brow; he did that a lot when he was looking at you, but you'd grown used to it. It no longer made you feel so small. “Right. And you're finding that inspiration by laying in a field? Do you not have hay fever?”

“Only mild.”

Mikhail hummed and lowered himself into the grass beside you. His long legs folded beneath him, he reached forward and started twiddling the grass between his fingers. You closed your eyes, turned your head back to the sun. A spider scattered across your arm. Mikhail swatted it away when it was clear you weren't going to bother.

“I just came to tell you about the show tonight,” he said. “You know the venue you wanted to busk outside today?”

“Yeah.”

“Apparently some band is playing tonight, so you can't. The police will be everywhere.”

You frowned, the only outward sign of your disappointment. “What band is it?”

“Oh, I don't know.” Mikhail sprinkled the grass on your arm. You shuddered, the breeze whisking it away. “They're called Smokey Saturdays, I think. A rock band. All the kids are excited.”

“I'm a kid.”

“You're an adult.”

“I'm a young adult.” You opened your eyes and propped yourself up on your elbow. “Should we go watch them play?”

Mikhail raised a brow again. “Neither of us have the money to buy tickets,” he said. “And I think they're sold out anyway.”

You frowned, flopping back into the grass. “So basically, you've come to inform me that my entire night has been destroyed.”

“Afraid so.” Mikhail laid a gentle hand on your arm. It was meant to be comforting, but his fingers were so cold, and your skin was so warm – you were surprised there wasn't condensation left in his wake when he pulled away. “We'll try again when they've left town. They're probably only gonna play a few shows, and then we get our spot back.”

“But that's a few nights spent doing absolutely nothing. We're gonna be set back, again.”

“These are the hurdles we have to deal with whilst making our way to the top.”

“I don't think there's supposed to be more hurdles than straight road.”

Mikhail sighed. “Just give it some time.”

“How much more time do you think we can give?”

“As long as it takes.” He patted your shoulder. “You just keep lying in the grass writing our songs, and we'll get there.”

You grunted. You didn't like being negative – you had spent such a long time trying to drive Mikhail out of his own negative mindset, but it was difficult to follow your own advice when the world kept throwing curve balls like this one; you were good. You and Mikhail were good, and you'd been told that on so many occasions, it was nearly uncountable. You had fans, a decent Twitter following, plenty of eyes on you when you finally got the chance to play – but none of it was pushing you forward.

It really wasn't like the movies, and this realisation was just putting a damper on your mood.

After Mikhail bid you farewell, claiming his shift at Burger King started in an hours time, you stayed in the grass. You tugged at the green strands and sprinkled them upon your stomach. A bee buzzed by your ear, and you smiled as it sailed past without a care in the world. There were no butterflies around, and part of you thought that might have been a metaphor for how your life was going right now – bees, no butterflies. Ripped strands of grass sprinkled on an old t-shirt. Hands splayed out in grass, roots crawling along your arms, pulling you into the depths of the earth.

You welcomed it with a smile on your face.

With these images in your head, you let out a tiny “Hm,” before rolling over, grabbing your pen and getting to work.

----

The venue was big. Lance liked big venues.

From where he stood backstage, watching Hunk test out the drum kit on stage, he could see his friend was nervous. The thousands of empty seats staring back at him, the seats that would soon be filled with screaming fans – it was daunting for the big fellow, and Lance could see that in the way his brows furrowed, the way his concentration wavered when he tried making sure the drum kit was making the right noise. One of the volunteers had to take the drum sticks out of his hand and test it out himself, as Hunk was lost to his own thoughts.

Keith wandered up beside him. Even without saying a word, without making a noise, Keith Kogane had an energy to him that was hard to ignore. Lance flicked a glance his way, noted the tensing of his friends jaw and smirked.

“Everyone's on edge, eh? Not ready for a big show like this one?”

“Allura wants to talk to you.”

Lance froze. His fingers clenched into his biceps, arms folded over his chest. Suddenly, the sheer size of the venue wasn't enough. His thoughts raced, and when he turned to look at Keith, Keith was staring right back at him with a raised brow.

“What?” Lance snapped.

“You two can't argue two hours before one of the biggest shows of the tour,” Keith replied, forever speaking in monotone. If Keith's voice had a colour, it would be beige. A dull grey. Nothing – just air.

Lance hollowed out his cheeks and waved his friend away, strolling back into the backstage area with his shoulders drawn back in what he hoped was a confident stance; honestly, he felt anything but confident. Since their fight the previous night, Lance hadn't made the effort to go and talk to Allura about the problems their relationship had been facing – he didn't have the brain space to concentrate on such a thing when he was about to perform in front of thousands for the first time.

She wasn't going to be happy.

Lance found her sitting in the backstage lounge. She was chatting with Pidge, a smile on her face. Her hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail. She looked gorgeous, and for a second, Lance could convince himself that he still loved her.

However, as soon as she turned, Pidge let out a grunt and fled the room. Lance and Allura were left entirely on their own, Allura staring up at him, Lance staring at the wall.

He should say something. He knew he should have said something, anything at all, because silence wasn't going to get him anywhere.

Lately, however, words weren't getting him anywhere, either, and maybe that was the first sign of a failed relationship – when silence was becoming a safer option than talking.

Allura coughed. “I didn't think Keith would actually come and get you.”

“Why didn't you come and get me yourself?”

“I didn't think you wanted to see me.”

Lance stayed silent.

Allura looked away, hurt. “I don't want to argue, Lance.”

“Then don't argue.”

“But you're still fucking oblivious.”

Lance closed his eyes – it was happening again. She was losing her patience so quickly, before Lance even had a chance to explain his side of the story. “Allura-”

“You didn't even come to bed last night! Where were you?”

“I slept on the tour bus.”

“Oh, with Keith's partner? Were they better than me? Better company?”

Lance's eyes snapped open. “What are you on about?”

“You seem to be sleeping in that tour bus a lot more often than you sleep with me. Is there something I should know?”

Lance couldn't believe his ears – it was one thing having her yell at him for not coming to bed, a completely different thing to accuse him of sleeping with his best friends partner.

“Allura,” he spat out, flabbergasted. “You can't be serious. K/P/N wasn't even on the bus!”

Allura scoffed, as she always did when she was wrong and she knew it. She folded her arms over her chest and turned away. “I can't believe I'm here. I should have just stayed home.”

Lance was furious. His heart was pounding at a million miles per hour. He wanted to punch something, and this was so unlike him, so far beyond his usual, bubbly personality that it scared him just that little bit. He curled his fingers into his palms, indenting crescents into the skin.

He spoke through gritted teeth. “Yeah, Allura. Maybe you should have stayed home. This tour would be ten times easier if you just fucked off.”

And that was all he could handle. He knew he wouldn't be able to handle her expression. He could tell from the gasp that echoed throughout the room that she was upset, and he didn't want to be here to continue the argument; he'd had enough arguing for a lifetime.

So, with that, he span on his heel and left the room. He had to push past Pidge on his way through the hallway. She called after him, but he ignored her, because the walls were closing in and he really was about to punch something if he didn't get out of this shit hole in the next ten seconds.

He burst out the front doors, gasping as soon as the fresh air hit his lungs. He didn't get very far before he crumpled on the first step, wrapping his arms round his middle, gulping down shaky breaths as he battled with the urge to cry. It sped in his system, showing no mercy, giving him no time to catch his bearings before the tears were rolling down his cheeks, down his nose, sinking into the concrete.

A single butterfly fluttered past. Lance wanted to crush it.

The front steps were such a dangerous place to have a breakdown. He should have gone out the back. He should have done what Keith had done on numerous occasions and just lost himself to the back alleys, made friends with some drug dealers without actually buying any drugs. That seemed like a nice place to settle right now.

But here he was, curled up on some steps in front of the place that was meant to hold the best night of his whole life. The tears rolling down his cheeks should have been tears of absolute joy. The trembling of his hands should have been induced by excitement.

It wasn't. Nothing was turning out right.

It was the sound of a guitar being played that brought Lance back to earth. His band didn't have an acoustic guitar, but he could still appreciate the sound of one when he heard it. Slowly, he looked up, curling his hands against his knees in his attempts to control himself, as if he was somehow only worthy of listening to the soft strum if he was pulled together.

Two people sat on the bottom step; a man, strangely tall with gangly limbs and long blonde hair that blew in his face despite the lack of wind. A wooden guitar was perched on his knee, and he swayed to and fro as he played it.

Beside him – you. Smaller, hidden beneath an oversized jacket. The hood was pulled up, and beneath it, Lance could see the small band of a beanie peaking out. You were gazing lazily at the passing crowd, a leather notebook open on your knees, a pen tapping against your lips. You looked completely dazed, and for a second, Lance wondered if you were on drugs.

But then you glanced over your shoulder, and he realised he'd never seen someone with such a clear expression.

The glance you gave him was one that revealed the fact this wasn't the first time you'd turned to look at him; you probably heard the commotion, him throwing himself through the doors, him collapsing on the tarmac, curling in on himself, quiet sobs racking his body for a reason that was becoming more and more unclear the longer he stayed seated.

He looked back at you now. Surprisingly, you didn't flinch away from his gaze when you noticed he'd caught you – you offered up a smile instead, and your left hand rose in a half-wave that made Lance feel a little better.

He waved back. It wasn't with his usual enthusiasm. He wasn't sure when that would refill, but it would take time.

You leaned towards the blonde man then, whispering something in his ear. Without stopping the drift of his fingers along the neck of his guitar, the man nodded. You stood up, and Lance couldn't stop himself from straightening up when you stumbled up the stairs and sat down beside him.

“Hello.” The first thing you said. So simple, so light-hearted. After the argument with Allura, Lance wasn't sure how he felt about such a simple greeting. With the state his mind was in right now, he half expected you to spit on his shoes in favour of hello.

“Hello,” he replied nonetheless. “Your friend's good at the guitar.”

“Thanks.” The compliment wasn't for you, but the response didn't feel weird; somehow, Lance got the feeling a compliment to the blonde man was a compliment to you, and vice versa. You both had that connection that even strangers on the street were able to see, Lance included.

It was silent for a few seconds after that. Lance spent the time nibbling on his lip, wondering where his natural charisma had faded off to, wondering why he wanted it back, who he wanted to impress.

Then you spoke. “You don't look like you're having a very good time, buddy.”

“Not really, no.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you?”

Lance raised a brow. “Why would you want to help me?”

You shrugged. It was only then did Lance notice you tugging on the grass at the side of you, pulling it from the floor and sprinkling it across your slightly-ripped shoes. “I don't know. I don't like seeing people cry.”

“I wasn't crying.”

You poked his cheek. “You're still crying.”

Lance swatted your hand away, scowling. He didn't bother wiping his tears away. “Alright, so what?”

“Soooo, I want to see if there's anything I can do. I'll get Mikhail to play you a little song if you want.”

“Mikhail?”

“The tall dude. He's Russian.”

“Ah.”

“I can get him to play a song. He won't mind.”

Lance pondered over this for a moment; it would be such a waste of time. He had a show to put on in two hours time, a show in which he was going to be centre stage. There was absolutely no justifiable reason for him to be sat out here listening to a stranger play his acoustic guitar.

But he glanced to the side, just to make sure you were being serious, and he saw you staring at the butterfly that had been making an appearance every now and then. Your eyebrows were knitted together, the evidence of a tiny smile threatening to pull on your face – it looked like you were trying to hide it, lest Lance look over and see you being happy. Apparently it's a crime to smile when the stranger beside you is in tears.

“That's a swallowtail butterfly, I think.”

Lance started, head snapping towards the butterfly you were talking about. “Huh?”

You nodded towards it. “It's a swallowtail, I think. It's quite big, and it's wings are really colourful.” You shook your head, clapping your hands against your knees. “Should I call Mikhail up here, then?”

Lance blinked. You took that as answer enough, standing up and shouting to your friend. He swivelled round, raised his brows at you, and Lance was struck by how handsome this strange man was; a toned face, eyebrows perched on a muscled forehead, bright blue eyes that glistened when he looked at the sun.

“Come play a song, will you?”

Mikhail didn't even hesitate. He stood up, wandered over and sat down. He didn't offer up any pleasantries, didn't introduce himself, didn't wait for an introduction – he just started playing. You sat down next to him, leaning back on your palms, tilting your head to the sky with your eyes closed.

Lance stared. He couldn't help it. The tears that once stained his cheeks had disappeared, and now instead of sadness, it was awe that overtook him.

You started singing.

Lance wasn't even surprised. Your voice just sounded right, like it was meant to be heard over the guitar Mikhail was playing, like the two of you were just made to fit together. His guitar playing and your voice seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Lance didn't feel like you were complete strangers. He didn't even feel like he was with you – he was in a box somewhere, music playing out of some unknown speaker hidden in the ceiling.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his knees.

The lyrics were beautiful. You spoke about life, and beauty, and making decisions that had to be made even though they were difficult, and god it was like you were speaking directly to Lance. It was as if you'd taken his current situation and put it in lyrics, and it made his heart squeeze and his hands tremble all over again, but for reasons so different to the reasons from before.

Slowly, the music and the lyrics faded to a stop. Lance inhaled, scared his breathing would somehow shatter the delicate moment he'd just been cocooned in.

And then Mikhail spoke. His voice was rough. It was exactly as Lance expected it to be. “Happy?”

“Thanks, Mikhail,” you said. You bumped your shoulder against Lance's, forcing him to look up. “Happy?”

He smiled. “Who wrote that song?”

“I did,” you replied. “Only the first draft, though, 'cause Mikhail didn't give me time to finish it before.”

Mikhail scoffed, already standing up and marching back to his spot at the end of the stairs. “Always blaming me.”

“Because it's always you!” you exclaimed, throwing a sunflower at him. There was humour in your voice. Lance had forgotten the last time he held something like that to his tone. It made him sad.

You turned back to him, rolling your eyes with a fond smile on your face. “Well, there you go. I don't know how much that did, but-”

“It was amazing.” The words were jumbled. Lance just needed to say them. “It was . . . . yeah. Amazing. Really, really good.”

Again, it fell silent. It was only brief, and it wasn't awkward – it was just heavy. Filled with thoughts, because Lance had a lot to think about, and you just had an energetic brain.

“Do you make music?” you asked. You had bunched your knees into your chest, resting your chin upon them. In your hand, you continued to fiddle with a blade of grass, one of the few you had yet to release to the wind after ripping them from the soil.

“Yeah,” Lance replied. He couldn't quite understand his relief at the fact you didn't know him. It made your actions seem that little bit more genuine. “I prefer rock, though.”

“Aaaah,” you mused. “So our indie style didn't really get you going, did it?”

“It's not something I listen to.” He glanced over. “But I would definitely listen to you two if you ever came out with something official. Have you got anything out yet?”

You hollowed out your cheeks. “Afraid not. It's a work in progress.”

“Just starting out?”

“Honestly, I feel like we haven't even broken the surface yet.”

Lance could relate. He remembered all them years ago, struggling to convince his small group of friends to help him out, feeding them all the positives that came with being in a band. He remembered late night practices in Pidge's garage, trying to ignore Matt Holt's yelling for them to shut the fuck up before he called the police on his own sister. He remembered sitting up all night, the rest of Smokey Saturdays (and Shiro) sprawled around his room as he idly clicked through the internet, searching helplessly for a record label that would suit their style of music.

But now he was here.

Crying on a step outside one of the biggest venues he'd ever seen.

He closed his eyes and rested his cheek against his knee. “I get that.”

“You do?”

“We did it eventually, don't get me wrong – it just took a long time. And I'm not exactly the most patient person in the world.”

You snickered. “Nah, me either.” A pause. Brief. Heavy. Filled with thoughts. “So you made it eventually. You're doing what you want to do?”

“In most areas of life, yeah.” He turned his head, pressing his other cheek into his knee. Opening his eyes, he saw you staring at him. “I'm a very lucky man.” He paused, frowned. “Hey, I never got your name.”

“Y/N,” you replied, as if your name didn't really matter. “What about you?”

“Lance.” It felt nice introducing himself – he hadn't needed to do it for a while now. Introductions became irrelevant when the whole world knew who you were already.

“Well, Lance,” you said, spreading your fingers against the concrete. “I hope whatever bullshit is bothering you today sorts itself out. You seem like a nice guy.”

“You seem nice, too.”

“Good.” You pushed yourself up from the ground. “That's always the goal. I'll see you around, yeah?”

Lance smiled. “Yeah. You will.”

----

You weren't doing what you were supposed to be doing.

Mikhail was off to work. You'd promised him you would be sat at the kitchen table, waiting patiently for the phone call to come through – but it hadn't come through yet, and you were growing restless.

You hadn't been out busking in ages. Sure, the two of you had sat out on the stairs a few days back, but that wasn't nearly close enough to what you wanted to do; you wanted to sing. You wanted a crowd to form. You wanted to lose yourself in the music, just like you always did when people were there to watch. It was as if you became a different person when there was a crowd.

So, two minutes after the phone call was meant to happen, you found yourself thinking it was no use; there was no point sticking around for something that clearly wasn't going to happen. So, you plucked your phone from the table, threw your hat on and headed out onto the busy streets. People were everywhere. Nature was everywhere. Inspiration was everywhere.

You remembered the man from a few days previous – Lance, his name was. He'd been plaguing your mind for quite a while recently, mainly because he was attractive. You weren't going to sugar coat it, or trick yourself into believing it was anything other than what it was – he was a good looking man. He'd captured your attention with looks first, and personality second.

But your attraction to his personality was definitely there. It was definitely growing, and had been growing from the moment you sat down to talk to him. The way he closed his eyes when you started to sing, the way he'd seemed genuinely interested to hear about the lyrics you wrote – you wondered if he interpreted them differently, or if he thought you were crazy for writing a song about an insect.

Nonetheless, he hadn't been judgemental; merely curious. That was good enough for you.

You waded down the street, smiling at anyone who made eye contact with you. The weather was beautiful. You were heading directly for the stairs – your stairs – and though Mikhail was not there to play the guitar, you would sit down on the steps and write out all the ideas buzzing through your mind until his shift finished. Then, you would pick him up and force him to come with you to start the real fun of the day.

You arrived at the steps in record time. You seated yourself down against the railing, tugged your journal from your pocket and opened it to the first blank page. You spotted a woman pushing a baby stroller and started writing out her thoughts; what could she possibly be thinking, and how could you turn those thoughts into a song? She looked stressed, curly hair glued to her forehead with perspiration. In the stroller, two babies who didn't look too far in age from each other were staring into the tiny circular mirrors hung up on either side of them; one of them reached out and snatched it from the top of their car seat. The woman said “ah, ah, ah!” before wrestling it out of the infants hands.

You scribbled down a few words, and then the world took you away, as it often did when your ideas had been bottled up for a while. You wrote until your hand cramped, and then you looked up and wrote some more. The page was filled, not with coherent lyrics, but tiny little fragments, smashed pieces that could join together to form something promising if you just put your mind to it; but for now, it was fine like this. It was fine not to have a coherent idea just yet – it would form eventually.

You smiled down at your work. Mikhail would be happy. He enjoyed the process of puzzles, piecing together whatever random lines you'd come up with, making them into songs that he could play to, write a melody for, lose himself in.

“Y/N? Back again?”

Your head snapped up. The pen rolled from the centre of the journal and landed on the step beneath you; you didn't reach for it, instead choosing to stare up at Lance with wide eyes.

He grinned down at you. Beside him, a muscled man wearing a yellow hoodie and faded blue jeans was standing with a raised brow, glancing between you and Lance as if he'd never seen Lance interact with another person before.

“Lance.” It was all you could think to say.

He looked good. Stupidly good. The kind of good that really shouldn't have been a thing, considering he wasn't even trying; his outfit consisted of a light blue button up shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of denim jeans, a brown belt slung around his tiny waist. His hair was messy, choppy bangs resting against his forehead. It made you think he'd gotten glammed up the day he first saw you.

He smiled. “Where's Mikhail?”

“He's working.”

“Oh. Shame. The place is a little dull when you can't hear his guitar.” Lance turned then, pointing to his friend. “Y/N, this is Hunk. Hunk, this is Y/N, the singer I was telling you about.”

Hunk's eyes snapped to your own. You nearly shied away from his gaze, though you weren't sure why – you were never a very shy person. In fact, you thrived off of social interaction. However, there was something about the way Hunk was staring at you that made you want to curl up in a ball, or perhaps ask what you'd done wrong.

“Hi,” he said slowly. “I'm Hunk.”

“Yeah, I just told them that,” Lance mumbled, before turning back to you with that excited grin plastered on his face. “What are you doing back here?”

“Work,” you replied, gesturing towards your journal. “You seem to be in better spirits today than you did the last time I spoke to you.”

Lance laughed, an awkward ha ha, yeah, as he rubbed the back of his neck.

However, it was Hunk who offered a genuine explanation. “Allura's out with Pidge right now, so he has the freedom to do what he wants.”

You didn't understand.

Lance whirled around, slapping a hand against Hunk's chest. “Would you-”

“Who's Allura?”

Lance drove his knuckles into his eye, exasperated. “My girlfriend.”

“His enemy that he sometimes sleeps with.”

“Hunk!”

You looked away. Okay. That shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

“Look – uh – that's not important,” Lance continued, trying to shuffle the conversation along. Hunk stood beside him with a smirk on his face, beefy arms folded over his chest. “It was really nice seeing you again, Y/N. Tell Mikhail I said hello, yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“That's all you've got to say?” Hunk suddenly exclaimed. The boom of his voice made your heart jump. Lance, however, simply closed his eyes.

“What are you-”

“You went on for ages the other day about Y/N's voice, and now you're just gonna walk off and leave them here?”

Your eyes widened. Hunk was certainly outspoken, but it sounded planned. It sounded like this was something he didn't usually do; he was just. . . trying to annoy Lance, maybe?

Lance blushed. “I'm sure Y/N has other things they're trying to get done that don't need our input. Right?”

“Uh-”

Hunk scoffed. “Alright, yeah. That's the reason.”

Lance grabbed Hunk's collar then, leaving no room for further argument. You barely had a chance to say anything, not even a goodbye, before Lance was hauling the taller boy away, giving you a quick, half-hearted “See you later!”

You raised your hand in a half-wave, watching them go, wondering why your heart was beating so quick.

----

“You idiot!”

“Ay, ay! Watch the shirt, for crying out-”

Lance shoved Hunk into the backstage lounge and slammed the door. “What the hell did you do that for?”

“Do what for?”

“Don't act stupid – you know full well what I'm on about. You just . . . You just said all that stuff, with me standing right there! You made me look like an idiot!”

Hunk scrambled with his shirt, trying his best to fix it as he replied. “What's the big deal?”

“The big deal is that Y/N probably thinks I'm some kind of creep now. Did you really have to go and tell them that I'd told you about their singing?”

Hunk scoffed. “You did more than just tell us about their singing – you were downright gushing the other day!”

“They didn't need to know that!”

Hunk patted his collar down and fixed Lance with a stare that unsettled him – Lance had seen that stare only a handful of times, because it was very rare Hunk ever needed it. The man was bubbly, kind, wanting the best for everyone at all times – it was rare he ever got this look in his eye.

His voice was low when he said, “Why does it matter so much what Y/N thinks of you?”

Lance opened his mouth to respond before quickly slamming it closed when he realised he didn't really have an answer. Why did it matter so much? He'd met you once, and yes, you had left him in awe, but that wasn't something he could blame his sudden anger on – not without sounding obsessed.

Which he wasn't.

He liked your voice, yes, but it was more than that. There was a feeling mixed in there that shouldn't have been there, because he already had everything he wanted; a career, friends, a girlfriend who he . . . who he loved. He really did. He promised.

But then he met you, and it was a bit weird because he was fairly certain every box in his life had been ticked off. Now, however, he wasn't so sure.

Hunk was smirking when Lance looked back up. With his arms folded over his chest, he seemed to tower over him more than usual; Lance wanted to shy away, but held his ground when he said, “No reason.”

Hunk sighed. “Naive little Lancey-boy.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I think they like you, too, if that helps.” And he said this so off-handedly, turning towards the mini fridge hidden beneath the table. Lance nearly missed it's meaning, because Hunk just said things so casually that it took a minute to process the weight of his words until a moment too late.

However, they processed eventually. “What?”

Hunk kneeled by the fridge, leaning on the door. “Whenever I mentioned Allura? Man, the look on their face – it was the saddest thing I've ever seen.”

“Shut up.”

“Like a kid getting it's favourite toy snatched away.”

“Hunk-”

“Kind of like what you look like when you're having a laugh and Allura walks in the room-”

“Would you stop going after Allura all the time?”

Hunk poked his head over the top of the fridge door. “Only when you admit to yourself that this relationship you're in is toxic as fuck, and making both of you miserable.”

Lance gritted his teeth. Again, that urge to punch something was surging in his bones, and he was fairly certain he was going to snap this time. He didn't want to hold it back. He had a show in seven hours, and he was willing to break his knuckles before then. Maybe that would make him look more rockstar. Maybe it could work in his favour.

However, he stopped himself and instead leaned against the door behind him. Through the oak, he could hear Allura and Pidge laughing about something he didn't care about, something he should care about, because it was his girlfriend and he should care about the things that amused her.

But he just didn't.

He closed his eyes. “You shouldn't be telling me to break up with her. She's your partners best friend.”

“And you're my best friend.” Hunk cracked open a Diet Coke can, took a sip of it and placed it back in the fridge. “I'm not saying any of this to be malicious, Lance-a-botamia. I'm saying this because I care about both of you, and seeing you make each other miserable is making me miserable.” He took a bite of a carrot. “And I don't like being miserable. Not when life is so good right now.”

“So you think I should just end it? Right now. On tour.”

“What better place to do it?”

“You want me dead.”

“I want you happy. As soon as possible, preferably.” Hunk sighed. “Do you think Pidge will let me drink some of her Sprite?”

“Touch my fucking Sprite, and I'll rip your hand off.”

Lance stumbled away from the door just in time for Pidge to push it open in her usual, over dramatic way. Behind her, Allura trailed inside the room, too.

Lance pressed himself against the wall. He and Allura made eye contact. The room went silent, even though Pidge didn't know what was going on, and Hunk was still sipping at a Diet Coke he didn't even want.

Lance forced a wobbled smile on his face and said, “Hey, babe. How was your walk?”

Allura shouldered past him, grabbed her purse from the counter and walked back out again.

Pidge whistled. “Trouble in paradise?”

Lance closed his eyes. “We haven't been in paradise for a long, long time.”

----

This was going to be so easy. It was going to be so, so easy. Lance just needed to do it. He just needed to say it. He needed to bundle up the energy he'd had on stage tonight, lock it up, and release it only when Allura was in front of him.

The crowd had dispersed. The lights were back on. Outside, the sky was black and the stars were bright.

Lance bit his lip, waiting on Allura to appear from the backstage lounge. It didn't take long – it never did. Allura liked kissing Lance after a show. Seeing him on stage always excited her, let her forget about the real problems for a little while. Even though she was mad, her boyfriend was still a rock star – she didn't want to lose that.

Lance was getting pretty tired of only having a happy relationship when it suited her.

She came skipping out of the backstage lounge, ponytail swishing back and forth. She was wearing a pair of shorts, hidden beneath an oversized yellow shirt that was cinched at the waist with a corset belt. She looked utterly stunning.

It wasn't enough.

Lance pushed himself up from the stage just in time to catch her. She dove into his arms, pressing kisses to his cheeks that did not make his heart flutter like they used to. She kicked her legs up, squealed in his ear, and it just annoyed him.

He set her down. She kept her arms on his shoulders.

“You did amazing! That girl threw her damn bra at you, babe! That's another thing to check off the bucket list!”

Lance forced a smile. “Can we talk?”

Allura paused. Even in her excited state, she could tell something was wrong; she was air-headed at times, but not oblivious, not stupid. She'd known Lance long enough to tell when he was being serious.

Slowly, Lance took her hand and guided her through the front doors of the venue. Behind a closed door, Keith played a bit of his bass guitar – that was his way of winding down. Pidge and Hunk's voice came through the same closed door, repeating a mantra of “Rock, Paper, Scissors!”

Lance wanted to be with them. He didn't want to be with Allura.

That really settled things for him.

He led her out into the darkness. The stars cheered him on. The moon might have been disappointed – it wasn't full tonight. In fact, it was barely visible, nothing more than a tiny slice of crescent glistening amongst the blinking stars that dominated its sky tonight.

Lance inhaled. Allura squeezed his hand. He waited for a response, something physical that could convince him this was a bad idea, that could remind him he'd fallen in love with her once and maybe he could do it again.

But nothing happened.

“Baby. You're scaring me.”

Lance glanced at her. He wasn't sure if she could tell in the darkness. “There's nothing to be scared of. Not really.”

“Not really? What's that supposed to mean?”

“I just. . . I don't think either of us can ignore the problem any more, Allura.” There it was. The beginning. He was dropping crumbs, hoping she would understand the big picture without him having to explicitly spell it out for her.

She stared at him. “Problem. What's the problem?”

“We're the problem.”

She spluttered. “Us?”

“We argue non-stop.”

“We're not arguing right now-”

“You're already getting hostile, and I haven't even-”

“No I'm not!” She squeezed his hand. “Lance, this is ridiculous. Tour is making you tired. You're not thinking straight.”

His heart raced into his stomach; she sounded upset. Genuinely upset. The kind of upset that told Lance she was still in love with him, even though he was not in love with her.

“Allura, please,” he mumbled. “I'm not tired. Not of . . . Not of the tour. I'm tired of arguing. I'm tired of not being happy.”

Allura reeled back as if she'd been slapped. Her fingers unwound from Lance's, and she took a step back. “You're not happy?”

Lance rubbed his forehead. He was starting to get a headache. “I'm not.”

“You should have said something. We could have fixed it-”

“We've been trying to fix it, but we always end up right back at square one. You think my life needs to revolve around you-”

Allura gasped. “So you're going to blame me for this?”

Lance groaned. “There you go again, putting words in my mouth, getting angry before you've even heard the full fucking sentence!”

“Don't swear at me, Lance McClain. Don't you dare.” She inhaled shakily. Lance could hear the tears in her voice despite her clenched teeth. “I'm not going to apologise for asking my boyfriend to pay attention to me sometimes. I don't just want the title of girlfriend and that's it – I want you to treat this like a relationship.”

“I do treat this like a relationship!” Lance shot back. “Well, I did. Now I don't see a point to it.”

“What are you saying?”

“There is nothing to save any more, Allura. You're miserable. I'm miserable. Anyone with a working pair of eyes can see it.”

Allura scoffed. “I was never miserable, Lance.”

Lance shrugged. “That doesn't change the fact that I was.”

Allura fell silent, because that was the comment he didn't really mean to say; it had been on his mind, an absolute last resort if things got out of hand, but he didn't think he would have to use it. The words tasted sour, a little harsh, but maybe the truth was just meant to be harsh sometimes. Maybe this was just something he couldn't help.

She sniffled. Lance couldn't see her tears in the darkness, but he heard them. “Okay then. Okay. I – uh – I tried with you, Lance, but clearly my efforts were wasted. Clearly you can't put someone who loves you before your own selfish needs.”

“Selfish needs?”

“You just want fame. You're so focused on getting famous, being at the top all the time, that you forget the people waiting on you at the bottom.”

“That isn't-”

“Well, I'm done. The day you finally crash and burn, don't expect me to be there.” And with those words spoken, she span on her heel and left.

Just like that.

Everything was so backwards.

Lance had been the one to initiate the break up. He'd been the one to lead her out, to have it all planned out in his head – and yet he was the one left standing on his own, unsure of what to do or say. His entire body felt numb, and it was no longer because of the nights chill.

He wrapped his arms around himself, wondering how easy it would be for him to just start running. He had no destination in mind, but he needed to move. He needed to get away. He needed the adrenaline to pump through his body again because he hated feeling dead and he wanted to feel alive again but the show was over, the fans had left, and he was feeling deflated all over again.

This was the life he'd forced himself into. Everything was boring until he got on stage again. He relied on the audience and the fans and the music to get him through the day without bashing his head against the wall, and as soon as it was over, he just. . . . died.

“If it helps.”

His breath got caught in his throat. He did not turn around.

“I don't think you'll crash and burn any time soon.”

He closed his eyes. His head fell forward. His neck strained, and the tears hurt when they slithered down his chin, but he was too far gone by now. His shoulders shook, only stopping when your arms wrapped around his middle and you pressed your face into his back, pulling him into an embrace he didn't realise he needed until now.

“Was that Allura?”

Lance sobbed. It was a response.

You squeezed him tighter. “You're gonna get cold out here, you know. Have you got any friend you could call to take you home?”

“Don't wanna go home,” Lance croaked out. “Don't make me go home.”

You paused, a little uncertain. “Do you want . . . I mean, I have a sofa that you're welcome to use.”

I want to run away. Get away from this place. Sleep.

Lance sniffled, swiping a hand under his nose. “Mikhail won't mind?”

“It doesn't matter.”

Lance turned his head, glancing at you. You were still clinging onto his back, though when you looked up and met his gaze, your eyes widened a little bit and you scrambled back, adorably folding your hands in front of you.

Lance sighed. “If it's not too much trouble...”

“Of course not,” you replied, taking his hand. “A five minute walk, if you don't mind.”

“Lead the way.”

----

When Mikhail walked in, he didn't need to ask.

Lance was curled up on the sofa, head buried beneath the pillows. You'd draped a throw blanket over him, trying to keep him warm, but he still shivered. He still trembled. He still refused to lift his head from the corner of the sofa, and it was the most heartbreaking sight you'd ever been subject to.

Mikhail came and stood beside you. He was so tall, blonde hair pulled into a spiky ponytail. His ice blue eyes stared down at Lance, a hint of sadness evident in his gaze; though he didn't say it, you could tell he enjoyed Lance's company. The compliments Lance had given had stuck with your old friend.

“What happened to him?” Mikhail asked.

“I think he got in a fight with his girlfriend. A pretty big one.”

“And he came back here?”

You sheepishly looked at the floor. “I kind of offered him the space.”

Mikhail's eyes snapped up, burning holes into the side of your face. You refused to look back at him, instead nibbling on your bottom lip with your arms folded over your chest. “Y/N...”

“He said he didn't want to go home.”

“But this is our home-”

“It'll just be tonight. Just until he gets his head on straight. I'm sure one of his friends will be round here soon enough looking for him.”

“And what are we gonna tell them when that happens?”

“That he got his heart broken, and we took care of it.”

Mikhail sighed. “You took care of it.” He shrugged his massive, thick coat off, draping it over the back of the very sofa Lance was sleeping on. “I'm going to bed. Which is something you should think about doing, too.”

You waved a dismissive hand. It was answer enough. With yet another sigh, Mikhail left the living room, left you standing over Lance's sleeping form, a million questions spiralling through your head; you would ask him about them tomorrow, if he was comfortable with such a line of conversation.

You sat down on the other sofa, pulling your knees into your chest. It was with hesitant hands you reached into your bag and pulled your journal out; you'd had plans this evening to write some lyrics under the moonlight, but those plans had been ruined when you stumbled across Lance and the tall, pretty girl he'd been yelling at.

You wrote songs about butterflies. You wrote songs about nature, and grass, and plants, and all the beautiful things in the world.

You looked down at your page and wrote His tanned skin glows.

---

Lance would have gladly spent all day in bed if it hadn't been for the insistent ringing of his mobile phone.

He'd always known his friends would come chasing after him; he had a moment to himself, but it would never last long. That wasn't possible when you were a world famous rock star.

With a groan, he rolled over and swiped his phone from the floor; it hadn't been on charge all night, but when he looked at the screen and saw it was currently 4:00am, that didn't seem like much of an issue. The name glaring back at him was Hunk, but when Lance pressed 'ACCEPT' it was Shiro's voice that rang out.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Well, good morning to you too.”

“Lance, I'm not fucking about.” Lance nearly flinched. It was very rare Shiro cursed. “Where are you? We've been looking for you for hours.”

“You can put your search on hold, then, because I'm fine.”

Shiro grunted. “You're acting so calm about this. Are you drunk? High? Your mother's gonna kill me if she finds out-”

“I'm neither drunk nor high, my good man.” Lance rolled over onto his back and glared up at the ceiling; through the curtains, a tiny sliver of morning sun was beginning to peak through. Lance had a sudden urge to go out and watch the sunrise; maybe it was just because he was in your house, and you gave off the vibes of someone who loved watching the sun. “I'm doing fine.”

“You said that before. It's no more believable now than it was the first time.”

“You're worried about me. That's sweet. I'm flattered.” Lance used his foot to drag the coat off the back of the sofa. It landed on his legs. He wondered why he'd done it. “Did Allura get home okay?”

Shiro went quiet.

Lance sighed. “You can tell me if she's mad, you know. We didn't exactly part on the best of terms.”

“She was packing her things when I went in to ask where you were,” said Shiro. “I think she's gone now.”

“None of you tried to stop her?”

Again, Shiro went quiet.

Lance closed his eyes. No, of course they didn't try stopping her; nobody in the group liked her, and Lance knew that from the moment things started getting serious. The late-night talks with Shiro, once disguised as brotherly love, where Shiro asked if this was really what Lance wanted, if Lance was sure he wanted to spend the rest of his life with this woman. And Lance, naïve as anything, had always said yes, because at the time, Allura's thick locks and her snarky attitude and her sharp tongue was all he thought he needed.

He let his head fall against his shoulder. “I bet she hates me, doesn't she?”

“No one can ever hate you, Lance. You're too good for that.” He paused. “She's just a little angry. Is that you two over then?”

“I suppose so.” It seemed like an unsure answer, not the whole truth. Lance was positive it was over, because he really couldn't see himself going back this time. He couldn't see himself ever loving her again, ever loving anyone again, as he lay across this strangers sofa, glaring up at an unfamiliar ceiling at four in the morning. He didn't want to be put through this ever again.

“Are you coming back soon, Lance?” Shiro asked. His voice was a little quieter now, and Lance had the sudden urge to hug him, as he often did when Shiro got upset. Shiro was an emotional man, but it still seemed wrong for him to be sad.

Lance fiddled with a loose thread on the sofa. “I'm gonna have to, aren't I? We've got a tour to complete.”

“Fuck the tour. If you're not in the right mindset, we can take a break. Go on a bit of a hiatus. We can all have a bit of a holiday. God knows you deserve it; you're the one that's worked the hardest out of all of us.”

Lance scoffed. “Shucks, Shiro. Take a boy to dinner first.”

“I'm serious. If you need a break-”

“I don't need a break. I've had enough breaks to last me an entire life time. Just. . . . Just give me the day, yeah? To get my head back on straight.”

Shiro paused. “Are you coming back, Lance?”

Lance closed his eyes. “I'll be back, Shiro. Don't worry.”

“You'll call me if you need anything, right?”

“Of course. You're my go-to credit card.”

“Ha ha. Don't get yourself into any trouble. I'm not picking you up from the police station.”

“Some friend you are.”

“Goodbye, Lance.”

“See you later, Shiro.”

And then the phone went dead.

Lance dropped his hand to his chest and inhaled deeply. He kept his eyes open, afraid of falling asleep again, wasting the day that was slowly rising behind him. He wanted to get up and get himself back on track; if he let himself fall any deeper into whatever this was, he wasn't sure he would ever be able to pull himself back out of it. That was a risk he certainly wasn't willing to take when he had the whole world watching.

And they were watching, would be watching for the rest of his life. He needed to be prepared for that.

It was on shaky legs that he stood up, bundling the random throw blanket around his shoulders. He crept towards the kitchen, separated from the living room only by the kitchen counter, and went for the fridge. He was still dressed in his day-clothes, his hair still slightly gelled from the show the night before. His voice was still a little croaky, and his ears still rang with the evidence of screaming fans and music blasting through his skull.

He ducked his head down and searched the contents of the fridge for anything he could have for breakfast. There was eggs, some vegetables, a packet of Haribo's that were open, sprawled across the glass shelf. He reached out, plucked a gummy bear from the pile, popped it in his mouth-

“That's not a very good thing to have for breakfast.”

He tilted his head against the door. “Of course you'd be awake at four in the morning.”

You settled on the kitchen floor beside him. Your legs were bare, your pyjama shorts hidden beneath an oversized shirt. Your knee hit against Lance's foot, somehow coaxing him to shift his position so he, too, was sat on the kitchen tiles. He kept his head pressed against the fridge door, trying to hide the blush that rose on his face; you'd been the only other person to see him yesterday. He'd cried in your arms. You'd offered him a place to stay.

Overall, Lance had made himself look like a complete idiot. How was he ever meant to explain this to you?

“I don't sleep very well when it's cold,” you said. “That doesn't explain why you're awake, though.”

“My friend called me. He just wanted to know where I was.”

You paused. “Did you tell him what happened?”

“I think he knows. I think they all kind of know.”

You nodded as if this was explanation enough, even though it wasn't and Lance knew it wasn't – what you had seen yesterday wasn't even the start of it. That was just the tipping point, the product of months upon months of constant arguing and internal battles that had exhausted Lance far beyond anything he'd felt before.

But you didn't push him to answer any more questions. You just sat beside him on the kitchen floor, legs folded, hands messing idly with the edges of the blanket wrapped around Lance's shoulders. He remembered you saying you couldn't sleep well in the cold and wrapped one half of the blanket around you. For a second, you stiffened beneath it's light weight, before Lance felt you slump against him, giving in to the heat.

“You should really go back to bed, though,” said Lance. “You're gonna be tired.”

“I'll be fine. I don't really want to waste the day.” Your eyes lit up then, snapping to his. “We should do something today.”

And the request was so sudden, so innocent, that Lance nearly choked on air just trying to process it; your eyes were wide, smile even wider, but then you saw his shocked expression and your own face started to drop.

Lance hurried to compose himself. “D-do something?”

“Not – like – No. I'm not asking you on a date. I'd give you a bit longer than a day to get over your ex before I made my move.” You laughed awkwardly. Lance couldn't help but grin, amused by the way you dug yourself further and further into this hole. “But we could do something fun. Like – uh – when I'm bored, I go busking. Or I'll go and sit out on the steps and write some lyrics.” You paused. “I go butterfly watching sometimes, too, but that's a bit boring, isn't it?”

Lance shook his head. “I don't think it's boring.”

“Really?”

“We can do whatever you want,” he said, already getting to his feet. “I have the day off, and who better to take me round the sights than someone who butterfly watches?”

Lance offered you a hand. You took it, and he hauled you to your feet. For a moment, you both just stared at each other, and Lance could feel the itching of words in the back of his head, but couldn't quite put his finger on what it was he actually wanted to say.

So, he just shrugged and turned away. “Do you have any spare clothes I could borrow?”

“Oh, so giving you my living room wasn't enough?”

Lance smirked, not turning to look at you. “Well, it is. But you'll have to suffer walking around town all day with a guy who smells like sweat.”

There was a pause. And then, “Okay. The shower's at the end of the hall, last door on your left. I'll sneak in to Mikhail's room and get you something to wear.”

----

Watching the butterflies was usually a very personal thing for you.

You hadn't realised it until now, but having Lance beside you made you feel a little embarrassed. You led him through the field, his fingers threaded through yours so he wouldn't fall flat on his face, and the entire time, you wondered why he'd agreed to this in the first place.

He was just being nice. That was probably it; you'd given him a place to sleep, and now he felt in your debt. You wanted to tell him he didn't have to – he could have gone home this morning if he really wanted to. You wouldn't have minded. You wouldn't have been surprised.

Nonetheless, he was with you, and you were in the field, and there was no point in bringing it up now.

You led him to the middle of the field and sat down. The grass brushed against every bit of exposed skin you were showing off, and you wriggled a little bit before finally finding comfort and flopping down onto your back. Lance stood over you, looking around with his hands dug into his pockets; the white shirt he was wearing was much too big on him, and you'd been forced to pin up the sleeves in any attempt to make him look less like a joke and more like a man borrowing a taller mans attire.

You shielded your eyes from the sun. “Would you prefer to stand?”

His eyes snapped down. “Is the grass not irritating you?”

“No. Well, yeah, but you get used to it.” You patted the ground next to you. “Come on. It's comfy down here – unless you have hay fever.”

Lance scoffed, as if the idea of him having hay fever was a ridiculous one. He shook Mikhail's jacket from his shoulders, laid it out on the grass beside you and followed shortly after; his elbow clipped yours as he shielded his eyes from the blinding sun, the two of you looking around for the butterflies you'd come here to admire.

And Lance was very close to you.

This train of thought was so stupid, and you knew that. You weren't a teenager any more – you couldn't go round thinking every little movement your crush did was somehow in direct link to your feelings; but you couldn't deny the sudden thumping of your heart, the sudden realisation that Lance was so much taller than you, and he smelled like the shampoo Mikhail always used, and he was staring up at the sun right now, waiting for butterflies.

You closed your eyes fully, hands flopping to your chest.

“This is actually really nice,” Lance said.

You hummed.

“Can you tell me what kinds of butterflies come around here?”

You creaked open an eye, turning your head just slightly to get a glimpse of him. He was still staring into the sky, searching for them. He looked to be showing a genuine interest. It warmed your heart more than you cared to admit, both to yourself and anyone else.

“All sorts,” you replied after a moment of silent admiration. “There's brimstone butterflies – they're the most common ones.”

“Which ones are they?”

“They blend in with the leaves. You won't see them unless you're really looking, but they're there, and there's a lot of them.”

Lance hummed. “Any others?”

You shifted, pushing a strand of grass away from your ankle. “There's the small tortoiseshell butterflies.”

Lance snickered. “Really? That's what they're called?”

“They're the orange ones. The orange and black ones, you know?”

“Oh! I see those everywhere!”

“Yeah! They're pretty. I like writing about them.”

Lance paused. It took you a moment to realise exactly what you'd said – was it a confession? At this point, you weren't even sure. You sang about butterflies, their beauty, but you'd never told anyone that was what you wrote about. It felt like ripping a bandage away after so long of covering a wound.

Slowly, Lance turned to face you. You continued staring at the sky. “You're writing about butterflies?”

“Most of the time.” You remembered the previous night, writing things that weren't about butterflies, that could not be traced back to butterflies, that could only ever be traced back to one person.

You swallowed thickly. As if the heavens could somehow sense your sudden desperation for a conversation change, a butterfly fluttered overhead. You gasped, slapping Lance's arm, using your free hand to point at the pretty specimen.

“What? What is it?”

“It's a peacock butterfly!” you exclaimed.

“A who?”

“A peacock butterfly.”

“That means nothing to me.”

Your hand dropped back to the grass. “It's pretty. You're missing out.”

“You're meant to explain this stuff to me. Where did it go?”

You shook your head, grinning. “It's gone now. You probably scared it off.”

Lance's head snapped round. “Me? I wasn't the one yelling my head off!”

“I got excited!”

“Yeah, well, you shouldn't blame me for your precious little peacock butterfly flying away when you raise your damn voice.”

“You're yelling right now.”

“I'm not yelling. I'm scolding. There's a difference.”

It fell silent. It lasted only a second, the only sound being the swish swish swish of the grass as the breeze combed it's invisible fingers through the blades.

And then Lance started laughing.

It started out as a quiet, sudden pfffft sound, before he was rolling onto his side and laughing full force into the grass. You stared at him for a second, before your own laughter erupted and you were doing the exact same thing, curling an arm round your middle. The butterflies flew away, startled at the sudden noise, but you didn't care. Not right now. Not whenever Lance gripped your arm to steady himself before he face-planted the dirt.

“Okay, sorry, sorry,” he gasped, flopping onto his back again, catching his breath with a fist curled into his stomach. “That was so fucking stupid.”

You continued to giggle, swiping a hand beneath your eye. You didn't even have anything to say – not really. The moment was perfect on it's own, and you didn't want to risk ruining it by replying.

Looking up, you could tell Lance was staring at you. His eyes burned holes in the side of your face as you bundled your hands in the grass and continued to giggle, until your stomach hurt and you had to roll on your back again just to catch your breath. On his face, a glimmer of a smile was present – not too obvious, not too big, but enough that you had to look away to hide your own embarrassment.

Lance had the kind of gaze that made someone think they were the only person in the whole world. He had the kind of gaze that rock stars had, eyes meeting, stage to crowd and back again.

You bit your lip and shook your head, staring back up at the sun. “We should sing something.”

He didn't question it, simply nodded, placing one arm behind his head. “What have you got in mind?”

“I'll sing anything.”

Lance pondered, until finally he started singing, all on his own, with no explanation to the song he was singing; it was one you had heard only vaguely on the radio, when you and Mikhail would be driving between different places. It would come on, and you remembered enjoying it, but never stopping to listen to the words.

So you just listened to Lance. You closed your eyes, the lyrics sinking into your brain for the first time. His voice was beautiful – so, so beautiful. He called himself a rock fan, but the voice that carried these words was not the voice of a rock star. It was something else. Soft spoken, a lullaby, some words dipping into a mumble before he raised his voice a little higher to be heard over the breeze, over your thundering heartbeat.

When the song was finished, he inhaled. You cast him a glance, biting your lower lip. He had his eyes closed, one hand curled in his brown hair. His chest rose and fell, and you wondered how many times he'd sung that song in front of someone.

“Beautiful,” you whispered. “Absolutely beautiful.”

He looked at you. His eyes were backlit by the sun, making the blue so much more obvious and clear. It was like staring into an ocean; so blue, so much undiscovered. He was a mystery and a force all at once, and you were suddenly overcome with the need to just lean over and press your lips to his, to swallow the words he'd just serenaded you with.

You looked away, reminding yourself sternly that he'd just broken up with his girlfriend. You needed to be there for him as a friend. You needed to stop letting your selfish thoughts get in the way.

“That's called Welcome to Hell,” he explained suddenly. “My friend Shiro wrote the lyrics. I just sing it.”

“You sing it beautifully.”

“It's usually a bit more upbeat than that. Pretty sure Pidge screams in the chorus, but I thought I'd sing the downplayed version since we don't have the band here.”

You grinned. “I like the downplayed version. I'm more a fan of the soft music.”

“Well then I guess I'll have to play some more soft music.”

“I guess so.”

----

Lance didn't really want to go home.

Home. He didn't even know what counted as his home any more, considering he was never in a single place long enough to figure it out. Hotel rooms. The tour bus. An old inn he'd crashed in once because he'd been too drunk to make his way to the hotel; could he count those places as home?

However, he had to get back to his band mates. He said a halting, slightly emotional goodbye to you and wandered off. He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the way he did, why his throat was constricting, why his stomach clenched with every step he took away from you; maybe it was because he could imagine you going back to square one, sitting on the steps with Mikhail playing the guitar and your voice ringing through the square in front of the venue. You deserved so much more than that. You wanted more than that, and it killed Lance to know he could do nothing to help you along the way.

He arrived home. Allura's stuff had been moved out of the tour bus. Keith's partner awkwardly explained the situation, and then nobody asked any questions; nobody really needed to. They'd all seen this coming. They all knew Lance and Allura would not last, and it didn't embarrass Lance as much as he thought it would; he was doused in relief more than anything else. Relief at the fact he was finally free. Relief at the fact both he and Allura could move on with their lives in peace, figuring it out from this point onward.

Lance spent the first few days back writing lyrics.

The shows had been put on hold at Shiro's request. They were given a two week break, a break Lance didn't know he needed until it was upon him. He could have slept the entire fourteen days away, but he forced himself into a stable sleeping pattern because you liked to call him at nine am every morning, asking him if he was on his way to the venue, and he always was, because the thought of seeing you excited him more than anything else.

Lance was happy he'd managed to stay in touch with you. Every morning, he'd brew up his coffee and put it in his thermal, and then he'd walk to the steps he'd grown so fond of. Sometimes Mikhail would be there, and he and Lance would laugh over some absurd inside joke that they'd developed surprisingly quick. Sometimes it would just be you, scribbling lyrics in your notebook. Lance would sit beside you, lean his head back against the steps, trying to memorise the names of the butterflies you so excitedly pointed out when you thought he wasn't paying attention.

“That's not even a butterfly; that's a moth.”

“It's still pretty!”

Lance would roll his eyes and you'd grin and then you would sit and talk for hours. Sometimes Lance would sing for you. Sometimes you'd sing for him. Sometimes you would just sit in silence and that on it's own was perfectly fine.

Lance was spiralling. He could feel it, the shift from heartbroken to being stitched whole again. It was strange, scary. He didn't want to risk it just yet. He didn't want to get his hopes up.

He walked back to the tour bus on the twelfth day of their break, empty thermal in hand, a coat pulled tight round his body. The collar was up, shielding his ears from the blaring wind that suddenly decided to hit the area. He jogged onto the bus with a hearty brrrr to really exaggerate just how cold it was.

Hunk sat by the window. No one else was in sight.

“Where has everyone else gone?”

Hunk didn't look up from his phone. “They went to dinner.”

Lance raised a brow, pausing in the action of stripping his coat off. “Why didn't you go with them?”

“I wanted to wait for you.”

“Right. . . Why?”

Hunk looked up. There was a glint in his eye, part mischief and part all-knowing; it made Lance want to run right back to the stairs, just to get out of his way.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You're a creepy bastard-”

“Come sit down, Lancey-pants. We need to have our Big Boy chat.”

Lance nearly gagged. “Please never say that again.”

“Come sit down.”

Lance rolled his eyes, tossing the coat on the back of the chair before he flopped down on the sofa beside Hunk. The bigger man made room, even though there was plenty, and Lance reached into the packet of chocolate digestives, taking a bite out of one as he waited for Hunk to start talking.

He didn't push the conversation. He wasn't sure if he wanted it to start or not.

“Wanna explain to me where you were?”

“I was out with Y/N.” It was the simple answer. The truth.

Hunk nodded, smirking around a biscuit, like he knew something Lance didn't.

Lance leaned forward, trying to meet Hunk's eyes. “What are you smiling at?”

“Nothing. I'm not smiling. I've never smiled a day in my life-”

“You're getting flustered.”

“Why are you so observant-”

Lance slapped the biscuit out of Hunk's hand. “What have you done?”

Hunk's eyes lit up. An amused grin spread across his face, a sharp laugh escaping his throat. “I haven't done anything!”

Lance frowned. “Then why are you smiling?”

“I'm just happy for you, bro!” Hunk shook his head, grabbing another biscuit and dipping it into his tea. “Honestly. How long were you out in that cold weather for?”

Lance slowly leaned back, refusing to take his eyes off Hunk's face. “Why are you happy for me?”

This caught Hunk's attention. His ears twitched. His smile wavered a little bit, like it wanted to get bigger but Hunk wasn't letting it.

“I just. . . You and Y/N. I haven't seen you that happy in a long time.”

Lance's stomach curled. “Hunk...”

“I'm not suggesting anything,” Hunk hastened to add. “Although, if there was something going on, I don't think anyone would really mind. Not like we did with Allura.”

By now, the blush had long since crawled up Lance's throat, attacking his cheeks in a way he could not hide. He looked to the left, fighting off the slow panic rising in his throat – why was he even panicking? It wasn't like he'd made any attempt to hide his friendship with you. He went out with you almost everyday, and nobody had an issue with it.

But Hunk was looking at things from a completely different angle, and he was pulling Lance on it. Lance didn't really have a response, though, because his brain was short circuiting and he was fairly certain he was going to explode into giddy giggles at any given moment.

“You like them, don't you?”

Hunk's voice startled him. Lance's head snapped round. He opened his mouth to say something, anything to dispel this crazy idea, but he found words failing him. His mouth slowly closed, and Hunk's eyes widened just a fraction.

“Wait-”

“Don't say it.”

Hunk leaped up, pulling his feet beneath him on the sofa. He whirled on Lance, grabbing his shoulder. The chocolate digestive he'd previously held fell from his grip, landing behind the sofa cushion, but Hunk didn't seem to care. His eyes were alight, fireworks burning into Lance's skull.

“Oh my god, really? I knew it! I fucking knew it! Shiro owes me a tenner!”

Lance swatted Hunk's hands away. “Would you shut up? It's not like they like me back, and honestly, getting into another relationship right now just sounds scary.”

This was the moment Hunk frowned.

His hands slid off Lance's shoulders, landing in his lap. His eyes had gone dull, his mouth pulled into a frown that contained more disappointment than sadness. “You're kidding.”

“I'm not. That break up with Allura-”

“Was meant to happen!” Hunk exclaimed. “It was meant to happen so you could find Y/N!”

Lance's eyes widened. “You're not really that cringe, are you?”

“I'm being honest.” Hunk flopped back, folding his arms over his chest. “I can't believe you're doing what Keith did. That whole I want to stay single thing. If you've found someone who makes you happy, why would you waste time?”

“I'm not wasting time-”

“You and Y/N hang out every day. You come home looking like a giddy school kid. You wrote a fucking song about them, for crying out loud – did you ever write a song for Allura?”

Lance paused. “That's not the point. The two aren't comparable.”

“My point exactly; you like Y/N. I think you might even love them-”

“Hunk, don't start with that.”

Hunk shrugged. “I just think you're being stupid holding off your own happiness.”

Lance looked away. Whenever Hunk got like this, he was never sure how to reply – he had his reasons, and he didn't need to list them to anyone, but Hunk also had a point. Why was he holding off so much? His entire life motto up until this point consisted of doing what makes you happy, fuck what other people think, and yet here he was, overthinking everything because his brain had been a jumbled mess for days now.

He pulled his knees to his chest, resting his chin on top of them. “Y/N's different, man.”

Hunk tensed.

Lance continued. “You know they write about butterflies? Not men, not women, not. . . attractive people. They write about butterflies, but you'd never be able to tell. And then they sing, and it's like. . . . I mean, it's so different to what I enjoy, but I enjoy it anyway, you know? They have that kind of voice, that level of skill. I don't know. . . I don't know how they do it.”

Lance turned his head, closing his eyes. “And the laughs we have together – I honestly couldn't even tell you what half of the jokes mean, but we just find them so damn funny. They get teary-eyed when they laugh too much, and they snorted once, and it was the funniest thing I've ever heard, so we just laughed some more. An old man even came up and asked us what was so funny.”

“He probably thought you were a couple. It sounds very couple-y.”

“It kind of was.” Lance pursed his lips. “Except we're not a couple.”

“No.” Hunk's voice was sombre. “And whose fault is that?”

---

The crowd was screaming.

Lance could hear his name jumping around. Nothing major. The crowd wasn't just here for him, and he wouldn't have it any other way; mixed in with the sounds of his own name came Keith's, Hunk's, Pidge's, a few Shiro's being tossed back and forth.

Lance closed his eyes, leaning his head against the wall. The pre-show nerves were beginning to settle. He needed a moment to catch his bearings, to focus his brain on the task at hand before he jumped out on stage and put on the best performance he could.

It was the last show in this town, and Lance was ready for it. His nerves ate away at him, but his hands twitched, his fingers curling round the microphone, his ears ringing with the cheers that were already so loud, so enthusiastic, even though they stared at nothing more than an empty stage at the moment.

The count down began. Hunk, Pidge and Keith emerged from backstage, fastening ear pieces into their ears, straightening their hair and their clothes. Hunk clapped his drum sticks together and gave Lance a smile that should have made Lance suspicious, but he was so deep in his own head at the minute that he barely gave it a second glance.

The manager hit “1” and then the opening music started blasting and Lance was jumping out on stage, yelling into his microphone, asking the crowd if they were ready, if they were sure they were ready, telling them this was going to be the best night of their damn lives, and it would be because Lance was back in the game, and he refused to leave here without making every single face in that crowd light up with an emotion none of them had ever felt before.

They screamed right back at him. In this room, they were equals. Yes, Smokey Saturdays were the performers. Yes, they were here to entertain these wonderful, enthusiastic people, but Lance had never felt so close to anyone than he did now, jumping around, singing the lyrics he'd grown to love as the crowd sang them back, all of them with different interpretations of the same song.

Sweat dripped down his neck. The next song came on. The crowd jumped, and Pidge screamed into her microphone, and Keith leaped off his dais and ran along the edge of the crowd whilst still managing to hit every single note on his bass. Lance span on his heel, pointed at Hunk, and Hunk pointed right back-

But not at Lance. Hunk pointed to a spot just over Lance's shoulder.

With a grin, Lance span on his heel and followed the direction Hunk was gesturing to. His eyes racked the crowd; he made eye contact with a few people, all of whom screamed and lost their minds.

Lance, however, could focus on nothing more than you standing in the front row, hands curled around the security barriers, eyes pouring into his own.

He nearly doubled over, nearly missed his cue to keep singing. He tripped over his feet, caught himself and continued, but his eyes never left your own. You were dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. You were barely moving. Only your lips were making any effort, mumbling the words to Welcome to Hell, and for a second, it was as if you were singing along. It was as if you and Lance were in a duet.

Lance turned, microphone still pressed to his lips. Hunk was smiling wider now, slamming his drum sticks into his drum kit, singing along even though he had no microphone and no one could hear him. Lance's heart thrummed with something he couldn't explain, a happiness that was too heavy to be called happiness and still have it's full meaning.

That was the best show Lance had ever put on.

He felt it in his bones as he jogged off stage that night, sweat dripping, soaking his shirt. He flopped against the wall, patting Keith's back when he ran past, giving Pidge a hug when she did the same thing. He got ready to throw himself at Hunk, demand answers, but the man never appeared. With a frown, Lance popped his head round the curtain; standing by the edge of the stage, Hunk leaned over the security railing, his hand outstretched to one lucky fan-

Lance's eyes widened. He had only seconds before Hunk managed to help you on stage, only seconds to dart towards the backstage area, only seconds to comb his hands through his hair before you laid eyes on him, because he really wasn't ready for this, and he never looked worse than when he'd just bounded off stage-

“Ooooh, Lancey-kins!”

Lance span around. Keith and Pidge paused by the buffet table, looking round with mouths full and eyes curious; Lance's heart was beating a million miles per hour, and the rhythm only got worse when he turned to see you awkwardly standing in the doorway. Hunk had an arm slung over your shoulders. He was grinning from ear to ear, because he knew exactly what he'd done.

Lance swallowed thickly. He was so tired. His muscles were drained, and his throat was raw, and his ears were ringing, but seeing you in front of him. . . He couldn't go to sleep. Not without talking to you first.

And maybe he should have been mad at Hunk. The drummer had gone against his wishes, had dismissed everything Lance said to him back on the tour bus, but he couldn't bring himself to feel anything close to anger. Not when you were looking around the backstage area with eyes so wide and curious, mouth slightly open before your eyes landed on Lance and you grinned, wide and kind.

Pidge swallowed loudly, a cartoonish gulp that brought all attention to her. “Who's this?”

“This-” Hunk shoved you forward. Lance grabbed your elbow before you could fall. “-is Y/N L/N, Lance's friend.”

The pair of bassist's eyes widened. “This is Y/N?”

You laughed awkwardly. “Hi.”

“Hello,” said Keith, surprising Lance with his sudden social tone. “It's – uh – nice to have proof you're real.”

“Don't embarrass the lad,” Hunk hissed, shoving Keith back. “Let's give them a minute to talk.”

And then his band were shuffling out of the room, closing the door behind them.

If there was ever a time in which Lance debated starting a solo career, it was now.

He still had his hand on your elbow. He flinched away like the fabric of your shirt had burned him, hastily shoving his hand into his pockets. You bit your lip, looking round the room, possibly searching for something to say, and it was so confusing because neither of you had ever struggled with words before, but there was something different about the atmosphere in this room, at this particular moment, that left barely any room for casual talking.

Lance could tell something had changed. Something was about to change.

Lance wanted something to change.

He swallowed, turned to you and said, “Did you enjoy the show?”

Your eyes met his. He had to hold his breath to stop it from escaping his system in one, obvious whoosh. “You're very good. Made for the stage, I think the term is.”

“I've been doing it for a while.”

“I can tell. The way you interacted with the crowd. . . That was amazing. It was one of the best concerts I've ever been to.”

Lance bit his lip. “You mean that?”

“I think everyone on the internet means that.”

Lance chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from his eyes, breathing a little deeper. “Yeah, well. I messed up in the middle of it-”

“You did?”

“I wasn't expecting to see you standing there. It shocked me a little bit.”

You paused. Lance didn't look down at you, but he could feel your own eyes resting on him, waiting for him to elaborate. The words were there, perched on the tip of his tongue – he could so easily explain his feelings right now, but it was complicated and he was tired and his brain really wasn't working at full capacity. If Hunk thought tonight was the ideal night to get Lance to make a move, he was very much mistaken.

“Was it . . . Was it a good shock?” Your voice was timid. Lance's eyes snapped down just in time to see you wince at your own words. “God, was that too flirty? I bet that sounded too flirty. I didn't mean – like – I don't usually come on so strong, but you were really good today and I just – you know – wanted you to know that I really enjoyed myself-”

“It was a good shock.”

You froze. Slowly, Lance brushed his fingertips against your arm, a silent question, a silent invitation.

“Oh,” you whispered, voice cracking. “That's good. I'd hate to be a – a hindrance.”

Lance took a step closer. “You'd never be a hindrance.”

“No? That's good.” You rubbed the back of your neck. Lance's fingers lingered, but upon seeing your suddenly flustered state, he made to pull away.

Your hand snapped out, grabbing his wrist and tugging his own hand into your chest. Lance stumbled forward, forced to place his hand against the door behind your head to stop himself falling into you completely.

Your breath was ragged, a whisper against Lance's skin that was driving him crazy.

“This is so insane,” you mumbled. “So, so insane. I'm not good at this. I feel like I need to be good at this-”

Lance shook his head, dazed. “You're doing great.”

“I am?”

“What is it you want to do, exactly?”

Your eyes flicked to his lips. Lance lost his mind.

“Y/N,” he mumbled, growled, demanded.

“I want to,” you whispered. “But you might not be in the right head space yet. You might be . . . You might still be thinking of your ex, and I don't want to be trailed along-”

“I haven't thought about her for two weeks.” Lance placed his hand on your hip. He wasn't sure why – it just felt right, and he needed to feel your flesh beneath his fingers.

Your eyes fluttered closed. “No?”

“I promise. You're the only person who's been on my mind since I met you.” He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against your own. “And I don't know how you managed it. I really don't know. But I'm so. . . Y/N, I've never been so happy.”

You looked at him. “Why?”

“Because of you. All because of you.”

“Then why are we waiting?”

Lance closed his eyes and kissed you.

He didn't care. He couldn't care. His mind was a jumbled mess and had been from the moment he laid eyes on you, but he was beginning to realise it might not be such a bad thing.

Your lips moulded perfectly against his own. Your fingertips hovered over his hip bones, and it was only when Lance reached down and guided your arms around his middle did you finally take a handful of his shirt, an uncertain grip that had him grinning against your lips; you were so fragile, barely making a move, but it was perfect nonetheless, because you were here, here, here.

With Allura, he'd never felt this way. Even their first kiss didn't have the fireworks and the understanding and the need, because their first kiss had been done purely because they felt like they had to. Allura was a pretty girl and Lance was a rock star, and how could the two possibly exist in the same universe without making out every two seconds? With Allura, kisses just felt like a necessity, a greeting they had to shove out of the way before continuing with business as normal.

But this – Lance was lost. He couldn't describe it. His fingers trailed your jaw and your hips and your stomach, and the noises you made against his mouth were heavenly, and he suddenly couldn't imagine kissing anyone else. Suddenly, this was it.

He pulled away first, his lips ever-so-slowly detaching from your own. You kept your eyes closed for a moment after your mouth was your own again, and Lance chuckled, running a single finger along your eyelids before you opened them and stared at him.

He tilted his head, grinning from ear to ear. “Good?”

He saw you swallow. “Good. I hope to – uh – do it again sometime.”

Lance plunked his forehead against your own. “You're such an idiot.”

---

“Shiro, keep your hands off of Y/N, or so help me god I will implode.”

“He's serious,” Mikhail commented, lounging across the sofa with his guitar in hand, as he often was. He wasn't comfortable just sitting on a chair, or even sitting normally – Lance blamed it on his longer-than-average limbs.

Shiro continued leaning over your shoulder, reading your scribbled words. Lance watched from the sofa, a smile on his face because he could always be found smiling when he was watching you work; your expression of concentration was so amusing, and so adorable, and Lance suddenly wanted both Mikhail and Shiro out of his hotel room so he could have you all to himself.

“I just don't think this line is right for the bridge,” you explained, tapping the page. “Like, yes, it's different, but it doesn't really suit the vibe of the rest of the song, does it?”

“I think it works great. It flows well,” said Shiro.

Lance whooped, throwing his arms in the air. “Yes! That's my baby! You got the stamp of approval from the Big Boss, just like I said you would.”

You turned and threw your pen at him.

Lance caught it, blew you a kiss. “I fucking love you.”

Shiro chuckled, glancing at Lance over his shoulder with that fond fatherly smile on his face. “You getting restless over there, buddy?”

Mikhail snickered. “Buddy.”

Shiro stood up straight, grabbing Mikhail by the collar of his oversized coat. “I think it's time for me and you to leave. Let's go get dinner.”

“Are you paying?” Mikhail asked, stumbling after the older man.

The door closed behind them.

Lance jumped up and plonked himself down on your lap.

You yelped, already trying to push him off. It had only been two seconds. Lance wasn't even putting his full weight on you.

“Lance!”

Lance wrapped his arms over your shoulders and bundled his head in your neck. It was there he pressed a single kiss, just below your ear, and as if that area was some kind of pressure point, you immediately melted against him. Lance grinned, nibbling just a bit on your ear lobe before he pulled away and glanced at the open journal on the table.

“You're writing about my tanned skin again,” he pointed out, pretending to be disgusted despite his fluttering heart.

“As per usual,” you replied. “Kiss my neck again.”

Lance kissed your neck. You hummed.

“You know,” he said, inches from your ear. “You didn't say I love you back when I said it to you earlier on.”

“Awk, Lance, you know-”

He nibbled your neck. “Just say it back.”

Your voice wobbled when you said, “I fucking love you, too.”

Lance smirked. He knew you could feel it. He wanted you to feel it. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, your body inching towards his. “Good. That's all I wanted.”

“You're such an asshole.”

“Mm. I'm very happy you let me be a complete asshole.”

“I wouldn't want you any differently.”

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