#It was always to my understanding that he died early BECAUSE of the lung damage

[lionblaze03-2]

personally I don’t hate gray wing nearly as much as everyone else because he’s a great example of having rose colored glasses just because ‘well, he’s family’, and not realizing until far too late that that essentially ruined his life and made him amount to almost nothing. Because clear sky is his brother, he wants to assume the best of him. Surely, my brother would never. Surely he didn’t mean it like that. Surely he’ll do better next time. He’s my brother. He COULDN’T be a bad guy. So he keeps giving him chances, over and over and over again, until it’s completely destroyed him. Until he can no longer breathe, his lungs full of toxic smoke that clear sky abandoned him to breathe in, until he is under his claws, nearly killed under the moonlight, until his people are battered again and again, until borders become inevitable. But he never, ever realizes, because- it’s his brother. Surely, his brother will do better next time. Surely, he didn’t mean it. Surely, he will change.

And believing that is the death of him.

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part V

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They walked back in near silence, Geralt still dwelling on the swirling storm of guilt and yawning despair he found himself thrust into. Jaskier was quiet, unusually so, perhaps sensing Geralt’s sudden shift in mood. Geralt reminded himself once again that he wasn’t tricking Jaskier into anything. This wasn’t a marriage, not one that would be binding in any realm of men or even elves. It was a magic ritual he was using to save his friend’s life, he told himself firmly. That was all it could be, no matter how much Geralt’s heart demanded more.

“You’re awfully quiet,” Jaskier finally said, as they exited the stairwell they’d come down back onto one of the upper levels. “More than usual, I mean.”

Geralt gave a noncommittal hum, not even knowing where to begin in explaining his reticence. Jaskier shuffled along behind him, and Geralt could hear how he was clenching and unclenching his hands around the strap of his shoulder bag, the leather creaking. “Are you… having second thoughts about this? It’s quite the undertaking, I understand, and if you feel it’s not worth it—”

“Jaskier,” Geralt snapped, “shut up. I’m fine.” His skin felt raw and overexposed, as if he’d downed one too many potions. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this unmoored, not since the early days of gaining his Child Surprise.

He could feel Jaskier bristle behind him even before he spoke. “Well forgive me for checking in,” the bard bit out. “Gods forbid I do something that reminds you that I care.”

Geralt sighed through his nose, clenching his teeth. He could not take this out on Jaskier, not when this was a situation he’d fabricated for himself. “I know you do, Jask,” he said, the closest thing he felt he could muster now to an apology. “That’s why we have to do this. I—” the I care for you too died in his throat, too close to the truth for comfort. “I need you around,” he settled on, still too much, too revealing. But Jaskier deserved to know that whatever Geralt might be feeling, he wanted to do this. He needed to do this.

“Of course,” Jaskier said, sounding tired for some reason. “For Ciri, I know. But if it’s such a burden, you can always ask Triss, you know. Or Vesemir, or any of your brothers. If you don’t want to do this, I’m the last one who will force you to go through with it.”

Geralt struggled to find the words to convince Jaskier of his intentions without giving himself away, and failed. The silence stretched on between them, a condemnation, and Jaskier heaved a sigh before pushing ahead. “Forget I said anything,” he muttered, head down as he stalked forward. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, anything to smooth out the defensive line of Jaskier’s shoulders, but nothing came out. He had nothing to offer that wouldn’t drive Jaskier even further away.

So after a moment, he followed in silence.

He allowed the distance between them to persist, Jaskier walking some thirty feet ahead of him. If he’d been closer, perhaps he would have seen the crack in the floor, or heard the grinding of stone. As it was, he looked up as Jaskier gave a sharp gasp of surprise, just as the sound of crumbling rock reached him. Jaskier turned and Geralt caught one look of shock on his face before he was suddenly gone, swallowed by the fragile earth.

Geralt shouted, an abstract sound of panic, and dashed down the passage to the hole that now marred the cavern floor. Heedless of the crumbling edge, he flung himself down to peer into the darkness. The floor here was clearly directly above another tunnel or cavern, and the ancient supports must have given way somewhere, making the ground unstable. The space below was utterly dark; not even Geralt’s enhanced eyes could pierce the darkness. Jaskier’s torch had gone out in the fall, probably crushed by rubble. He didn’t know if it was ten feet down or one hundred. Jaskier could be lying below him, bones shattered on the unforgiving ground, head cracked open—

Geralt swallowed past the nausea that rose in him at the thought. Leaning over the chasm, he called out, “Jaskier!”

There was no answer, and Geralt couldn’t breathe.

“Fuck,” he said, fumbling at his belt, “fuck, fuck.” He pulled out his potion pouch and dug until he found the Cat, throwing the bottle carelessly aside after he’d taken a few quick mouthfuls. After a few seconds, the cave around him bloomed into focus, all shades of sharp grey. He squinted down into the hole again, eyes seeking. It was still dark, but now with the Cat coursing through his veins he could make out vague shapes. It looked like the floor of the lower level was ten to fifteen feet down, cluttered with the rubble from the above passage. Geralt sucked in a sharp breath when he spotted a limp figure lying amongst the debris.

Without thinking, he slid his legs down into the chasm and dropped.

It wasn’t a far drop, not for a prepared witcher. He landed on the balls of his feet and allowed the impact to roll up through him, only barely twinging his bad knee. What made him sway was seeing Jaskier, in clear focus now, sprawled out between the rocks that littered the floor. He was so still, his head turned away from Geralt, and for a moment he was frozen, unable to bring himself to approach. If Jaskier was—if he was dead—

Geralt forced himself forward.

He heard the heartbeat first, and the relief that coursed through him was so overwhelming he could only stumble the rest of the way to Jaskier’s side. He dropped to his knees, reaching out to touch his face gently. This close, he could smell the irony tang of blood, and when he turned Jaskier’s head he could see a smear of dark on the stone below. He swallowed heavily. Head wounds bled a lot, of course, it might not be too bad. But they could also be deceptive, especially in humans. He wasn’t sure how far the damage went, if Jaskier’s brain had taken any injury, or his spine. He hovered for a moment, indecisive.

Jaskier stirred, groaning.

“Don’t move,” Geralt snapped, slipping his hand behind Jaskier’s neck to cradle his head.

Jaskier paid him no mind, shifting minutely and wincing as he did so. “Owch,” he said, thickly. “Geralt?”

“You fell.” Geralt kept his hand in place, lifting his other to prod gently at the cut on Jaskier’s forehead. It was hard to see in the dark, Cat making everything indistinguishable shades of black and white, but he could see that it wasn’t exceptionally deep. It seemed like he’d landed feet first, and then fallen and hit his head afterwards. If he’d landed face first, Geralt assumed things would be a lot messier. “Do you remember?”

Jaskier twisted, shuffling until he was on his back instead of his side, panting up at Geralt. He was squinting, and Geralt wasn’t sure if it was from the pain or just because it was dark. There was almost no light down here, and Jaskier’s dull human eyes were probably utterly blind. Geralt kept his hand in place, steadying Jaskier’s head, not wanting him to injure himself further. “Ban Aine. Ruins. Fucking floor. You were being a dick.” He let out a disgusted sound. “Ow.”

“You probably have a concussion,” Geralt said, relief and affection swimming up through him and merging oddly with his lingering guilt. It wasn’t truly that far of a fall, though he wasn’t entirely sure how far humans could fall. Geralt could probably have made it twice the distance and been perfectly fine; Jaskier seemed alright except for his head. “Need to know if it’s safe to move you. Any pain in your neck? Can you move your fingers?”

He watched as Jaskier slowly took stock, clenching and unclenching his hands, moving carefully. Nothing hurt aside from his head, it seemed, and Geralt allowed himself to breathe out some of the worry that was compressing his lungs. Jaskier was fine. A little dizzy from the growing knot on his head, but otherwise fine. Unable to help himself, Geralt pressed forward until their foreheads were just barely touching, careful of the bump just below Jaskier’s hairline.

Jaskier exhaled slowly. “Don’t tell me you were worried, witcher,” he said, his voice gently teasing.

Geralt just breathed for a moment, letting the horrible fear that had overtaken him rest behind his breastbone. “Sorry,” he said, trying to keep his grip on the back of Jaskier’s neck gentle. “For being a dick.”

Jaskier snorted softly, reaching up to card his fingers briefly through Geralt’s hair. The touch smoothed away the tense, tight feeling that had been playing across Geralt’s skin since he saw Jaskier tumble from his sight. “It’s alright. I’m quite used to the dramatics of witchers. Besides, now you have to be nice to me. I’m an invalid.”

“And you call me dramatic,” Geralt said, unable to keep the helpless fondness from his voice. “Think you can move?”

“Mm, yes, I have an absolute fucker of a headache but otherwise all limbs seem to be in their place. And I still don’t fancy spending the night down here. Where are we?” Jaskier’s head began to turn before he clearly thought the better of it. It wouldn’t have helped, anyways; the tunnels were pitch black. “Can you see?”

“Took some Cat,” Geralt grunted, standing. He tucked Jaskier’s hand into his own and helped lever him to his feet. The bard sucked in a breath at the change in elevation. Geralt was sympathetic; moving around wasn’t going to be helping his head at all. He stayed close, ready to offer his support, which was why he was so quick to reach out when Jaskier took one step forward and his right knee gave out. Geralt caught him by the arm as Jaskier hissed, half sharp inhale and half curse. “Shit,” he bit out, clinging to Geralt tightly. “Oh fuck that hurt, Melitele’s tits—”

“Where,” Geralt demanded, throat tight again.

“Must have twisted my ankle when I landed on it,” Jaskier panted, managing to sound wry despite the way his face was twisted up in pain.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. “Too dark down here to look at it. Come on.” Jaskier made a noise of protest as Geralt began to pull away, but it was cut off abruptly as he reached down and swept his arm under Jaskier’s knees. The bard tumbled into his chest with a surprised gasp, one of his arms coming up around Geralt’s shoulders, clutching at his armor. The gasp quickly turned into a small grunt of pain, and Geralt tried to keep his movements steady enough that Jaskier’s head wouldn’t be jostled too much.

Jaskier gave him a dazed look as Geralt settled him. “Oh. My hero,” he said. Geralt was a bit worried by how breathy his voice suddenly sounded; if he was that winded from even that much light movement his head might be more injured than Geralt thought.

Geralt didn’t respond, more interested in getting them out before the Cat wore off. From their position he could see that the tunnel they were currently in—more of a path, really, with clear man-made walls—was elevated on one side. It was as good a lead as any, and he started up the slope.

It took perhaps half an hour for them to make their way back to the upper level, Jaskier tucked against Geralt’s chest as he navigated the winding corridors. Luckily it was fairly easy to tell when the air was closer to the surface. The tunnels that led lower into the ruins carried with them the stale scent of stone and ancient rot, so Geralt turned away from them and followed those that smelled fresher. They soon made their way back to what Geralt judged was the same level as where they’d left, though he couldn’t say whether they were in the same area. He could find no evidence of the hole that Jaskier had left behind, but eventually they reached a crumbled section of the wall that carried the scent of clean spring air. They had to squeeze through the narrow, natural crack in the rock beyond it, Jaskier set down in front of Geralt to limp his own way through. It had been too constricted to carry him, but Geralt still chewed on his cheek as he listened to Jaskier’s pained grunts of concentration.

Finally they stumbled out into the open air again—fully on the other side of the ruins from where they’d entered.

Geralt reached out a hand to steady Jaskier before he could fall, and the bard shot him a grateful look. Gently, Geralt pressed onto his shoulder until he was forced to sit on a rocky outcropping near the entrance to their little escape path. “Stay here,” he instructed. “I’ll go get Roach and we can make camp again on this side.”

Jaskier’s brows pinched together. “But we already made camp on the other side,” he said. His eyes were squinted again, but this time Geralt expected it was because the setting sunlight was hurting his head. Geralt wasn’t faring all that much better, though the Cat would probably be leaving his system soon. At the moment the world was overexposed, all the color leached out while the sky and reflections of sunlight on the surrounding rocks blinded him.

“You’re injured,” was all he said. “Just wait here.”

Jaskier pouted, and Geralt felt something unclench in his chest at the expression. If he was being a brat he couldn’t be feeling too bad. “Fine, witcher. But I think you’re being dramatic again.”

Geralt just raised an eyebrow at him. Jaskier huffed as if he knew exactly what Geralt was thinking. Hypocrite.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Geralt instructed, and then turned to make his way back to the other side of the ruins.

By the time he collected Roach and made it back to the rocky outcropping, it was nearing dusk. He muttered a few choice curses under his breath; it would be difficult to treat Jaskier’s wounds in the dark. As he rounded the bend in the ruins he had a moment of unbridled panic; the place he’d left Jaskier was vacant. It faded after a moment, however. Jaskier’s scent was still thick on the air, lavender and campfire smoke masked by a superficial irony tang. He found the bard tucked against a pillar, out of immediate view. Geralt released Roach’s reins to kneel next to him, reaching out to wrap a hand around Jaskier’s shoulder again. The bard startled under his fingers, moaning when the sudden motion jostled his head. The befuddled expression he turned on Geralt was tense with pain, but endearing despite it.

“You fell asleep,” Geralt informed him, his stomach twisted up with affection and worry. Gods, being in love was unbearable.

“Oh,” Jaskier said, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face. “Sorry. Roach?”

“Got her,” Geralt replied. “I’m gonna set up camp and then I’ll tend to your ankle.”

Jaskier didn’t look immediately thrilled by the prospect.

Geralt set up camp in record time, tossing out their bedrolls and lighting a few pieces of wood with igni, probably the sloppiest fire he’d ever put together. Once finished he helped Jaskier over to one of the bedrolls, sitting him down and pulling over the bag that they kept their basic medical supplies in.

There wasn’t a lot he could do for the ankle. If it was truly sprained it might help to brace it, but in reality Jaskier was just going to have to keep off of it for a few days. The head he could at least tend to, and he did, using boiled water to wipe away the tacky blood from where it had dripped over Jaskier’s forehead and clotted in his eyebrow. Jaskier winced away from the gentle pressure, but the wound didn’t start bleeding again, which Geralt counted as a win. Once done he checked the rest of Jaskier’s head for other bumps, but there was nothing aside from the one on his forehead. He was lucky; if it had been the back of his head he’d certainly have a raging concussion. As it was he seemed mostly fine, if a little dazed and photosensitive. Hopefully a few good night’s rest would see to that.

The ankle he did what he could for, strapping two branches on either side of Jaskier’s foot and pinning them down with bandages. It wasn’t professional work, but it would keep him from moving it too much while he slept. When he was finally finished Geralt tossed the bloody rags away and sighed, eying his handiwork.

Jaskier, who had been curiously silent through the entire production, said, “This certainly flips the script a bit, mm?”

Geralt blinked at him, pulled from his focus on Jaskier’s injuries. “What?”

Jaskier gave him a lopsided grin, almost sheepish. “Usually I’m the one patching you up,” he said. His eyes lost focus slightly, staring down at Geralt’s armor vacantly. “I think I like being on this side of things better.”

Geralt swallowed. He knew he should say something lighthearted, tease Jaskier about just liking the pampering, but instead he said, “I don’t.”

Jaskier’s gaze focused back on him, and eyebrows raised in a startled expression. And then the grin was back, wider than before but somehow more brittle. “Well then,” he said, “is the great Geralt of Rivia admitting that he cares?”

Something about his tone was missing the typical teasing lit, more self deferential than anything. As if he already knew the answer, and it wasn’t one he favored. Jaskier knew that Geralt wasn’t as emotionless as the tales claimed; he had seen first hand how Geralt had once twisted himself up over Yennefer, how devoted he was to Ciri, the affection he had for his brothers. Which meant that Jaskier just didn’t think Geralt cared about him.

It made Geralt want to fight something, or to pull Jaskier close and tell him just how wrong he was. He swallowed against the urge to reach out, instead looking down and needlessly adjusting the bandage around Jaskier’s ankle. “It’s not just for Ciri,” he admitted, allowing some part of the truth to float to the surface. Jaskier deserved at least that much.

“What?”

“It’s not—I don’t just want you around in case something happens. I mean, I do, of course, Ciri loves you, but.” Why was this so hard? Jaskier made finding his words seem so easy, effortless from years of practice and natural talent. Geralt forced himself to take a steadying breath. “You’re a good travelling companion. You make my life… better.”

Jaskier just stared at him for a long moment, his lips parted slightly. Geralt wanted, with an acuteness that bordered on physical pain, to put his mouth there, like a punctuation to his declaration. Finally Jaskier gathered himself and said, “Oh, well… Thank you. That’s rather good to hear.”

Geralt nodded, turning away to deal with washing out the rags and seeing about making them something to eat. After a few minutes of silence he could bear the tension in the air no longer, and stood. “I’m going to see if I can catch something,” he said, grabbing his crossbow from its place on Roach’s saddle. “Shout if you need me, I’ll stay close.”

Jaskier nodded absently, just watching him as Geralt gathered up the things he would need for the hunt. Just as he was about to make his way into the trees at the edge of the ruins, he heard Jaskier’s voice behind him, across the campfire.

“You make my life better, too.”

And Geralt didn’t even know what to do with that, the way those words curled through him and around his heart. He fled into the forest without a backward glance, the oathstone sitting heavily in his pocket.

~ 

Halfway through!! And another piece of art to go along with it! The piece in this chapter is by the amazing @herostag, and I just adore it. The black and white because of Geralt taking the Cat is such a nice touch! 

[king-maven-calore]

prompt #25 “your hair is really soft” for marecal please 😙

I did this and "10 cal and mare please. idc who says it lol"👀 in a single drabble, I hope you guys don't mind. It's a modern AU I guess

Cal had been volunteering at the Scarlet Guard summer camp for two seasons now, this would be his third. The first time he’d been here as moral support for Ptolemus, who’d been sent here for his community service sentence. Ptolemus had signed up again for the following summers for Wren, a med student in charge of the infirmary, and Cal kept signing up because he found out he loved working with children.

He always had a great time helping the kids, training them in archery and other sports, patting their backs when they got homesick, leading them on walks through the woods belting out marching songs, sitting with them at lunch, and making good use of his excellent puns arsenal. The kids had a blast, and he did too.

In this part of the Greatwoods Region, he found paradise. His dad disapproved and Maven did not understand but was he too happy to mind.

It would have been a shame if he’d proven them right on his third year here when he almost died out of sheer stupidity. But could he be blamed? Could he be blamed when the five new counselors got down from one of the early buses and one of them looked like that?

Among the newbies, there was a petite girl with golden skin that seemed to sparkle under the early morning sun. She jumped down from the bus and a cloud of dirt exploded around her already dirty Vans, her toned legs were generously exposed under her jean shorts, and the lines of her abdomen peeking out from under the camp’s counselor reglementary red polo shirt as she stretched and arched her back to tie her dyed brown and purple hair in a bun, scowling at her surroundings with something akin to distrust. She was the loveliest girl he’d ever seen in such a violent way... was it really his fault he didn’t pay attention to the lightbulbs he’d been changing at the side of the dining hall, perched atop a rickety ladder 10 feet above the ground? It wasn’t. Electricity didn’t give a shit about whose fault was it though when he blindly stuck his hand in the exposed wires next to the light socket.

A white explosion, sparkles, and a sensation of being pulled away at 1000 miles per hour.

Next thing he knew, he was on his back and there was a warm mouth against his. Warm, soft, insistent— on breathing air into him. And good god, this person smelled like heaven; jasmine and rain. Much to his dismay, the scent and the mouth left him and his chest started getting crushed in rhythmic, urgent motions.

Cal gulped air and shot upright. He was surrounded by 20 consternated young faces and one barely inches away from his face. Beautiful, wide brown eyes, thick long eyelashes that brushed against high cheekbones when the girl who’d just saved his life blinked twice.

“Dude.” Kneeling next to him, the girl with the purple hair knitted her brow. “What the fuck?”

And Cal couldn’t help but smile at her. A reflex. She was even prettier up close.

“I think we should check for brain damage,” a blond with bottle green eyes muttered.

Oh, but his brain was fine. It was his heart he should get checked, for he’d just been struck by Cupid’s arrow.

And electricity, of course. The smell of burnt hair, clothes, and flesh reminded him.

The result of that encounter turned out to be quite positive. Yes, he got a second-degree burn on his right hand and a dislocated shoulder from the fall but he refused to be sent home, it had been worth it to get to meet Mare Barrow.

She was 18, from Albanus, only here for the money, best friends with the blondie jokester and— as he learned after a dubiously moral social media stalking session —single and interested in men.

The only thing he regretted from that “meet cute” was that he’d been mostly unconscious (technically dead) for 99% of the time her lips were on his.

He lived for the moments they crossed paths during their daily activities around the camp. His heart grew in size about five times when she teased him and lightly punched his stomach or ruffled his hair.

Ptolemus cocked a brow but kept his mouth thankfully shut when Cal decided to start sitting on the counselor’s table during dinner instead of with the kids, as he had grown accustomed to.

It was miserable and extraordinary how he even found the way she ate her food endearing. More often than not, miserable because he couldn’t A: get her to like him, for she was too laser-focused on doing her job efficiently and getting the hell out of the camp; B: touch her as casually as she did with him because his hand was bandaged, and C: relationships between counselors were strictly forbidden.

By the time his hand was healthy enough to be of any use, three weeks had passed and he was head over heels, neck-deep (to not use other body parts for reference), stupidly in love with the sarcastic girl who had put her own breath into his lungs, challenged him every time they got the chance and looked at him like she wanted to sink her hand into his ribcage to take a bite out of his heart. Needless to say, he wanted to touch her. Badly. Ok, maybe do a bit more than 'touch', but you get the idea.

His excuse was handed on a silver platter by one of his favorite campers, Luther Carver. The kid who was usually off-standish and grim— just misunderstood, in Cal’s opinion – had signed up for the braiding lessons that Mare was unhappily in charge of.

On his way back from the lake, his crew of kids trailing behind him, he passed along the group of girls and Luther taking their lesson, sitting in a circle on the grass between the pine trees. An idyllic image of children focused on their task, and Mare’s poorly concealed discomfort as she sat on a log bench and supervised the activities, biting the inside of her cheek, elbows on her knees. It should be illegal to be that beautiful without meaning to.

“Hi, Cal!” Luther chirped as a girl behind him stared with furious determination at her handiwork. “How does my hair look?”

Cal signaled for his group to keep walking back to the camp and approached the small clearing.

“It looks amazing, buddy!” Cal gave him a thumb up. To be honest, his braid of long black hair was slightly (very) crooked to the left, and Mare noticed. She hid her laugh behind cough and a fist. “It is very original.”

Luther beamed and turned slightly to wink in his fellow camper’s direction. The girl blushed and giggled and Cal wanted nothing more than to give them a bear hug and tell them how smart and kind they were. Kids were the best thing in this world. Especially when they said things like...

“Mare’s hair is still the same,” Luther sighed wearily. “Someone should do something about it.”

All the girls hummed and nodded in agreement and Mare closed her eyes and Cal could read her thoughts as she counted to ten.

“Fine, you guys win.” Ah, so her untouched hair had been a recurring topic. “Cal can braid my hair!” she said with fake excitement that went over the kids’ heads, thankfully. “If he knows how to, that is.” Her brown eyes locked with his in camaraderie, fully expecting him to turn down the task with some excuse to appease their audience.

“Ok,” he shrugged happily as he walked over to her and her smug face dissolved into a confused frown and the kids cheered.

He made a shooing motion with his hand and she moved to sit on the grass awkwardly while he took her place on the log bench, sitting with his feet placed on either side of her body.

“What the hell are you doing?” she whispered through gritted teeth so only he could hear her, craning her neck up to glare at him, when he started cracking his knuckles for dramatic effect.

Were this any other context, he would savor the warmth her body radiated to the inside of his legs. Not this context. Absolutely not.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he smirked down at her. “Now stop moving and let me braid your hair.”

With one last suspicious look, she heaved a breath and stared ahead as he tugged the scrunchie off her hair and let the brown and purple waves spill down her back.

Cal had no fucking clue how to do braid but how hard could it be? It was like a knot with hair. Right? He looked at what the girls sitting on the grass were doing. Ok, that seemed doable. He combed his long fingers through Mare’s hair to loosen any knots and... Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He successfully hid a shudder while Mare uninterestedly hugged her knees to her chest.

He was choking on his own breath. Her hair was so soft and the scent of it was so amazing it pierced his fingertips, reached his bloodstream, and shot to his head. Jasmine and rain like that first day. Cal stilled for a moment and blinked forcefully to regain some semblance of rational thought.

“What is it?” Mare muttered curtly. Was it his imagination or did it sound more like a gasp than scolding?

“Nothing,” he said and started imitating the nearest girl’s technique. No point in lying, he bent down to whisper in her ear. “Your hair is really soft.” It wasn’t meant to come out so raspy and needy, and still...

Mare turned to the side and they were face to face. She seemed offended, but not really, with a confused glare darkening her burning gaze, a lovely red tint spreading all over her cheeks and neck, slightly parted plush lips.

She looked on the verge of kissing him or punching him. Cal prayed and ached it was the former because she licked her lips, leaving a glossy sheen and he wanted nothing more than to...

“OHHH Mare and Cal sitting in a tree!” A girl squealed, pointing at them from across the clearing and suddenly 10 pairs of devilish eyes were on them and chanting. “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

They jumped away from each other so fast one might think they had been electrocuted again as they rushed to explain that “No, they were NOT doing anything of the sort!”

[thetriggeredhappy]

Consider: the scene in the comics where Scout dies, but instead it's Spy who's dying and he actually has the balls to tell Scout the truth face-to-face before it's too late.

consider: this shit is gonna break your heart, anon. dad!spy hours

(warnings for canon-typical violence, extreme character injury, major character death)

-

Just his luck that he’d find himself alone with so many of those ridiculous robots and with his knee so destroyed. He at least managed to take down the one that finally got him.

These tin cans didn’t even know enough to understand how to efficiently kill someone, he seethed. He’d certainly be bleeding out shortly—he was fairly sure he had a punctured lung, among other things, but the blood loss would probably be what did him in—but god, it was taking forever.

He could take some solace in that he at least didn’t drag Sniper to die along with him, had sent him to try and pick off as many bots as he could from the windows. And... well, he was fairly sure he’d been as useful as he could have been in this fight. Helped kill one of the Classic team—two, if you counted throttling his own counterpart—and done some good recon work besides. This wasn’t the most poetic or heroic death, but he wasn’t a fan of poetry and had never considered himself much of a hero, so that was probably fair.

But that stupid robot had ruined his jacket, which he was pretty annoyed about. Not like it would matter in the long run, but frustrating regardless.

God, it was cold.

He lifted his head when he heard the sound of rapid footfalls echoing down the hall, growing closer. Hey, maybe he could trick some robot into finishing him off, at least. Save himself some time and excruciating pain. He would’ve gone for the cyanide tooth, but unfortunately, this was the one situation where he’d jumped for that option a little bit too early. Just his luck.

(God, it was cold.)

Oh, well. Bludgeoned to death by a Scoutbot at least promised to be relatively quick. They tended to go for the head.

He looked up to at least give a snide remark to his more rapidly-approaching death, only for them to get stuck in his throat as the death in question rounded the corner and made eye contact with him.

“Holy shit, Spy?” Scout asked, looking startled and a little out of breath.

“Merde,” Spy mumbled, and was a little caught off guard by how hoarse his voice was.

In a second Scout had taken a knee next to him and was surveying the damage, mouth running at a mile a minute. “Holy shit we were lookin’ everywhere, Sniper showed up because I guess he was dead but now he’s better apparently and he said you two split off for some reason but you’d been fuckin’ kneecapped and—dude, you look like shit, what happened?”

“What does it look like?” Spy asked dryly.

“I mean, I don’t wanna give you an ‘I told you so’ or nothin’ but this is kinda what you get for disappearing and running off on your own all the time,” Scout pointed out.

He almost couldn’t feel the tiny ache of guilt that put in his chest underneath all the other much more life-threatening aches that were also in his chest. “Well, I’d say I’ve learned my lesson, but I think unfortunately I won’t be able to demonstrate any time soon,” Spy replied, and yeah, there was a puncture to his lung. He had to fight hard to hold down a cough, and only because he knew it would sound extremely pathetic.

“Okay, uh—can you move? Okay, you can’t move,” Scout seemed to decide. “Uh, okay, okay so I’ll uh—so I’m gonna go get Medic, and—he’s fast too we should be able to get back here in like ten minutes flat, easy! Just, I guess try and hold your guts in, I’ll be right back with help!”

Considering the amount of injured Medic was likely to be, he very much doubted Scout would be back with Medic in only ten minutes. And considering the way that his vision was swimming and how distorted Scout’s face got towards the tail end of that last sentence, he doubted he would make it ten minutes anyways.

And he found unexpected panic suddenly rising up in his chest at the thought of dying alone, here in a hallway surrounded by broken mechanical parts and acrid smoke. He forced himself into motion despite the way it made the entire room suddenly seem to careen to the left, and managed to catch Scout by the leg of his ridiculous trousers before he could take off again. “Wait,” he croaked. “Wait.”

“I, no, I gotta go get Medic, I’ll take like ten seconds—“ Scout was quick to assure, so quick that Spy realized he was legitimately worried.

“I’ll—“ Spy started, and paused to clear his throat just to give himself enough time to think of an excuse to have Scout stick around for a minute. “I’ll be fine to wait a little longer, but first I had something important to say.”

Scout frowned. “Yeah?”

And he did. He absolutely did. The problem was that this excuse was... hm.

The problem was that this was something he’d been putting off. The larger part of the situation for about 20 years, and then more directly for about six. And Spy thought that surely he would work up the courage to get to it over the course of their employment, only for it to be unexpectedly terminated, and he decided, well, that was that. He would just have to live with it. But then they got arrested and the thought that surely he would get to it over the course of their time in prison, and once again he didn’t, couldn’t seem to force himself into that conversation, not when he was trapped, not when he couldn’t run from whatever outcome ended up happening.

And now he was dying. And for all he knew, Scout was going to die shortly as well. And in most of the ways that mattered, Spy was the only person who could really answer this question, because apparently Scout’s mother had committed to the lie he’d asked her to tell, had continued to stay headstrong on helping to cover up how he’d faked his death. And how was she to know he was really dead, surely Scout would never bring it up—

If he didn’t tell Scout now, Scout would never know.

Scout would go the rest of his life never getting answers about his father.

“Merde,” he mumbled again, slumping back against the wall and squeezing his eyes shut against the way the world was spinning, feeling motion sick.

He heard Scout take a knee again, and after a second he hesitantly prompted him. “Uh, what? What is it? What’s up?” he asked carefully.

Spy forced himself to open his eyes, and was a little startled by how difficult it was. He focused hard on one of his own shoes, trying his best to make the world stop spinning so fast. He swallowed hard to try and clear his throat, steady his voice. It almost worked. “This is very important,” he started with, and forced sharpness into his tone. “So I will not be needing any of your little jokes and quips and interruptions.”

“Y... yeah, okay,” Scout said, and the worry was extremely easy to read on his face, and Spy kind of hated that.

Spy considered his words. “You’ve mentioned before that you never knew your father,” he decided to open with. Scout immediately began to frown. “And... and I never said anything. Even though that was a very brave thing to bring up.”

Scout opened his mouth to reply before remembering himself and shutting it again.

“And I wanted to apologize,” Spy managed to choke, and he kept track of Scout’s expressions in his periphery, finding it easier to hold on to that way than by trying to look at him directly. “Because you’re never going to get the chance to know your father, not really. Not in the way you deserve, and it’s my fault.“

“Spy, what the fuck does that even mean?” Scout demanded, and maybe the anger starting to flood into his voice was fair. “You—what did you do?”

“You deserved to have a father,” Spy said, and it couldn’t have been more obvious that he was dodging the question, but maybe he wanted to be obvious, just for a minute. “A good one, who did all sorts of ridiculous fatherly things for you. And it’s not your fault that you didn’t. You deserved to. You did.”

God, it was cold.

“And he should have been there for you, and for your family,” Spy continued, and felt his stomach lurch unexpectedly, and had to shut his jaw tight for a moment, tight enough to feel his fake teeth aching. “And he should have supported them and been a good father, and your life should have been made much more easy than it was, and you should not have needed to get in fights and become a criminal in the first place, and you should never have needed to sign up to become a murderer in some terrible desert in New Mexico among a pack of assassins and madmen.”

“Spy, I, I should get Medic—“ Scout tried to cut in, moved as if to stand back up. Spy snared a hand in the front of Scout’s shirt, and though he knew full well that he wasn’t strong enough to actually stop Scout in any capacity, he froze up anyways.

“And—and I know that you deserved a real father, and I knew that,” Spy said, “and I know there is no excuse that can ever be given. There is nothing that I can ever say to make it up to you, or to your mother, or your brothers, nothing. And I should have been there but I was scared and I was convinced I was being hunted and I cared too much about all of you to let that happen because of me, and it was selfish—“

“Spy,” Scout said, and it took all the strength that Spy had just to look at him, and there were a lot of emotions on his face just then. He saw realization, for one. Shock, astonishment maybe.

And for the first time in maybe his entire life, Spy decided that he just needed to be honest. 

“I’m your father, Jeremy,” Spy croaked.

Silence. Long, long silence. In the far distance, gunshots and explosions and yelling, soft enough that he couldn’t be sure it wasn’t his imagination.

“You gonna try and say some kind of cool line, now, too?” Scout asked, and his voice was sharp enough to sting, and Spy winced at it. “Some kind of bullshit about how it, it was for my own good? Or that it’s—that you always cared from far away or some shit, that it was better this way? Gonna ask me to fuckin’ forgive you, here on your deathbed?”

“No, I am not,” Spy replied, voice faint. “I know there is nothing I can say to make it up to you. Words are insufficient.” He breathed deeply and forced down the instinct that was telling him to cough. “But I would rather not leave you wondering forever. I thought... this was better than nothing.”

Scout made a noncommittal noise. Silence.

“I get the distinct impression that you are angry with me,” Spy managed.

“Duh, I’m mad at you. Jesus fuck, you have no clue how mad I am at you. But I’m not...” Scout paused to think over his words. “I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at... old you. The you who ran off. And... I dunno. Kinda seems like you hate that guy too.”

“Very much,” Spy confirmed.

“Yeah. I dunno. I guess... I dunno.” Scout paused for a long moment. “And... maybe this is better than nothing, I guess. Because... it’s not the same or nothin’, but... I dunno. At least I know now. And... at least I know what my dad’s like now. That’s something.” 

Silence. Spy managed a nod, but not words.

When Scout spoke again, his voice was uncharacteristically level. “You’re gonna die here, aren’t’cha, Spy?”

“Oui. I have no doubt in my mind,” Spy sighed, so quietly that he wasn’t sure Scout could hear it.

Scout was quiet for a minute. He moved to pull Spy’s hand off of his shirt (not that it was difficult), and for one terrifying moment Spy thought he was about to just drop Spy’s hand and stand up and leave him to rot in some hallway on an uncharted island where he would never be found. His vision was darkening rapidly, and he didn’t think he had the strength to try and stop him again, or that it would even work.

But instead Scout clasped Spy’s hand in his own and held it tight to his chest, squeezing Spy’s shoulder beneath his hand. “Run hell, asshole,” Scout said with the slightest of smiles, and it was so like Scout to be joking just then, to be trying to comfort him just then even if it was in his own way, to find the most indirect, roundabout method of letting Spy know that things were okay. And it made Spy laugh, and laughing was the last thing that Spy remembered.

-

He saw the last of the color drain from Spy’s face, the way the muscles there slowly went slack, and after a long moment he moved the hand from Spy’s shoulder to check for a pulse. He shifted to try again three times, not positive he was doing it right, before realizing, no. He was definitely doing this right. Spy was dead.

He let his own hand drop, then carefully laid down Spy’s.

Man. Twenty-seven fuckin’ years, and he finally finds his dad, and it’s Spy. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Spy would find a way to escape that kind of conversation and never look back, but he was a little surprised that his solution was apparently dying.

...

That wasn’t that funny.

Scout leaned back, scrubbed at his face with his hand, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. Conflicted emotions. Conflicted thoughts.

Jesus, he should’ve seen it. That dumb dream he’d had back at Heavy’s house when he’d almost died, the stupid jokes Spy kept making about his Ma and the suspicious amount of information Spy had about him, way more than was probably on any official record. And the weird shit Heavy had been saying to him, and all the times Spy stuck his neck out for him when he really didn’t have to—

He didn’t think it was obvious enough for him to guess, but it was definitely obvious enough to suspect.

...So being an asshole ran in the family, huh?

He sat back on his heels.

...His Ma always said they had similar eyebrows. And their eyes in general, apparently. Ears. The mask made it kinda hard to tell.

The mask.

For a few seconds, Scout really genuinely considered taking the mask off.

This was his dad. Ma apparently lost the few pictures she had of him years ago, and this was his only chance. If he didn’t look now, he’d never really know what his dad looked like. Not in a real way. And didn’t he deserve to know? Hadn’t he earned this?

But he couldn’t, and he knew he couldn’t. That was a kind of disrespect he couldn’t stoop to, not even to a dead guy.

He didn’t know why, but he felt himself tearing up.

If he made it out of this alive, he made a promise to himself. He was gonna talk to Miss P—those two were friends, right?—and he was gonna find out more about Spy. He’d hire a private eye if he had to, he’d spend every penny of his Tom Jones money figuring out everything he could. Spy hadn’t given him a lot to work with, but it was something. It was enough.

He wiped his eyes, rocked forward to stand, shook himself. For a second he thought about getting Medic, seeing if he could work his magic, but he’d only seen Sniper for a minute, only long enough for him to say that coming back to life was a one-time deal. He took a deep breath and turned, starting to walk down the hallway. Running off felt wrong just then.

Maybe God was looking out for him, just then, because that meant he hadn’t turned the corner down the hall, which meant he heard the feeble little cough behind him and could turn around, could see that Spy had a hand lifted.

A pause to process.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Scout scathed in the angriest voice he could manage, even as he felt tears leap into his eyes.

[darlingsdevil]

Of The Valley (Joel x Reader)

Chapter 7: Favors II

Summary: Life in Jackson is never easy. Consoling angsty teenagers, wading through the mysterious waters of Joel’s romance language and with a child of your own on the way? Life is about to get a lot harder

Masterlist

RDR2 Masterlist

Tag list (comment to be added or removed) @sidepuff @joelsheartache @fangirl-inthe-us @cowboyfrazer @scarletpines @mikah-writes @sleepylunarwolf @mr-robot-x @shybookdragon @heughan @writer-jamie @nelliecraine

A/N: It has come to my attention I confused a lot of you last chapter.. that was my intention lol. Romance will be coming soon, ish I guess. Finally some background knowledge on Mark though hahah.

Also, damnit tumblr, add a read more tab on mobile please. I hate flooding feeds X(

Comments and reblogs are really appreciated! Seriously, reading comments make my day!

•••

Ellie was royally fucked. Her first reaction was panic, a fleeting feeling that made her want to run, because if you were at the tail end of Maria’s wrath there was no flight or fight — it was just flight.

She wanted to get away from town for one night. One night is all she asked. So she could have a good time with her girlfriend, get drunk and act like a stupid teenager. One night.

“Ellie! Get your ass down here right now!” Maria shouted from the floor below. There was no way Maria wouldn’t smell the pot on her.. she was done for.

Ellie took the walk of shame to the floor below, every step feeling like one closer to her casket. Dina and you followed behind her, wondering if you would both be in trouble.

“You’re in big trouble,” Maria began, her fury practically radiating off of her. You and Dina took a step back from the two, Maria was so focused on Ellie, you and Dina managed to avert her anger towards you two for a moment.

The last thing you wanted was for Ellie to get caught, you would have reminded her how stupid it was to leave and let Dina handle the rest, but it seemed Maria beat you to it.

“What’s our one rule in town, Ellie?” Maria questioned with a tight lipped sentence, her face stern and cold.

“Don’t leave unless you’re allowed to,” Ellie repeated, her eyes looking down.

“And what did you do tonight?”

“I broke that rule.”

Maria nodded. “Yes, you did. You’re getting taken off patrol for two months. Nine o’clock curfew from now until then,” She said sternly.

“What?! No! That’s bullshit! You can’t do that to me!” Ellie said in protest. You and Dina shifted uncomfortably behind her, wondering if you were on Maria’s next hit list.

“Yes, I can. You knew the rules and you broke them, end of discussion,” Maria reminded her. There was no winning against her.

“That’s such bullshit! You can’t take me off of patrol for two months!” Ellie continued.

“End of discussion. We’re going back to town,” Maria’s voice was deliberate, she began walking to the door, ignoring both you and Dina.

You were surprised she found Ellie, though she did mention she was waiting for Ellie to come home last night. Was it possible she was waiting that entire time for her? It was something Maria would do. Two months seemed like a harsh punishment, but Ellie did break the main rule of Jackson.

Seeing Maria reminded you of your little secret that would become not so little in a few months. When was the right time to tell her? It seemed like never, like the pregnancy was a premonition, like it hadn’t even happened yet. You couldn’t think about that now.

Ellie reluctantly began following the three of you after a few moments of shock. Maria was waiting by the door for you, when Ellie and Dina made it through the door, Maria stopped you.

“You two stay out here for a second. Don’t run off either,” She looked at the two of them standing in the doorway, they took a step back and she closed the door on them, leaving you in the lake house with Maria.

Maria pinched the bridge of her nose and looked down at the ground before sighing.

“Any explanation as to why you’re out here?” She asked, looking up at you.

“Dina couldn’t find Ellie so we snuck out to find her,” You shrugged, it was the truth.

“You told me you weren’t going outside of Jackson anymore.”

“I did it yesterday, I figured I could do it once more today. I didn’t want Dina going out here alone,” You explained.

“So if I were to assign you to patrols, you would be fine again?”

Your eyes widened, “No. I don’t want to patrol ever again. I’m fine with being outside of Jackson, I just don’t want to have the job of killing things outside of it anymore.” You put your hands up in defense.

“We’ll talk more about this in town, we need to get Ellie home first.”

•••

Maria rounded up all the teenagers after that, they all got put under curfew too, Cat included. Cat stayed cautiously away from both Dina and Ellie.

The walk home was brutally silent, and uncomfortable. You knew all the drunken teenagers were terrified of the rest of their punishment, getting yelled at by their parents and being the laughing stock of town for a few days. Rarely anyone got caught sneaking out.

The night guards at top of the watchtowers let the group in. Maria stopped them all and told them they needed to see her first thing in the morning at the Courthouse so they could be dealt with. The group dispersed after that. You could still seem them shaking in fear as they walked away.

“Dina, you can go home now. Ellie, I’m taking you home. I’ll swing by your house after, Y/N,” Maria said sternly. Ellie stood next to her awkwardly. Dina nodded and left, slipping you Mark’s gun as she left. Ellie was upset and more worried about Joel finding out. Everything that could have gone wrong tonight did go wrong, Cat was mad at her, Dina probably too, and Maria found out she snuck out. Tonight was a mess.

Maria took Ellie home, the air was tense and uncomfortable. Ellie could only focus on the leaves crunching under her feet as she passed through the town with Maria. Halloween was right around the corner, it was apparent too. Houses were decorated, some even had pumpkins outside, none carved however. No one was up it seemed, Joel went to bed early most nights, Ellie didn’t have to worry about being caught by him just yet. Even with the lights out in most houses, Jackson had a homely feel to it, it felt lived in, which it was.

“I’m disappointed in you, Ellie,” Maria said to her quietly as they passed through a neighborhood to Joel’s home.

Ellie remained silent, her brow furrowed as Maria continued.

“You should have never gone out there, you know the risks firsthand, and maybe some of those other kids don’t understand it quite well but I know for a fact you do.”

“Infected aren’t even spotted this close to town ever,” Ellie replied with defiance in her voice.

“A lake and drunk teenagers do not mix. There are wild animals out there too, many things could have happened, you’re lucky none of you got hurt,” Maria said to the teenager.

“No one got hurt.”

“You’re right no one did. Doesn’t mean because it didn’t happen this time doesn’t mean it won’t happen the next.”

“No one has gotten hurt outside of Jackson in a long time.”

Maria knew that wasn’t true, Mark was killed only a few months ago.

Maria scoffed, they reached the outside of Joel’s house, just as Ellie suspected, the lights were off. She was relieved to avert Joel’s disappointment towards her for at least a few hours. Ellie opened the gate to the backyard.

“We’re talking in the morning when you’re sober. And change your clothes, take a shower, you smell like a skunk.”

Ellie shut the gate, thudding as it closed.

•••

You managed to make it into your house quietly, it looked like no one was awake on your street. Your house was silent as usual. You clicked on the porch light as you hung your coat up, putting yours and Mark’s gun on the coffee table, you were glad you didn’t have to use it. You never wanted to use a gun again.

It was nice being home, you hoped no one would come looking for you for anymore favors tonight. Maria was still going to swing by but you figured she would give Ellie an earful first.

You took Mark’s dog tags off and fiddled them in your hand. He never took them off, you figured he would have been buried with them, yet you were glad Maria managed to save them for you. It was a reminder of who he was, a part of him that would always be with you.

Lane

Mark O.

Denver QZ

A Positive

Mark stood at the scene of the explosion. A ringing in his ears he had never heard before. It wasn’t chaotic anymore, there was no screaming, no wails of anguish, just soldiers barking orders at dazed civilians. The soldiers in Denver were used to this sort of resistance, it was not uncommon for an attack at a checkpoint. There was only two squads sent in for backup. Two squads. Three soldiers dead and two civilians.

Mark could barely even comprehend what he was seeing, like he was looking at a scene from a movie. But the air was too thick with smoke, the air stunk of gunpowder and carnage. This was no movie.

He sat on a curb, watching as the group in front of him did damage control. He watched as the bodies were taken away. He watched and did nothing. There was nothing he could do. The rest of the FEDRA soldiers had pulled him away from the checkpoint and sat him down on the curb like some child.

He couldn’t even find his older brother, only his little sister, choking out his name. He held her as she died, her eyes clouding and a gaping wound coming out of the back of her head. Mark had never felt such shock in his life, one second he was walking down the street to meet her and his brother and the next it was all in flames. He couldn’t see his brother, he couldn’t find whatever remained of him even as he frantically searched through the debris. The smoke was hurting his lungs, it was hard to breathe.

“Don’t you dare fucking die on me, Emily,” Mark shouted at her, clutching the dying girl in his arms. She was young, barely out of boarding school. There was so much blood.. blood that would stain his hands forever, his first glimpse into the true pain of this world. Her blood was slippery and warm, it got all over her clothes. She was wearing the purple shirt with a smiley face Mark worked so hard to find..

“Emmy? Emmy? No, no you’re not dying!” He repeated, shaking her. The blood kept pooling, her eyes were becoming shrouded in fog as she danced on the thin line of life and death.“Wake up, Emily.. you have to wake up,” He trailed off, a realization hitting him. His sister was dead. He could see her laughing and waving to her moments before, her braids bouncing behind her. Mark’s older brother standing next to her.

“No, no, no,” He trembled, grasping her purple shirt.. it was bloodied and dirty now. It was completely ruined.

“Luke!” He shouted, getting up quickly to find his brother. He could barely see through the smoke.. groups of people pushing to get away from the crowded checkpoint. He split through the crowd, shouting his brother's name the entire time. People shoved and pushed as his world crumbled to pieces.

There was no shout of his name in return. Only frantic people pushing him out of their way, their faces going by in blurs as he scanned the crowd for Luke. The smoke was beginning to clear at least.

Luke was standing next to Emily.. Luke was standing next to her… Luke was closer to where the explosion went off.

Mark immediately turned around, running towards where Emily was.

“Luke!” He shouted louder now, desperation in his voice. His heart thrumming so loudly in his chest he felt like it would burst.

There was no response. Only the distant rumble of trucks racing towards the checkpoint, the sound of debris settling and fires cracking. The flames danced around him, concrete and steel covering the ground, dust in the air.

“Fuck!” He mumbled breathlessly, gasping for air as his body trembled, being unable to find his older brother. The silence was disheartening, he knew the truth. Luke was closer to the blast.. and even Emily hadn’t made it. His world had unraveled so quickly, he was going to the checkpoint to meet up with his brother and sister on his arrival back home from outer wall duty, his first day off in months, he was looking forward to it, they all were. They were inviting friends over for a small party, Emily had even made a cake.

But now Luke was dead. Emily was dead. His respected, quiet older brother, his fun and innocent little sister. He knew exactly what group did this. They were going to wish he had been killed in that blast too.

•••

You opened the door for Maria, she did not look happy.

“I appreciate you looking for Ellie, but you should have told me first,” She said as you let her in, leading her to the couch.

“I didn’t want her getting in trouble with you or Joel.. I figured she could have a little time off for now,” You replied. Ellie needed it.

Maria nodded, “I’m letting Joel know in the morning. He is not going to be happy with her. But what if she had gotten into trouble out there? Could you have handled that again?”

You weren’t sure of that answer, but you would have defended yourself. “I had Dina with me.”

“You and Dina alone could not have taken on a group of hunters or infected.”

“I know,” You said softly.

“So why did you agree to go with her?” Maria asked. You knew she would have had questions, probably grilling you on going back to patrol again.

“I couldn’t let Dina go by herself, like I said. I didn’t want either of them getting caught, clearly it didn’t work,” You sighed, leaning back into the couch.

“Ellie should never have gone out there,” Maria remarked with disappointment.

“Teenagers do it all the time.. you need to be less harsh on her.” You owed Ellie a favor or two.

“She needs to be reminded of our rules in town and be more respectful,” Maria replied.

“But two months is a lot.. and in truth she was drunk.. probably high too, you shouldn’t punish her for that long. I think Ellie learned her lesson tonight, she’s just upset right now,” You negotiated. Regardless of whether Ellie had learned her lesson or not, she didn’t deserve that long of a punishment. She deserved a long scolding and a good reminder of what her actions could cause — punishment like that was only going to cause more rebellion.

“I’ll rethink. For your sake. Maybe I’ll let Joel handle her and give her the punishment the rest of the teenagers are getting.”

Telling Joel was a given. You couldn’t negotiate that. It wasn’t the best for her but Joel deserved to know. At least now that Ellie had been caught.

“Could you go back outside Jackson again?” She said after a few seconds of silence, her eyes filled with curiosity.

“I am. I’m going with Joel to the lake in a few days. But I’m not doing patrols again.” Though Joel owed you a trip back to the lake, it would be hypocritical of you to return.

“We need you back on patrols,” Maria confessed.

“I’m not going on patrols anymore,” You replied firmly.

“You know why,” You reminded her.

“Jackson needs you, we need you,” She repeated, taking your hands and placing hers on top of yours.

“You have been doing fine without me,” You said.

“We really need you.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t mean to tell you this now.. but I didn’t mean to keep this from you either,” She began with a sigh, looking away from you. You shifted in your spot, wondering what she was going to tell you.

“There's a horde of infected coming our way, they’re due to hit us in December. Jackson needs you for the fight, to lead the sniping group,” She said determinedly, trying her damndest to convince you.

A horde? There was no way you could deal with fighting a horde, you could barely take out a pack of infected these days without panicking, let alone lead others on how to shoot. You couldn’t risk danger anymore, you weren’t only protecting yourself, but the life of the child growing inside of you. A horde seemed terrifying, most of Jackson hadn’t been outside the walls in years, let alone seen infected. But people would bear arms and fight, they would protect the town if it was the last thing they could do. People would die, people would get hurt, but the town would be safe. The children would be safe. Large groups of hunters occasionally tried to wreak havoc to the town, those who could fight always would, and Jackson won every single time. They had yet to be beaten.

“I can’t.”

Maria expected that response, “I know you don’t want to. I know it reminds you of what happened to Mark, but you have to move on. You’re Jackson’s best shot, we need you the most. I don’t trust anyone on this job more than you.”

“Look, I went on your little crusade yesterday, I did what I had to do and I told you I’m done,” You said harshly, getting up from the couch and going to the kitchen.

Maria followed you, “Mark would have wanted you to help us. To protect the town,” She pressed.

You groaned and began filling up a kettle with water from your water purifier next to the sink.

“Well Mark isn’t here,” You snapped back, placing the kettle on the stove and turning it on.

“I know you don’t want to do this. I know you have your reasons, but I promise you if you do this I’ll never put you on another patrol again. All of Jackson will be indebted to you.”

You couldn’t let Maria try to coax you into returning.. there was a reason you couldn’t do this anymore, a reason that didn’t relate to Mark’s death.

“I’m pregnant.” You stopped and looked at your friend.

Her eyes widened, she was silent, thinking of what there was possibly to say.

“I can’t do patrols anymore because I’m pregnant,” You repeated, your voice solemn.

“How long have you known?” She took a step closer to you. She would have to figure out a Plan B for the horde situation now, discuss with Tommy in the morning, talk to the council.

“Hours. Only a couple of hours.” You leaned against the counter, listening to the stove hum with heat. Maria was relieved to hear that, but you had still took a risk when you looked for Ellie.

“Are you going to keep it?” She asked, her face serious.

You nodded, biting your lip. You had already decided that, had it been a few weeks earlier your choice may have been different.. but you had already made up your mind now.

“Is it-” She began, you quickly cut her off.

“Mark’s,” You replied softly,, staring at the kettle.

“Well that’s a relief, I was afraid I was going to be an aunt,” She laughed dryly.

“I just.. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m not ready to raise a child, especially not without Mark around.. he would be better at this than I would,” You confessed, trying to blink away tears that snuck up on you.

Maria quickly pulled you into a hug. “I know, honey. I think parenting sneaks up on a lot of people,” She said soothingly. You let your tears fall onto her shoulder.

It was all terrifying.. the thought of a child being born into a world as cruel as this one. The thought you being a mother alone, without Mark there to guide you. He would have been thrilled to hear the news.. having a son or daughter.

“I don’t think I can do this alone,” You sobbed gently into her shoulder, your words getting caught in your throat.

“You won’t be alone, I promise you there are people here who will help you.” She rubbed your back gently. There were people there to help you, there was a doctor’s office with trained midwives, other single parents who would understand you, a daycare with teacher’s who would give your child an education, and most of all a family who would support you no matter what. You were foolish to think Maria would be anything less than supportive.

“This is starting to sound less and less daunting,” You laughed through the tears, pulling away from Maria.

“Well, we’ll discuss more in the morning then. It’s getting late and I know you start work early,” She said. You looked over at the window, if you fell asleep within the hour you would at least get some decent rest before work.

“You’re right. It is late. I hope you get the situation figured out with the teenagers.”

“I will. I’ll make sure to get it all sorted out.” She nodded, you followed her to the door, opening it for her.

“And, could you please not tell anyone about me being pregnant? I think I’d like to keep it as quiet as possible for awhile,” You asked, your voice wavering with a hint of nervousness in it. You already had enough to talk about with enough people, you didn’t need anything else on your plate for awhile.

“I won’t.”

“Thank you for saving Mark’s dog tags for me by the way,” You mentioned.

“I’m glad you found them,” She smiled.

•••

Ellie was beyond angry, disappointed and embarrassed. Not only had she been caught in bed with her girlfriend by her best friend, now they were both mad at her and at eachother. Maria had caught the group which was even more humiliating, being found by the head of Jackson half drunk and half high. Tonight was a wreck.

All she asked for was one night, one night where she could party and do dumb teenager things and worry about her actions later. She wanted to get away from Jackson and most importantly Joel.

She didn’t want to worry about Joel lying to her, beating around the bush around what truly happened in Salt Lake all those years ago. She needed to know the truth, and Joel would never give it to her. She needed to find it out for herself. Whether that be in a month or a year, or even ten. Ellie would find out the truth, and she knew whatever she found she would not like.

Joel would yell at her in the morning, he would tell her how stupid she was for doing that and give her, his most disappointed face he could muster. Joel needed to stay in his own lane now, Ellie wasn’t a little girl anymore who needed protecting.

But Maria or you would tell him regardless, in the morning she would be officially off of patrol for two months and on a curfew. She would have to apologize to both Dina and Cat and get them to stop arguing. She would have to listen to Joel be the disappointed father figure. She would have to eventually listen to you give her some half assed explanation of why you dodged her for three months.

Ellie Williams was tired of apologies and scoldings. Something she was awfully getting used to.

•••

[threenorth]

One day in early April 2012 i was thinking about becoming a musician, there was something in your smile that i knew you would be special to me.

It was like it had taken the wind out of my lungs but at the time you were a muse, and you didn't know me and i didn't really know you.

I didn't know what it was but you made me feel things i didn't know at the time.

So i wrote about the feelings i knew about another girl who didn't want me and you reminded me of those first feelings for someone, and the song was about you through what i felt when i crushed on another person before you but it's about finding your person, your missing pecies i didn't know it then but I'll tell you i thought to myself that girl i met by accident maybe shes the one for me but like everyone else i liked I doubted myself..but the song is 3/4 about you...

I'd rename it the puzzle of life (story of boy meets his parts he lost) but that's unwritten

So i made a song about first feelings and looking for love and marriage a hopeless romantic st heart but about love while never feeling but watching movies of the people who find theirs, i wrote it about maybe the girl smiled at a fridge would be my missing pecie, i never told you about it because i didn't want you to know but i wrote to get away from my feelings i didn't think i was a good writer i only got third but i picked up my pen again for you and years later i did the same writing songs again before my love letters, i was like fuck, that's the girl for me but i hoped I'd sing you the song but i wasn't sure it was finished.

I've always kept things close to myself.

You might need patience but I'll crumble my walls down if you want me to but I'm worried I'll do more damage then good, you can lower your walls and even if you think you hurt me you can't. But I'm afraid I'll hurt you.

It feels like yesterday you hugged me.

You could of killed me and i would of died happy.

I miss your eyes even when their in pain they twinkle like stars in the sky that kept me alive on hard nights wondering what your doing.

You don't know that everything reminded me of you in ways that only i could ever imagine.

I was Walking down the street and i was a couple and thought that could be me, but I'm forever alone never to find another and i didn't know all my issues but i said I'll keep fighting and breathing.

My missing pecies will be found again.

I look at a girl that i loved, she looks so beautiful and she takes my breath away and I'm dying to be in her arms once again.

She's singing me to sleep.

We're almost there now. I just didn't expect on a few things but you must know this year is the first time in a very long time I've felt alive, my last was three days in a city I'd never been to.

Stop signs never reminded me of you but i couldn't say your name for 7 years never to speak of the girl who held my heart. The coffee that wakes me up on hard days wishing it was you behind the counter. The shots of rum when I felt in pain. You don't know it but you have always been here with me in ways that i didn't understand.

The worse thing I've felt this year was that i wanted to be a freind but that's all i ever felt like and i didn't want to be a freind. But when you said his name i didn't expect to be triggered i was going to warn you that i had somethings on my plate but you alreday knew that.

I hate how smart you are.

I hate i can't hold you as you cry.

I hate myself most days but if it makes you breathe I'll hate myself a little less.

Tred lightly and walk slow take as long as you want to but it's better to go together when you find that out i hope you know my hands out i just don't know how to show you it's out.

I miss you, so much.

Your arms are two sides of my home.

I remember seeing the co stars in 2014 and cried that you weren't there, but in 2016 i remember seeing them and thinking this is what she saw.

[strawberriestyles]

Prologue

(Banner made by sweet sunshine @harry-nofookingway-styles)

Harry X OFC (AU)

Sequel to Brutality: In which Melody and Harry must relearn how to navigate one another among a flurry of changes.

DISCLAIMER: I have no medical expertise, nor do I have an individual at my disposal to help me check the realism of this story. I'm just writing for fun. Basically, I've tried to form a plot around my very basic knowledge of head trauma and PTSD, and sometimes I've forced things to serve the purpose of the story that I'm trying to create. If you have any information that might help change what I've already written for the better without fundamentally changing the plot ("Harry should have died" is NOT useful), please let me know! Otherwise, please keep the fact checks to yourself and if you must, try to suspend your disbelief. :)

Author’s note: I’m so excited to continue exploring the story of Harry and Melody!! I hope y’all are just as excited. Please let me know your thoughts on the beginning of the sequel! As always, like and reblog. Enjoy! Xx

It looked like an early autumn in the city. The beginning of September was usually hot but after her run, Melody had to slip into a sweatshirt. Clouds filtered out a majority of the sunlight that she’d grown so used to over the previous months. She saw the edges of leaves growing ruddy and bright out of the window of a cab as she made her way back to the hospital.

She paid her fare and slipped through the lobby to purchase a smoothie and a bagel from the cafeteria. She had learned that the hospital food wasn’t so bad as long as you weren’t an actual patient. There had been a lot of nights spent over spaghetti dinners with Sean, even a few grilled cheese nights with Bea. But Melody’s roommate thought that eating in a building where people were sick, dying, or even dead was rather morbid, so she tended to avoid the place entirely.

The stairwells were empty and Melody’s sneakers squeaked against the floor, each footstep echoing as she traveled up to the fourth floor. She was ravenous and had finished half of her breakfast by the time she pushed her way out into the hallway. Everyone at the desk was busy, hands occupied with paperwork and computers, so Melody didn’t give her usual greeting, just sipped at her green smoothie to wash down her bagel and rounded the corner to Harry’s room.

The door was propped open, cool air drifting in from one of the windows. Melody placed the second half of her bagel between her teeth, shivering as she crossed to yank the window shut, but when she turned back into the room the food fell from her mouth. Cream cheese stuck it to the tiles.

“Harry?” she whispered.

He was laying as he always was in his bed, fingers splayed out over his sheets. But this time, they were dancing atop the cotton. His eyes were hooded but open, that familiar green flickering as they roamed the room. Melody heard his pulse spike over the machine he was hooked up to. It took her a moment to recover the rest of her senses.

“Uh, just…stay there,” she mumbled, slipping her smoothie onto the windowsill and leaving her bagel on the ground as she fled the room.

When Melody reached the hall, she thought her lungs had ceased working. Her heart was beating so hard that she thought it might bruise her ribs, crack them even, and she practically yelled when she reached the corner, where she could see the floor desk.

“Vanessa,” she rushed, eyes wide and wild, fingers whitening around the corner of drywall, “I need Dr. Florin. Now.”

“What?” asked the nurse, looking over, a telephone still pressed between her ear and her shoulder. “She’s at—“

“Now, Vanessa,” Melody snapped. “He’s awake.”

Vanessa stared over the desk. When she hung up the phone, she nearly pulled hair out of her bun with it, the strands locked still in her grip. She hurried down the opposite hall and Melody receded around the corner, pressing the back of her head to the wall, trying to slow her staggered breaths.

Dr. Florin and Vanessa came whirling into sight not moments later. The doctor rushed right past and into the room, but Vanessa paused when she saw Melody, lips tightly pressed together, eyes directed toward the ceiling. “What are you doing out here?” she asked.

Melody swallowed and shook her head. “I—I can’t.”

Vanessa’s sigh sounded exasperated. “Melody, this is a good thing. You’ve been waiting for this. I don’t understand what the problem is."

Melody touched her fingertips to her forehead. “What if he doesn’t remember me?” she whispered. She didn’t ask, What if he does? What if he still doesn’t need me? Doesn’t want me? She had been waiting for this, but now that it was happening, she didn’t know how to react. She felt like she was falling. Months hadn’t been enough time to prepare for this reality. And she felt selfish for thinking so.

“You’ll have no idea what you’re working with until you go in there,” Vanessa told her, and she pulled Melody away from the wall by her elbow. “And if he does remember you, I’m sure he’d appreciate a familiar face right now. Go.”

Melody made it to the doorway and paused again. The doctor was leaned over Harry, blocking her view, and she felt her fingers trembling at her sides. Vanessa, however, had followed closely behind her and shoved her into the room. Dr. Florin looked up at the sound of her footsteps.

“Oh, good,” she greeted.

Already Harry was rid of his breathing tube. He glanced at Melody when she came into view and the weight of his gaze felt absolute. It pressed upon every inch of her skin, closed up her lungs. In that one glance she could discern nothing, not recognition or hate or love. It did nothing to ease her dizzy mind.

“Do you remember who this is?” the doctor asked. Melody didn’t see or hear Harry respond. But he must have, because Florin smiled at her and nodded. “Good, good. I’ll let you have some time with him before we take him in for some scans and tests, Melody.”

She pressed Harry’s hand back to his side when he attempted to lift it, his muscles straining with the effort. “No big movements yet, all right? Be patient.” Then she backed away from the bed and stopped at Melody’s side, lowering her voice and smoothing down the side of her own tied-back hair.

“This is good, Melody. He’s responsive. There’s no speech, not yet, but that’s all right. It can take some time. He’ll squeeze your hand once for ‘yes' and twice for ‘no' if you ask him questions. Try to talk with him, but do it gently. Take it slow with the explanations of what’s going on, we can do that later. Okay?”

Melody gave the doctor a delayed nod and before she knew it she was left alone with Harry, the door shut, his eyes blinking up at the ceiling. She pulled in a shaky breath and took tentative steps to the chair at his bedside, where she had spent so much time. Her current read was still sitting on the table, spine cracked and cover curled from frequent handling. She pulled the chair over the tiles until her knees touched the edge of the mattress and then slipped her fingers gently into Harry’s before she could second guess herself.

His eyes lowered from the ceiling and to her face. They were wide, glassy, wet, and she reached instinctively forward to dab at the water that collected beneath his lash line as he blinked.

“Hi,” she whispered, sitting back. She licked her lips and ran her thumb along the back of his hand. She could have cried herself when his fingers fluttered in her grip.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked. It was a pitiful first question. She had dreamt about Harry waking up so many times, so vividly, laughing and crying and forgiving. Those dreams were unrealistic. She knew that. Speech would not be immediate. Understanding would probably not be immediate. There were so many possibilities that the damage to Harry’s head might affect his memory or his personality, short term or long term. Doctor Florin had told her recovery wouldn’t be easy or simple or fast if Harry woke up. And now it was happening, the thing that had been so out of reach and implausible, and she didn’t know how to handle it.

Harry’s hand contracted around her fingers so gently that at first she didn’t even register it. Then she let out an overwhelmed gasp and closed her eyes. “Good,” she murmured.

Harry was staring unblinkingly at her when she looked back at him. God, she wished she could have a real conversation with him. She didn’t know what she could tell him, what she should ask that he could respond to. But she couldn’t just sit there in silence when he was looking at her like that.

“And…do you remember what happened? Why you’re here?”

Harry’s eyes fluttered as he examined Melody's face. She felt a thin pressure on her fingers once, twice, and her heart dropped in her chest. She didn’t want to have to explain it to him, even if she wasn’t going to do it today. She relived that day enough in her head, in her nightmares. She didn’t want to have to verbalize it all over again.

Melody nodded after a moment. “Okay,” she whispered. “I can tell you, but…just not right now.”

Harry just watched her, waiting, patient. She stared down at her own hand, the skin around her nails cracked and red and bitten raw. Her heart leapt, but she made herself ask the questions anyway.

“What about the night of my reading? And the Tuesday after? Do you remember those?”

There was no delay between her words and Harry’s squeeze of her fingers. Just once. Yes. Yes, I remember.

Melody curled her lower lip between her teeth. She squeezed his hand back. “Well, I’d say I’m sorry again but you can’t really tell me to fuck off right now, so I guess that can wait.”

He made a sound between a grunt and a sigh, a quick outlet of air that sounded foreign in the comparable quiet of this space. The door opened again. Almost a laugh, Melody decided. And that was all it took for her to burst into tears as Dr. Florin and Vanessa entered the room. Harry had laughed.

Chapter 1

[waywardwrestlewritingwaif]

The Guardian’s Oath, Part Three

In order to make any sense of this, you’ll want to read Part One and Part Two. 

Thanks to everyone who’s read/ commented/ liked so far! My guess is that this section *maybe* represents the halfway point, although possibly a little less. I feel like I’m on the clock here since there’s at least one more “seasonal” (Halloween-type-theme) story I’m working on. 

Hope you enjoy!

Pairing: Feargal Devitt/ Finn Balor x OFC

Word count: 4,734

Content advisory: None. 

"Is everything alright, Miss? I thought I heard you cry out." 

Kate's voice startled me when I came back inside. 

"Oh yes, I'm sorry. I saw… there was a strange man at the gate just now but I told him to be on his way."

"A strange man?" She muttered something under her breath before continuing, "There's too many around this summer. You see tramps all the way down from Dublin with things being so hard there and it makes you feel like you're not safe in your own home."

"I hadn't thought of that. I assumed it was one of the village men."

Kate shook her head. "They're bad enough. But these city ruffians have a look that'll turn your blood cold."

"He was a peculiar looking fellow," I mused. "And there was certainly something about him that set my nerves on edge. But he's gone now."

I tried to sound confident but when I retired to my chambers for the night, I was haunted by visions of the dark man, filled with a foreboding that he meant harm to me or the children. During those few precious stretches when I was able to sleep, I dreamt of his pale eyes bearing down on me, of the man speaking to me without ever moving his lips. 

“I am coming,” he said, and nothing more. 

*

As the summer progressed, the children became more and more restless with their lessons. Although they did not associate much with the youngsters from town, they knew enough to be aware that schools had let out and that other children were free to spend their summers at play. I tried to keep them focused as much as possible but I found myself giving in to their wishes to go outside and, in particular, to go for long walks along the shore. 

I had become accustomed to the constant roll of the ocean in my new home but I still felt a little intimidated being next to what seemed like an endless expanse. In theory, I knew that there was land in the distance but the fact that I could not see it made me feel like it was a fantasy, as much as the monsters that the children told me of. 

“Miss Miles, can we please go around the point today?” William whined at me. 

For weeks, he had been begging me to circle around the tip of the beach crescent, around to the area just below the place where we had had our picnic. He could tell that each request was wearing me down just a little but I felt that he had reached my core and that I could not yield. The area was rocky and uneven, some of it barely above water even at low tide. I knew that, while he might be able to skip through it with impunity, I couldn’t hope to keep pace and could easily slip and injure myself, at which point I would be no help at all to him or his sister. 

“William, I’ve told you before, if we come to the beach, we stay on the sands,” I grumbled, irritable from a bad night’s sleep. “It’s too dangerous to risk going farther.”

“But there are caves! I want to go and look inside them!”

“My word is final and you know perfectly well that your father would agree with me.”

I remained nervous that the children could damage my position by complaining that I’d treated them unfairly, so I’d taken to invoking their father when I needed to enforce discipline. It worked in this case, as it always did, although every time I refused him his adventure, I could see William’s expression growing more frustrated and angrier. 

The three of us took our dinner together, William still sulking. 

“How did your family die?” he blurted as we waited on dessert. 

“Willam, be quiet,” Sophia hissed. “You’ve no right to ask her such questions.”

At the same time, I saw her dark eyes cut back to me for an instant, as if she wanted to see how I’d react without her intervention. I was exhausted and knew that no real harm could come of sharing my story. I even thought that it might generate some sympathy in them. 

“My mother died giving birth to my younger brother,” I informed them coolly. “My father loved her very much and after she died… his health began to deteriorate.”

I knew enough to avoid telling the whole truth in this case, namely that starting with my mother’s death, my father had started to drink heavily. This was not appropriate for children to hear. Then again, I mused, it was not appropriate for a child to experience. 

“He was a schoolteacher and as his health declined, he was forced out of work,” I continued. 

“So you were paupers?” Sophia asked sharply. 

“We were not so bad off. My father had some meagre savings that supported us, and he was able to take on some work tutoring.”

“Where is your brother now?” William now seemed more curious than resentful. 

I inhaled deeply. 

“My brother died when he was hardly more than a baby.”

“Was he sickly? What did he die of?”

I was not expecting the barrage of personal questions but I understood them to an extent. I likely could have scolded them and told them that they were being presumptuous. Instead, I cast my eyes down at the table and spoke. 

“He just died. No one could ever determine why. He went to sleep one night and never woke up.”

“How mysterious!” Sophia exclaimed. 

“I suppose so,” I responded softly. “After his death, my father’s health grew even worse. He grew weaker and eventually, he died too.”

“As a result of his illness?”

“He took a kind of a turn. I think he must have felt dizzy and he fell and hit his head. He died a few days later from the injury.”

“That’s horrid,” Isabella gasped. “You were left all alone!”

“Not quite all alone,” I answered with a smile. “My church took me in and made sure that my needs were met. They also made sure that I was educated enough to be able to take on a position as governess. And here I am with you.”

Sophia frowned a little. “Do churches in your area normally do that?”

“I suppose I was lucky that this one was very generous.”

The truth was that their generosity had always confused me. When I was very young, I didn’t understand why anyone should be so kind to me. As I grew older, I appreciated it more but I understood that this was not something that was normally practiced. Perhaps I had been lucky enough to be born in an especially generous parish. Perhaps the reverend there had seen some potential in me from the beginning, for he was always my champion and closest ally. I only knew that I had fared better than another in my situation could hope to. 

We all retired early, our lungs full of ocean air that soothed the brain. I read to the children from a book of fables that didn’t seem to bore them too much and was relieved when they declared themselves exhausted after just a few minutes. 

I said my prayers that night remembering my family and hoping that they had made their way to Heaven. 

At around one, I was awakened by Kate, who was in a panic. It took me a moment for me to get her to speak coherently. 

“It’s the young Master,” she sobbed. “He’s run off. She says she doesn’t know where he’s gone.”

The word “she” was said with a level of suspicion and anger that surprised me. I knew she was speaking of Sophia and that she had some dark opinions on the young Devitts, but it hardly seemed a tone appropriate to speaking of a child.

“How long has he been gone?”

“About ten minutes ma’am. I ran out to see if I could catch him because he’s run off to hide in the woods as a game before, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.”

I started to gather some clothes so that I could at least make a pretense of being presentable. 

“Was the back gate unlocked?”

“It was, although I can’t say for certain if that was done tonight.”

The two of us descended the stairs, looking out at the trees whipped around by the wind. I was aware that Sophia trailed after us but I was annoyed at her for her refusal to divulge where her brother had gone, even though I was certain she knew. 

“Kate, did you see him go in the direction of the woods?” I asked, another idea springing to mind. 

“I did not… I just assumed that since he’d gone before…”

“He’s not back there,” I told her. “He’s gone down to the water to look at the caves.” I spun to face Sophia. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

She pursed her lips, looking genuinely shocked that I had figured out the answer so quickly.

“The caves?” Kate exclaimed. “But it’s high tide! He’ll be pulled out to sea!”

“Kate, I need you to go to all the houses nearby. Wake them and tell them that you need to form a search party for Master William and tell them we think that he’s near the ocean. They can cover the ground over land in case he’s taken that route. I’m going to go down to the beach to see if I can find him there.”

“But it’s not safe!”

“It will be fine,” I assured her, far from convinced myself. “I should be able to catch him before he makes his way around the point. Hopefully, he’ll turn back on his own when he sees the water but at least I can move much faster than he does.”

Without waiting for another word, I bolted from the house, rushing down to the beach and almost falling several times. The tide was at its highest point, almost reaching the top of the rocks where William liked to collect his specimens. Even at a distance, I could see that the point of the crescent, where WIlliam would have to go in order to access the caves on the other side, was covered in water up to its vertical rise. And well ahead of me along the beach, I could see a small figure skipping along the rocks. 

“William!” I screamed, starting after him as quickly as I could. “William, stop! It’s too dangerous!”

The wind whipping off the water was too much for my voice to carry, so I continued after him as quickly as I could go, confounded that his tiny legs seemed to carry him at almost the same pace. It took me some time to close any distance between us and I was still too far behind for him to hear me calling after him. 

As he approached the end of the beach, I saw him pause and peer forward, as if he were following someone and questioning the wisdom of going further. I tried to call out his name even louder but I grew winded very quickly. 

It seemed like insanity, even for a child, but William waded out into the water, making his way towards the point. I trembled at the thought that in order to catch up with him, I would have to do the same, already imagining the weight of my clothing and the tug of the current on my legs. 

He clung as close as he could to the shore and began to gingerly make his way around the turn. Once he slipped, the rocks beneath his feet doubtless slick and deadly, but he resurfaced a second later, scrabbling his way up to the side of the rock and clinging to it as he made his way around and out of my sight. 

Terrified, I realized that in order to have any hope of overtaking him before the danger became worse, I would have to take a diagonal route, walking through the water rather than moving along the shore. I had never in my life ventured into the ocean but the need to rescue my young charge was greater than my fear. I waded out until the water reached my thighs and fought my way with all my strength. As I approached the point of the crescent beach, I stumbled, almost getting pulled under and soaked to my chest but I persevered, making my way forward until I saw the gouges in the earth that formed the caves William so wanted to see. 

As I approached the first one, I heard screaming over the wind and made my way towards it. Indeed it was William, ghost white and terrified, begging for help. 

“I can’t swim!” he shrieked. 

Of course, I couldn’t swim either, but I wasn’t about to say that. 

“I’m coming William!” I cried out, fighting my way towards him. “We’ll be safe soon!”

By the time I reached him, cowering on a ledge inside the cave, my lungs were burning from exertion. I gathered him up in my arms but my grip was weak. I was gasping and desperately trying to keep hold of him and I could tell from the look on his face that my demeanor was doing nothing to inspire confidence. Despite the cold of the water, my entire body felt like burning coals wrapped in skin. Truthfully, having made it this far, I wasn’t certain I could guide us to safety but I knew I had a better chance than the boy had on his own. And, although I felt shame at the thought as soon as it occurred to me, if I were to leave and focus only on saving myself, there was the chance that he would survive and be able to tell others that I had abandoned him. 

I wrapped my arm around him and crept forward to the mouth of the cave. I glanced over my shoulder, wondering if we might be safer heading further back, into the darkness behind us but there was no way to tell how far back the cave went, if there was a drop, or how deep the water was. So I clung as best I could to the rocky surface with my free hand, trying not to give into the panic I felt hearing William scream and cry. 

The rocks under my feet were slick and treacherous and more than once I slipped, sending both of us under the water and forcing me to expend more precious energy fighting back to the surface. After the second such accident, William ceased to cry and seemed to grow heavier. He coughed and spluttered and I found myself shaking him violently in the hopes of making him cough up the ocean water he’d swallowed. Eventually, though, I became so focused on getting back to the shore that it was all I was aware of. 

Rather than head back around the point and risk the strong current there, I took the shortest route and headed for the land nearest the caves. I remembered from our picnic on the cliff above that it was narrower and rockier but I didn’t believe I had the strength to carry William much further. I knew that there was some kind of path up because the children had taken it the day of our picnic. But I was certain what shape it would be in or how accessible it would be with the high tide. 

I felt like it took me hours to reach the point where the land rose above the water. The path up was difficult to mount but I somehow managed it, all the while pulling my young charge along. Although I managed to get us on to some semblance of solid ground, the soil there was loose and slid around, frustrating my attempts to crawl to safety. William whimpered and whined, for I was at this point dragging him like a sack behind me. I had to pause every few steps just to get more air into my body and because I felt too exhausted to continue. I gave some anguished sobs myself, desperate and furious that this boy had put us both in danger. 

About halfway up the hill, I saw some lights and thought I heard voices. I waited a moment, afraid that I was imagining things but the sights and sounds persisted and it occurred to me that there were people there: Kate had gone to raise the alarm with our neighbors and she would have sent them to the place where she knew I had headed. 

“Help us!” I cried as loudly as I could manage. I knew I was nowhere near loud enough to be heard over the wind but knowing how close rescue was, my body refused to move further up the path. “For the love of God, help us!”

I stayed in place, clinging to William and holding him close to my body in order to share what little warmth I had. I continued to scream, my voice growing louder as some of my strength returned. Although his glassy eyes told me that he had no idea what was going on, William was roused by my voice and then joined me in my calls for help. As I reached what I truly felt might be my last breath, I saw a couple of faces appear above us. I raised my arm weakly and hollered in the hopes that they would notice us. 

“They’re here!” a man’s voice cried out. 

I felt my body slump as I realized that we’d been seen. I clung as tight as I could to William and felt my head tip back. Although I never lost consciousness, I was only dimly aware of what was going on as the men descended and gathered us up to bring us back to safety. There was a cacophony of voices offering praise to God, trying to evaluate our health, barking orders on where to take us. 

Finally, one familiar voice cut through them all. 

“Oh my heavens, Miss Miles,” Kate cried, “you are a saint.”

I felt filthy and waterlogged and pain ripped through every tissue of my body. I felt like nothing like a saint but her praise felt better and more genuine than anything I had been told in my life. I tried to smile but even the muscles of my face felt heavy and I don’t know that I managed more than a twitch of my lips. 

The rescue party conveyed us all back to Wynn Cottage, throwing rugs and blankets over us as they did. I heard Kate giving orders and was quietly impressed at how her sweet, matronly demeanor changed when leadership was needed. When we reached the cottage, the group split into two. One part hurried up the stairs with William, yelling that the doctor was needed. Another group carried me to the kitchen, where Susan was standing over a washing basin filled with hot water. 

I was surprised, in light of her often grouchy mood, to see that her eyes were red from crying and that she reached out to grab hold of my hand as soon as the men brought me close to her. She held onto it hard and a strange mix of prayers and praise flowed from her lips. 

“Thank you, thank you,” Kate muttered, fighting her way to the front of the crowd. “Now please leave us, we have to get her into the bath to warm her up. Give us some privacy please.”

The men shuffled out of the kitchen and I immediately felt Kate and Susan working at the buttons of my dress. Their movements were frantic enough that a few buttons were torn clean off. Each time that would happen, I heard Susan assure us that she would take care of it. When they finally removed the last of my drenched clothing, I saw Susan gather everything up and grab the errant buttons off the floor before disappearing. Kate helped me step into the basin and lowered me into the hot water. 

It was painful, for my skin felt like I was being poached in the heat, but she stroked my hair and soothed me, assuring me that this was what I needed. 

“You’ve done more than was ever asked of you,” she told me. “You are that boy’s guardian angel and everyone in this place is going to hear of what you did for him.”

Gently, she laid my head against the edge of the basin and I looked up at her, able to focus my eyes for the first time since my rescue. 

“Thank you,” I croaked, my voice cracking with the effort of speaking. “You’re too kind.”

She huffed and shook her head. “The Young Master deserves a hiding for sneaking out that way. You are a truly godly woman and there’s not many that would have done what you did, putting your own life in danger to save him.”

I remembered that moment in the cave when I had considered abandoning William for an instant and shame washed over me. 

Some voices came from the landing above and Kate frowned a little. 

“I suppose I’m needed up there,” she sighed. “Can you hold yourself up if I go? You won’t slip under the water?”

“I’m fine,” I promised her. “Go and tend to the boy and make sure he has what he needs.”

I thought that she was going to repeat her assertion that what he needed was a hiding but she simply shook her head and left the kitchen. 

My body had adjusted to the temperature and I could feel myself relaxing. Fatigue was so heavy on me that I did need to keep a firm grip on the sides of the basin to avoid sinking to the bottom. How ironic it would be, I thought mirthlessly, to have escaped a watery ocean death only to drown in a tub of water here. 

The oil lamp that had been left to give me some light flickered a little and I wondered if there might be a draft. I couldn’t feel anything on my skin but in my state, I couldn’t be sure of anything that was happening. The lamp seemed to grow dimmer and the shadows in the room drew closer. It was my exhausted mind toying with me, I told myself. I couldn’t trust my senses under such circumstances. 

Nevertheless, a current of fear ran through me, making me feel more awake and alert than I had in hours. And as I looked around the room, I saw a figure emerge from the shadows, the low lighting casting a sheen over its dark skin and illuminating its pale eyes. It advanced until it reached the edge of the basin where I lay, helpless, its long tongue flicking over sharpened teeth like a predator discovering injured prey. 

I wanted to scream but there was no air in my lungs and my lips refused to open. My whole body was paralyzed, so that I could not escape or fight him. His face was familiar but I could not remember from exactly where. But while I was certain I had encountered him before, I knew immediately that he had not been in this form, this demonic shape, nude with an oily hide, black mottled with red and white, a deranged grin and eyes that seemed to hold me in thrall. 

Unable to move though I was, I quickly realized that I was not unable to feel. As he leaned over the edge of the tub, he took hold of my foot and lightly dragged one clawed finger along the sole. The sensation made me shiver, made me want to thrash around to free myself, but I could do none of those things. Grinning, he dipped his head low and stuck his tongue into the bathwater like a cat at a saucer of milk. Then in one smooth motion he tightened his grip on my ankle and pulled my leg forward, immediately pulling my upper body under the water. 

I wanted to push myself up again. I wanted to wriggle free of his grip. I wanted to run from him. But my body would do none of this. Instead, I was forced to feel the air escaping my lungs, to feel the desperation and panic grow in me as I realized that I could not reach the surface. At the same time, I felt the tip of the demon’s tongue touch the instep of my foot and trail a hot path over my calf. I could feel its cruel smile against my skin as it made its way higher, until its mouth came to rest at the back of my knee. There was a sharp pain as he bit down on the flesh there and I wanted to cry out but had no power to do. 

At that moment, his touch was gone and I was trapped under the water unable to move. A second later, a clawed hand grabbed a handful of my hair and jerked me back into a sitting position. I gasped, drawing in as much air as I could, touching my skull where I’d felt hairs ripped out. My body was my own again but as I surveyed the kitchen, I saw that I was alone. Had I imagined everything? Had it all just been some fevered hallucination? 

I looked at the skin under my knee and found a red mark where he had bitten me, however, as I prodded it with my finger, the mark disappeared and the flesh looked normal once again. For the first time since the demonic figure had appeared, I heard noises coming from upstairs in the house. People were bustling around, Kate was giving instructions, there were footsteps everywhere. I stayed in the tub for as long as I could stand, feeling the water grow cooler against my skin. Susan had left some towelling for me and I wrapped myself in it as I emerged from my bath, relishing the sensation of the soft fabric. 

I stood there, wrapped up, before the oven for some time, lost in thought, before Kate came back into the kitchen. 

“Oh bless you, miss,” she exclaimed. “We didn’t even remember you here.”

“It’s all right. I’m warm and I’m dry now.”

“After all you’ve done, it’s a poor return on our part to leave you all alone.”

“Kate, I’m fine.” Instinct told me that I should keep my demonic vision to myself. “If you could fetch me my nightdress, I would be most obliged.”

She hurried out of the kitchen, still fretting and returned only moments later with my gown. She helped me into it, as my arms ached so much I could barely lift them. 

“Is Master William safe?” I asked timidly. 

“He’s better than he deserves to be. He’s asleep in bed as if nothing happened.”

“I was a bit rough with him,” I admitted. “I was worried that I might have injured him on the way back.”

“A few scrapes and bruises is all. And it’s no less than he deserves.”

“You mustn’t be too harsh on him. Children are adventurous at that age, especially boys.”

She shook her head, guiding me up the stairs. “I have three brothers and let me tell you that all of them knew that if they’d run off like that, the cuts they got from the rocks would have been the least painful part of the experience.”

I smiled weakly and hugged her as she helped me into the bed. 

“We all need to sleep,” I told her, “yourself very much included. I don’t want to hear you up and about at the usual hour. You rest as long as you can.”

“You’re too kind, ma’am.”

“Nonsense. It’s the very least I can do after all your work tonight.”

As she left the garrett, I saw that she turned and looked back at me for a moment. “God bless you and keep you,” she whispered. 

I was quickly asleep, however, I woke up periodically, convinced that I felt a hand on my cheek or my throat, or that an unseen figure was hovering nearby, waiting. 

[ottelis]

“I gave you my life, Eliott,” Lucas’s voice shatters, splinters.

Eliott replies softly, broken, hollow, “And I gave you mine.”

“No,” Lucas says, low and dark. “No, you didn’t.”

.

.

aka: eliott and lucas grow up together, but are separated when eliott is institutionalized in paris after a severe depressive episode. they reunite two years later when eliott is released, but everything has already changed before their eyes.

epigraph. i. ii.

tw: mentions of minor character death, mentions and brief descriptions of electroconvulsive therapy

june 22nd, 1968

11:01

caen, france

~

Eliott wakes up the next morning with a headache and a hollow chest. Memories from the day before reenter his mind slowly, as if the pain had fallen asleep and was waking up with him. He’d cried for hours, and his mother held him until his tears ran dry. Eliott was left with that exhausted, gutted-out feeling. He’d spent all his energy mourning. Mourning the loss of Lucas, his father, the town and the world he once knew, everything he once knew. Even when his eyes had become dry, he still had so much mourning inside of him, but it had lost all of its escape routes. It hid inside him, tucked itself away in the marrow of his bones, the back of his skull, the tips of his fingers and toes. It disguised itself and traveled within his blood, coursing through him until it had touched every part of him. And as Eliott stares up at his ceiling, hours and hours later, he realizes far too quickly that it still hasn’t run its course.

The waking pain yawns, almost swallowing him whole. He wonders if this could send him into some pit, some black hole that he’s visited once before. He wonders if it could send him back to that awful, awful place he swears lies nowhere on the earth’s gentle, scarred surface. The waking pain stretches, and Eliott feels it wearing on his soul. He feels it pulling, tugging, and he feels his soul trembling and moaning and wailing. It calls for his father, his mother, Lucas, anyone. Anyone who can take the waking pain away, put it back to sleep before its cold, dark eyes fully open, before it bares its claws and roars rumble from its throat.

But Papa is dead. Maman loves him, but she doesn’t understand what he’s going through. Lucas hates him, and he won’t understand what he’s been through. And there’s no one else who can heal him like Papa, Maman, and Lucas could. The moment Eliott started getting sick, he lost any sort of love and care anyone could give him. Every time Papa clapped his hand on his shoulder and smiled at him, every time Maman kissed his forehead and brushed his hair out of his eyes, every time Lucas kissed him until he was dizzy and touched him until he melted, it was useless, a waste of time, energy, love. And he kept demanding more, draining them until they ran dry. He was never satisfied, not truly. It was like a thunderstorm. It soaked him, wetting his hair and chilling his bones and skin. It was cold, shocking him into living, but not quite into thriving. But the clouds would stop crying, lose their voices, and the droplets resting on his skin would dry, die, fade away.

Was he selfish? Is he selfish?

And where is the healing his mother talked about? He can’t feel it holding his hand. He can’t feel it guiding him through the hurt. Has the healing abandoned him? Has it grown so tired from Eliott’s mind turning against him over and over and over and over again that it’s given up on him? Can the healing only reach certain people? Does the healing abandon those who are beyond saving? Has it abandoned him already?

His thoughts, his spiral, are cut off by the shrill whistle of a kettle. It startles him a bit, but the thought of his mother making tea made everything just a little brighter, like the flame of a candle. He exhales slowly, telling his mind to slow down, to quiet. Just for a moment, he reasons with it. Please.

He sits up, his body suddenly feeling weightless, thin and translucent like smoke. He takes another deep breath, letting the air fill him as much as it could.

Breathe, a thousand voices tell him. His parents, Lucas, his doctors, himself. Breathe. It will pass.

He climbs out of his bed, his feet meeting fabric when they touch the floor. He looks down and sees his father’s coat lying in a pile on the floor. He doesn’t remember taking it off. He picks it up and shrugs it on, the fabric still warm and smooth. It’s heavy, too, weighing on his shoulders, his back. Another deep breath: in, then out.

He walks across his room to his door, opening it slowly so it doesn’t creak. The kettle is louder now, and he hears pots and pans clanging against each other. He’ll eat a meal with his mother again for the first time in two years. They’ll sit at the dining table, and Maman will set it, laying down the placemats she sewed and embroidered herself before he was born. She’ll set Papa’s place, too, and tears will fill her eyes and her lips will wobble into a frown, but she’ll take a deep breath and make herself smile. The room will be laced with a sudden, subtle chill, as if Papa was there with them, cold and silent and looming. He’ll feel sick to his stomach, but he forces the nausea down. His mother will say grace, and thank God for their home, their family, their health, the food that they are about to eat. He’ll listen, his eyes closed, but hear his father’s voice in the back of his mind. Papa used to say grace at every meal. But then Papa died on a bright, clear, spring morning. The sun had risen early that day, and he wonders if Papa saw it before his lungs shriveled up and his eyes glazed over. There was never a day more beautiful, and there was never a day more terrible. His mother will say at least one time today how he looks just like Papa. She’ll sound tired, but soft; sad, but fond. He’ll smile and say that he knows, and he’ll wish Lucas’s parallel universes were real and that he could reach out and touch one, live in one, even if just for a day. One where everything is normal again. One where he isn’t sick. One where his father is still alive and laughing. One where his mother smiles widely and sings everywhere she goes. One where Lucas doesn’t hate him. One where maybe he loves him. And this will happen—this wishing, this longing—every single day, for the rest of his life. Nevertheless, he walks down the stairs that don’t creak anymore. He takes a step closer to a new normalcy, stagnancy.

He pauses at the last stair, silencing memories of his mother singing from the kitchen, listening. But all he hears is something sizzling, something being poured. He hears his mother sigh, long and tired and weary. He feels a pang of guilt, and he’s too exhausted to fight it—a new normalcy, stagnancy. He descends the last stair, approaching the kitchen silently. The dining table is already set with three placemats: his, his mother’s, and his father’s. There are teacups beside each one, steam curling from their edges. His mother is standing over the stove, scrambling eggs. She’s dressed, her hair pulled back in a bun, her apron tied round her waist. Gray hangs beneath her eyes, and fatigue pulls down on the corners of her mouth. He feels the pang again, stronger, deeper. Had she been up all night worrying about him? Was she disappointed because her son was supposed to come back normal, the same, happy boy she loved so much, but he came back just as damaged as he was before?

“Oh, hi, honey,” she greets, snapping him out of his thoughts. “Did you sleep well? Do you feel any better?”

There’s a softness, a genuineness in her voice. She puts down her spatula, wipes her hands on her apron, and walks towards him. She gives him all of her attention. She listens to his every word, is watchful of his every move, every shift in his face. She loves him.

But he doesn’t know how to answer her. He shrugs. “I feel… Drained.”

She frowns, pushing his hair back from his eyes. “I’m sorry, dear.”

Eliott sighs. She doesn’t know what to say, and he doesn’t either. “It’s okay, Maman,” he mumbles. “I’ll be okay. I’ll get better.”

I’ll be okay. I’ll get better.

She smiles, then, and softly envelops him in her arms. He feels her heart beating against his, feels her inhale slowly, feels her tighten her grip on him. He closes his eyes, feeling a little closer to his old life, even if only by a step.

“I love you so much, my boy,” she says. “I want you to get better.”

“I will, Maman,” he promises her, his voice firmer, stronger than it has been before. “I will. I love you, too.”

The smell of smoke shatters the moment, pulls them apart.

“The eggs!” his mother groans, rushing over to the skillet. She stirs them furiously, the smoke thickening.

Eliott stifles a chuckle, walking over to her. “Are they okay?”

He looks inside, and the eggs are much darker than he’s sure his mother wanted them to be. They’re not burnt, but they’ll definitely be tough when they eat them.

“They’ve been better,” his mother sighs, turning down the heat.

“I think they’ll still taste good, Maman,” Eliott replies, still trying to hold back his laughter.

“I hope so,” she laughs, too. “Are you ready to eat, dear?”

Eliott isn’t all that hungry, but he smiles and nods. The small breaths of laughter leave his lungs, and he’s left with dread filling his stomach. He so desperately hates how much he needs everything to be normal again.

They never will be, he reminds himself. Never again. Move on. I’ll be okay. I’ll get better.

He fills his plate with as much food as he thinks he can stomach, setting it down at his place on the table. He always sat to the left of his father, who sat at the head of the table. His mother sat to his father’s right. Her and Eliott always looked at him as he talked about his day, as he asked about theirs. Eliott’s mother always told him how his father was never quite the same after he came home from the war, but Eliott always thought his father was the best man in the world. He was kind, caring, and he always listened. Eliott always wanted to be just like him when he was growing up. He was his hero. Now he’s just an empty chair, an empty placemat, a chill in the air.

He stares at his father’s place, his fork cold in his hand. He bites his lip, wills his mind to stop thinking.

“How did you stand it, Maman?” he blurts out, the question lingering dark and thin in the air between them. “Eating at our table, alone?”

His mother looks up at him, her eyes shining with tears. But she smiles, shrugs. “I had a lot of people over for dinner. The Lallemants, the Broussards, the Savarys, the Cazases. Anyone who needed a nice, home-cooked meal. And when I didn’t have anyone over, I would eat, and remind myself that both of you were still with me. You were a train ride away in Paris, and I knew I would see you again soon. And your father has always lived in my heart, dear. He still does. And he lives in yours, too. I would try to remember that we were all still together, in a way.”

“In some other universe,” Eliott mutters, Lucas’s voice lingering in the back of his mind.

His mother smiles. “I thought you didn’t believe in that.”

“Not in the way Lucas does,” Eliott replies, Lucas’s name bitter on his tongue.

Her smile falters. She puts her fork down, reaching her hand across the table and taking Eliott’s. “Maybe he just needs time, dear.”

“He’s had two years, Maman,” he sighs, every emotion he felt yesterday beginning to flood back. “Two years to remember everything I did to him. Two years to try and forget about me because I’m not the Eliott he knew anymore. He knows that. I know that. He’s had nothing but time to make up his mind about me. And you know him. He doesn’t change his mind very often. He’s angry at me, he hates me, and I’m beginning to think he always will.”

She doesn’t reply at first. And when she does, it’s quiet, pitiful, “Eliott…”

“Can we not talk about him, Maman?” Eliott pleads. “It… It hurts too much.”

“Okay,” she agrees, squeezing his hand.

But Eliott is still thinking about him. His handsome, still familiar face twisting in anger, his silvery voice splintering and shattering, the oceans in his eyes spilling over onto his cheeks. The picture of agony, of devastation. And Eliott did that to him.

“He’s my best friend,” he whispers, his voice not strong enough to declare it.

“Eliott, honey,” she sighs, sympathetic.

“We were gonna be best friends forever,” he continues, tears rolling down his cheeks. “But I…”

His mother rises from her seat and hurries over to him, wrapping him in her arms. She holds him tight, kisses his hair, his forehead. “Tell me how to take the pain away, dear,” she whispers, her voice thin with tears.

His answer is quiet, hopeless: “I don’t know, Maman.”

june 24th, 1968

16:00

caen, france

~

The next couple of days are long, but they blur together, like an ink smudge, or the trees through the window when you’re riding in the car. Eliott feels numb. He sleeps to escape the pain of being awake. He takes small bites of food. He watches the television and lets the noise lull him into another world, one he can get lost in, one where he can remember and the memories are softer, brighter. Sometimes he sits outside and tries to count the stars. Sometimes he listens for the moon’s song, wonders if she’s the only thing that can help him now. But she’s silent, still. He misses the moon’s songs. He misses his mother’s songs, too. He misses everything.

Today, he decides he’s going to visit his father’s grave. He asked if his mother if she wanted to come with him during lunch, and she smiled sadly and said yes. But a little later, she said, too. Eliott agreed.

They’re sitting in the car now, driving into town. Eliott isn’t sure what he’s feeling. He hasn’t been to the cemetery in almost two years. He didn’t go there much, even before he had to go to the institution. The scars were still too fresh. The thought of his father being dead still hadn’t sunk in fully. And, if he’s honest with himself, it still hasn’t. Whenever his mother wrote to him and told him she was gonna go up and visit him, he had a hope in the back of his mind that his father was coming, too, to surprise him. But, of course, he never did.

They pass Saint-Saveur, with its tall, pockmarked exterior and all its memories. The bells begin to peal, warm and brassy, echoing throughout the city. Eliott tries to push away memories of the funeral service they held within its walls. How his mother held onto him in her grief, and how as soon as she found someone else to lean on, he fell, exhausted, bereaved, into Lucas’s arms. And Lucas held him, patiently, gently. He looks away from the church and across the street at the little shops and houses. The town carries on, long after the bombs have detonated, long after the ashes and dust have settled, and not long after the best man to ever live on this earth was violently ripped from it far too soon. Then, his mother turns a corner, and the church is just a trembling image in the rearview mirror.

Eliott closes his eyes, focusing on the music on the radio. He waits for the music to cut off into silence, waits for the car to turn off, waits for his mother’s heavy, weary sigh. He waits.

The waiting ends a little too quickly for his taste.

He opens his eyes, and the first thing he sees is the sea of headstones. The grass around them is a rich green, but the overcast sky colors them even darker. Everything is in grayscale, almost. He can’t quite remember exactly where his father’s grave is. He remembers it being further back, closer to the trees. He remembers it being up to his right. Hopefully his mother knows where he is.

Eliott hears his mother’s seatbelt unbuckle, and his heart nearly drops to his stomach. He takes a deep breath.

“Ready, dear?” his mother asks him gently, carefully.

He lets his body take over, guide him. He unbuckles, too, nodding. “I’m ready.”

“Don’t forget his flowers,” she reminds him.

He shakes his head weakly. They’re sitting in his lap. “I won’t, Maman.”

They get out of the car, their feet meeting cracked pavement, and they take each other’s hands. They walk.

The world around them is eerily quiet. Despite the humidity clinging to everything it can touch, cool breezes break through it, sweeping over the land. Papa really is here, Eliott thinks to himself. He tries not to think about how the ground he’s walking on is full of caskets holding bones, the decaying, the newly dead. He tries not to think about how, somewhere here, his father is lying, sleeping, for eternity. He tries not to think about when they buried him—dust to dust, ashes to ashes; he was a good man; you poor boy, having to grow up without your father; what a pity; what a shame—and the flowers he held then, the flowers he’s holding now. He tries not to think. After all, it’s all he’s done the past two years. Try and fail to turn his mind off, try and fail to soothe it, try and fail to coax it, lead it down a different path. He’s surprised he still has the strength to try, knowing that all he’s ever done is fail.

His mother squeezes his hands, and he comes back down to earth.

“We’re almost there,” she tells him, her voice soothing.

They nearly reach the corner of the cemetery when his mother stops, letting out a shaky breath.

Eliott looks down, and he sees his father’s grave. Tears almost immediately fill his eyes. It’s worn now, faded. Battered and weathered. Has it really been that long since his father passed away? He studies the writing.

Eduard Demaury

décembre 2, 1923-mai 29, 1966

Un vaillant soldat, un mari dévoué et un père aimant

He squeezes his mother’s hand so hard he’s afraid he’s hurting her. He mutters an apology, his voice strangled through his tears. His feels his chest splitting open, his throat getting sore from holding back his sobs. He lets go of his mother’s hand, using it to wipe the tears that were flowing down his cheeks in rapids. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to gather himself again.

Breathe, the thousand voices tell him again. His father’s is the loudest. It’s how he’s always remembered it. It’s kind. It’s patient. It’s soothing, cooling, like a balm. It’s healing. It’s been two years since he heard his father’s voice, but he’ll never hear it again within the walls of their house, or in the salty air crashing up from the waves. His voice will only live within the confines of his mind. It’s stuck in a maze. A maze of memories, of emotions, of impulses and despairings, and yet it navigates it in the moments Eliott needs it most, and it’s there. It’s here!

Eliott begins to cry harder, his breaths coming out in short hiccups. He misses his father, but he’s here! He’s here, speaking to him! He tries to breathe more slowly, deeply, remind himself that he’s here!

Breathe, his father’s voice says again. Eliott’s heart swells.

“Do we need to leave, dear?” his mother asks, her voice kind but anxious.

Eliott takes another deep breath, then shakes his head. “I just miss him.”

He feels his mother drape her arm across his shoulders, pulling him close. She doesn’t say anything. She kisses his temple and ruffles his hair. She lets him cry.

He keeps hearing his father’s voice in his mind. Somehow, it dries his eyes. Somehow, the chill dissipates, the wind quiets, his mind quiets.

He lets the last of his tears roll slowly down his cheeks, lets the last of the breaths lodged in his throat escape violently, sweetly.

Then there’s a calm.

“I miss him, too,” his mother finally says, squeezing him tighter. “But you and I are together again. And he’s watching over us. I know it.”

Eliott nods. “I know it, too.”

“Do you want to put the flowers down?” his mother asks, the anxiety disappearing from her voice.

Eliott nods again, stepping closer to the headstone. He places the flowers down carefully, their petals of rich red, brilliant blue, and pure white brightening the whole world around them. Eliott smiles.

“I’m home now, Papa,” he says, his voice bright and clear. “I love you. Thank you.”

Eliott and his mother linger for a moment, holding each other. The clouds darken above them, but Eliott feels nothing but light.

june 26th, 1967

13:30

paris, france

~

Yesterday was Eliott’s first (and hopefully last) birthday at the institution, and he hasn’t heard a word from Lucas. He asked his mother when she visited if she knew of Lucas mentioning anything about his birthday, and his heart sank slowly when she said she didn’t know. She talked him through every irrational thought that crossed his mind and escaped through his tongue. They grew up together, they’re best friends, how could Lucas ever forget Eliott’s birthday?  If Lucas sent him a letter, it’s probably just late going through the mail. Today’s still his birthday. If he gets something tomorrow, it would only be a day late. Lucas has time, and so does Eliott. Then, she tried to take his mind off of it by giving him his presents. A new shirt, soft and white and warm. A dozen of his favorite cookies that she made herself. A book, or a play, really: Waiting for Gadot, by Samuel Beckett. A pair of socks that were navy blue and warm. It worked, for a moment.

Today, he’s wearing his new shirt and his new socks, and he’s already finished reading the play. The cookies are lying on his bedside table, completely untouched (they would stay this way for another day or two, and Eliott would feel the weight of years and years of guilt for it). Today, his mother isn’t there to talk him through his doubts. Today, he still hasn’t heard from Lucas. Today, he’s afraid he’ll spiral downward again, because then the doctors will use the more extreme treatments to fix him. He wishes he could say they don’t work, the electric shocks, but they do. They don’t make him feel better, they just make him feel nothing. And, for the doctors, that means he isn’t depressed anymore. Today, he sits on his bed and studies the picture of Lucas he keeps in his room, hoping it’ll give him the strength he needs to get better, to avoid another excruciating round of the shocks.

Today, one of the nurses knocks on his door then slides a letter underneath it.

Eliott jumps up from his bed, picking up the letter with fumbling fingers. His eyes fill with tears the moment he sees his name written in Lucas’s handwriting. He tears the envelope open, unfolding the paper inside. His heart is racing in his chest, his lips are spreading into an aching grin, and his tears are escaping. He never knew he could miss Lucas’s jagged cursive so much. He reads it, drinking in every word as if it were life-giving water.

My dearest Eliott,

My love, I pray night and day that you won’t have to be in Paris a mere moment longer than you need to. I pray that you’ll be in my arms the very second I’m there to open them up to you. My prayers bleed into my dreams, where our reunion is woven with gold and the sound of the waves and moonsong. And my dreams leak into my every waking moment, Eliott. Not a moment goes by where I’m not missing you, thinking of you, dreaming of you. My heart absolutely aches that I can’t see you today, darling. I can only imagine what you’re feeling. I pray you’re not hurting. I pray that if you are, that my words will be of even the slightest bit of healing, of medicine. If only I could heal you. If only my love was enough to do so. I was born to love you, Eliott. I know it. There are moments, hours, days, where that’s the only thing I truly know.

My heart beats faster, harder, stronger because it’s reaching for you, darling. Is your heart reaching for me? I think I feel it. It comes to me at night, through the stars. It burns behind my eyelids and forces them open. It tilts my chin skyward and I remember you with a new strength, a new fondness. You were the one who first told me about them, the stars, pointed each one out so I could see them. I loved the way your hand moved across the sky. You seemed to cup the galaxy gently in the palm of your hand, cradling it. You seemed to rule it, and it seemed to love you. Who knew billions of burning, little flames could all love something so much they would all surrender to it, mold and stretch at the flick of its hand? I’m not sure if you know that, my love. You must be made of stars.

What are the stars like in Paris? They must be timid, anxious. They’re only brave enough to share the smallest shred of their light. Do they still love you? Do you still cradle them as gently as you would cradle a child? Do you give them pieces of your heart and do they promise to deliver them to me? Do they keep their promise? Do millennia of explosions, creation, hold them aloft until they reach the speck of dust that I am? Do they see the things you do to me? Do they see my heart ramming into my rib cage until it’s bruised, until it aches? Do they see your eyes when they meet mine, how they soften and brighten like the horizon every time the sun touches it? Do they love me, too?

Neither this pen, my mind, nor my tongue could ever express how much I miss you, mon amour. Truly. You were always so much better with words than I was. I know numbers, straight lines, rigid shapes. You know words, curves, fluidity. I always envied you for that. But, whenever I think of you, whenever I look at the stars, my emotions, my love comes flowing out in a rush, in a surge. Unless I let them escape, they froth and broil within me, scorching me, scarring me. Is that how you always feel? Like you’re on the verge of exploding, of bursting into rich, blue flames? Like, if your heart isn’t stitched to your sleeve it’ll shiver, shrivel up in the darkness of your chest? How do you bear it? How do you bear living, darling, when the world around you is so gilded? You see the beauty in every single thing you see. A grain of sand, a blade of grass, the smallest wisp of a cloud. Yet, they all could be a weapon. They could turn on you at any moment. They have. Yet they never lose their beauty in your eyes. How do you manage it? [Scratched out].

Please tell me you’re well. Or, at least, that you’re improving. And if you’re not, I’ll tell the stars to come to you and stay with you. I’ll tell them to never leave your side, not even for a moment. I’ll tell them to do anything they can to make you better, to ensure that you’ll come back home, come back to me. Tell me if that’s what you want, darling. I’ll do it. I swear. I love with you everything I am, everything I have been, and everything I ever will be. Happy birthday, darling.

Forever and sincerely yours, Lucas

Eliott wipes the tears from his face, overjoyed, breathless laughter making his body tremble. He clutches Lucas’s letter to his chest, letting his words wash over him over and over like waves of sweet, warm water. He sighs happily, reading over it again.

He studies the part of the letter that’s scratched out for a moment, noticing a few lines of letters through the scratches of ink. He looks at it more closely, wanting to read every single word Lucas wrote to him, scratched out or not. His heart nearly stops once the letters become clear, legible.

You almost couldn’t.

june 25th, 1968

10:00

caen, france

~

“Eliott,” his mother’s voice coos. “Wake up, honey.”

He jolts a bit, his eyes opening slowly. He sees his mother kneeling by his bedside, smiling at him softly.

“Happy birthday, Eliott!” she grins, tousling his hair. “How are you feeling?”

He smiles back at her tiredly. “Ask me in a few minutes when I’m awake.”

“Well, I just got back from the bakery,” she tells him, rising to her feet. “And they had plenty of pain au chocolat and baguettes ready to go for us.”

Eliott sits up, his attention grabbed. He swears he can already smell, taste the food waiting for him at the dining table. He gets out of bed, hugging his mother tightly. “Thank you, Maman.”

“You’re welcome, dear,” she returns, rubbing his back soothingly. “Ready for breakfast?”

Eliott nods eagerly. “I’m always ready for pain au chocolat.”

He takes her hand and they walk downstairs. The house is quiet, but light streams carefully through the windows, touching the walls, the floor softly; maybe it’s afraid of burning the world it shines upon. The house is warm, thick with the smell of the bread, the pastries. The last few stairs creak beneath their weight, the groan familiar and deep. The house is beginning to feel like it used to feel, before Eliott’s world ended. His heart, his fingers and toes, become warm. They tingle. Is this what happiness feels like? He thinks he remembers it feeling like this. He forces back his tears and squeezes his mother’s hand.

They reach the bottom of the stairs, and Eliott can just barely see the dining table. His heart leaps even more when it fully comes into his view. There’s a basket full of baguettes, the crust golden and shining. Next to it, there’s a large plate with pain au chocolat stacked on top of each other, the chocolate half-melted and the pastry just as golden as the baguettes. There’s a bowl filled with apples, oranges, bananas. Then, there’s two pots of coffee at the center of the table, ribbons of steam curling gracefully and blending with the sunlight. But Eliott’s brow furrows.

“This is a lot of food just for the two of us, Maman,” he says. “Do you think we can eat all of this?”

His mother smiles slyly, clearly holding back excitement. “It won’t just be the two of us, honey.”

“What?” he asks, but he’s cut off by a chorus of voices.

“Joyeux anniversaire!”

Eliott whirls around, nearly jumping out of his skin. But he melts into giggles and joyful tears when he sees Arthur, Basile, Yann, Daphné, Alexia, Imane, Emma, Manon, and Lu—

His face falls, just for a moment, when he realizes Lucas isn’t there. Of course he isn’t here, he thinks, disappointed. Why would he be?

But he smiles again and runs towards his friends, letting them all envelop him in a big, warm, tight hug. He hears them shower him with more “happy birthday"s, and "we missed you"s and "we love you"s. He thinks Basile is crying. He’s close to crying himself. He’s been so caught up in readjusting to life at home, worrying about his relationship with Lucas, and simply feeling too tired, too despondent to even get out of bed he hasn’t had the time nor the energy to reconnect with all his friends. But he didn’t need to. He’s sure his mother had something to do with this, too, but they reached out to him. They surprised him for his birthday. He’ll eat breakfast with them and they’ll all talk and he’ll know what everyone has done, what they’re planning on doing. He’ll have his friend group back. He’ll have his life back.

They all pull away, everyone wiping away happy tears.

"Thank you so much,” Eliott says, grinning. “This is gonna be a good birthday.”

Everyone grins back at him, and his heart feels full, close to bursting.

“Is everyone ready to eat?” Eliott’s mother asks, tearful herself.

Everyone cheers in response, flocking to the dining table. Eliott makes sure he gets in his usual seat. His stomach turns just a little when he sees Basile sit in his father’s seat, but he pushes it aside. Basile doesn’t know that that’s Papa’s chair. But he notices his mother looks uneasy about it, too.

“Are you okay, Eliott?” Basile asks suddenly. He must’ve noticed Eliott’s unease.

Eliott blinks, smiles. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Oh, okay,” Basile replies, relieved. “We’ve really missed you, you know. When Lucas told us you were home, we—”

“Wait, Lucas told you?” Eliott asks, his heart, his chest tightening.

“Yeah,” Basile nods, as if it were obvious. “He said you’d just come by your house and you two talked for a bit. He’s really sorry he couldn’t come, by the way. He wanted us to tell you. He said he had something to do with Chloé today. Did he tell you they’re engaged?”

Eliott sighs, but nods. “Yeah, he did. I sort of remember her from school. I’m happy for them.”

“They’re a good match,” Basile agrees. “He was devastated after you had to leave. Then he started dating Chloé and he was smiling again. You can tell he really loves her.”

His every word was a lash, a strike for Eliott. He tries to keep himself together, tries to keep his voice from shaking. “I’m glad. He’s been through so much.”

“We need to find you a nice girl, Eliott,” Basile says, punching him playfully on the shoulder. “Get a smile back on your face.”

Eliott forces a chuckle. “I’ve been smiling all morning, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but your maman told us that you’ve been really sad lately,” Basile replies. “She told us this would make you really happy. And it worked! You just need a nice, pretty girl who can keep that smile on your face.”

Eliott smiles, but he feels his lips wobble.

Basile smiles, too, his eyes shining like they always do, and Eliott feels a deep twinge in his chest. He smiles back, making it wider, trying to make it more genuine.

“Okay,” Eliott’s mother announces. “The last piece of our breakfast is ready.”

She pulls something out of the oven, a tarte aux fruits that draws an awed gasp from their guests. She somehow finds room for it on the table, grinning proudly. “Shall we sing?”

They all shout their agreements, beginning to clap and sing.

Joyeux anniversaire, joyeux anniversaire!

Joyeux anniversaire, Eliott!

Joyeux anniversaire!

Eliott thanks them all, trying to hide all the hurt sitting in his chest. He starts taking a little bit of food, the others filling up their plates once he’s done. He tries to eat as much as he can, tries to listen to everyone that’s talking to him and tries to respond to them. He tries to smile and laugh. He tries. He really, really does. And as he watches his friends smile and laugh and carry on as if everything was normal, he realizes that the trying, the acting, is working.

He wishes Lucas was here. Even if he hates him. Even if he’ll never love him again. He thinks he can look into Lucas’s eyes only once, only for a moment, and things wouldn’t hurt as badly as they do.

When the food is almost gone, Yann stands up and taps his glass dramatically. He clears his throat, then speaks. “Good morning, everyone. Thank you for attending the celebration of the 19th birthday of Eliott Demaury.”

Everyone joins in the act, clapping respectfully with silly, somber expressions.

“Eliott, you’re home now,” Yann continues, suddenly a bit more serious. “You’ve been dearly missed and you are dearly loved by everyone in this room. As always, but especially this year, we wish you health and happiness. We’re here to help in any way that we can, okay?”

Eliott doesn’t fight back his tears this time, but they don’t fall quite yet. He nods. “I know.”

“Good,” Yann replies, genuine and warm. “We also promise to get you a better gift next year, since this year it was a pretty short notice. Nevertheless… My fine sir, this year, we have a birthday card for you.”

Yann takes an envelope from Imane, then hands it to Eliott. He opens it at the chanting urging of his friends. It’s a basic card with a blue background and a cute, simple drawing of a birthday cake on the front. The inside is full of handwritten messages.

Happy birthday, Eliott! Here’s to so many more, mon cherie! -Arthur

Happy birthday!! We love you so so much!!!! -Alexia

Eliott! Happy birthday! I love you, mec. -Basile

The messages go on, then he sees familiar, jagged cursive at the bottom of the card.

Happy birthday, Eliott! I’m sorry I couldn’t be there, but we’ll celebrate some other time. I promise. -Lucas

“Lucas signed it?” Eliott asks, his voice frail.

“He really felt bad about not being able to come,” Imane says. “So, we let him sign the card. He is your best friend, Eliott. We wanted at least a piece of him here.”

Eliott manages a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Eliott,” Manon cuts in, reaching across the table to take his hand. “We know how much you’ve been through.”

Not everything, his heart says, his tongue wants to say. But he just nods, forces the words back down his throat.

“To Eliott!” Yann announces.

A repeated chorus ripples around the table, and the dread sitting in Eliott’s stomach opens its mouth, threatening to swallow him whole.

june 25th, 1968

15:14

caen, france

~

No one left until well after lunchtime. They all hugged him, too, as they left, wishing him happy birthday once again. As much as he hates to admit, he felt a little weight roll off his shoulders each time he watched someone walk out the front door. The tightness in his chest eased a bit, he could breathe a little easier. His mind began to clear; clear of worry, of thoughts of Lucas, his father, his life before his hospitalization, his diagnosis. He could feel himself drawing closer to blessed solitude, to a quiet house with his mother. But he kept wondering again and again if he was being selfish, if he was pushing his friends away for his own gain, his own pleasure and sanity. How did everything turn so sour so quickly? Was it Lucas, and his mere absence, his mere distance? Was it Eliott’s own head, and the demon that seems to live within it?

“Are you okay, honey?” his mother asks after the last guest—Basile, of course—walked out the front door. “Did you not like the party?”

Eliott has the smallest smile on his face as he shakes his head. “I did. It’s just that everything went downhill when I realized Lucas wouldn’t be here. And things went even more downhill when I read his note on my birthday card.”

“What did he say?” she responds kindly, hanging onto his every word.

“Lies,” Eliott chokes out, defeated. “He’s a liar, like I am.”

“You’re not a liar, Ellie,” she cuts in, pushing the hair out of his eyes.

He remembers every time false words slipped from his tongue. False, yet sweet words. He told Lucas that he was okay. He told Lucas that he was coping. He told Lucas that he was getting better. He told Lucas that they were getting better.

“I lied to him so many times, Maman,” Eliott shakes his head. “It’s only fair that he gets to lie to me now.”

Her hand drifts down to cradle his face, her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t say that. Please, darling.”

Eliott tears his eyes away. He can’t watch his mother cry again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“Do…” she starts, her tears stopping her voice. “Do we need to go see someone at that new office?”

Eliott feels his whole body tense, feels echoes of the shocks whipping and slashing through his synapses. He hears his own voice, somewhere in the distance, in the past, begging them not to do it, to let him go. He hears his own screams, muffled by the bit in his mouth. He feels ghosts of tears on his face, the aches in his muscles as he fought against the restraints. Not again, not again, not again.

“It’s not an institution, is it?” he asks, his voice stumbling over itself. “Please tell me it’s not, Maman.”

“It’s not,” she replies immediately, turning his head to look at him. “It’s not, darling. They have doctors there that can help you, and you can leave after an hour or so. You don’t have to stay there.”

Eliott watches a tear roll down his mother’s cheek, then he feels a tear, not a ghost, on his own. He holds back a sob, taking as deep of a breath as he could. “Can we talk about this tomorrow, Maman? Please?”

She pulls him close, kissing his forehead. She lingers for a moment, her body trembling with her sobs. “Of course, my boy,” she finally says.

Tears roll down Eliott’s cheeks, but he doesn’t tremble. He manages a smile. “Thank you.”

june 26th, 1968

02:27

caen, france

~

Eliott can’t sleep.

He has his father’s coat on, but its weight is suffocating, smothering. He tries to count his breaths, but each one only reminds him of how empty his body feels, as if everything inside him is just a black hole.

He can’t sleep.

He gets out of bed, carefully tiptoeing out of his room and down the stairs. It’s eerily quiet, eerily soft. The blue, knit socks his mother gave him last year don’t breathe against the floor, the wood. His clothes float just above his skin; whispers, ghosts. The slow, small breaths snaking from his mouth are silent as currents as they mingle with the air around him. If he was younger, if he wasn’t sick, this would be sacred, cherished. The lull in the waves, the smallest stillness between heartbeats, the single moment when you blink and your eyes are peacefully, briefly shut. But Eliott has learned the danger of open spaces, of possibility, of hope. It will always be interrupted, it will always be overtaken by people, by darkness, by storms and tempests and changing tides. Nothing lasts forever, because everything sets fire to love and silence and every contented sigh.

The stair could creak, Eliott thinks. Maman could hear me and come out of her room and ask me if I’m okay again. The water outside could rush closer to the house, calling my name like it’s done for years. Lucas could wake from a bad dream and think of Chloé instead of me, another thought chipping me away from his mind. The stars could try to move, groan against the fabric of the universe but we don’t notice, we don’t hear it. Papa died while I was sleeping, flirting with darkness, the edge of consciousness, while in the room next to me, he sank into it, drowned in it. I almost died while Lucas was sleeping, but he woke up in time to save me, to call my name and pull me back into the light. Lucas almost died when the water, still and whispering, suddenly roared and swallowed him whole. The smallest moments can be so wide.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs, the silence still looming, and he exhales.

He wanders warily into the kitchen, deciding absentmindedly to make a cup of tea. He can boil a small pot of water for it instead of using the kettle, so he doesn’t wake his mother with its shrill shriek.

He watches the water slowly come to a boil. He watches the bubbles tremble at the bottom, drift erratically to the top before they let go, gliding across the surface before slamming into the sides of the pot, sliding back to the bottom, bleeding, exploding. He watches this cycle roll and froth, steam and mumble. He turns the burner off when the bubbles are moving too quickly for him to keep track of. He pours the water slowly into his cup, the color and flavor leaching into it. He watches the teabag relax, float to the top. He drags it by the string across the surface of the water, twirls it around until it leaves a small cyclone behind it. He pulls it out, dangles it over the water, watches moisture drip from its curled edges. And once he thinks it’s steeped to his liking, he throws the teabag away. Somehow, he feels more and more valuable with every breath, with every small movement. He takes his first sip, and the once comforting warmth just feels like heat, a mass burning in his belly. He exhales.

He looks out the window, and he sees the silver, sparkling sand and the rippling, sighing waves. Perhaps they’ll sing, tonight. Perhaps the moon will join them again.

Eliott carefully opens the back door, sitting on the grass, his hands wrapped round his cup of tea, his nerves frayed, his mind on edge. He takes another sip, but the burning in his stomach only worsens.

He sets his tea down, off to the side, listening and watching for a moment. He hears the sand whisper out its love when the water touched it, hears it sigh and bid the water farewell as it recedes. He hears the wind with its same, old secrets, and it doesn’t send a chill down his spine anymore. He looks up at the sky, at the moon, listening carefully for her song. He thinks he can hear her humming, her voice quiet and weak. She hums the melody of an old song his mother sang all the time when he was younger, a melody familiar and simple and sweeping and aching. The words come to his mind, but the moon doesn’t sing them. She continues with the melody, the music stretching softly over the darkness, over the people sleeping below her. Eliott exhales.

He studies the stars around the moon, and he can’t help but remember Lucas’s words.

Who knew billions of burning, little flames could all love something so much they would all surrender to it, mold and stretch at the flick of its hand? I’m not sure if you know that, my love. You must be made of stars.

He must’ve memorized every word of that letter, every curve and every line of every letter. He was in love. Hopelessly, recklessly, joyously.

How do I forget about him? he asks the moon, the stars, the wind, the waves, the shore. How do I forget about his voice, his eyes, his lips? How do I forget my entire life? How do I stop loving him?

When they don’t answer, Eliott closes his eyes, focuses even more on his hearing.

How do I stop loving him? he asks again, sending out every bit of his soul upward, onward.

There’s still no answer.

He opens his eyes, blinks away a film of tears. He sees a star shoot across the sky, its trailing ashes stark white against the black sky. Like any dying thing, it’s brighter than it was before, stronger. It soars above Lucas’s house, shooting farther and farther off into the horizon and sizzling out.

The light in Lucas’s room is on. Eliott can see him sitting on his windowsill, gazing out on the water, just like he is.

A part of Eliott, almost all of him, wants to walk over and knock on Lucas’s window, just like they promised they could all those years ago. They could talk. They could argue. They could make up. They could be best friends again. They could go back to normal, or as normal as their current circumstances could allow them. They could be Lucas and Eliott again. Couldn’t they?

Maybe tonight, Lucas will let Eliott explain everything that happened that fateful, devastating night. And maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll remember the life that they’ve spent together, and maybe he’ll decide he’s not ready to give that up yet. If he hasn’t decided already.

He turns his face back to the sky, closing his eyes again. He asks, do I have to stop loving him?

There’s no answer.

“I don’t want to stop loving him,” he says aloud, but so quietly he could barely hear himself.

He looks back over at Lucas’s house, and his heart sinks as he watches the light turn off.

[fireblaze5555]

Fire Away: Chapter 8

Also on Ao3: Fire Away: Chapter 8

Frank was so fucked. He watched Karen dozing on his completely numb arm as the morning light streamed through the balcony doors and he couldn't tear his eyes from her. Last night kept playing over and over in his head. The expanse of her beautiful pale skin, perfectly shaped breasts, the noises she made when he had his hands on her. The way she looked at him, like he mattered. Like he wasn't a monster. Like she loved him.

He watched her face as she took in the long slow breaths of someone in deep restful sleep, his eyes scanning her features and memorizing every line, as if he hadn't already. Her bruises had almost completely faded, leaving just a light discoloration at her temple and he wanted to press his lips to that spot and kiss away the last of the damage. For a moment he nearly forgot why he shouldn't be doing this, he just reveled in holding this incredible, beautiful woman in his arms.

Frank was unable to stop the flash of pride in his chest, he was one lucky bastard. Her words, I never regret you , echoed in his head over and over and each time he felt a little piece of his soul repairing itself. His demons never retreated for long though, rendering what Karen had managed to rebuild back to rubble. Suddenly it hurt to look at her, flashes of the family he couldn't protect filling his vision only this time her face was there too, covered in blood and unblinking.

He could no longer lie still, so to keep from waking her, Frank stood and threw his sweats on before stepping out on the balcony. She couldn't love him. He doesn't get to have that anymore. Karen was smart, beautiful, strong and resilient. She could have anyone she wanted. She fought for justice and saw the best in people while still accepting the darkness in them. There was no universe where he deserved her love.

It was that moment, with sickening clarity, thinking about her bravery, her smile, her kindness and her wicked sense of humor, that Frank realized he loved her. Most people felt light with a realization like that but all he could feel was a mix of guilt and disdain for himself. That's what she fucking needs, your psycho ass adding your bullshit to hers . A small childish part of him had hoped maybe it was just sexual tension and once they got that out of the way, they could walk away from each other. He knew how ridiculous that was when his heart wrenched painfully at the thought of being done with Karen when this was all over.

Frank was lost in his thoughts, not acknowledging the chill of the morning until a warm pair of arms wrapped around his torso and Karen pressed herself flush to his back.

Her voice was light but he could hear tension and worry there as well, "I could hear you thinking in my sleep." He felt her lips moving against his skin as she spoke, "Wanna talk?"

Frank turned in her arms so they rested chest to chest against the balcony railing. Her hair was mussed from sleep and she was squinting against the morning sun. Frank shifted a bit to shade her eyes with his body and the smile she gave him was so radiant he was nearly blinded himself. Her eyes were so blue Frank felt like he could drown in them and for a moment all he could do was stare in wonderment, his hand coming up to rest against the side of her face.

She leaned into his hand and stared at him expectantly and it took him a minute to remember she had asked him a question. Looking to the side to try and break the spell she had put over him, Frank took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he needed to do. He kept his voice low as he dropped the hand from her face to rest at her hip, "This," He looked at her hand that had come to rest on his chest over his heart, "is not a good idea."

Karen's beryl eyes turned to flint, pinning him to the spot even as she took a step back. Frank instantly felt the warmth she had brought retreat with her. He tried not to let it affect him. He tried not to feel the loss as acutely as he did. Tried but didn't succeed.

Frank wanted so badly to say something, anything to make her smile again or something to make her see how right he was but they had been through all of this before. So instead, he braced his arms on the railing behind him and regarded her carefully with narrowed eyes.

"Honestly, Frank, you give me whiplash." Her eyes were still hard but the gentleness with which she addressed him did far more damage, "You think that you being around is what gets me hurt. The truth is, it's watching you leave that hurts me more than anything. Seeing the way you look at me, the way you touch me, only for you to turn it off a second later and disappear." She gives a humorless laugh and his lungs constrict when he sees her eyes swimming. If only she knew how much he couldn't turn it off.

His throat is tight but he forces the words out anyway, "I can't be responsible for getting you killed Karen, I just can't. That's why this is a bad idea, 'cause when you're around I forget why I'm supposed to push you away."

She wiped a stray tear away quickly and took a step closer to him. Frank gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white, trying so hard not to reach for her. He was busy watching her rose colored lips as she pulled them between her teeth so when she spoke again it took him a moment to process her question.

"Then why are you here?" She asks, raising an eyebrow at his frustrated confusion, "I know you don't want anything to happen to me, but Frank, my job is dangerous. I deal with dangerous people almost every day. I mean, for God's sake, I work with the devil of Hell's Kitchen. If you think you shouldn't be around me, you didn't have to track me down, you could have left it up to Matt to help me." He hopes she doesn't notice the flash of contempt he feels cross his face but she doesn't miss anything with him. She huffs out a humorless laugh before fixing him with a hard stare, "You don't get to make me walk away only to pop back up when it's convenient for you. It's not fair. To either of us. Either you are in my life or you aren't, you can't have both."

Logically he knew she was right, he's sure he has told himself that before, but hearing it fall from her lips caused his chest to spasm painfully. He felt panicked, like he had to make the call right now which caused anger to spike since he thought he had already made that call. He's the fucking Punisher, he didn't need anyone, everything he needed died at that carousel but facing her now, last night playing over in his head in startling detail, he realized he hadn't been as sure as he thought. His chest and throat hurt, everything he was trying to say blocked his airways and made him choke, a small distressed sound the only thing he managed. Frank was shaking his head, trying to jostle some coherent thought loose and his eyes were wild, like a trapped animal.

Karen saw him struggling and like the angel she was brought his attention back to her and away from his spiraling thoughts, her voice was solid as she said, "Back in that hospital room, I told you to make it mean something, me being there. What were you going to say? Before the kid walked in."

The vortex of his thoughts came to a sudden, disorienting halt, focused solely on that memory. Clicking his tongue, Frank turned to glare into the distance. He really didn't want to relive that day. He regretted so much about it.

"I don't know." he said.

"That's bullshit." she spat.

He turned to look at her, her cheeks were slightly pink, her eyes glinting in the early morning light and she was so damn beautiful. Calm and steady to his anxious, agitated uncertainty. He wanted to tell her there was nothing he wanted to say, that he had already said it. He wanted her to believe that he was pushing her away because he genuinely didn't want her. But they never lied to each other.

His voice was rough, almost resigned. "I had no idea how to tell you everything I wanted to in the time I had left to do it. I wasn't lying, Karen, I don't want to give up the war. I don't know if that will ever change, it is something that is a part of me now. It may have always been a part of me. I thought if I could push you away you would be safe." He gave her a pointed look. "That was obviously a bit naive of me, knowing you. I couldn't stand the thought of you getting hurt because of me. Still can't. The idea was I would distance myself, then I could just focus on fightin', cleanin' up the city without worrying it would reach you. But I can't stop thinkin’ about you. Thing is, you don't know when to quit, even when you're just in my head."

Karen gave a little sniff, stepping back into his space and placing her hand back over his heart. The smallest touch, one she had perfected, one that could dismantle his armor in seconds. He wondered if she knew how much it affected him. How he could feel that small touch in every atom of his being. She stared at her hand where it rested for a moment while he stared at her and tried to control his breathing.

"In that hospital room, when I said you could love someone else, instead of another war, I didn't mean you had to give up the war. I just meant you could love someone else, not just the war. I do wish you could leave it behind but I understand why you can't." She looked up at him, eyes like blue fire as she flexed her fingers on his chest, voice vehement, "I know who you are Frank Castle. I know what you are capable of. Hell, I've seen what you are capable of, first hand. I know you can kill a man with your bare hands. Take down entire cartels in a matter of a week. I also know that you nearly gave your own life to give David Lieberman his back. That you would have given everything to keep Amy safe, both people you barely knew. That you used your own body to shelter me from a spray of bullets, from a fucking bomb. I know that this mission you have means dangerous people will be after you. Most importantly, I know, I would rather face that danger with you than live safely without you. What you do with that is your call."

Frank could feel his heart beating harshly against his ribs. It almost felt as though it were trying to break out of his chest to rest in her capable hand, God knows she already had his heart metaphorically, she might as well have it literally. He watched in fascination as her other hand loosened his death grip on the railing to place it on her hips once more and his other hand followed suit without a second thought from him.

"I'm not asking you for forever right now Frank. I am just asking that, once we are back in the city and this whole mess is over, you give this a chance. I can't promise that shit won't go sideways but I want us to try. Okay?"

It was a bad idea. He knew it was but that voice that always urged him to deny her couldn't be heard over her soft breathing as she is watching him expectantly. With no shortage of hope and anxiety. Everything swirling around in his chest made it difficult to form words but finally, he said, "Okay."

The smile that tilted her lips would have knocked him off his feet if her hands hadn't come up to wrap around the back of his head, pulling him to her so she could ghost a quiet, "Okay" over his lips before she was kissing him fully, running her tongue over his and holding on to him like he may fade away in her grasp.

Finally Frank pulled back, giving her a light kiss on the cheek before turning her back towards the door and nudging her into the condo. "Let's get our stuff together, we've already stayed too long, we need to get moving." He tried to sound rough and in control but it came out soft and more of an entreaty than he had intended. Judging by the little smirk Karen threw over her shoulder she wasn't impressed but she dressed quickly and started to gather her things.

They ate a quick breakfast with what was left in the fridge and in less than an hour they had all of their things together and loaded up, surveying the condo to ensure they didn't leave anything behind. Frank glanced over and felt a pang of sadness when he saw the open longing in Karen's face. Maybe, if they get through this and actually get their shit together, maybe they could come back. Actually explore and relax and just...be. But they had things to take care of first so he turned, watching her carefully as she turned as well, giving him a small smile before she stepped out of the door.

Mountains rolled by as they hit the interstate headed East and they settled in for the long drive back. It was a quiet comfortable silence in the cab as both were lost in thought, whether it was about their earlier conversation or what was to come. It had been nearly two hours when Frank glanced over to see Karen sifting through her bag. She held up the burner phone they had purchased for her triumphantly and began to punch in a number.

Karen didn't even look over to respond, she knew Frank was dividing his attention between the road and her. "Watch the road soldier, I'm just calling Foggy. I want to check in and let him know that we are headed back. I won't give him any details yet, maybe once we are back in the city we can get everyone together to finalize a plan." She looked over to him, he wouldn't say it was to ask permission, more of a chance for him to protest and her to probably do it anyway.

When he glanced over again he gave a small nod. If it were up to him he would storm the place, give the lady no other option but to leave Karen alone and then find a way into Rikers to kill Fisk. Simple. But this was Karen's plan, her situation. As much as he wanted to take care of it for her and remove all the danger, he knew she would resent him for taking it out of her hands. That being said, if it looked at all like shit was going sideways he was taking over, she could be as resentful as much as she wanted, as long as she was alive when it was over.

Frank focused on his driving, occasionally checking the rear view to ensure there was no one following them. When he tuned back in it was to Karen laughing quietly into the phone. He had to force himself to keep his eyes on the road instead of putting his full attention on her. It was novel, witnessing Karen just...being. No bad guys, no immediate danger, no bombs or hospital rooms. Just Karen talking to her friend.

"Yeah Foggy, I'm fine, I promise. We are headed back now. What?" A startled laugh. "Sorry I forgot to get you a souvenir, will a gas station shot glass be okay? Sunglasses for Matt? What an original idea you have." She giggled a little bit more before he heard her sober up. "Yeah, we know who is behind it, I-" He looked over just in time to see her roll her eyes. "Tell Matt eavesdropping is rude, even if it is a superpower." He couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped, Karen turned to him with a smirk and a wink. "I'll fill you both in once we are back in the city and I've got all of the information. I want to be sure we aren't being followed and there is a safe place for us to meet, I don't want to put you in danger." Her voice gave a little tremor but before he even had a chance to reach for her, she gave another laugh, "You're right, Marci would probably scare off anyone threatening her Foggy Bear."

Frank's eyes went wide, storing that information for future ammo in case he needed it. Judging by the loud groan he heard over the line, Nelson had not wanted that said out loud. A couple more reassurances and pleasantries and Karen was hanging up the phone, tucking it back into her bag.

Clearing his throat, Frank gave her a mischievous look, "So...Foggy Bear, huh?"

Karen bit her lip, laughter in her voice, "He's never going to forgive me for saying that in front of you. Try not to torture him too much with it."

A loud ping came from Frank's front pocket before he could make any promises he couldn't keep. He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Karen to read the message.

"It's from David." She said, quickly scanning the text. "He got the information all together and has sent it. Once we get somewhere with internet I'll download it and work on it more. He also says your safe house is clear, there hasn't been any activity there since before you left."

Frank scowled. He never gave David any indication of where his safe house was located. They were going to have to have a serious talk about boundaries, that may include Frank punching him at some point.

He glanced over quickly when he heard Karen snort, she was looking at him, "You never told him where it was did you? He just used creepy hacker skills to find it didn't he?"

With a resigned sigh, Frank just nodded.

"God, he is terrifying." she said, a mix of admiration and a healthy dose of wariness in her voice.

"He can be but he's also an annoying idiot so I guess it balances out." He gave her a sideways grin when she let out a surprised laugh, tucking the phone into the center console and settling herself back in the seat.

Despite the shit storm they were driving back into, Frank felt at ease. They bantered about music, both settling on an old rock station for the trip. He outlined why The Boss was one of the best musicians out there and she nodded along in a placating manner. Her preferences were all over the place, some he could agree with others that just had him shaking his head.

It took them nearly two days, Frank insisted they take their time so they could arrive back in the city when it was dark. Karen would take over driving when Frank got tired and he would crash on the cot in the back or just lay the passenger seat back. The easy conversation slowed as they entered the city and their situation came back into focus. Frank took them in convoluted loops through the city until he was confident they wouldn't be followed before he finally pulled into a small abandoned warehouse.

Despite David's reassurance, Frank did a quick sweep of the premises before letting Karen out of the van, insisting she stay in the back where he had her hiding for most of their trip through the city streets. When he gave the all clear and she stepped out, Karen turned slowly taking in her surroundings, from the mini-fridge next to the table that held his burner for cooking to his sparse cot and neatly stacked clothes. Of course there were also stacks of weapons  lining the walls and a computer set up he had gotten from David. Frank cringed inwardly when she leveled her gaze back on him, he fully expected her to give him the third degree for living like this.

Before she could comment he spoke up, "I have an apartment. I stay here when I need to lay low or if I need to do some recon." Karen gave him a small knowing smile and he felt the tips of his ears turning red. Here he was, a grown man, feeling as though he needed to explain his living situation to a pretty girl like he was a teenager who didn't clean his room. Admittedly, it had been awhile since he had been to his apartment and it wasn't much more furnished than this but she didn't need to know that.

Turning back to the van, Frank busied himself with unloading the rest of their supplies before he could say anything else embarrassing. The first thing he brought out was Karen's laptop, he set it up with the password for the wifi and pulled up the most comfortable chair he had to the workstation for her. He was a bit distressed, these kinds of conditions were okay when it was just him but he hated the idea of Karen living with so little comforts, even if it was only temporary. It couldn't be helped though, so he tried to make it as comfortable as he could.

Karen sat down at the laptop giving him a grateful smile and began digging through the files that David sent over. He knew she would be at it for awhile so he went about checking his ammo and supplies, grimaced at the very empty mini-fridge, and then made up the cot with the procured hotel comforter.

It wasn't long before he had everything in order so he stepped over to where Karen was jotting down notes and furiously scrolling through files. He gripped the back of her chair, reading a bit over her shoulder, "Finding anything you can use?"

She made a somewhat noncommittal noise and continued to scroll for a few more seconds before she answered distractedly. "There is a ton of suspicious activity here, a lot of it corresponding with her communication with Fisk and that is just the phone calls I see on her calendar, there are probably more. If it were anyone else, I would say yes, we should be able to take them down with what we have here." Pausing for a second to bury her hands in her hair, Karen let out a disgusted huff. "But this is Fisk we are talking about. This is the second time we have sent him to prison and he still has just as much freedom as he did before. It's infuriating."

Frank moved his hands to her shoulders, rubbing them soothingly but when he spoke his voice was hard and unforgiving, "He needs to be put down."

Karen's shoulders tensed for a moment before she lowered her arms with a resigned sigh. "I really want to disagree with you Frank. I really want to say that the justice system will prevail and he will be held responsible but we both know that sometimes the justice system doesn't work, don't we?" She looked over her shoulder to give him a sad smile and Frank wished the world was good enough to deserve Karen Page.

There was really nothing he could say to that so he brushed his lips over her forehead in a light kiss before pulling back and heading to his own computer. "I'm going to go over the blueprints for the house, look at security details and schedules and put together a tactical plan. Do wanna meet with the lawyers tomorrow, run what we got by 'em?" He turned enough to see that she had already gone full steam back into her research, giving him a distracted 'Mhm' as she made a couple more notes.

Shaking his head with a smirk, she was an investigator through and through, Frank sat in his own chair and began booting everything up. While he waited he pulled out his phone and sent David another request.

The house, well mansion really, that Vanessa Fisk was residing in was a pretty basic floor plan and Frank had outlined an infiltration plan in a couple of hours, leaving room for adjustments if they got any additional information from Nelson or Murdock. All said and done he figured he could have Karen and himself in and out of the house within 30 minutes, more than enough time to say what needs to be said and get out. His email pinged, David getting him the earlier requested information just in time for Frank to shift his attention to his next objective.

A few more hours passed and vaguely acknowledged Karen moving behind him before he heard the bathroom door shut. There were many moving pieces with this objective and he didn't want to miss any details so he poured over it again and again.

"What is this?" He had been aware of Karen exiting the bathroom but it still startled him a bit to hear her just over his shoulder. She could be damn quiet when she wanted to be, noted.

"It's the blueprints for Rikers, personnel list and where the high profile inmates are kept." Frank felt Karen go completely still.

"No." she said. Her voice was sharp and when he turned to look at her, her eyes never left the screen.

"What do you mean 'no'?" His own tone was sharper than he meant.

"I mean, no, Frank. You're not breaking into Rikers to kill Fisk." She finally tore her eyes from the screen to glare at him. "Are you crazy? Do you want me to wrap you up in a pretty bow for them? Go ahead and put you in an orange jumpsuit to save them the trouble so all they have to do is throw you in your cell, lock you up and throw away the key?"

Frank felt his own anger rising, "You just agreed that he needed to be put down." He stood and took a few steps toward her when she turned, tugging at her hair and cursing quietly.

She whipped around so fast her hair came undone from the loose bun she had it in, hissing at him like a feral cat, "I said the justice system fails sometimes. How the hell did you get, 'Break into a maximum security prison to murder the biggest kingpin in New York' out of that?" She leaned against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest and stared him down.

Frank advanced, stopping just in front of her, his voice dark and echoing around the room. "He's a threat Karen. He's already had too many chances at you and I'm not gonna let him have another one. He signed his own death warrant when he signed that letter to you. Besides, I've got unfinished business with him." He started to turn but Karen gripped his arm, spinning him back around.

"You are NOT breaking into Rikers, Frank. Whether or not he deserves it, I'm not letting you put yourself in that situation for me! So fucking forget it!" She was shouting, her cheeks were red and her chest heaved with her anger, it would have been a beautiful sight if he wasn't so pissed off, his own breath coming in angry bursts.

Placing a hand by her head, Frank leaned in, his voice going deadly soft, "Fisk is a dead man, Karen. There's nothing that is going to change that." He saw a shiver run through her as she looked away but when she brought her eyes back to his, his lungs seized. The fire in her blue eyes burned hotter than anger and he had to place his other hand on the wall as well to steady himself when she slid her hands under his shirt to skim up his sides.

It was his turn to shiver when she ran her nails down his sides to hook in the waist of his jeans, her voice was quiet as well when she leaned in. "I'm not asking you to let him live, Frank. I'm asking you to not throw your life away to kill him.” Her breath tickled the sensitive skin behind his ear and Frank was dizzy with the sudden shift. He wanted to still be angry but the way she was running her fingers along his waistband he found that his anger was bleeding into arousal, the adrenaline fueling something else entirely. His body was reacting to her without much input from his brain.

She pulled back to look at him and the mischief in her eyes made him step closer until they were chest to chest. Karen’s back was pressed against the wall and Frank leaned his forearm above her head, his lips ghosting over her temple, “Are you trying to distract me from the discussion, ma’am?”

Karen turned just enough to nip his jaw, one of her hands ghosting down the front of his jeans, making him clench his teeth, her voice was low as she alternated between laying dragging kisses over his jaw and sucking at his pulse-point, “That depends, is it working?”

It definitely was. Between the residual anger and adrenaline from their fight and her wicked hands running patterns over his stomach, occasionally dipping into the waist of his jeans, he was rock hard. With the hand braced above Karen’s head, he buried his fingers in her hair and lightly jerked her head around to devour her mouth. Frank felt his cock twitch when she let out a breathy moan. It seemed Karen liked a little rough handling and that was knowledge that nearly had Frank weak in the knees with need. Once he had ravaged her mouth to the point they were both panting, he started to push away from the wall  and guide them over to the cot but Karen dug in her heels and kept him in place by holding on to the front of his waistband, her long fingers tucked against his skin while her thumb circled over the button.

Frank was distracted by the sight for a moment, staring down to where her hand was so close but not nearly close enough, he wanted so badly to guide her hand further but didn’t want to push too hard. However, when he looked back up to Karen, she had a determined devilish smirk on her lips and he felt the silky strands of her hair still tangled in his fingers slip free as Karen slowly slid down the wall until she was looking up at him from her knees, her eyes wide and the darkest blue he had ever seen them.

The image made Frank blink rapidly to ensure he wasn’t dreaming because if he woke up from this it damn well may kill him. When Karen leaned forward until she was directly in front of the bulge in his jeans, he held his breath. She studied him for a moment before she brought one of her hands up to cup him firmly, drawing that damned bottom lip between her teeth and suddenly the breath he had been holding left him raggedly as he watched in fascination when she dragged her teeth gently over the head of his dick through the fabric of his pants.

“Holy shit .” His voice was broken and he was surprised he hadn’t been able to say anything considering he still hadn’t been able to refill his lungs.

Karen drew back just enough to allow her nimble fingers access to the button and zipper of his jeans, making short work of them before hooking her fingers into his pants and underwear alike and slowly tugging them down. She hummed appreciatively as he sprung free and Frank had to bite back a groan when she turned hungry eyes up to him. If there had ever been any question of the power Karen Page had over him it evaporated when she slid her hands up his thighs so she could dig strong fingers into his hips and run her tongue from base to tip of his cock, never breaking eye contact with him.

He let out a growl, burying the hand not braced against the wall into her hair, “God Dammit Karen, you’re so fuckin’ sexy.” She didn’t reply but he saw the shiver run through her body, instead she ran the flat of her tongue up him again this time wrapping her lips around the tip bobbing her head shallowly over him. Frank rested his forehead against his arm on the wall for a second, clenching that fist tightly, closing his eyes and just focusing on the sensation. Her lips felt so fucking good on him, he felt lightheaded.

His eyes snapped open and another curse escaped him when he felt one of Karen’s hands wrap around the base of his cock, her mouth sinking to where her hand was squeezing before he rocked back in time to see her full lips slowly dragging back up. Her pace was torturous but he fought to keep his hips still, letting Karen take her time. As torture goes, this was more than acceptable and Frank would endure it happily.

Having  Karen Page, a woman so fierce and strong, on her knees in front of him was a humbling experience for Frank and he extricated his fingers from her hair only to reverently push them back through the silken strands, pulling it out of her face and gripping it loosely at the crown of her head. Her lips leave him with a soft pop and she looks up at him with hooded eyes when she strokes him firmly with expert hands. Frank lowered his hand from the wall to run a calloused thumb over her bottom lip, smearing a bit of saliva across the swollen skin. She catches his digit between those sinful lips and swirls her tongue over it before sucking lewdly, rolling her palm over the head of his cock at the same time. Frank has to remove his hand from her hair to lean against the wall once more when his knees threaten to give out.

Releasing his thumb, Karen gives him an innocent smile which, considering the proficient way she was building him towards release, was far from innocent. He gives her smirk of his own, burying his other hand in her hair this time and slowly, giving her a chance to protest, guides her back to his straining dick. She purrs, parting her lips slightly, just enough to drag them down one side of him and back up the other before she opens again and takes as much of him as she can. Frank growls at the sensation, he’s too big for her to take him completely in her mouth, but she doesn’t flinch when he feels himself bump against the back of her throat. Goddamn . As if he didn’t already worship this woman enough. She moved fluidly back and forth over him, her hands alternately gripping and pumping him to groping at his hips and thighs.

The telltale coiling of pressure at the base of his spine had Frank tightening his fingers in Karen’s hair urging her to move faster. She didn’t need much encouragement, bobbing her head quickly, her hands moving in tandem with her talented mouth. He was on fire, he felt sweat dripping down his spine and every muscle in his body was straining to reach his release.

Frank never tore his eyes from her face as he ground out a warning, “I’m coming, fuck , Karen-” She hummed against him and snapped her eyes open to watch him, never slowing her pace. It only took a couple more pumps from her and Frank was letting out a low gravely shout, leaning heavily into the wall as his orgasm tore through him. A deep moan escaped him as Karen continued to work him over, drawing every last bit of his release from him. When he had the strength to open his eyes again he watched as Karen sat back from him, holding his gaze as she swallowed, giving him a knowing smirk when he growled lowly at the sight.

He tugged gently at the hair he still had fisted in his hand and helped her back to her feet. Before she could say anything, Frank had her pressed against the wall once more, kissing her with all the gratitude and adoration he was feeling. When he pulled back he shook his head, smirking at her smug expression. His voice was rough, still recovering, as he attempted to reprimand her, “You don’t fight fair, Ms. Page.”

She smiled coyly at him, “Yeah, well, all’s fair in love and war and all that.”

Frank gave a huffing laugh, pressing his lips over hers in a quick kiss. “The discussion isn’t over, just to be clear.”

Karen’s smile grew before it turned into a yawn. Taking her hand, Frank pushed away from the wall and moved them toward the cot.

“What are you doing? I still have stuff I want to go over.” She asked even as she stifled another yawn.

“It’s been a long couple o’ days, we need to get some sleep. We can sort out the rest tomorrow.” Truth be told, if it were just him, he would stay up all night until he had everything planned to his liking but he didn’t just have his own health and safety to look after at the moment so Frank climbed into the cot first before pulling her down and tucking her between him and the wall and tugging the blanket over both of them. Despite her protests, Karen tucked into his side, burying her face in his neck with an arm thrown over his chest and was breathing deeply in a matter of moments. He wasn’t far behind, turning just enough to be able to drape an arm over her waist, Frank breathed her in, honeysuckle and vanilla, and drifted off as well.

[theangrypokemaniac]

Ma and Pa James's Second Biggest Fan (we plough a lonely furrow) continues to find Ma Jess's appeal mystifying, since everything about her is negative:

1. Signing up for Team Rocket suggests someone of a morally dubious character to start with, but the truth lies in the clothing, and she's in black!

Black!

It's code for her personality:

• Jessie wears white:

Pure, beautiful, innocent, sweet-natured, not really bad, dealt a severe hand in life but a fighter.

• Cassidy wears black:

EVIL!!! EVIL, EVIL, EEEEEEVUL!!! FOUL SIRENIC TEMPTRESS!!! EVIL HEARTLESS BITCH STEALING JAMES'S NEVER-BEFORE-SEEN WEEPINBELL!!!

Speaking of which:

2. She was Madame Boss's best agent.

You don't get there being kind.

To reach that standing requires hundreds of successful heists, and we aren't talking nicking gold bars. It's living things.

How many Pokémon do you imagine she stole with merciless efficiency?

How many children did she set upon, pinching every animal they had?

How many innocent lives did she ruin by depriving kids of the pets they loved, never to see them again, eaten away with the not-knowing and the false hope?

The glory of her reign ran on the fuel of blood and tears.

What fate do you envision awaited those Pokémon? It's not exchanging one master for another, it's entering slavery.

Jessie and James aren't the epitome of Team Rocket. They are minnows on the outskirts, despised and mocked by most of their fellow members. The actual group isn't particularly famous for prioritizing Pokémon welfare.

The preferable outcome is being handed out to agents to help catch other victims. Otherwise it's transformation into a war machine, forced to fight on and on to the point of exhaustion and death, no doubt tortured and tested on to boot.

What happens if they don't come up to scratch or are pushed for years until too aged and broken to be of any use? Are Team Rocket ready to pension them off to animal sanctuary?

As if. It's euthanasia or on to the streets to waste away, if not fed to the strongest first.

Ma Jess knew this and worse occurred thanks to her, yet paid it no mind, and felt not a single twinge of guilt in that time of service, then met her end trying to draw another Pokémon into imprisonment.

Some might say it was a case of what goes around, comes around. As her behaviour led to God knows how many Pokémon dying alone, leaving their loved ones to wonder and grieve, so in turn did she die alone in the snow, and Jessie had to carry on without her.

I'm not against Ma Jess, I neither feel like or dislike, but I don't understand how so many fans can happily overlook her murky past of inflicting pain, instead elevating her to a semi-divine tragic heroine, yet apparently Ma and Pa's heinous offences of not stealing and treating Pokémon well are beyond forgiveness.

3. It's the Red Ribbon Army! Save yourselves!

Jessie joined Team Rocket to follow in Ma's footsteps. James went with her. Both moved (upwardly in scale, downwardly in morals) from Sunny Town's gang of petty thief kids to a complex Mafia organisation stretching its wriggling tentacles around the world to crush the air from its lungs.

Why? Ma Jess's baleful influence led the two down that path.

Of course Jessie wants to copy Ma, how and where else can she feel close to her?

There's not even a grave to visit!

Rising in the ranks and Giovanni's favour is both to strike it rich and take her place, becoming Ma in essence. That would make her proud, which is all Jessie ever wanted.

What alternative is there? Stay with Chopper and Tyra forever, ekeing an existence pickpocketing and shoplifting, until mortality comes calling sooner than is welcome, or get loaded quickly and retire early?

James theoretically could've gone home at this point, but when it came to which angry redhead he preferred to beat him up, he chose Jessie.

He was henceforth obliged to go whenever she led, even if it meant following the ghost of her mother into the jaws of evil.

They have an excuse, but what was Ma's for getting involved?

However much they boast and revel in their wickedness, the motto proves the couple still believe themselves on a noble quest, despite everything to the contrary, and why?

Jessie isn't about to accept that Ma Jess, whom she's probably idolized as one of few people to love her and a role model of how a woman should be, was nasty or unpleasant. If she was in Team Rocket, it must be good, whatever the outer appearance.

Except Jessie and James are bad at being bad. They are not master criminals. All their plans fail, rendering them poor and starving in consequence. The inner circle of Team Rocket will always be barred to them because they lack the inner darkness it requires.

The joke is they flourish in any other occupation, whether that be Salon Rocquet, reporters, or flogging merchandise and food at the League. If employed elsewhere they'd be better off, but they have to stay because Jessie can't let go, or bear the thought she might be a disappointment to her mother's name. A different career looks unworthy by comparison.

What, so Ma and Pa have got no son because of Ma Jess? They just wanted him to be a gentleman!

If she hadn't set such a terrible example to her daughter she might have an increased quality of life, but then had she done so Ma wouldn't be dead in the first place.

4. Can't pick 'em can she?

What was it that first attracted Ma to Windy Miller? Does she go for the rustic charm, or the promise of a lifetime's supply of bread to feed the abundance of babies planned?

Don't do it, Ma! He's an alky!

Some birds are like that you see. It's the maternal instinct gone haywire. They find a local reprobate and somehow decide he's really a damaged soul crying out for love, the scapegoat of a cruel society.

He's not evil, he's just misunderstood!

This is why you get nutters wanting to marry the Yorkshire Ripper: they put his 'mischief' down to bad women mistreating his gentle heart, but they of course are devoted to his happiness. They can change him.

You don't know him like I do!

In their fantasy, under the influence of a 'proper' woman he'll transform in to a flower-picking hippie, but not too much, they still like him to be dangerously 'manly' (keeps 'em on their toes), then they can feel smugly superior and more truly female than the 'lesser' breed who failed to tame his sexy pashuns.

And if there's one thing Windy has in abundance, it's raw animal magnetism.

Stop it, Ma! You can't help those who don't want helping!

She put up with the boozing, the flour dust and his somewhat limited communication skills, but what really let him down was the company he kept.

Ever after she would insist Pugh, Pugh, Barney McGrew, Cuthbert, Dibble and Grub led him astray. That's firemen for yer.

Cuthbert? That name's died out.

Sure enough, some point after Ma Jess was stuffed up the spout, old Windy legged it back to Camberwick Green, like the rascal he is, and not a sweet penny piece did she receive in maintenance, the bastard.

At least Ma James got pregnant by a man who stood by her.

She wasn't married to Windy Miller!

Oh, you mean they were living over the brush? I see.

It's all in your head!

Do it my way, and we have Pa Jess. Do it yours, and we're back to a cavernous emptiness. Unless you can supply a picture of the 'real' (pffft) Pa Jess, this is the best available.

Anyway, 'Jessie Miller' just sounds right.

Coincidence? I think not.

5. She went to look for Mew dressed like this.

I could forgive it had she gone in her normal uniform, that's just whimsy, but to have made some effort emphasises that it's not enough!

Some part of her understood a mountain might be a bit parky out, but this was deemed sufficient coverage!

What happened?

She bloody died didn't she?!

6. Ma Boss points the way to doom.

Ma Jess was at least loyal to the mistress she served, but it was a wasted dedication. She squandered her life obeying a heartless virago who could cast aside apparently valued staff without a qualm, whatever thanks she owed them.

The millions Ma Jess accumulated for Madame are probably uncountable, yet she was so worthless that, when dispatched to the mountain, on her own, expected to catch a Legendary Pokémon, by herself, which many doubted even existed, and wasn't likely to come quietly, or put up with orders, but then didn't come back, Madame Boss allowed her only child to sink into poverty and the infamous 'care' of the State.

Everyone knows what goes on there. Entering a home has replaced the workhouse as the place of dread.

Jessie might have been killed or attacked and it didn't remotely concern Madame Boss, unwilling to spare a meagre fraction of her massive fortune to give the girl she made an orphan any comfort or security.

What did she matter? Her mother failed. Why reward that?

In her turn, Jessie became just as obsequious to an undeserving master, who went further than his mama and actively tried to murder her, and still she suffers to please him.

Team Rocket devoured her mother, and now it's swallowed her.

Oh, and Madame Boss got her way upon discovering Mew's fossil, so Ma Jess died for nothing.

7. This.

I'm not surprised Mew wouldn't go with Ma. She probably sensed the vivisection awaiting, and didn't give a toss about the avalanche in revenge.

Mew hasn't got where she is today falling for any old shallow promises from a stranger, thank you.

Suppose the mission had worked, with Mew caught and gift wrapped for Madame's delectation: what then?

Perhaps Mew's power, proving so impressive, would've pushed any cloning scheme aside, leaving Mewtwo unborn and Mew as the mightiest weapon. Or in greed Madame Boss demands more, and in arrogance the scientists promise the earth, the seas and the heavens.

Mew I could see subjected to some non-lethal form of dissection, just to understand how she ticked, that is if they could build the cage to hold her.

As they couldn't, and catching Mew was never a possibility, then Ma Jess's sacrificed herself on a fool's errand, which was obviously one from the outset. If Mew was easy to handle she'd have been captured long before now.

Either Ma dies, Mew's safe, but Madame Boss starts the cloning scheme anyway, or Ma's victorious, Mew is a tool of Team Rocket and the scientists have more sample to experiment upon. Mewtwo is still made, alongside short-lived creations and dozens of unseen freakish abominations preceding.

Now Mewtwo isn't what you call at peace with himself, nor has he received a particularly wholesome experience. One could think Ma indirectly caused that. Her branch of the project may have fizzled to cinders but she still played her role.

What would her legacy have been but to help bring forth the being that wiped out mankind? Where's the future for Jessie when there isn't one?

It's not her fault, but she died in the name of cloning a biological disaster, the creation of synthetic life leading to the destruction of it all.

8. Let's have a gander at Ma in the anime:

• Can afford rent.

• Can afford a tray.

• Can afford crockery.

• Can afford condiments to add flavour to food.

• Can't afford any actual food.

Something's wrong there.

I intended to include affording clothes too, but now I'm not so sure.

I never took Ma to be a brown-all-over kind of woman. At least she gave the fancy stuff to Jessie.

For years I've assumed she wore a brightly coloured jacket, but now I suspect it's a red one heavily patched up, because buying a replacement isn't an option.

Really old clothes are being mended with whatever can be salvaged from even more worn-out clobber.

Best agent Madame Boss has and she's practically living in her own filth.

Team Rocket takes care of its own, eh?

Oh no, let's not get a proper job, one that allows me to provide for my daughter and doesn't ask for my life. Let's stay in this one!

9. Look at Jessie's face!

By her own admission, being tricked into eating snow is the best thing that ever happened to her during an 'otherwise wretched childhood', to the extent she doesn't know it was wrong!

I don't hear Ma and Pa doing that. The only ice James got was an ice-cream sandwich.

What kind of infancy did Ma Jess give the girl for her to be nostalgic about almost dying of malnutrition?

If we say that's a foster mother as in the sub, it means Jessie's fondest memory is after Ma died, which is too brutal for me.

Yeah, thank goodness she's snuffed it.

You think Ma might have taught her not to eat snow! She left her so ill-prepared!

Consequently the sub version makes Ma Jess an awful creature, although I don't see why that Jessie would so desire to mimic a mom she apparently doesn't care about.

10. She's not even bloody here!

I have no picture to signify absence, therefore I must show whom she left behind.

Ma Jess is Pokémon's answer to Bobba Fett: background figure, barely involved, no information, dies early, yet became a fan favourite nevertheless.

If nothing really exists, what is there to like? Why are you contented weaving smoke?

When Rocketshippers put forward the manga as proof, the Anti-Ships used to insist that it 'didn't count' for being set in a 'separate universe'.

If that still goes, and only the contents of the anime apply to the anime, well then it's bye-bye to Ma Jess and Madame Boss, because they aren't real either.

I sometimes think that's true. However traumatic, would Jessie not have acknowledged her mother by now otherwise?

We grasp the characters all had two parents in a nebulous fashion, although not being real people means they don't 'technically' need them, but Ma Jess is the only one who vanished to be granted a face. Why is she then ignored?

She's briefly glimpsed in a passing scene of a single episode of the first series and is never seen or referenced again. The sub doesn't even have that. Where was the use in creating her if only to leave that thread of the tale billowing in the breeze?

We may decide her actions affect Jessie's but we're only imprinting assumptions. She might as well have remained unwritten for all that's made of her.

What we can glean doesn't bode well, irrespective of things left unmentioned.

Her one redeeming deed was dying, thus at least she didn't choose to abandon Jessie. We may presume she'd have stayed with her girl given the chance.

By my reckoning that puts her as Fifth-Best Mother Of Pokémon, behind Ma Brock, Ma James, Dame Ketchum and Ma Boss, in that order.

Then they're those who claim she never died, so she just pissed off like everyone else, rendering her devoid of a single positive quality.

This is the woman you sigh and agonise over for decades.

Ma and Pa are right there, man! Show 'em some love!

[jwminssi]

one breath to eternity (jikook)

After another argument with his father, Jungkook can't take it anymore and runs to the woods behind his house ready to end it all. There, he meets Jimin, a sweet boy with a way of seeing the world that will make Jungkook wonder how someone like him can be real as they talk through the night. In the morning, Jungkook can't bring himself to say goodbye.

6K | warnings: implied/referenced suicide, light angst with a happy ending

Jungkook takes a deep breath when he sees the light coming from his father’s office window while still outside.

Walking around the house to the backyard, he secures his bike and goes inside through the back door, taking his shoes off and trying to make the less amount of noise possible.

Not that he’s doing anything wrong, but Jungkook learned since he was really young that it’s best to do everything he can not to cross paths with his father, because any minimum thing can be fuel too a big fight.

Jungkook’s mother died at birth and, since then, he was raised by a babysitter until he didn’t need her anymore. The thought that if he hadn’t been born she would still be alive has crossed his mind hundreds of times, and Jungkook is sure that his father thinks the same – suspects that is the reason why he seems to hate him so much, too.

Since the babysitter left, Jungkook had to learn to live on his own and to take care of his own needs, only being able to count on his father to keep his bank account full enough so that he doesn’t have to ask him for anything else.

At school, Jungkook has a few friends – even a boyfriend at one point, before it all went downhill for good – but he can’t bring them home because his father said so and he really doesn’t need any more problems with him.

It’s a constant game of being careful, living in that house with a man that can’t even look at him without finding something bad to comment on. Most of the time, Jungkook can avoid him and all the hateful words that come out of his mouth when he locks himself inside his room and comes out only when absolutely necessary.

But of course that doesn’t always work.

“Where were you?” Jungkook freezes when he walks past the kitchen and hears his father’s voice calling out to him.

A big block of hesitation seems to land over Jungkook’s head before he answers the question. He can’t lie, because the other man already knows exactly where he was, but he’s aware that the truth won’t bring him anything good.

Still, he tries.

“Dance class.”

It’s impressive to Jungkook how much anger his father can carry only in his gaze. He’s always been a man with a hard posture, extremely serious and apparently without the smallest place in his heart for any emotion that’s not bad.

And ever since Jungkook started enjoying dance, it all got ever worse.

Maybe that reminds the man of his late wife, who was also a very talented dancer. That’s what Jungkook thinks, even though his father uses any other reason to hurt him and try to make him quit the classes.

Deep down, somewhere hidden in his mind, there is the comprehension that the words shouted at him aren’t really what his father means. Everything he does and says is caused by the pain and trauma of losing the woman he loves so quickly and early in life, leaving him to raise a child without even knowing where to begin.

That doesn’t mean that this treatment doesn’t hurt Jungkook, because it does even more than he can explain; but there is space in him for forgiveness if the older is willing to change.

The problem is that Jungkook knows that’s never going to happen.

“How many times did I tell you I don’t want you taking those classes?” He’s furious, which is nothing too different from ordinary, but Jungkook still takes a step back.

“But I like dancing.”

It’s a useless argument, because he’s never going to change his mind to accept one of his son’s passions. In fact, with each passing day, it seems like he’s more and more willing to force Jungkook to do everything he hates only to make him unhappy.

“I don’t care.” There it is, that’s the truth. Jungkook feels his chest tighten with the harshness of those words. “You’re already a freak just by liking men, I won’t allow you to ruin my reputation even more by being a fucking dancer.”

Something breaks in an irreparable way inside Jungkook when he hears that.

It’s not too far from what he’s used to, but for some reason on that day the insult hits him harder, like the knife was sharpened right before being thrown at him.

And he stands there at the kitchen door, eyes on the floor while his heart seems to want to come out of his body and his mind decides it’s time to go. He doesn’t know if his father expects him to fight, make up an argument or raise his voice so he can humiliate him even more or if he’s waiting for a positive answer, but all he can say is,

“Okay.”

So Jungkook goes up the stairs to his room, closing the door behind him before marching to his desk in search of a notebook and a pen, all while working on automatic.

It would be a lie saying that Jungkook never thought about giving up on himself before; in fact, that idea has crossed his mind way more times than he can even count.

However, he always had a dash of hope that his father could change someday and accept him as he is, without yelling hateful comments at him every day. Besides, when he was old enough to understand his mother died while giving him his own life, he unconsciously decided he would do everything in his power to make her last wish worth it.

Except he can’t do it anymore.

He knows he can ask for help, find a way to make all that pain stop without going for the last resources but he doesn’t think that anything anyone can do for him is enough to erase all the damage his father causes on him.

In this moment, this seems like the only way out.

Jungkook doesn’t cry while he writes the letter he’s going to leave behind. For some reason, he feels too empty to even shed a tear.

All he does is say his goodbyes and apologize for being such a disappointment in his twenty years of age. He tells his father that he never meant for it to be this way, he really wanted to make him proud, but he was never good enough to do it; he apologizes for that, too.

He takes the bottle with his sleep medicine from the bathroom cabinet and carefully places the envelope over his pillow on his well-made bed for his father to find the next morning when he goes in to wake him up and remind him of their daily schedule.

Jungkook climbs through his bedroom window, landing on the grass in front of the house easily in the same way he’s done so many times before. Once again he goes around his home, moving on towards the small forest that’s right behind the place he lives.

There’s a special tree there, where his babysitter placed a small wooden swing on one of the branches so that they could spend their afternoons when the weather was nice. When Jungkook reaches it, that’s when he starts crying.

His body starts feeling heavy and he needs to support himself on the wood that scratches his hand that’s not holding the bottle – which, on the other hand, feels different to the touch; maybe he got the wrong one.

Jungkook sits on the wet ground as he sobs alone in the woods. He cries so much that breathing gets harder as he goes on, oxygen more and more absent from his lungs, until he needs to close his eyes to try getting himself back to normal.

It feels like a small eternity until he opens them again, not because his breathing has returned but because there’s someone talking to him.

“You okay?” It’s another boy, they might share their age, and he seems genuinely worried, though he’s smiling. “Clearly not the best thing to ask but… I didn’t know where to start.” He eyes the medicine in Jungkook’s hands wearily before focusing back on his face.

“Who are you?” Jungkook asks, voice hoarse from the recent crying fit.

“Ah.” The boy smiles widely again and crouches next to him, putting them at eye-level. “Jimin.”

Jimin, whoever he may be, has something in him that Jungkook can’t quite identify. In the forest that grows darker by the second, he didn’t hesitate before stopping to ask a random stranger if he’s feeling okay; that’s not something everyone would do.

“Jungkook.” He introduces himself as well when he realizes that’s what the other is waiting from him and then has no idea what else he’s supposed to say.

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to think too hard.

“Does this tree mean a lot to you?” Jimin asks, hugging his knees so that he’s more comfortable in that position.

Jungkook shrugs, still not feeling strong enough to do any more than that. “I guess.”

“You came to it in a crucial moment, I’d say that looks like a big deal.”

Jungkook nods, more focused on the way Jimin talks than in the words themselves; in that moment he decides that, if velvet could talk, that’s what it would sound like.

“Is it the swing?” Jimin keeps trying to prolong the conversation and, while Jungkook has no idea why he’s doing that, there’s no denying the fact that it does help him feel better.

“Yes.” He’s finally able to get up and goes towards the wooden toy, the paint that used to cover it now ruined because of the time exposed to the weather. “It’s mine.”

Jimin makes a sound of understanding and stops next to him, pushing the small swing with his delicate fingers.

“I walk around here all the time… Always wondered what’s the story behind it.” He faces him with a world of expectations in his eyes, as if knowing why that swing is there could that his whole universe.

“My babysitter and her boyfriend put it there when I was a baby.” Jungkook starts. There’s really nothing too special about that, but he finds that talking about it makes him see how much that gesture meant to him, a kid without both his parents. “As I grew up, they made the necessary adjustments until it reached a point where they didn’t have to anymore.”

Jimin seems more than satisfied to hear that, even if the story doesn’t sound that interesting to the ears of the person telling it.

“And have you been back here recently?”

Jungkook doesn’t really get what Jimin means with that question until he realizes the other is cleaning the seat’s surface.

“I’m too old for that, Jimin.”

Jimin laughs and rolls his eyes. “There’s no age limit to appreciate the small things, Jungkook. Come on, sit.”

A second of hesitation still goes by while Jungkook questions whether or not he’s really about to sit on a swing that’s been untouched in the woods for years, with the risk of it falling under his weight if it’s rotten on the inside.

Still, Jimin’s eyes convince him to do what he tells him, and his happiness doesn’t go unnoticed with the way he claps animatedly.

Jungkook holds on to the ropes slightly and slowly lowers his body over the seat, surprised in the best way possible when it supports him even after going so long without use.

He doesn’t feel like a kid again, but he can see clearly all the moments he lived there, being pushed by the babysitter to whom he was so attached to and feeling all the love he never received inside his own house.

For the first time that night, Jungkook smiles. A good feeling invades his chest and, when Jimin pushes him carefully on the back so that the swing moves, it overflows in the shape of laughter.

A cold breeze blows against him as he sways back and forth, his skin coming up with goosebumps in a way that reminds him of how special the little things really can be.

“And you didn’t want to sit on it...” Jimin shakes his head as he walks back into Jungkook’s sight, both smiling. “You know, me and my friends make a bonfire here every night… Want to come?”

This time around, Jungkook doesn’t think twice before agreeing.

It doesn’t take long for them to start getting deeper into the woods, the trees making an impressive roof above their heads.

Right as it starts to get too dark Jungkook sees a dot of light a few meters ahead, and he soon realizes that’s the bonfire Jimin mentioned.

The light comes accompanied with voices and laughter that rise gradually in volume as they come closer. Jungkook unconsciously allows himself to fall back behind Jimin, nervous about what the others will think of him being there without being invited.

“Jimin’s back!” One of them announces to the rest before his gaze lands on Jungkook.

“Found someone.” Jimin explains to the group, that seems more than satisfied with just those two words. “Jungkook, these are Seokjin, Hoseok e Taehyung.”

There isn’t even a flicker of distrust in their eyes when seeing a complete stranger being introduced to their space. On the contrary, they all look beyond excited that Jungkook is joining them, as if they were only waiting for him to arrive.

“You know, you won’t need that anymore. I didn’t after I ended up here.” It’s Hoseok who says that, talking to him for the first time and pointing to the bottle of medicine that Jungkook didn’t even remember still carrying with him. “Be our guest.” He opens a big smile and motions for the bonfire, his intentions clear.

Jungkook goes closer and sits next to him, studying the thing in his hands carefully and noticing it full, though he clearly remembers it being only halfway there earlier.

It’s a weird feeling, looking at those pills and seeing all the bad things they represent in his life in each of them. For that reason, Jungkook raises his arms above the fire and throws them out, getting rid of it while the rest of the group cheers around him.

When his eyes meet Jimin’s, they smile.

After the initial anxiety of being with people he just met goes away, Jungkook gets even more comfortable than he expected and finds his place in the conversation, fitting in perfectly. He laughs like he hasn’t done in a long time, feeling completely accepted and loved in that group that found him only a few hours ago.

He notices Jimin’s gaze on himself a few times and even risks looking back at him, thinking that he other looks happy that he settled in so well between his friends without trying too hard.

When conversation starts to die down, Jimin pokes him on the thigh and gets up.

“There’s a place I want you to see.”

Jungkook joins him through the trail between the trees, not saying goodbye to the other three because he knows he’ll see them again soon.

It got even darker in the forest during the time they spent around the bonfire and Jungkook can’t see anything ahead of him, has no idea how Jimin knows where he’s going either.

He stops walking when a scream so loud it’s deafening comes from right behind him, his body freezing up in place with the sheer terror of the sound. He hears it a second time, a bit closer, and covers his ears with every drop of strength he can muster through the fear.

“Hey, Jungkook.” Jimin calls out, holding his wrists with his hands and pulling them away from his face. “It’s okay, just ignore it.”

His voice sounds so close that, even though he can’t see him, Jungkook can tell exactly where he’s standing. His calming tone, still the same velvet from before, certainly helps Jungkook get back the beats his heart skipped.

“I got you.” Jimin tells him and then interlaces their fingers so that they can finish the path to wherever it is they’re headed.

Jungkook can’t take that scream out of his head, but does everything he can to focus on the fact that he didn’t hear it again and on the warmth of Jimin’s hand against his as he guides them through the tree maze.

“Seokjin was scared of the dark when he got here.” Jimin comments, his voice echoing in the silence of the woods while he holds firmly onto Jungkook’s hand, helping him ground himself and keep calm despite still being frightened.

“Must have been hard for him...”

Jungkook can only see Jimin tilt his head in thought because they reach a clearing and the moonlight finally shines on them. It really is too dark there; the trees cover most of the luminosity that the sky can offer and drown them in pitch black darkness that seems to swallow them whole.

“Getting here is the easiest part.” Jimin says as he sits down on the wet ground and surrounds himself of the small yellow flowers that grew in that field. “It’s the before that seems endless.”

“Did he say why he was scared?” Jungkook asks while joining him.

There is something extremely comforting about sitting there in the low light with Jimin, feeling the petals of the flowers tickle the skin of his naked arms and watching the dark middle of the night sky while a few dots of light adorn it.

All his life, Jungkook can’t remember ever feeling so welcome like this. Not even with the people he considered close has he experimented such a good and freeing sensation like the one he does right now.

Even Jimin’s silence is meaningful, his sighs a tight hug on Jungkook’s tired body.

“I suppose it’s not really easy for anyone but...” Jimin finally answers, eyes fixated on the tree line ahead. “He was taken from home once. Locked up in a cabin a few meters from here, because his parents were important people in the city. It was too much for him.”

Jungkook has no idea how to answer to that.

It was never a surprise to him what human beings are capable of doing for their own benefit, whether it be emotional, physical or financial. The world is moved by selfishness, after all.

But he saw Seokjin when they gathered around the fire, smiling and telling jokes, and there was nothing wrong of minimally out of place with him.

“He seems fine now.”

Jimin smiles.

“There’s freedom in the woods.”

Jungkook nods, gaze back to the sky where the moon looks down at him. He agrees completely with what Jimin just said, more than anything because he felt on his own skin the hug of the trees and the whirl of emotions that it brought to him.

“You feel it too, right?” Jimin asks him and when Jungkook turns to face him, he finds that his eyes are already on him, analyzing him closer than before.

Jungkook nods one more time, staying quiet while Jimin picks one of the small flowers and places it on his grown out hair.

They both smile with the gesture, sharing that moment that’s so intimate and only theirs. Jungkook loves the way Jimin caresses his cheek, his touch light as a feather, and can’t help but to lean into it.

Jimin looks at him like he’s the most precious thing in the entire world and, indeed, that’s how Jungkook feels, at least there in that moment.

So much so that he doesn’t feel even slightly insecure as he moves even closer, their faces mere centimeters apart. When their noses bump into each other, Jungkook notices that Jimin has closed his eyes so he does the same, letting himself go until their mouths meet in a chaste peck.

Jungkook pulls away minimally, but doesn’t take long before he’s kissing him again, this time deepening it as he pulls Jimin’s bottom lip between his before tracing it carefully with the tip of his tongue.

It’s a terrible cliche but Jungkook is sure no other kiss in his life was ever like this one; nothing came close to the utter euphoria that Jimin’s lips pull him into while they move against his. It feels like they both have a silent connection since the second they met, that perfect synchrony that turns everything they have together into something more than extraordinary.

It’s Jimin who pulls away first, slowly as if to not break the bubble they’re in. His eyes remain closed for a moment but he smiles when he touches their foreheads before putting some more space between them.

“You’re a special one, Jungkook.” It’s only a whisper, but it has the same effect on Jungkook’s heart than if those words were yelled into a microphone.

They exchange a meaningful look and then Jimin lies down on the grass, one arm under his head and the other stretched out next to him. Jungkook can’t help but to stare at him, the way he contrasts beautifully with the flowers on the ground, their light petals a total opposite from his black hair and clothes.

“Will you join me or not?” Jimin asks, amused after staring back at Jungkook for a while, raising his arm so that he understands he’s supposed to lie down over it.

The comfort that Jungkook gets when he scoots closer to Jimin’s body is indescribable. He feels the other’s warmth floating to him until it touches his own skin while one of Jimin’s hands finds the back of his neck, caressing him softly there.

They don’t say anything, but they also don’t need to.

A loud noise catches Jungkook’s attention and he sits up quickly, heart racing without knowing why, only that it sounded exactly like someone calling for help. He turns his head to the direction where it came from, not sure what he’s looking for but finding only the trees that surround the clearing.

“Did you hear that?” He asks Jimin, who has also sat up again.

The other only nods, also looking at the edge of where they are. There’s something else in his face, as if he’s contemplating what to do next; and that makes zero sense to Jungkook, because he has no idea what’s on the other side of those trees.

“Happens sometimes.” Jimin answers, his voice oddly distant.

“What’s in there?” He’s not absolutely sure he wants that question to be answered but the words come out of his mouth before he can hold them in.

“The lake.”

Jimin’s answer doesn’t tell him much, nor was it what he expected to hear. A heavy feeling fills his chest and he can’t even find an explanation for that, but it might have something to do with the fact that Jimin seems to be in the same place mentally and he can’t bear to see people he cares about down.

“Want to go over there?” Jimin looks at him suddenly and he seems to have gotten a hold of himself and of whatever was clouding his brain earlier.

Jungkook hesitates. “Everything okay?”

“There’s no one there.” Jimin assures him, already getting up and ready to go but Jungkook holds him back by the arm.

“I mean with you. Is everything okay?”

The look on Jimin’s face softens and he smiles the same way he’s been doing since the beginning of the night and only that is enough to make Jungkook start believing that there’s nothing wrong with going to the lake.

But Jimin doesn’t answer his question, only takes his hand and pulls him out of the clearing.

They’re immersed in darkness for a short amount of time until they reach the margin of a small lake that extends itself not too far ahead of them. The moon shows up in the sky again, not as strong as before but still enough for them to be able to see each other.

Jungkook can’t deny he feels weird standing there, as if that lake isn’t really a good place to be, but Jimin seems like he’s back to being calm so he chooses to ignore his mind for now.

A soft breeze blows against Jungkook’s hair and he remembers the small flower still sitting there, taking it carefully so that it doesn’t fly away and keeping it safe on the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Here.” Jimin comes up to him with rocks in his hands, that he shares with Jungkook to pass the time. “Try it.”

They each take turns with skipping the rocks, laughing with each other when an attempt fails or making bets as to who can send them farther away.

“You look close to the others.” Jungkook comments while he tosses another rock on the lake, counting as it skips four times before sinking.

“Actually, I only knew Taehyung before I got here.” Jimin answers, getting ready for his turn; he can’t mask the sadness in his voice. “He died with me.”

Jungkook’s brain doesn’t register the words completely at first, but when it does, he finds that it’s not really a surprise.

Just because Jimin hadn’t said that exact phrase before, with all the letters in a way that it couldn’t be misinterpreted, doesn’t mean Jungkook didn’t know. In fact, he’s sure that since the first moment his mind had already established what was going on.

Meeting Jimin in woods didn’t happen on accident, Jungkook is aware of that. All the circumstances that surround them, everything the other boy told him throughout the night… It was always very clear.

And that’s why he doesn’t get scared, only accepts what fate has brought him and, even more than that, holds on to it as tightly as he can.

“You’re too young...” Jungkook knows he’s speaking in the present, but he can’t simply bring their existence down to a verb tense.

“So are you.”

There’s something Jungkook can’t identify in the way Jimin says that. His voice sounds like it holds a mix of different emotions and for that reason he can’t pull them apart; all he knows, deep down, is that none of those feelings are happy.

“Sometimes we trust people and they hurt us.” Jimin speaks out his thoughts, gaze still on the lake.

Jungkook isn’t sure if he’s about to tell him what happened to him and Taehyung, but he listens carefully anyways, holding on to the little rocks he still has in his hands.

“I don’t know if it’s more frustrating to get out of it hurt or… the fact that I deposited something so precious in someone who didn’t deserve it.” Jimin goes on; as usual, there’s nothing bad in his voice, only a perpetual wave of calmness. “My stepfather was never a good person. I knew that, Tae did too, but it wasn’t enough for us to be able to stay away from him.”

The knowledge that they’re siblings comes as a hard hit for Jungkook.

During the time they spent together around the fire, he noticed how close the two of them seemed to be so that in itself doesn’t surprise him. What really leaves Jungkook in a state of disbelief is the fact that they both had the same fate and that Jimin had to watch his own brother die at such a young age.

“But did you trust him?” Jungkook asks, trying to connect that part of the story to what Jimin was just saying.

“No.” He shakes his head. “I trusted our mother.”

Once again, Jungkook has no idea what to say to that. He lived a whole life of disappointment with a person that was supposed to care for him and love him unconditionally, it’s not like he really has anything useful to add.

But just like before, he doesn’t need to worry about picking the right words.

“I don’t resent her, neither does Taehyung.” Jimin says with the certainty of someone who has spent a good amount of time pondering over a subject. “I think she’s free from him now, at least that’s what I hope… Silver linings and all that.” He smiles, one more time impressing Jungkook with his way to see the world. “But I wish I didn’t have to drown.”

The cogs move inside Jungkook’s brain until he reaches a conclusion, also understanding why he felt so bad.

“It was you that I head back at the clearing.”

Still smiling, Jimin nods and comes closer, leaning his head on Jungkook’s shoulder. The lake looks like a painting from where they stand, reflecting the moon that has moved through the sky already.

“Taehyung can’t come here.”

Jungkook can understand that perfectly. It’s not a crazy thought to think he’s scared of going to the place where his last breath was taken from him so traumatically.

“Are you okay with it?” He asks, afraid that being there is bad for him somehow.

“I come by every once in a while...” Jimin answers before facing Jungkook. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“It’s almost dawn, want to go back to your swing?”

Jimin’s eyes tell him he’s going to be there whether he chooses to go or not and that makes it even easier for Jungkook to make that decision.

In the end, they do end up making their way back to the place where they first met, next to the big tree that had such an impact on Jungkook’s childhood. Standing there after everything and the night he had, Jungkook feels small to the world, but for the same time believes he can be the whole world himself.

It’s in the details, this feeling.

In the way Jungkook understands that he’s nothing more than a cog in the big machine that is the universe, but at the same time can feel the galaxy pulsate under his fingertips when he places them over that tree.

Jimin only watches him for a while, giving him the space he needs to go back to the first hour of the night and take in everything that happened since he left his house.

“To be honest, I never thought I’d get this far.” Jungkook announces, eyes glued to something in front of him.

“Are you proud of yourself?” Jimin asks.

Jungkook isn’t sure proud is the right word for it, maybe that’s not what he’s feeling at all. Either way, when it all comes down to what really matters, he supposes he’s happy with his choices.

He doesn’t have time to give Jimin a proper answer, though, because something interrupts him.

At first, he thinks it’s thunder, because his body shakes with the force of it and his heart tightens in an all too familiar way.

But then it happens again and this time Jungkook knows what’s happening.

His father’s deep voice echoes through the trees, their branches breaking under his feet while he runs, faster and faster, towards the heart of the small forest.

Jungkook doesn’t remember ever hearing him call out to him like that, so desperately; he doesn’t remember ever feeling important to his father like this.

“He’s fast...” Jimin says, a quick comment to break the silence.

“It’s late.” Is what Jungkook answers, both facing the direction from which the voice comes from, each second closer.

“It’s quite early, actually.” Jimin looks around them, sees the forest getting brighter slowly as the sun rises through the blue sky that covers them. Jungkook smiles, because that’s just such a Jimin thing to say.

“He’ll find me soon.”

Jungkook is the one to say those words, and for a moment he doesn’t really know what to do with them. Inside his chest, he can’t feel the weight that used to be there, the anguish that stopped him from breathing normally; still, it’s not all that easy to understand what he’s done to himself, even though he already knows.

“And do you want to be here when that happens?” Jimin asks, always careful, soothing voice and gentle eyes.

Jungkook’s answer isn’t verbal – in fact, he doesn’t do anything at all – but Jimin understands and stays by his side either way.

It doesn’t take long.

The entire forest falls silent when Jungkook’s father finally stops in front of him, as if even the birds knew that they shouldn’t sing in a moment like this. He looks chocked with what he sees, unwanted tears falling from his eyes when he finds his boy.

Jungkook watches him get closer and pull his body against his own, hugging him tightly as if he’s trying to give him life through that touch. Watches him cry like he’s never done before, sobbing against the cold skin of his only son.

“He never hugged me like that.”

For a reason that’s unknown to him, realizing that doesn’t hurt as much as he would have previously imagined it would. Of course Jungkook’s relationship with his father has always been fuel for a lot of bad feelings, but now he’s oddly incapable of feeling anything other than pity; for him, for the man kneeling on the ground in front of him, for both of them.

“It’s a big cliche.” Jimin says next to him, eyes also focused on the scene ahead of them.

“What is?”

“Life.” When Jungkook turns to look at him, Jimin doesn’t face him back for a while, until he smiles and their gazes meet. “Death, too.”

Jungkook looks back to his father, still crying while he holds him in his arms. He supposes Jimin is right, because he always thought he would end up like this, the same way as many more before him.

“I never liked cliches.” He mutters, facing the other when he feels him coming closer.

“Sometimes they’re good.” Jimin’s eyes travel around Jungkook’s face, now free from all the pain he still saw at the beginning of the night when they first met. One of his hands brushes the hair away from his hands to then rest on his cheek. “Comforting.”

There is so much in Jimin’s eyes, an entire ocean of deep thoughts and mystery, but Jungkook thinks he knows him perfectly well when they connect like this.

He holds Jimin’s wrist and pulls it away from his face softly so that he can press a feathery kiss to the inside of his palm, both of them smiling with the gesture.

“He’ll be fine, you know...” Jimin assures him as he looks back to Jungkook’s father, who is now getting ready to carry his son’s body back home. “They always do.”

Jungkook nods, also watching what happens next. It’s weird watching himself go away like this while he stays, but it’s even more strange feeling like he doesn’t belong to that moment in the past anymore.

The truth is that there is no place for resentment in Jungkook’s heart and he never wished anything bad upon his father, not even with all the awful things he yelled at him through the years. But he can’t help the wave of relief that washes over him at knowing that he will never have to go back to that house and to living with the man under the same roof anymore.

Jungkook hopes his father moves on soon, but he can’t feel bad for choosing to leave.

When neither of them can see Jungkook’s father’s silhouette in the distance, Jimin pulls him by the hand back to the place they had the bonfire, where the others wait animatedly for them. Not even a drop of regret fills Jungkook; on the contrary, he feels light when he joins the group he meet at the beginning of the night.

The birds resume their singing, announcing definitely the beginning of another day, and Jungkook thinks that yes, there is freedom in the woods but, even more than that, there’s freedom in Jimin’s eyes.

And that’s where he pretends to spend the rest of eternity.

[medigocrazy-blog]

Dexamethasone- The Wonder Drug or The Desperate Hope?

Despite all the desperate efforts to control the spread of the virus SARS-CoV2, wiz getting on nerves of us, humans, as a very, very, social ;sometimes; toxic, species 

Hello,          I am Arjun and this picture is not me. Its been like 6 months into this pandemic and I have been eating all this junk you can actually say that this picture is me.Gosh, I was so excited for 2020 because so many exciting things were about to happen. Elon Musk was actually going to complete that Neuralink trial thingy by the end of this year and I could finally end my never ending struggle to take care of my> oh my god> numerous organ systems? my weight ? and my metabolism? any my eyesight? and my everything? Who the h*ll does that? 

But no, its just not happening guys. I am pretty sure now because 2020 is just the worst year! let us just agree to that as a starter!

Can you guys like believe that we cannot go out for window shopping anymore?

I go out to buy milk and I have to wear this Halo master chief armored suit thingy.

Ordering from Starbucks is just a pandemic and one kidney away and I certainly cannot beat the Indian summer heat.

I am desperate, I am so desperate that Baba Ramdev doing Yoga at 4:30 in the morning actually makes sense somehow.

I am so desperate that my lockdown 3 AM anthem is :

Taoism talks about how you should go with the flow so thats what I am actually doing, I am finally going with the flow,

But it feels like this flow is actually going towards a falling waterfall and we all are almost on the edge now.

The International airlines are shut down You cannot travel to Ladakh or Goa with your friends and Emiway just featured Macklemore in his song? Like seriously? He went from worshiping M&M to MM? Half a million people have died due to the Coronavirus alone

Yemen is going through a civil war and one of the worst famines in modern history.

And for some reason Delhi is getting its ego drop by a series of Earthquakes.

Well,  Thank You 2020, UNESCO just declared you to be the most confused year in the history of mankind. Like seriously, please decide what you want man.

Now, lets talk medicine.

Lets talk about the scope Dexamethasone potentially has, against Covid-19,

There has been numerous claims in the recent past to have successfully found a potential cure for Covid-19, But I was like meh; BUT I am pretty excited for this one which Oxford just released a statement for I think last night maybe.

The World Health Organisation also applauded the initial results of the study.

It is really interesting, the excerpt said that they are trying to publish the data as soon as possible which basically makes it a more trustworthy of a claim.

The study was an attempt to potentially use Dexamethosone  (A long acting corticosteroid which can remain in the systemic circulation for as long as 3 days) as a DOC for the Covid19.

What are Steroids?

Steroids is a group of chemical compounds with extensive properties often used as a drug of choice for many life threatening diseases.

Some steroids ( Androgenic Steroids) are activated due to stress and leads to many anabolic processes inside your body for example "Muscle building", When you are like trying to get those gains so badly in the gym, what basically happens is you are stressing your muscular cells (also injuring) as a result of resistance training and then steroids are produced as a physiological response so that more and more protein is available for the muscle to repair (btw this is the reason why some bodybuilders using anabolic steroids, end up gaining exceptional gains over years of steroid use)

Some steroids (Glucocorticoids) can strongly suppress the immune system by either suppressing certain genes in various immune cells or by blocking the important enzyme activities. These steroids can act as Anti Inflammatory too which basically means these steroids counter any inflammatory response which can be physiological or pathological. This is the reason that if a steroid taken in the early phase of the Covid-19 disease (The mild symptomatic or Asymptomatic phase) can actually suppress the immunity to a certain point that the drug itself becomes counterproductive.

Some Steroids (Mineralocorticoids) maintain the mineral balance by salt retention, etc. Lets just skip this one.

Adrenal Gland produces Steroid. Them tiny glands you can see above the kidneys.

Now the immunity suppressing nature of Dexamethasone is also the reason why it cannot be taken as a mass prophylaxis drug,  unless the patient is in a state of severe immune response to the infection and requires ventilation or ICU.

The exudate formed in the lungs become an overwhelming immune response to fighting the virus and becomes fatal by causing the patient to stay in respiratory distress and finally succumbing to death.

The Trials done by the Oxford University aka RECOVERY trials, said that :

"1 death would be prevented by treatment of around 8 ventilated patients"

or

"around 25 patients requiring oxygen alone as of now"

*The prognosis may potentially increase as with other combinations in the future*

The study is really interesting because the study population was relatively large ( around 11,500) ; The Cohort population was around 2100 and Control was 4300 which is really exciting.

How does Dexamethasone work against SARS - CoV2?

Dexamethasone is a long acting Corticosteroid and mostly suppress the genes of immune expression

This is the Mechanism of Action of the drug if you are interested:  

Dexamethosone vs The Immune System :  

The goal of this drug is to just deactivate the immune system which has gone kinda crazy over this virus.

The immune system (IS) basically starts acting like its IS and terrorizes the whole body like its Iraq or Syria.

Jokes aside, This drug can really do some great damage to the hyper super- immune response which is kind of self destructive as the disease progress. Let's try to understand HOW

Only Within 6 hours of single dose of Dexamethasone:

There is a decreased availabilty of lymphocytes, eosinophils, basophils, monocytes,

These cells start redistributing and becomes less available and inactive for almost a day or two.

Also there is a decreased adhesion of these cells to blood vessel walls due to Dexamethasone, Actually the drug is not letting these immune cells to cross the wall of the vessel and go to the infection site (which is kinda cool cuz' no immune response no problem right? seriously why didnt evolution think of this?)

SECONDLY < there is a > decreased phagocytotic capacity of the immune cells so that they do not eat up the virus and form further exudates.

Finally leading to the decrease in respiratory burst (It is the area inside a phagocyte where we burn the pathogen inside the phagolysosome usually, in the case of Covid19,  later explodes and kills us, Dont worry the jokes' on evolution not us )

Now the first most remarkable thing Dexamethasone does is, that, it suppresses Macrophage activity.

Which is basically blocking the Arachidonic Acid Pathway, Prostaglandins, Leukotrienes, Interleukin 1, Interleukin 6 and TNF

Explaination :

IL-1 goes to the brain and causes fever and normally increases the production of steroids by stimulating the hypothalamus, but since we are giving Dexamethasone (which is a steroid) there's something called as a negative feedback and it decreases the natural physiological production of steroid, causing the person to be severely dependent on steroids; and if the person stops taking this steroid, he can eventually die due to acute adrenal insufficiency, thats the reason why we should always taper the dose when withdrawing a steroid.

Now,

The Interleukin 6 usually activates almost all other immune system actions (Remember that respiratory burst is also decreased and hence theres no signal from the MHC I and II to activate the immune system either)  but when it is suppressed by Dexamethoasone, it cannot activate the immune response like it normally would.

The second most important thing is that Dexamethasone down stimulates the cooperation between naive T cells and Interleukins

In Covid 19, Macrophage connects with the Naive T cells and there is a co-stimulation and can be two pathways. (depending on which interleukin is available for the naive T cell)

The first pathway:

In presence of Interleukin 4, these Naive T cells convert into T helper -1 cells which further increases Interleukin 4 and Interleukin 5 by positive feedback mechanism.

Finally causing the other cells of cell- mediated immunity, the "B-cells" to become active and produce antibodies which bind with the virus antigen and try to repeatedly neutralise it. (and kills us).

The Dexamethasone can potentially end all this suffering by attacking a gene known as GATA3 on the T helper 1 cell, (Remember Steroids suppress some immune genes it is just one of them) and hence GATA3 is suppressed, and therefore the chain is broken and there is no immune response ( yay, we alive now)

The second pathway :

If the naive t cell has Interleukin 12 available instead of Interleukin 4, it becomes T helper 2 cell, which produces Interleukin 2, which activates Cytotoxic T cells which produces some naughty proteins called perforins and granzymes.

These Perforin causes perforations in the infected cell and granzymes are then injected to that infected cell which makes the cell kind of commit suicide I guess ?. (and it kills us)

Dexamethasone acts on the T-bet gene on the T helper 2 cell which suppresses the further activation of immune response ( and hey we back to life again)

Now, ALL this information which just went over all of our heads is just the immune suppression of steroids, Lets not go in details with the EXTENSIVE collection of what Dexamethasone can actually achieve.

Please note the trials were done with Dexamethasone and not other corticosteroids mainly because of its wide availability, inexpensive nature, and most importantly because it is along acting Corticosteroid despite being the most potent among them

Dexamethasone also decreases inflammation

Explaination :

Our Cell membranes have a phospholipid bilayer, which is converted by PLA2( Phospholipase A2 ) enzyme to Arachidonic Acid. a) Arachidonic Acid is acted on By COXs ( Cyclooxygenases) to release PGE2F2, PGI2, Thromboxin A2 b) Arachidonic acid can be converted to Leukotrienes by LOXs (Lipooxygenase)

Dexamethasone can block the PLA2 enzyme and COX2 and COX1,  by producing Lipocortin 1, and therefore there's no formation of Arachidonic Acid in the first place, and the whole inflammatory system goes down. (Kudos to the structure of Dexamethasone)

Please, keep in mind that we do need the immune and inflammatory response in the early part of the disease but as their  actions overwhelm the healthy effects of the process, steroids can be used. Not too early, because it can actually worsen the disease if steroids are administered too early.

Some Side Effects which are to be kept in mind :

1. Withdrawl :

- Underlying disease which we were treating may rebound even stronger than before - Acute Adrenal Insufficiency - Pseudotumor Cerebri - Myalgias - Arthralgias - Malaise

2. Hyper use of steroid for long period :

- Fluid and electrolyte abnormalities - HTN ( more sodium retention) - Hyperglycemia ( gluconeogenesis) - Increased infection susceptibility (suppressed immune system) - Behavioral disturbances - Striae (fat redistribution)

While this is a serious concern for us as Indians, people are already stocking up Dexamethasone, price is most likely to spike up and things actually somehow do not work perfectly in India. Let's hope we learn from our mistakes in the past and just get this done and over with. PS - I will try to post more articles like this if I find something interesting regarding the pandemic. Thank you for the time. :)   Feel free to contact.

Source: Dexamethasone statement by WHO

https://www.who.int/news-room/detail/16-06-2020-who-welcomes-preliminary-results-about-dexamethasone-use-in-treating-critically-ill-covid-19-patients

Oxford Recovery Trial Statement

https://www.recoverytrial.net/files/recovery_dexamethasone_statement_160620_v2final.pdf

[queenkaneko]

Test of Faith

Pairing: Colt Kaneko x MC (Ellie)

Word Count: 2753

A/N: Surprise! I’m posting a day early this week! I’ve been debating this for a while but Thursdays are going to be the new day for this series. Fridays just get so crazy with all the books that air, so this works better for everyone. I am STILL working on getting a few chapters ahead of schedule so I don’t have to worry about not having a new chapter to post when life gets in the way. I recently moved from Texas to Florida and my life has been kind of crazy the last few weeks. I’m behind on all kinds of stuff. But bare with me, I promise to get caught up as soon as I can and I have great content coming. Anyway, same time as usual still, the only thing changing is the day. Sorry for the super long A/N. Enjoy!

Summary: Ellie has a crazy plan and isn’t as confident about it as she seems. When the rest of the crew shows up to help, will she be ready to do her part? 

Part Six 

The kitchen was dead silent, Colt staring at Ellie, who seemed unfazed as she went back to examining her laptop. He glanced at it, seeing she’d somehow managed to find the blueprints of Metropolitan Detention Center and was scribbling notes on her notepad. Colt was both amazed and worried at the same time, not knowing how he should feel that his girlfriend wanted to try and break someone out of jail. “Ellie this is insane. You know that, right?”

Ellie looked up, giving him a half smile. “I know. But what choice do we have? We need her, Colt. Not only that…she nearly died for me. I owe her this. She’s in there because of me.” Ellie felt her chest tighten, remembering Mona’s blood slicking her hands, the words she’d said to her outside Ardizzone ringing in her ears. “You wanted freedom? The fast cars, the bad boy? That whole life? This is it. And it’s not for you.” For the first time since she’d woken up before the sun with this idea in her head, she faltered. This would never work. Maybe Mona was right. Maybe she was in over head.

Suddenly, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. It was almost a year ago now, since she and Colt had argued in the private lounge of the casino. Ellie barely even thought about those words these days, they’d been replaced with memories of the last six months with him. But right now, feeling unsure of herself, they came rushing back. “At the end of this, your dad will take you back. He’ll welcome you home. You’ll go off to college and forget all this ever happened. You’re a tourist.” In a flash, Ellie pushed back from the table, not looking at him as she spoke. “I need some air.” She mumbled, grabbing her phone and heading for the door without a backwards glance.

Colt watched the emotions playing across her face, wondering what she was thinking. Just as he reached for her, she got up and walked out, leaving him staring after her bewildered. Only moments ago, she’d seemed so confident. The night before he’d seen a new side of her, and now she was clearly struggling again. Unsure of what he could do, Colt decided to give her some space, sliding the laptop toward him to do some digging of his own.

Outside, Ellie paced down the sidewalk dialing a number on her phone. A number she shouldn’t have, but somehow managed to uncover. After a few rings, Logan’s voice came from the other end. “Hello?” He asked, sounding wary, which was understandable since he wouldn’t recognize her own new number.

Ellie sighed in relief that he’d picked up. Colt was going to kill her, but at the end of everything, Logan had still become one of her closest friends. And she didn’t have many of those left with Riya and Darius living different lives off at their universities. She really needed him here. “Hi Logan.” Was all she said, sounding sheepish. He’d told her not to contact him. Not to look for him. But the FBI was gone now, it was safe enough.

The surprise in voice was obvious, he sounded like the wind had been punched out of him. “Ellie? Is that really you?” A long pause followed, the sound of his breathing all she could hear. “Ellie you know you shouldn’t call me. It isn’t safe.”

“Actually, that’s why I called. The FBI gave up. Something-” Her throat closed up as tears threatened to fall and she coughed to clear it. “Something happened. I’m uh...I’m still in L.A.” She explained, wrapping her free arm around her stomach to try and hold in her pain. “I’ll explain later. But it’s safe for you to come back, and...I’m helping Colt rebuild the crew. We’re planning something pretty big. Can you come home?” Ellie’s voice was sheepish and hopeful. This was always part of her and Colt’s plan. She’d convinced him they needed Logan, though he really didn’t like it, it wasn’t as if they had options lining up at the door. They couldn’t do this alone anymore, and even Colt couldn’t deny Logan was an excellent driver. Though he had definitely tried.

Logan was silent for so long Ellie thought he’d hung up. “Send me the address. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The air whooshed out of her lungs as she sighed in relief. One down, four to go. At least she could do something right today.

“Thank you, Logan.” Ellie said, sincerity in her voice. She didn’t want to discuss the details over the phone, so they hung up and she texted him the address for the house in Fresno. She’d tell him about her dad, about the plan, when he got here. Ellie looked up and realized she was in front of a park. She walked over to a bench and sat down, watching a few young children playing and breathing in the fresh air of the valley. It was so peaceful here, the Sierra Nevada mountains peeking out of the clouds in the distance, she remembered coming here over the summer with her mom and dad. Her dad had taught her to swim in the pool in the backyard, taken her to this park, driven her up to those mountains--the first time she’d ever seen snow. A smile crept onto her face, she was finally calming down. After half an hour, Ellie headed back to the house.  

Feeling slightly better after her walk, Ellie walked into the garage that was attached to the house, immediately seeing Colt bent over the engine of their stolen Aylesbury. Colt heard the door open behind him and turned to see her walking in, looking slightly more relaxed but there was something clearly still on her mind. He grabbed a grease rag from the workbench beside him and wiped the grime off his hands, looking her over. “You alright?”

Slowly, Ellie approached, unable to look him in the eye. “Colt I need to ask you something.” She had to bring this up now. She couldn’t avoid it anymore, the words rattling in her mind were shaking her confidence and not knowing was doing more damage than anything he could say to justify them. Ellie needed to figure this out or she’d second guess herself in the heat of the moment, and that was something they couldn’t afford on a job like this. She was directly in front of him now, one arm crossed over her body holding the other, looking at the floor. Taking a deep breath, she looked up, meeting his inquisitive gaze. “D-Did you mean it? That night in the casino, when you called me a tourist? I asked you then if that was what you thought of me, but you didn’t answer.”

The color drained from Colt’s face and he was quiet for a long moment, thinking. Thinking how much of an ass he’d been back then. Thinking how devastated she’d looked when he said that too. Thinking he was still and ass for not apologizing sooner. He remembered how his dad never showed any weakness for anyone, not even him, and how Ellie had showed him that was no way to live. That it wasn’t a strength but a weakness. Colt had spent so long trying to fill his dad’s shoes, he’d taken on the negative qualities as well as the positive. Her words came back to him from that night outside the burning garage, “I’m just saying his life, and yours, would’ve been so much better if he’d shown you how much he cared.” He was still in unfamiliar territory here, but the way she’d looked at him at the casino, the way she was looking at him now, he’d do anything to fix that. Finally, he spoke, barely above a whisper. “No.” That syllable was so hard for him to say, weighed down by shame and sorrow, but he continued anyway. “No, I didn’t. I was just… I had to get you out of there. So I lied.” Colt pushed a hand through his hair and looked away from her, out the small window of the garage. “I lied from the beginning. I didn’t want to involve you in that plan in the first place, but we didn’t have a choice. When you left, you were safe. And seeing you there that night, I panicked. I said what I said to push you away. You were in danger and you were my weakness Ellie. If you were there, I wasn’t sure if I could pull off the plan.”

Ellie nodded, understanding, but the hurt wouldn’t go away. “I guess I wish you’d just been honest with me. That you’d trusted me the way I trusted you.” She reached out and put a hand on his arm, getting him to look at her again. “We have to be in this together, and I thought we were until then. But now…” Her voice trailed off and Colt nodded, reaching out to brush her hair behind her ear.

“I know, Elle. And…” He paused, swallowing hard and taking a deep breath. “And I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I said. I’m sorry for not being honest with you sooner. I’m sorry for making you feel like you weren’t enough. Because nothing could be further from the truth. I hurt you by trying to save you when you didn’t want to be saved.” Colt’s hands gently gripped her waist and he pulled her closer. “You’re my queen, and I never should’ve given you a reason to doubt that.” Colt tried to smile a little, tried to remind her of the promises he’d made her and that he intended to keep.

With a short laugh, Ellie placed her hands on his chest, feeling his racing heart under her hands. “I suppose I should be used to your temper by now. I just… I had to know before we do this. And I know this plan is insane, but we can do it. As long as we believe in each other. Okay?” Colt nodded, dropping a kiss to her forehead in another, silent, apology. “I love you, you asshole.” Ellie leaned back and smirked at him.

Colt grinned and held her closer by the hips. “Love you too, crazy.” They held each other for several long moments, not saying anything. Colt still felt terrible for making her doubt herself but all he could do now is show her he believed in her, and he would make sure he did. After a while, Ellie took a deep breath and slipped her fingers into the hairs on the back of his neck, running the strands through her fingers to soothe him before she told him about Logan.

“There’s...something else.” She started, a little worried about his reaction. Sure, they’d agreed to call Logan and offer him his old spot on the crew, but Ellie calling him alone would more than likely make Colt jealous. “I called Logan. He’s uh...he’s on his way here. Said he’d be here in a day or two after he tied up some loose ends.” She felt Colt’s body go tense in her arms, but he nodded.

“Alright...Good. We should probably call X and Toby too. We’re going to need all the help we can get.” Colt pushed aside the old feelings of jealousy as best he could. Ellie was his now, and he had to trust that. He had to trust her. They needed Logan, as much as they needed Ximena and Toby, to break Mona out of a medium security prison in the middle of downtown L.A.

A week later, Colt, Ellie, Toby, Logan, and Ximena all stood around the pool table of the safehouse. Colt and Ellie were standing on one side, explaining the plan while pointing out key points on a blueprint in front of them. “So, Toby and X will stay in the car at the escape point here.” Colt explained, gesturing to a side exit of the prison that was relatively hidden from the main security of the facility. “Toby, you’ll wait for my signal and put the cameras on a loop so no one can see Logan and I while we find Mona. We’ll do it in sections.” Next, his eyes fell on Logan. “Once we get her, we’ll need you to take the wheel. Can you get us out of there in under a minute?” Colt asked him.

Logan nodded, arms folded and eyebrows furrowed as he studied the blueprint. “If Toby can make sure that gate is open, I can get us out in time.” He answered, pointing to a gate near the escape point that lead out to the main road.

“Fantastic.” Colt replied, a little sarcastic. “Ellie will stay here and monitor the feeds for any surprises and help Toby if he needs it. She’ll be in all our ears with these.” He picked up a box from the corner of the table that held several small earpieces.  

Toby sat on a nearby couch, pulling his laptop out of his backpack and opening it on his lap. “I’ll start getting familiar with their security. I’ll bet I can find some weak points.”

Colt leaned back and crossed his arms, looking at Ximena next. “X, I need you to be ready to take Toby and get the hell out if anything goes wrong. If we’re followed on the way out, we might also need your help taking out a guard or two, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. This plan is solid, and if we all do our jobs, Mona will be here with us for what comes next.”

“So...we’re really doing this? I mean, I know we’ve pulled some risky jobs in the past, but this is...this is next level. Are you sure about this plan, Colt?” Ximena asked, looking unsure.

Glancing at Ellie for a split second, Colt nodded firmly. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Logan sighed, pushing a hand through his long hair as he leaned over the blueprint. “Well I suppose we’d better study up. We’ve got a lot to get done. How much time do we have before this goes down?”

Ellie stepped forward, clearing her throat and speaking up for the first time that night. “Two months. There’s a benefit being held for the prison’s donors then. Most of the high-profile security personnel will be in attendance. They’ll be understaffed for a few hours, that’s when we go in.” She paused, taking a moment to look at each of them in turn. “I know this is risky, it’s not something any of us have experience in and a lot could go wrong. But we need Mona and it isn’t fair for her to be locked up. Not when she nearly died for me. I understand that it’s a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t ask if we could do this any other way. I’m confident in our plan, as long as all of us are ready, we can do this.”

A silence fell over the room as everyone processed the information. After a moment, Toby piped up from the couch. “So...apparently no one else is gonna ask, but Ellie we thought you were going to college. What happened?”

Ellie froze, eyes going wide. She expected this, of course. But with Logan, Toby and Ximena’s eyes all on her, the words wouldn’t come. That pain she’d buried over the last six months, her own insecurities about this way of life, and the dream of going to college that had slowly dissolved from the time she’d backed out of the summer program until finally reaching a breaking point following her father’s death all slammed into her chest at once like a tidal wave. “I...um…” The words wouldn’t come, her throat closed up, tears threatening to spring from her eyes.

Thankfully, blessedly, Colt spoke up for her. “It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is the job. Once we get Mona out safely, we’ll explain everything. But for now, just focus on learning every inch of this prison. We have time on our side for once, so let’s use it wisely. Okay?” He shifted a little closer to Ellie, staring down the others as if daring them to push the issue. No one did.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Toby spoke up again. “Alright...well we’re gonna need some dinner. Who’s up for pizza?”

Tags: @poeticscolt @courtesan-of-garage @nazariortega @lovehugsandcandy @maxwellsquidsuit @brightpinkpeppercorn @i-only-signed-up-for-fanfiction @postcardfromsomewhere @walkerduchess @zaira-oh-zaira @umiumichan @long-gone-girl @leelee10898 @client-327 @desiree-0816 @choicesarehard

[long-bodyswap]

Deal With The Devil

by vchris1989

I told my son all his life to wear a hat whenever possible, but like any rebellious child, he ignored me and was convinced he was right- that the ravages of UV damage, photoaging, and skin cancer would just ignore him.  I couldn’t even get him to wear sunscreen or wear sunglasses.  He thinks I’m being type A just because I care about him and his well being, but the real reason is much more selfish.  You see, centuries ago I accidentally made a deal with an unfriendly metaphysical entity, Yeah let’s just go with that.  Doesn’t sound as bad as deal with the devil, but that’s basically what it was.  I was born in an era when maintaining youth was much more difficult because we didn’t understand the importance of diet and exercise to overall physical attractiveness and youth maintenance.  We didn’t even have sunscreen or understand that the sun causes over 90% of all skin aging, with the rest being a combo of diet, exercise, sleep quality, bad habits, pollution, and genes.  You can see I’ve done my research, but back in the 1600′s, when I was a 45 year old man and verging on death (a respectable age of death back then), the devil heard my cry for help, which he later claimed pierced dimensional walls.  I so wanted to live and be youthful again.  To have a fresh start at eternal youth.  However, if he had just given me an immortality/youth potion I never would have died and there wouldn’t be any soul to collect.  That’s when he gave me my ultimatum; that I could possess my son, who had just turned 18, and that I could repeat this process infinitely, experiencing youth and power, and also being responsible for breeding my future vessel.  I was assured that in the interim period between bodies I would be protected from disease and fatal accidents.  The price for all of this would be the soul of the son I would then inhabit.   I think you know what path I took…I used to be quite ashamed, but after about the fifth generation I became numb to the process.  In the grand scheme of my life, this is as routine as Spring cleaning.  Out with the old, in with the new.  So when my son finally turned 18, I began assembling the necessary materials and reciting the incantation which by now I have memorized by heart.   This is the perfect time to begin because James is out back, doing his damn sunbathing alone on our private beach.  All these years have helped me accumulate quite a portfolio of wealth and investments, all of which will be transferred to James when my current descendant vessel passes upon my transfer.   After finishing the incantation I blow out the last candle and collapse to the ground before my spirit is ripped out of my vessel and flies at lightning speeds towards the beach where James is out, asleep and shirtless as he perfects his bronze.  My spirit flies straight down from the sky, slamming into his tight and toned stomach, making those abs contract in response as the impact sends me cascading all throughout his body in one quick swoosh.   James awakens in a panic, trembling and convulsing, groaning in discomfort as he feels full beyond what is physically possible.  His legs squirm together, toes curling and eyes clenched shut while he grips his hands into fists around the towel, pulling with all his might as he tries to will me out of him.  James has always been a fighter- anyone could see that from the way his pecs and abs seem to be popping with effort, but it’s no use.  My essence flows through his veins and fills every cell of his body, adhering and making his form my own.  He screams one last echoing cry before arching his back and collapsing down onto the towel.   I’m breathing super heavy, feeling young and athletic lungs expand and contract as I lay in the sand with shut eyes.  My heart is racing faster than it ever could in my previous vessel, sending bursts of endorphins and young male testosterone crashing though my new veins, particularly through the veins in my new cock.  This is always my favorite part!  The inspection of my new body.  I’ve had many generations to breed my future vessels into the handsome, cute, and athletic type like James happens to be.  James might actually be my favorite so far.   I mean, Fuck, the kid’s got amazing legs.  Lean yet strong, and dusted with the perfect amount of manly brown hair, leading all the way up his thighs to the prize.  James is one hung little fucker, just like I planned when I was breeding him.  In spite of his lean physique, the wood he’s packing must be 9 inches hard, perfect thickness surrounded by a perfectly trimmed bush of brown hair.  I always teach my sons the important of personal grooming- it makes my first exploration of their bodies much more enjoyable.   Going up, James has a lean and toned core- the type of abs and pecs that aren’t huge, but fuck they are perfectly chiseled.  There’s just a light brown treasure trail traveling down to his crotch, but I’m hopeful that when he hits his early twenties there will be more chest hair and ab hair.  That’s right, because his body is all mine now.  No matter how many sons I breed and take over it just never gets old- the satisfaction of entering them and stealing control of their bodies- feeling fresh lungs breathe as I test out my new voice and run my new hands all up and down my new vessel, unable to contain the smile and giddiness overtaking my new face.   “You really were a good son, James,” I say as my youthful and sexy voice sends a chill down my spine.  “But you make an even better vessel,” I say seductively as I reach my hands around the elastic waistband of these swim trunks, sliding them down and cooing as I rub along my abs and chest, squeezing James’ nipples and giving that meat room to grow to its full 9 inches.  Squirming in the sand, I finally reach my limit and grab onto that dick, yelling ecstatically as I’m overcome by the electric pleasure cascading down my crotch all the way to my curled toes and up my tight abs and pecs, making my whole body tense up in appreciation.   “Get’s better each time!” I moan as I pump my son’s meat out in the open on the sunny beach.  Good thing I own the damn beach so I have some privacy.  If James wasn’t sweating before, he’s fucking glistening by the time I feel his balls tightening, earth-crumbling pressure building inside me and spreading down my thighs and up my core as I grit my teeth trying to give this meat the best pounding it’s ever had.   “OHHHHHHHH FFFUUUUUUCCCKKKKKKKK!!!!!” I roar as the pressure becomes too much.  I shriek as each load erupts from my cock, splashing all over my chest, abs, and face as convulsions of sensation make my back arch against my will.  I’m gasping for breath as this stream of manly fluids rockets out of me, making me feel young again- ready to live again.   It’s been a month and life couldn’t be better.  I get so bored at these funerals after having gone to so many, but it’s just part of the routine.  People tell me how sorry they are about my “dad.”  I put on my best sad face, maybe even shedding a tear if I have particularly fond memories in the vessel, but by the time I get to the lawyers office and reclaim my assets in my younger body, I am smiles from ear to ear.  I plan on living large for the rest of the summer before starting college.  I’m always very hard on the future vessels I breed, so James was accepted to Yale University, a family tradition.  While there I’ll have time to meet a suitable breeding mate to make my future vessel, but for now I can have some fun!  You see, over the years I’ve had time to explore and so I would say I am bi with a slight preference for guys.  This was all absolutely forbidden in my time, but what a wonderful era to be alive when I can be an 18 year-old heir to a family dynasty and fortune who loves to power-bottom with his tight, boy ass.  I’ve done some exploring, and James’ hole is the best one of any vessel I have ever bred!  I intend to make great use of it!  This is pretty random, but I think I might change things up with my next son.  Maybe move South and pressure him to get into Duke.  Hell, I’ll just build them a new library or something and he should be fine.  It might be a few decades away, but that’s just the blink of an eye in my perfect existence.  

[crystalrequiem]

The Voice that Urged Orpheus

[Part 3/6(?)] [TRC] Summary: Kurogane learns more about a mysterious new world and accidentally seals his own doomed fate. Tags: Kuro/Fai, Canon Universe, Post-Canon, Warnings:  suggestive thoughts and implications (nothing graphic), People assuming married status, GOD, so much fluff, Is it still slow-burn if they’re already in a relationship? because that’s basically what this is. [Part 1] [Part 2]... [Part 4]

Honestly this section probably should have just been included with the one previous. Not as happy with it because it feels less... cohesive? directed? meh.  Nevertheless I feel like it’s necessary to set up some of the world-building so I can get to the good points later. Hope you still enjoy! I really look forward to reading your comments and tags. They seriously keep me going!  

The shopkeep, it turns out, does look a little familiar. She has dark-skin and a well-toned frame, pretty face framed by a shower of pink, fluffy hair. He doesn’t think any version of her has ever been a particularly close friend, but something about her rings a bell anyway.

“Hello, hello! Your young friend here was just telling me you wa—wow.” She seems perfectly amiable but the moment Fai steps fully into view, her whole expression shifts. Her jaw drops, and the wide eyes she graces them with matches the expressions they’ve been earning outside. “Oh-ho-kay, Hi! I’m so sorry; I didn’t think anyone from the academy would stop by, uh. How—how can I help you?”

Kurogane and Fai search each other out long enough to share a moment of confusion.

“Academy?” the mage echoes. However badly Kurogane’s attempt at reassurance rattled him before, he displays no indication now. Given his ability to bury his feelings beneath exhausting layers of façade, this comes as no surprise.

“Yes? I mean—I just assumed… what with your magic the way it is—” She glances from Fai to Kurogane and back, shock and bewilderment only incrementing. “Do you—are you two sharing the same magic?”

Alright, so they’ve at least found a reason for the staring. Apparently the people of this world can commonly sense magic, and they find something strange. Something about himself and Fai, in particular. Kurogane breathes a little easier given an idea of what makes them stand out. He just wishes he had any hope of keeping up with the why. Magic focused-worlds make his head spin.  

At least for right now, Fai seems equally clueless.

“No, I don’t think we are,” he answers, bemused.  

“Wow. Hunh.” Her eyes catch on something they can’t see, staring into the empty air between them.

“Actually, Miss Caldina,” Syaoran leaps to the rescue in the awkward silence that follows. “When I said we were travelers from far away, I meant… We’re from very far. We don’t really know anything about this place. Is there any way you could explain a few things about the area?”

The woman, apparently named Caldina, breaks herself from her trance. She pats her face with both hands hard enough to produce a resounding slap. “Sorry! That was rude of me. Let’s start over. Hello, Welcome to the Enchantress. Why don’t you nice folks ask me your questions and I’ll see what I can do?”

A world where everyone can see and use magic.

Kurogane doesn’t get most of what Caldina says, nor does he really understand what Fai and Syaoran ask in return, but he understands that much. People here… see magic. How much potential people have, the spells they cast, the lingering enchantments in his arm, and now his cloak.

According to the shopkeep, Syaoran’s magic stands out on its own—a prodigy, for certain. That alone might distract the townsfolk, but… Fai brings it to a whole other level.

Apparently Fai’s magic is dazzling. He stands visibly above the rest. Caldina had taken a single look and assumed he must belong to the city’s prestigious Academy, where this world’s best casters gather to learn and teach, developing the field of magic further. Then she’d spotted Kurogane and nearly had a heart attack.

“It’s like looking at a flame about to go out—for I second I thought you were dead! No offense!” He doesn’t know how the comparison to a corpse should not offend him, but in the context of magic he supposes he doesn’t mind. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone live with as little magic. I thought your husband must have been pulling from you or masking you or something.”

Chaos reigns as soon as she completes the sentence. Mokona bursts into a flurry of giggles, rolling across Syaoran’s shoulders. The Kid stares at his fellow travelers like a deer caught in lamplight, and Kurogane… looks to Fai.

The mage doesn’t react to Caldina’s mistaken assumption save for the extra-bright flush rising to his cheeks, visible even despite the sunburn.

“Well,” he murmurs, lips quirked in a teasing half-smile, “You’d be surprised how little magic people really need to live.” He doesn’t contradict her. He wants to tease—to fall back into their game of overreaction and meaningless words. Fai meets Kurogane’s eye like he’s issuing a challenge—just waiting for the embarrassment to overwhelm the surly ninja and push him to set the record straight.

He doesn’t.

Once upon a time he would have died of mortification and flown right off the handle to hear someone call Fai his husband. But right now… well it’s kind of his goal, isn’t it? It only annoys him that apparently people other than Fai don’t need his intentions spelled out for them.

Eventually, his family realizes he doesn’t plan to say a word. Mokona’s celebration falls to a hush and Syaoran clearly has no idea what to do. Fai’s expression remains implacable, save for the distinctive blush still written on his face.

“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” Caldina drawls.

“Not really! It’s just that those two aren’t married..?” Syaoran takes pity on them all and lets her know, though the fact that he phrases it as a question doesn’t skip Kurogane’s notice.

The poor shopkeeper visibly takes a moment to process this information, flabbergasted. She stares again at whatever it is she can trace between himself and Fai, and shakes her head. “Why not?” her expression reads quite clearly. And boy, does Kurogane not have an answer to that.

“I’m doing a great job of putting my foot in my mouth today.”

“It’s fine! Sometimes Mokona forgets they aren’t really married too.” The manjuu chimes amidst nervous laughter.

Kurogane huffs and turns away, tuning out the cheerful banter that follows. Maybe this is part of his problem. After everything, he feels so close to Fai that even marriage can’t quite encapsulate what they already are to each other. In the end, the extra title of “husbands” won’t change them. It won’t make Fai more or less than he is, or guarantee a forever, or do anything other than put a layer of formality over what they already have.  

Still… there’s something about that formalization that he wants. A definite moment in time he can point to as a promise made, a good memory he can give to Fai who has so many to outweigh it, a declaration of intent that the world can’t ignore… He wants to ask for that.

Maybe he’s just a sentimental fool.

He emerges from his thoughts, watching as the shopkeeper purchases a few of their curios for what seems like a decent sum of currency. They exit the shop with a little more confidence and directions to the famed Academy of Chizeta.

“Shall we?” Fai charms, gesturing theatrically towards the direction of the supposed academy. His early sunburn has settled on a pink that gives him a permanent look of over-heated exertion.

Kurogane squints in the too-bright sunlight, but only Fai truly blinds him. The jerk has no business being so damn attractive. Especially not when he’s going to permanently damage his skin at this rate, walking around with his hood down. The urge to thread his fingers through sweat-dampened gold and kiss that stupid grin off his face strikes Kurogane with all the force of a hurricane. He reaches out before he can stop himself and only manages to switch tacks at the last second, tugging Fai’s hood up far enough to cover his eyes.

“You’re gonna burn, dumbass.”

The line of Fai’s mouth tilts from shocked to pleased in moments, and the mage laughs, reaching up to adjust his cloak enough to see. Shit, Kurogane feels weak to that sound every time—unguarded and honest.

“Looking out for me?” Fai teases.

“Always.”

The word escapes him before he can think twice, but he can’t regret it. At least it forms some part of the mess he so badly wants to communicate. This time, Fai takes his desperate sentimentality a little better. He shakes his head, frustration and affection swimming in a churning cocktail of emotion behind his too-blue gaze.

“You’re hopeless.” He touches Kurogane’s shoulder as he sighs the words, sending a renewed burst of magic into the fabric that cuts right through the re-building heat.

“Can we really be sure they aren’t married though?” Mokona’s voice shatters the moment, and Fai and Kurogane both startle badly. He lunges for the damn pork bun, ready to pound it into mochi, before he thinks better of it and remembers that the world outside his Mage exists. They’ve already begun to draw stares again. Maybe Fai’s use of magic just now looked particularly interesting? He doesn’t know.

They start their sojourn toward the school in good spirits, even despite the heat and the persistent attention. He finds himself far less paranoid, even if so many eyes still make him feel like he doesn’t quite fit in his own skin. Syaoran and Fai take the lead, talking softly about cooling charms and how they work. Eventually, Mokona catches on that his cloak has already been ensorcelled and burrows into his hood without his permission. Annoying, but… well he can’t blame the manjuu for seeking out a little relief. It is hot. Part of him wonders why Fai hasn’t copied the spell on his own clothes or Syaoran’s, whether the spell might have taken more work than he thought, and whether he should pass the chilled cloak around in turns… He’ll suggest it when they stop next.

Either way, the enchantment does its work well. The ache of his shoulder nearly disappears as magic wicks the heat away. Less distracted by pain, he has a far easier time monitoring the stares they gather. He can track the eyes of others lining the crowded city streets as they trace lines of invisible magic. A few people glance his way in confusion, but for the most part, Fai and Syaoran draw a majority of the attention.

He thinks of Caldina, pleased and impressed just by the sight of them, able to gauge magic power with a glance, and something like pride struggles to escape him. It buoys upwards, a nervous bubble caught in his chest. So maybe he feels like the kid and mage deserve a little recognition… surely there’s nothing strange about that.

He can’t help wondering what they must look like.

“Everyone is so interested in Fai! Seeing magic must be very exciting. Mokona wants to see too.” The pork bun mirrors his thoughts and sours his mood, speaking in that tinny voice far too close to his ear. He’s not prepared to hear the mage answer,

“Oh, it’s not so exciting really….” Fai’s gaze drifts somewhere distant as he trails off. Sadness seeps through the cracks in his mask—hard to see, but Kurogane can find it in the way he holds himself. Old, and tired. Burdened by some bad memory. The kids don’t notice.

“Does that mean you can see magic too, Fai?” Syaoran voices the thought aloud, quiet enough to escape the hearing of any onlookers, and the mage’s smile sharpens. He focuses on the boy and that heart-twisting sorrow bleeds away.

“Not naturally, like people in this world can, but there’s an old spell for it from… well.” He waves a hand, as if to knock the words from the air. Kurogane knows somehow with a distant pang that he would have said “Valeria.” “I can show you later if you really want, but I promise it’s not as exciting as it sounds.”

The kids both chorus out a “Mokona does really want,” and “Yes, Please!” to the surprise of no one. Fai must have expected the children to say as much; he doesn’t so much as blink when he hears them. No. Only Kurogane’s quiet, “Sure,” shocks Fai enough to forget his words and halt him mid-step.

His cheeks burn with the weight of a different sort of stare and Kurogane looks to see his family gaping.

“What,” he grouches, and Fai rewards him with another honest laugh.

“Nothing at all, Kuro-sama.” He turns back to the path and keeps walking, careful to make sure Syaoran keeps up. “The spell has to be cast by the viewer to work. I meant to teach Syaoran, but… well…” He glances over his shoulder at both Kurogane and Mokona, smiles that slow, easy smile Kurogane loves so much. “I guess I’ll see what I can do.”  

Kurogane manages to choke out a gruff, “thanks,” and tries to ignore everyone the rest of the way to the Academy. Between Mokona’s muffled snickering at his ear and the way Fai’s every breath draws his attention like a moth to flame, he does not succeed. He tries to imagine what the magic might look like—Fai somehow brighter and more incandescent than he already is, blue eyes cutting through his soul, that signature white and blue written into his skin or drifting off him in waves...

…Fuck. He’s so doomed.