#and its like. why do i hesitate to dive headfirst into the friendships that i already have and already feel secure in???

[pearlpool]

MAN! AHH!

[harringtonstudios]

best friend’s ex. (II)

plot: he’s your best friend’s ex and you should stay away, but it seems impossible.

A/N: i’m weak for this au what can i say.... hope everyone’s staying safe and enjoying the new songs!! pls give me feedback it fuels me on <3

masterlist!  part I.

Waking up to an warm arm wrapping tightly around your side isn’t normal. In far, it’s so far out of your daily routine, that for a second, you close your eyes again, will yourself to actually get up from the diluted dreamscape you seem to be in.

The same sight greets you the second time around, tuft of blonde hair resting on your chest on top of the white blanket that covers you both. There’s a head attached and it takes you a minute to place everything together before you feel yourself dry swallowing.

The Sahara Desert resides in your mouth, lines up on your tongue and you close your lips together at the uncomfortable feeling of a hangover crawling around you.

Colson Baker.

He’s still asleep, you can tell by the slow rise and fall of his body where it lies basically attached to yours. Why his head is tucked right under your chin, you can’t really explain, just like you can’t quite figure out why you’ve let this happen.

Attempting to shift a little, you hear a soft sound fall out from his lips, see his head move against the haven it rests on. Your chest feels heavy, not just cause of his added weight, but the intent behind it.

The sunlight in his room is filtering through the cracks between his dark curtains. You follow the trail of golden as it creeps over his wooden floor, tilts into the grooves of his floorboards, slides up the white walls.

It’s probably been a minute since you’ve been up, maybe two, but it feels like forever, stuck in this awful limbo.

Your phone starts ringing, tinny and harsh against the beacon of peace you’ve built up for yourself. It startles you enough that you automatically reach out to your side, only to meet empty space. This isn’t your bedroom, the table by your head isn’t there, and you have no idea where your phone is.

The ringtone does enough to wake Colson up. He grunts out something before shifting completely off of you, collapsing back into the mattress. His head is still lower than the various pillows on his bed, but he seems content, face relaxed against the sheets.

You take it in for a millisecond, trace your eyes over his parted pink lips, the faint hint of a scar prepped up between his eyebrows, the flutter of his lashes. 

Not yours, the warning sign shouts. Get away.

Your phone is still ringing when you slide off of his bed, wearing nothing, hastily wrapping the blanket around yourself. He shifts on the bed again, and you watch the way his hand reaches out, down to pull at something that isn’t even there. Your chest tightens again, but he’s just mumbling, sleep dazed and his eyes don’t open.

When you reach your phone, somehow it’s ended up across the room, hidden under your jeans from last night, you’ve had five missed calls.

Domi’s name flashes on your screen, followed by a battery warning and you hiss at the predicament you’ve put yourself in. You quickly text her, a simple: Safe. Will be home soon, with someone.

You don’t specify it past that, try to leave it as open-ended as you can. She’s going to dig, claw her way to the truth, but for now, there’s other things to worry about.

There’s a charger plugged next to his bed and you move over, still clutching his blanket as you bend down to attach your phone to it, satisfied as it slightly buzzes, muttering out “Fuck yeah.”

“Good morning to you too,” replies Colson, his voice deeper, twinged with hours of sleep and the lingering effects of vodka.

You straighten up, awkwardly smile at him, feeling very warm trapped between his feather downs. He smiles back, but lets his fingers rub at closing eyes.

“Where are my clothes?” he asks. It’s only then that you actually look at him fully in bed. He’s just as naked as you, bare and on display and you blush at his lack of modesty. It’s not unusual, even when Domi was dating him, you’d been mooned enough times to recognize his ass in a line up, but it feels intimate now.

“I have no idea,” you mumble, shifting your eyes away as he stretches his arms. He takes in the sight of you, the blanket loosely hanging over your body, the way your fingers clutch at it like a life preserver, saving you from something you can’t bare to name.

“Are you-?” he starts, but you cut him off nodding quickly. This doesn’t have to be a discussion, you don’t want this to be a discussion.

“Look I’ll just get my stuff and then be out of your way,” you rush out, eager to get back to a sense of normalcy. You’ve had one night stands before, you can handle this.

“No breakfast?” he mumbles and his eyes are lighting up, mischievous in the faint morning light.

“I’d rather starve,” you mutter, turning around to walk back to where your discarded skinny jeans lay.

“Oh c’mon, I know you better than that. We can get waffles or something?” he tries again and you hear him shuffling around as you awkwardly pull on jeans. It’s uncomfortable, you have no idea where your underwear is but at least you’re clothed, which is better than Colson.

“Domi likes waffles. I’m a pancake kinda girl,” you retort, antsy to prove something. He doesn’t know you, not as well as he claims to. Instead he’s mixing up the fragments of your best friend into you, swirling two different people together to create the one he wants.

“Right,” it’s dry, dying halfway in his throat. The silence in the room grows amidst the white noise of his air conditioner.

Picking up your shirt from the corner of his room, you pull it on, awkwardly adjusting it before balling up his blanket and walking over to drop it on his bed.

“Cover up your dick man,” you blurt out, hands running through the tangles in your hair, head jerking slightly at the pull.

“You weren’t saying that last night,” he smirks and you urge to wack him hard, maybe with one of his own weirdly soft pillows.

He reaches down into the drawers crammed under his bed, pulls out a pair of shorts and shuffles into them laughing at his own joke.

You do hit him then, pick up the nearest pillow, sheathed in that same silk pillowcase as the rest before throwing it his way.

He dodges it before flipping you off and the memory of it bites, nights spent throwing things at each other, the guys all egging you two on. Domi used to scoff whenever it started, yell about being childish and irritating, but you secretly knew she enjoyed it too, watched her boyfriend and best friend fight like old friends.

You snap out of it just as fast as you fell in, a pillow coming straight to hit you in the face.

“Colson!” you shout, hand going up to rub the impacted area as he smiles.

“Not sorry,” he simply shrugs and you scoff at him, push off the bed you’d sat on after the collision and go over to where he’s standing, reaching for your phone.

He blocks your hand, shifts over so that’s he standing right in your line of sight, eclipsing any further view. All you see is him, smirk permanently resting on his lips, array of colors bursting on his skin, faint whispers of something hidden in his eyes.

“My phone,” you try unceremoniously, knowing that he won’t let you past him.

“Do breakfast with me,” he demands, but its soft, a plea more than a request.

You sigh, it’s audible and you know he hears it by the slight sag of his shoulders but he’s relentless.

“It’s just like old times, won’t be weird,” he states and you find yourself laughing at his words.

“We both know that’s not true,” you say, eyes lifting up to meet his. There’s a hardness to his gaze and a part of you wants to break through it, dive in headfirst.

But this is not your territory, not your person, not your place. Domi’s etched into his soul, written somewhere, dipped into his past and no matter what you want, there is no feasible way you can be his present without ruining a friendship.

“It’s just pancakes,” he emphasizes, but he’s stepping aside all the same, letting you bend over and grab your phone.

When you turn back around, he has a shirt on, hair ruffled worse than it was when he woke up. It’s sticking up at ends and you fight the urge to walk over, laugh and pat it down.

He’s aimlessly searching for his own phone and you spot it on the windowsill, go over to pick it up and hand it off to him, murmuring, “Okay.”

“Thanks,” he mumbles out and you can’t tell whether it’s for offering his breakfast invitation or finding his phone.

You hesitate a second too long and he gives you a pointed look and then you’re moving into his space, crowding against his front.

His hands automatically fall onto your waist, pull you in but you can the confusion flickering across his face.

“Hey,” he softly says and something breaks in you.

It’s surprisingly easy to kiss him again, to drink in those lips, still warm from the early morning haze, softer than they were last night. There’s that now familiar ringing bell in the back of your head, but it disappears as Colson’s tongue slips into your mouth.

There’s obvious morning breath mingling with rank tastebuds and as much as you want to recoil, you don’t know if you’ll ever let this happen again so you soak it in, let the feeling overwhelm you.

Your fingers travel up to his messy hair, soothingly pulling at the strands in order to attempt tampering them down. He lets out a tiny groan as your nails slightly scratch at his scalp. You push further into him, fall enough that it seems like the only thing holding you up is him.

The door slams open just as you’re getting into it, leaning heavily against Colson’s body as he props himself on the wall.

The sound is enough to make you jump back, and there’s the confused look back on his face as you hastily wipe at your lips.

“You’re still here,” a voice stresses the syllables out, and you eye Rook standing there. He’s dressed, complete with that one snapback that seems to be permanently attached to his head, but the scowl on his face is all you can focus on.

“I was- um- just leaving,” you awkwardly stammer out, putting more distance between the person you seem to be magnetically attracted to.

“We’re getting breakfast. You wanna come along?” Colson spurts out without missing a beat, he’s striding towards the door and your face hardens.

There must have been some kind of miscommunication in the mess of his words, you must have read too far into it because here he was inviting his friend who clearly wasn’t too fond of you as if this was a casual thing.

“I’m good,” Rook says, tone easing when he’s speaking to his best friend. They walk out of view and you’re left alone in the room you’ve only been in twice.

There’s a bathroom right around the corner of his room and you head straight for it, pulling out the toothpaste from his cabinet and applying it to your finger, scrubbing your teeth. It’s primal, but at least you feel cleaner, a bit more aware in your head.

That kiss was stupid. This whole thing is a disaster, Domi’s still blowing up your phone and there’s a cherry pit growing in your stomach.

You step out and Colson’s standing across by the door, tying together his sneaker laces. Rook’s nowhere to be found and you thank the universe for that, far too early to be dealing with his seemingly intense grudge against you.

“I got the keys,” is all you get before the front door is opening and you’re following him down the hallway into the elevator.

Stems from last night come back to you in flashes. The chime of the elevator doors, the apartment numbers passing by in a daze, a clammy hand clutching yours, butterfly kisses on knuckles.

You snap out of it quick as you step into the elevator, expertly avoiding the corner where you’d given in to your heart and kissed Colson for the first time. It feels like a bad omen, shadowy dark and taunting as you both stand in silence, watching the floor numbers pass by.

“Do you have gum?” he asks, and it’s crisp in the August heat, cuts through the stuffiness in the traveling metal box.

You shuffle into your purse from last night, pull out a pack of gum you’d stuck in there and offer it to him going, “You didn’t brush?”

“You hogged the bathroom and I thought you’d wanna get out of there quick,” he explains nonchalantly, popping a stick of mint into his mouth. You tuck the gum back in, try not to watch the way he twirls the wrapper around in his hands.

“Thanks,” you mutter, hoping he gets the intent of what you actually mean. He nods as the doors ding open.

The lobby is surprisingly full, people sitting on the plush couches and there’s a slight, “Fuck,” mumbled out before Colson’s finding your hand and pulling you towards the garage.

“What-“ you get out before he shushes you, head down as you two move quickly.

He doesn’t explain, but you follow along, wondering why he’s running, hiding like he’s done something wrong. The garage door opens and both of you cross to where AJ’s van’s sitting, slew of motorcycles parked beside it.

“We should take the bikes,” he says, but it sounds like he’s already made up his mind and he’s picking apart the keys in his hand, dragging you over to the motorcycles.

“No what’s going on?” you rush out, pulling your hand from his as he clicks the lock on one of the machines.

“There’s a couple of paparazzi lingering. Probably cause of last night, Tony usually calls up and lets us know to avoid the front doors but I guess they just got here,” he rashly explains, setting over the seat.

He looks good, you can’t deny it, like an action movie star in his element, hand on the bars, shoe propped on the side. There’s a smile growing, jaw moving as he chews and you take a mental picture, a secret memento just for you.

“I’m not getting on your stupid bike,” you sum out, turning away from where he’s gearing it up, sound echoing around the empty garage.

“Either you leave with me, or they take pictures of you and then you’re splashed across front pages, no longer a secret,” he states, and he’s moving the bike slowly alongside as you stubbornly walk back to the garage entrance.

The last statement is made to hit you, remind you that he did do something wrong, both of you did and there’s going to be a price you’ll have to pay.

You give him a look as he smiles, knowing he’s gotten you yet again.

“You’re famous enough for the front pages?” you crack at him and he laughs, shoulders shaking.

“Get on the bike Y/N,” he’s shifting forward, creating space on the back and this can’t be safe but the options are so limited that this is the best you’re going to get.

You swing a leg over, stumbling a little at the shift in gravity before settling onto the seat. It’s weird and he’s turning his head to make sure you’re secure before starting up again.

“Keep your hands on me,” he instructs, but you’re tired of following his rules and fold them cautiously on the sliver of seat in front of you.

It’s a mistake and you realize it as soon as he exits the garage. There’s no one on the street around and he’s gunning the speed, wind pulling your hair back, blowing straight at you.

“Holy shit,” you gasp before grabbing onto his shoulders. His arm twitches slightly as you grip the muscle and you can feel every single movement he does.

It’s a red light when he mumbles to you, “Move your hands lower.”

“Why?” you ask, finally comfortable with the way you’re holding onto him after a few streets of green lights.

“Can’t focus properly on the turns,” he says and you’re a little confused but the lights switching to green and there’s a honk right behind, startling you just a little.

You slide your hands down his back, take pleasure in the way it grounds you as he leans forward, swerving between slower cars.

He moves his back, angles it in one direction and you sort of get the hint, settle your hands on his hips like they do in all the cheesy rom-com movies. But this isn’t a movie, this is real life and there’s rules that aren’t supposed to be broken, consequences to face. The air around you turns sour, hits your throat hard and you’re closing your eyes in an effort to not vomit all over Colson.

It takes a few more minutes and he’s pulling into a barely there parking spot of some hole in the wall diner. You’ve never been here, despite living a few blocks away and you wonder why he’s brought you so close to home when that’s exactly where you should be avoiding.

The engine cuts and then he’s scooting back, your hands immediately lifting from his hips where they’d found a unfamiliar solace for the short drive.

“Think we’ll run into her?” he attempts at a joke and you want to scream, want to remind him this isn’t funny, this is seriously fucked.

“I’m gonna go home if you keep this up,” you grunt out, hopping off of the bike, feet glad to be planted on the floor.

“It’s not that serious,” he murmurs, locking his bike before walking to the entrance. You stare at his retreating back, picture punching the shit out of him, blink it away before following.

“Table for two,” he effortlessly grins, blowing a bubble with the stale gum. The waiter gives him an unimpressed look, picks up the two menus and leads you to a corner booth.

You slide in first, and he slides in right beside you, his side just barely touching your arm. The waiter attempts to smile but it seems halfhearted and you can’t help but stifle a laugh at that.

“Get on the other side. This isn’t a date,” you say after the waiter leaves.

“I like it here. You’re warm,” Colson mumbles, reaching for a menu and your heart thuds in its cavity, begging to be let out.

“Look this can’t happen. You’re my best friend’s ex for gods sake, she’d kill me if she even knew I was talking to you,” you ramble out, finger playing with the frayed edge of the table, unable to look at him.

“What is this?” he says.

When you don’t respond, he huffs before going, “Wonder what’d she do to you if she found out we fucked.”

The waiter pauses right before your table, two waters in his hand. He turns around and you stare at his back, will him to come back to save you this hell you’ve found yourself in.

“Colson I’m serious. Shut the fuck up for two seconds and think about it,” you mutter, voice lower so that the waiter can hopefully head your way again. Your throat feels parched, dust settling against your vocal cords.

“I am being serious. I don’t get why she’d care. She broke up with me, it’s been six fucking months. I thought we both moved on,” he states matter-of-factly, reaching over your hands to grab a sugar packet.

He twists it around on the table, pink packet spinning into a blur as you watch it, wondering what to say next.

“It’s messed up. We shouldn’t even have talked to each other,” you breathe out.

“Well we did. Y/N, you’ve always been my friend first. I wasn’t going to ignore you because Domi wouldn’t like it,” he stops the spinning packet with his palm, flattens it into table.

Your waters appear on the table, two straws tossed next to full cups with a, “Ready to order?”

“Give us a few?” Colson says, voice tilting up at the end posing it as question, confidence dripping into his words. There isn’t an answer but the waiter turns away.

“The only reason I know you is cause of her,” you truthfully respond.

“Doesn’t mean our entire relationship has to be based off of what she wants. She’s not good for you,” he grabs a straw, tearing the wrapper before dropping it into a glass and passing it over to you.

Your head’s still stuck on the word relationship, knows that he doesn’t mean it romantically but the thought of it still lingers.

“You can’t say that,” you mumble in response to his last few words.

“Okay. I can’t. But I can tell you that you deserve a best friend who doesn’t go around cutting off your friends because she doesn’t want to see them anymore,” his statement seems like a final word, laying itself in the open air.

The waiter’s walking back and you quickly order the first thing you see, some blueberry pancake special and pray it isn’t bad. He orders an omelet, customizes it and you listen at the ease of his words, how he sounds like he owns the place while specifying his veggies.

Your menu gets handed back over and you sip at the ice water, try not to gulp it down.

“I’m sorry if that was out of line,” he attempts, but you don’t want to hear it anymore, don’t want to break the train of thought in your head repeating his last phrase.

“Can we just- you know be normal for now?” you ask, voice small compared to his.

“Sure yeah. You like blueberries?” he switches so quick it almost gives you whiplash, even though you asked for it.

His arm’s on the booth cushion behind you head, you can feel it as you go to lean back and it feels too close to a date for comfort.

“No it was just the first thing I saw,” you say without really meaning to.

He laughs at that and you smile too, easing into a neutral state.

“What if it’s gross? You know blueberries can freeze in just four minutes,” he spits out and you feel his leg bump against yours at the fun fact.

“Why do you know that?” you huff, eyes going to watch him speak.

“Read an article once,” he seems awfully pleased with himself and you roll your eyes muttering, “Glad to see you know how to read.”

He nudges you hard at that and you fall deeper into him somehow, find yourself tucked right into his side.

“You weren’t this mean to me last night,” he says pointedly, lifting his glass up.

“I wasn’t hungover last night,” you retort, or addled with guilt your mind adds silently.

“Oh shit, I forgot,” and then he’s ruffling through his pockets mumbling, “I thought I had some Advil in here.”

“No thanks, keep your pocket drugs. I’ll just sleep it off at home,” you say, although the idea of home and Domi just makes you queasy.

Two full plates are gently placed in front of you, steaming and fresh. You eye the purple blue dots on your pancakes suspiciously, hoping the taste isn’t as dark as the mosaic it creates visually.

Colson’s omelette looks incredible, cheese and vibrant red tomatoes popping off the plate and you want to taste it, see if its as good as he made it sound.

“I forgot you don’t get hungover,” you mumble, last few bits of the previous conversation slipping through before you lose yourself in the meal.

“Life of a rockstar,” he laughs out before grabbing his fork.

“Humble rockstar,” you laugh back as he clinks his silverware against yours.

The pancakes taste exactly and how they look and your tastebuds struggle in figuring out a flavor pattern. It’s bursts of sour, before buttery goodness and sugary maple. You demolish an entire pancake before realizing you’re out with a friend.

“You want some?” you mumble, chewing over a bite.

He watches you inquisitively from where he sits, fork dancing over his own plate. You will yourself not to blush under his gaze, almost choke on the piece tucked into your mouth.

He pulls off a piece, bites into it and you see his face twist up as he goes, “What is that?”

“Probably frozen blueberries,” you reply and his eyes light up at the recalling of his words as he swallows down the pancake.

“Terrible,” he mumbles, sipping on the dark coffee he’s ordered.

Colson’s a coffee freak, particular about the sugar levels, the amount of ice that goes into his drink, even the origin of the coffee beans. You’d learned this early on as he refused to participate in Starbuck runs, grunted in distaste when you would show up at his apartment, carrying a frappe, Domi sipping happily at her own.

The food finishes quick, you’ve taken bites of his omelette, trying not to praise the medley of flavors he’s somehow incorporated into an egg. He hasn’t cooked it of course, but you would never be able to combine options to come up with this type of breakfast.

He reluctantly finishes your last pancake, dousing it in syrup and making faces with every bite, mostly to make you laugh. His fingers are sticky and he lets them slide together before pulling them apart, string of maple connecting them, his eyebrows raising smirkingly towards you. You push him hard at the innuendo.

The bill comes around and goes back faster than you can react. He pays it quickly and quietly, not even letting you attempt at it. There’s a slight rush that overcomes you at that, you’ve always know he was generous, but this is different from late night McDonalds with the bros, slightly more personal.

He gets up to wash his hands after the mess he’s created and you shake your head at the pure stickiness of his hand as he walks away.

You pull your phone out, knowing you’ll regret it as soon as you catch sight of the time. You’ve been here with Colson for over an hour.

They flow of text messages from your roommate vary in subject, but near the end there’s no emojis, capital letters reflecting back at you and you know she’s mad, can feel it rolling off the screen. This is going to a bitch to hide.

“You should unblock my number while you have it out,” Colson suggests, voice startling you.

“Should I?” you wonder, more to hear it out loud to yourself than actually ask him.

He shrugs but his intentions are clear as he says, “Wouldn’t hurt now, would it?”

“What would you even text me?” you quiz this time, pointer finger tapping at the sides of your phone.

“Don’t know. Cool things. Fun facts,” he rattles off as if he’s creating a shoddy list in his head.

“Convincing,” you laugh before going to your settings. The blocked numbers stare up at you, at least five of them on that list unfairly.

You find his, the first one blocked all the way at the bottom and swipe.

Unblock? your phone asks, as if knowing you’re having trouble with this decision, second thoughts about something as trivial as a phone number.

Yes, you tap and then the list decreases automatically.

“Done,” you say, putting your phone back into your pocket.

“Good,” he hums before offering you his hand.

You take it, weirdly knowing this is the last time you will. He lets your intertwined fingers fall between the two of you, swings them just a little, hitting them against your legs as if he’s just as aware of the finality of it all too.

You take a breath, walk towards the exit. The doors open and you both step out, get down the steps and towards his bike.

You drop his hand first, look up at him, whisper, “I’m going to walk home.”

He doesn’t protest, you can’t tell if he wants to, but you secretly hope he does, in some twisted selfish way.

“Okay,” is all you get back from him and then he’s getting on his bike.

You don’t look back as his engine roars to life, or when you hear the telltale zoom of him speeding away. You feel sick, but remind yourself to keep walking, put as much distance between this mistake as you can.

Your heart aches at the word mistake, cracks the minute you can’t hear the motorcycle anymore, too far gone to even be white noise for your walk of shame home. This has to happen, you remind yourself, staring at the gum stains on the sidewalk. You’re going to be fine.

-

taglist:  @iamdorka @no-shxt-sherl @bakerkells @findingmyths @rosegoldrichie​ @mayaslifeinabox​ @itjustkindahappenedreally @hnbtx @backoftheroomandnotbelonging​ @sophroniaa​ @enchantedamusedslightlyconfused​ @calum-defense-squad

[darkpoisonouslove]

“Peace and Quiet”

Summary: During a quiet moment when the battle with the monsters is on hold Faragonda seeks out Griffin in hopes of resolving the conflict that had been standing between the two of them for years now. Set at the end of season 1.

This was born from a random prompt one night when I was having all! the! feelings! about this friendship but it took me so long to edit. It's here now, though, so... Enjoy!

Quiet. It was quiet for the first time in hours. There were no screeching creatures in the sky and no monsters trying to destroy Alfea along with all of its inhabitants, temporary and permanent. The thought of sleep was tempting but apart from it being ill-advised–this was just the calm before the storm, really, and they were still in the middle of a war–it also seemed distant and impossible. She’d never find the peace of mind required to fall asleep while her students and friends were all kept on their toes, anxious and wary, anticipating a new wave of monsters at any moment. But there was also something else that left her restless and alarmed. Or rather, someone.

She’d been watching Griffin ever since the witch had arrived with her students, not letting her out of her sight for a second. They hadn’t spoken to each other except in regards to strategy and the battle but words were unnecessary when you could read between the lines and see what was left unsaid.

Griffin was tired. In all fairness, they all were, but with her it was a different kind of tired, an exhaustion most certainly brought on by guilt and her own self deprecating thoughts. Their friendship went back a long time and even if it had been severed for years, Faragonda still knew what each and every one of her friend’s emotions looked like.

She approached her timidly where Griffin had isolated herself in the darkest, most remote end of the surviving part of the school. She wanted nothing more than to offer her comfort but she didn’t know if she’d be allowed that. Griffin had usually refused her compassion and reassurances even when their friendship and Griffin’s guilt had been at their strongest. And even despite that, she had to try. For her friend.

Griffin didn’t look at her but she’d heard her approach. That much was clear from the way she tensed even more although Faragonda hadn’t thought it possible. It should’ve discouraged her. But if she didn’t try to take care of Griffin, then no one would. Least of all Griffin herself.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked softly as she placed a hand on the windowsill of the window Griffin was looking out of. It was surprising she’d let her come this close without pulling away from her–she just kept her stiff posture with her arms crossed in front of her and her back so straightened it looked painful, her focus on the view from the window–but it certainly wasn’t unwelcome.

“Talk about what?” Griffin asked as she kept looking out to the sky and the forest, keeping herself battle-ready in case of an attack. Her voice wasn’t cold or harsh. It sounded rather empty and Faragonda really didn’t like that because if Griffin was quiet on the outside, then the storm was raging inside her, leaving her no peace whatsoever. “About the biggest mistake I’ve made in the past fifteen years?” The words hit Faragonda not only with the blame Griffin put on herself for the current situation, but also with the guilt about the past that still seemed to linger. Still, it was better for her to let it out instead of keeping it inside and letting it pile up. “What is there to talk about? I think we both know what happened.” Her gaze was on the situation outside still as if she trying to summon the monsters so that she could dive headfirst into battle and defeat them or die trying. And Faragonda wished that they had another option but, currently, that was their reality. The battle would come to them sooner or later and that only pushed her to say what she had to say now.

“You wanted to believe that they were better. That they weren’t like... them,” she said, the bitter smile taking over Griffin’s face filling her with the need to grab her friend and shake her because they both knew what had happened. Griffin wasn’t stupid. She’d connected the dots way back when the Trix had still been at the beginning of their freshman year. She’d worked for the Ancestral Witches and she knew what their powers looked like. Finding the link between the two trios of witches hadn’t been hard. The decision she’d taken after that, though, had been a risky move and they were paying for it now which made it even harder to not look back on it and regret it. But it hadn’t been wrong of her to want to find the good in three young girls.

“And where did that get us?” Griffin asked, a dry, humorless chuckle escaping her before the despair made her voice a little too high-pitched for both their liking.

“Wishing to give someone a chance was never the problem.” Maybe some actions that had followed that choice should have been different but mulling over the past wouldn’t do them any good. A lot of things could have been different but they weren’t. “If I hadn’t saved your life back then, I would’ve never forgiven myself. No matter what came afterwards.” Griffin had done many terrible things when working for the Ancestral Coven and she’d still chosen to protect her because she’d known there was good in her. And Griffin had seen something in those three young girls that had made her believe they could be better than following in the Ancestral Witches’ footsteps. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe not. Their current situation still wasn’t solid proof. But it was true that they were facing possible death so she wanted to get some things off her chest. “I actually wanted to talk about us.” She hesitated for a moment when she got no reaction to the sharp change of topic–Griffin had quieted down ever since she’d taken the word, her head slightly bowed–but she decided to speak now before she lost her chance or her courage. “I missed you.”

That finally got Griffin to look at her and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she wouldn’t laugh at her.  “Jumping from my biggest mistake right to the second best?” she asked and the forced amusement of the words was like a slap in the face. Maybe it would’ve been better if she’d laughed at her instead. “If you’re trying to make me feel better, Fara,” the pet name made her heart flutter with hope, “it’s not working.” Griffin looked back to the gray skies outside as if the depressing bleakness of their surroundings was better than any reassurances and closeness with someone else.

Faragonda knew she wasn’t trying to be cruel but her words and her behavior hurt enough to spark the impulse to pull away in her. “Why not?” she asked instead, holding on to the edge of the windowsill for support and to anchor herself there.

Griffin didn’t answer, standing still like a statue and her coldness was so disheartening. If Faragonda didn’t know her so well, it would have driven her away, making her abandon their friendship and betray them both. And that was exactly what Griffin was going for but she couldn’t allow it. Not anymore. Not when that could be their last conversation.

“I’m still your frie-”

“Because I abandoned you,” Griffin snapped at her, turning so rapidly that it startled her and when she met her gaze, her eyes were full of regret that wanted to become tears but she wouldn’t let it. “I am the reason why you had to miss me,” she fired out as the tears welled up. “I was stubborn and I didn’t want to fix our friendship,” she looked down at the floor as if wishing for it to swallow her. “Even though I missed you too.” The last part was whispered with shame that added unnecessary ugliness to the precious words. It was all Faragonda had wanted to hear since they’d stopped talking to each other.

“I was quite stubborn myself,” she said as she stepped closer. There’d been times when Griffin’s refusal to acknowledge her had gotten the best of her and she’d ended up on the offense, hurting them both. She wasn’t proud of that either but they had to get past it if they wanted to fix things. And now was as good a time as they’d ever get. “What’s important is that... we’re here for each other now,” she tried to sound convinced but she wasn’t sure if she wasn’t pushing it. Though, hesitation hadn’t gotten them far, and someone had to make the first step. “We’re in this together, okay?” she asked as she took Griffin’s hand in hers, drawing her gaze to her as well and was relieved to see that the tears were gone.

Griffin gave her a faint smile that may as well have been a response to her naivety and nodded. Just the fact that she still hadn’t pulled her hand away would’ve been enough for Faragonda but the silent confirmation brought her happiness she’d thought she may never feel again with the battle raging outside their doors. But the fight between her and Griffin was over and they were standing together with only peace and quiet between them, and not the angry, stubborn silence of the years they’d spent avoiding each other. Now she just had to hope that they wouldn’t be pulled apart by death in the next few hours.