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lovelylogans · 9 months

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the parent trap

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: hopped off the plane at lax with a dream of civil reconciliation with my ex-husband

Remus plots. Grandfather aids and abets. Janus panics. Logan suffers them all.

⁂

Okay, all packed.

It’s a relief he doesn’t have to pretend to be Roman anymore, and therefore barely folds any of the clothes in his bag; he does bend a sleeve or two around Paddington, to offer some sort of protection, before he zips it up and goes to put it out in the hall for someone to haul down to the car.

He intends to go back to Roman’s room, he really does, but…

But there’s incomprehensible murmurings emerging from Dad’s bedroom. Remus slinks up to the door, tilting his head to listen in.

“...rather dishy.”

Uncle Logan makes a very particular sighing sound, but Remus isn’t quite sure what it is. Roman would probably know immediately.

“Oh, I’m so pleased you’re coming,” Dad groans. “The man seems to make me absolutely lose my head. He doesn’t even have to be here for it.”

“I can see that,” Uncle Logan says, and Remus quickly takes that as his cue, stepping into his Dad’s bedroom, Roman’s carryon in hand.

“All set, Dad!”

“Good,” Dad says, looking deeply distracted; he’s not wearing any jewelry, the first time Remus has seen such an affair outside of pajamas, his hair’s unkempt, and he’s only got on one shoe. “Me too. Almost.”

“Erm,” Remus says, spotting the matching brown shoe at the door beside him before he holds it up to his Dad.

“What? Yes! Ah, yes,” Dad says, and sits on the bed, quickly going about getting it on. “Thank you, dear. Um. Did you speak to your father?”

“Uh, yeah,” Remus says, then, once he sees Uncle Logan giving him a Look out of the corner of his eyes, makes his tone more firm. “Yeah, I have! I just hung up with him, actually. He said he’s anxious to see you!”

Dad’s hand hovers over his jewelry box, before he very hastily draws back from his meager collection of rings as if they’ve burned him, quickly refocusing on the earrings. “Anxious-nervous, like he’s completely dreading it?”

He plucks out several pairs of earrings, and then stares at them as if he’s completely forgotten what the next step of that is.

“Or—or anxious-excited, like he’s looking forward to it?”

“Pick the blue,” Remus says, with slight ulterior motives and foreknowledge of Pa’s favorite color. “It’ll set off the white.”

“What? Oh, yes. The blue. Thank you.” Dad says, setting down several other pairs of earrings and holding up a pair of what looks like cascading droplets of silver and sapphires.

“And anxious-excited, definitely,” Remus lies. Just a little white lie. It’s worth it from the way. “He said he’ll meet us tomorrow at noon at the Stafford Hotel in San Francisco.”

“Tomorrow?” Dad says, briefly clutching at his dresser. “My, my, that’s… that’s very soon, isn’t it?”

“I guess!” Remus says brightly.

“Erm—how about you run downstairs and gather up tickets from your Grandfather while I finish up here?”

“Okay!” Remus says, on his way out.

There are footsteps after him, a friendly, uncle-ish hand on his shoulder, before—

“You are so lucky he is out of sorts at the minute, or he would’ve caught you out in this lie in five seconds flat.”

Remus puts his fingers to his lips, shushing Uncle Logan intently, before he skips down the stairs.

“Ah! Remus,” Grandfather says, beckoning him over. He chances a wary glance up the stairs before he looks back to Remus, lowering his voice.

“Now, what was the name of this gent you wanted me to send this check off to?”

“Roman’ll fax over the information,” Remus says. “Oh, that’s gonna be great, Gramps, thanks so much—”

Grandfather’s giving him a peculiar look.

“Gramps?” Remus repeats. “No?”

“I think not,” Grandfather says.

“Hm,” Remus says.

“Why Gramps?”

“I dunno,” Remus says. “I mean, I’ve been calling you Grandfather this whole time, and that’s just so stuffy.”

“Stuffy, eh?”

“I’ve never had a grandpa before, see,” Remus says. “I feel like I should come up with something fun to call you.”

“Hm,” Grandfather says. “Well, so long as it isn’t Peepaw or some American nonsense, if you please, I suppose I’ll hear out your suggestions.”

“Pop?”

“Maybe.”

“Grampy.”

“No.”

“Grand-pappy!”

“Absolutely not.”

“Grand-dude?”

“Do I seem particularly dude-like to you?”

“No, but that’s why it’d be funny,” Remus says. “Hmm… maybe I’m leaning too heavily into the Grand part of it. Maybe it should be like a new name entirely.”

Remus examines his Grandfather with a critical eye, tapping his finger to his chin. Hmm… not something based on Grandfather, not quite something based on James, either…

Remus brightens. “You smoke tobacco, don’t you?”

“Not in front of you, of course,” Grandfather declares theatrically loudly, before he gives Remus a little wink.

“I’ll call you Toby!”

Grandfather chortles, shaking his head with amusement.

“All right,” he says. “If my choices are dude or Toby, I suppose I shall take Toby.”

“Excellent,” Remus says, and he laces his arm through Grandfather Toby’s. “Now, let’s talk you coming to see me, next time…”

⁂

Janus tries his very best to breathe deep and even as they begin to depart from Pembroke Lane. He hugs his father goodbye, only to see Remus bounce up and offer him the same, squeezing him so tightly that Janus can see his little muscles bulging through his jumper.

“Bye, Toby.”

“Bye, Remus.”

Remus pulls back, only to take his hands and squeeze them. “You’re coming to Napa for Thanksgiving, right?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Father says sincerely, before kissing Remus on the forehead and nudging him toward the limo, then squeezing Janus’s shoulder.

“Good luck, dear.”

Janus inhales sharply, nods, and hands over his suitcase to the chauffeur, sliding into the limo after Logan.

“Say hi to your Father for me!” Father calls merrily to Remus.

“I will!” Remus says brightly, and Janus tries his best to relax in the backseat, even though they are on their way to the airport, to see his ex-husband, two of the most terrifying things in the world.

The car drive, customs, and loading onto the plane seem to all pass by in an awful blur, everything suddenly moving much too quickly; eventually, they are loaded into their row, Remus at the window, Janus in the middle, and Logan in the aisle.

Logan gently takes Janus’s shaking hand.

“They’re safer than cars, you know.”

“Shut up,” Janus says through gritted teeth, but he squeezes his cousin’s hand hard anyway. “I, at least, know that if something goes wrong in a car, I can step out onto solid land, unlike this—this wretched flying tin can.”

Remus turns from the window, where he’d been watching the people on the runway conduct their mysterious business for some time.

“It’ll be fine, Dad,” he says, with the brazen sort of confidence of a young boy who had never once read any article about the myriad technical failures that could plague a plane like this. “You’ll see.”

Janus lets out a shaky exhale. “Yes, poppet, I suppose I will. Why don’t you look out there and tell me all about these, er…”

“Ground crew,” Logan supplies under his breath.

“Ground crew. Yes.”

Smartest people who worked for the airline, really. Always on the ground, never in the air. Never at the mercy of gravity and airflow.

Also, conveniently away from asking Remus about the one man he’s desperately, desperately curious about.

“I dunno much about it, but okay,” Remus says, turning out of the window again, and then, “Ooh, that guy just totally faceplanted!”

Janus would much rather be faceplanted into the tarmac a hundred times than be on this flight for eleven and a half hours.

“Oh, wow, he’s bleeding pretty good… must’ve landed right on his nose, poor sod…”

Janus would take a pretty bad nosebleed over this. In fact, Janus would probably take quite a bit of awful things rather than fly internationally for the sole purpose of reuniting with his ex-husband.

Janus could probably manage this. Probably.

…no, he absolutely couldn’t, but it’s too late; the pilot is coming over the intercom, the plane is moving, and Janus sinks lower in his chair.

Goodbye, solid ground, I love you, he thinks, holding Logan’s hand so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. Logan does not breathe a word of complaint. I’ll never, ever take you for granted again.

“Deep breaths,” Logan murmurs in his ear.

Janus snarls at him as quietly as he can, squeezing his eyes shut tightly.

The plane, with a great rumbling and roaring, is picking up speed—it’s surely barrelling down the runway—there’s a great lurch—we are going to crash, we are absolutely going to crash—

“Bye, London!” Remus says cheerfully beside him. “See ya sometime!”

Janus cracks an eye open.

They’re in the air.

“There you are,” Logan says, patting Janus’s hand. “The most statistically dangerous part is over until we start the landing descent.”

“Oh my God, why would you tell me that.”

“I thought it would be helpful.”

“Maybe, until we start landing the plane!”

“This really freaks you out, huh,” Remus muses, and Janus swallows, rubbing his free, sweaty hand on his pants.

“Fairly badly, yes.”

“Hm,” Remus says, then, “You know, my Dad always says we get good business at the vineyard, ‘cause even if people don’t like it much, the nice scenery and a glass of wine always helps calm their nerves. D’you think that’ll help?”

“The vineyard?” Janus says, peering over at Remus.

“Where we live,” Remus elaborates. “He bought it and built the house there when I was pretty little, so I guess you’ve never seen it, huh?”

“No,” Janus says faintly. “No, I haven’t.”

He did it, Janus thinks wonderingly. He actually did it. All that talk about his dream, and he’s managed it. Good on you, Patton, wherever you are.

But when the flight attendant trundles by with their cart of beverages, all he can think of when he sees the tiny bottles of chardonnay and sauvignon blanc are long-ago dates, with Patton’s fingers cool from the condensation touching his hand, his voice in Janus’s ear as he explains the difference between a merlot and a cabernet…

And Janus simply cannot. So—

“Vodka, please,” Janus blurts out, and accepts his miniature bottles with a resolute eye on them and not labels that might bear remnants of romantic outings past, ignoring Logan’s incredulous expression.

⁂

If Patton were less nervous, he’d probably think this hotel is really very swanky. Grandfather clocks sit perched in corners, gilt-framed paintings hang on the walls, heavy curtains drape over massive windows that allow beautiful natural lighting to hit the floral-brocade carpet.

Actually, it’s probably him noticing how swanky it is that’s adding to his apprehension.

They round the corner, and there he is, past a concierge dutifully pushing a golden cart full of luggage: there’s his fiancée.

Maddox looks like a knockout. He always does, but especially today for the special occasion. He’s wearing a square-necked top with his arms and upper back bared, tight pants, the typical swoop in his hair tended to carefully.

He’s smiling as he clings to the arm of a man whose hair has gone more salt than pepper, in a nice button-down and a black suit jacket. Clinging to the white-haired man’s other arm is a woman with hair dyed a tasteful blonde-going silver, with massive gold earrings to match the buttons on her pink skirtsuit.

Here we go, Patton thinks, swallowing hard before he puts a smile on his face.

Sammy offers a reassuring bark, and he smiles down at him before he turns to see Maddox, walking toward him with a pleased expression and wiggling his fingers in a wave.

“Hi, darling,” Maddox says, and Patton presses a kiss to his cheek.

“Remus,” Maddox says to the son he doesn’t know that Patton has, “Virgil. And Sammy. What in the world are you doing here?”

Then, in Patton’s ear, in an undertone, “Honey, a dog at the Stafford?”

Patton shrugs. “Kiddo begged me to bring him.”

That’s not technically lying to Maddox about who Roman is. Right?

“Oh, you’re such a softie,” Maddox says, whacking his bicep playfully.

Sammy growls at the sight. Patton blinks—Maddox has never really been too enthusiastic about the dog, but Sammy has never once growled at him.

Maybe Sammy just couldn’t read the teasing in it.

“Hey, easy, Sammy, he didn’t mean anything by that,” Patton says, reaching down to rub him behind the ear. Sammy subsides, leaning into Patton’s hands.

Virgil pets Sammy, too, before he looks back to Maddox. “So—these are the folks?”

“Oh, yes!” Maddox says, beckoning the older couple over before he wraps his hands around Patton’s bicep. “Mom, Dad, you finally meet. This is my fiancé and the love of my life: Patton Parker.”

Patton flushes, but he reaches forward with his free hand to take Maddox’s mother’s hand. She clings to it with both hands that are a little cold, a little clammy.

“Hello, Patton, I’m so pleased to meet you,” she says, letting go after just a moment too long. “I’m Vicki.”

“Hi,” Patton says.

“And this,” Maddox continues, “is Patton’s adorable son Remus.”

Patton reaches out with a free arm to wrap around Roman’s shoulder, and Roman immediately leans into his side.

“This entire pre-nuptial get-together was his idea, I’ll have you know,” Maddox says.

If it truly were Remus’s idea? Chaos would have ensued, definitely. But Roman seems much less inclined to hijinks than Patton’s younger son.

“How are you, young man?” Mr. Blake says politely. “We’ve heard nothing but wonderful things about you.”

Patton beams at Maddox at the thought of him getting along so well with his kid. Kids. Boy, that’s gonna be an interesting conversation.

Vicki bends so her face is a bit more on Roman’s level.

“Hello, pet,” she croons. “You may call me Aunt Vicki!”

Roman offers her a weak smile.

⁂

Okay, so maybe suggesting booze on the flight was an awful idea, but how on earth was Remus meant to know that their Dad’s a lightweight?!

“We’re here,” Uncle Logan says, reaching back to gently shake Dad’s knee. Dad stirs from where he’s nodded off with his head pressed against the window.

“Hm?” Dad hiccups.

“We’re at the hotel,” Uncle Logan prompts, and he gets out of the car, going to open Janus’s car door for him.

“Hm,” Dad mumbles, nodding off the other way, his head landing atop Remus’s.

“Dad!” Remus protests, elbowing him hard. “We’re here, get up.”

“Oh—whoops,” Dad says inanely, and Uncle Logan clasps his hand, pulling him out. Remus scrambles after, a little worried he’s going to fall over.

“That was a great flight, wasn’t it?” Dad says, wobbling in a way that makes Remus think this theory might be proven true. “I’ve never been so—so soothed on a plane before!”

“Unsure if soothed is the word for it,” Remus mutters. “More like soused.”

“I’ve never seen you so,” Logan says, falters for a word, and just pats Janus on the shoulder. “Erm.”

“Oh—my shoes!” Dad says, and begins the arduous process of putting his shoes back on as Remus grabs at his elbow, trying to make sure he keeps his balance.

“He’s totally blitzed,” Remus hisses behind his Dad’s back.

“Obviously!” Uncle Logan hisses back.

⁂

“...not that I don’t like the idea of the wedding at the house, but if the hotel could do it, I think that room would be perfect for the wedding!”

Roman ignores Maddox’s continued prattling (“Not too big, not too cramped!”) as Sammy lurches on as Roman holds tightly to his leash, his nose pressed to the carpet as he sniffs at some trail beyond Roman’s imagining.

“It’s just—this could be…”

What it could be, Roman doesn’t know, because suddenly he’s yanked forward by the weight of a golden retriever, with all his weight, sprinting full-force down the hall.

“Sammy!” Roman yelps, but Sammy doesn’t stop, continuing his charge.

⁂

“So, I’ve already checked us in,” Maddox says before Patton can call back Sammy—probably smelling something from room service—who is currently leading Roman on a merry chase down the hall.

“I got ‘em,” Virgil says, and slips after them, leaving Patton to the Blake family.

“Why don’t we we go upstairs, freshen up, and then rendezvous for lunch?” Maddox continues.

“Great.” Mr. Blake says.

“Meet you at the bar in ten,” Vicki says, and Maddox leans in to press a kiss to her cheek.

“Oh! Perf,” Madox says happily, and turns to watch his parents go.

And then he twins his arm through Patton’s again, the other grasping his hand.

“I think it’s going well,” Patton says quietly, so they don’t overhear him. “Do you think it’s going okay?”

“Of course,” Maddox says. “I’ve told them you’re everything they could’ve dreamed of for their little boy, plus millions times more.”

Patton smiles, bashful, turning to face him. Maddox’s expression turns decidedly more sultry, his hands slipping into Patton’s suit jacket and wrapping around his waist.

“Sweetheart,” Maddox purrs. “Now that we’re here, why don’t we go check out the honeymoon suite? I bet it is to die for.”

⁂

They have just managed to get his shoes on and get Dad in the elevator without incident, when—

“Oh! I forgot my bag!”

Dad lurches through the elevator doors, minorly avoiding getting crushed, and Remus groans as he goes through the lobby.

And then there’s a dog’s bark.

A familiar dog’s bark.

“Sammy!” Remus cries out before he can stop himself—he’d know that bark anywhere, starting low and threatening then breaking into higher-pitched yips when it’s someone he knows; Pa always jokes that he never quite got over his teenage voice change.

Then two familiar heads snap around.

Roman, in a sleek white jacket, and Virgil, who has put on a not-torn jacket for the occasion, turn at the sound of his voice, shocked.

And then Sammy takes advantage of what must have been Roman’s hand going slack, because he lunges out of his grip, sprinting to the elevators, sprinting to Remus.

He dodges a human there—he barrels past another there—he sees a concierge pulling a golden cart of suitcases and leaps over it like the best dog at Westminster—

“Sammy!” Remus squeaks, dropping to his knees and hugging Sammy tightly around his furry neck just as the elevator doors close behind them.

⁂

Well, Roman guesses that’s the best possible outcome of Sammy breaking loose, grinning at the golden doors that have just cut him off from them.

“Ooh,” Virgil grunts, and quickly turns away, hiding his face.

He’s about to ask why, when—

“Dad!” Roman exclaims.

There he is, Janus James, fashionista extraordinaire: clad in a white silky top, a classic white jacket, white pants, the ensemble set off with a beige pocketbook, a silver necklace, and excellent silver-and-blue dangly earrings.

Oh, Roman’s missed him.

“Remus, you didn’t have to wait for me,” Dad says, the slightest strange edge on his words that confuses Roman until his breath hits him.

Oh, Remus, what did you do?!

“You can get up to the room all by yourself. Besides, I think I need a little—fresh air,” Dad hiccoughs. “Go on, poppet, I’ll meet you upstairs.”

He punctuates the statement with a firm pat to Roman’s shoulder, before he swayingly turns to go.

“I like that jacket, by the way, were you wearing that on the plane—?”

“DAD WATCH OUT—”

But there’s no need for his warning; the hotel employee toting an elaborate floral centerpiece dodges out of Dad’s way just in time.

“Oopsie!” Dad says cheerfully, and he lurches on his way.

Roman turns to Virgil, aghast.

“I don’t know how,” he says, “but this is somehow Remus’s fault.”

“I dunno either, but you’re probably right,” Virgil says.

“He’s never had more than a glass of wine a day in his life, and now is the time to show up three sheets to the wind?!”

“Yeah, well,” Virgil says, floundering, before he puts a hand to Roman’s shoulder and steers him to the nearest open elevator. “Just—do what the man says and meet him upstairs!”

⁂

Janus walks into the lobby from his brief sojourn at the front of the hotel, waiting for the world to stop wobbling. It’s settled and now he’s wondering if he’s in time to catch the next elevator, when he looks up.

And then, like a bolt from the blue, Janus sees him.

It’s been over eleven years. He would know that man on sight. But somehow—maybe it isn’t him—

Maybe this mystery man with the five o’clock shadow and a big, callused hands currently resting the small of some mystery man’s back isn’t him. Maybe those are someone else’s broad shoulder—someone else’s five o’clock shadow—someone else’s soulful brown eyes—

But those eyes, those eyes, move from the mystery man to looking out at the lobby, and their eyes meet.

Janus’s jaw drops.

It is. It is him. That is Patton Parker. That is Janus’s ex-husband.

Who currently has a man wrapped in his arms—Patton hastily drops his hand from the small of his back—but, judging by the look of the way this mystery man is moving, going on tiptoe to put his mouth going to Patton’s jaw, is looking to be wrapped around his waist by the time the elevator hits their room’s level.

Patton’s staring, slack-jawed and wide-eyed and leaning—leaning—leaning—he catches himself with his hand on the elevator wall, staring still as the door slides shut—

And then—in what might possibly be the most humiliating moment of Janus’s life—

He smiles at Patton Parker, still agape, and then, like some kind of moron, lifts up his hand and wiggles his fingers in a little wave.

Patton’s lips part, as if to form his name, right as the door closes between them.

⁂

“Remus Parker!”

And then two boys pop out of opposite doorways on either side of the hallway.

Or perhaps just one? Or—

“Oh,” Janus groans, putting his hands to his head, “am I just seeing double, or—”

“It’s me, Dad,” says the one wearing a sleek white jacket. “Roman!”

“Oh!” Janus gasps, “darling!” and manages to catch Roman in a hug, resting his head on top of his son’s.

Still that same streak, though he’s using a different shampoo—what surely must be Remus’s typical fare—and Janus presses a kiss to it, before he draws back, surveying Roman’s face.

He’s a little tanner than he was when he left, much like Remus—and goodness, he’s grown, hasn’t he?! Why did children insist on growing?

“Oh, you look wonderful,” Janus says, carding a hand over his hair.

And he does. He looks as though he’s just spent a bracing summer doing outdoorsy sorts of activities with boys his own age, and also coincidentally finding his own twin brother at some random American summer camp!

“I can’t believe you’re together,” Janus says fondly, before he remembers the situation Patton’s sons have wrought, “but how could you do this to me?!”

A door cracks open again, and a familiar face—if a decade older—peeks out.

“Uh, hi,” he says. “‘Scuse me, I hate to interrupt, but might I suggest we continue this discussion inside?”

He’s moving to usher the boys into the suite, before he turns back to Janus.

“Hey—you probably don’t remember me, I’m—”

“Virgil!” Janus cuts him off, greatly cheered by the presence of a familiar and adult and not-scheming face. He grabs Virgil’s arm, briefly, “of course I remember you!” and squeezes it before he lets go, rushing to give a great big talking-to to the two most troublesome eleven-year-old boys on the face of the Earth.

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#my fic #my fanfic #tpt fic

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spidey-bie · 7 months

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"Can't get enough?" The french accent coating their speech was thicker then he'd ever heard from them, the tone coming along tired and the voice soft. "Yous can lead well with that dishy chatter, Gigglemug… Yous not picking someone to shag?" The canopy over the designated smoking area wasn't big. it took only three steps before they were shoulder to shoulder. the width of the area was even smaller. They had to be pressed so close to fit, when they looked to speak all he could see was their face. Something in him felt nervous and jittery, like everything was too little and too much all at once. Yet, he couldn't be calmer. The rain made everything feel so much colder, and when cars passed, their headlights revealed that the buildings and sidewalks were muted and greyish. The brightest thing in the entire street was the person he came here for. his heart fluttered at their words, needing a second to figure out what they meant.

"Isn't that a douche thing to do, abandon your friends for someone you'll never see again?" He asked, hands twitching against the railing. Hobie couldn't stop his eyes from following their hand as they brought the cigarette to their red lips, the long manicured lavender nails shined against the light with help of glitter. They didn't look happy. Their yellow brows were pulled together, and the look of their eyes almost seemed to glare with assertiveness and aggression. The way that their jaw clenched gave him am outline on their cheek of their fangs. They barely brushed the cigarette against their lips before pulling it back down to the bar they were both resting on, and he realized they don't smoke from the nervous flutter of their hand when they realized they didn't know what to do with it now that it's lit.

"Yous wouldn't be here to hear the bitching," Snarking, leaning closer, Something was drawing him in and the little feeling was suddenly becoming not so little. Their noses brushed together, and he resisted the need to flinch away. "Is this the part yous telling me that you like me better? Stare into my eyes and tell me yous smitten?" The tone was light and chipper, but in that way he knew they were being sarcastic and bitter. So, that's it then. They don't like the talk going around that they're screwing.

"Nah, Bitchiness isn't my brand of fuck. Sorry to tell you, I can see the stick up your ass from your tonsils," The jab was delivered with a small smirk, and the reward was quickly earned into a snort and a series of melodic giggles. It was more genuine then he thought it'd be, he didn't want anything with them. They would never enjoy it, he could tell that. Their only love would be passion itself. They looked beautiful with it. The shaking of their shoulders eventually settled, and he had to look over to where the cigarette was thrown into the street infront of them, carrying itself down the downpour into the city drainage. Blue eyes fluttered shut and red fingerless gloves with cartoon skulls pulled the long granny-square coat shut and leaned against him. The distance was already small, yet any remaining was quickly snuffed out. Gentle weight met his shoulder and neck, and fogged breaths left the shelter when his breath fluttered for a moment. It was cold out, and he couldn't help but snuggle into them to try and preserve the heat. He could feel the hand they had wrapped around to his other side fiddling with the ends of his thin tanktop. It wasn't the best dress for the occasion, yet he didn't really have much else for bar attire. He just hoped they didn't mind him snuggling into them and their soft ass coat to try and warm himself up. (This is first draft, things will change)

Just breathe Hun just breathe nope. Notearsnotearsnotea-

I don't even know the context for this but it just seems so....UGHHHHH. Like there's words left unspoken between them.

They barely brushed the cigarette against their lips before pulling it back down to the bar they were both resting on, and he realized they don't smoke from the nervous flutter of their hand when they realized they didn't know what to do with it now that it's lit.

Idk why but this is the line that got me. Is this like a parallel to their relationship? Just Am I reading into this too much...idc. They (I'm assuming Moxie) knows how Hobie feels about them and similar to the cigarette they they don't know how to deal with him. (I believe you said they were Aroace correct me if I'm wrong)

Or they feel a certain way about Hobie but it's not the same way Hobie feels about them and they know it.

IS THE CIGARETTE SYMBOLISM OR AM I GOING CRAZY????

I only got a blurb of something and I'm already acting a fool head in hands 🥹.

Um yeah so...yeah 👍🏾

#SCREAMING CRYING THROWING UP #BE SO FR RN #HOW DO YOU JUST DROP THIS IN MY INBOX AND EXPECT ME TO BE OK #moxie #hobie x oc #(maybe)#tell me if im wrong #my fuzzy friends [🕷️]#jay webs words

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taakosleftshoe · 11 months

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I posted the link to this earlier but I know some folks prefer to read ficlets on Tumblr itself, plus it can't hurt, so! Here it is. A few select moments in Amber and Kodira's long time knowing each other.

For Me, Return

“Bubba?”

Oksana turns her head, breaking the staring contest she was losing to the sea, and meets a pair of eyes that draw her in even more than those waters. The two of them are sat beside each other, toes gently pressing into the wet sand. Until then it had been quiet, only the sound of distant thunder rolling and waves crawling up the shore. Oksana had been content to stay that way forever, bathed in the soft golden light as the sun creeped closer toward the horizon. Her knee was so close to Amber’s, she was acutely aware of it.

“Yeah, Bams?”

“What do you think happens after all of this?” Amber asks, a rare look of worry coming over her sunkissed face.

Silence. Oksana isn’t sure what she thinks. “We.. go on,” she says, finally.

“Well shit,” Amber sighs. “I guess that’s as good an answer as any.”

Keep reading here, or on AO3

“We go on. Cause we have to. And I don’t know what the hell that looks like... but I know that we will, and we’ll be stronger for it. No matter how hard that change is.”

“You’re not just talkin’ bout the shoreside... are ya?” Amber turns to face her, folding her legs up toward herself, feet resting on top of each other, pointed toward the sea.

Oksana catches her breath, before saying, “I guess not. I know down there is gonna be a lot different than up here, more than just missing the sky or the stars, but missing people. We’ll all have a role to play and that might not be where we wish it was, but we all gotta do our part. Duty calls...”

“It does indeed,” Amber mutters, looking down at the sand, examining a shell barely peaking out through the surface.

A wave crashes on the shore. Oksana returns her gaze to the ocean, watching the sea foam fizzle on, only to be washed away again.

Beside her, Amber pushes herself up to stand. “Speaking of,” she says, offering a hand to Oksana. She takes it. “We got dishies to do.”

“We?” Oksana asks, smile creeping onto her face. “I thought only I had dishies for a month.”

“Yeah, well.” Amber begins pulling Oksana along with her as they make their way to The Shithouse. “I need something to keep me busy. And you could use the company.”

“I guess I could,” she says, catching up to Amber’s pace, then exceeding it, letting her hand fall away. “But we’ll see if my company’s a slowpoke. Think you can keep up, Gris?” Oksana breaks into a sprint.

“Oh- you-” Amber starts, beginning to chase Oksana up the beach, whose curls fly behind her in the wind, sand kicking up and pelting her calves. “It is so on, Bubba!”

Laughter fills the twilight air as the two storm through the quiet settlement, past campfires and clotheslines and tired folks who give them annoyed glances. They reach the back of The Shithouse, both slamming hands-first into its wall at the same time. They take a moment to catch their breath.

“Looks like we tied. How’s about a rematch? Maybe an... arm wrestling contest?” Amber prompts, flexing her bicep and raising an eyebrow at Oksana. Her stupid crooked grin and stupid strong biceps.

Oksana rolls her eyes and uses her hand to shove Amber’s face away playfully. “No chance, I may be fit but I ain’t stupid. That won’t ever happen again, not after last time.” She shakes the thought away, and reaches for the door handle.

“Wait, Bubba.” Oksana looks back in curiosity to find Amber rifling through the pockets of her cargo shorts.

“Where is .. I swore I had it.. oh, there it is,” she mutters, before pulling out a bunched up piece of fern green fabric. When Amber unfurls it to its full extent, Oksana sees that it’s a soft kerchief with a small interlacing pattern embroidered in gold around the edges.

When Amber notices Oksana’s look of confusion, she explains, “To hold back your hair. We don’t want that pretty head of yours to get gross dishie water on it, keppa?”

“Oh, um. Yeah,” Oksana manages to breathe out as Amber moves behind her and gently lifts her long hair off her neck and brings the scarf under. She could swear her heart stops as Amber’s arm brushes her shoulder when she reaches up to secure her work. As she steps away, Oksana finally takes a deep breath in, and Amber steps around to examine face-on. Her tongue pokes out a little bit as she methodically adjusts the fabric over Oksana’s hair.

“Aaaand...” Amber tucks a stray curl behind Oksana’s ear. “There. Perfect.”

As Amber pulls back to stand a good head shorter than her, Oksana can’t help but look at her. Her mischievous smile, pushing her freckled cheeks up and crinkling her eyes at the corner. Her ginger hair falling behind her shoulders in twin braids. Her warm hazel eyes dancing with bemusement and something more, something else. Her lips, chapped and pink and split into a grin as she starts to speak.

“You gonna keep starin’ or we gonna get to work?”

Oksana blinks herself out of it and reaches, again, for the door. “These dishies won’t wash themselves.”

It’s an unseasonably warm day in the middle of winter when the shoreside moves beneath the waves. They were all prepared to leave, of course; they knew what was coming. But the process of rushing to their bathyspheres and launching into the sea was carried out in mere minutes. The commotion caused by Hominine’s ascension left little time for goodbyes.

It took them a few days to settle in, as a city. Founder’s Wake, they called it. A new beginning, some said. Oksana supposed they were right to say that—after all, everything was changing, even the one thing she didn’t want to leave behind.

Within a week, Oksana has been called away to her duty, to serve aboard The Biggest Baby. As she packs her things, a figure appears in her doorway. She turns around.

“Amber,” she exhales.

Leaning against the curved doorframe, she makes her way over to where Oksana stands, beside her bed. Despite the circumstances, Amber smiles at seeing her. Her hair is cut short— she had trusted Oksana enough with scissors to give her a haircut— and she wears a green scarf that’s been folded into a headband, the ends of the bow flopping over like bunny ears.

“So, Ballaster, huh?” Amber starts, folding her arms across her chest, sizing Oksana up.

Oksana laughs nervously. “I guess so...”

“Well,” Amber says. “Don’t forget me when you’re off being powerful and fearless and sitting on your big throne, yeah Bubba?”

Ducking her head, and brushing a stray bit of hair back behind her ear, Oksana smiles. “Naw, you know I wouldn’t go and do a thing like that. Couldn’t.”

A beat of silence passes between them, where Oksana can’t bring her eyes to meet Amber’s.

“Oksana-- or, I guess, Kodira, now...” Oh, that’s right. Even she herself had forgotten. Not Oksana. Kodira. Ballaster Kodira.

“Yeah?”

“Just... Remember who ya are, an’ where we came from. I know we’re kinda goin’ our own ways, but. We’re still us, no storm can change a thing like that.”

Kodira finds her arms pulling Amber in for a hug. She sniffs. “I’m gonna miss you, Amber.”

“I'll miss you too Bubba,” she says, squeezing Kodira tight around the waist.

The two stand like that for what feels like ages, bodies pressed together, heads resting against shoulders. Then, Kodira pulls back, her hands falling to rest on Amber’s sides. She looks at her in earnest, tears beginning to pool in her deep brown eyes. Amber brings her hand up to cup Kodira’s cheek, thumb gently tracing her cheekbone. Kodira leans into the touch, cracking a small smile as she lets out a broken laugh.

They search each other’s eyes for just a moment before Kodira’s face inches forward and their lips meet in a soft kiss. Kodira tastes the salt of her own tears as they roll down her cheeks and catch in the corner of her mouth.

When Amber pulls away, moving her hand from Kodira’s face up to her own hair, Kodira frowns in confusion. Amber unties the scarf, carefully removing it from her short curls.

“What are you,” Kodira starts as Amber presents the fabric to her. “Oh, but Bams--”

“C’mon now Bubba, I don’t need it anymore. Besides, it always looked better on you.”

Amber gently takes Kodira’s hands in hers, and nestles the scarf into her upturned palms. She guides Kodira to close her fists around it, then lightly squeezes her hands for good measure. This is yours. Keep it.

She notices Amber look up at her. Kodira slowly draws her gaze from her own hands to the woman who’s holding them, and looks at her, both affectionate and bewildered.

Amber surely notices this confusion, but doesn’t make an effort to address it. Instead, she just says, “Take care Bubba,” before letting go of Kodira’s hands, taking their warmth with them. She steps away, back turned. Amber’s wrists find the sides of her hips again as she regains her composure, shoulders straightened back and head lifted high.

Kodira watches her walk away. She doesn’t look back.

As Amber walks away, it takes everything in her not to turn around. She can’t look at Oks-- Kodira—she can’t look at Kodira again. She couldn’t bear it, knowing she couldn’t run back into her arms.

She rounds the corner, putting Kodira’s bathysphere out of sight, and she lets out a sigh. Amber is good at keeping a brave face; it’s all she’s known for so long. But it’s only now, as she walks through the quiet hall, away from the best thing she’s had, that the loneliness sinks in. She can’t help it. She cries.

The forces of life pulled them apart like the tides, the moon pulling the earth. They stood no chance against the gravity that moved them. Amber and Kodira went their separate ways, living lives so distant from one another they thought the past was washed away forever. But the tide always comes rolling back in. The waves always meet the shore once more.

Time goes by faster than she thought it would. Not that it’s been easy—quite the opposite—but Kodira has grown used to it, what with twenty years of serving Founder’s Wake. Being the commander of a militia is hard enough work without a god living in your head. But she’s not complaining. It’s nice being important, even if it’s exhausting.

Today Kodira is going about her business as usual-- well not business on account of the fact she’s off-duty-- and it’s not so usual, since she’s venturing outside her normal realm... Okay, so maybe Kodira was just Going About. She didn’t need to think this hard about it. She was out, exploring the side of town she didn’t often have reason to visit. Joshy’s Knuckle was not exactly her scene, but she had her reasons to be there, even if her thinly veiled excuses of “supporting the local economy” and “diversifying dip ingredients” do little to calm the murmur of hope which has built a home in the back of her mind.

She’s in a relatively small store, quaint, she might call it, perusing the shelves until a bag of chickpeas catches her eye. As she grabs it from the shelf, a faint chime rings out from somewhere beside her. Someone has joined her in the store—could it be—no. No, she needs to cut that out, stop looking for her everywhere. But, well... as the Ballaster of Defense, she really should be aware of her surroundings, so...

She glances up, bringing her gaze to the door.

And then her eyes meet those of a woman she’d loved many years ago.

They're honey brown. And she’s memorized those eyes and how they used to shine golden in the sunlight, though they don’t see much of that anymore. Now those same eyes look right at her, the skin around them rough with wrinkles, smattered with the same freckles Kodira used to count all that time ago.

The bag hits the ground with a thud.

Embarrassed, Kodira ducks her head and lunges down to pick it up, only to feel fingers brush against her own as she conks into a head of familiar red hair—though it’s lost some of its brilliant pigment with age.

Each instinctively ramble out half-baked apologies, their words tripping over the other’s. Amber, and then Kodira, both laugh softly, a tension in the air keeping the both slightly on edge.

Kodira pushes herself up and offers Amber a hand.

“Long time no see,” Kodira starts, as Amber takes her hand and stands up with her, head tilted slightly upward to look at the taller woman.

“Yeah,” amber breathes out, searching Kodira’s face.

She begins to say something, but then her eyes fall to the ponytail that lays across Kodira’s chest, as she notices the familiar green fabric tied in a bow, securing her hair. Amber's face breaks into a toothy grin.

"You still have that old thing?”

#my writing #oksamber #amber and kodira #taz ethersea #taz fic #<3 yippee my first fic

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