#he *is* physically colder though. I really hope nobody got to this joke first

[deepseagraveyard]

ba dum tss 🥁❄️

[marauders-venting]

This Love

pairing: wolfstar (remus x sirius)

genre: fluff & angst

warnings: mentions of drowning, child abuse, physical abuse, death/murder, war, grief and guilt

words: 3679

note: based on the song ‘This Love’ by Taylor Swift

a/n: this is a request I got from someone on Instagram :)

okay I know that sirius ran away from home at 16 and they’re not supposed to use magic outside of Hogwarts until their 17 but uhhh idk just pretend that sirius ran away at 17. or that they can do magic at 16, whatever you prefer

Clear blue water, high tide came and brought you in and I could go on and on, on and on, and I will. Skies grew darker, currents swept you out again and you were just gone and gone, gone and gone. In silent screams, in wildest dreams I never dreamed of this

“Hey,” Remus said, waving as he saw Sirius approaching. His nervous expression rearranged itself into a smile when he saw Remus.

“Remus!” Sirius said, rushing towards him and hugging him. The embrace is quick and short, Sirius pulling back as quickly as he came in, but it’s enough to make Remus’ heart pound ridiculously fast in his chest. “I’d ask you how your summer’s been but I guess I already know,” Sirius added with a laugh. Remus smiled. They had been exchanging letters back and forth all summer long. Not that they didn’t usually write to each other over breaks but Remus was pretty sure this summer they had broken the world record for most letters sent in a month.

Remus had planned on using this time away from Sirius to try and get over his crush but the second he saw Sirius walking around the beach he knew he had failed. If anything, being away from Sirius, missing him, had only made Remus’ feelings of longing more intense.

“Come on, let’s sit,” Remus said. He had already spread a towel out on the sand near the water before when he was waiting for Sirius and they sat on it now. “How’d you manage to get away in the end?”

“I just snuck out the window,” Sirius said, shrugging. “And then I took a taxi like you taught me and I used the muggle money you sent me. I will pay you back for that by the way.”

“Don’t bother,” Remus said. “Think of it as me paying you back for all the chocolate you bought me on the last Hogsmeade visit at the end of last year. Nobody knows you’re gone?”

“Nah, they’re not expecting me down for dinner anyway so it’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Remus asked nervously.

“Yeah,” Sirius said. Remus wasn’t convinced. “Hey, come on, don’t worry about them. We’re here now, let’s enjoy it.” Sirius flopped back on the towel, lying on his back, arms stretched up above his head, shirt riding up and revealing a strip of skin above the waistband of his pants that Remus was actively trying to avoid staring at. Sirius was right. They had discussed this all summer, planning exactly how they would make it work. He wouldn’t ruin it by worrying now that they were finally here.

“Yeah, okay,” Remus said, smiling. And lying down next to Sirius. He looked up at the sky. It was a brilliant orange now, the rays of the setting sun giving it the colour. “You feel like going for a swim?”

“Okay,” Sirius said, grinning. They raced into the ocean, spraying each other water so they were soaked before they even got in past their knees. Remus kept going deeper until only his head was above water.

“Come on, Moony, that’s not fair, I can’t stand here,” Sirius complained, treading water beside him.

“Then swim,” Remus replied.

“Swimming is the one thing that I’m not the best at,” Sirius admitted grudgingly.

“What, all that old family money and your parents never paid for swimming lessons?” Remus teased but he followed Sirius back to the shallows.

“I think they were hoping I’d just drown actually,” Sirius said once he could stand. “I wonder why Reg never got any swimming lessons though. Well, it’ll be on their conscience if he ever drowns. If they even have a conscience, that is.”

“What if you drown?”

“Oh, it definitely wouldn’t be a weight on their conscience. They’d probably pat themselves on the back and go ‘see, this is what happens to gay, Gryffindor, blood traitors.”

“That’s… really fucked up,” Remus said. Sirius shrugged and submerged his head in the water. When he came back up, Remus splashed him in the face, starting a short water fight that Remus had clearly won (no matter what Sirius said).

They didn’t stay in the ocean much longer because the lower the sun sank, the colder the water got. They got out of the water, dried themselves with their wands and then sat back down on their beach towel. The blue water was crystal clear and above it, the sky now looked pink. It was a beautiful sight. But Remus was watching Sirius’ face instead. His wind-swept hair, blue-grey eyes squinting at the setting sun, rays of orange light giving his skin a golden look. Remus’ heart was beating loudly in his ears.

“What?” Sirius asked when he noticed Remus’ staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?” Normally this would be the point where Remus would look away hurriedly, his face burning, claiming that he wasn’t looking at Sirius and joking that he should deflate his ego because not everything was about him. And maybe it was the way Sirius looked today, different from what Remus was used to, in a different setting or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t seen Sirius in weeks and his resolve had weakened, but he couldn’t bring himself to look away today.

“Moony,” Sirius said. Remus’ heart skipped a beat. “What? Is it my hair?” Sirius’ hand reached up into his hair and ran his fingers through it. It looked both messier and neater somehow. Remus didn’t understand it. Remus would never admit it out loud, not after the number of times he had teased Sirius about it, but Sirius’ hair was every bit as perfect as his arrogant ass claimed it was.

“It’s you,” Remus said, without thinking. “Just… all of you.” Sirius looked at him, eyes wide.

“W-What do you mean?”

“I—” Remus started, when suddenly it hit him what he was about to do. What the fuck was wrong with him? He was going to tell Sirius. He was actually going to do it. “Nevermind,” he mumbles, looking away and blushing as he should’ve done a minute ago when Sirius had caught him staring in the first place.

“What? No, come on, Remus, just tell me,” Sirius teased. Remus shrugged. Sirius turned around so he was facing Remus.

“Remus,” he said, “whatever it is you can tell me. I’m here for you, no matter what.” Remus hesitated.

“Promise you won’t hate me?” he said. He felt stupid asking the question because even if Sirius did promise, it wasn’t a binding contract. Sirius couldn’t control his hatred. Nobody could.

“I promise,” Sirius said. “I could never hate you, Remus.” He looked genuine but Remus knew better than to believe it was true. Promises are broken more often than they’re kept. But not with Sirius, he thinks. Sirius has never broken a promise he made to Remus. Not once. Well, he’s about to, said a voice in his head. Remus tried to ignore that voice as he spoke.

“Okay,” Remus let out a shaky breath. “Okay. I… I like you, Sirius. Like, um, a lot.” Sirius remained silent for a moment.

“I like you too, Rem,” he said quietly. Remus felt his chest burn.

“You don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. Because Sirius couldn’t… he couldn’t possibly… But his thoughts are interrupted when Sirius speaks again

“Oh, I think I do,” Sirius said. Remus opened his mouth to reply but Sirius got there first. “Can… can I kiss you?” Remus closed his mouth.

“W-What?” he stuttered, his brain taking several moments to process what Sirius had just said to him.

“We don’t have to,” Sirius said hurriedly. “I was only—” But Remus cut him off by pressing their lips together. In a rush of adrenaline, fear and excitement he ignores the voice in his head saying this is a bad idea, that he misunderstood something, that this isn’t really what Sirius wants and instead he listens to Sirius. He hears Sirius’ voice echoing inside his head. Can I kiss you? Can I kiss you? Can I kiss you? Yes, you bloody well can. This is all Remus has wanted, what he’s been dreaming about for months. But not even in his wildest dreams could he have imagined what it would be like to really kiss Sirius. To have Sirius kiss him back. To thread his fingers in Sirius’ hair and feel Sirius’ hands pressing into his back, holding him close. And with all of Remus’ expansive vocabulary, he couldn’t think of a single word to describe this feeling that could even come close to how extraordinary it is. All he could think was Sirius. Sirius is touching me. Sirius is holding me. Sirius is kissing me.

When they break apart, they’re both breathless. Remus can’t think straight. Everything in his brain is one big mess.

“You— I— we just…” Remus has seemingly forgotten how to speak. And the grin on Sirius’ face is definitely not helping.

“Told you I understand,” Sirius said, taking Remus’ hand in his.

“You actually… like me?” Remus asked, bewildered.

“Um, yeah,” Sirius said, laughing as if it had been obvious. “For, like, a really long time.”

“I– why didn’t you say anything?” Remus asked.

“I could ask you the same,” Sirius said, shrugging. “But I don’t think it matters much. What matters is that I like you and you like me and…”

“And?” Remus prompted. Sirius looked him in the eyes and bit his lip.

“And I’d like to, um… take you out. On a date. Sometime. If that’s something that you might be interested in?” He said it like a question, looking nervous up at him.

“Yeah, I– of course, I–I’d love to go on a date with you,” Remus said. He could feel himself blushing. God, he was so awkward. Sirius cupped his cheeks with his hand, leaning towards closer again, ghosting his lips on Remus’.

“Your face is warm,” he said, his lips brushing against Remus’ mouth as he spoke, which only made Remus blush harder.

“Well no fucking shit,” Remus said, rolling his eyes. And then he kissed Sirius properly, fitting their mouths together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When the sun had gone down, they finally left the beach, each going back to his own home. Remus hadn’t known how badly Sirius would be punished for sneaking out the following day; if he had he might have never agreed to it. Or might have told Sirius not to go home.

It was that summer that Sirius finally decided to run away from home for good. Remus couldn’t help but feel guilty no matter how many times Sirius told him that he would have done it anyway. Besides, meeting at the beach was Sirius’ idea, not Remus’. But Remus couldn’t forget the moment he finally understood just how terrible things had been at the Black household.

He remembered going over to the Potter’s house after getting a letter from James saying that Sirius was staying with him. He remembered being horrified when he saw Sirius’. Bruised and scarred from the blows that his own parents struck and curses that they fired at him. That night he cradled Sirius, holding him close and promising that he would take care of Sirius, that Sirius was safe with him. He told Sirius that he loved him and that he always will. It had never occurred to him that maybe Sirius wouldn’t say the same about him.

Tossing, turning, struggled through the night with someone new and I could go on and on, on and on. Lantern, burning, flickered in the night, only you but you were still gone, gone, gone

Everything had changed in a single night. In a single night, he had lost Lily, James and Peter. He’d lost Sirius too but not in the same way. He’d lost them all because of Sirius. Sirius had killed them. And in doing so, Sirius had been lost as well. He hadn’t died but Remus counted him with the losses. He might as well have died. He’s dead to me, Remus thinks, he doesn’t matter. He killed them. He killed them all. It was all him. The man that he knew had died. Remus had wondered how long ago it had happened.

He had been tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep from fear of the war, images of everyone he had lost, turning to Sirius for comfort. To someone he thought loved him. But this was someone else. Someone new. This wasn’t the boy he’d fallen in love with.

Remus remembered laying in bed the night before everything had gone to hell. It felt like a million years ago, but he remembered it all the same. He remembered how Sirius hadn’t spoken to him in the weeks before. He remembered devising a plan to find out if Sirius still loved him. Because that’s what he did best. At school, he devised plans for pranks. After school, he helped devise plans for the Order. He was good at planning ahead. So he made a plan. Because he couldn’t go on living in the same apartment as Sirius, sleeping in the same bed without exchanging a word, not knowing whether Sirius still reciprocated his feelings. His plan kept him sane. But his plan had failed. Or maybe it had succeeded. It just hadn’t given him the results he’d been hoping for. Because when he got into bed that night, he waited long enough that Sirius would think he was asleep. Then he turned towards Sirius and brushed his fingers on Sirius’ back. And Sirius got up and walked away. And just like that, the last flame of hope Remus had left flicked out.

Remus remembered thinking that Sirius had fallen out of love. But maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he had simply never loved Remus in the first place. Maybe this wasn’t someone new at all. Maybe this person, this murderer, was in fact the very same boy he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Maybe this was all part of some sick scheme. Maybe Sirius had hated him all along. Sirius had promised he would never hate Remus. But what is a promise, really? Promises are made to be broken. Remus had to learn that time and time again. He should just stop believing people when they make promises. He wouldn’t believe anymore, he told himself. He promised himself. There was nobody left to believe. Nobody left to promise him anything anyway. Sirius was gone. They were all gone, all his friends. And they’re never coming back.

Your kiss, my cheek, I watched you leave. Your smile, my ghost, I fell to my knees.

Remus’ world is on fire. Everything has burned the ground and he’s left to scrape away the ashes and try to find something he can put back together. Alone.

He can still feel the sting of Sirius’ lips against his cheek. He can still remember Sirius’ easy smile, his light-hearted laughter ringing through the walls of the room that Remus is in right now. But then he blinks again and now he’s seeing Sirius’ face on a ‘wanted’ poster for the first time. He doesn’t remember how he found the poster that night. It’s not important anyway. All he remembers is the feeling of looking down and seeing a photo of the love of his life behind bars, arrested for the murder of his three best friends. He remembers collapsing. Literally, falling to his knees as quickly as the tears fell down his cheeks. He remembers crying, sobbing, screaming out. 

He remembers thinking of every happy moment he’d ever had with his friends, with his boyfriend. He’d never make any more memories like that. He had felt empty that day. Hollow. That feeling still hasn’t gone away. Remus feels like a ghost. A ghost of the memories from before this all happened. He haunts himself. But Remus is not a ghost. He’s the only one still left alive. He’d rather be a ghost right now. He’d rather be dead. At least then he wouldn’t feel this pain. At least then he wouldn’t feel like he’s been pulled apart. Nobody can glue him back together now. There’s nobody left alive that would try. There’s nobody left alive, period. Nobody but him.

This love is good, this love is bad, this love is alive back from the dead, oh, oh, oh. These hands had to let it go free, and this love came back to me, oh, oh, oh. This love left a permanent mark, this love is glowing in the dark, oh, oh, oh. These hands had to let it go free, and this love came back to me, oh, oh, oh

Sirius has been staying at Remus’ apartment for a couple of days now, sleeping on the couch in Remus’ living room. It’s been weeks since that night he found out the truth. The night he nearly killed everybody he cared about. The few still left alive. The night he saw Sirius again for the first time in twelve years. It’s been weeks but Remus can’t figure out how he feels about Sirius after everything they’ve been through. On one hand, Remus can’t believe how unbelievably lucky he is to have Sirius back. He can’t believe that Sirius is here. That he’s innocent. And he wants things to go back to how they were. He knows that’s impossible but he wishes it could happen.

But on the other hand, there are still so many complications, so many questions. Is being together wise? Is it advisable? Is it responsible? Even if Sirius wasn’t still a wanted criminal, would they be able to repair their relationship? To pick up their shattered love and piece it back together? They’d been through so much together and so much apart. Remus isn’t the same person he was 12 years ago and neither is Sirius. Does Sirius even still love him? Does he still love Sirius, after everything? He buried those feelings deep, deep down inside him on the night of Sirius’ arrest. Are they still there? Do they still exist, locked somewhere in the depths of his heart? Remus is sure they do. What else could be squeezing in his chest every time he looks at Sirius? It’s like a game of tug-a-war in his mind, back and forth. This love is good, this love is bad.

All this is why, right now, when Sirius is saying that they need to talk and they’re seated in the living room side by side on the couch, Remus feels like words are failing him. He’s disappeared into his own head until Sirius’ words snap him out of it, his voice ringing in Remus’ head.

“Remus?”

“Yeah?” he says, sounding dazed.

“I–I just want you to know that I never meant to hurt you. I would never intentionally hurt you, Remus, I promise.” His eyes pleaded with Remus to believe him. Remus had promised himself that he would never believe people when they make promises. But here he was, believing again. Never believe a promise, even when you’re the one making the promise to yourself. Especially when you make the promise to yourself.

“I—” Sirius starts again, seeing that Remus doesn’t know what to say. He closes his eyes and takes a breath before continuing. “I still love you, Remus. And I understand if you don’t feel the same anymore, really I get it. But I just thought you should know. I’ll always love you.” Remus can barely breathe. Sirius still loves him. This is a bad idea, says a voice in his head. Fuck good and bad. Remus doesn’t care. The important this is that this love is fucking alive. It died. And now it’s back. Back from the dead. Sirius is back. He came back to me, Remus thinks. He’s innocent. He came back and now he’s telling me he still loves me. Sirius is here. Remus desperately wants this to be real. He wants them to be real again.

Sirius’ love left a permanent mark on Remus. Not like his scars. This is something different. More like a tattoo. Something that he’d chosen at first and couldn’t get rid of later. In all the years that Sirius had been in Azkaban, in all the years Remus had willed himself to forget Sirius, to hate him, the tattoo had never faded. And now that Sirius is back, Remus doesn’t have to want it to fade. So in a lapse of judgement, he kisses Sirius. He kisses Sirius and that tiny flame that had flickered out all those years ago is back. Remus feels it fill him up as Sirius kisses him back, hands in hair, arms around waists, fingertips on bare skin. And when they break apart, Remus still feels the warmth of Sirius’ body against his.

“I missed you so much,” Sirius murmurs against his lips and Remus feels like he’s back on that beach the first time he kissed Sirius.

“I missed you too,” Remus says, a tear trickling down his face.

“Really?” Sirius asks, pulling away to look at Remus with his eyebrows raised. “But you thought I was a murderer?”

“I know,” Remus says. “I didn’t want to miss you. But I did. I couldn’t help it. I wanted you back.”

“I’m back now,” Sirius says, hugging Remus tightly. “I’m back and I’m never leaving. And I’m all yours, love.”

“I never stopped loving you,” Remus whispers in his ear, tears spilling from his eyes even though they’re squeezed shut. “I hated myself for it. But I loved you every day you were locked in that cell. And I still love you now.”

“I love you too,” Sirius whispers back.

It’s the only light in this crushing, suffocating darkness of death and war and grief and guilt. That flame, his and Sirius’ love, glows amidst the dark. And it’s what keeps Remus going. And this time, Remus will never let go of Sirius.

[averykedavra]

Are We There Yet

Hey look it’s losleep that might be *knocks on wood* actually somewhat short? I’m doing these prompts way out of order because I’ve accepted that I won’t finish them so I’m just doing the ones that call my name.

(Tagging @tsshipmonth2020! You can find this fic on Ao3 here.)

Prompt: The temperature of your chest gets hotter when you are closer to your soulmate and colder when you move further away.


Pairing: QPR Losleep.

Words: 6856

Warnings: self-deprecation, food mention, arson mention, death mention, sleep deprivation, minor injury, swearing, hypothermia kind of, and this whole thing could be read as a metaphor for touch starvation

Remy is not clingy.

Okay? Okay.

He doesn’t need anybody. Sure, it’s nice when Logan holds his hand, pretty cool when Logan kisses his cheek, but if no? Remy’s fine with that. He made it like twenty-something years without the boi, after all. Besides, physical affection is ew. He only puts up with it ‘cause Logan likes it.

And if sometimes he flops into Logan’s lap and whines about work until Logan plays with his hair, that’s to annoy his babe. Not because he likes it.

And if he always sticks close to Logan? It’s because Logan drives the cold away.

Which is also not a problem. Remy likes being cold. He’s a frozen dream-come-true, a cool and collected boi, a chill and fabulous being. He’s got his jacket if things get too bad.

Besides, again, he made it twenty years without warmth.

(Twenty pretty fucking terrible years, if he’s honest, but just because he’s half-delirious sometimes from the feeling of being warm doesn’t mean he needs to be desperate about it.)

He’s not desperate. He’s not clingy. He does what he wants and his stupid partner doesn’t control him.

Remy’s not clingy, and Logan’s going away this week, and it’s fine.

“I’ll be back soon,” Logan promises for the fifth time. “You can call me if you need anything, and there’s extra groceries in the fridge, and the keys are by the door--”

“Babe, I’ll be fine.” Remy rolls his eyes. “Tbh, I think you’re more nervous about this than I am.”

“I’m not nervous,” Logan argues, although the way his eyes flicker around says otherwise. “Remember to turn off the stove, and--”

“Darling.” Remy gives Logan a kiss on the nose and enjoys the way Logan flushes and wrinkles his nose. One year of being partners and Logan still stammers under affection. Clearly, Remy needs to give him more.

(It’s just for the reaction, though. It’d be fine if Logan didn’t want kisses. Remy wouldn't sulk.)

“Starlight,” Remy says, placing another kiss on Logan’s cheek for good measure, “my good bitch, I’m capable of managing one week without burning the house down.”

“I know, I know.” Logan gives him a small smile. “I’m just--I wish you could come with me.”

“Plane tickets are fucking expensive,” Remy says, “and I’d rather go broke buying espresso than flying in some tin death trap, ‘kay? Go do your conference thing. It’ll be fine--I’ll hold down the fort.”

Logan frowns. “What fort?”

“Expression, honey.” Remy gives Logan one more kiss because he can’t help himself (but he’ll be fine without these for a week, of course.) “Good luck, show those assholes what you’re made of.”

“They’re hardly assholes.” Logan touches his forehead to Remy’s and Remy does his best not to melt in the warmth. “You’ll really be okay without me?”

“Of course,” Remy says, grinning. “My life will go on without you. I’m not that clingy.”

Something flashes over Logan’s face, but it’s gone before Remy can parse it. Logan gives him a final kiss and grabs his suitcases, pulling on a blazer that makes him look fucking stunning, in Remy’s opinion. Goddammit. Logan’s wasting his hella fine looks on some conference assholes when he could be here with Remy, sipping coffee and making fun of every episode of Gilmore Girls.

Well. What the hell does Remy care? He really does get that Logan needs to go to that conference, since Mr. Serious Professor is the only real income-giver in the household. Remy’s just a layabout who pays meager rent only on months when the coffee shop doesn’t fully fail.

He has no idea why Logan chose Remy, of all people, because he figured professor-types ought to stick together.

(He knows why. They’re soulmates. Without each other, they’re cold as ice, and tbh, Remy gets it. Logan would rather be with a mess than freezing to death. Fair enough. Still, it hurts, knowing you could be replaced with a fucking space heater.)

Logan gives Remy a little wave, and Remy gives him a cocky smile in return, adjusting his sunglasses and already planning the five-shot espresso he’s gonna use to drown his feelings.

Just one week.

This is gonna be fine.

Remy circles the end of the week on his calendar, once, twice, three times. Just so he’s not surprised. Sometimes time slips away around him and he’d like to be clothed when his partner shows up again.

He spends the rest of the evening watching TV. He heats up some macaroni, burns his tongue on it, and eats two brownies because why the hell not? It’s only like nine when he’s done, but the apartment is eerily empty. Logan’s usually busy with grading these evenings, face lit by his laptop, and Remy teases him and passes him some coffee and pulls him to bed when he’s really wrapped up.

Remy runs his hand idly over the spot where Logan usually sits.

Ugh. This is setting him on edge. He doesn’t like empty places and he has the urge to yell just to fill up the pockets of silence.

Remy makes himself one coffee. He shouldn’t. If Logan were here, he’d chide Remy and say Remy needs to sleep soon. Remy dangles his coffee mug in midair but Logan doesn’t catch it. ‘Cause Logan’s not here.

Duh, Remy, what’d you expect?

Remy chugs the coffee, tosses the mug in the sink, and tells himself he’ll clean it tomorrow.

He curls up in bed and stays on his phone until midnight. As the night wears on, he grows colder and colder. He pictures Logan flying on a plane to somewhere else, maybe sleeping with some stupid sleep mask on, his hair all messy and his glasses in his hands.

Remy’s phone vibrates.

If you’re still up, go to sleep.

Logan signs the text with a blue heart. He always does. Remy has done his goddamn best to teach Logan how emojis actually work, but Logan insists that words are “a highly more productive and lucid way of communicating.”

He always adds a heart though. Says it’s a quick way to remind Remy that he loves him.

Logan’s such a fucking sap sometimes.

(Remy ignores the fact that he’s smiling at his phone like it’s his firstborn child.)

lol hypocrite smh, he decides to write back.

I, at least, have the excuse of jet lag. Get some sleep, dear, we can talk tomorrow.

Remy sighs and doesn’t ask him to stay. He really is tired. And he’s not desperate.

He tosses his phone onto the nightstand and pulls his blankets up to his shoulders.

He’s cold.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. But he wakes up and he’s still cold. Damn, the universe is a bitch.

Rubbing his arms and swearing, Remy stumbles into the kitchen and fumbles for the espresso machine. He tosses a good morning behind him and then remembers Logan’s not here. He rubs the sleep from his eyes and shakes himself.

He’s not gonna think about Logan right now.

Besides, Remy could use this alone time! Right? He’s always complained about Logan getting in his personal space.

(It’s a joke. It’s a joke and Logan always sees right through it, and Remy hates it.)

Remy nods to himself. He gets dressed in his usual jacket and pulls it tighter around him, as if clothes can get rid of the cold in his chest.

He takes a sip of coffee, pulls on his sunglasses, and gets ready to face the day.

His first shift goes okay. A bunch of couples come in, giggling and blushing, and Remy can tell the newest ones from the way they cling to each other’s arms. He fucking hates the universe sometimes. Depending on how sensitive a soul is, the cold can mess with people good. Some people never find their soulmate and freeze inside and out, unable to fix it, suffering from a cold that physically doesn’t exist. It’s all in their head, or their soul, to be sentimental about it.

Soulmates are bullshit if they hurt someone for not being there enough.

And being forced to be with someone...there are problems. Remy’s heard the stories. Seen the tears. Soulmates might be “made for each other” but sometimes shit happens, and the problem is nobody can leave that mess, because soulmates and because going from warm to cold is terrifying.

(Even for the relationships that work out--like Remy’s--there’s always the undercurrent of doubt. That it’s all about the temperature, the destiny, the expectations. And not about real love. Remy tries not to think about that.)

Still, watching the younger couples trade coffees and smile, Remy gets why everyone falls in love with the idea.

He spends his lunch break staring at his phone and hoping Logan will text him. Logan’s probably asleep--time zones, right? Plus the babe always gets conked out after plane rides.

Remy could text Logan, just to know. But it hasn’t been a day yet. He’s not gonna be needy.

He does his second shift, downs two espressos, and pretends the caffeine rush eclipses the cold settling into his bones.

He only grabbed a bun for lunch, so for dinner he cooks up some chicken. Then he watches more TV. Without realizing it, he grabs several blankets and pulls them around himself until he’s a blanket burrito. It’s warm. He almost falls asleep right there but manages to drag himself to bed, because an annoying voice in the back of his brain told him Logan would be mad if Remy stayed on the couch all night.

What does it matter, though? Logan isn’t here.

Remy still goes to bed.

He piles a quilt on top of his shoulders. The weight drowns him and he drifts off to sleep.

He only wakes up once.

Logan is texting him. Remy fumbles for the phone, ridiculously excited.

I hope you are well. Talk to you tomorrow morning, if you are willing.

Remy swallows and texts back sure.

Too quick? Too desperate? Nah, Logan likes punctuality, and anyway, it says he hasn’t read the text. He probably sent it, turned his phone off, and went to sleep. Logan’s responsible like that.

Remy watches his phone for a few more seconds, sighs, and turns it over. It takes a while for him to go back to sleep.

Day two and day three are a blur. He crosses the days off on the calendar, resolving to burn it before Logan sees. He’s run out of espresso so he makes a quick trip to the grocery store. They’ve turned the air conditioning on, even though it’s fall. Remy shivers his way through the aisles. He buys Logan’s favorite ice cream without thinking and sticks it in the back of the freezer. He’ll be here in four days, after all.

Remy bites his lip, pulls on his jacket, and goes back outside.

He goes to Logan’s favorite bookshop. The door tinkles when he opens it. At least this place isn’t air conditioned, though Remy still shivers, remembering all the afternoons when Logan dragged him here. He heads for the astronomy books and runs his fingers down the shelves. He has no idea what book to get. Logan’s the smart one. Remy’s just the bitch.

He buys a few books. They have space on the cover so Remy figures Logan’ll tolerate them. It costs like twice his week’s paycheck. Remy tries not to be salty about it. It’s not like Logan’s forcing him to buy this stuff. He did it himself.

Why, he’s not sure.

It’s only when he’s walking home with a bag of books and swilling the dregs of his coffee around when he realizes he’s gonna have to find a why. He’ll have to explain to Logan why he impulse-brought the babe some books. And he’ll have to make it somehow sound not-pathetic.

Well, that’s a problem for Future Remy.

Present Remy sticks the books in a closet--is that where books go? He usually just reads cafe menus--and cooks up some fried rice for dinner. All boxed, of course. It tastes like crap. He wonders if he should buy takeout tomorrow, but he just spent a bunch of money on fucking books, so maybe not.

He takes the books back out of the closet. He slips them into place on Logan’s shelves. They’re probably out of order. Logan has a wack organization system. But they look at home on the shelf, and none of the titles seem to be repeats, so that’s cool.

Remy takes a deep breath. They smell like paper, duh. Paper and leather and Logan, just a bit. Or maybe Logan smells like books.

Okay, now that’s pathetic. Remy backs away from the bookshelf. Why’d he even buy those stupid things?

(Because he can imagine Logan did. Because that bookstore reminded him of Logan and he feels like he could summon Logan with his favorite things. Like Logan is a demon or something. Well, tbh, he is a demon if his ability to recite the periodic table is any indication. Also, demons are pretty. And Logan is unfairly pretty, with fluffy hair and dark eyes and a little scar on his cheek and a dip in his chin.)

Remy sighs and watches a bit of TV. He turns it off soon enough because the words slip through his brain and leave no trace behind. Then he grabs the vacuum and turns it up.

He never vacuums. Logan does the cleaning and the cooking. Remy does the...lounging about? And the complaining. Logan also fixes anything that’s broken. Remy--well, maybe he does the errands? He does the errands. It’s not much, though, and it suddenly hits him how much Logan does every day. He’s got a full-time job teaching some college babies how to spell, and he still cooks dinner every night.

Remy narrows his eyes, rolls up his sleeves, and vacuums.

It’s loud. Plus he can’t remember which attachment goes on the carpet and which on the floor. So he might be doing more damage than help here. But fuck it.

When he’s done, he shoves the vacuum back into the closet. Then he grabs the laundry basket and does the laundry. He gets detergent on his jacket, which is not cool, and then he has to fold the fucking laundry. Remy looks up how to fold stuff. He’s pretty sure he’s made everything wrinkly, and some of the clothes didn’t fit in the drawer so he had to smush them.

As an apology, he washes the sink. It’s not bad. Then he washes the mirror--not bad--and the bathtub--worse--and the toilet--hell on earth. By the end of it, he feels like every bit of slime and muck has been transported onto his skin.

He takes a warm shower. He keeps turning the heat up because he forgets the cold inside doesn’t match his actual temperature, and he can’t help it because for a second, it’s like he’s actually warm.

The air is freezing when he steps out. He wraps himself in three towels, stumbles into his bedroom, and throws on two pajama shirts and some extra-fluffy socks. He feels like shit. He has no idea how Logan manages to do all this stuff.

His phone vibrates as he’s collapsing into bed.

If I’m not disturbing you, would you like to talk?

Remy snorts to cover up his huge smile.

hey babe

Greetings. how was your day?

p cool.

Remy pauses before adding: did some chores.

Really? That wasn’t necessary.

im still in this apartment so ye, it was.

That reminds me. Are the groceries running out?

Something twitches in Remy’s stomach. He doesn’t know why. What, did he expect Logan to comment? To thank him? To come flying back home because Remy cleaned the sink?

(Yes. Maybe. Hopefully. It isn’t about Logan’s approval--except it is. Remy wants to know he’s not a screwup. That he did something right. That Logan can ease up because Remy can help out more. And maybe it would make the cold in his chest go away, just a bit.)

Remy sighs.

course not. it’s been like three days

I was just checking. What are you having for lunch?

already had it. it’s like midnight over here

Oh. Apologies. I’ll let you get some sleep.

Remy could say no. He could say stay with me. He could say nah, I’m bored, let’s chat.

He’s not clingy, though.

night babe

Goodnight.

Remy doesn’t even bother putting his phone away. He plugs it in and holds it next to him. It’s warm. And with the many blankets piled up on top of him, he can almost pretend Logan’s there, a fire that sears him inside and out.

He barely sleeps.

Day four is rainy. Remy usually asks Logan to drive him to work, so today he dashes down the sidewalk with an umbrella and curses wildly every time a drop of rain lands on his jacket. All the customers leave puddles on the floor. Remy has to mop them up.

He’s pissed. Pissed at nothing in particular, pissed at the customers who are all a little bit rude, pissed at the cold rattling in his chest.

(He’s more than halfway through the week and he’s barely managed to get this far. Pathetic.)

He chugs coffee right from the pot. It’s blistering hot and he can feel it trickle through him. He’s burning warm now and yet so, so cold. He bets he could burn to death and still feel freezing.

Goddammit.

Fucking soulmates.

Remy is cold. Remy is annoyed. Remy would like very much to go home.

And he gets his wish--because he slips on a puddle by the front door and his ankle skews out in a direction ankles should not go.

He’d try to stay and do his job, but his manager insists he should go home. He asks Remy if anyone’s picking him up. Remy shakes his head.

Remy should stick it out and get paid. Instead, he limps home.

His ankle isn’t swollen much, but it hurts like fuck to walk on, so he props it up on a table and watches TV. Maybe he should be doing more. He just got the afternoon off, after all. But he doesn’t fucking feel like it. So Logan can fight him.

Logan’s not here to fight him.

Ugh. Fuck Logan. Fuck soulmates. Fuck Remy’s stupid twisted ankle. Everything hurts and he wants to commit arson.

Maybe that’d warm him up.

He stays up most of the night. Logan doesn’t text him, or maybe he does and Remy doesn’t hear it over the TV. He doesn’t check. Fuck Logan. Fuck everything in the whole fucking world.

By the time it’s three in the morning, his ankle is still throbbing and he’s about to punch something.

He groans and burrows deeper into his mass of blankets. He’s still really, really cold. He wishes he wasn’t so fucking sensitive--some people feel the temperature super acutely, and Remy’s one of them. Usually he likes being acute, or, more accurately, a-cute piece of ass. This, though? This fucking blows.

Remy drifts in and out of a doze for the rest of the night. He dreams he’s sinking into a frozen lake and nobody’s there to help. He wakes up to the credits playing and his ankle sparkling with hot pain.

Hot pain that he almost doesn’t mind at this point, since it’s a respite from the cold.

Fucking soulmates.

Remy hopes Logan never comes back. He’ll just freeze to death sad and alone and that’d serve Logan right.

(He doesn’t mean that. He never does. Logan would probably be sad if Remy died. And Remy likes being alive. He’s just...he’s just unraveling right now, a snarled mess of red-hot wire in his head, burning his thoughts but never warming the rest of him.)

Remy pulls a pillow out of his head.

He feels like shit, everything’s on fire except cold, and morning is a long way away.

When morning comes, he calls in sick. Because he still feels like shit. Except the special kind of shit he always feels like after pulling an all-nighter. His back is stiff and his ankle throbs dully and his eyes itch. The TV stayed on all night. Remy wonders if that contributes to the electricity bill--Logan always handles that kind of thing.

Logan always handles everything.

Can Logan handle Remy? Well, so far, he’s done alright.

Remy’s hard to handle sometimes, though.

Like now. He’s pretty sure if Logan saw him right now, he’d finally give up on the idea of soulmates.

Remy eats some chips for breakfast, binges a few shows, and eats more chips for lunch. He’s still hungry. Apparently chips aren’t that filling. Bullshit. Chips should count as food.

He nods off mid-afternoon and sleeps through dinner. His stomach is growling when he wakes up. He barely notices, though. It’s the cold that he really feels. It’s like he woke up made of ice, and any movement will shatter his joints and send him crashing to the ground in a pile of frozen splinters.

Dramatic? Yes. Justified? Also yes.

He feels like he’s on fucking fire. Except it’s cold instead of warm and there’s no way to put the fire out.

It’s supposed to be just the chest, but it feels like his whole body. From the tips of his toes to his hair follicles to his eyelashes to his chipped nails. Every blood vessel in his body is frozen, every patch of skin is icy, and when he blinks, he’s surprised no frost comes off of his eyelids.

Fuck, it hurts.

Why does he have to be so sensitive? Why can’t he last one week without his soulmate? Why did the universe look at Remy and decide hey, that’s the bitch we should saddle with super fucking sensitivity to this soulmate shit, so he becomes a clingy bitch and drags everyone else down with him?

Remy works his way into a sitting position and grabs for his phone. An unanswered text from Logan lights up.

How are you doing?

I’m chilling, Remy writes back.

Which is technically true.

(And besides, no need to worry Logan. He can’t do anything about the situation right now, so whining about it would only make Remy look like a mess. Besides, Logan would probably be annoyed--annoyed that his soulmate can’t handle it, that his soulmate won’t shut up, that his soulmate is Remy who’s just entirely wrong for him in every single fucking way.)

Logan doesn’t answer the text. He’s probably busy or asleep.

Remy feels so, so cold.

He frantically searches up solutions for soulmate-induced chills. He has flashbacks to middle and high school, back before he found Logan, cold every morning. People complained he was faking it, that there was no way it felt that bad, and eventually Remy learned to stop talking about it. Later the doctors told him he was abnormally sensitive, and even later he found out that Logan lived miles and miles away.

It had all been kind of justified. But that didn’t make him feel any better.

And today it just makes him feel worse. Great. Five days without his soulmate and he’s slipping back into old habits. Five days without his soulmate and he’s curled up on the couch and trying to find a way to make the cold leave.

Needy? Yes. Desperate? Yes. Justified? Yes, but also, not really.

All the tips involve stuff Remy can’t muster up the urge to go and find. He settles for rubbing at his skin, his wrists, his sides and his knees. For a second there’s a bit of relief, and then gone. It’s like itchy mosquito bites--the moment he warms one patch of skin, another starts aching with cold.

And he’s still hungry. And his ankle still hurts.

Remy curls deeper in the blankets and imagines Logan, Logan pressing a kiss to his hairline, Logan running a hand down his side, Logan close to him and Logan warm, like a bonfire Remy can never touch. Logan is the fucking sun and Remy is a cold, distant planet, trying his damn hardest to get close but knowing he’s just a blip on the radar. Logan can light up the world on his own. Without Logan, Remy can’t do jack-shit.

Remy is spinning through the universe, and it is dark and cold and really, really lonely.

He tugs a blanket over his head and tries to sleep.

When he wakes up again, it’s day six, and his eyelids are stuck together and he wishes fervently for coffee.

He fumbles for his phone. Logan’s texted him. Remy can’t muster up a smile.

It’s a long text. A paragraph. Logan’s walking Remy through his day? Cute. Logan’s so cute.

Remy tries to read it, but his eyes slip closed again and his stomach rumbles and his ankle stings and maybe he’ll just sleep until Logan gets here again, maybe he’ll enter hibernation--

He should answer Logan’s text.

He should call a friend. He’s pretty sure he has some, though he can’t remember why.

He should--maybe he should call 911.

But nah.

Remy’s not clingy, right?

He’s fine.

The phone slips from his hand as he falls back asleep.

Remy’s heard, somewhere, that having hypothermia means you get really warm right before you die. The cold kills you without you even feeling it.

And he can’t die from this. But he does wake up warm and that’s probably not a good sign.

Remy grabs his phone and checks the time. It’s...twelve. Twelve on the day Logan’s returning--and he’s returning at three.

Fuck, shit, fuck--

Remy scrambles to his feet, every bone in his body groaning in complaint. He feels like he got run over by a truck and he probably looks that way, too. His stomach is growling and his hands are shaking and his ankle doesn’t hurt anymore but it also won’t move the way it’s supposed to. He grabs his sunglasses and pulls them on, checking his phone’s texts.

A few texts from his manager. Because yeah, he just missed two extra days of work without even calling the guy. Fuck. Remy’ll have to work overtime or it’ll come down to Logan to pay the bills, and Remy doesn’t want to be even more useless.

One text from Logan.

I’m on the plane. I can’t wait to see you!

Remy wishes the feeling was mutual.

He pulls on his jacket and takes a look around. The living room is a mess of blankets that drown the couch and spill out onto the floor. The TV is blinking--Remy must have sat on the remote. He thwaps the side a few times until it turns off. Maybe he broke it. Well, problem for Future Remy.

Remy bundles up most of the blankets and shoves them haphazardly into the closet. Then he grabs the chip bags and throws them out. He’s starving--he pulls out a yogurt cup and downs it, then makes himself a triple-shot espresso. It’s scalding hot and he almost feels warm drinking it.

He doesn’t feel warm.

He doesn’t feel cold, either.

He feels--well, he’s not sure how he feels. Better, maybe? He’s definitely less of a lump. But everything’s kind of numb and lukewarm and hazy, and his hands won’t stop trembling.

He makes himself another coffee, just for good measure.

The sun streams through the window. Standing in it usually warms Remy up--today it makes him feel cold. He steps into the shadows and they skate over him comfortably. Chilly and numbing and safe, and this is very worrying, and maybe he should call a doctor.

Eh, Logan’ll be back soon. So it’s fine.

Remy tries to remember everything he should do. He was gonna explain to Logan why he bought those books. And what happened to his ankle. And why he hasn’t texted back. And how shitty everything’s been--well, no, not that last one.

Right! Right. The calendar. Throw it out so Remy doesn’t look desperate.

Remy stumbles over to the calendar and tears it down. It’s only marked halfway to today, because he’d given up on crossing off the days, but it’s still irritating to see.

Logan will be here soon.

Remy’s phone vibrates.

Logan’s in the airport. He’s driving home.

For some reason, Remy’s heart starts to race.

(Because the apartment is a mess. Because there are more astronomy books than there used to be. Because Remy looks like a dead rat. Because he hasn’t gone to work. Because Logan will see this mess and realize what a mess Remy is without him.)

Probably, the coffee didn’t help. Remy still takes a sip of it because the familiar taste helps ground him.

Okay. Logan’s getting here soon. And Remy will be warm. And everything will be fine. Everything will be fine and Remy can explain things later, when he’s warm.

He can feel Logan in his chest. Maybe that's why he woke up so warm--because Logan’s near. Logan’s near, and Logan’s close, and this should be enough.

It’s not.

Remy’s still numb in his extremities and trembling in his hands. He’s growing warmer but not fast enough. Logan’s not here yet and it hurts.

(Desperate.)

Yeah, he’s fucking desperate.

He paces back and forth across the kitchen. Back and forth. Back and forth. The exercise sends little tingles up his legs. He’s lukewarm right now. And it’s almost as painful as the cold, being so close to warmth but not quite there, hanging in limbo.

Remy checks his phone again and again and again.

He doesn’t text Logan, though. That’d be really needy.

Time ticks on and Remy wonders if the world has frozen instead of him.

He wants to scream. He wants to throw open the door and run to wherever Logan is and collapse in his arms and never leave. He wants to be near Logan. He wants to be with Logan. He wants Logan to never leave.

He wants.

Remy paces and back and forth and wants, more than he’s ever let himself before.

He probably looks so pathetic.

Maybe Logan’s late. Maybe Logan’s stopping to get groceries. Maybe Logan got mugged, or maybe Logan just isn’t here yet because it isn’t time yet, and Remy’s waiting--

A key turns in the lock.

Remy almost drops his coffee. He scrambles for it and manages to slam it on the counter. Then he puts his arm next to it, stares at the window, and tries to look nonchalant.

The door opens.

Logan.

Logan, his partner, his starlight.

Remy wants to run to him and tackle him and never let him go.

“Oh, hey, babes,” he says instead, glancing at Logan. “Back already? Time flies.”

“Don’t mention flying,” Logan complains, closing the door behind him and rubbing his eyes. “My flight back was a nightmare.”

“Really? Spill the tea, babe!” Remy casually grabs one of Logan’s suitcases. “I’ll cut a bitch if they fucked with you.”

“It was a baby,” Logan complains.

“Oh, damn, can’t kill it, can I?” Remy leans in to give Logan a quick kiss on the cheek and veers away just as quickly. Logan is a furnace. Remy’s melting in the proximity and he wants to get far away and he wants to burrow into the center of the warmth and let it envelop him.

Logan gives Remy an odd look. Remy grins and takes another sip of coffee.

“How are you?” Logan asks, peeling off his jacket. “You didn’t text me back. Were you busy?”

Remy shrugs. “Busy, bingeing Riverdale, what’s the difference?”

“Riverdale is a ridiculous show.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Logan rolls his eyes and leans in to press a kiss to Remy’s forehead. “I’m glad to be back, dear.”

And Remy almost shoves him away.

He realizes the instant he’s done so that he’s made a mistake. Logan’s staring at him in open confusion and--oh no--a bit of hurt.

“Is something wrong?” Logan asks. His voice is way too soft.

(He’s too close. He’s too far. Remy is going to burn up from the pure kindness in Logan’s eyes because fuck is he clingy.)

“Remy?” Logan asks.

Remy’s gone too long without talking.

“’Course I’m fine, babe.” Remy laughs. “You must be tired, right? Jet-lag and all that jazz. C’mon, let’s put your stuff away.”

Logan gives Remy a searching look. “We don’t have to right away. We can...watch a movie? Or cuddle, if you’d like.”

“Nah, you’re probably exhausted.” Remy tosses his coffee into the sink and waves at Logan to follow him. “I’ll get your stuff and you can go to bed, it’s fine--”

“Remy,” Logan says.

“Yeah, babe?”

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Remy looks back. Logan’s eyebrows are pulled together and he’s almost glowing in the afternoon sun. He’s tired. Remy can tell. Bags are smudged under his eyes and his hair is rumpled up. (Remy would reach out and rumple it more if he dared to get any closer.)

So why is he still here?

“Lo,” Remy says, and it comes out softer than he wanted. “Talk later. Sleep now.”

“Talk now, thank you.” Logan steps closer and Remy steps back. “I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine,” Remy protests.

“Are you?” Logan reaches for his hand and Remy pulls it towards his chest. “I--I apologize if I’m overstepping, I promise I didn’t mean to alarm you--”

Remy takes another step back. Logan’s too close and too warm and too--

His twisted ankle slips.

He falls towards the kitchen floor and braces himself.

Warm.

Searing warmth around his chest.

Logan caught him.

Logan caught him and is holding him upright, eyes wide, face inches from Remy’s own. Where his skin meets Remy’s skin? Fire. Explosions of fireworks and the warmth of a hot bath and Remy’s missed this. Fuck, he’s missed this.

“Are you alright?” Logan asks.

Remy opens his mouth to say something and doesn’t.

“I--” Logan moves to step back. “Apologies, I didn’t want you to fall--”

No.

Maybe Remy’s clingy, but no, Logan is not moving away.

Remy throws his arms around Logan’s shoulders and curls into him.

Logan makes a small noise before returning the hug, hand coming up to cup Remy’s neck. It sears his skin and Remy should be in pain. He’s not. He actually whines, turning his face into Logan’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Dear,” Logan whispers. His hand rubs down Remy’s side and Remy shudders. “Could you tell me what’s going on?”

Remy looks up, and his whole body is warm, and he realizes far too late that he’s starting to cry.

“Oh." Logan looks absolutely terrified. “Remy, what’s wrong?”

Remy doesn’t know how to say absolutely nothing and everything at the same time. So he settles for clinging to Logan’s shirt and disappearing into the warmth again, letting Logan hold him, knowing soon he’ll have to pull away but unwilling to let soon be now.

“Remy, dearest.” Logan brushes a kiss over Remy’s forehead and Remy whines again, goddammit. “Please, I can’t help you unless you talk to me. Or if you’re not ready, at least--at least signal to me what I can do?”

Don’t let go.

Fuck, Logan, don’t let go.

“Sorry,” Remy mutters, and tries to force himself to move out of Logan’s arms. “I--sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Logan sounds even more confused and upset. “Remy, I’m very confused right now.”

“I--” Remy manages to scoot a little bit away from Logan. The cold hits him like a blast and he shivers. “Don’t mind me.”

Logan reaches out and catches Remy’s hand. He folds it in his own. Remy stares at it and looks up, and he realizes his vision is blurring. Shit. He’s crying over held hands--he really is pathetic.

“Remy.”

Remy almost gasps as Logan presses their hands to his chest. Remy can feel Logan’s heartbeat, fluttering under his fingers.

“Remy, please,” Logan insists. “I’m worried.”

“I--you--” Remy tries to roll his eyes. “I’ve just...missed you, is all.”

“Oh?”

“And it’s--” Remy shrinks into himself, looking away. “I’m not trying to be needy or anything. But it’s--y’know. It’s been kinda cold without you.”

“Oh.”

Remy stares at his feet, eyes stinging.

“Remy, dearest, please look at me.” Logan’s voice is unexpectedly soft. “You’re cold?”

Remy nods.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“You couldn’t have done anything about it,” Remy points out.

“I still would have liked to know.” Logan places two fingers under Remy’s chin and tilts it up. Remy’s eyes meet Logan’s--Logan is so pretty, with those dark eyes and that ruffled hair and such a concerned look on his face. (Remy doesn’t deserve him.)

“Would you like to cuddle now?” Logan asks. “It will probably help.”

Remy shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t--” Remy waves a hand. “You’re tired.”

“I’m not, and even if I was, you’re more important.” Logan sighs. “We can even cuddle in bed and I can sleep, if it’s that necessary for you.”

“No thanks,” Remy says, trying to wipe away his tears surreptitiously. “I don’t need that.”

“But you want it,” Logan says. “Don’t you?”

Remy presses his lips together.

“Remy. Dearest.” Logan looks pained. “Why aren’t you letting yourself get what you want?”

Something stabs into Remy’s heart and stays there.

“I love you,” Logan pleads. “You’re cold. I--I’m afraid I don’t see what the problem is--”

“Because you don’t want to!” Remy bursts out.

“I don’t--what?” Logan looks utterly bewildered. “Of course I want you to be happy and warm!”

“But you don’t want--you can’t want--” Remy waves an arm at the kitchen, then at himself. “I’m just being clingy, it’s fine--”

“Clingy?” Logan repeats. And now he looks heartbroken.

“Yeah, needy, desperate, whatever.” Remy shrugs. “I’m just sensitive, it’s really fine.”

“Remy. Remy, please.” Logan shakes his head. “Remy, I love you.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Logan asks. “I love you and I want you to be happy and I treasure your company. It’s not a burden on me to support you.”

“But you always support me!” Remy fires back. “You do all the work and I just lounge around! I don’t--you’re just stuck with me ‘cause I’m your fucking soulmate!”

There’s a long, frozen silence.

“I’m sorry,” Remy whispers. “Really am, starlight.”

“No.” Logan squares his shoulders. “No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry if I ever made you think you weren’t good enough for me.”

“What?” Remy asks.

“I’m sorry if I ever made you believe I felt ‘stuck’ with you. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you didn’t contribute anything to this relationship. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel needy for wanting comfort.”

Remy swallows.

“I’m sorry if--” Logan shakes his head. “Do you remember the time I got a flat tire and you singlehandledly convinced several different people to drive us, in small increments, to a repair shop?”

“Yes?” Remy blinks a few times. “What’s this have to do with--”

“Do you remember the time one of my students almost dropped out and I cried because I thought I’d failed them, and you helped me reach out to them? They graduated, dearest. With a solid B minus.”

“I know, but--”

“Do you remember all the times you send me to bed for sleeping late?” Logan continues. “Do you remember all the afternoons you flopped on my lap and watched TV with me? Do you remember how you always let me talk about whatever I’d like and you always listen?”

Remy stares at Logan.

“I love you,” Logan says desperately, “and you have helped me so much, and I wouldn’t be where I am today without you. Soulmate or no, I love you. And I will always support you, without hesitation, just as much as you’ve supported me.”

Logan opens his arms. “So...if you’d like to, I think you might like a hug?”

Remy presses a hand to his mouth. “I--”

“It’s okay,” Logan says. “You’re not desperate. You just need help right now.”

Remy chokes back a sob and collapses into Logan’s arms.

“Shh,” Logan whispers as Remy starts to cry. “Shh, I’ve got you, I’m here.”

“I missed you,” Remy confesses.

“I know. I missed you too.”

“I love you.” Remy suddenly feels he needs to say it. “I love you so much, starlight.”

“I know.” Remy can hear the trace of a smile in Logan’s voice. “And I’m all the better for it.”

They stand there a long time, Remy sinking into the warmth, head on Logan’s shoulder and arms tucked around his waist. There are things they could be doing. Logan still needs sleep and Remy hasn’t eaten much and they’ve got jobs and lives and a million little things to put back in order.

For now, though, it’s just them in an empty kitchen.

Remy feels like his chest is on fire.

It’s not uncomfortable, though. It’s like the flame of a hearth, guiding him home. Telling him he’s right where he needs to be. And so is Logan.

Together. In each other’s arms. Smiling.

And fuck, Remy feels like he could touch the sun.

General taglist:

@the17thmeatball

@most-likely-fandom

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Taglist from @the-taglist-repository:

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[maggies-scribblings]

Marichat #4 for that drabble prompt list? :3

“Who gave you that black eye?”

Thanks for the ask, @lady-charinette! I got a little carried away, so I will finish it later… 😻

Adrien Agreste was a peculiar young man. When he was most stressed out and overworked, all he wanted to do was go out and run around. Naturally, having magical jewellery with the ability to turn into a cat hero came in handy on these occasions.

Today was one of those days…

School all day with an impromptu photoshoot during lunch — It’s just some pick-ups, Nathalie said. You’ll be done in thirty minutes, she said. He was definitely not done in thirty minutes. Instead, not only did he miss lunch but also got to the first class ten minutes late. He could hardly hear her Mme. Mendeleiev’s scolding over his stomach growling.

After school, he had fencing and Mandarin lessons, and a pesky akuma attack to round the day off. He could hardly keep his eyes open during dinner. Thank goodness Father isn’t here, he thought as he munched on his food, slumped over the dinner table, supporting his head on his left hand.

And yet, by the time he finished his homework and preparations for the next day, he felt revived. The physical exhaustion had worn off as he wound down, leaving him absolutely wired. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he let off some steam.

Moments later, a black-clad catboy was running, vaulting and whooping over the rooftops of Paris. All was peaceful — it always was after an akuma attack — so there wasn’t any real need to patrol.

He decided to stop by his collège on the way home, as there had been break-ins at other schools to steal computers… Nothing to report here either.

As he zoomed over the school’s rooftop to make his way back home, he caught sight of a familiar form on a balcony across the street, under some colourful fairy lights.

In the months that passed since that night, when Marinette pretended to like Chat Noir, he realised he liked her. Much more than he thought. It would be really nice to hang out with her more in his civilian form, and he sought her company often, but she was still awkward with him. When he visited her in the catsuit, though… it was almost as if she was a different person. He stopped by once in a while to check in on her. They confided in each other (without revealing details) about their respective unrequited loves and broken hearts.

As he jumped closer to the bakery, Chat Noir noticed Marinette was resting her head on her arms as she stood leaning on the railing. She seemed to be talking to herself. Was she crying? Concerned, he approached, landing on the bannister gently, so as not to startle her.

“Good evening,” he greeted, softly.

Marinette straightened and looked up, holding an ice pack to her right eye.

“Oh! Hello, Chat Noir. What are you doing here?”

She pulled away the ice pack to flip it to the colder side.

“Whoa!” Chat Noir couldn’t hold back his worries. “Who gave you that black eye?”

He leapt down onto the balcony and approached her to get a better look.

“Is it very bad? It was just pink earlier… I was hoping the ice would keep it from turning black.” Marinette fretted, picking up her phone to turn on the camera in selfie mode.

“Crap! I look horrible,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Let me see.”

Chat Noir delicately used a claw to lift up her chin and swiped her bangs out of the way with the other hand.

“It’s not too bad. I’ve had worse,” he quipped, and was rewarded with a small smile. He then straightened up and continued in a mock-serious tone, wagging a finger in the air. “My prescription is to keep icing your eye hourly, but never more than twenty minutes at a time. You can also steep some chamomile tea bags, let them cool down in the fridge and then apply.”

Marinette laughed at his schtick. It was exactly what he was aiming for. He liked to hear her laugh. Changing his act, he menacingly punched his own palm.

“Now, are you going to tell me who I’m going to beat up?”

Marinette hesitated for a fraction of a second.

“No one. Unless you want to beat me, haha! I just— punched myself… sewing!”

“How can anyone punch themselves sewing?” He tried not to laugh — and failed. “Sorry, I just can’t see it.”

“Well, it happens. I was… sewing leather! You see, leather’s tough, and you have to pull the needle real hard, then sometimes it just — whoosh — and —”

Marinette mimicked sewing movements as she described it (she’s too adorable!)

“I didn’t know you were into leather…” he purred, bending down to her eye level, and winked.

Marinette pushed him away by the nose, balancing herself on one foot.

“Don’t you start, you silly kitty!”

He froze. Something about her tone of voice, the way she pushed his nose playfully…

“Well, little lady, if you can’t handle a little flurrrting, just let me know!”

“You really are a tomcat, aren’t you? I bet you flirt with every girl in Paris.”

Chat Noir held his hand to his heart in mock offence.

“Why, I would never! I only have eyes for my lady and my little lady!”

“That’s still one lady too many for my taste!”

“Unfortunately, my Ladybug won’t give me the time of day.” His voice had lost all playfulness now. “I’m a hopeless, loveless kitty.”

He thought he saw her deflate somewhat.

“Poor kitty. I know exactly what that’s like.”

“The boy who broke your heart?”

“Hmm-hmm.”

“What— the guitar guy?” Chat Noir felt a rumble of anger bubbling in his chest. “The one with the weird eyelashes?”

“No!… And he has nice lashes, they’re just short.”

“Huh. I thought you were going out with him.”

“Definitely not. We hang out sometimes… but I just can’t open myself up to him as much as he needs me to.” She leaned against the railing again, looking towards the Seine. “He can read my emotions the way nobody else ever has, and sometimes I just can’t handle it.”

“Huh.”

Adrien’s chest ached. Weirdly, some part of him was happy to find out Luka was out of the picture.

“So… there’s another boy?”

“Yes. It’s hopeless.” Marinette sighed, but did not cry. Instead, she shook her head and breathed a bitter laugh. “I can’t even speak properly when I’m around him. I even told him I don’t like him like that… twice! And then pushed him and another friend together… I think they’re dating now! So yeah, I cock-blocked myself!”

“Language!” Chat Noir didn’t know what else to say except joke or pun. Anything to keep her from crying. “You should say cat-blocked instead: it’s nicer and a brilliant pun!”

She chuckled again.

“So, I cat-blocked myself. I might as well have told them to elope to Japan. I just made a fool of myself in front of the ice-cream man… again. And ran away… again.”

“Japan, huh?” The truth was right before his eyes, but he refused to admit it. Not without more information. “That’s a long way away for two French kids to elope.”

“Oh, she’s Japanese. I can just picture them, living a perfect life, winning fencing competitions together… Posing on the cover of gossip and business magazines as the new power couple in the industry…”

“Wow, you’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” He turned to her. “Don’t tell me it’s that model boy all the girls swoon for!”

“Bingo!”

Chat Noir had to sit down. He slid down with his back against the railing. How did he never see it? Was that why she behaved so weirdly around him? That would explain the posters, and the valentine card, and… He hit his forehead in frustration so hard Marinette looked down at him, confused.

“What’s wrong, Chat Noir? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Marinette. Just wondering what’s with this Adrien guy. All the girls seem to be fighting over him.” He added, smirking, “ I’m prettier, funnier, and better dressed than him. Sure, he’s rich and handsome—”

“That’s not why I lo—like him!” she snapped. “It might be the reason for those other girls, but not for me.”

“Why do you lo-like him then?” He asked in a whisper.

Marinette sighed and sat on the floor beside him, fidgeting with the now warm ice pack.

“I kinda hated him at first. I thought he was another stuck-up, spoiled, rich brat, like Chloé.”

Chat Noir couldn’t speak, so he nodded for her to continue.

“There was a silly misunderstanding, and I gave him the cold treatment. And he still took the time and effort to apologise. He was so sad by the thought of a total stranger not liking him…” She sighed, a small smile returning to her lips. “Then he made a kind gesture, a small one, but so sincere… he gave me his umbrella though it was raining,” breathing a chuckle, she added, “then, of course, I had to get an attack of the clumsies and make him laugh.”

Adrien remembered that. He remembered how angry she was at first. How she heard him out even if he was friends with her bully. He remembered the tingle he felt when their fingers touched. How she laughed with him when the umbrella snapped close on her.

“When I heard him laugh, I was a goner. Yes, he’s a model, rich and famous… but it was his kindness that I fell in love with.”

“Fell— in love?”

He could hardly breathe. The last years flashed before his eyes. When they paired up for the tournament. When she helped him run away from his fans. When she danced with him at Chloé’s party. His head was spinning so much he couldn’t stand up.

Of course the coolest, prettiest, kindest girl he knew was heartbroken. She was right there, at the same time he chased after Ladybug in vain. She was his everyday Ladybug, and he was too blind or too stupid to see it!

Ladybug would never love him. He would always be the sidekick. He couldn’t even protect her properly. It was his only job. Even that same day, the soccer akuma hit her with a ball on the face. Hard. The Miraculous cure had healed most of it, but he could see her right eye swelling visibly even under the mask before they separated. He told her to ice it, too.

It was ironic that his everyday Ladybug hurt herself in the same eye. What a coincidence…

Chat Noir was hyperventilating now, as all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. His perfect vision went blurry all of a sudden. He heard Marinette calling his name. Marinette? Ladybug? 

Everything went black as he tried to call her name.

To be continued… 

Send me an ask with a number and a LoveSquare pairing (Including SnekMouse, etc.)

Prompt list here.

[Conclusion]

[ladygloucester]

Scáthach - Chapter 1

Well guys, I think this is probably my most personal work ever. I know it will sound quite outlandish (ha.) and even feel Claire and Jamie out of character. One thing I love about fanfic writing is that I feel so comfortable with these characters that I feel like I can bend them in ways I wouldn’t be able to do with others I created from scratch. So apologies if this is too far from what you like to see.

Watch out for language, triggers and all that stuff.

Prologue

I won’t go all David Copperfield on you. I consider you smart enough to recognize that if I’m here, talking to you, I might as well have been born in order to do so. What a presumptuous prick, that David. Anyway. Even though I’ve gone through basically the same stages of life as any other human being, I can’t say that I consider myself so. Not fully, at least. I’m what we call a Scáthach. Yeah, pretty much as the celtic deity, we’re that very original. Calling myself a warrior woman in the middle of the XXI century will sound… well, probably as presumptuous as our friend David. But it’s the truth. I am a warrior indeed, one that fights shit you wouldn’t even imagine before I told you so.

I won’t bother you with the same boring pest I had to deal with when they first approached me. You’ll thank me for that later. But the thing is, a Scáthach is pretty much what whoever that has ever played a video game, read a fantasy novel or watched a tv show would call a demon hunter. Well, demon falls actually a bit short. There are all kinds of disgusting beings, if you may call them so, in the Dubnos, but for anyone that’s not familiar with the hierarchies and classifications of the The Deep, we can stick with that. Demon.

I can hear you rolling your eyes so hard at me. I understand it. I used to think this was all bullshit. But well, I’ve had enough of my share of experiences  —and whisky— to quiet my skepticism. But I’ll help you swallow this rather thick pill. Have you ever realized your friend, your coworker, even your neighbor is suddenly behaving completely out of character? Have you heard of those people that change their lives in the blink of an eye, turning it upside down and destroying themselves in the process? Have you even felt it? That unforeseen sting of desperation in the bottom of your heart when everything seems to be going perfectly well. That fit of lust that drives you into the arms of another person while your partner is happily waiting for you at home. That outburst of anger that pushes your feet on the gas pedal, terrorizing every other driver in the highway.

I thought so.

Science tries to give it an explanation. A man suddenly murders his entire family while his friends can’t understand how the loveliest of fathers would stab the love of his life to death. Psychiatrists say he had an underlying disorder. One nobody ever noticed. Not a single action in his behavior ever betrayed it. And yet, we all swallow it down, nod and thank God and pray that science will save us all. Put a tag on our diseases and magically cure them.

If only it was possible. I wouldn’t be here.

That is the doing of a demon, clever enough to make us believe that our brains would do that to ourselves, defying millions of years of evolution and self-preserving instincts. They find a way to sneak up on us and infect us. Of course there are people depressed. Angry people. People obsessed with others. Demons are not the cause of every single evil in the world, illogical as it may sound. But those unexpected explosions that ultimately breaks the person that feels them, of those they are responsible. Don’t fool yourself.

So I take care of them. That’s what I do for a living. Well, not out in the open, that’s for sure. In “real life” I volunteer at The Royal London Hospital. It’s most convenient to have access to quick meds and professionals when you work in a field like mine. But not for me, I… well, my body behaves slightly differently. Which is an advantage, you’ll see. Whenever I’m free and I have the time, I drop by the hospital and take a quick look to see if they need a hand. They once tried to put me on a schedule. It took them a couple of days to realize it wasn’t going to work, so since I’m nice and useful, they usually let me do my thing without making much of a fuss.

So far, I’ve told you about (a bit of) my job, my other job and what I am. But I haven’t told you my name yet.

I’m Claire. 

And I’m alone.

Not that I care. I mean, it would be nice to have someone to have a Sunday lunch with, but it won’t keep me awake at night. Not most of the nights, at least. I’ve never been one to have many friends. Mainly because my line of work is an unpredictable one. People use to get tired of you when you cancel dates and plans more often than you make it.

Ok, now wait a second… I’m painting a fairly sociopathic image of myself. I may not win Miss Congeniality this year, but I’m not a bad person. Well, I wouldn’t say that I qualify as a person either, but you get what I mean. I do this to help others that can’t help themselves. So I think that should give me a few points.

Are we clear then? I slay demons, people live to see another day and I go home all by myself. Again, most of the nights.

The day it all changed I was about to leave the hospital after a short shift helping around, wheeling some elderly patients around and trying to crack them up with my stupid jokes. I loved to hear them laugh with their shot voices, always reprimanding me for being too crude. I know it’s a weird hobby, getting a chuckle out of those old crocks, but I guess it’s one of the quirks of being an orphan, unable to joke around with your own folks. Yay me. When my cellphone beeped, I snuck it out of my black jeans and checked it.

Frank. Shit.

“Tell me.”

“Hi Claire, how’s your—”

“Cut the crap. What is it?“ I demanded as I walked into a nearby alley. The sun was already setting and I knew I’d be in need of a dark, secluded place to open the Membrane sooner rather than later. Oh, wait. The Membrane, haven’t told you about that yet, have I? Well, just let me get through with this asshole.

“Ok,” the voice came through the speaker colder and snarky. “There’s a situation. You need to cross and take care of a deamhan that has found an weak spot in the Membrane. There’s a human involve, but don’t care about it. We’re already counting him as a hero.”

A hero. Yeah, they were hypocritical enough to give that name to the humans that died as a result of an unexpected encounter with a deamhan. Sometimes we were late and there was nothing we could do. Other times, fewer, I got orders to leave them be. Very ethical.

“Ok, show me.”

I hung up and closed my eyes. The image began to solidify in the back of my mind, slowly adding detail, color, texture, even smell. Well, stink. Even a foul taste flooded my mouth. I got it. Let me tell you about the Membrane, quick and dirty. In order to cross to the Dubnos, The Deep, if you prefer, you don’t have to pay the boatman to sail through the Styx lagoon. Though it would be pretty cool. No, between our two worlds there is a separation, a physical barrier that only a few of us can cross. The Membrane, that’s it. It works like an osmosis process. There’s part of you that stays back in the world of the living, and another that’s able to pass through. The Dubnos is restricted to the demons. So… yeah, you guessed right. I’m part demon myself. That’s why I can cross the Membrane back and forth, and live in both sides of it. Hope I didn’t freak you out. I don’t have scales or a pointy tale or bug eyes. Well, those I only have them in the Dubnos. Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see shit there. But they usually fade after a while once I’ve come back. Don’t look at me that way, I’m sure you’ve ended a few nights out looking far worse.

With the deamhan crystal clear in my mind, I opened the Membrane. I usually can open it anywhere. I just need it to be a dark place, without sunlight directly on it, and without prying eyes around, if only not to scare them to death. So I did it once again. I extended my hand with my fingers firmly aligned, acting like a blade able to cut the viscid film. It slowly pried open, parting like a primeval womb not giving pass to life, but rather absorbing it into its depths. I was already accustomed to the transition, but it always felt like losing a part of you that you were never positive you’d be able to gain back.

The first thing that hits you when you enter the Dubnos is the smell. There’s nothing that can compare to it. Like a mixture of ammonia and really, really rotten eggs. Only stinkier. I could only perceive it in the back of my nose. Once I cross the Membrane, most of my human senses are left behind and… well, demons aren’t particularly squeamish about stenches. Their sense of smell works differently, like a hound’s, but only sensitive to selective traces. I had the odor of that deamhan Frank had sent me still vivid in my nostrils. I sniffed around, trying to pick a scent. The path became distinct in a few seconds, my eyes able to discern it as if it was marked with bread crumbs. An eerie synesthesia, but definitely a useful one.

Even though it works as some sort of shadow of the reality, a muffled copy of the real world,  time and space work a little differently in The Deep. Demons don’t have a natural sense of any of them, since they’re maleable, bendable. The same rules we have don’t apply there. So reaching the coast took me less than getting to the tube from the hospital. I’m a bit faster here as well, so by the time I could feel the power of the waves crashing against the jagged cliffs, I slowed down and crouched. There it was.

A thread, thinner than the thousandth part of a hair, came out of an amorphous blob of flesh, almost transparent, like muddy water. I frowned. If I recalled correctly, the human was already far gone. But the the opposite end of that thread was attached to a man. I could distinguish his form, a nebulous, barely distinctive shape on top of precipice. The deamhan was having a rough time pulling form its end. Usually once they were able to tie it to a person, the effect was instant. Most of the times there wasn’t even a struggle. But this wasn’t one of those. He was fighting. Even with his bare foot sticking out of the rock into the void of an indomitable sea, he was still holding on for dear life.

I could wait. You see, I could let the deamhan do its thing and let that poor bastard fall to his death. But remember when I told you that sometimes I get orders to leave them to their own devices? Well. I’m a shitty minion.

The fight was over before it began. By the time the demon became aware of my presence, I had already inserted my left arm all the way into its body, while I was tangling the thread around my right in order to withdraw it. The beast started to convulse, I clenched my teeth and looked away. It was stronger than I had foreseen. Painfully slowly, it initiated the process of swallowing my arm. I could feel its juices pouring on my skin, burning it. I pulled back but it was too far stuck. The thread broke. It was a shit show. I was there, a human about to kill himself and I, to be eaten and digested.

I closed my eyes. If I wanted it to work, I had to work quickly. With my right arm free, at least I was able to use it. The thread was surrounding it, hurting like acid on an open wound. I placed my palm against the slimy surface of the deamhan while I grabbed its insides with my other hand, and pulled. I pulled so hard I felt the muscles of my back strain and break. The energy started to condensate on the tips of my fingers. I hadn’t had to use it in quite sometime, so it took me longer than I expected. But by the time the bastard realized what was happening, it was a smoking spot on the floor.

I fell backwards, out of breath. Or I’d be if only I breathed there. Took me a second to remember the human. I looked at where he had been a second before, but he wasn’t there. He was already falling.

Fuck.

There was no time to think. I could see his shape plunging through the air, near the hair-raisingly sharp rocks of the cliff. Time slowed down to a tortuously lethargic cadence, enough for me to leap forward as fast as I could —which is, to be honest, faster than your eye could see—, as I opened the Membrane and pushed myself through. It slowed me down, but I had got enough momentum, more than enough to counter gravity. With the agonic rush I completely miscalculated the strength I was going to impact on his body with. I felt his shoulder pop out of the socket and his mouth crash against my (rather thick) head as I catapulted us over the cliff. I managed to protect him from further damage as we landed by, well, basically using my own body as an airbed. Not the best sensation, it crossed my mind, as I became aware of the size of the man. He lay on top of me, a dead weight that almost kept me from breathing properly, a few seconds before I crawled from underneath and turned him over on his back. My arms were still burned. In the Dubnos I was able to heal rather quickly, but once I crossed the Membrane back, my human body would became a burden. I still healed at an abnormal pace, but it was much more painful.

I could feel the ligaments of my jaw tightening with the pain, but I had no more time to waste. I straddled his waist, tore his shirt open and he, opportunistic as hell, decided it was the best time to come back from the dead. Or the unconscious. Whatever. So picture this: luckily, last thing he’ll probably remember is jumping off a cliff. Now he regains consciousness and a woman with black scleras and burnt arms is ripping his clothes off. If I’m the slightest bit less lucky, he’ll remember me, emerging from thin air, looking like I’m flying —and damn, I wish I could but that’s actually something I’m completely unable to do— and tackling him into safety. And ripping his clothes off, no, there’s no way to elude that.

“A Dhia…”

He tried to squirm out of my grasp with the arm he was still able to move, but I pushed him hard against the soft grass.

“Quiet,” I hissed while I gave him my most terrifying look. Which then was, well, actually the only look I had. He froze, trying to puzzle his memories, to instill some kind of reasoning into them, fighting the unlikeliness of it all. I arched an eyebrow, staring at him, waiting till he finally made up his mind provisionally. He had felt my strength. He knew, somewhere deep inside, he was at my mercy. Then, his eyes left mine for a second only to discover the wounded skin of my arms.

“Mary, Michael and Bride, your arms are burnt!”

“I. Said. Quiet.”

The fight behind his eyes began again for a few seconds, but he finally stopped wriggling and I was able to inspect his chest. Remember what I told you about the demons? About how they corrupt human beings? Well. that was precisely what that this human had been subjected to. Good thing I still had my bug eyes. I wouldn’t win a beauty contest, but it made it easier for me to find the corruption inside a body. I already suspected where it was. Despair was usually inserted near the heart. I placed my hand on his left pectoral and focused. This one was deep. I began pulling and his face became shadowed by the pain. It’s not the most pleasant process, but I’ve always found humans to be quite receptive to it. As if they knew, somehow, that the pain they feeling is a curative one. Gradually, a conical shape, with a dirty forest green shade, emerged from the flesh.

I let myself sat on the soft grass and sighed, looking at it. My human side felt the call of it, the words in the back of my mind, the pain that would conquer me if I let it. The waving surface was almost mesmerizing. I fell on my back and indulged in the cool feeling of the pasture and the first drops of rain. I heard him move, sitting up and closing his shirt. I could smell the blood from his broken lip. That could be a problem and staying there would only make it worse.

“Who are you?” He whispered, probably not sure if he had dreamt the whole thing, lost his mind or was having the worst trip in history.

I stood up as the rain began to pour down, appreciative of the coolness it impressed on my burns.

“You’ll be just fine. Don’t ever come back here. If you go south you’ll find a small train station if you want to go to the City. There won’t be enough light to go anywhere else.”

I rubbed my hands against my jeans and shrugged, not knowing what else to say. He wasn’t moving and kept staring at me like he was seeing a ghost. Which wasn’t too far from the truth, so who could blame him.

“Well, I—”

“Wait.” He grabbed my wrist and raised my arm, inspecting my clearly healing wounds.

“Do you really want to freak yourself out any more?”

He looked me with those slanted, incredibly blue eyes, as I realized for the first time, and let go of my wrist.

“What’s that… thing you pulled from my body?”

It was my time to freak out.

“You can see this?” I showed him the green cone and raised my eyebrows in absolute astonishment. He nodded, frowning.

“Why?”

“You aren’t supposed to be able to see a Fang. Nobody can.”

“Well, not nobody,” he pointed with indisputable common sense.

I was gaping like a fish out of water. I’ve seen plenty of terrifying, upsetting, disgusting, crippling stuff. Enough to make me almost immune to surprise. But this caught me perfectly out of balance. My eyes travelled from the Fang to his eyes, and I could tell he was waiting for an explanation. Probably more than one. Then, my gaze felt unavoidably attracted to the cut on his lip. My heart was already racing, and I didn’t know how much I could restrain myself.

“This— Remember what you felt when you jumped off?” A semblance of shame covered his features and nodded. “This is it. It wasn’t you. This made you jump.“

“But…”

“I have to go.“

“Wait!” He grabbed my wrist again but I pulled violently as soon as our skins made contact.

“Just wipe that fucking blood of your face!” I snapped, and it was his time to be caught off guard. I started pacing around, nervously. “I can’t stay. I can’t help you anymore. Go on, live your life and all that shit.“

And I vanished.