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jisungparker · 3 years

Text

Let’s hope the sun will show us the path

pairing: lee minho x fem!reader

song: lorde - the path

themes: angst, fluff, smut (warnings below)

snippet: Minho commits your body to memory, your breaths, your touch, saved for a time he never knew he would need it for. A time when you’re no longer love’s provider, but forsaker. Minho never found the sentiment in intimacy until he began making love to you, praying you might find something worth staying for. 7.5k

warnings: just very light fluffy-angsty-break up-emo seggz, exhibitionism (no one’s around), nipple play, fingering (f receiving), piv, crying during seggz, pet names (baby, dummy(?)) established relationship, coming of age vibes, break-up

a/n: i'm 10k words into another minho fic and kept putting this off because it's sad but i hope you enjoy (be who you wanna be barbie girl here, i hope the sun shows you the path.. and any warnings i may have missed <3)

“Can I ask you something?” Jisung says out of nowhere, digging around for the controller, his eyes still glued to the tiny television screen. When he lowers the volume, he swallows his mouth full of chips before warning you- “It's kind of- I mean it could feel kind of personal.”

It might be the most Jisung does today, you think before you tell him- “go on,” watching the fan creak as it turns towards you before slowly rotating Jisung’s way again. It’s the peak of summer, maybe the hottest day of the year so far. It also happens to be the exact same day you have to spend wasting away in your grandparents’ insulated basement. After a stretched silence, you turn to find Jisung staring at you. “What?”

“Are you sure?”

“I said go ahead.”

“No, I mean-” rethinking it, he turns his attention back to the screen. It's an old Golden Girls rerun you know he has seen because it was on when he walked in about three hours ago. Jumping when you lob a stray cushion at him, he glares at you when you raise your brow in silent question. “Don’t get mad.”

“I won't,” you lie, though you’re sure he’s just exaggerating.

“Are you.. sure sure about moving?”

“Not much of a choice at this point,” you laugh, waving an open hand towards the large room of half empty boxes you were both meant to spend the day filling. With a bit too much haste, you drop down beside him, focusing on the same tiny screen, itchy under Jisung’s thoughtful gaze. “Why? Finally figured out you can’t live without me?”

“No, I already knew that,” peeling himself off the couch to readjust, he pouts- “I’m actually in the process of typing out my will.”

“Can I have all your Crocs?”

“Deal.” Shaking on it, he keeps hold of your hand, hoping you ignore the clamminess it greets you with. “But seriously. And this is the personal bit.. What about you and Minho?”

“What about us?”

“Well,” he huffs, not sure how to continue. “I mean, you guys are like, in love.” When you just nod, with a bit more nonchalance than you intended, he slumps, releasing your hand. It’s then you realise that maybe he had held it for moral support. Something you evidently didn’t need. “Then why..” You feel a little concerned for Jisung. For someone usually so sure of himself, you’d think his words would at least meet him halfway. “Why aren’t you sadder?”

You get up suddenly, finally deciding it’s time to crank the fan up a few dials, stopping on your way back to the couch to slide some unpacked records into a box marked fragile. You twirl one between your pointer fingers, the corners digging into the pads as you eye a recommendation from the man Jisung speaks of. He had heard it on his drive home one night, and thought of you. Not usually so affectionate, you listened carefully when he said he often thought of you when listening to music, listening to the wind, the passing cars, laughter. You take care when sliding the record into the box before collapsing again beside Jisung.

“I never planned on living here longer than a few months, Ji,” you admit, or remind - unsure whether Jisung ever knew it to begin with. “I can’t live in my grandparent’s basement forever.”

“I dunno. I saw your grandpa before he left, he seemed gutted that you’re leaving.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Y/N.” You’re stunned by the stern look he gives you, the rest of it seeping into his tone. “I just want to make sure you’re sure. I mean, you have a whole life here.”

“I know,” you sigh, smiling at him, forcing the mockery out of it. You do appreciate his concern, truly, but you always knew this day would come. And you had already gone this long without crying, you don’t want it to psych you out. “I guess I always had it in my head that I’d be leaving. Minho knew too.”

“I get that, but do you have to move so far away?”

“Yes.”

“Y/N….” Jisung whines, his bottom lip jutting out. “What’s so special about London? We have everything London has!”

“Hmm, like what?”

“Um, like a river.. and trees.. and rain-” his list continues as your phone lights up, a call coming through. “We also have way cooler clocks-”

“Hello?”

“Hey,” his voice seeps through the receiver so cooly, you almost shiver. In this heat, you almost beg him to continue before he reads your mind, obliging. “How you getting on? You guys almost done?”

“Yeah, almost,” you lie, rolling your eyes at Jisung who hits your arm. “Jisung has been zero help by the way, so thanks for that.”

“Don’t start. You know I’d rather be there than here.” Here, being his family’s restaurant downtown. “See you getting all hot and bothered packing up those boxes-”

“Don’t be gross,” you warn, glaring at Jisung who wretches, blatantly listening in. “I’m just saying, you couldn’t get someone with even a drop of motivation?”

“You think I didn’t try? You know I had to bribe that fucker? Put him on the phone.”

“Say please.”

“Now.”

“It’s for you.”

Jisung gulps before taking the phone, giving you a second to eye the mess of a life you have yet to pack away. The first thing you see is the collection of plushies piled atop your bed. You had considered giving some, if not most away, keeping the ones which meant the most to you. Like one Minho won at last summer’s fayre, or Felix won in an Ebay auction for you. After a long game of this or that however, Minho watched as you piled nearly every stuffed animal in the keep pile. Next was your dresser, some drawers empty, most of your winter clothes already packed away. The remainder were for your last few weeks here, those coming to a quick end as your departure quickly crept in. You pass a familiar pale yellow number between your fingers, stretching the ruched waist of the playsuit in your hands as you recall how it ended up on the floor. Minho had thrown it here. You had been wearing it shortly before.

Jisung calls your name just as you begin poking through your jewellery box, eyeing your promise ring which glittered as soon as you lifted the lid.

“It’s for you, you snake.” Shoving the phone in your open hand, Jisung begins chucking your random knick knacks in a random box, mumbling about them all breaking on transit.

“What did you say to him?”

“Does it matter?”

“Well, if he breaks my shit it will.”

“What are you doing tonight?” He asks, ignoring your empty threat. “Wanna take you somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. Are you busy, yes or no?”

“No.”

“I’ll pick you up at nine.”

The phone beeps and you sigh, throwing it on the unoccupied couch before looking for Jisung, finding him bubble wrapping your ceramic three-headed cat. “What did he say to you?”

“‘Get up you lazy fuck or I’m cashing in on all those free meals. Don’t make me drive there and break those twiddily, dumb dumb, twig legs of yours’.” When you raise a brow, he shrugs, placing a stray ashtray in the heaving box. “Or something like that.”

“Did he mention where he wants to take me later?”

“No.” He obviously lies, “and if he did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Fine, whatever.” When you pout digging through your last lot of clean clothes, he sighs and takes mercy on you.

“If it helps-” You’re certain it won’t, but you listen anyway. “Minho would love you in anything.”

You were only kind of right.

With no intentions to overstay, two summers ago, you moved into your grandparents’ place. Fueled by childhood nostalgia, free rent and a melancholic bout of wanderlust, you packed up and headed to the coastal town with dreams of summer nights spent picking sand out of your hair, skin smoothed out by salt water and running home barefoot.

Somehow you forgot how most of these memories relied on the same childlike wonder you dreamed them up with. Adults don’t just run up to other adults on the beach. They don’t get forced into sleepovers with their grandparents’ friend’s grandkids. They don’t mingle. Not really.

After two weeks of the same dull routine - pinning and then repinning photos from the city you had happily deserted, of the friends you’d gladly left behind; of arranging, then quickly rearranging the old couch and television around the space you now call yours; of the same four, primed and unpainted walls - you started to think maybe moving was a mistake.

That night, your grandma had dragged your grandpa to a retirement party uptown for the neighbour of a friend’s cousin’s best friend.. the connection didn’t matter. What did matter, was how much it annoyed you that the retired couple seemed to have more friends, and thus more of a social life than you did.

It also annoyed you that your grandma seemed to realise this too.

After two weeks of sleeping on a mattress they’d picked up for you the day you landed, on the floor of your grandparents’ basement, your grandma had had enough. At breakfast, she announced she had asked a friend to get their grandson to come round and drop a bed frame for you.

Ignoring your refusal, she continued, ‘He’s a nice boy, a bit quiet. Handsome though.’

Of course, she failed to explain just how handsome.

After your grandpa’s famous pancakes, you tried to forget all about it because you felt bad. This guy was probably annoyed that he got roped into playing delivery boy on a Saturday night for a random friend of his grandpa. Which is why you think nothing of it when he doesn’t show up when your grandma said he would. You already had a mattress, bedding, and pillows. You weren’t even sure you had the energy or knowhow to set up a bed anyway. The guy would be doing you a favour if he didn’t show up. So when you get into your pyjamas after ordering yourself a large pizza and cracking open a bottle of your grandpa’s beer, you were unphased when the bell to the basement door rang.

“One sec!” Rushing for your purse, you shoved your beer on an empty shelf before swinging the door open. Poking around for cash, you cursed under your breath. “This is so shitty of me, but do you have change for a fifty?”

“No.” Looking up, you had to stop yourself taking a literal step back when you were met with possibly the finest pizza boy you think you would ever lay eyes on. He’s dressed nothing like one. He’s in all black, from his leather jacket and fitted t-shirt, to his skin tight jeans and lace up boots. Even his chain is black, the black stones contrasted by the warm glow of his tanned skin. Skin which stretched perfectly over pure muscle and bone, body carved to near perfection. After a few seconds of silence, seconds he had just spent staring back at you, with his face blank he asked, “You Y/N?”

“Yeah?”

“Come and give me a hand with this.” When he didn’t hear you behind him, he stopped halfway up the cobbled steps, frowning before he asked, “Do you want this bed or not?”

“Oh.” You had figured out he wasn’t the pizza guy, but what you couldn’t figure out was how your grandma had called this man ‘handsome’. Especially in passing. Slipping on some shoes, you follow him up the steps to his 1979 Supra, the exterior matching his exterior perfectly. “Nice car.”

“Thanks.” Opening the door, he reached into the backseat, pulling a few panels of varnished wood out before handing some to you. “Let’s hope this thing hasn’t scuffed it up.”

You thought you should say something, maybe even apologise. But you couldn’t because all you could think was ‘handsome’.

Grabbing a few more panels, he stood beside you, waiting for you to lead the way. “So, we just gonna stand here or..”

“Uh, right.”

Without another word, you head back to the basement, trying not to show your struggle. You reckon you’re doing okay but that could be because you can’t hear your breaths over the sound of your heart beating. ‘Handsome though’. Some warning would have been nice. When you finally made it back, you placed them down as quickly as you could, rubbing your palms where the wood had begun to pinch. Turning, you found him watching you.

“You good?” You could see a smirk somewhere in that squint, the absence of concern grating at you. “Should’ve said you couldn’t handle it, I’d have done it myself.”

“Who said I couldn’t handle it?” You weren’t sure where the need to impress this stranger had come from, but it did, and it was potent. “I’ll go get the rest.”

“Let me-”

“No, I insist.” As you ran back up the steps, you saw the all too familiar tomato red you had been expecting. But now you were at a crossroads. Either run back down, pay for the pizza, and risk the fine stranger thinking you couldn’t handle yourself. Or have a second member in the audience of your embarrassment. You settled for the latter, cringing as you descended the steps, finding the two talking, seeming familiar with one another. Dropping the planks, you rushed for your purse. “Sorry about that. You don’t happen to have change-”

“No worries, Minho’s covered it.” The pizza boy insisted, nodding his head towards who you now know as Minho. Nice name, you thought. Nice name, nice car, nice face. When the pizza boy turned to you, his grin gave you pause. No one could love their job that much. “You must be Y/N, your grandma always talks about you.”

“Oh,” you imagined she would, it’s what old people do: talk about their kids and grandkids. It would typically make you shy, but the idea that she had mentioned you to these two made you wonder whether you should’ve encouraged the habit. “Yeah, that’s me. Sorry, I don’t know your name..”

“Felix. I’m Minho’s cousin.” Fuck, good looks run in the family. “We actually met when we were kids. You probably don’t recognise me without my braces, or Minho without his lisp-”

“Hey Lix, don’t you have to go clock out?”

“Shit, yeah!” Handing you your order, Felix waved as he ascended the cobbled stairs backwards, yelling, “Oi, the party starts at ten. Bring Y/N!”

And then he’d gone, left you standing there with Minho and a new bit of information to process. One, you now had to offer some of your pizza to Minho. Two, the pizza boy is Minho’s cousin, Felix. Three, Felix remembered you.. did Minho remember you too?

As you were thinking, clinging to the pizza box for dear life, you noticed Minho removing his jacket, slinging it over the back of the couch before grabbing a tool box out of a random cupboard. It would surprise you that he knew his way around the still unfamiliar room, but your grandma did mention Minho helped out around the house a lot, especially since your grandpa’s surgery a few years prior.

What did surprise you, is that he was about to start assembling your bed frame.

“Don’t you have to go soon? It’s almost ten.”

“No one goes to a party on time.” He said, as if it had been so obvious. Reaching for a hammer and nails, he turned to find you still hovering behind him. Dragging his eyes up the length of you, from your sock clad feet, over your faded t-shirt, all the way up to your eyes before asking- “Shouldn’t you be getting ready?”

“For what?”

“The party?” From the look he gave you, you could tell he was still unsure whether you were being purposely obtuse or not. “You know, the one at ten?”

“Oh,” he stared when you frowned, visibly annoyed by his tone. “I thought he was just being polite.”

“Felix doesn’t do that,” suddenly whacking the nail into the frame, the sound cutting through you when he added, “Come. If you don’t, he’ll tell my grandpa I left you here.”

“I’m busy tonight.”

“Hm,” laughing through his nose, Minho eyed the shelf behind you. “Doing what? Drinking warm beer?”

Your eyes followed his to the abandoned beer on the side, the sweaty bottles on the floor. “And eating pizza.”

“What pizza?” He yelled over the pound of the hammer, stopping to check his work. “Pretty sure that’s mine.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I paid for it.”

“I didn’t ask you to!”

“Well, it’s done now.” He shrugged, smoothing his palm over a freshly hammered nail. “So you not only have no pizza, but no plans.” He watched you place down the pizza just to cross your arms, unimpressed by his lame assessment. “Listen, it’s just a bunch of our friends. You’ve met some of them.”

“Yeah, like fifteen years ago.”

“So lots to catch up on then,” he nodded, hammering a nail with a bite of his lip. When you don’t move, he sighed- “Fine. Look, if you hate it I’ll drive us somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere. Go change.”

He’s an hour late this time too. You know to expect it after two years of the same routine, except this time you’re ready, and he still says the same thing.

“Go change into what? You haven’t said where we’re going.”

“You just need more clothes than that.”

“To do..”

“What we’re going to do.”

“Which is..”

“Y/N.” Standing from the corner of your bed, he eyes his watch before remembering he was the one who was late. Looking up at you, he quickly swallows his exasperation. “Change.”

After a calming breath, you probe, “Do I need to be more modest?” You frown when he laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He looks cute, you think. “What?”

“You think I’d take you somewhere you need to be modestly dressed?”

“Well,” you huff, frown deepening, “the first time I let you take me ‘somewhere’, I ended up half naked meeting your mom.”

“True. But that’s because we were at a pool party, then I took you to meet my cats. It’s not my fault she came home early.”

“The rest is your fault though.”

“Oh,” he snorts, turning to you. “So it’s my fault you gave out on the first date?”

“Just, give me a hint!”

Biting back a smirk, he sits back down, pulling you onto his lap. Stroking your knee, he concedes. “We’ll be outside. So cover up your legs because, you know, bugs and all that.”

“Oh,” you breathe, feeling his fingers stroke along the inside of your thigh. Squishing his cheeks, you offer a quick peck to his lips. “See, was that so hard?”

“Yeah, yeah. Come ‘ere,” with a roll of his eyes and a poke in your side, making you lean away from his touch, he manages to guide your lips to his. Laughing against your pout, Minho places tiny pecks on your lips, lulling your mouth open before sliding his tongue in.

A man of haste, over the past two years Minho has shown you he despises being kept waiting, satisfied only by immediate gratification, pleasure at his say so, pleasure now. But of late, it is as though your looming departure has thrown him off course, forcing him to reroute, reassess.

Now he kisses you slowly, making it meaningful in a way. He doesn’t take his pleasure, but quietly pleads for it, with low moans and soft whimpers. Minho commits your body to memory, your breaths, your touch, saved for a time he never knew he would need it for. A time when you’re no longer love’s provider, but forsaker.

Minho never found the sentiment in intimacy until he began making love to you, praying you might find something worth staying for.

“Go change,” he sighs, clearing his throat as the thought of you leaving seeps back in, staining what was meant to be a fun evening. “Then we’ll go.”

Apparently, ‘somewhere’ is the Seo family’s beach house at the edge of town. Miles down the road you can smell the ocean as it clings to the air, and though you can’t see it, you think you can hear it under the music blaring a few doors down.

With your hand in his, Minho leads you up the sand kissed street, happily walking at your slower pace. The ride up had been quiet, with only the radio and the hum of passing cars. His hand hadn’t left yours the whole way, his fingers toying with his ring on your middle finger.

“We don’t have to stay long,” he says after trying the door handle, looking at you. “Just gotta show our faces.”

“Okay.” After two years, it’s easy to decode Minho: he doesn’t want to stay long. “Who’s here?”

Banging the door with his closed fist, he shrugs- “The usual lot. They wanted to give you a final hurrah.” His eyes roll at your amusement before he clarifies. “Chan’s words, not mine.”

“There she is!” Felix yells as he appears from behind the front door, ears and cheeks tinged a bright pink. “Come in! You’re late! Drink this!” Shoving a tequila in your hand, he goes to pass you a margarita before Minho reaches for it, keeping hold of your other hand.

Two years ago, you wouldn’t recognise a soul in the room. Now, you couldn’t forget them. Hyunjin, drunk in the corner, refusing water from his sister who swore up and down she’d disown him the next time this happened. You learnt early on how weak Yeji was, evidenced by the same scene unfolding for the tenth time this summer alone. You wouldn’t have been able to pick Jisung’s lying ass up in a lineup, his sad eyes stuck to his final red solo cup which first time player Chan had just dunked his ping pong ball in. Nor Changbin, who clung to a keg he held with ease over Ryujin’s head, the other girls circling her as she chugged it with a similar ease.

Two years ago, these people meant nothing to you. Not them, and not the man beside you, squeezing your hand before taking your empty shot glass and handing you your cocktail, removing the umbrella to slide it behind your ear.

“You guys, come here for a sec.” Seungmin calls for you both from the back door of the kitchen. Following him out to the garden, you find him trying and failing to convince Felix not to swim the length of the pool. “Y/N, talk to him-”

“No, she’s on my side!” Felix proclaims, dragging you away from Minho. “We’ll race-” eyeing your flares, he backtracks slightly. “This is a pool party, you know?”

“No one said it was one.” You quip, glaring at Minho.

He just rolls his eyes. “It isn’t one, dummy.”

“Let him swim!” Jeongin cheers, enjoying everything from a nearby lounge chair.

“‘Lix,” Minho calls, grabbing his cousin by the shoulders. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to give Y/N?”

“Huh?” Looking up, Felix quickly searches his memory before gasping- “Oh! I almost forgot!”

“What is it?”

“A silicone mould of my dick,” Minho says, grabbing your hand before you can swing at his arm. “Come on.” Leading you back into the house, he takes you into the kitchen, clicking his tongue as he pours you a drink. “Don’t think it’ll be as easy to get you out of here as I thought.”

“Why don’t we just stay a bit?” Stopping midpour, he answers you with a hard glare, eyeing you incredulously. “What?”

“Y/N, you leave in a few days.”

“I know, Minho. But they did all this for me, how can I just leave?”

He’s tickled by that, finding a joke somewhere in there. With a shake of his head, you see he’s about to refuse when Chaeryeong bumps into him as she goes to hug you, knocking your half poured drink over the counter. “Chaeryoung, what the fuck?”

“It was an accident babe, let me wipe it-”

“Y/N!”

“One sec, Lix-”

“Just go.” Minho huffs, taking the rag from you. “You said you want to stay a bit, go.”

“What is your problem?”

“Y/N!”

“Go.” Minho repeats, offering you a tight lipped smile, before wiping up the spilt drink. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

You eye him for a long second, before pushing off the counter. “Fine. Chaeryoung, let’s go.”

“Is he alright?”

“Who fucking knows.” You both enter the living room to find everyone gathered together. Even Hyunjin is a tad more present, nursing a cup of water. When you approach them, Felix extends his hand to reveal a little gift wrapped box. “What’s this?”

“What does it look like-”

“It’s a goodbye present.” Chan reveals, elbowing Changbin in the ribs. “From all of us.”

“Oh.” You know it’s dumb, not to expect anything. You have known them for over two long years now. Some even longer. And yet not ones did it ever cross your mind that you might mean enough to any of them to warrant such a thing. “Thank you.”

“Open it!” Yeji calls, hushing her brother who knows what it is when he asks what it is.

It’s a black chain, not too unlike the ones Minho usually wears. It sparkles even in the low light, dotted with tiny black stones, a plated pendant on the end. There’s a date etched into it. You recognise it immediately. It’s the date your grandma put her foot down, the date you got a proper bed. It’s the date you first left the house. The date you started making friends. The date this place started to feel like home. The date you finally felt like you belonged.

“It’s the date we all met you. Well, properly.” Felix whispers as you read the date over and over.

It’s the date you met Minho.

“Oh, she hates it!” Jisung whines, aghast at the tears welling in your eyes. “Well, it’s non refundable, babe. I checked. And it cost a fucking shit ton-”

“I love it.” You force out, smiling tearily at them all. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t thank us.” Lia whispers, nodding her head behind you.

You turn in time to catch him glaring at her, his face unreadable when you look at him. “Glad you like it.”

“Put it on me?” He beckons you over, reaching for the box, eyeing you as he does. He frowns slightly at your tear stained cheek before tilting his head telling you to spin. Letting the pendant rest at the base of your throat, he fiddles with the clasp. You run your fingers over the etched metal, grinning tearily at them all as they smile sadly back at you. “How’s it look?”

They throw a gaggle of compliments at you, all impossibly sweet and partially impossible to hear. Before you can roll your eyes, Minho turns you back towards him, rubbing his thumbs over your cheeks.

“Perfect,” he mutters before pressing his lips to yours, pulling you in. He kisses you to the sound of jeers and coos before the music starts back up, the party continuing around you two. He feels you press yourself against him, tongue sliding into his mouth before he pulls away, eyes darting across your face. “Let’s go. We’ll come back.”

You two leave with zero opposition, back in his supra, doing eighty on the highway. His hand is wrapped firmly around your thigh, squeezing every time you hit a high note, his eyes crinkling when you laugh whenever he attempts the same. You can’t hear over the sound of the wind, the radio, and laughter. It’s so light, so natural. It’s moments like this you cling to, moments like this you pray never end.

But it seems they always do.

As he slows down, eyeing the signs for a turning he needs to take, he turns the music down too, raising up his window a bit.

“Hey.” When you stroke the back of his hand, he says- “Can I ask you something?”

You feel an odd sense of deja vu, when you tell him to go ahead.

“Are you sure about London?” The air thickens with silence, his hand squeezing your thigh again, looking over at you. Your eyes are glued to the highway, dizzied by the trees blurring into one. With a sigh and a firm squeeze back you admit-

“No,” laughing when you add, “Not at all.”

Minho expected as much. From your last minute packing, your discomfort whenever the rainy city is mentioned. He never really expected a straight answer though, especially given what you told Jisung. ““Then why? Why leave?”

“Because,” you sigh, clasping his hand between both of yours. “I felt the same before coming here.”

“What changed?”

“You.”

He chuckles at that. “So, what? You’re leaving to find a British Minho?”

“No, dummy. The opposite actually.” You feel him look at you, his hand tightening around yours in silent question. “I don’t know, I just- I came here for me, and I stayed for you.” You admit sheepishly, but when you look at him, you reckon he knew as much. “Which isn't even completely true, because I wanted to stay. I loved it here- I still love it here. But, I guess I don’t want to look back at my life and realise that I never kept any of the promises I made myself, you know? I don’t ever want to blame you for anything I didn’t do, not when you’ve only ever supported me. I guess I just don’t want to look back at us and feel anything except what I feel now. Does that make sense?”

It does. He doesn’t say anything though, only raises your hand to his lips, pressing them to the skin for a while.

The rest of the drive is spent like the drive up, instead you play with his rings this time, fiddling with them, sliding them up and down his outstretched fingers. He turns the music back up, resting his head on his seat, watching you every chance he gets. When you feel the car slow down, his blinkers going, you look ahead to where he turns into.

“‘The Yellow Wood’?” As he pulls up at the park’s entrance, he takes an off road turn, laughing when you quickly wind your window all the way up, leaning towards him as far away from the dark abyss as possible. “Minho, what is this place?”

“Some lookout point Changbin found hiking once time.” Turning onto a cliff side road, he slows to an almost stop as he drives up the bend. “Always wanted to bring you, just kept putting it off.”

“Why?”

“Dunno,” he shrugs with an odd smile. “Just thought we had more time.”

When the road ends, Minho pulls into a clearing with a view you couldn’t believe. A line of sparse trees, railings and a thick netting separate you from the edge of the cliff but it does little to obscure the view of the whole town below. You see the ocean you couldn’t before, hear the distinct chirp of crickets, the lit up houses hundreds of feet below you as you watch over them with a feeling of overwhelming omnipotence. Yellow lights weave between the bare branches, casting an ethereal, starry glow over the town.

Turning off his engine, Minho gestures at the infamous ‘somewhere’. “Thought it’d be nice if you got a whole picture of the town. You know, all at once.” When he turns to you, he sees your eyes water for the second time tonight. The yellow lights dancing in them. “Oh my god, don’t start.”

“This is so sweet,” you whine, lip trembling before he rolls his eyes, unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car. Opening your door, he kneels down at your side, pulling your legs out to tuck your trousers into your socks. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t get bitten, dummy.” Then he eyes your long sleeves and nods, before he catches your lip shaking again. With a soft glare and a finger pointed at your face in silent warning, he stands, offering his hand to you before bringing you to his car’s bonnet. Leaning against the car, he pulls you into the gap between his legs, letting you take it all in.

“It’s beautiful.” You whisper, finally seeing it in all its glory. “I mean, it’s pretty from down there too, but from up here, it’s unreal.” Leaning your head on his shoulder, you look up at him, watching the lights twinkle in his eyes. “Wish I could take it all with me.”

“You can. It’s called a picture.”

“No,” you whine, hitting him when he laughs. “I mean, just- pick it all up and take it with me.”

“Ah.”

“You included.”

“Yeah?” When you nod, he inhales in a deep, sharp breath. “You gonna miss me?” When you nod again, he turns you around. He wondered when this would start. When anything and everything would set you off. He had his money on at least a month back, so he’s quite impressed you held out this long. With eyes full to the brim, his sad smile is all it takes to break the dam, your cheeks stained in seconds. “There’s no time to cry, dummy.”

“Not even a little?” He shakes his head at that, gritting his teeth at the thought. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He lets his thumb fall to the base of your throat, letting it pass over the pendant resting there. “Best day of my life that was. And every day since.”

“Yeah?” You feel your heart split in two when you see it. How he chews on his lip, the sheen to his eyes, the knit of brows. The pain he’s disguised so well. “Same.”

“Wouldn’t change a thing,” he whispers, forcing a smile.

“Neither would I.”

A man of haste. A man who despised waiting, a man satisfied only by immediate gratification, pleasure at his say so, pleasure now. And yet there is nothing that could make Minho rush this moment: one of his last with you.

Since you told him you’d be leaving, Minho has been docked, stuck, planning out a journey he’d never thought to run by you. There are times Minho forgets a time before you, a time when he would have been fine without you: before that first day two years ago. If he’d never knocked on your door, never laid eyes on you, where would he be now? If you’d only stayed a few months as planned. If you’d left when you should have. Where- who would he be? Someone else entirely he thinks. Minho wouldn’t be him without you. He likes to think all this pain is worth at least that much. Being loved by you, changed by you.

But now, as your hands creep toward the hem of his shirt, his fingers doing the same, Minho feels his mind fog up with all the moments he took for granted. Every passing second he deemed fleeting, irrelevant. Every moment he thought he could always get back.

He kisses you slowly, meaningfully. He doesn’t take his pleasure, but quietly pleads for it. He guides your back to his car, resting you there as he leans over you, fingers sliding up beneath your blouse, tongue working your mouth as you arch into his touch, silently begging him to hurry. You too had felt the shift, his slowed pace, his reverbed moans. Everything is sensual, hypnotic, purposeful, desperate, fleeting. You’re leaving. Leaving here. Leaving him.

Minho pulls his lips from you, his cheeks stained with tears you have to live knowing you caused. With a sniff, he pants through bitten lips, watching your eyes twinkle up at him as he tugs your top over your chest, throwing caution to the wind as he lowers his lips, placing slow, open mouthed kisses over your mounds, massaging them as he drags his lips through the valley of them. His eyes can’t leave you, he has to take it all in. Your low whines, your hung jaw, your rolled eyes. He watches how even the slightest twist of his hand can pull a sound he’s sure he’d heard a million times over but couldn’t recall once.

Tonight, he rights these wrongs.

Nibbling at your flesh, lapping at your skin when you mewl, curving his arms down your spine as you arch your back into his open mouth, his lips dragging down your chest to your waist. Rising to meet you face to face, he gazes at you as you blink up at him, stars still swimming your eyes as he slowly pulls down your jeans to dip his fingers into you. He just laughs when you gasp, his smiling eyes dark with arousal yet rimmed in dolour. He pumps his fingers slowly, spreading them, stretching you with a pace so excruciating, your tears spill. He’s so lost in the way you look at him, he almost flinches when you raise a hand to his cheek, the pad of your thumb wiping at his cheek.

With a sniff, he rolls his eyes. “I’m okay.”

“But, you’re crying.”

“I know.” He nods, pressing his lips to yours, increasing his pace only just. Dropping his forehead to yours, he exhales a shaky breath, trying to banish this feeling. “I’m okay. I'll be okay.”

“Lino,” bringing your hands to his cheeks, you pull his face up, trying to focus on him, but he’s relentless. With a small tug of his head from your grasp, and a firm press to your walls, you almost leave him, head falling to the bonnet. But your eyes don’t, and you watch as tears just stream from the eyes of your summer love. “Lino, listen-”

“No, just-”

Minho never found the sentiment in intimacy..

“Just, please-” he chokes out. “Just let me do this, okay?”

Until he began making love to you..

“Let them see how much I love you.”

Praying you would find something worth staying for.

“Let me show you how much I love you.”

‘Okay,’ you mouth, nodding as your throat nearly closes, kissing him over, and over, and over. He abandons his mission for a moment, unable to recite it as his fingers vibrate. He struggles with his belt buckle, nearly catching skin as he tugs his zipper down. He catches his breath as he pumps himself, tasting you, feeling you, memorising you.

“Sorry,” he mumbles against your lips, words pouring into your mouth. “I’m ruining this.”

“Never,” you smile, pressing your pout to his forehead. “You could never.”

“I love you.” He whispers, watching your tears roll down into your hair, your eyes alight. “More than anything.”

“I love you too,” you force out, head pounding. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

“Then just- don’t..” with a press of his hips, Minho slides into you, the words lodged in his throat.

“Don’t- don’t what?” You know what he wants. You can almost hear. You can almost hear yourself. You can hear yourself saying yes.

But it doesn’t come. Not when he finally grounds himself in you, getting lost in the feeling of you, his face tucked into your neck, his sense returning with every second he spends buried inside you. He clings to you, fucking into you with deep, languid strokes, his strength returning as his name falls from your lips, calling for him.

“Minho.”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Ask me.” Your breathless plea falls from your lips as you pant, watery eyes finding his. “Ask me to stay.”

“I-” clenching his jaw, he shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Why?” He smiles down at you, kissing your stained cheeks, cradling your head. “Ask me and I’ll stay.”

“I know,” he tries, hearing your breaths quicken, your eyes fluttering. “But you made some promises you’ve got to keep, remember?” Slowing down, he strokes your cheek, lulling your eyes open. When his find yours, he grins. “And I can’t- I won’t get in the way of that. If what you want is out there, then you have to go, even if it kills me.

“But I just need you to make one more for me, okay?” He feels his tears roll off his chin, wetting your chest as you paw at his skin, nodding, dizzied by your pleasure, his pain. “I’ll be waiting right where you left me, so when you’re done out there, you come back and you find me, okay? I’ll be right here. Can you do that? Can you promise me that?”

“Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I promise.”

It’s enough for now. No matter how empty, no matter how baseless a promise it is, Minho finds strength in it to go on. “Okay.”

“Hi, one gin and tonic, please.” You call over the bar. Luckily it’s warm out, the must of early summer clings to the air. It’s the perfect night for a restaurant opening, lights decorate the trees, the air fresh from the sea. You can see the whole town from this high up.

“One gin and tonic-” the bartender starts before looking up, eyes gleaming, starry from the yellow lights tangling the trees of the Yellow Wood. Reaching for a straw, he drops it in your glass, huffing, “What are you doing back here?”

“Keeping a promise.” Taking a sip of your drink, you let your eyes take the place in. The outdoor bar sits at the top of the cliff, right where his car was parked. A few yards away is his family’s new restaurant, a pretty hangul sign spelling ‘Lee’ in perfect script fixed upon it. “Plus, I heard someone built a restaurant on this death trap. I had to come see it for myself.”

“You didn’t RSVP.”

“Did too. It might have gotten lost in the mail..” You assume, though just over your shoulder Minho can see all your friends gawking at the two of you from Felix’s brick oven work station, and he suddenly remembers who’d been in charge of the invites.

Softening at the thought, Minho asks- “How’s London?”

“Good,” you shrug. “You look good.”

“I-” catching him off guard, Minho glares at you, his nose wrinkling in only slight disgust before he softens again. “You look great.”

“Wow,” you swoon, beaming at him. “Look at you. You’re not shy with the compliments any more, huh?”

Polishing a glass, he shrugs, “Got almost two years worth to catch up on.”

“Sounds like that’ll take a while.”

“What, you in a rush?” He skilfully probes with just a sprinkle of disinterest. “Someone to get back to?”

It’s then you take a long sip, watching the heat cling to him, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck before he looks at you, holding your gaze as you shake your head. “No.”

He looks away when you smirk, squinting at his blatant relief. “Didn’t meet anyone nice?”

“A couple people,” you shrug, fiddling with the straw. “No British Minhos though.”

“Ah,” he tuts, practically beaming. “I’d say that’s a shame, but-”

“Had a few decent fucks though.”

“Decent, you say?” He asks without missing a beat, tilting his head when you nod. “Didn’t take you for the type to settle.”

“Well, I get it where I can.”

“And tonight?”

“Hm?”

“Tonight,” he repeats, swallowing. “Where are you getting it?”

“Depends.” You hum, eyes locked on his.

“On?”

With a short exhale and zero tact, you ask- “Have you met anyone?”

Your heart stalls when he smiles, his eyes cast a little south of your own.

“Not since then.” Nodding his head towards you, you follow his gaze with your hand before reaching the base of your neck, your fingers landing on your pendant. There’s a beat before he asks, “How long are you in town?”

He laughs when you try and fail to bite back a grin, words spilling from your lips. “Again, it depends.”

“On?”

“On how long you want me here?”

Minho never found the sentiment in intimacy. Until he began making love to you, praying you would find something worth staying for.

Chewing back a smirk, he shrugs, “I don’t know-”

“Just a ballpark,” you whispered as he rounded the bar, ignoring the watchful eyes of all your friends. “However long you want.”

But you didn’t.

“Yeah?” After a long pause, he breathes, “Does forever work for you?”

You found something worth coming back for.

“Forever’s good.”

#minho #lee minho #lee know #minho x reader #lee minho x reader #minho smut #lee know smut #lee minho smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #stray kids #jisungparker #lee know x reader #i like this a lot :o

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moralitas · 3 years

Note

Hiya! Sorry if you've already answered this, but what inspired you to write your Chaos Barren Au? Btw I like the way you write sonic and fleetway's interaction with each other! Have a nice day!

@someyugoandyurimagico

I have no idea when I got this ask so I'M VERY SORRY it's taken me so long! I haven't answered this actually!

Chaos Barren was part of some fun theorizing about Movie!Sonic over a year ago. We compared his power level and skills and tossed the theory that he was either a chaos emerald or had the power of one. Then the topic came around about Boom!Sonic being so much slower and weaker than the other Sonics. In many ways, BB is faster and stronger than him.

This started the idea that there might be a reason for it. So if Sonics were partially powered through chaos, would a weaker sonic possibly indicate a chaos barren world?

The world building started here! I absolutely adore world building and loved the concept art for Rise of Lyric. I was a little possessed which is why I was able to crank out nearly 10k chapters in a week.

I started chatting with Ren and Fourth here, they helped me work out some kinks in the story, and we came up with a pretty ending for Chaos Barren. But I loved the world so much I wanted to tell more. And I wanted my favorite ship in there as well! Boomverse is so underdeveloped you can do anything you like!

Fleetway was originally going to be an antagonist. Very true to his original iteration, a god of chaos bent on power and destruction. But we realized that if he had been bound to mortals for so long wouldn't he grow to care for them? At least a little?

The answer was yes. But Fleetway doesn't care about them in the same way mortals do. He grieves their loss, but not in the same way because their energy will always be a part of him. He's selfish in the sense that he cares most about whoever his chosen is at the time. Right now their interactions are that of someone who knows a lot and is used to getting their way, but still cares about Sonic and someone who was tossed into a 'responsibility' without being told what it was.

Now, I write much slowly, but I just finished saying tonight that I wished I could dump the contents of my brain into a word doc to deliver the story. But unfortunately, I must do it the long way.

Thanks SO MUCH for the ask, I've been getting started on the next chapter and while I can't speak for speed I'm so happy to know you're enjoying it and you think about it!

Have a GREAT NIGHT

#ask #chaos barren au #This fic is so ambitious and sometimes im like #yo this is good

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storybookprincess · 4 years

Note

writing asks!! these seemed fun. numbers 2, 4, 7, 10, 14, 15, 19, and 20? i'm so sorry these are so many, but i love your writing and i'm a curious person :')

omg pls pls don’t apologize i love that you sent so many in thank you!!!!!

2. Tell us about what you’re most looking forward to writing – in your current project, or a future project

okay SO i think i’ve decided that for the 2021 hxh big bang, i’m going to write a royalty au that i’ve been toying with for a while. it’ll probably be my longest fic to date & it’s shaping up to be a TON of work (i’m probably gonna have to start on it soon to have enough time to finish), but i’m really excited for it!!!! killua is the crown prince, gon is his bodyguard, slow burn vaguely historical royalty au. i can’t wait!!!!

4. Share a sentence or paragraph from your writing that you’re really proud of (explain why, if you like)

not to get super obnoxious on you here but one of my least popular stories in the fandom is one that’s nearest & dearest to my heart. “rules and exceptions (an incomplete list)” was in a lot of ways me processing 2018, which was the worst year with my illness i’ve ever had. and so much of that fic explores the psychological devastation & general hopelessness that comes from being powerless in the face of unrelenting pain & then the eventual ways we heal from that. i don’t think it’s my best work by any means--many many parts of it are super clumsy--nor is it my most popular, but it’s really special to me because it represents a very deliberate attempt to channel a lot of pain & suffering into art. anyway the following lines are an example of that

“And what comes next is a month of pain unlike anything he’s ever experienced. After only a few days he’s already beginning to forget that he’s a person and not just a body his name the color of his eyes the things he enjoys he can hardly recall any of it he’s half delirious vision blurring and shaking all over and nothing matters but ending the pain please God please anyone please make it stop.”

in particular, the line “he begins to forget that he’s a person & not just a body” is something i’ve said verbatim about my own life in bad illness periods. and to me, taking that awful feeling from my real life & making art out of it is something i’m extremely proud of. again, the fic isn’t necessarily my best work, but i’m so proud of what it represents to me personally.

7. What do you think are the characteristics of your personal writing style? Would others agree?

ooooh this is a really interesting one!!! okay so i think i write an extremely, extremely close 3rd person narration to the point that it often borders on unreliable, a LOT of internal monologues for characters, very vivid emotions that are nearly always mediated by the character’s bodies. in terms of my actual syntax, i use a TON of repetition. and i feel like my word choice is almost, idk, formal?? like i don’t use a lot of casual or informal words or phrases in my writing. the language all takes itself quite seriously lol

10. How would you describe your writing process?

i tend to work best in short bursts. once i have an outline, i’m a big fan of doing writing sprints. set a timer & write as fast as i can for that length of time, either solo or with other people on discord. i’m also not someone who usually can crank out 10k in a weekend. i do better writing a thousand words here or there over the span of several days to a week. also i do a TON of editing!!!! i’m really fussy about having things be just so, so i edit a lot.

14. At what point in writing do you come up with a title?

usually as soon as i have a decent sense of the story, i’m looking for a title. i totally cheat with titles--i just slap on a tangentially related line of poetry or song lyric & call it a day. i put such little thought into it that i’m almost ashamed of myself. once i’ve got something that sounds okay, i’m good!!

15. Which is harder: titles or summaries (or tags)?

SUMMARIES OH MY GOD!!!!!!! i feel like having a good summary is one of the the biggest determining factors as to whether your story gets read, so i really really want to have a good one. but it’s hard to figure out what will motivate people to click, you know??

19. Is there something you always find yourself repeating in your writing? (favourite verb, something you describe ‘too often’, trope you can’t get enough of?)

done!!! ^_^

20. Tell us the meta about your writing that you really want to ramble to people about (symbolism you’ve included, character or relationship development that you love, hidden references, callbacks or clues for future scenes?)

okay i talked about this in a comment to some readers BUT nature imagery/symbolism in universal bones!!!!! basically the changing seasons & nature imagery in the story are meant to reflect killua’s journey.

tl;dr version: the story opens with killua using his magic to change the leaves in autumn. even though he enjoys it, it’s still an act of death. and killua is at a very very low point in the start of the story, so it’s meant to reflect his turmoil & hopelessness. the confrontation with illumi takes place on the winter solstice. winter solstice = shortest/darkest day of the year, and it’s the darkest point in the story for killua. fic ends roughly 3 months later (around the spring solstice). spring = rebirth/renewal, so the transition from autumn to winter to spring is meant to reflect killua’s emotional journey throughout the story. how things eventually heal and grow. the final line of the story is something like “and all around them, the daffodils bloom” (don’t quote me on this i don’t have it pulled up right now) daffodils are a spring flower, yellow & bright & cheerful & symbolic of hope & new beginnings. so the story opens with falling leaves & closes with blooming flowers, which is meant to show killua’s development over the course of the story & his newfound happiness & meaning!!!

i realize i said that was the tl;dr version but it ended up pretty long i apologize

#asked and answered #Anonymous

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foxtophat · 4 years

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hahah well here i am back on my 10k word bullshit

promise the next chapter is way shorter, john is just so fucking over the top that i spend so much time just trying to organize his thoughts for you guys lmfao. what a chad, right?????

anyway, i hope you guys enjoy nick and john bitching at each other, because that’s pretty much the theme of this chapter. i really enjoyed writing it, which should tell you everything you need to know about how bad a day john is about to have

as usual, i hope that you enjoy! if you do, please consider throwing me a bone in the form of a kudos, comment or reblog -- i eat those up like turkish delight, nom nom nom

also as usual, i got the fic text beneath a readmore for my friends who like to stay on one page. no matter what your reading experience, i will try to accommodate for you!!!

i hope you guys are all having a good day and that it continues to be good even after i’m done giving you fic to read!! that’s... all that’s all i got

John had known offering his help was a mistake as soon as he'd done it. Suggesting that he knew where hidden supplies might be was obviously setting himself up for colossal failure, but he'd had to think on his feet. He hadn't wanted to build up Kim's hopes, or encourage her to talk to Nick about it. All he'd wanted was for her to go back upstairs so he could sneak outside without her haranguing him for it. Then he'd seen how much it had reassured her, and the obligation to follow through had set in. Now, no matter how obvious a failure the endeavor may become, he has no choice but to push forward with the plan.

That's why John doesn't protest when Nick suggests they go sooner than later. He probably should, because it's been too hot to dig for the past week already, but the sooner he disappoints Kim, the less disappointment he'll incur. None of them will have time to blow things out of proportion. The cache he has in mind had been buried by Jacob a little under a mile outside of town, in some unused patch of farmland. They'll be back before sundown, and the sting of returning empty-handed won't last too unbearably long.

Of course, when the morning comes to go look for the cache, John can barely manage to drag himself out of bed. If he'd thought yesterday's heat was unbearable, then he doesn't know what he'd call today. The sun has barely risen and it's already baked his room, leaving him tangled up in sweaty sheets. Summer has always been John's least favorite month, even before the Collapse, but there has to be something wrong for them to be going through a second week of a heatwave. At least blaming the nuclear apocalypse for their shitty weather makes him feel slightly better.

He can't tell if he managed to sleep, but from the way his head aches as he slowly rises, John is willing to bed he failed that task yet again. God, what he wouldn't give for some fucking Ambien. Even a good, stiff drink would help, but John's shot tolerance hasn't recovered from his last encounter for post-apocalyptic liquor, so that's out of the question. Just his luck — he's going to have to suffer a whole day around Nick without much keeping him upright.

Even in the relatively cool shade downstairs, John finds himself blinking sweat out of his eyes. It's a struggle for him to focus on anything besides how miserable he is. If only he could blame it on trauma — but no, he's just never handled prolonged heat well. Montana might not have Georgia's overwhelming humidity, but the temperature climbs twenty degrees higher, and summer out here never seems to fucking end . That, combined with his pitiful heat tolerance, is probably why he's running on maybe two hours of sleep.

There are a handful of raw carrots on his plate, next to a few strips of old jerky that even Nick is leaving for last. It's going to be a long, long day, and he's not going to be getting much else until dinner, but John can't scrounge up any sort of appetite. He hasn't been hungry for what feels like days now, and his stomach barely tolerates anything more than water.

"Hey," Carmina asks, leaning into John's peripheral vision, "Can I have that?"

John doesn't know which part of his meal she's eying, but he slides the plate her way regardless. Kim watches him do it, openly frowning at him because she's also seen him picking around his food at every meal. So far, she hasn't said anything to him about it. Why would she? His lack of an appetite means that Carmina gets to have more. She can't possibly complain about that.

Nick is more vocal about his concern, furrowing his brow as he asks for the second time this morning, "You sure you're okay?"

"Yes," John replies once again. He's too tired to be exasperated, but he wishes Nick would knock it the fuck off, at least until after they leave. The last thing he needs right now is for Kim to hold some sort of intervention. Just in case, he qualifies his yes , choosing the most honest excuse he can this early in the morning. "I'm exhausted," he says. "I didn't get much sleep."

"Do you really wanna do this today, then? I mean, you said this thing was buried, and I don't wanna get stuck digging it out myself."

"I won't be any better rested tomorrow," John sighs, suppressing the yawn that tries to follow.

Nick doesn't look pleased, but he relents with a shrug. It isn't like they're going somewhere particularly dangerous, and even if they do happen to run into trouble, Fall's End will be within eyesight. The wildlife won't be much of a problem, and drifters are more common in the eastern part of the county, moving in from the 94 and occasionally trying to bully their way through. John's confident that they won't run into any trouble, even if he winds up passing out mid-dig.

John lets the rest of breakfast wash around him as he counts the minutes until they leave. He feels distinctly separated from the moment, the Rye family nothing more than white noise going in one ear and out the other. Silently dissociating around their idyllic family unit is still the norm, of course, but at least today he can blame it on too much heat and not enough sleep. Maybe he'll be able to get some rest in the truck, assuming Nick doesn't decide to test the suspension over every goddamn pothole.

Nick reluctantly says goodbye to Kim after breakfast, repeating it two or three times as Kim and Carmina see him off from the porch. John doesn't remember Nick as an anxious person; he doesn't know if there had always been long, uneasy goodbyes on the porch before work. The Collapse has turned most everybody into a paranoid mess, but maybe John just never knew Nick very well to begin with. He doesn't want to ask.

"Okay," Nick says once they're both buckled in, the windows cranked down. "You said we're looking for a silo outside of town?"

John waits until the truck lurches into drive to respond. "The silo was a convenient marker, but I doubt it's still there. I know where to look, though — assuming the landscape hasn't changed too dramatically."

"Well, let's hope so. I don't want to dig around for nothing."

"We both know who's going to be doing the digging."

"I thought it was gonna be you, until you nearly passed out at breakfast. Probably gonna leave me with the hard work like the selfish prick you are."

"I'll be fine," John replies, yawning unabashedly. He rests his head next to the open window, closing his eyes against the hot wind. "I've done more with less energy."

"Yeah, sure," Nick says, rolling his eyes hard enough that John can hear it in his voice. He waits a few beats for John to return the gentle banter, but John can't muster up the energy. He needs to save it all for the dig. It's going to be hard enough on Nick, who manages to sleep at night. John isn't expecting to have much left for anything else once this is all over. It'll be a miracle if he makes it back home.

Quickly figuring out that John isn't in the mood to talk, Nick falls quiet. There isn't a radio station to listen to, so he hums under his breath occasionally, gently swerving along the cracked asphalt to avoid potholes. He's usually happy to bounce through them, but John knows better than to think it's for his sake.

John opens his eyes briefly, just in time to see the washed out turn that once led towards the Ranch. He hasn't been back yet. He doesn't think he could bear asking the Ryes for permission, let alone see the place rotting in a field. Despite repeated assurances to Joseph that he didn't care about his stronghold, he had hand-picked the furniture, the paint, the bedding — all of it — and he had spared little expense. Now, all of his pride and poorly spent money has been abandoned, probably picked clean by scavengers over the harshest years. After all, the security systems he had dropped thousands of dollars into hadn't been able to stop a cop wielding a shotgun — he doubts they would do much to deter anybody now.

He should have listened to Jacob when he'd said it was a waste of time. Of course, John hadn't paid much attention to anything Jacob said unless it was directly related to the Project. Part of him wishes he'd made more of an effort to connect with his oldest brother, but he doubts that he would have made it to this side of the Collapse if he had.

Once he starts thinking about Jacob, it's hard to stop. It's not much of a surprise that his oldest brother is on his mind, considering how often his dreams are haunted by Jacob's presence. Thankfully, with the sun in the sky and the wind on his face, John's more inclined to remember him for who he was, instead of imagining him as the specter of his nightmares. There are no dark corners for him to lurk in, and for once John imagines him as the quiet, withdrawn man he was.

It might have been almost ten years ago, but John can still remember riding along in Jacob's truck, listening to him hum along with the radio. The heat had broken late in August that year, so while the heat had been awful when Jacob had picked him up, it hadn't wiped John completely out. Not that it would have mattered — Jacob had no patience for John's distaste of heat, and he would have forced the issue regardless.

He'd gotten a brisk call fifteen minutes before Jacob showed up at the Ranch, telling him to be ready. John hadn't known what to be ready for, but he'd stopped asking questions by this point — when Joseph or Jacob arrived unannounced, he would only follow after them and do whatever they asked. As long as he did that, they would mostly leave him to his own devices. It had been more freedom than John had ever had in his life.

"You're positive nobody saw them," Jacob reiterates from the driver's seat. The memory of his voice bounces like an echo in John's skull.

"Of course I am," John remembers saying. He remembers being exasperated. Frustrated that even Jacob didn't trust him with menial tasks anymore. He had understood Joseph's distrust, had it explained plainly to him, but Jacob wouldn't even give him the chance to earn back the trust he'd somehow managed to lose. "Not that it matters," he remembers adding. "What can they do? It's our property. We could bury a plane there and they wouldn't be able to stop us."

Jacob's heavy sigh belies his irritation. "That's not always going to be the case. We don't know how the Reaping will go. Or the Collapse. You don't know what will be the last straw."

He'd been stressed. In two weeks, the Reaping would begin, but for now, Jacob's only concern is maintaining a steady flow of willing and able soldiers. He'd been irritable all the time, ever since he and Eli had fallen out, getting short with everybody, even Joseph, who allowed Jacob to be openly insubordinate even while punishing John for the same crime. The main problem in the weeks before the Reaping had been the slowing influx of soldiers making it through the trials. Lots of people had made it through at first. Nowadays, the conversion rate has dipped significantly. Jacob says it's because the people aren't strong enough, but John has a suspicion that it might have something to do with the Bliss, which has become more potent and arguably more toxic since Rachel's arrival as Faith. John hasn't brought up his concerns yet, because nobody has bothered to ask for his opinion. He will never get the chance to find out if he was right.

"John," Jacob's voice calls from the far away driver's seat. He sounds deeply, strangely concerned. "I'm trying to save you."

The words aren't right at all. John's body feels heavy in his seat, the hot air scratching at his face through the window. Where is he? They're on their way, but where?

The next thing Jacob says is achingly familiar, down to his tired inflection. "Joseph is worried about you," he says. "He still worries about your commitment."

It had been a warning, clear as day, and at the time it had filled John with a deep dread. But now, John feels nothing. Let Joseph be disappointed in him. Let him regret ever bringing John back into his life. John hopes it's a bitter pill he chokes on.

John had been on the defensive that day, scoffing loudly and snapping, "And yet, I'm the one converting the faithless." But the defensiveness is missing in the words. The people he'd been using like points against his brother are all dead now, and bragging about the things he'd done only roils his stomach.

"I don't think it's about converting people." Jacob reaches for the rear-view mirror, checking it for the umpteenth time as the truck trundles towards the distant silo. "Forget the religious bullshit for a minute. What we're doing, what's going to happen — we can't afford mistakes. We have to be prepared for every possibility. You understand that, don't you?"

"Nobody saw them," John sighs. "I promise ."

"Good," Jacob mutters. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets it out.

"Honestly, though. There are caches all over the county. I don't remember you being so particular about the last dozen drop points I organized."

At first, Jacob hadn't responded. John had thought at the time that it was because he was tired of having to explain his every move to someone as soft and short-sighted as John. He'd figured, as he always had, that Jacob saw him as nothing but the PR arm of the Project, kept around out of blood loyalty and nothing else. He would grimace whenever John mentioned atonement, mentioned his hard work, and John had suspected he thought it was beneath him.

But now John wonders if that's all there was to it.

"I'm trying to cover for every possibility," Jacob says. "That's all. It'd be good if you could help me."

"I did help," John retorts. "I do help. I do everything Joseph asks me to, and I don't complain about it. I don't complain when you order my men and me around, either, even though that was never part of the deal."

Jacob clicks his tongue against his teeth. He's checking the mirrors again, all of them. John remembers him checking the glove-box during their conversation, but he doesn't do that now. It hadn't mattered — there hadn't been anything in there — but John remembers it being very, very strange. The glove-box hangs open for a moment in his memory, as he looks through the windshield and spots the tall, bright red silo down the road.

"I wish you would plan ahead for yourself," Jacob says at last. "Stop taking orders and start taking initiative."

John huffs. "You've seen how well Joseph responds to that."

"Yeah," Jacob replies. John had been too arrogant to realize at the time that Jacob was commiserating with him, leaving him feeling deeply guilty now.

"He's convinced that the Reaping is going to begin any time now," John continues, ignoring Jacob's visible-in-hindsight unease. "Do we really have time to be burying barrels of ammunition? Or is this your newest plan to stick it to Eli?"

"It's for after the Reaping," Jacob says.

"A whole lot of good it does us this far from the bunkers."

Jacob had a real response for John, once. It had even satisfied him, at least enough to stop his complaining. But John doesn't remember what Jacob's reasoning had been; all he has is his exhausted brain struggling to stitch together the memory.

"There's so much you don't know. That you'll never find out." Jacob reaches out, his hand resting on John's shoulder, but there's no physical connection. John can't feel the weight of his hand, and for a dizzying moment the world around him turns smudged and blurry. There's a distinct melancholy in the words that Jacob never exhibited. "You know that I didn't believe any of it."

The weight on his shoulder comes out of nowhere, startling John awake as Nick calls his name. He kicks the dashboard as he jolts upright, and Nick leans back as he flings his hands out to steady himself.

"Shit," he gasps, grabbing the door handle. One disorienting glance is all John needs to realize where he is; Nick has pulled up just past the church, and the late summer heat of the apocalyptic landscape reasserts itself as reality once more.

"Sorry," Nick says. "I just, uh... need some directions from here."

"Yes," John replies. The urge to bolt from the truck is overwhelming, but John clings to the door and manages to stay in his seat. "Of course."

They sit for a minute before Nick awkwardly prompts, "Uh... Well?"

John desperately attempts to reorient himself, still stuck in the fog of his dream. "There should be a left turn up ahead. The silo was in a field on the right side of the road, just before the turnout before Larry Parker's house."

"God, talk about whack-jobs," Nick mutters as he pulls ahead. The intersection is mostly washed out now, barely distinguishable from the dunes that have formed over the fields, but Nick has a local's muscle memory. "I mean, I believe in aliens as much as the next guy, but Jesus . You hear what happened to him?"

"Not specifically. I assumed he was killed in the Reaping or the Collapse." Despite himself, John finds his curiosity piqued. "Why? Was I wrong?"

"I mean... I guess it's up to your interpretation." Nick doesn't bother to ease around the potholes now that John is awake, bumping them down along the cracked asphalt. "So, the way Dep told me, they went to go check up on Larry, y'know, make sure he's okay. Larry's got his weird-ass machines going, and he's talkin' about aliens and shit, as he usually is, and Dep keeps going, 'Larry, there's no time for aliens, there are cultists coming for you!' But, of course Larry pushes the point until Dep caves, like, 'Fine, let's fix the generator first, then we can run from the cult.'

"Except the cult rolled up right on top of them before they could patch everything up. Of course, Dep manages to clear them out, and Larry gets his machine working in the meantime. He says, 'help me get to Mars, Deputy!' and they figure, 'hey, might as well humor him.' I mean, what else can you do when the guy you're trying to evacuate insists he's got a fast pass to outer space?"

"Is this honestly what the Deputy was dealing with while we were in the middle of seizing the Valley and its resources?" John asks. He probably shouldn't be surprised, but really . Larry Parker's life couldn't possibly have been worth all the effort involved.

"I guess," Nick shrugs. "People were asking them to do all sorts of weird shit. So, anyway, Larry says so long to Dep and to Earth, and tells Dep to flip the switch. Dep decides that the sooner Larry realizes this isn't going to work, the better, so they turn the machine on the way Larry told them to, and, well, long story short, I guess the thing vaporized the poor guy."

However the story was supposed to end, that hadn't been what John expected. His disbelief is momentarily overwhelming, and he can't help but choke out, " Excuse me?"

Nick shrugs. "I mean, that's what Dep told me later. They were real bummed out about it, too. I guess that makes sense, since they felt responsible. But, at the same time... he said it was a teleporter, right? So maybe he wasn't vaporized at all. Maybe he really did get zapped to Mars."

"The choices are 'vaporized' or 'teleported to Mars'? Are you serious?"

"I guess Dep could have been bullshitting me, but it fits with what I remember about the guy."

John frowns. "I suppose either option is better than what happened to the rest of us," he says, "Although realistically, the man was one paranoid delusion away from assassinating a government official. I don't think he was nearly as technologically savvy as he professed himself to be."

"He wasn't that bad," Nick says as he shakes his head. "He was just some kook who believed in aliens more than people. And, well... I mean, if he really did make it to Mars, then we probably look like a bunch of assholes from wherever he's sitting." He sighs, then admits, "I wish I could've gone to Mars. I bet Kim would like it there."

" Why ?"

"I dunno, she always wanted to go on foreign trips and stuff. Can't get much more foreign than outer space." He hums thoughtfully, then says, "I guess she would've been pregnant, though, and if you can't fly with a pregnant lady, I bet you can't vaporize them either."

John takes a deep breath through his nose before he responds, reminding himself that he owes Nick his life. "That's a logical assumption," he manages to say, proud of his nearly-neutral delivery.

"Oh, shut up," Nick snaps, although he doesn't seem particularly upset by John's back-talk. "I'm just saying, if that's what would happen. It's not like I'm gonna go hot-wire the thing and test it out now ."

"I certainly hope not. There's no way I'm explaining that to the bloodthirsty mob that comes for me after you've disintegrated."

They've nearly reached the end of the road. John can see the T-shaped intersection coming up ahead, but he doesn't immediately recognize the right-hand field. A copse of pine trees have put down roots, and although John can see the skeletal framework of the hay storage, there's no sign of the silo that once marked the spot. John doesn't know if it was destroyed during the Reaping or in the Collapse. It doesn't really matter — everything it held has long since rotted away.

"Here?" Nick asks as they roll to the end of the road. John remembers Jacob slowing along the empty field; he had barely come to a stop to investigate the location. It had been around here that Jacob had checked the tilled soil for any hint at what lay underneath. He'd seemed content with how John's people had handled it, leaving the field as unassuming and untouched as they had found it.

If there had been any hint left behind in the silo or the hay storage, it's been wiped from the face of the planet. Long, sun-bleached panels of what used to be a silo lay scattered across the ground, weather-beaten past their use. Some pieces are pinned in place by the nine-year tree growth, never to be moved again. It's a struggle for John to envision the spot as it used to be, but there's no doubt that this is the right place.

"Yes," John says. "This is it."

Nick puts the truck in park and climbs out of the cab. John waits a moment longer, hoping to spot some hidden bump or curve that would indicate where to dig, but of course nothing reveals itself. He should have paid more attention. At the very least, he should have paid more attention to Jacob's diatribes about preparedness. Maybe he would be able to determine exactly where to start if he had.

John's nerves ease as he steps out of the car and stands at the edge of the worn-out road. It doesn't matter if he doesn't remember the exact spot — there's always been an element of gut instinct in understanding Jacob's methods, and John has plenty of that to rely on in lieu of real information. If he has to waste his time out here, then he might as well try to waste it productively.

He meanders a bit along the shoulder, then takes ten paces onto the field. Instinct has him go another twenty steps, until he's halfway between the truck and the hay storage. "Here, I think," he calls out to Nick, who's wandered ahead to explore the wreckage.

"Are you sure?" Nick asks as he passes John, returning to the truck for the shovels. "I don't wanna be digging holes all day like some kind of Stanley Yelnats."

" I'll be the one digging," John replies tepidly. "I don't need your help."

"What else am I gonna do, sit around and watch you all day? C'mon, let's get to work."

Really, John had expected as much. Nick can't leave things alone, and he can't resist giving whatever help he can. Long ago, John had figured it was a sign of Nick's obsessive need for control, something dark to be manipulated hidden under a folksy veneer. He had never considered that Nick's stubborn helpfulness had really been a coping mechanism for some long-standing anxiety. Even now, knowing full well that Nick's biggest worry is seeming unhelpful, John struggles to accept it. It still rubs him the wrong way when Nick insists on giving him a hand on some menial task that he ordered John to do in the first place.

Digging a three-foot hole is easier with two people, though, so of course John doesn't argue. The two of them hit a rhythm pretty quickly, although John's lack of sleep is slowing him down. Normally, the beat of manual labor is the only thing that helps empty out his mind, getting him as close to meditation as possible these days. For the first few months with the Ryes, it had been the only tangible comfort he had. He could disengage mentally while performing simple tasks with visible results, then ascribe to them penance for any one of his crimes. Even now, John can't help but wonder which sin he's paying for as he buries the spade into the ground.

They dig three feet down before John calls it. "Okay, fine ," he hisses through gritted teeth. "It's close to here. Maybe..."

John ignores Nick's theatrical sigh as he takes a few paces to the left and begins all over again. Of course, it doesn't take long before Nick joins back in.

"Maybe we should hunt down a metal detector," Nick suggests when the second hole reveals nothing.

"Sure, Nick," John snaps, "Add that to the other rational shit on your wife's shopping list."

"Jesus, it was just a joke."

John is far too hot, tired and sweaty to handle any jokes right now, much less from somebody he's trying to help. If Nick thinks John is digging around under the blazing sun just for his own enjoyment, then he can go fuck himself.

Even with John's attitude tanking rapidly, Nick continues to help him dig another hole and a half. His help only makes the defeat sting worse when John has finally had enough. He has no energy left, which makes flopping down on the dirt as easy as giving up. He buries his sweaty, sunburned face into his dirty hands, unable to hold back a groan.

"God damn it."

"What, that's it?" Nick huffs, pushing his hat back to wipe at his sweating forehead. He's using his shovel as a prop, and no amount of bravado can hide how much John's wild goose chase has worn him down. "You're just giving up?"

" No ," John spits, despite that being exactly what he's doing. "I just need a fucking break ."

There was a time when Nick would have punched him for being so miserable, but he doesn't even comment on it today. Somehow, it manages to make John feel worse, as though Nick's pity is fueling his fiery self-loathing. Nothing helps, especially not when Nick jabs his shovel into the dirt and offers John an excuse. "Probably need something to eat," he says. "Some water, or something. Look... just stay there, okay? I got a canteen in the truck, it'll just take a second."

The most response John can offer up is an affirmative grunt. He drops his hands from his face, watching Nick retreat to the truck before turning his eyes on the derelict storage in the opposite direction. He should have known better. He should have known that it would be impossible to find the cache without Jacob's help. Other than a set of probably mis-remembered coordinates and a gut sensation of being so close , John is flying completely blind. Why the hell hadn't he known any better? He could have saved them the time, gas and disappointment, if only he'd just kept his stupid mouth shut.

He guesses it must be progress that he's blaming himself and not Kim, whose insomnia kicked this whole thing off. It doesn't feel like much to show.

The wind changes direction, finally sending the few clouds in the sky drifting past the sun. The breeze picks up, sending a ripple of noise through the young pines. Pink-flowered vines creep through the roots of the trees and up the metal legs of the shed, twisting and choking the rest of the weeds just like they do everywhere else. Despite them being a mysterious, invasive species, they soften the landscape, lending a pink sugar-coating to the wasteland. John watches the blossoms bob in the breeze and thinks that Joseph might have been wrong about a lot of things, but he hadn't been too far off in declaring Hope County a promising garden.

The flowers look so much like the ones that had decorated the hem of Faith's dress that it's impossible not to think about her. John remembers the silk blossoms stitched onto lace, trying to conceal the ripped hem. There had been a dozen women who had tried to take on the mantle left behind by Joseph's wife, but now the only one John can imagine is Rachel, dancing in the sunlight. Even now he sees her swaying along with the wind, although he only has to blink for the vision to fade. A dozen women hadn't made the same impression that Rachel had. They hadn't been as proactive as her when it came to the Path, and they couldn't hold a candle to her wide-eyed understanding of the Bliss. None of them had adopted themselves as a sister into the family, turning quickly into the golden child that Joseph could praise over all others. They'd tried to fill the shoes of a dead woman that they couldn't hold a candle to. Rachel had been much, much smarter than that.

After all, none of those women haunt the landscape the way Rachel does. John, tired as he is, can almost hear her playfully humming on the breeze. She would sing in his bunker, vibrant and full-throated hymns written by dead followers, but now he only ever imagines the quietest tunes. Faith always seemed to be everywhere at once, thanks to the Bliss, but now she only seems to exist where John's memory allows.

Although the music fades as quickly as it came, John feels it echoing inside him. He closes his eyes against the bright afternoon light, but that doesn't do much to ease the pounding headache that's swiftly developing. He can feel his pulse against the hard-packed dirt when he drops his hands to the ground. Faith's laughter in his mind is quiet and playfully condescending as he's overwhelmed by the urge to stagger to the safety of the trees.

Nick abruptly appears in front of John, his worried face hidden under his hat. "Let's get you into the shade," he says, his voice warped by the blood rushing through John's ears. Nothing improves as Nick helps him to his feet and drags him under the shady pines. His head pounds as he collapses against one of the trees; when Nick puts the canteen in his hands, he takes a few grateful pulls of warm water until the headache begins to recede.

"Goddamn it, John," Nick says. "You have got to knock this shit off. You can't keep pushing yourself until you get sick. What am I supposed to do if you get heatstroke? Do you think we have unlimited supplies to keep dealing with your bullshit? I can't keep taking care of you."

"Whatever," John croaks. "I'm fine. I just need a minute."

"You can't seriously think I'm going to let you keep going. You must be delirious."

Taking one more long drink of water, John finally drops the canteen into his lap. "You don't understand," he rasps. "I'm not — it's here. I know it is, I just..."

Nick waits a beat before he takes up where John trails off. " You need to rest. You think Kim and I don't notice you're not eating or sleeping again? Hell, even Carmina notices, and she doesn't give a shit about you. How exactly are you supposed to be any use to us if you're like this all the time?"

John scowls, but he doesn't respond. How can he? Nick is right.

When all he gets is silence, Nick finally heaves a tired sigh and crouches down to John's level. "Look, we'll compromise, okay?" he suggests, with a tone he usually reserves for Carmina. "You're gonna rest here for me, and I'm gonna go dig another hole for you. If I don't find anything, we'll go back home and try again once you're better prepared."

He should resent Nick for treating him like a child, but John can only surrender with a weary nod. "I promise it's here," he says, hating how audible his misery is. "I know it is."

Nick scratches his brow. "I believe you," he says, although John doubts his sincerity. "We're gonna find it — maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but we'll do it. You, uh, want me to keep digging where we were, or..."

John sighs, slumping against the tree. "Yeah," he rasps. "Sure."

It's a miserable feeling, knowing that he's sending Nick on a wild goose chase, but John doesn't stop the other man from heading back out into the sun. He watches Nick pick a spot at seemingly random, drifting in and out as he waits for Nick to give up. He wouldn't even have to dig a full three feet before writing the whole thing off as one of John's delusions. John wishes Nick were that kind of man.

There's nothing there. That much is obvious when Nick finally stops digging, knee-deep in the hole and scrubbing furiously at his forehead. John knows just enough about Nick to suspect he'd genuinely hoped to find it — which just makes the defeat that much worse. John is used to disappointing himself, but letting Nick down stings.

"It's fine," John rasps when Nick returns, not waiting for platitudes or empty reassurances. "Let's just go."

Nick helps John to his feet again, and to make things worse, he keeps making suggestions. "Maybe we can find a tractor that still works. I bet there's probably a back-hoe somewhere in the county we could fix up. That might make it easier, right?"

They cut through the trees to reach the road, and John covers his eyes as they move back into the bright light. He turns back to look at the empty holes they've left behind — and for just a second, he can clearly see the bright red silo where it once stood. It's only a fleeting glimpse of the past, but it's as clear as if he were staring at it from Jacob's truck, enjoying the air conditioning while ignoring Jacob as he says, "So long as we're prepared, we can always start again."

"Wait," John says. "Hold on."

"Come on," Nick groans loudly, "It's hot, I'm tired, and this is getting depressing ."

John rolls his eyes, grabbing one of the shovels from the truck before Nick can stop him. "Fine," he says, "Go home, then."

"For God's sake..."

John ignores Nick as he takes five quick paces forward, turning and staring at the nonexistent silo. It hadn't been here, it had been...

The spot is mostly random, but as John drives the shovel into the dirt, he feels suddenly vindicated . He'd been thrown off by the trees, and it's hard to see just where the road ends these days, and of course he doesn't have the silo's long shadow to guide him. But now he knows better, and he isn't going to make the same mistakes again.

Nick pitches in, because of course he does. Even worse, he does it without complaint. Still, John needs the help; his burst of adrenaline has faded, leaving him to rapidly flag behind until Nick is picking up his slack. They don't talk as they dig, even as time wears on without any indication of them being in the right place. John doesn't think he has the energy to chat, and Nick probably just wants to yell at him, so silence is their best option. This hole could be as pointless as every other one they've dug today, but blind faith pushes John on to dig just a little deeper, just a little longer.

They hit three feet without finding anything. John twists the shovel between his palms, the tip churning the dirt.

"Okay, now are you satisfied?" Nick asks, flopping to the ground beside their latest waste of time. "Are you ready to wrap it up for today, or...?"

John shakes his head, not even realizing he's doing it. He doesn't even know what he's rejecting — the idea of giving up, or the idea that they might come back out here? Why the hell should they? Just because John thinks he might remember a cache of weapons Jacob buried a decade ago? What good would it even do, finding it now? Kim's already made it clear that they don't want more weapons. They want food, they want peace of mind, they want things to be the way they were . There is nothing that Eden's Gate could possibly give them that could help.

Nick slides closer, brow furrowed. "John," he says."

"I know ," John snaps, "I'm sorry . This was a waste of time. Forget it."

Picking up his abandoned shovel, Nick jabs the scoop into the hole, aiming for the wall beneath John's feet, and the motion is met with a metallic thunk . As John steps around for a better look, Nick taps the shovel upwards, until the scoop slides between the flash of half-hidden metal and the undisturbed earth above it. There's no mistaking the green enamel barrel that's revealed as the dirt falls away.

Dropping into the hole, John takes Nick's shovel and begins to heave the dirt away, scraping the scoop along the sides of the metal container until it's half-exposed in the ground. John can't help a triumphant shout as he reveals it, like a paleontologist discovering an unknown species.

Nick grabs the second shovel and pitches in, making short work of the dirt John can't reach. The steel drum is two feet tall and a foot or so wide, and John recognizes it from the Bliss packaging plant. Thankfully, it doesn't have a tight-head lid that implies the cannister is full of drugs. It looks utterly untouched, save for a few scratches from their shovels; the rubber sealant sprayed around the lid hasn't even cracked.

"Well, shit," Nick says, staring down at the barrel in open disbelief.

"I told you," John pants, vindicated. "I told you."

"Yeah, you sure did," Nick agrees, bobbing his head. "So... uh, what now? Do we open it up here, or take it home?"

John runs a hand over the glossy paint. As much as he wants to open it now, he can't help but remember Jacob's paranoia, reminded momentarily of how he had checked over and over for any spies or tails they might've gained while driving.

"It might be best to take it somewhere... less open," John points out. "We have no idea what's inside."

"Oh. Yeah, you're probably right."

It takes some finessing, but the two of them manage to wrestle the barrel out of the hole and, eventually, into the truck bed. Nick cranks the air conditioning as soon as he turns on the car, and John thankfully slumps into his seat as the cold air washes over him. After making a loose U-turn that narrowly misses the hole, Nick shakes the canteen in John's direction.

"Kim's gonna be pissed if she finds out I left you out in the sun like that," he says. "Try to get a hold of yourself before we get back, okay?"

Nick is terrible at sounding callous, but John isn't going to tell him as much. "Don't worry," he sighs. "I don't want her to know any more than you."

The drive back is mostly free of potholes, thanks to Nick's careful driving. John can't help but reaffirm the cache's existence every few minutes, checking the rear-view mirror to ensure it hasn't fallen out or disappeared like so many figments of his imagination have. He wonders what's inside. Certainly ammunition and weapons, but what else? Jacob had always been prepared for disasters, so it could have emergency kits or expired food rations. There will probably be money, too, although that won't help them now.

If Nick is also wondering, he keeps it to himself. He's relaxed in his seat, one arm hanging out his window, fingers occasionally tapping aimlessly against the door. He'll probably be satisfied no matter what Jacob decided to squirrel away, so long as it's not rotten food and Project propaganda. If that turns out to be the case, John will burn the contents himself.

The sun has half-set by the time they return to the Rye homestead. Nobody is waiting anxiously for their return, but it doesn't take long for Kim to come around the side of the house. She whistles appreciatively as the two men maneuver the barrel out of the bed.

"You guys actually found it!" she exclaims. "I thought it would take at least a few days."

"We got lucky," Nick replies. He doesn't mention how many holes they had to dig, or how rough the going had gotten near the end. John hopes that he looks better than he feels, at least to keep Kim from lecturing them.

Even though the cache is only about eighty or ninety pounds, it takes some careful footwork for the two men to carry it inside without dropping it. By the time they set the barrel down next to the table, Carmina has claimed one of the chairs, standing on it for a better look. Nick doubles back to the truck and returns with a crowbar, which will hopefully be enough to pry off the lid.

"What's inside?" Carmina asks, grabbing the back of the chair as she cranes forward.

"Well, hold on," Nick sighs, "Let me figure this out."

Unlike the barrels John remembers, this one isn't sealed with a tight-head valve at the top. Instead, it looks as though the lid had been hammered down into place, and then sprayed with rubber sealant to prevent gaps. It takes Nick a few tries to bury the crowbar's teeth under the lid, but he's rewarded by a satisfying groan of metal. The seal finally gives as part of the lid warps under the force.

Nick peels the lid back and John's heart leaps into his throat. Part of him expects a cloud of Bliss, or some kind of bomb, or a countdown to a new Armageddon. But there's no bomb, no Mist, no doomsday clock. Instead, John finds himself looking down at a bundle of nondescript green canvas, packed tightly alongside a cylindrical nylon bag.

" Well ?" Carmina asks.

John glances at Kim and Nick, only to find them staring back at him. It's as much an order as a request for help, and John steels himself before reaching in and grabbing the fabric. He recognizes the generic duffel bag as soon as he pulls it out — they had been ordered in bulk for the Project before they'd even reached Montana. While it isn't full, it definitely carries most of the cache's weight, and John has to adjust his grip as he sets it out on the table.

With the pack out of the way, Nick is less cautious about poking around in the remaining supplies. He takes the nylon bag out next, rattling the contents thoughtfully. "I think we've got a tent, here," he says, pulling open the drawstring to check. "Yeah, poles, stakes and everything."

There are two cardboard boxes inside, and Kim pulls out one at a time. "I think these are... rations?" she suggests, setting the boxes down next to the unopened bag. "That's what the packaging says, anyway. And this one, the heavier one? It's completely taped up."

"Could be dangerous," Nick suggests as Kim goes back to check for any remaining contents.

John stares at the duffel bag, his fingers feeling clumsy on the zipper tab. None of this feels right. Just how many times had he seen Jacob take bags like this one to his truck? How many of those had been full of supplies for a back-up plan he had never been made aware of? There's no sign of the Project so far, but John can't imagine that will last. What is he going to do when he reveals a bag full of propaganda in front of Carmina? There's no way Kim and Nick will believe he didn't know.

Careful not to rip the fabric, John steels himself with a breath and yanks on the zipper. He expects guns and ammunition, or copies of Joseph's book, or intel that would have been vital for rebuilding after the Collapse. Instead, John finds silver mylar bags, packed nearly to bursting, each one labeled in permanent marker. One reads "RICE (3LB, KEEP)," while another says "POTATO (.5LB, KEEP)" — and still another bag, this one with one clear side, has two cartons of instant coffee sealed inside.

There are guns, too, although not nearly enough. John is careful as he sets out the two .45 pistols tucked into the canvas, along with two boxes of matching ammunition and a few more boxes of miscellaneous shells that might come in handy. He inspects every box for any sign of the Project, but everything is utterly nondescript. Jacob might as well have picked these supplies up at a sporting goods store.

He keeps pulling things out until the bag is empty and the items are laid out across the table for the Ryes to see. Not only does John find more food, but he also finds a crank flashlight and a pair of binoculars, two bundles of paracord, a roll of unused duct tape, two sealed cartons of cigarettes, two pristine hunting knives and a deck of playing cards. The biggest surprise is the fact that Jacob risked packing away two bottles of unlabeled alcohol in a dry cache, but then again, Jacob had always had a soft spot for liquor. They'd been wrapped in plastic wrap and taped up tight, so if they leaked, it hasn't affected the other supplies.

There's more food than ammunition, John realizes. Rice, sugar, instant coffee, dry beef stock, not to mention the miscellaneous array of military rations that have been packed into every nook and cranny. It's hardly a cache. It's more like a squirrel's stockpile for a long winter.

"Did you guys see this?" Kim asks, leaning over Carmina to lay a small nylon pack on the table. She opens it carefully, revealing a tri-folded emergency pack stuffed with medical supplies. One use antiseptic wipes, gauze, bandages and more, all still in its factory packaging. John remembers seeing them stocked at Lorna's ages ago. It's the kind of emergency kit that tourists would buy once they realized just how unprepared they were for rural Montana.

"I thought this was supposed to be for the cult," Nick says, frowning at the supplies spread out on the table. "But most of this is stuff you'd get at the store. There's not even one of those fake Bibles in here or anything ."

"That's what he told me it was," John replies, although it feels uneasily close to a lie. "...At least, that's what I assumed. He had my people handle it, he shared its location with me... It had to be for the Project." Saying it aloud doesn't make him feel any more certain, but he can't imagine what else Jacob could have been planning. "What does it matter?" he quickly deflects, gesturing towards the eighty-some pounds of supplies. "Who cares what he was planning. It's yours now."

Unlike her parents, Carmina doesn't need to be told twice. She immediately drags the box of military rations closer to her chair, eager to devour any new literature, even if it's nutritional information and website reviews. Nick takes one of the knives and uses it to slice open the heavily taped box that they still haven't investigated. John can't imagine that it could be anything dangerous, given the rest of the cache's contents, but that doesn't mean he's any less on edge.

"Uh... huh," Nick says once he finally cracks the box open. "It's just more of the same. 'Two pounds rice, barter.' 'Two pounds sugar, barter.' But didn't he already pack some rice in the bag?"

Carmina points her finger at the offending bag. "It says 'keep' on it."

"I thought you guys were going to be the only survivors," Nick wonders, frowning heavily at John. "I mean, those weirdos have been keeping to themselves since they came back. And I got the impression that you weren't gonna be friendly neighbors ."

"There weren't supposed to be neighbors," John replies. "Anyone outside of the Project who survived were our enemies. This should have been..." He gestures helplessly, unable to figure out what Jacob should have squirreled away for the end of the world. "It should have been weapons. Project intelligence. None of this would have mattered if things had gone the way they were meant to. I don't — I don't know what he was planning with this."

Or maybe, he hadn't been listening when Jacob had talked about starting over.

"This... is too much," Kim says, tearing John away from that horrible thought before it can take hold. "Right? This is too much for us. We can't possibly keep it all."

"Excuse me?" John asks, unable to mask how deeply the comment offends him. "You're joking . I went through all of this for you ." He points at the sugar, the salt, and says accusingly, "These were on your list!"

"That's not what I mean, John."

John is getting sick and tired of being treated like a child today, but that doesn't mean he appreciates it when Nick takes the opposite route. "Don't be a baby," he groans. "You know what she meant."

"We'll keep what we need," Kim offers, "But we can't keep everything . It wouldn't be fair."

"And it'll look bad if we're the only ones who benefit," Nick adds. "They'll know it's because of you, and the cult, and they'll get the wrong idea. They might've shut up for now, but we don't know how long that'll last."

It's hard to fight the urge to run from the conversation, if only to keep himself from saying something stupid, but John manages to stay rooted to the spot. They're right, after all. They can't expect other people to turn a blind eye to anything beneficial John provides. Hell, he has no doubt somebody noticed them driving today. Somebody had to have seen them out in the dirt. It would only take a quick trip to find the holes they'd left behind.

"Yes," he mutters at last. It comes as a relief, followed immediately by his own admission. "You're both right. I know that."

Nick clearly expected more of a fight, if his relieved expression is anything to go by. "Good. Okay." He grabs one of the mylar bags as he sits, which holds two cartons of instant coffee. For a moment, he only stares at the red plastic through the clear side of the bag, and then he sighs. "Of course, now I wanna keep it all."

"We can keep the coffee," Kim says. "Or, well... we can keep some of it. We should probably give the rest up..."

It seems that doing the right thing in this situation has left the Ryes at a loss. Really, it shouldn't be a surprise. Even for a small cache, these are a lot of supplies, and there are no clear benefits to divvying it up in any particular way. On top of that, there had never been much structure to the Valley's resistance — unlike the Whitetails, people in the valley had relied on guerrilla tactics and appropriating the cult's infrastructure for their own use. The fight here had been over before they'd had time to organize.

"Well, I guess we give away whatever says 'barter' on it," Nick finally says. "And... I dunno. I mean, Jacob was meticulous as hell, right? Wouldn't he have known what to keep? Why did he only want to trade this stuff?"

"I don't know ," John snaps. "It isn't as though he planned for this. I have no idea what he would have done. I don't know why he thought to bury this shit in a field! If this was going to be a backup plan, then there should be money, passports, blackmail — something to help him get out of trouble. Not — not cooking supplies and playing cards . This isn't what he was supposed to be doing with his time!"

The realization that John had never really known Jacob cuts deeper than he'll ever admit. John breathes hard through his nose, trying desperately to grab hold of his ballooning anger. He'd known Jacob hadn't taken the religious aspect of the Project seriously, but that hadn't meant he didn't believe in the Project's end goal. He'd been more integral to their success than John, for God's sake! The bunkers had been his idea!

But Jacob had been pragmatic. If he had felt even a twinge of doubt, he would have made plans to account for it. But if that were the case, why would he have shown his hand to John like he had, when John had been so deeply entrenched? Why risk Joseph finding out? Why not play this as close to his chest as John had played all of his own secret betrayals?

"I don't know what he would do," John manages to say. There's a tangled knot of emotion balled up inside his chest, but like so many other things, he forcibly sidelines it. "It doesn't matter what he wanted. He's dead now. All of it is yours."

Kim hears his voice catch, it's clear from her expression, but she thankfully doesn't comment on it. "Well, let's think about it logically," she says. "For one, I think Grace could use some of the ammunition. She might appreciate some coffee, too, Nick."

"Yeah, I guess," Nick says mournfully. "There are two boxes, after all."

Kim chews thoughtfully on her lip, then pivots towards John. "You had to deal with directing resources, right?" she asks. "I remember all of the deliveries coming in and out of the Ranch."

"They won't trust any decisions I make," John replies, trying to cut the suggestion off at the head.

"I'm sure they wouldn't, but I'm not asking for you to make a decision. Just... You know more about this than we do, and I want your input."

John frowns, looking towards Nick for an objection. Unfortunately, Nick doesn't have one, although he doesn't look happy about Kim's request.

Sighing, John considers the groups they need to satisfy. Between Grace, the town, the trailer park and themselves, it's unlikely they'll have much to store, but a surplus would be ideal in case they need to bargain with people coming in from the west. John doesn't like the idea of giving the weapons away, but they would be an easy way to ingratiate the Ryes to anyone still upset at them for taking him in. He wants nothing more than to keep the alcohol and cigarettes, but those would be better as bargaining chips.

He starts by breaking the ammunition up, followed by the mylar bags, until the random array on the tabletop begins to separate out into four distinct piles. Seeing the resources shift in real time is the easiest way to ensure things are balanced, but John remains fully aware of the three sets of eyes on him as he begins to take over the table. While Kim and Carmina move to give John more space, Nick remains seated the entire time, his arms crossed and his eyes on the food that John is moving from one pile to another. He's clearly worried that the family will wind up with too little. He probably feels guilty that he wants to take more from others who could use the supplies.

When he's mostly finished, John has five piles organized across the table — one for each group, plus one comprised of larger bags they'll need to separate. Hopefully, they won't comment on how much he's chosen to keep for them — if they disagree with his decisions, they can wait until he escapes for the night to argue about it.

Kim had been right, though. John had been the one to schedule deliveries, redirect supplies and organize Reaping trucks; hopefully they can appreciate his choices, even if they decide not to listen to him.

"Here's what we have," he says. "The ammunition is split between everyone, as well as the rations. Given the town's location and size, they'll be better off with basic ingredients. They already have hunting equipment and usable cookware. We haven't seen the trailer park, but it's in hostile territory, and I don't think they dedicate time to cooking, so we give them more rations to make up for it. The cigarettes will be a gesture of goodwill, and they can use the sugar more than any one group. At the very least, it means they won't be ingesting straight ethanol for a few days."

Nick sniffs loudly, but neither he nor Kim interrupt, so John pushes forward. "You keep the components," he explains, "But give Grace the knives and whatever ammunition she needs. We can split the rice evenly, but it won't be very much. It would be better to keep it for ourselves, or else give it to one group alone."

"Still seems like a lot is left for us," Kim points out.

"Then you give the rest of it away," John says through gritted teeth. "I did what you asked me to do. This is what makes sense."

Kim nods. "You did, and I appreciate it."

John wishes she would appreciate what Jacob did instead, but he holds the comment back. It's his exhaustion talking, or the long day, or the lingering headache from the heat. None of those things are worth risking the shred of goodwill he's garnered with the Ryes. And the longer he hangs around here, the more likely it is that Nick or Kim will do something to really upset him.

"If that's everything, then it's been a long day. I need some..." Space , he wants to say, but he can only tiredly commit to, "I need some air."

"Sure," Kim says. She tries to mask her pity, but there's no hiding it. "Just don't go too far. Dinner's almost ready."

As if John is going to eat anything. But he keeps that comment to himself as well, knowing that it'll just start a fight that he's too tired to win. Besides, watching the Ryes go through Jacob's supplies and divvy them out the way they'd prefer might be too much for him to handle right now. He needs to put some distance between himself and his brother, even if it's only the short walk to the front porch.

#fc5 #fcnd #john seed #nick rye #far cry new dawn #far cry 5 #p sure its only the first few tags but fuck it #also i actually love turkish delight so that's a legit comment #not just a reference to dumb narnia #my fic #mercyverse

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maandags · 5 years

Text

Isn’t Love Blind? (Lance x reader)

!!!!! finally !!!

Word count: 8K

Genre: angst/fluff

Notes: CW: injuries - masterlist - you know how there are fics that you crank out in like 4 days and they end up being over 10K bc you were so inspired and the words just Go Right

this was not one of them

-------

It couldn’t be true.

Everything had happened so fast: you screwed your eyes shut against the bright flash of memories slamming back into you, and you bunched your fingers in your shirt. The mission had gone horribly wrong. That much you could remember. There was a sinking feeling in your stomach when you realised just how badly everything had gone wrong.

“Y/N, get out of there. You have to get out of there right now,” Pidge hisses through the comms. She was right: there’d been a massive miscalculation. The nineteen and a half minutes of time you thought you’d have to retrieve the new blaster prototype had transformed into four. But this was an important mission, and you do the math in your head: if from now on everything went right, and the final calculations weren’t off, you could at least do some damage before fleeing the scene.

“I’m going in,” you whisper to Pidge, squaring your shoulders and zipping through a doorway. Your heart is beating in your throat, but like hell are you going to leave the ship without having at least destroyed a couple of sentries.

“What? No! Y/N, get back here! Y/N–”

But you already press a button on the side of your helmet and cut off the sound of her voice. No more distractions. Sliding along the walls, you swiftly make your way across hallways, humming a cheery tune. The route to the room you have to get to is clearly mapped out in your head: you know where to turn corners and which thresholds to cross. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock. Time, time, time.

One more corner, you think and pick up your pace, your steps featherlight on the floor. So light. It feels more like floating than running. There isn’t even a door protecting the prototype, you note, only two sentries guarding each side of the entrance. You take them out before either can give a peep, then grasp your knife a little tighter, fixing your gaze on the weapon displayed in front of you.

It’s cool. You have to give it that. But it’s also extremely dangerous: increased accuracy, increased power. Increased deadliness. So you only feel a little sorry as you plunge your blade into the weapon, focused on damaging it as much as possible, but doing just that is harder than you expected. You huff, frowning as you stab your knife into the blaster more vigorously, muttering a string of curses under your breath.

“Come–on–you–stupid–thing–break!” There is a satisfying crack as your blade finally pierces the hard exterior shell of the blaster, giving you access to the wiring and all the tiny technical components inside. You barely know anything about tech or engineering–you’re no Hunk or Pidge. So you shrug and start randomly hacking at the gun’s insides, only satisfied when it looks beat up beyond repair, sizzling pitifully on its standard. It’s a shame; you’d much rather have taken it with you, for Pidge and Hunk to analyse and study. But you’re almost out of time. “There.”

As you turn, a vague shout in the back of the hallway grabs your attention and you’re on your feet in seconds, scrambling for the exit. Lance.

He shouts your name again as he sprints towards you, and the first thing you notice is that he isn’t wearing his helmet anymore and that there is blood gushing down the side of his face. It’s dripping onto his armour, staining the white and blue with a deep crimson, and you have to resist the urge to gag: head wounds bleed profusely, you know, even if they’re not deep. It doesn’t have to be deep. It can just be a nick. Just a scratch.

But the thoughts don’t stop the slight panic from rising like bile in your throat. Lance’s head is unprotected. This is bound to go wrong.

You meet him halfway through the corridor, immediately cupping his cheeks and forcing him to look at you. “What happened?” Your voice is sharper than you intend it to be, and you instantly feel guilty at Lance’s slight recoil.

“It’s nothing. Helmet got blasted off, I’m fine,” he assures you, pressing a quick peck to your cheek. He seems extremely relieved to find that you’re okay. “We gotta go, though. Now.”

You give a stiff nod, grabbing Lance’s hand and pulling him along as the two of you run for the rendez-vous point: the hangar. With your free hand, you activate the comms again, where you are immediately greeted with a flurry of yells, Pidge’s shrill voice only barely audible above the others. “Y/N! You stopped responding to calls, we were worrying our asses off! Are you crazy?”

“I’m fine,” you grunt as you duck and let go of Lance’s hand for the time you need to kick a sentry across the corridor, “thanks for asking. We’re on our way.” Lance is panting beside you–more so than usual–and you start to think that maybe his head wound is a little more serious than he originally let on. “Maybe prepare a cryo-pod for Lance.” You try to keep your tone light, but your voice cracks and sounds shrill, even in your ears.

“Copy,” comes Pidge’s small reply, and you can hear her repeat your request to Coran. Only a couple more halls, you silently pray as you glance back to Lance behind you. His eyes are clouded, seeming to go in and out of focus, but he sets his jaw and insists that he’s fine. Just a little woozy. You quietly wish that he’s telling the truth. Just one more turn, and you’ll be safe again.

Of course, that was too much to ask.

It goes so fast that you don’t even realize what’s happening until it’s too late. The widening of Lance’s eyes as they focus on something on your left, the panic filling them as they shoot back to you. The scream that leaves your lips as he jumps in front of you, and the flash of light that fills your vision just a fraction of a second after. White spots cloud your vision and you crumble to your knees, dropping your weapon and screwing your eyes shut, covering them with your hand. There is a ringing in your ears that drowns out all other sounds. It’s loud; you can’t even hear your own screams.

You’re pretty sure you black out for a second. When you open your eyes again what feels like hours later, you’re slowly regaining your vision and you squint against the blinding light attacking your eyes. You blink a few times, shaking the spots from your vision, and your heart speeds up at the shouts filling your helmet. “I’m fine,” you manage through gritted teeth, pushing yourself up on your elbows and scanning the ground for Lance, your heart leaping in your throat when you don’t immediately spot him.

You call out for him, frantically searching for an answer, ignoring Pidge’s alarmed voice over the comms. When your eyes finally focus on his body, crumbled to the ground and half propped up against the wall, a wail of pure fear tears itself from your lips and you stumble towards him, sinking to your knees beside him and shaking his shoulders, mumbling his name over and over.

“Hey, hey, Lance. Lance, we gotta go. We gotta go, get up, Lance, get up, get up.” But he doesn’t move. His chest rises and falls with shallow, shaky breaths, and when you try to wipe the dirt and grime from his face, stroking his hair out of the way, your eyes widen and you scream, soon followed by a dizziness making your head feel like lead. You suddenly lose all control over your body, and you fall onto your side, only just managing to catch yourself on one elbow and promptly vomiting on the floor. Your eyes sting with tears.

Pidge is screaming. You vaguely make out some words: both your and Lance’s names, “help”, “hurt”. Yes, you think weakly, feeling your arm give out from beneath you, Lance is very hurt. He needs help. As soon as possible, please. Your heart gives an anxious stutter at the thought that he might not be okay, but you force the thought back as soon as it comes. Lance has to be okay. He has to be.

The steady beeping of the healing pod matched your breathing. Beep, breathe in. Beep, breathe out. It was the only thing currently keeping you from completely breaking down.

You hadn’t moved from your spot beside Lance’s healing pod in two days. You had quietly asked Allura if she would bring you your food instead of having you eat with the others, and she’d agreed, albeit shooting you a worried glance. The first night, you hadn’t even realised you had fallen asleep until you’d woken up with your cheek pressed against the cool glass and a quilt thrown over you that you were sure hadn’t been there when you nodded off.

You had only spent a few hours in your own healing pod. When you had stumbled out, gasping for breath and falling right into Shiro’s arms, the first thing you had demanded to know was if Lance would be okay. Lance would make it, Coran had told you. He would make it, but his eyesight would never be recovered.

The blast had grazed his face, had seared his eyes, doing irrevocable damage and ensuring the permanent loss of his sight. Panic had risen up like bile in your throat and you’d muttered over and over, “No, no, that can’t be true. There has to be something we can do. No, there has to be a way.”

But there wasn’t, Pidge had said, her expression emptier than you’d ever seen it. Her eyes were puffy from crying and lined red. They’d tried everything, and it was already a miracle that his vitals were so strong. Had he been just a little weaker, had they gotten to him just a little later–Lance would have died. No doubt about it.

He would live, and they had to be grateful for it.

Now that you had recovered slightly from the shock, your mind a little clearer, you saw just how close you had been to losing Lance forever. In retrospect, losing his eyesight was a small price to pay. You knew that you were just relieved that he had made it, and that you were frantically searching for reasons not to despair at the loss of his sight. Leaning your head back against the glass, you wondered if Lance would still want to be with you if he couldn’t see you.

You banished the thought away as soon as it crossed your mind, scolding yourself internally. Of course he’d still want to be with you: Lance loved you for who you were, not for what you looked like. Besides, that was the least of your worries right now. You took a shaky breath, focusing on the beeps. Beep, breathe in. Beep, breathe out.

“Can I join you?” Hunk’s voice was small, resonating in the med bay and shaking you out of your thoughts. You nodded, patting the blanket beside you and shifting your position to make space for him. Hunk smiled sadly as he lowered himself to the ground next to you, and he doesn’t say anything for a while. It’s silent and you like it.

You turned your head, examining Hunk’s face. He’s paler than usual, an ashy undertone to his soft brown skin. There were bags under his eyes. His hair was messy, and he frankly looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Probably hadn’t, you realised: Lance was his best friend. They had known each other for ages: he would be worried sick right now.

“He’s going to be fine, you know,” he said after a while, and you silently wondered how he could sound so sure. Because he did: there was a firmness to his voice, the origin of which you couldn’t quite place.

“This is my fault,” you said quietly, your voice cracking on the last word.

Hunk’s eyes widened. “Don’t say that.”

You looked up at him, your eyes stinging with tears. “It’s true. He–he jumped in front of me to protect me from that shot. He took it for me.” You took a shaky breath, carding a hand through your hair. “Pidge warned me to get out of there. I didn’t listen. I–I cut off the comms. If I hadn’t gone back for that stupid prototype, none of this would have happened.” Your voice was barely above a whisper now, and you refused to look Hunk in the eye, afraid of what you’d find in his expression. “He was worried because I didn’t answer his calls and came looking for me. His helmet got knocked off. If he’d had his helmet, maybe he wouldn’t be–maybe he would have been okay.”

A sob made its way past your lips, and you angrily wiped at your eyes: you hadn’t noticed how truly angry you were until now. Angry at the universe for making Lance go through this much suffering–as if he hadn’t been through enough already–but most of all angry at yourself for being the cause of it. “How can I ever forgive myself for this? Knowing that I could have done something–doing nothing. That was all it would have taken for Lance to be okay, Hunk.” You paused, digging your nails into your skin. “I could have backed down. Let it go. But I didn’t. And Lance is blind now because of it.”

“He’ll be okay.”

You almost laughed at that, leaning back against the pod. There hadn’t been an ounce of doubt in Hunk’s voice: whether it was because he really believed what he said, or just because he wanted to calm you down, you didn’t know. “How can you be so sure?”

Hunk wrapped an arm around you, tugging you into his side and gently rubbing your arm. The sweet gesture broke the dam you had been carefully building up for two days, and all the worry and pain and fear you had stocked up behind it burst loose in a stream of tears. They blur your vision, tearing sobs from your chest and you bury your face in Hunk’s shoulder, more grateful than ever that he was there and almost desperately taking refuge in the comfort he offered you.

“Because Lance is a survivor.”

Hunk said it lightly, with so much faith that you found yourself silently repeating it like a mantra. It was true: Lance was a survivor, and he had gone through so much already. He would get through this too.

“He won’t be alone,” you said with a hiccup. “I’ll help him. I’ll stay with him no matter what.” Looking down, you noticed that you had been holding onto the blanket covering you so tightly that your knuckles had turned white. ��I owe him that much.”

“I’m sure that’s all he’d ever ask for,” Hunk said, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “We’ll all help him through this. He’ll be okay,” he repeated, but for the first time, there was a slight waver to his voice. “He’ll be okay.”

- - -

You woke to the hissing announcing that a healing pod was ready to release its occupant. When you realised what was happening, you were on your feet in seconds, your heart soon beating in your throat. You clenched your hands, bunching them into your shirt, and caught your reflection in the glass wall of the pod: your face was pale, a thin coat of sweat shimmering on your brow. Should you call the others? Probably, but the little selfish voice inside of you wanted Lance to yourself right now. You wanted to break the news.

When he tripped out of the pod, your heart skipped a beat. There was no obvious scarring around his eyes; whatever wound the blaster had left had healed in the cryo-pod, leaving the skin there only a little pale and tender. At first glance, anyone else would probably not have noticed that there was something wrong with his eyes. But you weren’t just anyone: you knew his eyes like nobody else. They were still blue, but they had lost their spark.

What you loved about Lance’s eyes was the emotion radiating from them; the softness that laced them whenever he looked at you with a fond smile curling his lips and a blush reddening his cheeks, or when he got excited and grabbed your hands to guide you through an impromptu dance lesson, his eyes twinkling. The mischievous glint in them when he shot you longing glances from across a room, knowing full well what he was making you feel, offering you nothing but a quick wink and a grin before turning back to whatever it was he was doing, leaving you to be a flustered and needy mess.

A quiet whimper left his lips when he stumbled into your waiting arms, flinching back at the contact and blinking frantically. The terrified look on his face almost broke your heart.“Y/N?” he croaked. “Is that–is that you?”

“It’s me,” you answered, helping him stand up on shaky legs and tentatively cupping his cheeks, stroking strands of brown hair out of his face. “I’ve got you.”

He took a deep, unstable breath, his own hands slowly coming up to cover yours–out of reflex, you guessed. His lower lip trembled. “I can’t see anything.”

It wasn’t a question, merely a statement, and it was everything you hadn’t been expecting. You didn’t know how to react: you had expected him to cry, be angry, be frustrated. Be afraid. But he looked like he had already accepted it, and you felt like you were losing him already.

“I–I know. I’m so, so sorry,” you whispered, sliding your hands down to his chest and curling them into fists, tears blurring your vision. Feeling so helpless was harder on you than you’d thought. Lance’s acceptance, the emptiness of his expression hurt more than anger could ever have.

“I’m just glad that you’re okay.” He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a hug, and when you felt the first silent tear drip onto your skin you couldn’t keep your own at bay anymore. You held each other in the dimly lit room, an open healing pod behind you and a whirlwind of emotions swirling in your chest. The reality of the situation really set in then, but a small part of you was happy that Lance was okay; that you were able to hold him like you did at all. At least you had each other, and he would be okay. Given time. At least you had each other.

- - -

Three weeks later, and Lance still wouldn’t leave his bedroom.

“The rest are asking about you,” you said, your legs tangled with Lance’s and an arm slung over his stomach. It was already the early hours of the morning, but neither of you were asleep. After another nightmare, Lance had woken you up with heavy breathing and sobs racking his body. “They miss you.”

Staying cooped up in your room definitely wasn’t an ideal situation. Lance spent a good chunk of the time catching up on the sleep he missed during the night because of his nightmares. You had been the one to get food every morning, noon and evening, and after three weeks, confrontation with the rest of the team had been inescapable.

“Hm. I just–I’m not ready yet,” answered Lance. You couldn’t see his face in the dark, but you heard the pain in his voice and the strain to keep his tone light. You bit your lip, hating what you were about to do, but Lance was sinking into a state that you wouldn’t be able to help him out of. His blindness was eating him alive, and you could sense that there were so many things he wanted to say but didn’t. You hoped that if you could get him to just say those things–get him to talk, as he had been mostly silent for the past three weeks–maybe he could start to build towards getting better. Getting out of the slump he found himself in.

“When will you be ready, then?” There was a rough edge to your voice, an edge that always wormed its way in when you were about to cry. It betrayed your emotions even in the worst of times and you hated it. This time, though, you were grateful for it: Lance didn’t have to see your face to know how upset you were.

“Y/N, I don’t know–”

“You know how much I love you. You know that I would do literally anything for you. But you need to start living again, Lance, because this is going to destroy both you and me.”

Feeling his muscles tense up beneath you, and him curling in on himself, you wiped at the tears that had started falling from your eyes and sat up, clicking on the light that sat on your nightstand. Lance cringed away from it–though he was blind, his eyes still perceived flashes of light, and they hurt when they were too sudden. It was something he would have to get used to, you thought angrily.

“Sit up. We have to talk. Properly.” You tapped his shoulder until he gave in, sitting up with a grunt and pushing himself back to the wall, wrapping an arm around his knees and turning his face away from yours.

“Well then? Talk,” he grumbled after a moment of silence.

A frustrated sigh left your lips and you threw your hands up in the air. “Three weeks, Lance. It’s been three weeks and you won’t even leave the room! You say every time you’re not ready,” you added sharply before Lance could cut you off, “but I’m starting to doubt if you’ll ever be.”

You flinched as you said the words. It was harsh, and you didn’t really believe–didn’t want to believe–them, but you would say anything to shake Lance out of his saddened state. It wasn’t him. He was completely dissolving before your eyes, fading into the shadows. He was slipping through your fingers like the fine white sand on Varadero beach.

“The rest of the team is so worried, Lance,” you said, softer. “Every time I go to the kitchen they ask me the same questions, over and over, and–they want nothing more than to just see you.”

“See me,” Lance muttered with a breathy laugh. “Yeah.”

He paused, the smile on his face resembling a grimace to you more than anything else. When he finally looked up at you, there were tears shimmering in his eyes. “How could I face them?”

His words took you by surprise, and you blinked, not really sure what to say. “What do you mean–”

“I’m supposed to be the Blue Paladin, Y/N. The sharpshooter of the team. I can’t do that anymore,” he said, hiccups littering his sentences. He angrily waved a hand in front of his eyes. “I’m–I’m blind. In everything I did, I relied on my sight. I never realised how much I took it for granted until now. If I can’t–if I can’t see, do my job as the Blue Paladin, what reason would they have to keep me around?”

So that was what he had been afraid about.

The fact that he had confessed this to you already lifted a weight off your shoulders, but it also made you incredibly sad. Did he truly think that the only reason why he was here was because he happened to be the Blue Paladin? Did he not realise how much you and the rest of the team loved him?

Slowly shuffling closer to him, you gently cupped his cheeks and wiped at the tears staining the skin. “We’re not just a team. We’re your friends–we’re family–and I know that every single person on this ship feels the same way. We’re going to help you through this. All of us. But you have to let us.”

His shoulders shook with sobs, and he cried more than you had ever seen him cry before. But you were glad he did: he had kept all of his emotions bottled up for three weeks, barely saying a word, and now he let himself actually feel. As you snaked an arm around his chest, gently leaning your head on his shoulder, you whispered the same words over and over again until his tears dried, until your voice was the only sound filling the silence.

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

- - -

“Are you getting breakfast?”

Lance’s voice was small and laced with nerves, and he fiddled with his fingers as he awaited your answer. You hummed, a small spark of hope igniting in your chest. You had to resist the urge to throw your arms around his neck and plant a kiss on his lips when Lance stood up and hesitantly reached for your hand.

“I’ll walk slowly,” you said, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Just don’t leave me behind.”

Pidge almost fell from her chair when you knocked on the kitchen door.

It was silent for a moment, nobody daring to say a thing–then Lance broke the silence with a simple, “Hey, guys.”

Pidge was on him first, wrapping her arms around his waist and tugging him into a hug, blinking back the tears rimming her eyes. “I’m so glad you’re back,” she whispered into his shirt. Lance let go of your hand to hug her back, a smile making its way onto his lips and he ruffled her hair.

“I’m glad too.”

All of them got a hug. All of them cried. Lance didn’t seem to mind, melting into everyone’s touch, and you could see from the way his shoulders released the tension that had been building up over the last weeks. He’d missed the team just as much as they’d missed him.

“So… how are you doing?” Shiro asked cautiously when everyone had taken their seats around the table, still discreetly wiping away tears.

Lance made a face before answering. “It’s, you know, weird. Not being able to see, I mean.”

The air was suddenly heavier, tension crackling like electricity in the air. This was what Lance had been avoiding for three weeks: this exact conversation.

He took a deep breath. “But I’ll get used to it. I won’t be able to pilot Blue any more–”

Keith started to protest, but closed his mouth when Lance ran a hand down his face, a sigh and a soft curse rolling past his lips. You sent a furious look Keith’s way, and he had the decency to look ashamed, his cheeks reddening. This was already hard enough for Lance to admit–he was quitting what he loved doing most of all.

“I’m blind. Blind pilots aren’t a thing, okay, you should know that.” He sounded only tired now, the soft smile that had graced his lips earlier gone. His jaw muscles had tensed up again.

It was silent again for a while. Underneath the table, Lance bounced his knee, fiddling with his fingers restlessly. You resisted the urge to take his hand in yours.

“But… will you–you know, be with us again? It was so lonely and quiet without you here,” said Hunk cautiously.

Lance breathed a laugh, his fingers crawling beneath the table until they curled around yours. “I’ll try.”

- - -

Lance kept his word, and now spent most of his time in the common room or the kitchen, always in someone’s company: Hunk, chatting him through a recipe he was trying to cook up, or Pidge, muttering incoherently as she furiously typed on her keyboard to solve some problem with the Castle’s systems. Sometimes even Keith or Shiro kept him company; they didn’t talk as much, but Lance found their very presence comforting.

A few months passed like this, and somehow he always found his way back to the training room, sitting on a bench or huddled in a corner. You didn’t miss the wistful expression he wore whenever you found him leaning against the doorframe, intently listening to the clashing of Keith’s sword with the training bot’s staff. The yearning almost radiated off of him, and your heart shattered a bit more every time you caught him.

But you had to stay fit as well, and you couldn’t help but feel guilty when you approached Keith–who had paused his training to gulp down some water, you weren’t foolish enough to interrupt him while fighting–and tapped him on the shoulder. “Up for a sparring match?”

He took one more swig of his water before flicking some in your face, earning a surprised squawk from you. “All right. Get ready to get your ass kicked.”

“So how’s Lance doing?” Keith asked, sweat sticking his black hair to his face, his hands brought up to his face in a defensive gesture. The two of you had been sparring for about half an hour, occasionally getting a few good hits in, mostly exchanging tips and making fun of the other. You had to admit– it was a nice change from the silent, slightly sour atmosphere that always seemed to hang in the air whenever you were alone with Lance.

You shrugged, wiping beads of perspiration from your own upper lip and trying for a kick to his side, but Keith managed to dodge your foot and come up standing before circling you again. “It’s–you know–it’s a lot to handle. He’s actually doing a lot better than I’d hoped.” You swerved to avoid getting punched in the face. “I thought it’d take him longer to adjust. I’m really proud of him.”

“Well, that’s a good thing, right? He’s getting out, seeing people and all…” He yelped when you knocked your foot against his ankles, effectively sweeping him off his feet. You grinned.

“Dude, I’ve used that move on you for ages. You fall for it every time.”

Keith scrambled up, sending you a glare. “Fuck off, Y/N.”

After a while of going back and forth, you managing to knock him down twice more– you were purely messing with him at this point– and him getting in a good hit to your side, he piped up again. “You’re not– you’re not worried about him?”

You bit your lip, gauging your response. “I mean… of course I’m worried. But it could have been a lot worse. He hasn’t changed, you know. Still the same old Lance we know and love.” But even saying the words almost made bile rising up in your throat, because you knew they weren’t true. Lance had changed; he wasn’t the same. You still loved him–you would forever keep on loving him, that was a thing you were sure of–but he wasn’t the same.

Keith shot you a worried glance from beneath his bangs. “I guess.”

You liked training with Keith for a number of reasons: the obvious playful jabs and insults thrown at each other about their fighting style and moves, the lack of sexual tension that you had with Lance (almost every training session with him ended up with the two of you making out on the floor– not that you complained) and that allowed you to really be critical of your own skills. Neither you or Keith were very much ones for small-talk.

But when you did talk, Keith never skirted around the subject too much: he was direct, and maybe the conversations you had with him grew awkward after a while, but he said what he wanted to say and often offered a new angle from which to see things. Maybe you were kind of hoping the same thing would happen now: Lance’s situation wasn’t ideal, but you refused to give up on him and settle without having tried anything, and maybe talking to Keith would shine a new light on the situation.

“What would you do?”

Keith stumbled, almost losing his balance and on instinct your hand shot out, grabbing his wrist and yanking him back to his feet. Breathing a heavy sigh, you plopped down onto the floor, leaning back onto your hands and watching as Keith followed suit.

“I don’t know, honestly. I can’t imagine losing my eyesight. But…” He bit his lip, glancing at Lance who still sat on his bench, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the wood. “I’ve thought about it.”

You sighed again. “At this point, I think everyone has.” Drawing your knees up to your chest, you let your mind wander to Lance, wondering what was going on in his mind. That was the hardest part of it all, you thought: Lance used to be such an open book. He would share everything with you, the smallest of thoughts. Not anymore– you felt like there were more secrets between the two of you, more things unsaid, than there had ever been in the years upon years that you’d known each other.

You rose, exhaustion suddenly coursing through your veins and making your limbs feel like lead. “I’m gonna clean up. See you later.”

Keith gave you a vague wave. “See you.”

You gently tapped Lance’s arm, causing him to start a little. “Ah, sorry. I should’ve warned you.”

“No, that’s okay,” he dismissed your words with a flick of his hand. His voice was slightly distant– like he wasn’t really paying attention to what you were saying. He chewed his lip in thought, and you could almost hear the gears in his head work overtime.

“Are you coming? I’m going to take a shower.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He hummed, fiddling with his fingers. A moment passed, before his eyes widened and he said, “Oh, now?” He grabbed your hand, starting to walk before you had even taken off.

“Hey, hey, Lance, hang on a minute,” you said with a surprised laugh, jogging a few steps to properly catch up with him. “Where are you going?”

He squeezed your fingers. “Our room? That’s where you wanted to go, right?”

“I mean– yeah, but you gotta wait for me. I’m exhausted.”

“Come on, Y/N. The worst thing that could happen is that I run into a wall.”

You were silent for a minute, completely taken aback by Lance’s change of attitude. You weren’t complaining– far from it– it was just an unexpected turn. “How come the sudden moral one-eighty?”

He cocked his head, chewing on the inside of his cheeks. “Did you mean what you said back there?” he finally said after a pause. “That you’re proud of me? And that– that you still love me?”

Your brain almost short-circuited. “Wh– of course! I mean every single word. Hey,” you said, stepping closer to Lance and grabbing his free hand with yours, “I love you. More than anything, I love you, and nothing will ever change that. Yeah?”

“I love you too.”

Even though you knew Lance couldn’t see it, a soft smile made its way past your lips and you snaked your hands around his neck, slowly leaning forward until your lips were touching his.

You were sure to be careful: it was the first time you’d properly kissed since he got blinded, and you weren’t sure how he’d handle it, but when his arms wrapped around your waist and tugged you closer all those doubts vanished, and nothing existed in the world except for Lance and you. You gently tugged on the strands of hair sticking out from the nape of his neck, and didn’t miss the noticeable shiver running down his back. Pulling back, you scratched your nails against the back of his neck, grinning at the hitch of his breath. “That sensitive there, huh?”

“Gotta make up for that lost eyesight somehow,” he muttered before leaning forward and brushing his mouth against yours again, nipping at your bottom lip and giving a satisfied chuckle when your grip around his neck tightened just a bit. But something was gnawing at the back of your mind and you didn’t know what. Then it hit you, and your eyes widened as you fully pulled back, ignoring Lance’s squeal of protest.

“That’s it.”

“What are you talking about?” he frowned.

“You have to make up for your lost eyesight somehow, you said it yourself. What if losing your sight helped improve your other senses? Like how you were able to hear what Keith and I were saying on the other side of the room.” The more you articulated your idea, the more logical it sounded. “We can use that. You can use that.”

“I guess.” he didn’t dare sound hopeful; what if you were wrong? But you felt in your gut that you were onto something, almost positive that it was going to work. “But can we… do that later? I don’t want to talk about that right now.” His grip on your waist tightened, and he leaned forward again, pressing almost desperate kisses to your lips and trailing his mouth down your neck, leaving your skin tingling with electricity, your breathing turning shallow.

“I guess–I guess it can wait a bit.”

- - -

“All right babe, go for it.”

Lance stood in the middle of the training deck, his shoulders drawn up to his ears and looking incredibly awkward. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“That’s okay, neither do I. We’ll… figure it out as we go.”

Echolocation was something you only vaguely knew of. You had never had a reason to do a lot of research on the subject until now, but you figured that the best way to learn was to try and practice with it, even though you had no clue as to what you were supposed to be doing. You knew that in theory, echolocating worked for humans just like it worked for bats: you make a sound, and then the echoes that bounce off your surroundings help you identify said surroundings. No eyes required.

How Lance was going to learn how to actually use echolocating was still a work in progress. But you’d always been good at improvising: for now, you just wanted him to be less self-conscious and familiarize him with his surroundings, because the two of you would be spending a lot of time in here for the coming months.

Pulling a face, Lance stretched his arms out to where you stood, a couple of feet away from him and made grabby hands. “This is stupid. Come back.”

You resolutely took a step back and planted your hands on your hips. “No, you come here. That’s gonna be our first exercise. Just walk in the direction of my voice. That should be okay, right?”

He paused, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “All right. Start talking.”

So you did. You didn’t say much, just loose words here and there; mostly variations of his name, trying to keep the mood light. At first, Lance’s steps were hesitant and small, but gradually his shoulders lost their tension and his paces grew surer. Soon he was almost jogging, not once struggling to keep up with you as you sprinted from corner to corner and laughed quietly, not even bothering to speak up anymore.

Then you stopped, and Lance slammed into you with a yelp and both of you tumbled to the floor.

“Okay, I think that’ll be enough for today,” you laughed, trying and failing to untangle yourself from Lance’s limbs. Accepting your fate, you let yourself fall onto his chest, grinning at the oof Lance let out.

As the two of you lay silently, you couldn’t help but feel a bit happy. A careful little spark that slowly spread from your chest to the very tips of your toes. And the smile that graced Lance’s lips told you that he probably felt the same way.

“This is going to change everything.”

His voice was soft, but resonated in the air and you grabbed his hand, scrambling to your feet. “I know. This is going to turn everything around.”

“All right, Lance. Ready?”

He didn’t answer; merely smirked as he rushed forward and threw a punch at your face, that you just managed to avoid. Okay, don’t answer me, you thought, taking small steps backwards and bringing your hands up to your face, dodging blow after blow and grunting when he landed a kick to your side. You retaliated with an elbow in between his shoulder blades.

For months and months Lance had been working tirelessly on perfecting his hearing and echolocating, and it was starting to pay off. All the hours upon hours that he’d spent on the training deck and outside of it started to pay off. He didn’t need you holding his hand all the time anymore (though he sometimes claimed that he needed you to guide him–you suspected that it was an excuse for you to hold his hand, but you weren’t complaining), could perfectly handle himself on his own–and it was starting to show in his fighting skills as well.

Long distance fighting–the sniper jobs he used to do–were still off the table and would stay that way. He still couldn’t see: he’d have no idea where to aim. But when it came to hand-to-hand combat–even swordfighting–Lance improved with huge leaps. Soon even you were struggling to keep up with him.

You grunted, the split second that you hung in midair as Lance swept your feet out from under you making your stomach churn. Landing on the ground with a thud, you scowled up at Lance as he bent forward, resting his hands on his knees and grinning down at you. “I win. Again. How many times in a row was that?”

Quick as lightning your foot shot out and you knocked Lance’s legs out from beneath him. He went down with a yelp. “Don’t let your guard down, Lancey pants.”

“I let you do that.”

“Sure you did.”

“You’re just mad because I won again.”

A soft laugh rolled past your lips. “I am most certainly not mad that you won again.”

He hummed, scooting over to you and pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“I’m serious!” you laughed, “you continue improving like this, you’ll be taking on Shiro in no time.”

“What’s that about taking me on in no time?”

Whipping your head around, you spotted Shiro standing in the doorway to the training deck, a towel slung over his shoulders, a water bottle in his hands and an eyebrow raised. “Should I need to be worried?”

“Nah, you’re fine,” you said, ignoring Lance’s huff behind you. “He’s good, but I don’t know if he’s that good.”

“I could take him,” Lance grumbled, rubbing his fingers on the floor and keeping his head down. You bit back a smile and picked at your nails, trying to keep a straight face.

“Eh, I don’t know…” Cocking your head, you cast Lance a cheeky grin. “Why don’t you show me?”

He almost shot up, his chest puffing up slightly and clumsily dusting off his trousers. pointing at Shiro from across the room, he said, “You–you’re going down.”

You couldn’t blame Shiro for his rather sceptically raised eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“Humour me.”

A beat of silence. He cast a glance to you, confusion and silent judgement in his eyes, and you shrugged with a faint “heugh” sound. Rolling his eyes, he chucked his towel at you and walked up to Lance who was bouncing from one foot to the other, popping the joints in his neck. “You’re sure you want to do this.”

Lance didn’t answer. Instead, he dove forward and threw a jab at Shiro’s face, which he only narrowly avoided. His eyes only momentarily widened with surprise before he sunk into a fighting stance himself and brought his hands up to his face, a grin flashing on his face. “All right, then.”

Watching Lance and Shiro spar was more like watching a dance unfold than anything else, if you were being honest. Quietly, as to not disturb either of them, you’d shuffled to a bench sitting on the side of the deck, your eyes trained on the fight. You nipped at your bottom lip, trying to suppress a smile.

Lance was holding up surprisingly well. He’d gotten in a couple of hits already, and didn’t look tired in the slightest, and Shiro’s eyes had narrowed to slits. He clearly hadn’t expected this level of skill from Lance–but from the look on his face, he didn’t look upset about it at all. If anything, the spark in his eyes grew from fondness to something like pride, and he became more aggressive with his hits, putting in more and more effort as if to test Lance’s limits.

The way Lance fought–this was the first time that you got to watch it from the sidelines, not as his sparring partner–left you breathless and completely enthralled. The way his muscles rippled beneath his shirt, the look of utter concentration on his face as he gauged when to strike and when to move slightly to the side–just enough to avoid the punch being thrown at his face, or the kick launched at his chest. He knew exactly what to do and when to do it, and it left him confident.

You had to admit, he wore confidence well.

Your hands flew up to your mouth when Lance knocked Shiro’s feet out from beneath him–your move–and sent him right to the floor. There was a beat of silence as the two of them processed what just had happened: Lance had won from Shiro in hand-to-hand combat. From Shiro. You were the first who unfroze, clapping your hands and letting out a whoop before you burst out laughing. That was enough to shock Lance back into action, and he cursed loudly before apologising profusely to Shiro, raking a hand through his hair.

“Told you!” you yelled, jumping up and beaming so widely you wouldn’t be surprised if you were actually glowing. “I told you!”

“If I recall correctly, you were the one to tell him that he wouldn’t beat me,” Shiro interjected. You shushed him, rushing up to Lance and throwing your arms around his neck.

“You’re amazing. I love you so much.”

Lance spun on his heel, a bewildered expression on his face. “Did you–did you see that?” Then he turned to Shiro again, who was still sprawled out on the floor and chuckling as well. “Did you let me win on purpose?”

“Nope. You beat me fair and square.”

“Holy shit.”

“Pretty much,” you said, pressing a kiss to Lance’s cheek, still giddy. “I’m so proud of you.”

- - -

You fiddled with Lance’s earpiece, making sure it was well-tightened and wouldn’t accidentally slip off during the mission. Even though you fully trusted Lance to perfectly complete the mission– like he had done the past seventeen missions he’d gone on– there was still a churning feeling in your stomach. Though now, it was more anticipation and excitement than anything else.

“Are you done fretting?”

You pouted, flicking his cheek and sticking out your tongue at him when he giggled.

“The earpiece will only loosen if you keep moving it, you know.” He swatted your hands away, grinning at your indignant ‘Hey!’. You scowled at him, but crossed your arms and sat back, resting your shoulder against the wall.

A beat of silence passed. “Relax, Y/N. I’ll be fine. And hey,” he added with a devilish grin, “maybe you could get yourself shot in the face too. We’ll match.”

Your eyes widened and you slapped Lance’s arm, but his laughter only got louder, and he pinched your sides, drawing out a yelp from you. “Just kidding.” He leaned forward and pecked your cheek.

Sitting in the back of the Black Lion, your feet tucked beneath you and fussing over Lance’s equipment while he lovingly made fun of you, the world felt right again. The two of you went on missions again, and while piloting would forever be off the table, Lance had told you that even though he’d miss it– he’d miss the thrill of zipping through space at unimaginable speeds, miss the magnificent sight of the stars– he was glad that everything worked out the way it did. And you allowed yourself to feel happy again, too.

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