#i might have gone round the bend a bit but lunatics are very useful

[radio-charlie]

The years of having my brain constantly short-circuited by fear have destroyed my survival instincts. might as well employ this to ur advantage

[babbushka]

Two’s Company (4/5)

1989 and New York City is a mess. Life was shit for all but you and Pale, who found that among the rubble and rubbish, there existed peace and calm and hard hot fucking. That is, until, an unwanted visitor makes themselves known, throwing this happy dream into a tumultuous nightmare.

Chapter 4 of my sequel to Blue Moon

7.8k ; NSFW, angst

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You made challah french toast, for breakfast. Pale ain’t never had it before you, before shackin’ up with you and lovin’ you and fuckin’ you all the time. He’d never even heard of it, figured the only french toast came from brioche. It wasn’t until one mornin’ when he was staying over at your shithole apartment across the street that all you had left in the kitchen was stale braided bread and eggs, a little milk and some cinnamon – and fuck, he was hooked.

It had been hard for him at first, hard for him to let you take over, hard for him to let you cook. He was just so used to doin’ everything himself, see? He was so used to bein’ responsible, bein’ in charge, bein’ the big shot – both in the kitchen and everywhere else. But you, you ain’t no fuckin’ wallflower, you ain’t no entitled bitch or nothin’, you want to help.

So over the year the two of yous have been together – which shit, he still can’t believe it’s been a year – he’s opened up, let you step into the kitchen every now and again. Let you make your challah french toast for him, let you let him kiss off the powdered sugar that always snuck up onto your face.  

It’s real fuckin’ bizarre sometimes, watchin’ you cook for him, watchin’ you do anything domestic really. You ain’t no housewife, not by a longshot, not with the way you were standing in front of the stove with your tits out, wearin’ nothin’ but a real soft and cozy pair of cotton panties. He thinks back to the very first morning, the very first time he ever fuckin’ met you, how you had hot oil splashing splattering onto your stomach, how you ain’t even winced once.

He knew then that you were somethin’ special, somethin’ once in a lifetime, something once in a blue moon.

“What’s goin’ on in that big head of yours?” You asked, turning to look at him from the stove.

He got all caught up in it, in the sight of you. It made his palms go clammy, and he nervously wiped them on the napkin he’s got draped on one of his thighs. He couldn’t possibly tell you all the shit that’s going on in his head, all the thoughts that are running through his mind, not right now.

He’s smokin’ his cigarette down as far as it can go, emotionally fried fritzed frazzled from the bullshit that was last night. He’s afraid if he starts gettin’ all lovey-dovey, he ain’t ever gonna stop, so instead of declaring his wild passionate fuckin’ love for you like some lunatic, he smokes some more.

“Nothin’ I’m just thinkin’ about how I’m fuckin’ starving over here.” He said back. It wasn’t a lie, not really, not too big of one anyway. “You almost done sweetheart? I feel like the god damned doorman downstairs can hear my stomach rumblin’, I’m withering away to nothin’, fading into fuckin’ obscurity. You making eggs too? Or nah because there’s already too many eggs in the batter? Do we even have any more eggs? I know I made the omlette for you the other day but I can’t for the fuckin’ life of me remember how many I used.”

“We have eggs,” You replied, took his fast-talkin’ easily, hands already reachin’ for the carton where he could sneak a peek at a couple brown shells nestled into the cardboard as you asked, “You want scrambled?”

“Yeah, with the – ” He started but you just tossed him a smile that shut him up real quick, just because fuck you’re so pretty.

“Whites fully cooked, I know honey.” You replied simply.

And wasn’t that something? Wasn’t it so fuckin’ crazy, that you knew? That you knew how he liked his eggs, that you knew what he meant whenever he was trying to say everything but his actual thoughts? He needed to get high, he thought to himself, needed to snort something straight up his fuckin’ nose or else he’d maybe lose it.

The bullshit with Barbie had him worried. It had him on edge, had him pissed the fuck off. Why did shit like this always happen to him, he thought to himself. Why did life gotta go and fuck up the one good thing he had – this thing with you.

He got up then, rummaged around in one of the drawers near where you’re standing, smacked your ass on the way. The little mirror and razor were right where he left them, the little thing of coke exactly where it should be. You don’t get bothered one bit by the way he bends over the mirror and sucks it straight up through the tight vacuum of a dollar bill. You only kissed him on the cheek as he went back to the table.

“Hey, I was thinkin’.” You started again, serving him up a big plate.

You did shit like this sometimes, little arrangements like this, on his plate for breakfast. Maybe to someone else it looked stupid, looked silly, but to Pale, the little banana smiley face with raspberry eyes coulda brought him to tears if he weren’t so out of salt.

“What were you thinkin’ baby?” Pale asked, feelin’ sweaty, feelin’ like he was on top of the world, like he was skyrocketing up up up into space. His veins were thrumming, and the slap of his hand on his thigh as he called for you to sit on his lap echoed like thunder in his ears.

“If the weather ain’t too bad today, maybe you and me take a trip to Jersey City. Go visit your brother.” You said, catching him entirely off-guard.

He had thought…well surely you hadn’t…he can’t wrap his brain around it. Around you. He coulda sworn, woulda bet money, that you had meant going to the cemetery in some abstract way. Some far away way, some hypothetical way. Not that you’d actually want to go now, go soon, go at all.

“You meant that?” He stared at you long and hard, but you ain’t acting like nothing out of the ordinary, you’re perfectly serious.

“We don’t have to, I just figured it’s been a long time since you’ve gone to see him, you know? Figured maybe since it’s Sunday and we don’t got shit to do anyway, it might be a nice opportunity.” You shrugged, scooping a big fork-ful of scrambled eggs into your mouth.

You’re looking at him with those soft eyes that has him pinching your nose hard, has him givin’ your face a little shake, because if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t get his hands on you and prove that you’re here, that you’re not just some hallucination of his drug-addled brain, he might scream.

“You do a lot of figurin’, huh?” Pale replied, and you laughed, kissed his cheek before sliding into the seat next to him at the table so he can have free mobility to cut up his food.

“I’m not just a pretty face you know.” You smirked, looking very much like the cat that got the cream, a damn spoiled princess.

“No, but you are real pretty.” He said, leaning over to lick at the corner of your mouth where some syrup had collected there, his teeth worrying you, making you laugh.

“Eat your eggs.” You shooed his face away for all of two seconds before cupping his cheeks with both hands and smacking a loud kiss to his lips that had the both of you shaking your head fondly at one another.

Despite that though, despite the kissin’ and the lovin’, and the frankly fuckin’ delicious breakfast you made for him, his blood ran cold. The thought of going to the cemetery, the thought of seeing the headstone…it churned his stomach. He hadn’t – there hadn’t been time – he wasn’t sure.

He didn’t know if he’d be welcome there, didn’t know if Robbie would want him, considerin’. But you’re right, it’d be good. It’d be real good. He should go, he could go, if you were with him.

“We can take the car, when we’re done eatin’. I’m sure you ain’t gonna want to stay there for too long, hangin’ around a fuckin’ graveyard in the cold and all, and god knows the public fuckin’ transportation would take hours to bring us there and back. I got a real good spot right on the street behind the building, it’s in the shade so the fuckin’ leather don’t fade or nothing – had to fight a guy for it, we played that stupid shitty game of who could round the corner first. I won because he was comin’ from the other fuckin’ direction and woulda had to make a three point turn, even though really it woulda been a fuckin’ ten-pointer or some shit like that. You know how tight that alley is.”

He doesn’t know how to shut up when he’s around you, doesn’t know how to get the words to slow down. Especially when the hit is so good, when he feels like king of the fuckin’ world, when he feels like there ain’t not one single ounce of bad on the whole planet. He’s rambling, he knows he is, isn’t even sure if he’s saying all this shit out loud, or if it’s all in his head.

It’s loud, either way.

It didn’t matter, either way.

“Remember when I sucked your dick in the Mickey-Ds drive through?” You asked, getting his attention, grabbing it in that way you’ve gotten real good at doing.

Sometimes he got too stuck in his own head, could go on and on and on and sometimes to a point where maybe he needed help getting out of it, needed help coming back to the present. You always did that for him, said some shit like that to jolt him out of a potential spiral.

He wanted to scream.

“Yeah that was hot.” He said instead, licking his lips instead, pulling you into his lap again instead. He didn’t like that, didn’ tlike that you went so far away, all the way in the seat next to him. His hands shook as he groped you, sucked more syrup off your tongue, wished it were your come. “You’re a perfect whore, ain’t ya?”

“Damn right I am.” You nodded, your shoulders curling in towards him, your tits pushing into his clammy hands. “And I’m yours.”

“Damn right you are.” He echoed you, kissed you hard.

God he was so fucking hard, had been hard for you the second you stood behind the stove, the second you started flipping the fuckin’ french toast. He had just fucked you, he knew that. It hadn’t even been an hour, and yet.

And yet.

Maybe it was the coke racing through him, maybe it was the way your skin looked so fuckin’ pretty in the sunrise of morning, maybe it was the way you were smilin’ at him, he didn’t fucking know. All he knew was that he was hard.

“Let me?” You asked, slinking down onto your knees, crawling under the table like you did at some of the fancy fucking restaurants he brought you to, settling between his sprawled legs.

In between the time he fucked you and the time you made breakfast, the two of yous had decided to put on some underwear. Pale wasn’t a stickler for too much, but food safety was one of the things he was bitchy about, adamant about, and he didn’t want your unprotected pussy anywhere near open flame.

He regretted that decision now, him wearin’ his fancy fuckin’ Versace briefs. He wished he were wearing Y-fronts or some shit like that, because you’re nuzzling your face into his dick, nosing and mouthing along the hard line of his cock, and he’s gotta fuckin’ stand up enough to shove the underwear down his thighs.

The second he does though, your mouth is on him like moth to a fuckin’ flame, and you blow him right there in the kitchen.

“God look at you, look at this perfect fucking slut. My slut, jesus your mouth is so good.” His head lolls back against the wooden frame of the chair, and he practically fuckin’ melts into your touch.

One of his hands shoves your head down further, makes you gag on his cock, makes spit and drool and slobber wet his stomach where you’re being pressed down down down. It’s music to his fuckin’ ears, and he ain’t in any position to stop the little thrusts of his hips when they come, when his cock demands to be buried as deep in your throat as he can.

“Yeah, that’s it, choke on my cock, fuckin’ gag on it, you’re so fuckin’ pretty.” He grunted.

Sometimes you look up at him, and he blows his load right away. Sometimes you’ll glance up at him through your lashes and you’ll look so thoroughly wrecked, so absolutely fuckin’ destroyed by his cock, that he can’t help it, can’t help but shoot his come all over you. Sometimes he comes down your throat, sometimes he comes across your cheek, sometimes he comes on your tongue.

He can’t fucking decide which one he wants now, but you’re looking at him, and he’s going to come in a fucking second because the coke is ripping through his system and his veins are burning and he’s so fucking hot, hot from the inside out, hot like the walls of your throat, your cunt. God he wishes he could fuck your cunt.

“Up, come on,” He urged as he pulled out of you suddenly, having made his decision, wanting to come in your pussy, stuff you full with it for the second time that morning.

He hoisted you up off the floor, and you already know what’s happening, already are bending yourself over the table easily for him as he scraped the chair against the flooring in his haste to come in you. There ain’t no better fucking feeling, he’s decided, than sinking his cock into your tight cunt and coming with your pussy clenching around him. Nothing could possibly beat it, nothing could even come close, he’s made up his mind.

That was, until the high from his coke started to fade, and you shimmied your hips back against him, your soft ass rubbing against his abs from where he’s still buried inside you, and you grin at him as he dumps his come into you.

That smile would always be the best, he thinks.

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When he’s calm enough to drag you into the big fancy fuckin’ shower, when he’s dressed, when you’re waiting with a hand outstretched and a smile, the two of yous leave the apartment.

His car is parked right where he fuckin’ left it, thank god. Ain’t no scratches or anything on it either, which is always something he’s worried about. Whether they were accidental or malicious, he think he’d burn the fuckin’ building down if someone scratched his car.

You don’t say nothin’ much on the drive out of town. It ain’t too far, a little less than an hour with little traffic. You don’t say much, just let him talk, let him get his nerves out. Fuck he was so nervous – he didn’t think he would be, not after the good morning he had, but he is.

“He loved peonies.” Pale said randomly, referring to the flowers he had stopped to pick up on the way.

He ran his hand through his hair at a red light as the two of you sit listenin’ to the classical music he’s got playing from the tape player in the dashboard. You’ve got your hand in his, and you give it a squeeze, something small and affectionate that has him nervous.

“He liked the pink ones, ever since he was a kid. We had a little garden, nothin’ too fancy or nothin’. But ma would tend to it and Robbie always asked her to cut some of the pretty pink peonies to put in the vases in the house, and she always would.”

“A garden sounds real nice. We didn’t have a very big backyard growin’ up, but most of the space was used for the above-ground pool.” You replied, reaching up with your free hand to tuck some hair behind his ear.

“You like swimmin’?” He asked you, practically floorin’ it when the light turned green again, the steady feeling of road under his feet helping along with the very presence of you to attempt to soothe him.

“In the summer-time, yeah.” You nodded, spoke softly, quietly. He appreciated that, he thought to himself, appreciated your delicacy. Fuck knows Pale ain’t never been delicate in his whole life.

“I’m gonna take you to the beach, bring you out to Montauk, to the beaches.” He said, eyes on the road, eyes flitting back and forth between you and the cars in front of him.

He’d been wantin’ to take you somewhere nice and warm for a while, wanted to take you all over the country, all over the whole globe. He wanted to see you in the bright sunshine and the sparkling water, wanted to see you the way he saw you in his dream, lips dark red with cherry cola and bruised up from his own teeth.

“Okay.” You replied with a smile, “Only if you go in the ocean with me.”

“Course, who the fuck else is gonna protect you from gettin’ eaten up by the sharks?” Pale scoffed, as if that much were obvious, as if he’d let you go too far away from him. Couldn’t have you getting’ drowned or eaten up – he was the only one allowed to eat you.

You gave him a look though, readin’ him in a way that he still doesn’t really know how you do it, and you give his hand another squeeze. When he looked at you, spared a glance to your pretty face from the road, he don’t find that soft affectionate smile, he finds sad eyes.

“What’s the matter?” You asked.

He huffed out a long breath, let the tension in his shoulders try and melt away. Of course you could tell something was off, you could always tell. You probably knew right from when he was all antsy and shit at the kitchen table. He couldn’t get anything past you, not that he wanted to.

He didn’t want to.

“I don’t know, I’m nervous.” He said, under-fuckin’-statement of the century. “I ain’t seen him since he died, you know? I haven’t, there hadn’t been any time to go visit, between the fuckin’ restaurant and meetin’ you and the composing. I – you know I meant to. I meant to go see him, I don’t know where the year went, how it flew by so fuckin’ fast.”

You nodded, understanding, always so understanding.

“We can sit in the car for a minute, when we get there. It’s okay.” You assure him, wanting him to have all the time he needs. You were good about that – you’re good about everything – giving him the time he needs. “There ain’t no rush honey, no worries.”

And he snorts a dark laugh at that, because there really ain’t a rush when you’ve got an appointment with the dead, is there?

“What if he don’t want to see me?” He asked, mostly to himself, mostly the get the fear off his chest.

Because he knew, deep down he knew, there were reasons why.

“Did you always know? That he was gay I mean.” You asked, as he gets off the main road, as he follows the signs for the cemetery.

You ain’t the only ones taking the opportunity of a Sunday afternoon to go pay respects. He didn’t know if he liked that better or worse, there being other people there. Didn’t know if he wanted them all seeing him, didn’t know if he wanted witnesses to his own grief.

“Yeah.” Pale said soft, real soft, his heart beating at the memory of it all as he slows the car down, searches the parking lot for a fucking space. He felt like he spent most of his god damned adult life, just looking for a place to park.

“Yeah I knew. We all knew, even though he didn’t really tell nobody about it. I was worried, you know? Worried for him for a long fuckin’ time. I wasn’t too nice about it, because I was so worried. It makes me a shit brother, I know. I wish I wasn’t so not-nice. I thought the mob had done it, when I first heard he had died. Thought for fuckin’ sure they had put a hit out on him, on his boyfriend or somethin’. We got mob ties in the family, I ain’t crazy, I know what they think of gay kids like Robbie was. That’s why I think he don’t want to see me, because of how not-nice I was.”

Pale rushed the words out, worried that if he stopped he’d scream, if he stopped you’d have time to call him an asshole, a jackass, a bastard. Because he’s said shit, done shit, shit he ain’t proud of.

Even as an adult, even when there was Larry and –

He cut that train of thought off straight away. He didn’t want to think about some dancer in a loft somewhere, or how sore his heart had been for some love when he met her. No, he’s got no use for those memories, he thought to himself, as he put the car into park.

But you don’t call him an asshole, or a jackass, or a bastard. You don’t even frown at him.

“You can’t change what happened in the past, you can only learn and grow from it.” You say, after some consideration. He didn’t know why his heart was beatin’ like he had snorted another bump, had licked up the coke from under his nails, had picked it out from between his teeth. Because he hadn’t, but you, you gave him that rush, all the time.

“And you have, you know? You have. You ain’t the same person you were, don’t got the same thoughts about it. I know you don’t.” You continued, giving him one of your looks that he swore went straight through to his soul, if he ever had one.

“Feels like it don’t matter now though. He’s gone now.” Pale whispered, not really one for bein’ too quiet or nothing.

He turned the car off, the engine cutting and making it so much more quiet than Pale ever really had experienced before. Even in the church for the funeral, it wasn’t this quiet. You glance back to the bouqet of peonies that Pale had lovingly buckled in the backseat.

“Maybe, but someone becoming a better person isn’t ever in vain.” You replied, looking back to him, telling him it was okay, he was okay, you were with him.

He didn’t know what the fuck he’d do with himself, if you weren’t with him.

“I think I’m okay to go over now.” He sighed, squinting up at the sky.

It wasn’t set to snow or nothin’, not set to rain. It was cold out, but it wasn’t bitter, wasn’t frigid. Something in Pale made him wonder if Robbie had done that for him, for you, had wanted the weather to be nice for the visit. Maybe he was crazy.

He didn’t know.

“Want me to carry the flowers honey?” You asked, unbuckling your seat-belt, smiling at him, proud of him.

You knew, he knew you knew that this was hard, this was tough. You had never even met the guy, but you didn’t have to to know it was tough.

“No, I got it.” He said, shakin’ his head and getting out of the car too. He watched you walk around the front of the car, watched you adjust the lapels on your trench coat and watched you fix the fingers of your gloves so you wouldn’t get nothin’ like frostbite or nothin’, and in watchin’ you fix your gloves he chewed his lip, “Could you just…”

“Yeah?” You asked, when he trailed off, when he had a hard time finishing the question.

“Just hold my fuckin’ hand, would you?” He finally spit it out.

You could have mocked him for it, he knows. You could have teased and laughed all good-naturedly like you do, because he’s always complainin’ that all you ever want to do is hold his fucking hand. He’s always grumbling grunting bitching moaning about how he ain’t never held someone’s hand as much as he holds yours. But you don’t, you don’t mock him for it, and doesn’t even know why he thought you would.

You’re too good for him, he knew that.

He loves you, he knew that too.

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It took a while, to find the headstone. The fuckin’ cemetery had a map, that’s how big it was. A morbid “you are here” pointin’ to the parkin’ lot, listing and charting out all the different pathways leading to all the different graves.

But you ain’t in any rush, just like you said, and in the time it took to find the headstone, all you did was hold his hand. The cemetery was busy, but not so busy that it was loud. Somethin’ about it made Pale’s heart kinda heavy, but kinda light at the same time. So many people all comin’ to see someone they lost. Maybe they lost ‘em last week, maybe they lost ‘em ten years ago, he didn’t fuckin’ know. But he liked that whoever they were, they had people who still cared enough to visit.

He felt real fuckin’ bad, waiting so long before visiting.

The whole thing hits him all over again, when he finds it, the headstone. There it was, shiny and polished, looked after. It had his name etched into it, had the dates he had graced this planet, and Pale didn’t even realize it when the cold thing of a tear slipped down his cheek.

You’re standing with him, your hand in his, your head resting on his shoulder. You’re standing there and you’re cryin’ too. You ain’t never even met him, but you didn’t have to, to cry.

Pale took in a deep breath, let it out real slow and shaky, didn’t even fuckin’ bother to hide it. He wanted a cigarette, he wanted to kiss you. He didn’t know what he wanted.

He wanted his brother back.

There are peonies placed at the grave already, proof of someone else already bein’ there, already havin’ visited. He wondered when they had come, wondered when they had visited, how often. He wondered who it was, which of his family. Wondered, given the nature of things, if it were any of his family at all.

Well, he thought to himself as he sniffed up some tears that leaked outta his nose, Jimmy was here now for him.

Pale placed the new bouquet right next to the old one, chewed his lip as he tried figuring out how to prop them up nicely. Robbie woulda known how to do it, how to arrange them, he thought with a small smile, he woulda known how to make it look nice.

You surprised him then, by stepping forward. You look around the headstone, searching for something. He frowned when you picked up a rock, big and smooth, weathered by the snow and rain and fuck knows what else. You placed the rock on top of the headstone, placed it carefully, before stepping back and regaining hold of his hand.

“What’s that for?” He wondered aloud, searching your face.

“There are men with hearts of stone, and stones with the heart of men.” You said easily, the two of your regarding the little rock, your own small offering to a man you never knew. “Flowers wilt and fade, but stones don’t die, and neither will our memory of him.”

He nodded, suddenly getting choked up about it, about it all over again.

The two of yous were quiet for a long time, just standing there, each in your own bubble. Pale can’t help but think about the whole life he knew with his brother, his baby brother, little Robbie.

“It wasn’t a boat crash, you know.” Pale said, lighting a cigarette.

It wasn’t a crash, wasn’t anything that dramatic. He wished it were, wished it were something that instant, something that sudden, not the slow painful death of disease and decay that it had really been. No one wanted to talk about that, about the disease, but Pale knew.

“I know.” You said, because you knew too.

                                                   ------------------------

He didn’t really know what the difference was, anymore. Couldn’t tell sometimes with how fucked up he got, what was real and what wasn’t. He thought he was in a dream, was pretty sure he’s in a dream, because it’s too fuckin’ sunny for Queens that time of year, too warm. He’s sweatin’, he could feel that, knows that that’s real. His eyes were closed, in the maybe dream, they’re closed but everything was still too bright, like a sun that didn’t want to just go behind a fuckin’ cloud already. He’s sweatin’ and smokin’ a cigarette, eyes shut tight against the sun and something – someone was playin’ with his hair, was laughin’ at the faces he’s makin’, and he thought that if this is a dream, suddenly it’s a good one, because you’re there.

He dared to open his eyes in the dream, dared to squint at the too-blue world around him. Definitely a dream then, he thought, because there ain’t no way Queens was this blue – not even in the summer. It’s you, because of course it is, and you were sipping dark cherry soda that stained your tongue all red, made your teeth pink from it. He’s blinded from the sunshine of your fuckin’ smile, the whole of his vision nothin’ but you, but the way your hair fell forward and framed your face.

He wrestled you down on top of him in his own mind, yanked your head down by the scruff of your neck to plant a sticky kiss to your lips, a kiss that had you melting against him like you were putty in his hands, because you were. His good girl, you were.

He kissed you under the blazing heat of the sun, tongue sliding against yours in the dream until it ain’t just a dream anymore, and that hot sunshine fades away, and he grew more and more aware of the real world around him, grew more and more aware of you really climbing all over him, of you really kissin’ on him.

“Pale honey, you gotta get up.” Your voice echoed in his head, and he fought against it, fought against the urge to wake up and face the fuckin’ day when all he wanted was to spend the whole time with you.

But it was Monday, and Monday meant work managing the diner, and work at the diner meant he needed to get the fuck out of bed and away from your arms and he’s already frownin’ when he felt the last of that brightness slip away.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” He grumbled, scrubbed a hand down his face and groaned out in aggravation, “Why’d I give myself these hours?”

He knew it was too fuckin’ early, it had to be. The sun wasn’t even over the damn skyline yet, the birds weren’ fuckin’ chirpin’, no one was awake – so why the hell was he?

“Because you’re a hard workin’ man. Go on.” You smiled at him, and dammit that smile really just made everything better, didn’t it?

It had to have, because soon enough he was smoothin’ his big hands up your sides, up your stomach from where you were straddling his hips, and he had half a mind to fuck you real hard right there, just like that. From his view your tits were beggin’ to be bitten, to be touched, and he sat up to bury his face in your cleavage, unable to resist.

“Honey,” You nudged him gently, scratched at his scalp with one hand and tried to untangle his long limbs from around your middle with the other.

“Nah you gotta come with.” He sniffed and snuffled and grumbled, only burying his face deeper into your flesh, reveling in the way they pressed against his cheeks, how he could barely breath, suffocatin’ from your perfect fuckin’ tits. “I ain’t gettin’ up without you.”

“Alright alright, I’ll come.” You laughed, practically pryin’ his head away from you by his hair, greasy and in desperate need of a wash. He could feel it, could feel the locks goin’ piecey, but he didn’t fuckin’ care, he’d have breakfast and then rail you and then fuck you in the shower, that was all. He’s so trans-fuckin’-fixed by the way your naked body looks as you climb off of him and slide off the bed, that he almost misses it when you ask, “Coffee?”

The thought of caffeine suddenly sounds fuckin’ divine, and he’s throwin’ off the single bedsheet away from his overheated body real quick to pad across the cold floor and follow you out the door and into the kitchen.

“Yeah.” He yawns, agitated and aggravated and really just wantin’ to fuck you over the counter. Maybe he would, especially with the way you’re lookin’ as you reach into one of the cabinets and pull out the coffee grounds. He huffs to himself, steals a cigarette from the stash he keeps in the kitchen, lights it on the stove and puffs out a few plumes of smoke before chucklin’ dryly to himself and sayin’, “You know I used to hate coffee?”

He expected you to be scandalized at that, or even surprised, even just a little shocked. With how much coffee he consumes now, but all you do is laugh brightly as you measured out the perfect amount of grounds to chuck into the coffee filter, throwin’ a smile over your shoulder when you tell him,

“I know.”

“Bullshit, how’d you know?” He asked, comin’ round the small island to stand too close behind you, pressed himself right up against you as you poured water from the sink into the pot to pour through the filter too.

“First night I was here, not a single fuckin’ box of joe anywhere. Nothin’ but tea.” You laughed again, wriggled your hips against his dick, the two of yous still very naked. You had a bad case of the giggles this mornin’ apparently, and Pale was far too amused to really put a real stop to it, so all he does instead is pull your back to his chest and clamp a hand over your throat so he could feel the way your laugh vibrated through his sweaty palm.

“What’s so fuckin’ funny about that?” He asked, lettin’ his other hand wander down down down your body, ‘till his fingers were toying right with the folds of your cunt.

He could finger you like this, he really could, and he does, because your laughs are breathless until they’re not laughs at all, until they’re just moans. Music to his fuckin’ ear, he thinks, as he fingers you, could let out a laugh of his own with the way you press your ass harder against his cock, cock that was now rigid and full just for you.

“I’m just picturing you with your big hands holding a tiny teacup.” You said between all your little gasps and moans, still got some frame of mind to be real fuckin’ smart as you grin up at him with your head on his shoulder, nipples rock hard against the chill of the air when you ask, “Do you want tea?”

He sucked his teeth, turned you around and hoisted you up on that very same counter, and you made a playfully annoyed face at the way the cold granite hit your bare ass for only a moment before he’s prying your knees apart, dragging you to the edge so he can line the head of his cock up real nice.

“Nah, coffee’s fine.” He said as he pushed himself all the way in, all in in one big slow strong thrust that had your nails digging into his back, had your mouth droppin’ open into that pretty little face you make whenever he gets his cock in you.

“But you hate it.” You said around your big sigh of pleasure, shifting around to give him a better angle, letting yourself lay back against the cabinets, careful not to smack your head.

He started thrusting in earnest then, wrapped your legs around his hips and made you hold his cigarette for him as he sucked dark red marks into your throat, your shoulders. He wanted to splay you out real pretty and fuck you with his face in your tits but the cabinet was in the fuckin’ way and he wasn’t in the mood to move you.

“I used to.” He groaned, groaned when your tongue and lips laved themselves over the gold chain necklace he wore every day, the same fuckin’ one you had clasped around your throat, matching like two sides of the same damn coin. He groaned and fucked you harder, punched moans out of you, your hands scrabbling for purchase on his back, scracthin’ him up, stingin’ him real nice when he says, “I like the way you brew it.”

“I just – oh Pale! Harder – I just push buttons on the machine.” Your throat clicked and he spit in your open mouth, gave you somethin’ to swallow, and you did, you always did.

“Yeah well you do a real good fuckin’ job.” He panted into your mouth, makin’ your face pinch up in that way that meant you were gonna come soon, and he loves the feeling of you comin’ but he decided in that moment that he loved the taste of it even better, and since this was supposed to be breakfast and he was starvin’, he wasted no time in pullin’ out of you just as your pussy started to gush.

“Pale!” You cried out in dissatisfaction at being so empty all of a sudden, so empty right when you needed him, so empty right as you came, but he only bit the inside of your thigh hard to shut you up and let you know somethin’ good was coming.

He shoved his tongue deep into your cunt, his nose rubbing up against your clit making you moan out high and loud, already over the edge and this just makin’ it even more fuckin’ good. His tongue stroked your walls while his hands were busy steadying himself against your thighs – steadying you so you wouldn’t go kneeing him in the fuckin’ face or nothing.

When your pussy had stopped pulsing around his mouth, he pulled back enough to jerk himself off. He pressed one of your knees down against the counter to keep your legs spread, and with his other hand stroked himself right to the edge, right to where his balls were tightening up and his stomach went all hot and he knew he was gonna come – and then he nudged the tip of his cock right back into you, shot his load inside you.

He fucked it into you, just a few lazy hazy dreamy thrusts, just enough to really get it deep in there, into that cunt he was so fuckin’ addicted to.

He came in you and stayed in you for a long while, until the coffee pot beeped and you couldn’t help but break out into a sweaty laugh, hair sticking to your face and your eyes too fuckin’ bright. Pale didn’t laugh, still too wrapped up in the feelin’ of you around him, but he did suck his teeth again, the sight of you bein’ so sweet too much for him.

“Come here, gimme a kiss.” He said, as if you were so far away and not warmin’ his cock right on the counter.

But nevertheless you sat up enough to wrap your arms around his shoulders, kissed him square on the lips over and over until his tongue decided to make an appearance once again, made you taste yourself on him, made you moan.

“You gonna drive into the city?” You asked, breakin’ away to breathe for a minute, and Pale groaned, forgetting all about work.

“Nah, I’m takin’ the train.” He said instead, runnin’ his hand through his hair, knowin’ he needed to really get a fuckin’ move-on with the shower and the changin’ and all the other morning routine bullshit.

“Will you walk with me to the diner, or’s there no time?” You asked, suddenly shy for some fuckin’ reason.

“There’s time, of course there’s fuckin’ time. Of course I’ll walk with ya, I always walk with ya.” He said, cupping your cheeks in his hands and kissin’ you real hard, wantin’ to wash away whatever worry that was that he saw flashing in your eyes.

He didn’t want you worryin’ about nothin’ – about him, or fuckin’ Barbie, or no one else. He’d walk you like he always walked you.

“Okay okay.” You smiled against his lips, laughing when he got too insistent, when those hips of his started to move again, his cock still in you, growin’ hard again, “Okay!”

“Okay?” He asked, wantin’ to make sure you were fine, you were happy. He’d kill someone, anyone, for you if you were unhappy.

But you smiled again and even though he had his cock in you, even though you could feel his big fuckin’ muscles all around you, you leaned over on the counter and plucked up the empty mugs you had washed last night, poured you and him a couple cups o’ joe, and handed one to him like the two of yous were sittin’ at a booth in the diner, and not stark fuckin’ naked in his kitchen.

“Okay.” You said, clinking the mugs together in a little toast to the morning.

And maybe he did hate coffee at one point, but as he slips and slides out of you with a groan, he found he don’t mind the dark roast so bad anymore, not when it’s you who’s makin’ it.

                                                   ------------------------

Later, when you’re cleaned up and blow-dried real pretty, he does walk with you like always. It’s too fuckin’ dangerous to go out by yourself, especially around here, around these parts. He snorted to himself as he smoked his cigarette, wind biting at where his face was exposed, he sometimes had no fuckin’ clue what he was sayin’ – around these parts. What was he, from some god damned wild west flick starrin’ the one and only Clint Eastwood?

You gave him a funny glance at the sound of his snort, and he gave you one right back.

“You lookin’ at me like that?” He asked, playful but with a scowl on his face.

“Yeah, what’re you gonna do about it?” You asked, swinging your joined hands back and forth, back and forth – until Pale let go of you long enough to snatch you around your thighs and chuck you over his shoulder, making you squeal out a laugh and a, “Pale!”

He carried you like that for a minute or two, gave your body a shake making you laugh and laugh, before setting you down on the sidewalk carefully.

“Yeah yeah keep teasin’ me doll, watch what happens.” He said, smoking around his smile, not wantin’ no one to see.

He had no fuckin’ clue how he got so lucky with you. Every day felt like a dream, no lie, no joke. But you laughed with him instead of at him and you were the first person to do that in damn near a decade, at least to do it and really mean it. You were the first person to really mean anything, to him.

“You know it’s really too fuckin’ cold out here, you sure you don’t want my jacket?” Pale asked, cigarette glowing red in the grey air, snow falling but not harshly enough to cancel work or nothin’, “Because honestly the last fuckin’ thing I need is for you to get sick or somethin’, now I know it’s big on ya but I don’t care I think you should wear it, at least ‘til we get to the diner. Fish keeps the heat on in there right? You won’t be freezin’ or nothin’ behind the milkshake counter? Do people even drink milkshakes in this hour? Maybe if he keeps the heat on they do. Hey did you know – ”

“Shit!” You suddenly dipped out of view, not that you managed to obstruct his vision too much anyway, bein’ much shorter than him.

But you were cursin’ on the ground, having landed flat on your ass, wincing.

“Fuck – (Y/N), you okay?” He rushed to help you up, steadied you with his hands on your arms, and you were only laughin’ again.

You were always easy breezy.

He thought about the way you had looked Saturday night, a woman possessed, and his chest filled with pride, with adoration. You were so sweet, so soft and patient and kind, but you knew how to fuckin’ throw hands and he respected that in a woman.

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Damn ice.” You brushed the snow off your ass, made sure none of it melted into your coat. You still wore it, that red trench coat, the one you had bought second hand from who the fuck knows where.

He still thought you should be wearin’ his leather jacket instead.

“You want me to beat the shit out of it?” He asked, jokingly, glad about your good mood. He didn’t ever want you shoutin’ like you’d been shoutin’, ever again.

“Yeah honey, let’s go fight Jack Frost.” You rolled your eyes, and began swatting at his arm when he immediately began to punch the snow in front of yous.

“I’ll fuck him up you know I will.” Pale joked back, face schooled real serious.

“Yeah I bet you will hot shot.” You bump your hip against his, and the two of you chuckled, breath foggin’ up in the cold.

He walked with you, always. Wouldn’t miss opportunities like this for the world, not for one fuckin’ second.

And when you laughed with him, when you held his hand, when you kept up with him bright as a tack and twice as sharp, he coulda woulda vowed then and there to walk with you to the ends of the earth.

                                                   ------------------------

Tagging some Pale lovin’ pals! <3  @fullofbees @dreamboatdriver @thecurlycaptain @bourbonboredom @driverficarchive @rosalynbair @redhairedfeistynerd @adamsnackdriver @glitzescape @adamsnacc-kler @kyloxfem @fallin-for-youreyes  @attorneyl @jedihbic @bens-rose @formerly-anonhamster @thepilotanon @hippieface @tinyplanet-explorers @satansstrawberry @riseofkylo @whiskey-bumblebee @helloimindelaware @mandowhoreian @ah-callie @proxyfoxy​

[d2paxbisonica]

Chapter 05- Overheard

“WRESTLING!” Frost winced then made an unintelligible noise that indicated irritation. She glanced up from her datapad that currently displayed her book while taking a sip of herbal tea whilst looking around for the source of the disruption to her peace and quiet.  She put the data pad down, one hand automatically going to the towel on her head to ensure it stayed in place after the sudden movement.  

She adjusted her open robe over her soft pyjamas and reflected how peaceful things had been in the clan house recently.  A peace she did not see coming nor expect to last very long given the constant antics of her clanmates.  However, she had intended to take advantage of this rare opportunity and spend every precious moment of this peace nestled in her favorite ratty chair in the clan house common room catching up on the postings to her favorite fiction boards.  She had enjoyed the multiple attempts that her fellows guardians had made to recreate or replace the lion’s share of lost Pre-Fall fiction.

“Frost, your heart rate is spiking.”  Persephone apparated into existence.

“Do you hear that, little Ghost?”  Frost asked, not really expecting the Ghost to have heard it.  “That’s the sound of trouble.”

“Should I bring your weapons?”

As the assorted hoots and hollers of two of her clanmates echoed down the hall and she realised her all-too-short peace was at an end,  She sighed and took one last sip of her tea and giggled at Persephone’s last question.

“Not just yet.  Give it five minutes.  Take this please?”  And handed over her datapad.   

The Ghost took it from her to be stored as data itself and vanished. Frost  inhaled in preparation and set her teacup down at the exact instant the door flew open so fast that it fell off one of it’s hinges with a bang.

“WRESTLING!” Ronnie, the giant Titan exclaimed, her hand outstretched from just slamming the door wide. “WOOO, WRESTLING!” resounded Th13teen. The Hunter pushed past Ronnie and flexed his arms, strutting around the room.

Frost rubbed her temples. “Okay. Okay. Clearly you two lunatics have found something new to occupy your pea brains. What is it this time?” “It’s the BEST” Ronnie shouted. She gesticulated wildly “Shaxx is adding unarmed combat to Crucible and he wants us to organize into groups of two-” “TAG TEAMS, BAYBEE” Th13teen interjected.

“-and fight each other in a round robin tournament!” Ronnie grinned from ear to ear.. 

Frost picked up her teacup as a protective measure, feigning the most unimpressed air she could. “And what do you get for winning, pray tell?” “BELTS!” came the response from Th13teen.

“Belts?” Frost asked.

“Belts,” Ronnie clarified. “Belts,” Frost confirmed. “BELTS!” Th13teen reiterated. “BIG, SHINY GOLD BELTS!” “Shiny...gold,” Frost peered up at the big Titan, decked out as she was in gold filigree armor “why am I not surprised? Ronnie, If your armor gets any shinier you might as well wear disco balls on your buttplates.” “No, no, for the duration of this tournament, I’m now going by the name ‘Ronnie-2-Shotty’” she grinned and glanced at Th13teen who nodded in approval, “because I got the shotguns right here” she flexed, indicating her not unimpressive, Frost conceded- biceps.

“And I’m going by ‘JOEY THREE-BOWS” Th13teen squealed excitedly, perching atop the back of another sofa lounger. 

“And together,” Ronnie bellowed “we are…” Th13teen leapt off of the sofa back and Ronnie caught him, swinging him around once and landing him on his feet where they both took up flexing poses and shouted in unison: “THE NEW VOID ORDER!” 

Frost palmed her own face.  “As fascinating as all of this is, I’ve had my fill of your...enthusiasm for the day.  I’ll be outside.” She got up and strode past them, pink robe fluttering as she did.

“You’re gonna come and see us wrestle, right?” Frost waved dismissively “Break your necks on your own damn time, boss lady. I’m going out to the garden to get some more reading done.” She turned back as she was leaving and regarded Ronnie directly “and by the way, try not to let anybody else break your shiny butt, okay?” “Why’s that?” Ronnie smirked back with a touch of defiance.

“Cause that’s my job.” Frost deliberately lowering her voice and holding Ronnie’s gaze for as long as possible while she watched the overconfident Titan’s face turn from Awoken blue to embarassed red. Frost turned and left just as Ronnie was trying to come up with a good retort, a move that Frost knew hammered the point home: I’m in charge here, Ronnie, you just think you are. 

As she stepped out into the clan house courtyard and took in the morning sunlight, something once more came to interrupt her solitude. A stranger approached the garden path. A Warlock, dressed in fine black and gold robes, her shoulders and neck adorned with long black feathers at the hems of her outfit. She was shorter than Frost, with dark human skin and a head of bright orange hair framing a severe face, made up with black eyeliner and gold lipstick. This woman seemed to glide up the path though Frost was sure she was walking, and she would have almost gone through her had she not halted abruptly. 

The woman flashed a smile that didn’t seem to reach her eyes, one that clearly was not lacking in practice.

“Good day, madam,” she nearly purred with a voice that was like black licorice. Tart and husky, but dripping with enough sweetness to cause cavities. “Can you tell me if this is the Pax Bisonica house?” “Well yes but why?” Frost cocked her hand on her hip. She wasn’t too sure why this person was here, but the atmosphere of ostentatiousness was already made cloying with Ronnie’s grandstanding, the last thing she needed was this peacock padding around the place. 

“Is Veronica here, darling?” the Warlock’s mouth curled into a smile and Frost envisioned her as almost snakelike. 

“Veronica? There’s….nobody in the clan by th-” “Oh yes, of course,” she deflected “Ronnie, she goes by Ronnie these days, I’m sorry.” “Oh” Frost raised both eyebrows, genuinely disarmed. Veronica? Really? She filed that away for later use. “Y-yeah, Ronnie’s inside.” She stabbed a thumb backwards over her shoulder and moved aside for the visitor. 

“Thank you darling,” the shorter woman bowed her head and glided past Frost without another word, making for the door. Frost narrowed her eyes and waited till the woman was through the doorway. She didn’t trust this one. Not at all. Not that Frost trusted many people, she still hadn’t gotten used to living with the members of her own clan, such as it was. That said, though, if this woman meant them harm, she was going to at least stay on top of things. They were family, after all. 

“Persephone,” Frost summoned.

“Frost,” her Ghost offered, dryly as she appeared.

“Suit me up. We’re going stealth.” 

*** Frost slipped in through the door and immediately sprang into the rafters, padding between them like a cat. Her void light flickered around her and began bending the low ambient light around her armor, rendering her functionally invisible. If anybody looked hard enough they might be able to see her, but nobody would really be looking up at the rafters in their own clan house. She swiftly made her way to the commons room via the roof supports. 

As she entered the room, she saw the new arrival speaking with Ronnie, who stood before her, arms crossed, but smiling? They were talking, low and quiet, which was unusual for Ronnie. Frost also noted that Th13teen was absent?

 Frost’s Hunter inquisitiveness kicked into overdrive and she listened intently, using her headset’s sound amplifiers to zero in on the words being said. “...not since Io, no.” Ronnie said, with a slight chuckle.

 “I know, it *has* been a while, darling, I’m sooooo sorry.” The new woman drawled out her words theatrically as if rehearsed. “So what brings you back to our neck of the woods?” Ronnie leaned back on her desk. 

“Why….you do, Veronica, my dear.” The Warlock leaned in as Ronnie leaned forward. Frost’s breath hitched in her throat and she reached for her knives, anticipating an attack, however, what happened next surprised even the seasoned guardian.

The smaller woman stood on tiptoe and leaned in further. Her gold-painted lips met Ronnie’s and the larger woman brought her arms forward and around the Warlock’s waist. They entwined. It was long, slow and silent, and if there had been any sound still in the room, it would have been brought to a hush.

Frost muttered a quiet “fuck, fuck, fuck” as her fumbling fingers found no purchase on the knife handle and it slipped out of it’s sheath, causing her to grab it blade first before it could fall to the ground and give her away. She exhaled, realising that her gloved fingers were in no danger and reclined to sit in the rafters. 

Well, she thought, watching the two women kiss. This is...new. It was no secret that Ronnie was...involved with a great many people. She often implied as such. But this was the first time Frost had seen evidence with her own eyes. She frowned, though she wasn’t sure why. 

The two women broke apart and Ronnie chuckled. She reached up an armored gauntlet to cup the smaller woman’s face playfully “Oh Deja, you haven’t changed a bit.” Deja cupped her hands around Ronnie’s larger one and smiled sweetly at her “I’m still just ‘little old me, darling. And I was hoping you’d like to catch up on old times some more.” “Oh?” Ronnie said, perking an eyebrow. Deja slipped back from her and gestured wide with her arms “Some friends of mine have abandoned a little outpost on Saturn, darling. It’s a cozy little apartment at the top of one of the less destroyed buildings in the city. It’s as furnished as it gets and all the amenities work.” She smiled her little snake smile again. “They’ve finished their little expedition to collect Vex samples there and they offered me the place.” Ronnie looked down and chuckled. As her eyes rose to met Deja’s she asked “and what are we going to do in a remote apartment out in the middle of Saturn, Deja?” Deja bit her bottom lip and cocked her eyebrow “why, darling, we would make our own entertainment.” Frost mimed a gag. Persephone giggled in her head. 

Ronnie laughed, loudly at first, then softer, looking around. “I...when were you planning to go?” she said, standing and walking over to Deja, resting her hands on the Warlock’s hips. Frost found herself chewing on the inside of her helmet restlessly, watching this all play out. 

Deja swayed her hips gently under the Titan’s touch “Right now, darling. We’d have the whole weekend to ourselves.” Ronnie’s eyebrows arched in the middle, surprised and a little sad. She smiled weakly for Deja. “Ah...Deja, I can’t. I have plans.” Deja play-frowned “Unless it’s Vanguard business, sweetheart, I’m sure it can wait.” Frost smirked to herself. Of course, she thought, Ronnie wants to go do that wrestling thing with Th13teen. She’s not going to go romp with some....two bit spell-slinger that just walked in here with her gaudy makeup and her- wait. 

Frost sat back against the support beam. Why did she care? Whatever Ronnie did in her spare time was her own business. It’s not like she had a horse in this race at all. In fact, getting Ronnie out of the place for the weekend would benefit her more. She could have the whole place to herself and enjoy a good long marathon reading session. She looked down, hoping now that the big woman might reconsider the weekend romp. 

Ronnie sighed and pulled her hands back from Deja. “It’s….I had plans.” The wrestling, Frost nodded to herself. Knew it. “See,” Ronnie continued, “Frost’s been wanting some peace and quiet for a while, I was going to go find some books for her down at the Ishtar collective and bring them for her. I was gonna send everybody else out on patrol and just give her some time to...enjoy herself.” Frost nearly fell out of the rafters. 

Deja crossed her arms “And? You could just give her the books and then come with me, Darling, I don’t see why-” Ronnie scratched the bridge of her nose, trying to feign nonchalance “I was gonna…maybe hang around. See if there was anything I wanted to read too?” Frost cocked her head. Ronnie could read? God that would be a funny thing to say right now, but she held her tongue and listened. 

Deja perked an eyebrow at this as well. “You? Since when were you ever the bookish type, you’ve never, since we’ve known each other picked up-” a slow dawning came over her face. “Wait. Wait a moment. Who is Frost? Is she the one I passed on the way here? Awoken? Medium height, towel on her head? PJs?” Ronnie nodded slowly “uh, yeah, if you just passed her, yeah, that’s her.” Deja smirked. “Oh. Oh yes, I get it now. Is that your type now?” Ronnie coughed and stepped back towards her desk “I- I’m not sure I know what you mean.” “Veronica!” Deja insisted, she raised her voice for emphasis, “I thought you despised Hunters, and now you’re involved with one?” Frosts eyes snapped wide. INVOLVED? Hold on a moment here, lady-

“We’re…” Ronnie chuckled softly “we’re friends.” She looked up and smiled wide and warm. Frost suddenly forgot her own line of thought. She hadn’t ever seen this particular smile on Ronnie’s face. It was...wistful? Wry? Deja softened too. Her frustration gave way to a similar smile and she crossed to the desk and leaned on it beside Ronnie. They shared a quiet silence for a moment. Deja slowly reached out and stroked the back of Ronnie’s hand. “What’s she like, this Hunter of yours?” Ronnie chuckled softly. “She’s…unlike anyone I’ve ever met. She’s smart. Sharp too, like a knife. Always knows what to say. N’ she’s super capable. I just...I like being around her. She makes me forget myself and like…like she’s all that matters.” A slow creeping blush build up in her face as she spoke. “She’s like a literal goddess.” Deja leaned her head on Ronnie’s shoulder. “She sounds wonderful, Darling.” “She is,” Ronnie said. They turned to meet each other’s gaze and Ronnie cupped Deja’s face with a hand and drew her in for a short kiss. 

Frost leaned back against the support pillar and drew her knees up close to her chest. Her heart was thumping in her chest again and she felt flushed. 

“Come on” Ronnie said below her “least I can do is take you to lunch. We can catch up at least a little.” “We can” Deja said, “but if we’re not going to my little romp, honey, I might as well stick around a bit. Help out around the place some and all. After all, I do need to meet this woman who’s made such an impact on you…” Their voices trailed off as they left the room. Frost decloaked and let out a breath. That….that had been a lot. 

“Hey.” Frost jumped. Sitting across from her on the support beam, a shape coalesced out of the darkness to reveal golden robotic facial features. Th13teen threw her a cavalier salute. 

“So,” he chuckled “‘literal goddess’ huh?”

Goddammit.

[readbookywooks]

27 In the stunned reaction that follows, I'm aware of one sound. Snow's laughter. An awful gurgling cackle accompanied by an eruption of foamy blood when the coughing begins. I see him bend forward, spewing out his life, until the guards block him from my sight. As the gray uniforms begin to converge on me, I think of what my brief future as the assassin of Panem's new president holds. The interrogation, probable torture, certain public execution. Having, yet again, to say my final goodbyes to the handful of people who still maintain a hold on my heart. The prospect of facing my mother, who will now be entirely alone in the world, decides it. "Good night," I whisper to the bow in my hand and feel it go still. I raise my left arm and twist my neck down to rip off the pill on my sleeve. Instead my teeth sink into flesh. I yank my head back in confusion to find myself looking into Peeta's eyes, only now they hold my gaze. Blood runs from the teeth marks on the hand he clamped over my nightlock. "Let me go!" I snarl at him, trying to wrest my arm from his grasp. "I can't," he says. As they pull me away from him, I feel the pocket ripped from my sleeve, see the deep violet pill fall to the ground, watch Cinna's last gift get crunched under a guard's boot. I transform into a wild animal, kicking, clawing, biting, doing whatever I can to free myself from this web of hands as the crowd pushes in. The guards lift me up above the fray, where I continue to thrash as I'm conveyed over the crush of people. I start screaming for Gale. I can't find him in the throng, but he will know what I want. A good clean shot to end it all. Only there's no arrow, no bullet. Is it possible he can't see me? No. Above us, on the giant screens placed around the City Circle, everyone can watch the whole thing being played out. He sees, he knows, but he doesn't follow through. Just as I didn't when he was captured. Sorry excuses for hunters and friends. Both of us. I'm on my own. In the mansion, they handcuff and blindfold me. I'm half dragged, half carried down long passages, up and down elevators, and deposited on a carpeted floor. The cuffs are removed and a door slams closed behind me. When I push the blindfold up, I find I'm in my old room at the Training Center. The one where I lived during those last precious days before my first Hunger Games and the Quarter Quell. The bed's stripped to the mattress, the closet gapes open, showing the emptiness inside, but I'd know this room anywhere. It's a struggle to get to my feet and peel off my Mockingjay suit. I'm badly bruised and might have a broken finger or two, but it's my skin that's paid most dearly for my struggle with the guards. The new pink stuff has shredded like tissue paper and blood seeps through the laboratory-grown cells. No medics show up, though, and as I'm too far gone to care, I crawl up onto the mattress, expecting to bleed to death. No such luck. By evening, the blood clots, leaving me stiff and sore and sticky but alive. I limp into the shower and program in the gentlest cycle I can remember, free of any soaps and hair products, and squat under the warm spray, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My name is Katniss Everdeen. Why am I not dead? I should be dead. It would be best for everyone if I were dead.... When I step out on the mat, the hot air bakes my damaged skin dry. There's nothing clean to put on. Not even a towel to wrap around me. Back in the room, I find the Mockingjay suit has disappeared. In its place is a paper robe. A meal has been sent up from the mysterious kitchen with a container of my medications for dessert. I go ahead and eat the food, take the pills, rub the salve on my skin. I need to focus now on the manner of my suicide. I curl back up on the bloodstained mattress, not cold but feeling so naked with just the paper to cover my tender flesh. Jumping to my death's not an option - the window glass must be a foot thick. I can make an excellent noose, but there's nothing to hang myself from. It's possible I could hoard my pills and then knock myself off with a lethal dose, except that I'm sure I'm being watched round the clock. For all I know, I'm on live television at this very moment while commentators try to analyze what could possibly have motivated me to kill Coin. The surveillance makes almost any suicide attempt impossible. Taking my life is the Capitol's privilege. Again. What I can do is give up. I resolve to lie on the bed without eating, drinking, or taking my medications. I could do it, too. Just die. If it weren't for the morphling withdrawal. Not bit by bit like in the hospital in 13, but cold turkey. I must have been on a fairly large dose because when the craving for it hits, accompanied by tremors, and shooting pains, and unbearable cold, my resolve's crushed like an eggshell. I'm on my knees, raking the carpet with my fingernails to find those precious pills I flung away in a stronger moment. I revise my suicide plan to slow death by morphling. I will become a yellow-skinned bag of bones, with enormous eyes. I'm a couple of days into the plan, making good progress, when something unexpected happens. I begin to sing. At the window, in the shower, in my sleep. Hour after hour of ballads, love songs, mountain airs. All the songs my father taught me before he died, for certainly there has been very little music in my life since. What's amazing is how clearly I remember them. The tunes, the lyrics. My voice, at first rough and breaking on the high notes, warms up into something splendid. A voice that would make the mockingjays fall silent and then tumble over themselves to join in. Days pass, weeks. I watch the snows fall on the ledge outside my window. And in all that time, mine is the only voice I hear. What are they doing, anyway? What's the holdup out there? How difficult can it be to arrange the execution of one murderous girl? I continue with my own annihilation. My body's thinner than it's ever been and my battle against hunger is so fierce that sometimes the animal part of me gives in to the temptation of buttered bread or roasted meat. But still, I'm winning. For a few days I feel quite unwell and think I may finally be traveling out of this life, when I realize my morphling tablets are shrinking. They are trying to slowly wean me off the stuff. But why? Surely a drugged Mockingjay will be easier to dispose of in front of a crowd. And then a terrible thought hits me: What if they're not going to kill me? What if they have more plans for me? A new way to remake, train, and use me? I won't do it. If I can't kill myself in this room, I will take the first opportunity outside of it to finish the job. They can fatten me up. They can give me a full body polish, dress me up, and make me beautiful again. They can design dream weapons that come to life in my hands, but they will never again brainwash me into the necessity of using them. I no longer feel any allegiance to these monsters called human beings, despise being one myself. I think that Peeta was onto something about us destroying one another and letting some decent species take over. Because something is significantly wrong with a creature that sacrifices its children's lives to settle its differences. You can spin it any way you like. Snow thought the Hunger Games were an efficient means of control. Coin thought the parachutes would expedite the war. But in the end, who does it benefit? No one. The truth is, it benefits no one to live in a world where these things happen. After two days of my lying on my mattress with no attempt to eat, drink, or even take a morphling tablet, the door to my room opens. Someone crosses around the bed into my field of vision. Haymitch. "Your trial's over," he says. "Come on. We're going home." Home? What's he talking about? My home's gone. And even if it were possible to go to this imaginary place, I am too weak to move. Strangers appear. Rehydrate and feed me. Bathe and clothe me. One lifts me like a rag doll and carries me up to the roof, onto a hovercraft, and fastens me into a seat. Haymitch and Plutarch sit across from me. In a few moments, we're airborne. I've never seen Plutarch in such a good mood. He's positively glowing. "You must have a million questions!" When I don't respond, he answers them anyway. After I shot Coin, there was pandemonium. When the ruckus died down, they discovered Snow's body, still tethered to the post. Opinions differ on whether he choked to death while laughing or was crushed by the crowd. No one really cares. An emergency election was thrown together and Paylor was voted in as president. Plutarch was appointed secretary of communications, which means he sets the programming for the airwaves. The first big televised event was my trial, in which he was also a star witness. In my defense, of course. Although most of the credit for my exoneration must be given to Dr. Aurelius, who apparently earned his naps by presenting me as a hopeless, shell-shocked lunatic. One condition for my release is that I'll continue under his care, although it will have to be by phone because he'd never live in a forsaken place like 12, and I'm confined there until further notice. The truth is, no one quite knows what to do with me now that the war's over, although if another one should spring up, Plutarch's sure they could find a role for me. Then Plutarch has a good laugh. It never seems to bother him when no one else appreciates his jokes. "Are you preparing for another war, Plutarch?" I ask. "Oh, not now. Now we're in that sweet period where everyone agrees that our recent horrors should never be repeated," he says. "But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We're fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction. Although who knows? Maybe this will be it, Katniss." "What?" I ask. "The time it sticks. Maybe we are witnessing the evolution of the human race. Think about that." And then he asks me if I'd like to perform on a new singing program he's launching in a few weeks. Something upbeat would be good. He'll send the crew to my house. We land briefly in District 3 to drop off Plutarch. He's meeting with Beetee to update the technology on the broadcast system. His parting words to me are "Don't be a stranger." When we're back among the clouds, I look at Haymitch. "So why are you going back to Twelve?" "They can't seem to find a place for me in the Capitol either," he says. At first, I don't question this. But doubts begin to creep in. Haymitch hasn't assassinated anyone. He could go anywhere. If he's coming back to 12, it's because he's been ordered to. "You have to look after me, don't you? As my mentor?" He shrugs. Then I realize what it means. "My mother's not coming back." "No," he says. He pulls an envelope from his jacket pocket and hands it to me. I examine the delicate, perfectly formed writing. "She's helping to start up a hospital in District Four. She wants you to call as soon as we get in." My finger traces the graceful swoop of the letters. "You know why she can't come back." Yes, I know why. Because between my father and Prim and the ashes, the place is too painful to bear. But apparently not for me. "Do you want to know who else won't be there?" "No," I say. "I want to be surprised." Like a good mentor, Haymitch makes me eat a sandwich and then pretends he believes I'm asleep for the rest of the trip. He busies himself going through every compartment on the hovercraft, finding the liquor, and stowing it in his bag. It's night when we land on the green of the Victor's Village. Half of the houses have lights in the windows, including Haymitch's and mine. Not Peeta's. Someone has built a fire in my kitchen. I sit in the rocker before it, clutching my mother's letter. "Well, see you tomorrow," says Haymitch. As the clinking of his bag of liquor bottles fades away, I whisper, "I doubt it." I am unable to move from the chair. The rest of the house looms cold and empty and dark. I pull an old shawl over my body and watch the flames. I guess I sleep, because the next thing I know, it's morning and Greasy Sae's banging around at the stove. She makes me eggs and toast and sits there until I've eaten it all. We don't talk much. Her little granddaughter, the one who lives in her own world, takes a bright blue ball of yarn from my mother's knitting basket. Greasy Sae tells her to put it back, but I say she can have it. No one in this house can knit anymore. After breakfast, Greasy Sae does the dishes and leaves, but she comes back up at dinnertime to make me eat again. I don't know if she's just being neighborly or if she's on the government's payroll, but she shows up twice every day. She cooks, I consume. I try to figure out my next move. There's no obstacle now to taking my life. But I seem to be waiting for something. Sometimes the phone rings and rings and rings, but I don't pick it up. Haymitch never visits. Maybe he changed his mind and left, although I suspect he's just drunk. No one comes but Greasy Sae and her granddaughter. After months of solitary confinement, they seem like a crowd. "Spring's in the air today. You ought to get out," she says. "Go hunting." I haven't left the house. I haven't even left the kitchen except to go to the small bathroom a few steps off of it. I'm in the same clothes I left the Capitol in. What I do is sit by the fire. Stare at the unopened letters piling up on the mantel. "I don't have a bow." "Check down the hall," she says. After she leaves, I consider a trip down the hall. Rule it out. But after several hours, I go anyway, walking in silent sock feet, so as not to awaken the ghosts. In the study, where I had my tea with President Snow, I find a box with my father's hunting jacket, our plant book, my parents' wedding photo, the spile Haymitch sent in, and the locket Peeta gave me in the clock arena. The two bows and a sheath of arrows Gale rescued on the night of the firebombing lie on the desk. I put on the hunting jacket and leave the rest of the stuff untouched. I fall asleep on the sofa in the formal living room. A terrible nightmare follows, where I'm lying at the bottom of a deep grave, and every dead person I know by name comes by and throws a shovel full of ashes on me. It's quite a long dream, considering the list of people, and the deeper I'm buried, the harder it is to breathe. I try to call out, begging them to stop, but the ashes fill my mouth and nose and I can't make any sound. Still the shovel scrapes on and on and on.... I wake with a start. Pale morning light comes around the edges of the shutters. The scraping of the shovel continues. Still half in the nightmare, I run down the hall, out the front door, and around the side of the house, because now I'm pretty sure I can scream at the dead. When I see him, I pull up short. His face is flushed from digging up the ground under the windows. In a wheelbarrow are five scraggly bushes. "You're back," I say. "Dr. Aurelius wouldn't let me leave the Capitol until yesterday," Peeta says. "By the way, he said to tell you he can't keep pretending he's treating you forever. You have to pick up the phone." He looks well. Thin and covered with burn scars like me, but his eyes have lost that clouded, tortured look. He's frowning slightly, though, as he takes me in. I make a halfhearted effort to push my hair out of my eyes and realize it's matted into clumps. I feel defensive. "What are you doing?" "I went to the woods this morning and dug these up. For her," he says. "I thought we could plant them along the side of the house." I look at the bushes, the clods of dirt hanging from their roots, and catch my breath as the wordrose registers. I'm about to yell vicious things at Peeta when the full name comes to me. Not plain rose but evening primrose. The flower my sister was named for. I give Peeta a nod of assent and hurry back into the house, locking the door behind me. But the evil thing is inside, not out. Trembling with weakness and anxiety, I run up the stairs. My foot catches on the last step and I crash onto the floor. I force myself to rise and enter my room. The smell's very faint but still laces the air. It's there. The white rose among the dried flowers in the vase. Shriveled and fragile, but holding on to that unnatural perfection cultivated in Snow's greenhouse. I grab the vase, stumble down to the kitchen, and throw its contents into the embers. As the flowers flare up, a burst of blue flame envelops the rose and devours it. Fire beats roses again. I smash the vase on the floor for good measure. Back upstairs, I throw open the bedroom windows to clear out the rest of Snow's stench. But it still lingers, on my clothes and in my pores. I strip, and flakes of skin the size of playing cards cling to the garments. Avoiding the mirror, I step into the shower and scrub the roses from my hair, my body, my mouth. Bright pink and tingling, I find something clean to wear. It takes half an hour to comb out my hair. Greasy Sae unlocks the front door. While she makes breakfast, I feed the clothes I had shed to the fire. At her suggestion, I pare off my nails with a knife. Over the eggs, I ask her, "Where did Gale go?" "District Two. Got some fancy job there. I see him now and again on the television," she says. I dig around inside myself, trying to register anger, hatred, longing. I find only relief. "I'm going hunting today," I say. "Well, I wouldn't mind some fresh game at that," she answers. I arm myself with a bow and arrows and head out, intending to exit 12 through the Meadow. Near the square are teams of masked and gloved people with horse-drawn carts. Sifting through what lay under the snow this winter. Gathering remains. A cart's parked in front of the mayor's house. I recognize Thom, Gale's old crewmate, pausing a moment to wipe the sweat from his face with a rag. I remember seeing him in 13, but he must have come back. His greeting gives me the courage to ask, "Did they find anyone in there?" "Whole family. And the two people who worked for them," Thom tells me. Madge. Quiet and kind and brave. The girl who gave me the pin that gave me a name. I swallow hard. Wonder if she'll be joining the cast of my nightmares tonight. Shoveling the ashes into my mouth. "I thought maybe, since he was the mayor..." "I don't think being the mayor of Twelve put the odds in his favor," says Thom. I nod and keep moving, careful not to look in the back of the cart. All through the town and the Seam, it's the same. The reaping of the dead. As I near the ruins of my old house, the road becomes thick with carts. The Meadow's gone, or at least dramatically altered. A deep pit has been dug, and they're lining it with bones, a mass grave for my people. I skirt around the hole and enter the woods at my usual place. It doesn't matter, though. The fence isn't charged anymore and has been propped up with long branches to keep out the predators. But old habits die hard. I think about going to the lake, but I'm so weak that I barely make it to my meeting place with Gale. I sit on the rock where Cressida filmed us, but it's too wide without his body beside me. Several times I close my eyes and count to ten, thinking that when I open them, he will have materialized without a sound as he so often did. I have to remind myself that Gale's in 2 with a fancy job, probably kissing another pair of lips. It is the old Katniss's favorite kind of day. Early spring. The woods awakening after the long winter. But the spurt of energy that began with the primroses fades away. By the time I make it back to the fence, I'm so sick and dizzy, Thom has to give me a ride home in the dead people's cart. Help me to the sofa in the living room, where I watch the dust motes spin in the thin shafts of afternoon light. My head snaps around at the hiss, but it takes awhile to believe he's real. How could he have gotten here? I take in the claw marks from some wild animal, the back paw he holds slightly above the ground, the prominent bones in his face. He's come on foot, then, all the way from 13. Maybe they kicked him out or maybe he just couldn't stand it there without her, so he came looking. "It was the waste of a trip. She's not here," I tell him. Buttercup hisses again. "She's not here. You can hiss all you like. You won't find Prim." At her name, he perks up. Raises his flattened ears. Begins to meow hopefully. "Get out!" He dodges the pillow I throw at him. "Go away! There's nothing left for you here!" I start to shake, furious with him. "She's not coming back! She's never ever coming back here again!" I grab another pillow and get to my feet to improve my aim. Out of nowhere, the tears begin to pour down my cheeks. "She's dead." I clutch my middle to dull the pain. Sink down on my heels, rocking the pillow, crying. "She's dead, you stupid cat. She's dead." A new sound, part crying, part singing, comes out of my body, giving voice to my despair. Buttercup begins to wail as well. No matter what I do, he won't go. He circles me, just out of reach, as wave after wave of sobs racks my body, until eventually I fall unconscious. But he must understand. He must know that the unthinkable has happened and to survive will require previously unthinkable acts. Because hours later, when I come to in my bed, he's there in the moonlight. Crouched beside me, yellow eyes alert, guarding me from the night. In the morning, he sits stoically as I clean the cuts, but digging the thorn from his paw brings on a round of those kitten mews. We both end up crying again, only this time we comfort each other. On the strength of this, I open the letter Haymitch gave me from my mother, dial the phone number, and weep with her as well. Peeta, bearing a warm loaf of bread, shows up with Greasy Sae. She makes us breakfast and I feed all my bacon to Buttercup. Slowly, with many lost days, I come back to life. I try to follow Dr. Aurelius's advice, just going through the motions, amazed when one finally has meaning again. I tell him my idea about the book, and a large box of parchment sheets arrives on the next train from the Capitol. I got the idea from our family's plant book. The place where we recorded those things you cannot trust to memory. The page begins with the person's picture. A photo if we can find it. If not, a sketch or painting by Peeta. Then, in my most careful handwriting, come all the details it would be a crime to forget. Lady licking Prim's cheek. My father's laugh. Peeta's father with the cookies. The color of Finnick's eyes. What Cinna could do with a length of silk. Boggs reprogramming the Holo. Rue poised on her toes, arms slightly extended, like a bird about to take flight. On and on. We seal the pages with salt water and promises to live well to make their deaths count. Haymitch finally joins us, contributing twenty-three years of tributes he was forced to mentor. Additions become smaller. An old memory that surfaces. A late primrose preserved between the pages. Strange bits of happiness, like the photo of Finnick and Annie's newborn son. We learn to keep busy again. Peeta bakes. I hunt. Haymitch drinks until the liquor runs out, and then raises geese until the next train arrives. Fortunately, the geese can take pretty good care of themselves. We're not alone. A few hundred others return because, whatever has happened, this is our home. With the mines closed, they plow the ashes into the earth and plant food. Machines from the Capitol break ground for a new factory where we will make medicines. Although no one seeds it, the Meadow turns green again. Peeta and I grow back together. There are still moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips. On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale's fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, "You love me. Real or not real?" I tell him, "Real."