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possibilistfanfiction · 2 years

Note

This seems really indulgent and I know (and love!) footy au so no pressure at all but -- more butch Bea? Would make my day anytime, whatever you might have in mind! :) Thank you for your words

[i love indulgence, here's what was supposed to be one scene & ended up being 8.4k words about how remarkable it is to be butch :) for @unicyclehippo , also on ao3]

giving your body to ava is easy; giving your body to yourself is the hard part.

you’re supposed to protect her, you’re told: keeping her safe is the only thing that matters. you understand, as you tug a scratchy blanket up over her shoulders on a train to a little town nestled in the alps, that you are in charge of keeping ava safe because she’s the halo-bearer, because she’s the key to slaying demons and defeating adriel and heaven and hell and the earth between. you’re not supposed to keep her safe because she’s ava, but her breaths are warm against your neck, tucked in safely, her chin on your shoulder — you will keep her safe. it’s a vow you take with the gravitas you have your others, perhaps even more certain, sure, clear: you will keep ava safe.

you’ve felt the same impulse — not as strong, and not as sharp, but the same — toward a few people you’ve known. mackenzie, in third grade, after keith, a fourth grader, called her a bitch at recess, and it was easy, so easy, to let the anger well up in you and to, just like you’d been trained in aikido since you were five, punch him in the throat. you’d had to go to the principal’s office after a small riot had erupted, and you’d sat, sullen, while your principal told your mother and father what had happened. they asked you to apologize, and the words — rotten and wrong — got stuck in your throat. you were suspended for a week and your parents made you go to bed without dinner the entire time; your stomach ached to the point of physical pain and it was hard to think, but when you went back to school, mackenzie had smiled big and bright and had kissed your cheek and brought extra cookies to share at lunch, and it was so worth it.

you’d felt the same impulse in eighth grade, with marin, your best friend. she would come over after archery, and she said she didn’t mind that you were sweaty, even though you knew, objectively, it was gross. marin was always wearing a ripped denim jacket you were, silently, in love with, and her parents let her put purple streaks in her dark hair, and you couldn’t stop thinking about her mouth, even during algebra II, your favorite class. you learned to walk, on impulse, between her and the road whenever you were on the sidewalk; you held hands and felt proud: you were, in ways you had no idea how to name, hers. she pressed you up against the packages of mein and liangpi and cans of kidney beans in your pantry and kissed you, quietly and softly, one day. your first kiss, in the dark in the closet, and you had frozen stock still because — homosexuals are going to hell; that’s not love, that’s a sin, every sunday, and wednesdays during lent and vespers too, all the rosaries in the world won’t take away the way marin sighing into your mouth feels so perfect you want to die in it — it’s in your core, this want. so, of course, you kiss her back. you don’t know what you’re doing, have only watched movies where boys kiss girls or maybe you’d mostly skipped those parts; maybe in bend it like beckham you had paid attention to keira knightly’s short hair and her stomach and jesminder’s smile and the curve of her nose and found it more compelling than the men’s matches your dad takes you and your brother to see. your hands are shaking but you fist them in marin’s hair, coarse and curly and perfect, and you think you might explode when she rests her palm on your hip. it feels a little like jumping off a cliff.

and even your father walking in on you hadn’t stopped you from the want; your mother’s you’re disgusting; i’d rather you take your own life than be gay and the priest at their church telling you, quite clearly, that being a lesbian would result in eternal damnation. even that hadn’t been enough to stop the awful and bright desire to help krishna fix her shelf in her dorm in switzerland when you were sixteen, to accept her thanks in the form of laughter and sweet halwa. you are wrong, you know so, because your parents had seen you kissing a girl and you hadn’t wanted to repent; you had wanted to protect marin from speeding cars and hold her hand in the rain and fall asleep curled up next to her with a movie playing in the background, one where girls kiss and they don’t die afterward. it’s a suicide mission, maybe, the way krishna’s skirt rides up to her underwear while she sits on her bed and watches you level the shelf, her brown skin and the stretch marks you think are beautiful, that you think about kissing, all the time. you learn fencing and archery and you get multiple blackbelts in kendo; one of your sensei has a bright smile and short hair and the most precise hands. she’s beautiful in a way you don’t understand, not really, not yet: her hair is cropped short, and her jaw is square and compelling, and she speaks softly and kindly. when she corrects one of your stances you feel a race of electricity down your spine, the opposite of the stress you feel as your hips get bigger, as you go through the embarrassing ordeal of learning how to put a tampon in, as you have to go up a size with your sports bra. she teaches you to use a bo, and there are many things you can’t name: the power; the ache — you see a reflection that feels so much like a home to you that you are not supposed to want that you don’t know how to face it.

most of the girls in your school had gone to university; you had opened your letters from oxford; from tsinghua; from harvard; from the eth, with steady, sure hands, reading the acceptances calmly. it wasn’t hard, not this part: you braid your hair carefully each day and feel a little like throwing up every time you had to put your skirt on, the weekends and your aikido and judo classes and the standard, starchy, thick gi the most profound reprieve — you studied and you took your exams and it was easy, to become an asset, to become a weapon. you’re brilliant, all of the adults in your life tell you so. you stare at your ceiling and on the bad nights you can’t feel your hands. on the bad nights you want to touch yourself so badly you could scream, and you let your fingers wander down your stomach into the curls that have grown dark between your legs, and you think of stupid keira knightly’s hipbones and you feel the wetness there before you pull your hand away, every time. it’s wrong, to want like you do: to think of what a tweed jacket like your professors wear would look like, how your shoulders would be square and strong; every now and then, you stare at the scissors in your bathroom, for trims in the months between semester breaks when you can leave the grounds, and wonder what it would be like to just cut your hair short, how you might get in trouble but it also might be a relief. there is so much grace you can’t give to yourself yet.

of course, you’re not brave enough for any of it. you are brave, enough, however, to want to die: the ocs is bloody and brutal and a home unlike one you’ve ever known. it’s easier to push all of the sin down and fashion yourself useful, so useful if anyone, anyone at all, ever found out what you think about in the middle of the night, they would still have to value you: you have your arrows and your knives and your sisters and the most beautiful bo you had ever seen. you have your habit and your combat boots; you eat three exacting meals a day and you want and you want and you fucking want — but you tell ava about it, as clearly as you can, and she just loves you. you’re rude, for a second, but she sits patiently and doesn’t judge you for your tears or the curling desire in your chest, and then, what feels like a literal miracle, she tells you that you’re beautiful and you want to be called that, you want to be called handsome, you want her to laugh at your jokes and stare too long at your freckles. you want to love her, and you do: you want ava, who is so pretty and kind, despite it all, to know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you will be there for her. so you bandage the cut along your cheekbone in the train car and don’t think of the acceptance letters you had calmly thrown in your trashcan, or the thick watch the woman in front of you was wearing, her sleeves rolled up her forearms, or the way ava is warm and soft and you will gone on as many suicide missions as it took to protect her. to protect her, not the halo, not the church: ava.

she stirs eventually and smiles up at you, groggy and grateful and trusting, like she knows you won’t let anything bad happen to her; it’s easy to let her touch you, to let her lean on you, to let her use you for anything she needs. your heart swells as she burrows deeper into your side.

the first time you really allow yourself to think of it, this monstrous, lovely ache inside of you, is when lena, a shopkeeper in switzerland with a neat fade, a perfect quiff combed neatly on top, streaked with grey, and an impeccable linen suit, hands you a pair of pants. ava is in the dressing room trying on a pile of tiny clothes — which you do your absolute best not to think about — and the soft material and exact stitching: neat pleats that will accommodate the small flare of your hips; a straight leg that will sit at your ankle. lena smiles and offers you a few button downs, oversized and collarless, tailored perfectly, and she doesn’t know you’re a nun but you take them all and tell yourself that they’re suitable for you because they’re modest, because they won’t draw attention — not the way ava’s brightly patterned button down she ties into a crop top will, not the way ava will, just inherently, with her perfect smile and elegant brow. you’re drawn to earth tones, to subtle patterns, to thick cotton that drapes without sitting against your chest too snugly. ava loves your clothes, apparently, which is mostly expected because ava loves everything and, you’re certain of it, ava loves you. not as a sister warrior, not as a nun, but as beatrice, which is perhaps the scariest thing of them all.

one day, while ava is working and you have unadulterated and unmonitored time to yourself, you let your feet carry you to lena’s shop. ava has been reading you poems at night, and she’s been steadily collecting a few vinyl to play on the phonograph, even though it’s prone to skipping. it’s a life, gentle and slow, even with your training and the looming threat of an apocalypse of literally biblical proportions, and you have no idea how to reconcile who you have always tried to be with who you are, and what you want.

the first night you had been in switzerland, in your tiny apartment with dust and lumpy furniture and ava’s desperately excited energy, you had sat on the couch quietly as she puttered around and then finally settled in bed. you had lied back on the couch, and she had huffed and then sat up: ‘bea, what are you doing?’ she had asked.

you hadn’t been able to find the words that you really meant so instead you’d told her, ‘i’m keeping watch,’ and you hadn’t had to look away from the water stain on the ceiling to know she was rolling her eyes. you had argued, a little, but the couch was genuinely so uncomfortable and you hadn’t slept in so long, you’d gotten up and shuffled to the unoccupied side of the bed. ‘are you sure this is okay?’ you’d asked, and she’d squinted.

‘why wouldn’t it be?’

you had frowned and bitten your bottom lip and stumbled through, ‘because i — i’ve told you, i —‘

ava had rolled her eyes. ‘i don’t care what your sexuality is, beatrice. what i do care about is you sleeping; you’re dead on your feet.’ she had paused and waited for you to situate yourself under the covers, stiffly on your back, and she had huffed a breath and then — slowly, and you were not the only one who understood the overstep of nonconsensual touch, the pain and fury — settled her head just under your chin, resting on your chest. ‘i trust you to keep me safe.’

looking back, maybe that was it, maybe that was the moment you understood: one day, you want to wear a suit to a nice dinner; you want loose, perfectly tailored pants and expensive, thick cotton and for women and femme people — someone like ava; ava herself, you allow yourself — to think that you are attractive, that you’re sexy, that you would do anything to make sure they’re cared for. that you delight in it.

lena is a miracle herself, you think: she understands who you are, or, at least, who you want to be, buried underneath the rubble of a thousand explosions you’d set off along your spine and within your ribcage. she hands you a beautiful suit, and she lets you try it on; some days, you have tea with her wife and practice your arabic and you blush at aleyna’s gravely voice and the way she talks about her favorite art. you are overcome, when you see yourself in the mirror; your soul, eternal longevity be damned, leaps: there you are. you do up an elegant pair of cufflinks and look at a reflection you have always wanted to know.

there you are.

ava’s freedom is enviable: she wears clothes she loves and excitedly lets you cut her hair to her chin, because she wants to and because she thinks it’s fun and it’ll look so cute, bea, and she smiles afterward, laughs at herself, delighted, in the mirror. you let her think she’s convinced you of something really exciting and serious when you agree to get highlights; mostly, it makes her happy, and it’s not exactly what you want, but it’s something. ava flirts with boys, and ava flirts with girls, and she leans forward against the bar and winks at you when you drag your eyes away from her chest. some days, you think you might strike up the nerve to ask her, late at night, after you’d heard her touching herself in the shower, stifling little moans: what does it feel like to want with abandon? what is it like?

but you don’t: you dance with her, your head hazy, and you leave a letter — too sentimental, too telling, but a breath — for lena and her wife before you flee. you fight your way through all of madrid and an awful, nightmare of a vision of her with the fog, and then you hold her in your arms, once, after she dies again, after she falls and her body explodes inside its skin — literally. you pray and pray and pray — to her, not a single thought spared for god, and you would give up everything in your life: your vows, your worth, everything, for her to be alive. and she is, eventually, and you help her out of your clothes and it’s a kind of honor in this too: she trusts you not to hurt her, never to hurt her. she trusts you, in the shower, while you’re in an undershirt and boxers and you clean the blood from her ears, to be gentle to her, and to keep her safe.

you have your habit and your robes and your weapons; with each passing day, you become more and more terrified that ava is going to die. you love her; you want, in some way, to spend your life with her, whatever that might mean. but where does it all lead for you if she does die? you clutch your rosary in your hand and feel a very particular horror: who are you, if not for ava’s love? where, now, would all that want go?

ava kisses you. it’s your second kiss; you’re the second person she’s kissed, you know as much, but it doesn’t matter: you’ve held her before. you know this, as surely as you know anything. she has been many people, in some way or another, and maybe you have to. there’s so much of your life that has never been yours but the decision to follow her lips as she draws back and bring your hand to her jaw rests in your hands, as steady as they are when you have your bo, and far gentler.

ava kisses you, as she decides to die. you hold her as her body — this beautiful, small, miracle of a body that you love, that you love — fails her, with a particular finality as it glows blue and crumples. you know, when you send her through the portal, that you are going to have to leave this life you have forced down your throat and driven into the marrow of your bones like rods in the center. i love you, you tell her. you hope she knows.

no one cares, you realize, if you try on a pair of men’s jeans at a thrift store in berlin. in fact, robbie compliments them casually; you’re not sure if they know how much it means, but they have a lump of skirts in their arms and a neatly trimmed beard and glamorous blue eyeliner today, so you think they probably do. you pull the pants on in the dressing room: they’re light washed, and loose; they fall just at the bottom of your ankles, and you cuff them twice and pull on the sturdy blundstones you’ve worn all over the world at this point. you can see yourself in them in the winter, a big, elegant peacoat and a scarf pulled around your neck, and soft and warm; you can see yourself in them in the summer, rolled up with sandals and an oversized t-shirt. it’s different, than the time you’d tried on a suit — more casual, more variable — but the recognition is there all the same.

‘did you like them?’ robbie asks, meeting you at the front with a few skirts and a crop top that pangs in your chest because robbie will look great in it; because ava would love it.

‘i loved them,’ you say, and a knot releases somewhere in your chest.

you end up in los angeles — one tattoo on the top of your wrist and a surfing lesson booked — mostly because it’s the city of angels, which feels a little inevitable, and also mostly because it’s so far from anything you’ve ever known. you keep to yourself at first, mostly, but then you make casual conversation with a few of the surfers out near your airbnb every morning, and they love your accent and give you pointers on how to pop up on your increasingly smaller board and invite you to an arooj aftab show at the broad. it aches, to live this life without ava, even though it’s what she wanted for you, what she asked of you.

you drive along the hellish freeway to make it on time, and you let your friends buy you a drink at the outdoor bar, a little paper wristband signaling you’re over 21 after you’d shown your ID at the entrance; you had agonized over what to wear and settled on your favorite pair of pants, one that you’ve had since switzerland, a wide-legged pair in a deep navy that lena had tailored to fit your waist properly, and a linen collarless button down in a seafoam so pale it’s almost white, the sleeves cuffed up to your elbows, a pair of airforce 1s which your friend had promised you are, without fail, cool. you feel nervous but then your friends seriously look through some art pieces in the museum before the show, and one of them has on a pair of leather chaps, and no one cares at all. you’ve pulled your hair up into a careful, smooth bun for as long as you can remember, and at the show you close your eyes and let your heart hurt: you miss ava. you miss the love of your life, and you miss your faith, and you miss something you’ve wanted your entire life: to be seen as who you are. to be brave enough.

there’s lilting smoke and bright lights diluted by it, everything striking in urdu; you can’t translate each word, of course not, but you do understand: there are so many ways to pray. there are so many gods to pray to.

your friend drops you off at your apartment later that night; you stand in the kitchen in your black sports bra and the simplest pair of black cotton underwear you could find, and let your hair out of its bun. your skin is clean and clear and you have more freckles now than you have your entire life. your hair has gotten long, and every few days someone decides to tell you it’s beautiful. it is, you guess, even though, sometimes, it doesn’t feel like yours. you’d watched paris is burning a few weeks ago, alone at night when it was dark and the only noise you could hear was the gentle brush of the waves outside, after you’d poured yourself one of your favorite ipas and made popcorn, after you’d liet yourself eat a piece of pizza even though you hadn’t gone on a run earlier. you don’t feel like yourself, not all the way: you don’t always want to look at your hips and your chest and when your hair tickles along the middle of your back you have to close your eyes and breathe through it; you love the muscles that have grown sharper and bigger along your arms and the ink in your skin and the way your thighs cut strong and taper down to your knees, the color of your eyes at sunset. you are becoming; it hurts.

you watch the holiness in the ballrooms and you know: people have been far, far braver than you. loving ava — loving yourself — is not a kind of death sentence; it’s a kind of life.

camila facetimes you in the mid-morning, after you’ve just finished sparring. you’re in a sports bra, the weather too hazy and hot to wear your entire gi on the full walk home. camila grins when she sees your bare shoulders.

‘picking up the ladies, bea?’

you’ve never definitively said anything, but you kissed ava and then renounced your vows and, honestly, you think everyone probably knew the entire time anyway — it’s not as scary as you thought it would be: camila’s eyes are bright and clear and she’s just calling to say hi. there’s no condemnation; there’s no judgement, only your friend, your sister.

‘no, no,’ you say, and camila pouts, which makes you laugh. ‘it’s just hot.’

‘probably because you’re shirtless on the streets of los angeles.’

‘it’s a two block walk home from my dojo, camila.’

‘you’re not a nun anymore,’ she says. ‘let me have a little fun with it, at least.’

you’re quiet, just a beat too long.

‘how are you doing?’ she asks, resolute and gentle like always.

it goes without saying: you miss ava so much it feels like you’ve broken your wrists; you are in love with the world. ‘i’m — i’m figuring it out.’

it’s a more hopeful answer than camila was expecting, clearly, because she perks up and smiles.

‘well,’ she says, ‘it looks good on you.’

one night you think of the curve of ava’s rib. the twelfth, exactly, the way it wrapped slightly in her back, near her spine, a flutter away. you think of the way her shirt rode up in the middle of the night, how she rolled over onto her stomach and you saw the dimples above the waistband of her shorts, the curve of her ass, the nape of her neck, the delicate press of her wrists. it felt wrong, to look like that, your eyes red with sleep — but she was there, and she was so, so beautiful.

one night you can’t sleep and you close your eyes and think about the way ava’s lips had felt against yours. you try not to concentrate on any of the bad, just for now, just for a breath, just for this sliver of moonlight and the quiet seep of your desire onto your fingers when you press between your legs.

you wonder, absently, if hell will open up and swallow you whole. you rub circles around your clit and try, so hard, to listen to your body, to trust it like you had only learned how to do in a fight, like you had only allowed yourself in moments of pain and danger. but you’re safe, in this big bed by the ocean, and you think of ava’s twelfth rib and heaven and you come silently, pleasure drenching down your spine as you allow it to curve into the light.

you give your body to yourself, just for a few minutes, and it feels like heaven. you lie back against your pillow and blink open your eyes and laugh.

ava has been back for less than twelve hours before she flits through your closet. you’ve picked up pieces here and there, mostly earth tones, mostly loose and comfortable fabrics; you have a few hoodies, which seem to really delight her, and a tweed jacket you haven’t fully worked up the courage to wear with some slacks yet, although they’re both there, and ready, and available.

‘this is so gay,’ she says fondly, meaning, you presume, your entire wardrobe, and it’s so, so stupid for you to feel panicked, because you are gay and you want, so badly, to love being gay, because you love ava, more than heaven and earth, and she came back for you. but still, you can’t erase so many years of hating a fundamental part of who you are; ava frowns and walks up to you slowly. ’bea.’

‘it’s fine.’

‘i’m sorry.’ she takes both of your hands in hers and runs her thumb along the back gently. ‘i don’t — this is all still kind of new to you, i guess.’

it’s gentle, and forgiving, and opens up so much space for you. you had wanted, so, so many times, to change into who you are, brimming under the surface, and you’d only started to feel brave enough when you’d seen her genuine smile at your new slacks in switzerland. you suppose, really, it’s not that much different now. ‘i, uh, i see a therapist.’

‘oh?’ she doesn’t back away, only squeezes your hands. ‘that’s awesome. do you like them?’

‘i do.’

she just stands and waits and you are thankful for her, again and again; you have missed her so, so much.

‘i started — because i was grieving,’ you say, quietly and in the direction of a row of sneakers on the floor. ‘i went because i was hurting, and i didn’t know what to do with it.’ you had started going because, one night, you had gotten roaringly drunk at a little bar in echo park and felt like you wanted to walk into fucking traffic on the 405 when a girl with ava’s lotion passed by you, but that’s a detail you can mention another time, or never.

‘i’m sorry, bea.’

‘no.’ you touch her face gently, rest your hand on her collarbone. ‘not your fault. but what i mean is that — i started going because i missed you, and i didn’t know who i was, really. i left the church, and i fell in love with you, and, like, how do i become who i really am as a lesbian ex-nun whose — uh, person, is, well, missing, for an undetermined amount of time.’

‘therapy does seem like a good start with that,’ she says sagely. ‘also, person?’

‘we hadn’t discussed what we were to each other, before the portal, so.’ you shrug. ‘i know you’re my partner. but you are also my person.’

‘love that,’ she says, and smiles, ‘and love you. and other than how incredible i am, what have you learned about yourself?’

you lead her to a drawer in your closet, and you open it and take out a chest binder, black and unassuming, one you haven’t worn yet but had bought one morning online, after you’d had a wonderful surf session and you had wondered, just enough, how it might feel. ‘i don’t know,’ you say. ‘i don’t — i’m figuring it out.’ ava is still and patient beside you; you have a holy war coming, one neither of you is sure to survive, and it all seems to matter a little less in the face of it. or, maybe, it matters more. ‘is that okay?’

‘fuck yeah,’ ava says. ‘you’re so hot, like, god, even hotter than i remember? what a fucking gift! and, yeah, i mean, you’re however you feel, regardless of me. i know i’m like really awesome, but i’m just a person. kind of. for these purposes, i’m just a girl. mostly.’ she laughs at herself. ‘anyway, try it on! if you want. i love you, and i want to see.’

for your entire life you’ll hold it in your heartspace: i love you, and i want to see. just like that, just like a commandment — true, noble, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy. ‘okay.’

‘sweet,’ ava says, ‘i’ll be waiting out here, whenever you’re ready.’

you step into the binder and pull it on like you’d watched a few tutorials of, and you don’t think it’s something you want all of the time, but your heart pounds and your palms sweat and then your entire body settles when you situate the straps on your shoulders and turn in the mirror, see your chest mostly flat. again, it’s like seeing yourself for the very first time: there you are.

you wipe a few tears from your cheeks and let out a big breath and then slip a t-shirt over your head, pad out to where ava is very obviously vibrating with excitement and not at all reading the book on her lap, opened to a random page.

she groans and leans back dramatically. ‘even hotter, wow.’

‘yeah?’

‘yes!’ she narrows her eyes. ‘but, from what i think your therapist is getting at: how does it make you feel? even if i wasn’t here to tell you how hot you are, which i always will be now, obviously. but even if i wasn’t, what are you feeling?’

unbound, you remember, unburdened. ‘happy,’ you say, and she stands and runs her hands up and down your sides, over your flat chest, and kisses you. ‘i feel so happy.’

ava is overjoyed when one of your friends in madrid invites you to a drag show. technically, you’re both supposed to be Very Seriously Working, because there really is an imminent number of battles looming over the horizon, but you rent a little flat a few blocks from headquarters and sometimes try your best to take ava on dates. obviously, she enjoys doing everything in her power to loudly woo you: she buys flowers from a vendor on the corner and dramatically gives them to you; she brings home books you might like, in all kinds of languages; she tells everyone at the ocs how your lesbian love was what was strong enough to bring her back from the other realm. it’s all a little ridiculous, but she always has been, and it’s intoxicating to be the sole focus of her joy sometimes.

ava whistles and you roll your eyes when you slip a warm oversized cream color wool sweater over your binder, careful not to mess up your meticulous bun, and let it sit loose and elegant over a pair of navy slacks and slip on a pair of brown loafers. ava is in a dress and a blazer and she’s done eyeliner and lipstick and she’s so, so fucking beautiful. you’d put a little mascara and chapstick on and a little thrill goes through you: ava wants to be on your arm tonight; she wants to sit next to you and whisper joyously in your ear and kiss you and come home with you — ava looks like that and ava is yours.

there are three queens performing that night, two songs each, ava informs you, when you meet up with your friends. it’s loud and bright and one of the queens — ava’s favorite, if her screaming next to you has any indication — does ‘pure/honey’ from renaissance, which, in ava’s words, brings the house down.

‘gender fuckery is heaven, baby,’ the queen says after, to absolutely raucous cheers from the crowd. ava looks at you with a raised brow but her grin is so big you can’t do anything but kiss her: the swell in your chest is good, you decide, like a perfect set by the pier just after sunrise, wave after wave breaking in a way your body knows exactly what to do with, exactly how to ride safely into shore. you wipe a few tears but you let ava drag you to your feet and you sing along, on your own accord, when they play whitney houston.

‘what’s one thing — especially something that you’ve maybe felt scared of, or that you’re not sure you’ll like — that you associate with queerness that you’ve always wanted to try?’

and, like, therapy is hard, okay? it’s hard when ava is so overjoyed and so fearless about her own sexuality, and about loving you without any hesitation; of course, you both have trauma, but ava has never, in her entire life, tried to deny herself want or pleasure or expression.

and it’s hard because, god, there are so many things on that list. some of them you’ve done: buying men’s pants (that fit you like a dream, thank you very much); dancing with ava and finally kissing her after a few shots; going to a lesbian bar; going to a drag show. you want to get more tattoos — some that mean important things, and maybe some that don’t, that you just like — and you want to smoke weed the way ava does with your friends sometimes, laughing slow and soft and curling up in your lap. you want to kiss ava in front of a van gogh without checking around you first; you want to pull her chair out at dinner; you want to laugh when your friends say that’s gay — with lots of love — after one of them says something sweet about their partner. you want ava to steal your clothes. you want to go to pride. you want, very badly, to find a church that doesn’t make you feel like dying.

‘it doesn’t have to be serious,’ your therapist says, coaxing you along just a little. ‘it doesn’t have to be huge or life-changing. just something you might try, whatever comes to mind.’

‘a haircut.’ it sort of comes out of your mouth without permission, but maybe that was the point; you’re still figuring out want and desire and giving in to them without anxiety.

your therapist smiles, and it feels good, warm, to know that you’ve told the truth, that she seems to understand. ‘why does that scare you?’

you look down at your hands and will yourself not to fidget; your therapist notices and hands you a stim toy, admittedly your favorite one.

‘well, first, what if i hate it?’

‘haircuts are, fortunately, relatively temporary. what would you do if you did hate it?’

‘grow it out again, i guess.’ you think of ava’s collection of hats and beanies. ‘a cap, maybe?’

‘logical. what else scares you?’

‘what if ava hates it?’

‘well, from everything i know of ava, i doubt she would hate anything you decide could bring you joy. and she seems very into you.’

it gets you to smile: ava makes that known often, and to everyone she wants, it’s true.

‘when ava tries something, like a haircut or color, or a more masculine or feminine outfit, how do you feel?’

‘i love her, obviously. in any form; she’s beautiful and she’s my partner.’

your therapist smiles. ‘exactly. and, beyond that, i know we’ve been talking about this, but your sexuality and your relationship to it, and your joy in it, lies far outside of your partner. you were a lesbian before you met ava, and you will be, no matter what your relationship with her is, unless you decide you feel something different. your queerness and place in it isn’t just about sex, or your partner. it’s about who you are, fundamentally, and how you want to be seen for it.’

you nod, take a deep breath. ‘yes. i guess, well, when i was younger, 12 or 13, maybe, i wanted to cut my hair short. i was in so many martial arts and archery classes; i ran and swam all the time, so it seemed easier. it also seemed … cool? like, i thought it might feel… that it might feel good, or right. i didn’t know why.’

‘why didn’t you cut your hair then?’

‘my mother, when i asked, she said that it would make people think i’m … that i’m a dyke.’ you pause, let the hurt well up in you and breathe it out. ‘she used that word, and it scared me.’

‘what does that word make you feel now?’

‘i… i love it? it still feels a little scary, maybe, but — i already know people look at me and don’t think i’m straight, even when i’m not with ava. that used to be terrifying, because what if someone was unkind or even dangerous? but that … it hasn’t happened, and, if it did, i could handle it. i know i could.’

‘so what would a haircut change, then?’

‘if i — ‘ you imagine it, then, you let yourself: how the collar of your favorite turtleneck sweater might look, how easy it would be to take care of after surfing, how you could put on mascara and linen and your favorite sunglasses and hold ava’s hand, just like always. ‘people would see me and know i’m a lesbian, i think. it’s… a choice, for me at least, to look queer. and a haircut is one i can’t immediately change, like clothes. and we’re going to see my old friends soon, and i don’t know what they’d think, and — ‘

‘your friends have been accepting of you, and of ava, and of you and ava together, right?’

‘yes, of course. but it would just be — i couldn’t hide. everyone would know; everyone would be able to see, all the time. ava isn’t read as queer all the time; i can pass as straight. but if i couldn’t — ‘

when you don’t continue, your therapist gently says, ‘you would be seen. which is scary, and i hear what you’re saying, absolutely. but, beatrice, you would be seen for who you are, without apology.’

‘that’s true.’

‘i have one more question.’

‘okay.’

‘what would happen if you loved it?’

‘how are you doing?’ your stylist, xavi — one of your favorite people on the planet, one of your best friends who has been offering to give you a haircut you actually want for two years now — calmly combs out your long hair after she’d washed it.

‘i think i might throw up.’

it makes her laugh, which is maybe a little mean but also why you’re so fond of her; she had been one of the students in your adult beginners aikido class and, while she hadn’t shown any talent or much interest, she had made you smile all the time and invited you and ava to dinner with her and her wife as soon as she found out you mentioned ava, and you had been friends ever since. most days, you just put your hair into a neat bun. ava likes to play with it down, especially when you’re sleeping in, but when you told her you wanted to cut it she had kissed you square on the mouth. ‘i love you, and i want to see,’ she’d told you again, and played with the engagement ring around your finger. ’even if it looks terrible — which isn’t possible, because it’s you — there’s no way i’m ever asking you to take this off. ever, ever, ever, bea. okay?’

xavi pats your shoulder; she had excitedly fit you in this morning after you’d texted her after therapy yesterday with pictures of a short, neat mid-fade to the skin, sitting in your car before you even drove home, afraid you’d lose your nerve if you didn’t. ‘we can just do a trim, or start with a little off, and you can decide how you’re feeling from there.’

it’s so patient and so kind. ‘no, no. i — i’m sure. i’m just scared.’ it’s ridiculous, really, you think: you’ve been shot and stabbed and blown up multiple times; you have killed more people than you can count; you have almost died, so, so many times. but this, this is living, true to who you are. ‘i — this is what i want. i know this is what i want.’

‘okay then,’ xavi says, and collects your hair, smooth and long, into a ponytail at the base of your skull. ‘ready?’

‘as i’ll ever be.’

it’s fast and unceremonious, just a few sips as you close your eyes, but then you feel hair tickle your cheeks and you open your eyes and xavi hands you your long ponytail with a grin.

‘oh my god.’

‘okay,’ she says, ‘we can stop here? i can definitely make this work.’

‘no, no,’ you say, ‘it’s good.’ you laugh. ‘i feel good.’

‘you want to keep going?’

‘yeah,’ you say, let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, settled in a way, already, that you never have been before in your entire life. ‘let’s do it.’

‘amazing,’ xavi says. ‘this is going to look so good.’

and, really, it does: xavi turns the clippers on and you let go of the swoop in your stomach, your clammy palms, the too-fast thud of your heart, and just let yourself become. xavi explains what she’s doing each step, and she talks about the kittens she’s fostering, and asks you about your new aikido class, and it’s easy.

she finishes; she places a hot towel on your neck and makes sure your hairline is clean in the back and then shows you how to put a little pomade in the top, an inch and a half long, textured and dark. she takes the cape off and you stand, look at yourself in the mirror: your favorite crewneck, and a pair of pants ava had surprised you with from artists and fleas, the thin chain with a tiny cross you don’t take off sitting just below your collarbone. ‘i love it, xavi,’ you say, your hands are shaking but when you bring them up to your hair there’s a clarity in your chest that’s never been there before: unbound, unburdened, you remember, and also: i felt finally myself.

you’re in and out of it after surgery; you know your injuries as ava told you and then the surgeon explained more completely. mostly, you’re just relieved you’re alive, because the moment before you hit the wall you were sure you weren’t going to be. you’d asked mary a few hours ago, while ava was in the bathroom, to convince ava to take a walk and then eat an actual meal, not just pick at food while she sits by your bedside. it works: mary bullies ava into it, but sometimes, even now, that’s just what you have to do.

you fall asleep again; you’ve been walking more the past day, up and around with a walker a few times a day. between that and the pain medicine you’re still on, and the residuals from anesthesia, it’s impossible to not nap fairly often. when you wake up, lilith is kicked back in the chair by one side of your bed, her feet, boots still on, resting by your side on the blanket. mother superion sits next to her, doing a crossword in the daily paper. the sight makes you laugh a little, and you’re pleased that you’re a little less sore.

they both notice you’re awake; mother superion puts down her crossword but lilith doesn’t move an inch. you’re thankful your surgeon had let you sit on the shower seat and let ava wash your hair earlier this morning, careful to not press hard against the bruise on the back of your skull or get any water on your incisions — you feel slightly less gross and definitely more awake than you had before.

she looks at you and you feel anxious, all of a sudden: lilith appraises you, and then slouches even further into your seat. ‘gay,’ she decides on, and then, ‘aerodynamic.’

you look to mother superion for a moment, whose mouth twitches in a smile. ‘we didn’t have much chance to talk before the battle,’ she says, ‘but what lilith means is that your hair suits you.’

your brain is still sluggish, but — ’because i’m… gay and aerodynamic?’

lilith, miraculously, laughs. ‘well, sure, but it looks good.’ she shrugs. ‘you look like yourself.’

mother superion nods. ‘it’s good to see you becoming who you are.’

you’re definitely still loopy, overly emotional, but you might tear up from that even if you weren’t. still, lilith rolls her eyes. ‘oh, come on, beatrice.’

‘sorry,’ you sniffle, then rub your eyes.

you hear ava’s, ‘you made her cry? i was only gone for like, half an hour? what the fuck?’

‘i said something nice,’ lilith defends, getting to her feet.

‘sure you did,’ ava says. ‘i can still take you in a fight. i’ll do it, swear to god.’

‘you definitely cannot take me in a fight, ava.’

ava stands, indignant, although it’s made less effective by the comfortable hoodie a little crooked on her shoulders and mary’s a whole head taller than her. the halo flares a little but quiets when you reach out a hand in her direction.

‘oh, for fuck’s sake,’ lilith says, and then in a flash she’s gone. mother superion squeezes your hand before she heads out with a nod and another soft smile, and mary follows.

ava sits on the side of your bed. ‘was lilith an asshole? i swear if she made you feel bad about anything i will kill her.’

‘she was actually, in her own way, kind. and mother superion was too. i’m just more emotional than usual because of the meds.’

‘you’re sure?’

you tug ava down a little and she messes with your hair with a soft smile, then kisses your forehead. ‘very chivalrous of you, to offer to defend my honor, though.’

she laughs. ‘i don’t want to fight lilith again, ever, in any realm, in any way.’ she presses her mouth to yours. ‘but, for you, bea, i would do anything.’

‘you look — ‘ you let your brother fumble over his words for a moment and then laugh, spare him any more worry.

‘hot is fine.’

he rolls his eyes. ‘you look incredible, bea.’ the suit lena had made you — navy, and light, a slim tuxedo pant, a single button jacket and a perfect, crisp white t-shirt tucked in neatly, sitting beneath — fits exactly how you want it. your hair has grown out, and it parts in the middle now, and flops — as ava loves to say — just above your eyes; the sides and back are still buzzed short, and it makes you smile, even now — your ‘prince charming era’ according to ava. xavi had done your makeup: tinted moisturizer and a little bit of mascara.

‘i do look incredible, huh?’

he smiles. ‘yeah. you really do.’ he lint rolls your shoulders for the final time, more out of nerves than there having ever been lint in the first place. ‘well, let’s do this then. let’s go get you married.’

he walks you down the aisle and then you wait in front of the altar you had made, barefoot on the beach, and when ava rounds the corner and then smiles at you, you know you’ve given her a gift too: i want to see. i love you, and i want to see.

‘thank god i married you,’ ava says, tracing a line down your spine and then along the linework tattoo on your ribcage.

‘mmmm,’ you say, ‘i agree. but why, specifically.’

she bends down to laugh into your shoulder before kissing down your spine. ‘it’s fucking insane that you get hotter like, literally every day.’

you laugh too. ‘thank you, my wife.’

she squeezes your hips. ‘wow. my wife.’

you turn over beneath her and pull her down slowly to kiss you. the snow is falling outside but the fireplace at your room in a resort in the alps is beautiful, and everything is warm. you feel the halo hum beneath her hands and it’s easy, it’s so easy, to let ava roll her hips against yours and press you down into the mattress; it’s easy to put on boxers — black calvins, tight against your thighs — after you shower and stand in the mirror. your hands are calm, and it’s so easy, when you really look, to see who you are in your body. to belong only to yourself: there you are.

#wn #warrior nun fic #avatrice #avatrice fic #butch!beatrice #an ode to her bc i love her & i love being butch #if this isn't ur vibe... pls just move along thank u #ava’s favorite way of affirming bea is just being horny. a queen #this entire thing exists bc i had the first line & then lilith saying ‘gay. aerodynamic’ & i had to get from one to the other lmao

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janetbrown711 · 1 year

Text

A Sadness Runs Through Him

Pigsy confronts his feelings of guilt around his past, and more importantly, around Sandy-- though it takes a panic attack or two before he's really ready.

tw for PTSD, panic attacks, past murder, and brief mentions of suicidal thoughts.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Ao3 Link

Moving.

A task universally hated by all those involved, especially if they happen to be of pig-demon descent and also run a noodle restaurant.

While the apartment came pre-furnished, Pigsy still had to think of a way to bring his own pots, pans, spices and everything else he knew either wouldn't be provided or wouldn't be how he liked it. And that meant planning.

And if Pigsy was bad at one thing, it was planning– the only reason he was good at planning out his restaurant was because his grandmother helped set up and regulate everything for the first two years. Even when she died, she left him a bunch of resources to help the transition.

He was grateful, but his grandmother couldn't help him now.

"Sir? I've been ringing this bell for five minutes!" A huffy woman clutched her purse and tapped her foot as Pigsy realized he had been spacing out again over his "moving plans" paper– which was blank, obviously.

“Sorry– what’s your order?” Pigsy asked, and the women huffed in content.

“She wants the Liangpi! I heard her while she was on the phone!” MK called from where he was mopping two feet away– Pigsy and the woman’s faces both instantly turned red.

“Kid– what did I tell you about yelling in the restaurant?” Pigsy glanced apologetically at the woman before looking at MK.

“...Don’t?” MK scratched his head.

“Yeah kid, don’t,” Pigsy sighed, punching in the order. “71.54 yuan.”

“You know you really shouldn’t have kids here if you can’t keep them or your restaurant in order,” She snipped as she handed him her credit card.

Pigsy didn’t have the energy for this.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he faked the biggest forced smile he could and handed her the receipt and card back with force.

She continued to mutter under her breath as she took a seat at a table, and Pigsy got to cooking again.

He was able to go into autopilot in an instant, so his mind naturally wandered to the subject of moving again.

It was so high up and there would be a good amount of boxes– Pigsy wanted to avoid going down to the lobby to gather his things as much as possible, but at the same time he really didn’t want to hire a moving team either since it wasn’t like it was too much– just– things. Nah– Pigsy could handle the stares, he was grown. It was fine, a-okay. Totally cool– like– uh– ice, ice cool?

Pigsy needed to stop letting the kids watch TV.

Pigsy got to slicing the beef for her dish before all he really had to do was wait, and so he went to rinse the knife in the sink, when suddenly a familiar green flash ran right past him– causing Pigsy to fall back and almost drop the knife.

“KID-!” He barked, but was ignored by the girl climbing onto the counter and leaning beyond the outdoor bar.

“Hi Mister Tang!!!” She called and waved excitedly, and Pigsy could hear his familiar laugh from a bit aways.

“Kid– get down from there– you nearly gave me a heart attack,” Pigsy took a deep breath and shook off the scare before going to rinse off that knife like he had meant to. Mei still didn’t listen, continuing to wave until Tang was at the outdoor bar.

“Hey kiddo, what’s up?” Tang said, stepping through the door, which was the key to finally getting Mei down from there.

"I helped Mr. Piggy make today's noodles," she beamed with pride and Tang gave the chef a surprised look.

“Did he now?” He asked Pigsy more than Mei.

“Kid was practically begging yesterday– ‘sides, she learns fast,” Pigsy informed, done with rinsing and returning the knife to its proper place and checking on how everything else was cooking.

“I did a really good job,” Mei informed the scholar who laughed fondly.

“I can’t wait to try them,” Tang smiled, opening his laptop as he did every day.

“Thanks! I’d help more, but Mr. Piggy here says that it’s ‘too dangerous’,” Mei shook her head and got out of the kitchen to sit next to the scholar.

“I’m not wrong,” Pigsy rolled his eyes a little.

Mei didn’t say anything, but the chef knew she was sticking out her tongue at him.

“Mr. Pigsy knows what he’s talking about, Mei,” Tang sympathized with the girl, who now flopped onto the bar dramatically.

After a bit though, Tang added with a whisper, “though he can be kinda mean about it, huh?”, which sent Mei into a giggling fit.

More looks from customers. Especially that one lady.

"Yeah, Mr. Piggy is kinda mean," The girl laughed a bit more.

Pigsy gripped his ladle tight and continued to stir.

After a deep breath, Pigsy was able to completely tune out his surroundings, moving like the well oiled machine he was. Add a little bit of ginger, slice some mushrooms, check the noodles, pour it in a bowl, add the garnish and voila.

“Order for Wu Lian,” the chef called out, ringing the bell and placing the bowl on the counter before going to start Tang’s dish next.

Everything went silent again, as he carefully chopped onions and added just the right amount of ginger to the pot and began to stir– which was when he realized the bell was ringing incessantly in the background, forcing Pigsy to snap himself out of this.

“Yes..?” He asked.

It was the lady again.

“I found a hair in my noodles,” The lady frowned and crossed her arms.

I…is she serious? Pigsy had nary a hair on his chinny chin chin since– ever really (except that one time he attempted a mustache in the military but he didn’t like to think about that).

“Y…you aren’t serious, are you ma’am?” Tang spoke up for Pigsy.

“Do I look like I’m joking here? This is serious stuff– my husband works in the Health Department and I could call him right now to inform all of your customers that this– this demon is trying to poison us!” She raised her voice to get the other customers' attention.

Pigsy thought of a reply– something huffy and quick– but when he tried to speak, his tongue was heavy and a strange sensation washed over him and he felt disconnected.

Tang must’ve noticed, because he continued to speak for him. “Yeah, sure, call him over– I’d love to see you try and explain how the hair from a bald pig demon got into your noodles.”

“Ha! I’m sure this place is a real pigsty back there– so either remake the noodles, or I’ll call,” She finished her sentence with a big phony smile.

Tang clearly ran out of ideas, and now all eyes were on the chef, who was still standing around, almost watching himself and waiting to see what he’d do as well.

“Get out.”

Looks like he was going authoritative.

Wu Lian gasped. “Well– I never– my husband will be here so fast– I will just–”

“Get. Out.”

The woman scoffed again. “You demons are all the same-! Oh just you wait– I will sue you so hard and then you’ll see– you’ll see,” she continued her proclamations as she walked outside.

“...Pigsy? Are you okay?” Tang asked.

Pigsy shook his head in an attempt to feel connected to himself again.

“I’m fine. Just thinking about moving and stuff,” He waved it off and went to make sure none of Tang’s food burned.

“That lady was very mean,” MK set down the mop against the bar and sat on one of the stools.

“She was,” Mei agreed, crossing her arms.

“She was– but what do you mean moving,” Tang briefly acknowledged the two of them before returning his focus to Pigsy.

“We’re moving into a big ole penthouse uptown,” Mei informed.

“Ooh, you found a place?” Tang asked.

“Yeah– I just gotta plan how to carry everything at once,” Pigsy huffed as he continued slicing green onions.

“I can totally help-! I-if you need it– What day would you be moving?” Tang immediately offered.

“Tomorrow!” MK said excitedly.

“Tomorrow?! Pigsy! Why didn’t you think to ask for help sooner?!” Tang sounded genuinely baffled, which was a little funny to the chef.

“Tang, it’s fine– like I said, I can manage,” Pigsy shook his head, adding the onions to the pot and stirring.

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you need to.”

Pigsy poured Tang’s noodles into a bowl, taking a deep breath before eventually nodding, going over to serve him as he said “Fine– fine, just… Yes, you can help.”

Tang smiled that stupid smile he always had, with its stupid little tilt before he grabbed chopsticks and began eating.

“I can show you how I fit under the sink!” MK pointed out, kicking his legs excitedly.

“Yeah! And I can show you the cool TV! And Mr. Piggy can show you his bedroom!”

Tang choked on his noodles and Pigsy felt his heart stop.

.o0o.

Yeah, the lady was totally bluffing about the phone call, no health inspector ever came, and even if they did Pigsy knew he’d pass.

The rest of the night had gone without a hitch, though Tang did have to leave earlier than usual, which meant it got quiet pretty quickly. The good part to that was that it meant Pigsy was comfortable with the idea of closing early for once in his life, and so they all got to bed at a not-so-shitty hour.

Pigsy still fucking despised his alarm’s painful tone the following morning, of course. Especially because it was set even earlier than average so Pigsy could go get the moving truck from the rental place– though not without waiting for Tang to arrive so he could watch over MK and Mei (which was something he realized he hadn’t quite thought about before).

Once that was settled, and Pigsy checked in with Tang to make sure the kids ate, they got to putting the dozen or so boxes into the truck downstairs and it was go time.

Now… let it be known that Pigsy was a law-abiding citizen most every single day. He understood and had great respect for the rules of the road.

However…

The truck only had two, maybe three seats if you think you can place someone in the middle.

And so Pigsy drove, Tang sat in shotgun, and MK and Mei… Well, MK’s skill of fitting under the pipes was put to use in the space under the glovebox, and Mei was managing fine in that “middle seat”.

Look– neither Pigsy nor Tang owned a car and calling a cab seemed like a dumb idea so— it’s what they had.

“We are so going to get pulled over,” Pigsy muttered to himself as he got onto the main road.

“It was your idea,” Tang said.

“Hey– that’s my face,” MK giggled from the floor of the vehicle.

“Sorry MK,” Tang apologized and readjusted himself.

“I know! I know! I just–” Pigsy sighed. “It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Pigsy could feel the look Tang was giving him burning on his skin, but he kept on driving anyway.

Green Light.

“Pigsy–”

“I’m fine, Tang. You’re right. Sorry,” Pigsy shot. Tang raised his hands in his defense but didn’t say much so silence filled the truck momentarily.

This, however, was shattered instantly when Mei asked, “Mr. Piggy, what’s ‘booba’?”, which startled Pigsy so much it affected his steering.

“W-well, that’s– uh– hmm– that’s–” Pigsy tried to think of a response, but words were unable to form as his heart started to pound.

“It’s pronounced bow-ba, n-not… that way,” Tang touched Pigsy’s arm lightly while speaking to Mei. “And it’s a type of tea drink with tapioca pearls– it was big in the 90s, not so much right now.”

Green Light.

A car behind Pigsy honked at him for his sporadic driving and Pigsy wished he could give him a piece of his mind. The car gave him the opportunity as they switched lanes just to cut in front, to which Pigsy almost responded by flipping them off, but Tang put the hand down and gestured to Mei and MK with his head.

Yellow Light.

Pigsy sighed as he pumped the brakes to a halt, annoyed at both the difficulty of the action due to the truck’s age, and slightly annoyed Tang didn’t let him flip off the other driver. He was made even more annoyed though when the previously mentioned car made it past the intersection.And somehow even worse, another car behind him honked at him, and needless to say Pigsy was starting to feel his blood boil.

“Mr. Piggy, why are they honking at you?” MK asked from under the glovebox.

Pigsy rubbed his forehead as the car finally halted. It wasn’t like he was a piss poor driver, he just… hadn’t been on the road since– a while– but it was fine, everything was fine. If only he could actually fucking tell MK that, but whatever.

Tang took a glance at the mute chef and decided to handle that too. “Well, MK, some drivers are… mean.”

Mean.

Mei laughed, “Mr. Piggy’s mean too– maybe that’s why.”

Red light.

Blood instantly began pounding in Pigsy’s ears, his grip on the steering wheel causing his knuckles to turn white. Tang was saying something but Pigsy was just watching the light– the red one– the one on the right. He was going to drive straight ahead and he was in the front of his lane. He wasn’t going to be mean, he was going to be attentive and then everything would be fine and they’d all get there on time and they’d be all moved in and everything would just be so fucking fine.

Still red.

A hand attempted to touch his shoulder, which made Pigsy jump. Tang said something while Mei spoke even quieter behind him. Pigsy didn’t care– he was so fucking focused on driving. It didn’t matter that it felt like he’d walked up fifteen flights of stairs, Pigsy was doing what he was supposed to and he was doing it fine. He was fine, everything was so goddamn fine it was like they were at the apartment already. Sure he wasn’t nice, he was never nice. Who gives a shit if you reach your location anyways? He didn’t need to be loved. He didn’t even need to be liked. He was fine. This was fine. He deserved this anyways.

Green light.

Pigsy immediately began driving again, trying to stop his eyes from darting in every direction as hazards and sounds made themselves very present in his overstimulated ears. Especially the people in the car.The ones he was responsible for. The ones he wasn’t supposed to fail or let anything bad happen to. Was that a siren? Pigsy couldn’t think about that right now. Driving. Obeying the law to hide breaking it.

Green light.

Almost there now, just a few more blocks. Just don’t have a fucking heart attack and kill everyone in this vehicle because if you end up responsible for their deaths, you’ll never forgive yourself. What happened to Hai Xin is your fault. You remember how happy Sandy was. How in love he was. You remember your military friends too. Gone, shell of himself, gone, murdered, murdered, dead, dead, dead, dead, fucking dead.

“Pigsy–”

You didn’t go to court that day. You couldn’t stand looking at him. You still can’t. You broke him. You destroyed his life. You are beyond mean, you are cruel– violent– explosive– hideous– revolting–

“PIGSY– WATCH OUT–!”

The screeching of tires sent Pigsy out of his spiral as he slammed the brakes with full force, and the red light runner barely avoided a full-on collision. Everyone lurched forward, but Tang kept Mei from flying into the dash board. In a breath, Pigsy was able to pull off to the side, where he immediately parked, grabbed the pack of cigarettes and lighter in the cupholder, and got out of the car, ignoring Tang’s confused calls (not that he understood them anyways).

Pigsy walked.

He walked and walked and walked until he found himself a suitable bench by the–

Of course he was by the goddamn pier.

When Pigsy started to feel himself choke on the lump rapidly forming in his throat, he lit a cigarette and took a nice, long drag. His eyes tingled at the sensation as the usual sting filled his senses, but he was used to it. It was relaxing. Pigsy was relaxed right now. Especially with the ocean waves. Especially knowing Sandy probably doesn’t live too far from here– that he and–

Pigsy took another drag before he could think more. Again, calm washed over his body as the hot air flowed through him, giving him an addictive peace of mind.

“Pigsy? Pigsy, where are you?”

Tang was calling for him.

Pigsy didn’t care. He kept on inhaling the toxic fumes.

“Pigsy? P– Pigsy-!” Tang found him and immediately ran to the bench.

“Pigsy, A-are you okay? You were–”

“Fuck off, Tang,” Pigsy looked away from him, silencing Tang instantly.

“I… what?” The scholar stepped back. “Pigsy, what is going on? Why are you acting like this?”

Pigsy’s eyes were tired and sore as he unwillingly glanced at the ships on the docks, wondering if any of them belonged to Sandy or he managed to leave this shithole for good and leave him behind.

Another breath.

Tang sat down on the bench. “I… didn’t think you smoked.”

Exhale.

“Sometimes. What’s it matter to you?” Pigsy now looked at the ground, the brightness of the morning sun against the ocean waves hurting his eyes even more than the cigarette smoke.

“Pigsy,” Tang warned.

“What?” Pigsy grunted, still refusing to look at him.

“Pigsy– just– stop–! Stop acting like you don’t know that the kids and I care about you so just– tell me what’s wrong-! What happened back there? Please– I need answers– we need answers,” Tang grabbed his arm, and Pigsy finally looked at him.

…

Fear.

Tang had overwhelming fear in his eyes.

“I… I don’t know…” Pigsy was as honest as he could be, flicking his cigarette.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Tang asked, his voice low and soft. Pigsy shook his head, taking a drag.

“I don’t know, Tang. I just– I guess it started yesterday– I just– I keep losing control of myself– it’s like I’m just watching myself and feel like my hearts just all– tense and weird and shit and it’s all at the same time– I dunno,” Pigsy knew how stupid he sounded but it was the best he had.

“Oh, a panic attack,” Tang nodded to himself. “Is… that also what happened yesterday?”

“Yes? No? I don’t know, Tang,” Pigsy rubbed his eyes.

“Hey, that’s okay,” His customer got a little closer to the chef and wrapped an arm around the bench, his hand slightly hovering over Pigsy’s back. “Do you know what might’ve triggered it?”

Pigsy shifted uncomfortably, taking a long drag as he tried to and then immediately tried to ignore the possibilities.

“Pigsy, you have to tell me so I can help– because I do know a little bit about these things and– yeah I’m no ‘expert’ or anything but– I want to help,” Tang pleaded with the pig again.

Pigsy leaned back, releasing smoke before he closed his eyes and sighed. “I… god, it sounds so stupid but– I think… If I had to guess, then it was when the kid said I was…mean,” Pigsy mumbled that last word, but Tang understood.

“What? But Mei didn’t–”

“You think I don’t know that?!” Pigsy turned to him sharply, smoke flaring out of his nose (which had the fun side effect of making the chef’s head spin).

“R-right– Sorry,” Tang quickly apologized. “I’m sorry she said that– and I’m sorry I encouraged it.”

“Sorry for snapping,” Pigsy sighed and went back to looking at the ocean. If it didn’t remind him of his crushing guilt, Pigsy would find it calming.

“If… you don’t mind me asking… Why does that upset you so much?” Tang looked at the ocean briefly too.

Pigsy’s cigarette was just about done, so he put it on the ground and smothered it with his foot before grabbing and lighting another, all while Tang watched on, his expression unreadable.

“Because it’s… You’re gonna deny it, but I know that I’m not exactly ‘nice’ and you are and it just– I try to convince myself I can do this but every time I hear something like that it just reminds me of how much of an asshole I am or have been– and then I think about when I was in the military– and then I think about Sandy a-and–” the lump in his throat returned, so Pigsy choked it with smoke.

“Oh– Sandy…” Tang nodded slowly. “You… never told me what the deal with him is.”

“That’s a good thing.”

“Right…” Tang took a deep breath, before clearing his throat a bit.

“Look,” he started. “You’ve already told me a lot today, and it’s not like I can force you to tell me anything anyways– just know that– yeah, it sounds really really stupid and obvious, but you shouldn’t keep all these emotions and past feelings to yourself– it’s not– uh– healthy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pigsy said flatly, flicking his cigarette once again.

“And whatever you tell me, I promise I won’t le–”

“Don’t.”

Tang blinked. “Pigsy–”

“Don’t. You don’t know–”

“Then tell me, so I can know and I can make that decision for myself.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Pigsy, you don’t have to tell me anything, but I can’t keep watching you torture yourself forever,” Tang placed his hand atop Pigsy’s and gave it a squeeze.

Pigsy rubbed Tang’s hand with his thumb, the embrace warmer than the pollution in his lungs and throat. He then looked into Tang’s heavenly brown eyes, and remembered all the promises he had made the day after they had kissed. About not hurting him– especially on purpose.

Get your shit together, Pigsy.

“...Later. Maybe after we get everything settled in the apartment.”

Tang squeezed his hand even more. “Good.”

When they stood, Pigsy was filled with an overwhelming desire to hug or kiss him, but ultimately smothered his cigarette before stoically heading back to the truck.

However, the pair came to a halt when they heard panicked whispers coming from behind a trash can, and when Pigsy went to look, surprise surprise, MK and Mei had been spying on them.

“Hi Mr. Piggy,” MK waved, before smelling the smoke and making a face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah kid– I’m sorry for scaring the both of you– I lost myself a bit back there,” Pigsy scratched the back of his neck.

MK winced at that, but Mei hugged him, which startled the chef.

“A-are you okay kid?” was the only thing Pigsy could think to say.

“I-I’m really sorry I made you run away– I-i won’t do it again, promise!” Mei said, looking up at him with desperate eyes.

“Hey now,” Pigsy broke her embrace to get on his knees and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not your fault I got… scared. It’s just something that happens to me sometimes– I’ll work on it, I swear. Don’t stress yourself.”

“Okay Mr. Piggy,” Mei nodded slowly before hugging him again, this time around his neck since he was level with her. Not knowing what else to do, Pigsy returned the embrace, almost startled by how comforting it was. Soon enough MK joined in too, and Pigsy felt like he was almost going to cry.

He hadn’t had a hug this good since his grandmother was in good health.

“C-c’mon, let’s get to our new place, hm?” Pigsy forced himself to break the embrace before he broke down again. The kiddos nodded and they were back in the truck in no time, headed to their (mostly) new hoity-toity lives.

.o0o.

It took roughly two hours to get everything all settled, then unlocked, then transferred from the truck to the apartment, and by then everyone was hungry and so Pigsy used it as an opportunity to look for new local restaurants, frustrated by the overwhelming amount of chains. They eventually found a stupid expensive sit down restaurant and ate there, and while some of the waiters were confused by Pigsy, it was generally okay. They then returned the truck, got boba– not booba– at Mei’s insistence, and when they finally got back to the apartment, MK and Mei went to their rooms to set up what things they had and hopefully not fall asleep until dinner.

And then it was just Tang and Pigsy alone, unpacking his things, which took a lot longer than expected since Pigsy was a terrible planner and the boxes were…disorganized to say the least. It took at least three hours before the two of them were able to reorganize all of the boxes so they had a system they could then work with, and by then the sun was starting to set.

“Woah, nice jacket Pigsy,” Tang whistled as he pulled out a thick brown shearling jacket.

Fuck. Of course it was that jacket– that stupid stupid, really nice jacket from back then. Of course it was– and now He was going to have to talk about… that because he was acting all weird. Great.

Don’t make promises you can’t keep.

“Yeah, it’s from my time in the military– hence some of the patches– though I… tried to remove most,” Pigsy admitted, hanging up his one dress shirt in the walk-in closet.

“Ah,” was all Tang said. “Still– this is really nice– and I bet you look cute in it,” Tang said, before slapping a hand over his mouth, which made Pigsy laugh.

“Ohmygod I can’t believe I said that out loud,” Tang’s face was rapidly turning red, which just made Pigsy laugh even more.

“It’s alright, Tang,” Pigsy patted his shoulder and took the jacket, examining the folds and stitches in the leather carefully.

“When’s the last time you wore it?” Tang asked innocently.

“B-bajie– I swear I didn’t mean to– I didn’t mean to– It was an accident– I thought sh-she– A-and now– I-i can’t live with myself– Bajie please–”

“...Are you okay Pigsy? Is it the jacket?” Tang asked, and Pigsy realized he was gripping the jacket so tight his knuckles were white again.

“Bajie y-you have to help me– you know I didn’t mean it– I never would– I loved her– I love her– please–”

Pigsy took a deep breath. “Kind of…” he grabbed a hanger and placed it on the rack next to his other jacket.

“O-oh– oh no– I’m so sorry Pigsy– Forget I mentioned it– we aren’t done yet, so let’s just–”

“No… I need to tell you some time tonight and I get the feeling that if I don’t do it now I’ll just try to make myself forget,” Pigsy clenched his eyes shut for a moment, memories of Sandy flashing in his mind.

“Do… you want to go somewhere else?” Tang asked carefully. Pigsy glanced around and thought.

“I could use some fresh air,” He shrugged, referring to the balcony attached to his room, and so the two of them headed out there, both leaning against the railing and taking in the view for a bit first– which was especially gorgeous because of the previously mentioned sunset.

“So…” Pigsy started, though he was quick to realize how hard it was to find the proper words to describe his predicament.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to Pigsy– remember that,” Tang touched his shoulder in assurance.

“I know, I know, but it’s like you said– it ain’t exactly healthy, and you deserve the choice to know what I’ve done and then leave me– it’s unfair to keep you hostage,” Pigsy sighed, the remaining pack of cigarettes sitting heavy in his pants pocket.

“I’m not a hostage here, but whatever helps,” Tang said half jokingly.

“Right– well– um…” Pigsy took another breath. “So… I– well I– I was a really terrible kid, okay? Like– just the definition of a punk who needed a good whack over the head until he got his shit together,” Pigsy started, and though he could see Tang was trying not to judge or interrupt, he was very clearly struggling from his expression alone.

“S-sorry-! Sorry, I’ll try harder not to– express– emotion…” Tang apologized, clearing his throat and trying to set his face to neutral, and Pigsy decided it was best if he just kept his eyes forward for now.

“Well, anyways, I was a little shit and I– I had a friend– Sandy– who I knew through school and– Jesus, he was a real nice guy. Big and tough and scary, but nice deep in there,” Pigsy blinked away images of him to keep his focus. “We were quick to become a duo of punks, though I’d be lying if I didn’t say I was clearly the one who was “influencing him”. His folks were absolutely terrible and all, but he was always more hesitant to start shit than I was.”

Pigsy glanced at Tang, who he confirmed was listening intently. Pigsy took another breath before continuing.

“When we were teens, we got into some steep shit– and being demons and all meant we were set up to be in prison for a long, long, long time… unless…” Pigsy dug his nails into his skin.

“...Unless you joined the military, right?” Tang guessed. Pigsy nodded.

“Since we were little shits of course we took the first opportunity to get out of trouble and wipe our slates clean– but– jesus– W-we made a lot of friends– demon friends, which I guess was our first mistake since it’s basically fact that most demons don’t… make it back from the military too often,” The pig demon’s breath was starting to get shaky so Tang placed a grounding hand on his back and rubbed it soothingly, which did help quite a bit.

“I-i was a real big coward, s-so it’s easy to say more than a few of their deaths are more than likely on my shoulders, you know? I-i mean I know– I know I didn’t get them enlisted, but I just– I didn’t jump on that grenade, I didn’t act fast enough to save Dino or Ace o-or anyone– but all that I-i think I could’ve lived with if…”

The cigarettes were taunting him in his pocket now, as well as the sake in the cabinet. He hated this. He hated every single part of this. He desperately wanted to run or to leap right off this balcony and– No, no. He owed this to Tang.

“When we got back– I-i just wanted to forget it– all of it. Meanwhile Sandy was keen on remembering them all– he even had a little shrine for them in his place– we fought like hell that day– but other than that w-we were okay– well, I thought he was doing okay– he even managed to find himself a-a nice girlfriend–”

Hai Xin.

“Oh, well that’s nice…” Tang said. Pigsy knew it was to try and comfort him, but his words just made Pigsy want to slam down fifty bottles of sake.

“S-she was a saint, l-like how he kinda used to be– she brought out the best of him like that,” Pigsy nodded along, his voice cracking ever so slightly.

“S-she and him– they were gonna get married– it would be in the summer on a boat with the sunset behind them a-and then they were gonna have kids– a bunch of ‘em– Sandy told me and everything– he even asked me to be his best man even before he proposed– it sounded so nice, Tang– he was so happy,” Tears were streaming down the chef’s cheeks now, but when Tang opened his arms for a hug, Pigsy shook his head and continued.

“B-but one n-night I get a-a call… from him, from Sandy– a-and he’s just– he couldn’t stop crying a-a-and apologizing a-and swearing he didn’t m-mean it a-and– he kept swearin’ it was an accident– it took fifty goddamn minutes before he was able to get himself together— a-and– a-and when he did I-i could see why…”

“No…” Tang gasped softly.

“H-he killed her, Tang. The court declared it as PTSD induced violence– a nightmare woke him up and in his confusion h-he attacked her a-and– he was sentenced to prison for five years and court mandated therapy a-and– god– It’s all my fault, Tang– it’s all my fault-!” Pigsy buried his head in his hands and embraced his tears now. “I broke my best friend a-and the love of his life is dead because of me.”

“Oh Pigsy–”

“N-no, because you know what? Th-that’s not even the worst goddamn part-!” Pigsy’s breath hitched before he laughed like a madman. “T-the worst part is that I could even testify for the best, kindest, most loyal friend I’ve ever had in my whole entire fucking life! I-i mean– Jesus, what kind of a friend am I?! F-first I made him a delinquent, almost got him placed into prison, basically force him to join the war which emotionally scars him forever, a-and then when his PTSD takes away what little joy he had, I-i couldn’t even be there for him– and then he went to prison anyways-! This is why you should hate me, Tang– why everyone should hate me– god, I can’t do this–”

Pigsy went to leave, but Tang grabbed his arm and forced him into a tight embrace. Pigsy tried to fight it, but Tang was surprisingly steadfast and kept him in his embrace until he gave up and buried his head into Tang’s chest.

“I’m so sorry Pigsy…” Tang whispered as he stroked his back.

Pigsy wanted to fight that. He was tempted to say, “you have no fucking right to say that” and “you didn’t know them– you should be sorry for them, not me” or even “serves me right” but Pigsy was exhausted, and so let Tang have this one as years of repressed sobs and shakes released themselves onto Tang’s scarf.

“Pigsy, listen… it’s not your f–”

Pigsy snapped right back.

“Tang, don’t.” The pig broke the embrace and tried to wipe his own tears away, but it would’ve been easier to dam up Huangguoshu Waterfall.

“Pigsy–”

“No. I don’t need to hear it– I don’t care– I-i need you to accept it. Denial’ll just hurt both of us– It’s just something I have to fucking live with– you too, i-if you want me.”

If you want me.

Pigsy knew he wouldn’t now.

Tang was silent, his emotions clearly all over the place and Pigsy stood there, feeling like a fucking baby with how many tears were just falling uncontrollably at this rate. Again he thought of the cigarettes in his pocket and the sake in the kitchen, but he decided to wait until after Tang told him he was leaving them– he needed to face the consequences for his cowardice completely sober.

“Okay. I’ll drop it. I’m sorry,” Tang said.

Pigsy blinked. “N-no.”

“No? I just apologized– what’s there to ‘no’?” Tang was genuinely confused.

“I said ‘no’ Tang– y-you’re supposed to be angry-! You’re supposed to hate me– kick me– scream at me– leave me– You aren’t supposed to just– accept this!” Pigsy shouted, nostrils flaring.

“Well I’m not and you can’t make me!” Tang shouted back. “I-i really care about you Pigsy– a-and I meant what I said earlier– I won’t leave because of what you did in the past– all I care about is the here and the now.”

“What kind of a moron are you?!”

“A moron who’s practically been in love with you for a year-!” Tang gestured furiously at himself, though lowered his hands when he realized what he said.

“L-look– what I mean, Pigsy, i-is that… I-i’ve cared about you for a long time, a-and–”

“I didn’t know your name a week ago,” Pigsy cut him off, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

“I don’t care, Pigsy! That’s the thing– I don’t care– I didn’t care when you weirdly had two kids in the back of your restaurant, I didn’t care when you adopted them that day out of the fucking blue, I didn’t care when you went silent as a ghost after I kissed you, I didn’t care when you had a panic attack at the wheel which could’ve almost killed us, I didn’t care when you told me to fuck off, and I sure as hell don’t care now.”

“Why not?!” Pigsy shook his head violently, and Tang grabbed his hands.

“Because I’m a fucking idiot, Pigsy, a-and I meant what I said, I-i– I love you,” The scholar squeezed the chef’s caloused hands tightly, forcing Pigsy to look into his eyes, forced to confront that the man in front of him was telling the truth.

He was telling the truth.

Oh god– what was he supposed to do with that– oh god oh god oh god–

Before Pigsy could overthink and ruin this, he hugged Tang as tight as he could. He didn’t know what his goal was, but he just stood there, holding his favorite customer, never, ever wanting to let go of him. Tang returned the embrace right back, and Pigsy buried his head in his shoulder and the tears came back in an instant.

It took a moment before Pigsy realized Tang was crying too, which made Pigsy hug him tighter and stroke his back in a similar fashion that Tang did earlier.

After a long, long time of standing like that, Pigsy croaked, “I’m so sorry, Tang.”

“Why?”

“I-i… doubt humans are this complicated,” Pigsy half-joked, which made Tang laugh a little.

“I’m not a clean slate entirely either,” He admitted. “But even if that wasn’t true, I wouldn’t mind. You mean a lot to me, Pigsy.”

Pigsy’s shoulders tensed at how much he was sounding like Sandy, but Pigsy wouldn’t ruin this– not right now.

“You mean a lot to me too, Tang. A-and I swear I’ll be everything a-and anything you need in the future– really– I-i–”

The chef would’ve rambled more, but Tang lifted his chin and kissed him.

“All I ask is for your company, and if something’s bothering you, tell me. I’ll help however I can, even if it’s just listening,” Tang smiled softly and Pigsy hugged him again.

“I-i can try that,” The chef whispered and Tang nodded in approval, kissing his forehead which still somehow managed to send butterflies fluttering down the pig demon’s stomach.

“I’ll hold you to it then,” Tang embraced the chef once more.

Once again, the two remained in their caress for a long, long time as cool night air settled over the two of them and their heartbeats became one.

After five minutes, a knock on the sliding door broke their embrace. Pigsy and Tang quickly wiped their eyes before they opened the door and allowed MK to step out.

“Mr. Piggy, I can’t find my uniform,” MK got straight to the point and informed his legal guardian.

Pigsy chuckled tiredly. “We’ll find it later, kid,” he said, ruffling his hair.

“Oh– well– I thought we might wanna find it now since we start school tomorrow.”

Pigsy froze.

“...Kid?”

“Yyyyyyyes Mr. Piggy..?” MK bounced on his heels.

“What day is it?”

“Sunday,” MK happily enformed.

Well… Shit.

The kid was right– tomorrow was their first day of school and Pigsy hadn’t thought about preparing them for it at all today.

Well this is gonna be just swell, ain’t it?