#my fourteen year old self never imagined myself looking the way I do now and that’s just kind of a fucking bummer

[blurglesmurfklaine]

so I did not get anything I wanted to done today, but I did manage to find ten years old pictures of myself and feel bad about my body enough to sign up for a gym class later today so there’s that

[alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer]

romeo must die

this one-shot is based on the song Romeo Must Die by Gabrielle Aplin, I highly recommend listening to it! shout out to @eugeniaslongsword for introducing me to it :) i even borrowed some lyrics from it haha. it is also inspired by the entire playlist I made, "being treated badly by someone doesn't make you love them more"

content warnings: past toxic/unhealthy relationship, the uncomfy 6-year age gap between Alastair and Charles

Masterlist | Read on AO3

"Alastair, may I speak to you privately for a moment?"

Alastair looked up from what he was working on. He was in the library of the Institute, along with Cordelia, Thomas, James, Matthew, and Christopher. They were searching for any clue as to how Lucie had done what she’d done or what Tatiana and Belial were planning. Alastair wasn't entirely sure how he got roped into the ordeal, but it seemed as though Thomas suggested him as an extra set of eyes, and Cordelia latched onto the idea.

"No," he said curtly, returning to his reading.

"Excuse me?"

"I said no. I'm quite busy at the moment." Alastair spoke under his breath, not wanting to draw the others' attention. How many times had Charles barked the same words at him, swatting him away, hacking away at paperwork or planning his next step in his career? The words sat bittersweet in his chest.

"Surely you could spare a few moments."

"I certainly could. But I do not wish to." Charles had a way of getting into his head and twisting his words and his feelings. It was not an experience he wished to revisit. It was better here, with an audience. It had also been easier in the infirmary, knowing that he held all of the power. His father had made him feel the same way, he thought bitterly. He understood now that what he'd done at school was not only to protect himself from the bullies. He wanted to reclaim the power stolen from him by his father; he wanted for once in his life to hold power himself. He hadn't yet come to the realization that holding that kind of power did nothing but harm. It was of no use, anyways, because it didn't matter how much he perfected his tongue and his wit on the other students at the Academy, he was never able to use it when it counted. Not with Elias, and not with Charles.

"It's fine if you need to take a few minutes, Alastair,” Cordelia said gently. All of the eyes in the room had come to rest on the two of them. Now he wished he’d spoken louder.

“It’s alright, Charles was just leaving.”

He had hoped that Charles would give up and leave knowing that everyone was watching him, but he was determined. He grabbed Alastair’s arm. “It’ll just be-”

Alastair stood, but pulled his arm away. “Don’t touch me.”

In a flicker, Alastair saw it: the anxiety began to set in. Charles began to realize that he would not be able to play his usual tricks. “Why are you acting like this?”

“I believe I was quite clear when I told you I don’t wish to speak with you. You’re the one who can’t let this go.”

“Must you act so childish?”

He rolled his eyes. “Must you always call me childish for thinking for myself instead of catering to your every whim?”

“I don’t understand. You said we were fine.”

Alastair sighed. Perhaps for a moment, he thought that was true. For just a second, he thought there was a world where he and Charles could be friends. But Alastair had decided that he would no longer call people who hurt him his friends. “Yes, well, I lied. I wanted to let you down gently, but it’s clear to me now that it must be spelled out for you. How shall I put this? You and I are past our dancing days, Charles.”

“But-” He stammered, searching for words. “What happened with Grace Blackthorn wasn’t my fault.”

“Maybe not. But what of Miss Bridgestock? Am I to pretend that what happened with Miss Blackthorn was not the same as what happened two years earlier?”

“You told me many times that you took no issue with that, that you understood.”

“I understood what you told me, which we both know was never the full truth. I was a sixteen year old desperate for your affections, and the fact that you truly believe I never had any issue with your arrangement is proof that you never genuinely cared about me or listened to my thoughts. I told you in the infirmary that this wasn’t your fault because I thought it’d ease the pain, but I lied. And I don’t have time to sit here and watch you cry over it.”

Alastair wished that watching Charles become flustered would have been more enjoyable. Instead, all he wanted was for this to end. “You- you’re different than when we met. You’ve changed. You’re cruel and callous, I don’t understand how I could not see how heartless you were until now. You are everything that everyone claims you to be. How am I to even know what the truth is when it comes from your lips?”

There was a time when those words would have cut deeply into him, eating at his every insecurity, but Charles mistakenly assumed that Alastair was the same person he was last July, with the same insecurities. “When we met, I was fourteen years old. I’ve grown up, and it is time for you to do the same. It’s been six months, Charles. You need to stop writing me. If that makes me heartless, I don’t care. And if you wish to know the truth, the truth is that the moment you leave here, if I never see your face again, it still will not be long enough.”

Charles stared at him for a long while, unable to find a proper retort. In the end, it was Matthew who stepped in. “Charles, I believe it’s time for you to go.”

He obliged, finally turning to leave the library. As he began to walk away, however, Alastair knew that he was not finished. His heart beat a little bit faster at the thought of such a confession, and faster again when he realized who would hear it, but there was no piece of parting with Charles that he wished to regret.

“Wait,” he said. Charles froze and turned to look at him. “I know it’s unlikely that you have it in the cold depths of your soul to care, but let the record show that I would have given you everything. I would have given you my life, all of the love and trust that I had to give, and then I would have given more. And you gave me nothing. So the next time you’re pondering my heartlessness, you ought to wonder what that means for you.”

Finally satisfied, Alastair did not wait for Charles to turn and leave again to return to his seat and pick his reading back up. He waited for a moment, but he couldn’t shake the feeling of everyone’s eyes on him. He stood once more, opening his mouth to speak, but the words were caught in his throat. Instead, he walked out of the library in silence.

Finding the nearest balcony, he attempted to steady his breath.

“Are you alright?” He heard from behind him. Thomas. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

He shook his head. “I just needed some air.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Alastair sighed. He backed up against the window and slid down to the floor of the balcony. “I know- I know that everyone sort of knew already, but… by the Angel, I feel so pathetic.”

“You’re not pathetic,” Thomas told him, sitting down beside him.

“You were right, of course you were. I was so… taken with him, back in Paris. I couldn’t see him for what he was. I was so naive, so foolish. I just- After everything I’ve seen, everything I’ve been through, how did I not realize-”

Thomas put his hand on Alastair’s knee. “You wanted to see the best in him. After everything you’d seen and been through, you wanted to believe that there were still good and honest people in the world. And there are. I’m sorry that he was not one of them, but that does not make you foolish or pathetic. It makes you… kind.”

“I bet you’d never imagined describing me as such before.”

“It seems you’re full of surprises,” Thomas teased. “But that’s not true. I always saw the kindness in you, even back at school, when you did everything to keep it hidden.”

“As you can see, my ‘kindness’ has never gotten me very far.”

“You were out of practice. Following me on my reckless nighttime patrols, that was kind. More than kind. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, for risking your life to protect mine.”

“I didn’t do it for gratitude.”

“And yet I owe you mine nonetheless.”

“I can’t go back in there, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can tolerate you and your friends hating me just fine. But if any of your friends give me even an ounce of pity- well, we’ll see just where the limits of my kindness lie, won’t we?”

Thomas stood up, offering Alastair his hand. “Pity comes from those who cannot even begin to understand what you’ve experienced. For what it’s worth, I don’t think my friends will pity you. But if they do, you can ignore them. For Lucie.”

Alastair sighed and allowed Thomas to pull him to his feet. “Fine. Let’s get back to reading.”

“Speaking of reading, do you have the entirety of Shakespeare’s canon memorized, or only the lines you believe may pop up in conversation?”

“Excuse me?”

“‘For you and I are past our dancing days,’ it’s Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it? It’s the only one of his works that I got through.”

Alastair froze. “You haven’t read Hamlet?”

“I tried.”

“Othello? King Lear? Macbeth? Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

He shook his head.

“That’s impossible. And James is friends with you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Wait until my sister finds out you haven’t read Hamlet,” he warned, starting towards the library with urgency in his step.

“Wait, don’t- I just don’t like Shakespeare! What’s so wrong with that?” Thomas’ attempts at reasoning were futile, however, a welcome distraction from all of their recent sorrows finally taking hold.

Thanks for reading!! This was self indulgent af lol. I'm not to sure whether some people only wanted to be tagged in my social media AU, so if that's the case I'm sorry & please tell me!: @stxr-thxif @chaos-and-starlight @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @thecodexsays @fortheloveofthecarstairs @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @shadowrunner2000 @thewarthatsavedmylife @fair-childd @icouldnotask @shadowhunting-hooligans @melanielocke @clarys-heosphoros @kiwichaeng @lightwoodsimp @thecrimsonsorceresss @theenchanteddreamer @adams-left-hand @yozinha-z @ipromiseiwillwrite @skirtsandsweaters @goodoldfashionednerd

[nessinborderland]

Be Mine (08)

Pairing: Niragi x Reader / Chishiya x Reader

Genre: Smut, Angst, Fluff, Omegaverse

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: You were able to stay unbounded throughout your life. You didn’t want an Alpha; you didn’t need one. You would rather die than to give yourself to some random male. But the man that saved your life thinks differently.

Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Dubious Consent, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Finger fucking, Rough Sex, Rough Kissing, Unprotected Sex, Creampie, Breeding, Pregnancy Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Drama, Developing Relationship, Past Abuse, Scars, Death, Blood and Gore, Animal Death, Trauma, Bath Sex, Blood and Injury, Oral Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, Feelings

Notes: Here I am, back with chapter 8!! Be aware that there's a lot going on in this chapter involving abuse and trauma, so please proceed with caution. Hope you enjoy it! <3

AO3 Link        Masterlist

He can’t believe his eyes.

The moment the bag was taken off to show the man’s face, he wondered if he was having one of his nightmares again. He barely has those anymore, but what else can this be? He refuses to believe he is here. It can’t be real; it makes no sense.

But it is real. It’s him, without a shadow of a doubt. He’s visibly older, once black hair now with streaks of gray, and deep-set tired eyes. But he could never forget that face; the face that has been haunting his dreams for years. He almost feels sick at the realization. Why is he here? What does he want? How? When? So many questions.

Then fear.

Is he here to hurt him? To hurt you? No, he can’t let that happen; he won’t let that happen. Memories come flushing in, and it’s like he’s a young boy again, with no means of escaping or protecting himself. He feels powerless, and it’s terrifying. After so many years trying to gain control of his life, making others fear him...he comes and ruins everything.

Then anger.

How dare he even be alive? In his mind, he killed him long ago. He was supposed to be dead, locked away in some shithole, away from him. But he’s alive and he’s here. The man looks at him with fear in his eyes, but they’re also eyes that don’t recognize him. It makes a fire run in his chest. After everything he has done to him, after all the trauma and scars he left on him? How dare he not remember? 

And then he feels you, on the back of his mind, surprised and wanting to approach him.

No. He has to get you out of that room.

“Y/N,” he says. He barely recognizes his own voice. His eyes are still locked on the man in front of him; he can’t let him out of his sight. His body shakes with the effort to keep himself under control, but he still lets his claws out. He needs to protect you. “Get out.”

“Ni–”

“All of you, out!” he shouts, a growl forming in his chest. The man on the chair is shaking, looking more terrified by the second. Still not recognizing him. That angers him more than he would like to admit.

He hears everyone leave the room; everyone except for you. He glances over his shoulder, opening his mouth to order you out.

“I am not leaving,” you say before he can talk. Your voice trembles, but he can feel your determination. You know how he’s feeling, after all. It makes him hate this connection even more; you’re not supposed to see him like this. You’re not supposed to know about this.

“Y/N, I’m not repeating myself,” he takes a deep breath, “Leave… now.”

“But Niragi, you–”

“Niragi?... Niragi Suguru?” those words freeze him in place. That voice, saying his name, makes shivers of terror run down his spine. He looks down at the man, his wide eyes now filled with recognition.

That man knows who he is. He almost wishes he didn’t.

“Do you know who I am?” Niragi forces himself to ask, in a whisper so low you can barely hear it. He can feel you in the back of his mind, as tense and frightened as he is. But he can’t focus on you right now; not when the monster from his past just said his name.

The old man stays quiet for a beat, looking him up and down. Niragi knows what he must be thinking. When they last saw each other, he was nothing more than a shy and scrawny fourteen-year-old boy; now he’s over a decade older and taller, piercings all over his face. 

And he’s an Alpha. That is the most important change. One that the old man definitely notices.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” the man gulps, “Keiko’s boy?”

Niragi has to control his basic instinct to flee as he crouches before the older man, close enough that he can smell the pungent odor of sweat and cigarette smoke. It’s so disgusting and so familiar that he almost gets sick. He swallows the lump in his throat before talking.

“What if I am?” he says, in the most leveled tone he can. He can’t let him know he’s scared. He can’t let him get inside his head. “Why does it matter?”

“I– I just never thought I would see you again after all these years, I–” the man stutters, clearly nervous, “Is nice to finally see my nephew, though. You’ve...changed.”

“Nephew?” you ask. He can feel your surprise, followed by something close to realization. You’re starting to connect the dots. Niragi hates it.

“I’m not your fucking nephew,” he spits in the man’s direction. He can feel his blood starting to boil, claws tingling to dig into the man’s throat. “And you...you should be rotting in some prison cell, not here.”

The man laughs, a low and raspy sound that makes a shiver run down Niragi’s spine. He used to hate that sound. He finds out he still does.

“I’ve been out for years, son,” he says with a strained smile. Niragi knows he’s faking this sudden streak of confidence, but it makes him extremely uncomfortable. He knows that the man is trying to manipulate him. “And now that you’re touching the subject, it’s okay, I forgive you for your betrayal.” Niragi’s eyes go wide at that, “You didn’t know any better–”

“You forgive me?” he can’t believe his ears. But he knows something for certain; the man that calls himself his uncle is dead. “You forgive me…”

“Well, of course, I–”

It’s an exhilarating sensation, having the blood of someone he hates on his hands, claws digging through flesh like butter. But he can’t focus on the physical sensations for long; he’s too mad to see or feel anything but rage and pain. He can hear you calling for him, trying to stop him, but he’s too far gone.

“You forgive me?!” he screams as he keeps punching the man, now on the ground. “You forgive me for what, you motherfucker?! Do you forgive me for telling everyone what you did to me?! Do you forgive me for letting you touch me?! For letting you beat the shit out of me?! For leaving me with these fucking scars?!” He can hear you calling his name, begging him to stop, but all he can focus on is the man underneath him, bleeding and begging him to stop.

He doesn’t give a fuck; he used to beg too. To him, to his mom, even to God. He was never heard. No one came to save him.

So why should he stop?

“Niragi, Niragi, please stop!” he can feel your arms around his neck, trying to pull him back, your mouth close to his ear. His wolf would stop in any other circumstances, but not in this one. “Please, please, you don't want to do this, you’re going to kill him!”

“Get off!” he tries to shake you off his back, never stopping his assault. He can’t stop; if he stops he wins. He can’t let that happen. You keep your arms around his neck, telling him to stop, how this isn’t the way, how they can solve this together. He doesn’t want to hear it. “Shut up!” he marks his words with another punch to the old man’s face, “You don’t know shit!”. He doesn’t notice when you get off him.

But then you cry out in pain.

That makes him freeze, fist in mid-air. He glances at you, cradling your cheek as you lay on the ground by his feet, so close to the man he hates. The scent of your blood hits him like a truck.

No. No, no, no.

He gets on his knees in a second, totally ignoring the half-dead man behind you. You’re all he can think about, now. “Y/N I– I– I’m sorry– I– Let me see…”. You move your hand, showing the claws that mark your cheek. His claws. He did this. He hurt you; how could he hurt you? “I– I– I didn’t mean to, I–”

“I–It’s okay,” you say with a small smile in his direction. But he notices your shaking body, sees the tears running down your face, mixing with your blood on the wound he opened. More than that; he can feel how you’re feeling. He never felt like he wanted to die more than now. He can’t breathe. “Niragi? Niragi, look at me.”

He can’t see. He can’t think. He can’t speak. He can’t hear.

His whole body is shaking, violent tremors going through him as he tries to make it stop. He can’t see you, he can’t see anything but pure black. But he can smell the blood, sweat, and cigarettes, and he’s back to the house where it all happened. Back to the beatings and the abuse and everything else he didn’t remember it happened until now; but in place of his fourteen-year-old self, there’s you. He tries to scream; for help, for you, but he can’t hear his voice. It’s only himself and the dark.

Then it’s like everything explodes.

You stayed in that room for almost ten hours.

Just you, a giant wolf, and a mauled body.

Ten hours.

You’re still in shock as you lay next to Niragi’s unconscious body. He has been like this for almost two days, and part of you fears he won’t wake up. You press your palm against his chest, wanting to feel his heartbeat. His body is covered in fresh wounds, skin so pale he almost looks dead. You can’t feel him in your mind anymore, but you know he has constant nightmares; so do you. What are you going to do if he doesn’t wake up?

What are you going to do if he does?

It had been terrifying. The screams, the blood, the emotions. Emotions you have never felt before; emotions you don’t want to experience ever again. That overpowering fear and anger and sadness almost made you want to tear your heart out. You know he is broken, but you never imagined it to be on such a scale.

And when he turned and you stopped feeling him... that was the most terrifying thing of all. Because that beast wasn’t Niragi; it was just an animal. A wrathful, terrified, damaged giant wolf. The human was locked inside, and you couldn’t reach him anymore.

The first time you truly feared Niragi was when he looked at you with those amber eyes; eyes that were not his own. 

You thought that that was it, the animal in him was about to kill you. But he acted like you weren’t there as he finished killing his abuser, tearing his body apart like a ravishing beast. You couldn’t stop yourself from watching the gruesome scene; you had to look. It was like you owned him that.

So you stared, sitting on the floor, tears streaming down your face as you cradled your bleeding cheek. Not even when the blood from the body reached your knees did you look away; not even when the wolf ripped apart the man’s head did you look away; not even when the wolf turned to you, muzzle dripping blood, did you look away.

You couldn’t.

After that, you just stayed there on the floor, covered in blood and so terrified you couldn’t move. The wolf had approached you, sniffed you, and licked your wound before laying down in front of you, unmoving. His eyes never left yours.

Until someone had tried to enter the room, time when he had growled, jumping towards the door to undoubtedly kill whoever dared to cross the threshold.

No one died, but after that, you could hear a commotion outside as people tried to decide on what to do next. You had heard Ann call your name, but you couldn't force any words out. Discussions on whether to kill him had made you scream at them to go away. And then it was silent.

When you tried to get up an hour or so later, legs cramping and giving up on you, the wolf hadn't moved; not until you tried to get to the door. He had grabbed you by your clothes then, pulling you to a corner like you were nothing but a rag doll, before laying in front of you, blocking your way out.

Hours passed until you heard a knock on the door. By that time you were starving, throat dry as the desert and skin itching from the dry blood. The wolf immediately started growling, raised hackles as he stared at the door; he knew who it was as well as you did.

A knock on the door startles you, interrupting your thoughts. You check on Niragi before standing up to open the door, limping from the now infected wound on your ankle; you don’t heal as fast as Alphas do, after all. Just like before in that room of nightmares, you know who it is even before you open the door. His scent is even stronger than usual, and you know why.

“What are you doing here?” you ask with a sigh as Chishiya stands in front of you. You look him up and down. His injuries from his fight with Niragi are almost healed by now, pink skin replacing what was open wounds not even two days ago. His expression is the same as always, but you see him glance over your shoulder at Niragi, a look in his eyes that you can’t quite place.

“He’s still unconscious, uh?” he asks, ignoring your question, “Do you think he will wake up?”

“What are you doing here, Chishiya?” you ask again in a raised tone. His eyes flash, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Just checking up on you,” he says with a shrug, “How is your cheek?”

“Do you think that I’m some kind of an idiot?” you snap. “Do you think that I don’t know exactly why you’re here?” you can feel your anger rising, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “You selfish son of a bitch! Just say you’re here because you can smell that my heat is approaching!” you practically scream in his face. You don’t care who might be listening, you’re exhausted. “Don’t just use some fucking excuse like you care about me.” You move to close the door, but his hand snaps to grip your wrist.

“He’s dangerous,” he says, pulling you to him when you try to get him to release you. “He’s reckless, he’s uncontrollable. Just look at what he did to you.” you notice immediately when his eyes change colors, and you have to control yourself not to let his scent fog your mind.

“Let go of me,” you say in a faint tone.

“I would never do that to you,” he says. 

And then he’s kissing you. 

The sound of your slap echoes through the hallway, and your palm stings like it’s on fire.

“Do you have any idea of the state he was in, down there?” you don’t control your tears now, too mad and tired to care. “The pain and suffering he went through? His trauma almost made me insane!” Chishiya just stares, lips in a tight line as he cradles his red cheek. “I don’t blame him for what happened. I know how he felt when he hurt me. He didn’t mean any of it.” you take a deep breath, cleaning the tears from your face. “If you show up here again and try to take me against my will, I’ll kill you.”

“You know you’re just trying to prevent the inevitable, right?” he says, tone cold as ice. He’s smirking; it makes you want to slap him again. “I don’t like to lose, Y/N.”

“Fuck you.”

He doesn’t try to stop you from closing the door, this time.

You immediately go back to bed, nuzzling against Niragi’s unconscious body as you cry. You don’t know what to do, how to feel, what to think. Your head hurts, your body hurts, your soul hurts. You just want him to wake up. 

“Please wake up,” you whisper in his ear as you sob, hoping for a miracle, something. “Please wake up. I– I don’t know if I’ll be able to resist him when he comes back for me. Please...I– I need you to wake up.”

Your body is like a ticking time bomb, and you can practically hear the clock as your heat approaches. It’s only a matter of hours. 

If Niragi doesn’t regain his consciousness by the next morning, Chishiya will take you; and there’s nothing you can do about it.

Next Chapter

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Pierre Teillard de Chardin

* * * *

I'll never forget this story told by Jean Houston at a conference I attended as an MIU student. Very beautiful and moving, worth a read, especially if you're familiar with Teilhard de Chardin and his writings that got him in trouble with the church because he was way too cosmic for them.

"Mr. Tayer," by Jean Houston

When I was about fourteen I was seized by enormous waves of grief over my parents’ breakup. I had read somewhere that running would help dispel anguish, so I began to run to school every day down Park Avenue in New York City. I was a great big overgrown girl (5 feet eleven by the age of eleven) and one day I ran into a rather frail old gentleman in his seventies and knocked the wind out of him. He laughed as I helped him to his feet and asked me in French- accented speech, “Are you planning to run like that for the rest of your life?”

“Yes, sir" I replied. “It looks that way."

“Well, Bon Voyage!” he said.

“Bon Voyage!” I answered and sped on my way.

About a week later I was walking down Park Avenue with my fox terrier, Champ, and again I met the old gentleman.

“Ah." he greeted me, “my friend the runner, and with a fox terrier. I knew one like that years ago in France. Where are you going?"

“Well, sir." I replied, “I’m taking Champ to Central Park."

“I will go with you." he informed me. “I will take my constitutional."

And thereafter, for about a year or so, the old gentleman and I would meet and walk together often several times a week in Central Park. He had a long French name but asked me to call him by the first part of it, which was “Mr. Tayer" as far as I could make out.

The walks were magical and full of delight. Not only did Mr. Tayer seem to have absolutely no self-consciousness, but he was always being seized by wonder and astonishment over the simplest things. He was constantly and literally falling into love. I remember one time when he suddenly fell on his knees, his long Gallic nose raking the ground, and exclaimed to me, “Jeanne, look at the caterpillar. Ahhhh!” I joined him on the ground to see what had evoked so profound a response that he was seized by the essence of caterpillar. “How beautiful it is", he remarked, “this little green being with its wonderful funny little feet. Exquisite! Little furry body, little green feet on the road to metamorphosis." He then regarded me with equal delight. “Jeanne, can you feel yourself to be a caterpillar?”

“Oh yes." I replied with the baleful knowing of a gangly, pimply faced teenager.

“Then think of your own metamorphosis." he suggested. “What will you be when you become a butterfly, une papillon, eh? What is the butterfly of Jeanne?” (What a great question for a fourteen-year-old girl!) His long, gothic, comic-tragic face would nod with wonder. “Eh, Jeanne, look at the clouds! God’s calligraphy in the sky! All that transforming. moving, changing, dissolving, becoming. Jeanne, become a cloud and become all the forms that ever were."

Or there was the time that Mr. Tayer and I leaned into the strong wind that suddenly whipped through Central Park, and he told me, “Jeanne, sniff the wind." I joined him in taking great snorts of wind. “The same wind may once have been sniffed by Jesus Christ (sniff). by Alexander the Great (sniff), by Napoleon (sniff), by Voltaire (sniff), by Marie Antoinette (sniff)!” (There seemed to be a lot of French people in that wind.) “Now sniff this next gust of wind in very deeply for it contains.. . Jeanne d’Arc! Sniff the wind once sniffed by Jeanne dArc. Be filled with the winds of history."

It was wonderful. People of all ages followed us around, laughing—not at us but with us. Old Mr. Tayer was truly diaphanous to every moment and being with him was like being in attendance at God’s own party, a continuous celebration of life and its mysteries. But mostly Mr. Tayer was so full of vital sap and juice that he seemed to flow with everything. Always he saw the interconnections between things—the way that everything in the universe, from fox terriers to tree bark to somebody’s red hat to the mind of God, was related to everything else and was very, very good.

He wasn’t merely a great appreciator, engaged by all his senses. He was truly penetrated by the reality that was yearning for him as much as he was yearning for it. He talked to the trees, to the wind, to the rocks as dear friends, as beloved even. ‘Ah, my friend, the mica schist layer, do you remember when...?” And I would swear that the mica schist would begin to glitter back. I mean, mica schist will do that, but on a cloudy day?! Everything was treated as personal, as sentient, as “thou." And everything that was thou was ensouled with being. and it thou-ed back to him. So when I walked with him, I felt as though a spotlight was following us, bringing radiance and light everywhere. And I was constantly seized by astonishment in the presence of this infinitely beautiful man, who radiated such sweetness, such kindness.

I remember one occasion when he was quietly watching a very old woman watching a young boy play a game. “Madame", he suddenly addressed her. She looked up, surprised that a stranger in Central Park would speak to her. “Madame,” he repeated, “why are you so fascinated by what that little boy is doing?” The old woman was startled by the question, but the kindly face of Mr. Tayer seemed to allay her fears and evoke her memories. “Well, sir,” she replied in an ancient but pensive voice, “the game that boy is playing is like one I played in this park around 1880, only it’s a mite different." We noticed that the boy was listening, so Mr. Tayer promptly included him in the conversation. “Young fellow, would you like to learn the game as it was played so many years ago?”

“Well. . .yeah. sure, why not?” the boy replied. And soon the young boy and the old woman were making friends and sharing old and new variations on the game—as unlikely an incident to occur in Central Park as could be imagined.

But perhaps the most extraordinary thing about Mr. Tayer was the way that he would suddenly look at you. He looked at you with wonder and astonishment joined to unconditional love joined to a whimsical regarding of you as the cluttered house that hides the holy one. I felt myself primed to the depths by such seeing. I felt evolutionary forces wake up in me by such seeing, every cell and thought and potential palpably changed. I was yeasted, greened, awakened by such seeing, and the defeats and denigrations of adolescence redeemed. I would go home and tell my mother, who was a little skeptical about my walking with an old man in the park so often, “Mother, I was with my old man again, and when I am with him, I leave my littleness behind." That deeply moved her. You could not be stuck in littleness and be in the radiant field of Mr. Tayer.

The last time that I ever saw him was the Thursday before Easter Sunday, 1955. I brought him the shell of a snail. “Ah. Escargot." he exclaimed and then proceeded to wax ecstatic for the better part of an hour. Snail shells, and galaxies, and the convolutions in the brain, the whorl of flowers and the meanderings of rivers were taken up into a great hymn to the spiralling evolution of spirit and matter. When he had finished, his voice dropped, and he whispered almost in prayer, “Omega ...omega. . .omega.." Finally he looked up and said to me quietly, "Au revoir, Jeanne”.

“Au revoir, Mr. Tayer,” I replied, “I’ll meet you at the same time next Tuesday."

For some reason. Champ, my fox terrier didn’t want to budge, and when I pulled him along, he whimpered, looking back at Mr.Tayer, his tail between his legs. The following Tuesday I was there waiting where we always met at the corner of Park Avenue and 83rd Street. He didn’t come. The following Thursday I waited again. Still he didn’t come. The dog looked up at me sadly. For the next eight weeks I continued to wait, but he never came again. It turned out that he had suddenly died that Easter Sunday but I didn’t find that out for years.

Some years later, someone handed me a book without a cover which was titled The Phenomenon of Man. As I read the book I found it strangely familiar in its concepts. Occasional words and expressions loomed up as echoes from my past. When, later in the book, I came across the concept of the “Omega point." I was certain. I asked to see the jacket of the book, looked at the author’s picture, and, of course, recognized him immediately. There was no forgetting or mistaking that face. Mr. Tayer was Teilhard de Chardin, the great priest-scientist, poet and mystic, and during that lovely and luminous year I had been meeting him out side the Jesuit rectory of St. Ignatius where he was living most of the time.

I have often wondered if it was my simplicity and innocence that allowed the fullness of Teilhard’s being to be revealed. To me he was never the great priest-paleontologist Pere Teilhard. He was old Mr. Tayer. Why did he always come and walk with me every Tuesday and Thursday, even though I’m sure he had better things to do? Was it that in seeing me so completely, he himself could be completely seen at a time when his writings, his work, were proscribed by the Church, when he was not permitted to teach, or even to talk about his ideas? As I later found out, he was undergoing at that time the most excruciating agony that there is—the agony of utter disempowerment and psychological crucifixion. And yet to me he was always so present—whimsical, engaging, empowering. How could that be?

I think it was because Teilhard had what few Church officials did—the power and grace of the Love that passes all understanding. He could write about love being the evolutionary force, the Omega point, that lures the world and ourselves into becoming, because he experienced that love in a piece of rock, in the wag of a dog’s tail, in the eyes of a child. He was so in love with everything that he talked in great particularity, even to me as an adolescent, about the desire atoms have for each other, the yearning of molecules, of organisms, of bodies, of planets, of galaxies, all of creation longing for that radiant bonding, for joining, for the deepening of their condition, for becoming more by virtue of yearning for and finding the other. He knew about the search for the Beloved. His model was Christ. For Teilhard de Chardin, Christ was the Beloved of the soul.

Years later, while addressing some Jesuits, a very old Jesuit came up to me. He was a friend of Teilhard’s—and he told me how Teilhard used to talk of his encounters in the Park with a girl called Jeanne.

Jean Houston

Pomona, New York

March, 1988

[wellwornwornwell]

Quite a while since you updated us on wardrobe pickups. Fall ‘21- anything new?

I have like fourteen versions of this question in my inbox, so I figure this is as good an opening as any to return to the written word. Hope my inaction hasn’t jaded too many of you. A friendly reminder that if the withdrawals are severe, you can find me on twitter @wwornwwell. Let’s make your questions on wedding attire and first dates public!

So, first thing is first: I’m totally gutting and renovating a house my wife and I bought last summer. In short, I am poor. But even more impactfully, I have a wife with a renewed zeal for scrutinizing my credit card practices. This is great news for the viability of a 9-foot floating marble vanity in our master bedroom. Not such great news for my contrived self-importance in the Wide World of Jawnz.

Of course, I am still a dreamer. Still unwilling to seek therapy. And so my mind naturally drifts to what would look nice hanging next to the 1,000 other garments I wear once a year. Which piece of the puzzle I can unconvincingly cram into a void of a vaguely similar shape. A man has his needs, after all.

So, let’s swing for the fences and discuss the stuff that I have been thinking a lot about over the past year and, though I will absolutely not buy any of it, makes for great #content in the try-hard world of the iGentry:

When I was a senior in high school I went on a “graduation cruise” (suburban much?!) with some of my friends and their parents. The trip was littered with congratulations and drunken hand jobs received in dark corners of the Teen Club. In all the excitement someone’s father decided he was going to buy a watch for his son as a graduation gift (gotta love those Caribbean tax havens). This triggered an immediate competition amongst dads, leading to some ill-advised spending. In the fog of compensating for missed baseball games, a buddy of mine came away with a Rolex Explorer II 16750 “Polar.”

It was an absolutely beautiful watch. A watch that I obsessed over and envied immediately. Unfortunately, my more well-adjusted, “loving” father wasn’t interested in buying my affection, and so I left the trip with a measly Baume & Mercier. You can’t imagine my struggles.

Flash forward to present day and I still think about and lust after this watch. While the IWC Mark XVI will always be my true love in the watch game, I’d quietly planned for the 16750 Polar to one day be my ruggedly beautiful mistress. And that’s exactly as gay as it sounds. Unfortunately, some guy named WM Brown or Matt or something decided he too has impeccable taste and now what was once a borderline affordable daily wearer has jumped in price to the point that it would cost me the equivalence of a real mistress. I’ll have her one day, but not any day soon.

Segueing out of homoerotic undertones with aplomb, over the summer I caught myself admiring a middle-aged rich guy at a poolside cocktail party. It was a beautiful sunny day, meaning that he paired his navy fleece Polistas vest with Nantucket red shorts and a white Lacoste polo. While we need to definitely talk about bringing Polistas back one day, what really caught my attention was his footwear – low-vamp, full-strap penny loafers in an espresso crocodile. They were beaten up exquisitely, with frothy frayed edges and delicately separating tiles. You could tell they wore like butter.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a good lead on where to even find these shoes. They had that blobby last that looks charmingly stodgy on the right guy and stolen from dad’s closet on the wrong guy. I presume they’d need to be bought secondhand on eBay (yikes) or commissioned (double yikes). Regardless, this is the peak old rich guy stuff of dreams.

And speaking of dreams, I had a fleeting moment over the summer where I was going to send all my custom shirts out to me hand monogrammed. My sister recently created a kick-ass monogram for me, and it immediately sent me into a vortex of creative expression. After my wife assured me it would look somewhat askew as a face tattoo (my bone structure is suboptimal), I begrudgingly began my research on where to send things for hand monograms. Spoiler alert: There’s one place in the United States that will do it and the juice likely ain’t worth the squeeze.

I’ll probably give the treatment to a few of my favorite shirts, so consider this at the top of my “Fall shopping list.” But it’s gonna be a hot minute before I go full-on Gatsby and repeatedly assault Daisy with my initials.

Alright, last one here: An overcoat. I live in Atlanta, a place that does not require much in the way of formal outerwear. But I am a recovering iGent with continued (if supervised) access to the internet and so I must justify owning something expensive that I will literally wear twice a year.

My initial instinct was to go Ralph Lauren Polo Coat (if you know you’re never wearing it you might was well lean all the way in), but I think I’d be better served with a lighter weight, darker, and more utilitarian option. The only thing I know is that I want sharp peak lapels and a cloth with some visual interest (large scale herringbone, boucle, Donegal, etc.) While I know I said the monograms were most likely, it’s all but certain I buy some version of this off a dead guy in the next few months. eBay has my number.

So there you have it: What I’m thinking about this fall. If you outbid me on eBay, I will find you.

[hankwritten]

The Weight of Other People’s Thoughts

Demoman/Soldier, 2k

Request for @lilythedragon05, Scotland

It was a bad idea to follow that tugging cord at the center of his being, the one that called him to Ullapool, and he never would have dared to entertain it if he knew it would have brought him here.

Jane sat by the ocean, stone’s throw from the town, but his distasteful frown kept his eyes locked firmly ahead instead of gazing dubiously at it. What had he been thinking? Coming to Ullapool had only make him feel worse, not better, a smirch against Tavish’s memory if there ever was one. Rubbing in Tavish’s face that he’d never go home again—and here Jane was, free to frolic across the whole damn planet, even if it took him to stupid countries ending in ‘land’.

He leaned further over his knees, barely feeling the sea breeze as he thought about his dead friend.

His murdered friend, he reminded himself. Murdered by someone who he thought he could trust, who now had to carry that guilt with him for the rest of his life.

Everywhere Jane looked it reminded him of Tavish. Maybe that’s why he’d come: self-flagellation. Appropriate punishment. Or maybe he was so desperate not to forget, he’d take the pain that came with remembering. Torturing himself truly, since he could look on the hills and surrounding coast that he had once only known through enthusiastic descriptions, see for himself the places where a young Tavish had played with dummy-grenades. He could imagine him talking to the local shopkeeps. He could practically see him walking up this very path, groceries in one hand, a newspaper filled with fried fish in the other as he took a large bite out of it-

Wait.

Tavish stopped dead, his face enveloped in utter shock. Still mid-chew, he said, “Jdra-ne?”

Jane leapt to his feet. “Apparition!” He pointed an accusing finger at the offending spirit. “Do not think for a second I will be cowed into repentance by the spectral manifestation of my guilt!”

Tavish nearly choked as he tried to swallow his bite of fish. “I…what?”

“Ghosts serve no purpose on my journey to recovery,” Jane continued. “Not even ones that look like my dead friend! Be gone creature of the other world!”

“What I- I’m not bloody dead.”

Jane squinted at him. He definitely didn’t look dead, totally opaque, no fettered chains representing his sins in life and his guilt over failing to help his fellow Man.

“…Are you sure?” Jane pressed.

“You’d think someone would know if they were dead,” Tavish grumbled poignantly, now glaring at Jane for some reason.

“I killed you though. It was-” -pickaxe right through the sternum, crushing, all the red bits coming out when they should have been in- “That was definitely fatal.”

“Aye, was, but I managed to limp my was back into Respawn range. Took a better part of an hour, but I made it.”

There was something odd to Tavish’s voice, something he wasn’t saying, but the realization that he might actually-seriously-really be alive was starting to set in and Jane was too afraid to believe it.

He took a step closer, past the bench he’d been enjoying his solitude at and completing a full circle around the Demoman. Tavish’s head followed him all the while, up until Jane came to a stop in front of him. “…Promise you are not a ghost?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Tavish said, as convincingly honest as he’d always been. Not that his acting skills hadn’t covered for his mendacity before-

-no, no that was a trick, it all turned out to be a lie a damn lie-

“Fine then. You’re not.” Though Jane would keep his eyes peeled for phantasmal anyway. “What the hell are you doing here then?”

“I live here,” Tavish huffed. “Gravel Wars are over, wasn’t going to spend the rest of my years in some blighted desert. Better question is what are you doing here, yank?”

Crap. Well, maybe a half-truth would suffice. “You always talked so much about Scotland I thought…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”

Tavish stood there, one hand still clasped around his groceries. The moment dragged on, vast seas of unsaid things between them, of regrets still festering, to which he ended with, “would you like me to show you around?”

Jane looked down, trying not to stare at his shoes but instead at the foreign soil around them. “…Sure. Why not.”

“Everything is incredibly vertical,” Jane complained as they climbed up yet another hill Tavish insisted was part of the journey.

“Aye, that’s why they call it the Highlands, BLU.”

Jane hated how fucking smug he sounded. Hated, and missed it all the same, missed how this bastard could set a fire in his gut just with one of his damn smiles.

“And there she is,” the Demoman said proudly as the crested the final ridge.

“Damn. Really went to crap in the last couple centuries.”

“Oi, don’t point fingers at me! I’ve only been around for forty of those.”

DeGroot Keep was shriveled and hunchbacked since Jane had last seen it, folding under its own legacy as ages had eaten the tallest spires first and chewed its way down to the cob. Still, he could just make out the choke points, the parapets, the places he used to go charging into with his mêlée weapon held high—all sanded down by the years, the vaguest memories of control points where a portal in time had briefly allowed Jane to witness their existence.

“So what,” he asked, following Tavish into the slight dip in the Highlands where the Keep nestled, “you live in here like some sort of anti-Italian?”

“An anti- what now?”

“Anti-Italians! Despises sun, allergic to garlic, doesn’t show up in mirrors, no sex life. Basic literary reference, RED.”

Tavish rolled his eye. “No, I’m not squatting in the dilapidated castle. Got a perfectly nice home down in the village, I just happen to have inherited this along with…all the other crap.” He waved his hand. “I’ve considered shelling out to having it restored but…dunno. Seeing it go from its heyday to this makes me think that in another couple hundred years it’ll just fall apart again.”

He sat on a piece of tumbled rock, one that used to hang over the Keep’s gate, a bright and shining keystone now used as a stool. Jane joined him.

“Don’t get much of this at home, do you? Old crap. Yer country’s still a wee babe you know, nothing’s even falling apart yet.”

“Incorrect!” Jane amended. “There are plenty of old things in America!”

“For last time lad, Thomas Edison wasn’t immortal, and he didn’t be build a second Shangri-La under Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Your statements reveal both your ignorance and your compunction, but I was actually talking about mounds.”

“Mounds,” Tavish repeated dubiously.

“Yes! Mounds! Fourteen hundred years ago Americans were building ceremonial mounds in order to track celestial events! They look like animals from the top, lynx, bears, fish, all that crap. I used to walk next to this bird one every day on the way to school.”

Tavish blinked at him, tilting his head. “No offense Jane, but including Native people usually isn’t in your worldview. Where’d you even learn all ‘o that?”

“My mother taught me, so think insinuating more cyclops—lest you show disrespect against her memory and I am forced to take out your other socket!”

Tavish raised his hands defensively, but there was a smile creeping at the corner. “Alright, alright, I get ye. A Mum’s honor is a serious thing.”

“Hm. Good.” Jane glanced ahead, suddenly afraid of lapsing back into silence, as though Tavish would start to slip away from him if they did. “How is your mother?”

“Ah…she passed some years back.”

“…I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It’s alright.” Tavish paused. “I still see her sometimes.”

“Metaphorically or…?”

Tavish glanced at him, but then away just a quickly, as though frightened of what he might see. “I’d rather not talk about it, if that’s alright with you.” Instead, he stared ahead, the sun setting between its cradle within the mountains. “Heh. At least there’s something that’s the same no matter where you go. Always a sunset.”

“Guess so.”

Still, Jane found he liked this one better than the ones back home. At least, better than all the ones he’d seen before he’d met Tavish.

The next day was spent in the village, and Jane couldn’t help but yearn for more of Tavish’s time, more of his attention. His friend. His friend who was still alive. Tavish had a kind word for every person they passed, all of whom didn’t seem to notice Jane at all, simply starting up a conversation with their fellow local and submitting to the rhythm of the morning. Breakfast was some sort of potato scone, but Jane wasn’t hungry, so he just walked beside Tavish as the other man ate. They found themselves at the same bench where they’d first run into each other.

“So,” Tavish asked. “Ullapool everything you thought it would be?”

“Hm. It’s…nice. It is obviously not perfect for geographical reasons entirely outside of its control, but. I understand how it made you the man you are.”

“Me? Nah.” Tavish wiped off his mouth with his sleeve. “I made myself like this.”

Again, he wouldn’t look at Jane, wouldn’t say what they were both thinking. That things had gone wrong, that they had both fucked up. One of them more than the other, but Jane had found him again, and maybe they could still figure something out, still have time to unearth all that they had deemed too dangerous and buried in the sand.

Jane reached forward, and put his hand over where Tavish’s was resting on the bench.

And watched it pass straight through.

Jane sprang away. “I knew it! I knew you were a ghost!”

Likewise, Tavish stood up sharply. “I am not. I bloody told you I was’t.”

“Liar! I will not be swayed by any more perjury from your ethereal mouth!”

“I’m not lying!” Tavish snarled at him, his eye dark and narrowed, burning hotter than the words would imply. “I never lied. I never wanted any of-”

“Blasphemy!”

“Would you just listen for-!”

“You cannot guilt me apparition! For I know that-”

“Shut up! Just fucking shut up!” Tavish’s fist closed around the neck of his scrumpy bottle, half drained before noon, and threw it full force at Jane’s head.

Jane raised an arm to block the incoming blow, but the impact never arrived. A second ticked by, then two, then three, and slowly he lowered his forearm to reveal the panting Demoman behind it, shoulders heaving and an inscrutable expression tearing across his features.

“How’s that for the truth you bleeding idiot,” he said.

Jane looked to Tavish, then rotated his neck slowly, staring at the bottle that had landed in the grass behind him. He blinked, willing what he was looking at to make sense, to suddenly disappear and go back to where things were a second ago. To believe he hadn’t seen that bottle connected with his own nose.

There was something he didn’t want to do, but he did it anyway, turning his gaze forward inch by agonizing inch, staring down at his own hands. Fully taking how translucent they were.

The moment shattered, Tavish tore his eye away. “Fuck. Fuck I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…”

Jane was still looking at his hands. There was panic, deep and overwhelming rising within him, but there was no raised pulse to accompany it, no sweat on the back of his neck.

He lifted his chin to Tavish. “What? I don’t…”

“I didn’t die,” Tavish said thickly. “You did. I killed you and I walked off and you just bled out for who knows how long and-”

-the pickaxe but also a sword, just as deadly buried two feet into his chest and the man above him trying to shove it in a few extra inches, strangled screaming as it pushed deeper-

Jane hadn’t been paying attention to the last half of Tavish’s muttered confession. The Demoman was crying now, pawing furiously at his one lone eye as stared out valley below them, looking anywhere but at Jane as his sclera turned red.

“I’m sorry,” he sputtered. “Christ Jane I’m so fucking sorry. If you came to haunt me or whatever I just- I just want you to know that you can’t hate me more than I hate myself. That it’s been killing me every day since.”

He collapsed on the bench, curling away from Jane as he buried his face in his hands.

It could have been some sort of trick. A ghost bottle or…no Jane wouldn’t even try. He attempted to remember what flight he had come in on but couldn’t. He grasped for how many years since the Gravel Wars had ended, and couldn’t find the answer.

Jane was a ghost, yet everything still hurt as much as it had when he had lived. Immaterial, and he still so badly wanted to touch Tavish’s hand.

He sat on the bench next to him. “I didn’t come to make you feel bad, Tavish.”

“Then why did you come?” It sounded like it was meant to be venomous, but instead it only sounded empty—empty and wet with tears, like a plastic bag trampled into a puddle.

Jane looked down at his hands. His useless, ghost hands that he could still knit together. “I…I wanted to see you,” he said truthfully. “I missed you.”

Tavish looked at him, bleary-eyed. He whispered, “I missed you too. So damn much.”

“Whatever I was doing before, I missed you enough to come here. To someplace I thought you would be.”

A panicked jolt crossed Tavish’s face. “You’re not leaving, are you?” The same man who a moment ago thought Jane had come to smother him with guilt was despondent at the idea that Jane might go after all, that he wouldn’t get a chance to hurt himself with his own regret anymore.

“No, no not yet,” Jane said. He tried his best to wrap and arm around Tavish’s shoulder. The mortal shivered where their skin met.

“Okay,” Tavish said quietly. “Okay. Good. Thank you. I don’t think I can…When I saw you sitting up here I couldn’t believe it could be fore something good. That the only reason you’d want to haunt me would be because you hated me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

It was true. Even though he remembered now, remember lying there, thinking how they’d killed each other, Jane had only ever hated the man who’d believed the TV’s lies.

“I really did come because I was thinking of you. Missing you.” Jane paused. “Today was fun. I’m sure you have a lot of other places to show me, right private?”

“…Sure. Sure whatever you want.” Tavish wiped at his nose. “I’m sorry Jane.”

“It’s alright Tavish.” He held his head in the crook of Tavish’s neck. “I’m sorry too.”

[honeypiehotchner]

i knew you (Bucky Barnes soulmate AU) -- part four

This one is a little shorter than usual, so I wanted to go ahead and post it. It’s mostly a set-up for what’s about to happen (eek). We’re officially in the Civil War timeline now!

two years later

You meet Steve and Sam at Heathrow airport. The first thing you do is wrap your arms around Steve’s neck. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. You have no idea how badly he must be hurting. To be taken away from his soulmate, thrust 70 years into the future to find her still alive, only to have her taken away from him again all too soon. You don’t know how he hasn’t collapsed from the pain. 

Steve hugs you back tightly, sighing into your shoulder. “Thanks.”

The funeral is quiet, not like you were expecting it to be anything but. 

The biggest shock of all comes when Sharon Carter reveals her relation to Peggy. Steve had mentioned Sharon in passing to you, something about her being a cute nurse that lived across the hall from him. You later found out that she was an SHIELD agent, but now she works for the CIA. 

Afterwards, when you’re standing with Steve, keeping him company in the church now that everyone has gone, he starts talking about Peggy. 

Anything and everything he can think of. Some of it inaudible from his tears, but he gets it all out and off of his chest, which is what he needed. He’s a mess, holding onto the church pews for stability that he knows he’ll never feel again, not with Peggy gone. 

You gather him in your arms again, fingers splayed at the back of his head, holding him close. Moments like this make you miss Bucky even more. Not only is he your soulmate, but he’s Steve’s best friend. The person who, alongside Peggy, is who Steve needs most right now. 

The good news is that Bucky’s feelings have been relatively normal lately. He hasn’t been the Soldier since he left D.C. that day. You would’ve felt it, and what you’re feeling, is nothing like before. 

Exiting the church, you see Sam standing under a tree, his phone pressed to his ear. You know he’s talking to your best friend, that’s for sure. She wasn’t able to come because of work. You also see Sharon glancing over at Steve, so you quietly slip away to join Sam, giving Steve the chance to talk to Sharon like you know he’s been dying to do. 

Sam continues talking to your best friend and you try not to eavesdrop, but mostly, you’re just feeling.

You think it’s because Bucky hasn’t been himself — without the Soldier’s mindset — in a very long time, but for the past year or so, you’ve had moments like these where all you can do is feel. Take it all in. 

You haven’t felt any overwhelmingly happy emotions from him by any means, but you’ve felt...peace. He’s anxious almost constantly, which you understand, and you desperately wish he was here for you to help him. Right now, he seems to be at peace. You’re not sure what caused it or how, but you hope, if anything, that he’s sleeping. 

In your most recent dream of him, that’s exactly what he was doing. Sleeping peacefully next to you. And when you shifted, he woke, only for a moment, to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you closer. Nuzzling your neck with his nose, he fell back asleep, but not before placing a kiss there. 

You woke that morning with sweaty palms and a stupid smile on your lips. 

“Are you signing it?” You vaguely hear your best friend ask through Sam’s phone.

You blink, tuning back into their conversation. 

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t like it. Steve doesn’t like it either.”

“What? What’s going on?” You ask, patting his arm to get his attention.

“The Sokovia Accords,” Sam explains lowly. “We wrecked shit—”

“I heard,” you grimace. “Not a good look for you guys.”

“Yeah, the Secretary of State didn’t think so either,” Sam scoffs, arms crossed over his chest. “Anyway, they slammed us with the Accords and it’s— They want us to sign our rights away, basically.”

“What?” You nearly yell. “You’re serious?”

“Deathly,” he nods. “Rhodes thinks we’re being dramatic, Tony too.”

“Great,” you groan. “Who else is signing?” 

“Natasha. Vision. I think that’s it.” Sam shakes his head. “Steve and I seem to be the only bastards with our heads on straight, but obviously they don’t see it that way.”

“That’s...I’m sorry,” you groan. “What’s this about, anyway? You took the bad guys down in Sokovia, wasn’t that the point? I know there was a lot of collateral damage, but...that happens no matter what. Avengers being there or not.”

“It’s not just Sokovia,” Sam sighs. “New York, too. And others. The guy had a whole damn presentation.” He shakes his head again, clearly torn up about it all. “They want to oversee us. Control us, basically. Tell us where we can and can’t go. And I just— I can’t do that. If I feel like someplace needs our help, we have to go. But if we sign that, then the government can tell us not to — or arrest us if we do. It’s not right.”

“I hear you,” you assure him. “I wish there was a way to amend it. They didn’t let you talk about it?”

“Nope,” he says. “Just slapped the book down on the table and said we had until today to figure out what we’re going to do. But basically said if we don’t sign, we’d be going to prison.”

Your eyes widen. “Prison?”

“If we go somewhere, which is inevitable. They’d be able to get us with anything. Probably bring up old charges just to get a headstart.”

“Fuck, Sam,” you say. “This is shit.”

“You’re telling me,” he mutters. He says goodbye to your best friend, her break from work ending way too soon for his liking -- you can tell by the frown he wears after he hangs up. “Anyway. Want a drink?”

You shake your head at his sudden subject change, and the fact that it’s still the early afternoon, but you agree nonetheless.

+++

The drink doesn’t happen. Well, you make it to the bar, but when you do, you’re met with the onslaught of news stations reporting a freak bombing in Vienna.

“Shit,” Sam cusses. “Where’s Steve?”

“He was with Sharon,” you explain, trailing behind him.

You share a worried look before starting to jog, back to the hotel they’re all staying at. He finds Steve by the elevator with Sharon -- interrupting a moment, by the looks of it, which you feel bad about, but you shove it away, reminding yourself of what’s just happened.

Sharon paces in her hotel room, on the phone, trying to get some answers. The TV screen shows a scene fit for nightmares. The UN Complex was bombed. The same complex that the signing of the Sokovia Accords was supposed to occur in today.

“Officials have released a video of a suspect, who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, The Winter Soldier.”

Your heart stops. 

You stumble backwards, nearly falling on your ass if it weren’t for Sam reaching out to steady you. 

“That’s impossible-- It-- I would’ve felt him turn,” you swallow around the lump in your throat, the bile threatening to rise. “I-- That’s not him. I don’t know who that is, but it’s not him.”

“It’s his face,” Sharon says quietly, not intending to be rude at all, you hope, but that’s how you take it.

“I know my soulmate,” you argue, shaking your head. “That’s not him.”

The room is quiet. Steve glances your way, but you don’t meet his eyes. He doesn’t believe you. You know he doesn’t. Why would he? The proof is clear as day, right there on the TV screen. It’s obviously Bucky’s face.

But it’s not him. You don’t know how, but it isn’t. You’re sure of it.

You knew it was him two years ago in D.C. You have to trust yourself again.

“I have to go to work,” Sharon breaks the silence, looking at Steve. “I imagine you’re coming too?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, then looks at you.

You glare right back at him. “I’m coming. Don’t argue with me.”

He doesn’t.

+++

An hour passes and lands the four of you in Austria. Sharon takes off to work while Steve, Sam, and you figure out your plan.

Steve talked with Sharon and made a deal. She’s going to give you the best head start she can, but she said she can’t promise anything. 

You and Sam find a random cafe to fall into, ordering something to eat to blend in while Steve talks to Natasha.

He comes back ten minutes later, looking less than pleased.

“She tell you to stay out of it?” Sam asks.

Steve is quiet. That’s a yes.

“Might have a point,” Sam shrugs. You almost hit him.

“He’d do it for me,” Steve replies firmly.

“1945, maybe.”

“Sam,” you warn, giving him a fierce look.

“I just wanna make sure we consider all our options,” Sam defends. “The people that shoot at you, usually wind up shooting at me. And since we’ve got a tagalong--”

“Shut it, Wingman,” you do hit him this time on the back of the head. “I’m coming. You act like I don’t have any gear on me right now.”

Both men turn to look at you.

You give them an incredulous look back. “Come on. After what happened in D.C. you really expect me not to walk around with a bullet proof vest on?”

“You got a gun?” Sam asks, taunting.

“Snuck right past airport security,” you mutter, tapping your hip with his leg so he’ll feel it. “Shut up about it.”

“You’re the one who brought it up.”

“Because I’m tired of you acting like I’m some fourteen year old. I’ve been taking daily self-defense and combat courses for the past two years. I had to take care of myself somehow. I’ll be fine. And I’m coming with you. End of story.”

Both men share a look before shrugging, admitting defeat. Finally.

Out of the corner of your eyes, you see Sharon walking into the café. 

She steps in next to Steve at the bar, talking straight ahead to not draw any attention. “Tips have been pouring in since that footage went public. Everyone thinks The Winter Soldier goes to their gym. Most of it’s noise. Except for this.” She gently slides him a pack of papers. “My boss expects a briefing, pretty much now, so that’s all the headstart you’re gonna get.”

“Thank you,” Steve says quietly.

“You’re gonna have to hurry,” she whispers, avoiding your eyes. “We have orders to shoot on sight.”

Chills run down your spine and spread out through your hands and toes. Fuck.

“We have to go,” you say evenly, not looking at Steve or Sam.

We have orders to shoot on sight.

Not if you can help it.

[anthropologicalhands]

Sasuke never intentionally sought out worlds where his family was still alive and well.

But traveling time and space was complicated, and he had misjudged, and now sat side by side with his father, looking out to the garden of his childhood home. This Fugaku Uchiha, now silvering, who was wary of him, but immediately recognized Sasuke as his son, in some form.

In this world, his other self and his brother were attending a Kage Summit in some undisclosed role, while this world’s Mikoto Uchiha was visiting her parents and wouldn’t be due back until late.

The only other main branch member of the family, in fact, was the child sleeping in Fugaku’s arms. Sarada had been active earlier, fascinated by the stranger who felt like her father but didn’t look anything like him, tugging at his sleeve and staring intently into his Rinnegan before growing bored and toddling back to her grandfather to sleep. From the casual way Fugaku held her, this was a common occurrence; Sasuke wondered if his father could sense the novelty for him, to see two generations so irretrievably separated in his own world coexisting so beautifully here.

He had given as few details as possible to Fugaku’s piercing questions, not wishing to lie, but having no wish to dwell on the horrors of events that never were even considered here, where the Uchiha were renowned but not sequestered.

“How long have you been travelling? You’re thin for a man of your size.”

“Have you been speaking to my wife?” asked Sasuke, aiming for levity, but not quite reaching it. His father did not reply, but his frown lines deepened. Sasuke sighed and elaborated, “I travel light. It’s hard to plan for meals traveling through dimensions. But I maintain myself.”

Fugaku hummed an acknowledgment. "How did you lose your arm?"

The part of Sasuke that was still eight years old and terrified of his father’s disappointment shrunk away at the question. But rest of him, tempered by age and his own paternal experience, recognized the real question shifting underneath.

“A battle from when I was young and foolish,” replied Sasuke.

"My son is young now," said Fugaku, meeting Sasuke’s eyes, this time not flinching from the purple stare of the Rinnegan.

"As I said, I’m not from his future," said Sasuke quietly. He nodded to Sarada. "It was during a war that ended years before my child was born."

"War?" His father's voice was sharp. "In Konoha?"

"It’s a different world," said Sasuke, and nothing more. He’d seen how his father studied him, his gaze lingering on the Rinnegan and Sasuke’s empty sleeve.

Fugaku shook his head, jaw tightening. "No. There has not. And there won't be another, if we can help it. My sons are both determined to see it through."

He brought one square palm to Sarada's head, gently cupping the back of her head—she didn’t wake but shifted, rubbing her face again Fugaku’s shirt. Sasuke watched without trying to watch too closely—the sharp tug of nostalgia at the bottom of his stomach alarmingly strong.

His father looks to Sasuke again. "Your child is also named Sarada?”

“Aa.” Sasuke nodded; no point trying to hide it.

“Then I would assume that, even with everything else different, your wife is still Sakura Haruno?”

“Sakura Uchiha,” said Sasuke automatically, though there was no reason to do so.

Fugaku laughed softly. “Of course. It’s good to know that, at least, hadn’t changed. I couldn’t imagine any other woman as your wife.”

He spoke of Sakura with a warmth that Sasuke would not have dared to dream of. He hadn’t lingered long in the house when they passed through, but the glimpse he had also taken in the family photographs, the shock of pink against shades of black. Had seen that this Sakura’s smile was as easy among his clan as it was among their friends.

“Neither can I. My Sarada’s bigger now. Almost fourteen and she’s already a chuunin."

“Really? That’s hard to imagine.” His father smiled down at his granddaughter, the tenderness in his face more than anything Sasuke had seen before, and again, he felt that sharp longing. Not for himself, but for Sarada to have had that, too. He wanted so many impossible things for her. “But I’m not surprised.”

“We have high hopes,” Sasuke admitted. “I travel through other worlds so that her future in ours is secured."

Sasuke jerked in surprise at the feel of his father's hand on his shoulder, and how his father's habitually stern expression softened to sadness.

"It's good that you’re creating a better world for her. It’s right that you succeed where my other self failed."

You didn’t fail, was the automatic reply that Sasuke would have given, had he been able.

“You did what you thought was best,” he said instead. “And that’s what I’m doing, too.”

A smile curled up Fugaku’s mouth, gently rueful.

“Of course. As expected of my son.”

[bondsmagii]

This is definitely one of the… wilder stories here, but as always, I suppose people will believe what they will. 

This will unfortunately require some backstory, but I guess you could say the long and the short of it is that I played at being God, and it. Well. Kind of sucked, actually.

So, the backstory. I’ll try to keep it brief. I grew up in a small country village about forty-five minutes away from Belfast, Ireland. There wasn’t much going on there, as you could imagine – just a standard rural Irish town, where the most exciting thing that might happen in a week was old Farmer Joe getting a new tractor or something. Anyway, I’m not sure how many of you know about Ireland’s rather troubled past, but for the most part I missed all that. I was born around the time things were finally settling down, and while my earlier memories are filled with bomb scares and low-flying helicopters and gunshots in the night, the distant sound of shouting and the acrid smell of smoke burning a little too close for comfort, by the time I hit my teenage years most of it had wrapped up. Of course, there was the occasional scare here and there, and I’m not saying my friends and I didn’t go out looking for trouble once we were old enough, but it wasn’t the same. I’m not saying that out of a sense of, I don’t know, regret or annoyance or anything. Now I’m older, I’m not so enamoured by the idea of that much violence. I’m just saying it wasn’t really a patch on the kind of violence that used to happened there – the kind of violence that fascinated my friends and I so much. It sounds bad, but really we were just kids being kids. Little boys everywhere play at war games. It just so happened that the war we were playing had happened in our own country. It’s difficult not to be obsessed, when you see the reflection of history on the faces of every generation around you. Even slightly older siblings would know all about it – it wasn’t something you asked your grandfather, distant war stories over some vague European country that you’ve only seen on a map in your Geography classroom. This was our street corners, our high streets, the road outside the house. Here the grass verge at the side of the road where the bodies were dumped; there the lay-by where over a dozen people were blown to pieces. It was awful, but we were children. We were enamoured.

Anyway. The only violence we got really involved in was the summer rioting that happened yearly, like clockwork. It sounds like a joke, but that’s how it goes. You don’t need to know the details, but suffice to say in mid-July every year, the city would light up like we were back in the 1970s. Localised, of course, and still nowhere near as drastic as it used to be, but enough to get a taste. Petrol bombs. Police lines. Armoured cars. Water cannons. Unrestrained summer fun, you could say. But that’s for a bit later.

I’m a writer. I have been since I was four years old. Generally speaking I’m a horror writer, but I’ve branched into historical fiction a fair bit over the years. Living in Ireland, growing up how I did, it was inevitable that I would develop a fascination for Irish history. I was always a very curious child, my head in books, chasing up stories that would keep me awake at night. I never knew any boundaries. I would go after answers with military precision, asking questions, going places I shouldn’t. Dangerous for anyone, of course, but in a country like mine, where crossing the road could quite literally lead to your murder? It was reckless. I was reckless. But that’s the thing about being that age. You think you’re invincible. You think you can do anything.

I was about fourteen or fifteen, at the height of this obsession. I believe I was fifteen when I wrote this particular story, but it’s difficult to say. It was part of a series, and I was going back and forth on it and other projects for many years. Here we finally get to the point of the whole story: I had developed an obsession with Irish history, as I said, and specifically the more “modern” history – from 1916 onwards, the Easter Rising, the War of Independence, all that. I was fascinated by the Irish struggle for freedom, and while age and hindsight has lessened my… enthusiasm for the violence, I do maintain a strong opinion towards the whole thing, which is not the point here so I won’t get into it. What I’m trying to say is that my stories reflected this enthusiasm, and were undoubtedly glorifying in nature, and also at that age I was more concerned with living the fantasy than doing the research, so it was all very self-indulgent. I’m sure anyone who wrote at that age knows what I mean.

My main character… well. I’m sure you know what to expect. He was—well. Me, really. In the way of all main characters at that age, and perhaps a little even as we get older, there’s a piece of us inside all our main characters. Sometimes a little piece, other times just a cooler and more badass version of yourself. Michael was that for me. I suppose that must is obvious; I wasn’t even trying to be subtle. My name is of course Miceál, which for those of you keeping track is the Irish form of Michael. I’m just grateful that I didn’t go as far as to give him my last name, too, but everything else was there. He looked like me, he held the same views and beliefs as me, he acted like me – or at least, he acted in the ways I liked to think I’d act, or how I imagined acting later that night in the shower, reliving the scenario again. He was the best kind of self-insert character, indulgent and fun and a good friend to me. I poured a lot of myself into him. I poured everything into him. He was a constant companion, something that became ever more important to me as my real life—well, went to shit. To put it mildly. I would sit in my room writing my stories, and Michael would go out there and fight the good fight, killing and bombing for good old Ireland, and then I’d shut my computer down and go to sleep feeling just a little better than otherwise.

I’m not afraid to say that I can be obsessive. I like to get into the heads of my characters; I like to know them as well as I know everything. Yes, Michael was me, but he was also a version of me who had done things I have never done. Sometimes I would try to imagine myself as him; wonder what it was like to see through his eyes. Wonder what a me who had done that would look like. Wonder what he would do in a situation. I asked myself that a few times; a lot of times. What would Michael do? I could have put that shit on a wristband. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I’ve always been a bit of a method writer like that. It was normal, until it wasn’t.

I first saw Michael on a hot July day, in Belfast. What we call the rioting season had come around; my friends and I were there to take advantage. Just at the sidelines, mind you – nobody wants to get a face full of water cannon, even on the hottest of days. Michael was in the thick of it though. Of course he was. I’d written him to be that way.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. At first I thought I must be seeing things, but the more I looked the more I realised he looked exactly like me. Only he was a little taller, a little fitter, and his hair looked different. His clothing was different, too; perhaps a couple of decades out of date, but looking at him I saw his clothing didn’t remain consistent. The changes were subtle – material, tone – but I noticed. Looking back, I assume it’s because I never did give a specific date for his story to occur in. Well, wherever he was from he was there now, throwing rocks with the best of them, skipping from stone to stone and hurling them at police lines with an easy swing that could only come from years of practise. When we had all finally cleaned out the area – soldiers coming, a helicopter, the kind of trouble you don’t want to toy with – I managed to catch up with him. He was talking to my friends. They noticed we were both there, but didn’t seem to realise we were two different people. The whole time we were all talking, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Michael. I tried, because I knew how obvious I was being, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t work him out. I couldn’t even trust that’s what I was seeing. And the whole time, Michael watched me back. I knew the look in his eyes. It was his smug little, I know something you don’t know look. Of course I knew it. I had made him like that. I had given him that look.

I didn’t see him for some time after that. Believe it or not, I put it out of my head. I mean, come on. It was probably some other guy that my friends knew. We were in Belfast enough, and Michael isn’t exactly an uncommon name. I put it out of my mind, but I was sure that sometimes, I saw him. I was sure I’d see him in Belfast, ducking down side streets or leaning in close conversation with someone I couldn’t make out. He was always watching me. Sometimes I’d feel eyes on me and know it was him, but when I looked around I wouldn’t spot him. On some occasions – and these were always the worst – I would feel his eyes behind my own. Like he was on the inside looking out, moving independently in there, a set of eyes swivelling around over my own. It happened most often when I was trying to write his story. As you can imagine, I was nervous to do so. The more I thought I saw him, the less I wanted to write, but I didn’t think that was a good idea either. I didn’t know what to do.

It was a sunny weekend just before school started back after summer that I finally resolved to do something about it. I didn’t even feel stupid as I booted up my old Windows 95 desktop and opened Word. Michael’s story was there, in 12-point font as I always wrote then, plenty of enthusiasm but a lot less technical skill. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, and then I typed.

Hello?

Nothing, of course. I deleted the word, wondering what I had expected. Feeling a little stupid now, I tried to think about where to go with the story. It was difficult to write now I had some kind of real person to assign to it all – what were the ethics here? How could I—

I won’t get into that. It would be a philosophical essay all of its own. I sat for a while wondering what to write, and then it hit me that the story had changed. The words Michael had spoken, in the paragraph that I had left off – they were no longer the words I had written. I forget what the original words were now, but they were something relatively simple; some response to another character, and I remember that another name was mentioned in it – the name of Michael’s in-universe best friend, Eamon. Now that name was gone, and the rest of the text had changed, too. Now the writing read something different entirely.

I thought you wanted to know?

I lied earlier. I said that age and experience and perhaps some more emotional maturity had led me to turn away from the kind of violence that fascinated me so much then, and I have no doubt that under normal circumstances it would have done. I had somewhat of a speed run, however; I turned my back on it because

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had often wondered what it would be like to do what Michael did, of course. To kill and risk death for a cause, to face down prison, torture, exile. I had wondered what it would be like to commit those acts; how easy or difficult it would be to pull a trigger or push a detonator. I liked to think, in my foolish, idealistic teenage mind, that if it came down to it I could. Of course, I was in the very privileged position to not have to actually answer that question.

Michael, on the other hand, knew. And Michael was, if not me, than a product of me. Could it be possible that he could show me?

I ignored the message for several days. I didn’t know what to think. Truth be told I thought I was going mad. School started again and I got so busy that I almost, almost forgot about it – and then I opened the document by mistake one day, got into reading it over, laughing at my brilliant comebacks, you know how it is. And there it was again.

I thought you wanted to know?

Yes, I remember thinking. It stunned me – I remember that. I didn’t want to mess with this kind of stuff – I’ve always been a huge believer in the paranormal, always been cautious when it comes to fucking with that kind of stuff. I believe that magic like this, it requires intent. It needs you to be sure. It knows how you feel, true in your heart. So even when I ignored it again, even when I deleted the words and re-wrote whatever the original had been, even as I didn’t reply… I knew in my heart that my question had been heard by something. I could feel Michael’s eyes on me again, though now I wondered if it was Michael’s eyes, or something else entirely. It felt like a weight. Have you ever been in an old, old place, where you can practically feel the people who lived and died there; reach out and touch them? It felt like that. Like the weight of history was pressing down on me. I didn’t fall asleep easily that night, but when I did sleep was dark and endless.

I don’t know how long I spent in that state. In reality it was only seven hours; I woke up with my alarm. In that time period, wherever I was – because I was not living – I seemed to witness a hundred different lives. Over the course of Michael’s story I had him do all kinds of things; live all kinds of situations. I deleted things, changed others, added things in. I wrote what would now be called alternate universes. In that night I experienced them all. I know how it feels now. I know how it feels to pull a trigger; to watch the spray of someone’s life splatter a wall or a windscreen or the screaming backseat passengers of a car. I know how it feels to push the button, the one that sends a charge surging down a wire or flickering out over my head in an invisible wave of death, notifying the bomb, detonating the explosives. I know how it feels to sit in a hotel bar across a border, listening to the news, sipping a drink and feeling my heart beat in my chest as I add more numbers to the tally, more blood to my hands. I know how it feels to be shot, to be beaten, to watch a friend die, to kill someone who used to be – who still is, despite everything – a friend. I know how it feels to cough blood into my hands, onto the ground; to grip a wound that won’t stop bleeding; the blinding flash of an explosive detonating too soon and how the whole world seems to roar and how there’s a difference between the thud and slap of wet mud hitting the ground and the warmer, denser rain of something that used to be human. For days, weeks, years – I walked in Michael’s shoes, I lived his life, I committed every act.

I felt his pain. His fear. This hellish world that he lived in, created to kill and die and lose and fear, over and over. To meet his God and to finally, finally ask – why?

And what could I say? Because I wanted to know?

Well. Now I do.

[lilnugget-is-here]

Moving to Forks

January 17, 2005

My mum drove me to the airport with the windows rolled down. Though it was January everywhere else, it was seventy-five degrees in Phoenix, and the sky was bright blue. I had on my favourite t-shirt—the Monty Python one with the swallows and the coconut that Mum got me two christmases ago. It didn't quite fit anymore, but that didn't matter. I wouldn't be needing t-shirts again soon.

In the Olympic Peninsula of northwest Washington Stat, a small town named Forks exists under a near-constant cover of clouds. It rains on this insignificant town more than any other place in the United States of America. It was from this town and its depressing gloom that my mom escaped with me when I was only a few months old. It was in this town that I'd been forced to spend a month every summer until I was fourteen. That was the year I finally started making ultimatums; these past three summers, my dad, Nick, vacationed with me in California for two weeks instead.

Yet somehow, I now found myself exiled to Forks for the rest of my high school education. A year and a half. Eighteen months. It felt like a prison sentence. Eighteen months, hard time. When I slammed the car door behind me, it made a sound like the clang of iron bars locking into place.

Okay, just a tad melodramatic there. I have an overactive imagination, as my mom was fond of telling me. And, of course, this was my choice. Self-imposed exile.

Didn't make it any easier.

I loved Phoenix. I loved the sun and the dry heat and the big, sprawling city. And I loved living with my mum, where I was needed.

"You don't have to do this," my mum said to me—the last of a hundred times—just before I got to the TSA post.

People think we look so much alike that we're mistaken as twins. It's not entirely true, though I don't look much like my dad at all. Her chin is pointy and her lips full, which is not like me, but we do have exactly the same eyes. On her they're childlike which makes her look like my sister rather than my mum, and although she pretends not to she loves it.

Staring at those wide, worried eyes so much like my own, I felt panicked. I'd been taking care of my mum for my whole life. I mean, I'm sure there must have been a time, probably when I was still in in diapers, that I wasn't in charge of the bills and paperwork and cooking and general live-headedness, but I couldn't remember it.

Was leaving my mum to fend for herself really the right to do? It had seemed like it was, during the months I'd struggled toward this decision. But it felt all kinds of wrong now. Of course she had Bruce these days, so the bills would probably get paid on time, there would be food in the fridge, gas in the car, and someone to call when she got lost........She didn't need me as much anymore.

"I want to go," I lied. I'd never been a good liar, but I'd been saying this lie so much lately that it almost sounded convincing now.

"Tell Nick I said hi."

"I will."

"I'll see you soon," she promised. "You can come home whenever you want—I'll come right back as soon as you need me."

But I knew what it would cost her to do that.

"Dont worry about me," I insisted. "it'll be great. I love you, Mum."

She hugged me tightly for a minute, and then I walked through the metal detectors, and she was gone.

It's a three hour flight from Phoenix to Seattle, another hour in a small plane up to Port Angeles, and the an hour drive back down to Forks. Flying's never bothered me; the hour in the car with Nick, though, I was a little worried about.

Nick had really been pretty decent about the whole thing. He seemed genuinely pleased that I was coming to live with him sort of permanently for the first time. He'd already gotten me registered for high school, and was going to help me get a car.

But it would be awkward. Neither of us was what you'd call extroverted—probably a necessary thing for living with my mother. But aside from that, what was there to say? It wasn't like I'd kept the way I felt about Forks a secret.

When I landed in Port Angeles, it was raining. It wasn't an omen, just inevitable. I'd said my goodbyes to the sun.

Nick was waiting for me with the cruiser. This I was expecting, too. Nick is Police Chief Fury to the good people of Forks. My primary motivation behind buying a car, despite my serious lack of funds, was that I hated driving around town in a car with red and blue lights on top. Nothing slows down traffic like a cop.

I stumbled off the plane in Nick's awkward, one-armed hug.

"It's good to see you, Y/n," he said, smiling as he automatically steadied me. We patted each other's shoulders, embarrassed, and then stepped back. "You haven't changed much. How's Y/M/N?"

"Mum's great. It's good to see you, too, Dad." I wasn't supposed to call him Nick to his face.

"You really feel okay about leaving her?"

We both understood that this question wasn't about my own personal happiness. It was whether I was shirking my responsibility to look after her. This was the reason Nick'd never fought Mum about custody; he knew she needed me.

"Yeah. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't sure."

"Fair enough."

I only had two big duffel bags. Most of my Arizona clothes were too permeable for the Washington climate. My Mum and I had pooled our resources to supplement my winter wardrobe, but it still wasn't much . I couldn't handle both of them, but Nick insisted on taking one.

It threw my balance off a little—not that was ever really balanced, especially since the growth spurt. My foot caught on the lip of the exit door and the bag swung out and hit the guy trying to get in.

"Oh, sorry."

The guy wasn't much older than me, and he was a little bit shorter than me, he stepped up to my chest with his chin raised high. I could see tattoos on both sides of his neck. A small woman with hair dyed solid black stared menacingly at me from his other side.

"Sorry?" she repeated, like my apology had been offensive somehow.

"Er, yeah?"

And then the woman noticed Nick, who was in uniform. Nick didn't even have to say anything. He just looked at the guy, who backed up a half-step and suddenly seemed a lot younger, and then the girl, whose sticky red lips settled into a pout. Without another word, they ducked around me and headed into the tiny terminal.

Nick and I both shrugged at the same time. It was funny how we had some of the same mannerisms when we didn't spend much time together. Maybe it was genetic.

"I found a good car for you, really cheap," Nick announced when we were strapped into the cruiser and on our way.

"What kind of car?" I asked, suspicious of the way he said "good car for you" as opposed to just "good car."

"Well, it's a truck actually, a Chevy."

"Where did you find it?"

"Do you remember Odin Odinson down at La Push?" La Push is the small Indian reservation on the nearby coastline.

"No."

"Him and his wife used go fishing with us during the summer," Nick prompted.

That would explain why I didn't remember him. I do a good job of blocking painful things from my memory.

"He's in a wheelchair now," Nick continued when I didn't respond, "so he can't drive anymore, and she offered to sell me his truck cheap."

"What year is it?" I could see from the change in his expression that this was the question he was hoping I wouldn't ask.

"Well, Odin's had a lot of work done on the engine—it's only a few years old, really."

Did he think I would give up that easily?

"When did he buy it?"

"He bought it in 1984, I think."

"Did he buy it new?"

"Well, no. I think it was new I the early sixties—or late fifties at the earliest," he admitted sheepishly.

"Ni—Dad, I dont really know anything about cars. I wouldn't be able to fix anything that broke, and I couldn't afford a mechanic..."

"Really, Y/n, the things runs great. They don't build them like that anymore."

The thing, I though to myself ... it had possibilities—as a nickname, at the very least.

"How cheap is cheap?" After all, that part was the deal killer.

"Well, kid, I kind of already bought it for you. As a home coming gift." Nick glanced sideways at me with a hopeful expression.

Wow. Free.

"You didn't need to do that, Dad. I was going to buy myself a car."

"I don't mind. I want you to be happy here." He was looking ahead at the road when he said this. Nick had never been comfortable with expressing his emotions out loud. Another thing we had in common. So I was looking straight ahead as I responded.

"That's amazing, Dad. Thanks. I really appreciate it." No need to add that he was talking about impossibilities. Wouldn't help anything for him to suffer along with me. And I never looked a free truck in the mouth—or rather engine.

"Well, now, you're welcome." he mumbled, embarrassed by my thanks.

We changed a few more comments on the weather, which was wet, and that was pretty much it for conversation. We stared out the windows.

It was probably beautiful or something. Everything was green: the trees were covered in moss, both the trunks and the branches, the ground blanketed with ferns. Even the air had turned green by the time it filtered down through the leaves.

It was too green—an alien planet.

Eventually we made it to Nick's. He still lived in the small, two-bedroom house that he'd bought with my mother in the early days of their marriage. Those were the only kind of days their marriage had—the early ones. There, parked on the street in front of the house that never changed, was my new—well, new to me—truck. It was faded red colour, with big, curvy fenders and a rounded cab.

And I loved it. I wasn't really a car type of girl, so I was kind of surprised by my own reaction. I mean, I didn't even know If it would run, but I could see myself in it. Plus, it was one of those solid iron monsters that never gets damaged—the kind you see at the scene of an accident, paint unscratched, surrounded by the pieces of the foreign car it had just destroyed.

"Wow, Dad, it's awesome! Thanks!" Serious enthusiasm this time. Not only was the truck strangely cool, but I now I wouldn't have to walk two miles in the rain to school in the morning. Or accept a ride in the cruiser, which was obviously worst-case scenario.

"I'm glad you like it," Nick said gruffly, embarrassed again. It took only one trip to get all my stuff upstairs. I got the west bedroom that faced out over the front yard. The room was familiar; it had belonged to me since I was born. The wooden floor, the light blue walls, the peaked ceiling, the faded blue-and-white checked curtains around the window—these were all a part of my childhood. The only changes Nick had ever made were switching the crib for a bed and adding a desk as I grew. The desk now held a second-hand computer, with the phone line for the modem stapled along the floor to the nearest phone jack. This was one of my mother's requirements, so that we could stay in touch. The rocking chair from my baby days was still in the corner.

There was only one small bathroom at the top of the stairs, which I would have to share with Nick, but I'd had to share with my mum before, and that was definitely worse. She had a lot more stuff, and she doggedly resisted all my attempts to organise any of it.

One of the best things about Nick is he doesn't hover. He left me alone to unpack and get settled, which would have been totally impossible for my mum. It was nice to be alone, not to have to smile and look comfortable; a relief to stare out the window at the sheeting rain and let my thoughts get dark.

Forks High School had just three hundred and fifty-seven—now fifty-eight—students; there were more than seven hundred people in my junior class alone back home. All of the kids here had grown up together—their grandparents had been toddlers together. I would be the new kid from the big city, something to stare at and whisper about.

Maybe if I had been one of the cool kids, I could make this work for me. Come in all popular, homecoming queen, volleyball player or a cheerleader. But there was no hiding the fact that I was not that girl. Not the class president, not the bad girl on the motorcycle. I was the kid who looked like she should be good at basketball, until I started walking. The girl who got shoved into lockers until I'd suddenly shot up eight inches sophomore year. The girl who was too quiet and too pale, who didn't know anything about fashion or new makeup products or anything else I was supposed to be into as a seventeen year old girl.

Unlike other girls, I didn't have a ton of free time for hobbies. I had a check book to balance, a clogged drain to snake, and a week's groceries to shop for.

Or I used to.

So I didn't relate well to people my age. Maybe the truth was that I didn't relate well to people, period. Even my mother, who I was closest to of anyone on the planet, never understood me. Sometimes I wondered if I was seeing the same things through my eyes that the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. :ole ,aunt what o saw as green was what everyone else saw as red. Maybe I smelled vinegar when they smelled coconut. Maybe there was a glitch in my brain.

But the cause didn't matter. All that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the beginning.

[boxoftheskyking]

Pick Up Every Piece, Part Four

Ugh this took forevvvvver

I know that the MDZS map is like based on actual China, so my apologies to whatever Yiling is based on. I need a shithole for this story, and Yiling’s it.

In which Lan Zhan follows A Story

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

----

Early November 2000

Lan Zhan is headed back to Moling. It’s not a trip that he particularly enjoys, anymore. He takes the train these days, since he got rid of his car.

He used to drive the 45 minutes there twice a week when he and Liu Shirong were first dating, before they moved in together in Caiyi. There used to be a sense of anticipation, enjoyment, each landmark and familiar turning a step closer to someone he wanted to see. An arm across his back, a kiss to his jaw, Shirong reaching up on tiptoe to greet him. He’d pick up Shirong at school and they’d wave out the window at the little kids in the schoolyard. Bye, Teacher Liu! Moling was an escape, an innocent place, somewhere far away from the darkness and dirt he spent his days sifting through.

Dear Shirong. He’s a good man. Short, kind, a silly gasping laugh. Desperate for children. He has two now, and a husband. Lan Zhan has lunch with him occasionally.

Now that he thinks about it, their last lunch was over a year ago. He supposes that doesn’t count as “occasionally” anymore. He could reach out first, if he wanted to. But he’s never been the type to reach out. Shirong has a life, a family, all the things he always wanted. All the things Lan Zhan couldn’t give him.

“I cannot imagine myself with a child,” he’d said when they broke up. He hadn’t intended for it to actually be a breakup—he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But Shirong had visited an actual agency the day before and handed him a brochure, and Lan Zhan had left the apartment and driven into the mountains in a blind panic. He’d ended up stopped outside someone’s cabin, all the way up their driveway, and parked outside this stranger’s house until he’d gotten his breathing under control. That’s one of the reasons he’d sold the car. He’d never done that before, taken off like that, trespassed on private property, so getting rid of the car was the safest option. 

Precept 45 of the Lan Clan: Do not act impulsively.

Precept 213: Be strict with yourself.

Precept 341: When faced with temptation away from the righteous path, remove the source of temptation.

His brother finds his interest in the old clan rules an amusing idiosyncrasy. Even his uncle, strict as he is, finds the rules nothing more than an heirloom, evidence of some kind of hereditary virtue but nothing relevant to the modern day.

It’s not that he follows them. He just likes to know them, to turn them over in his mind. As options. When faced with a decision, there’s a comfort in turning to generations of dead Lans for guidance. Some people like astrology.

There are a lot of Lans, these days, enough that he’s never met a good number of cousins. There’s plenty of Lans he’s barely related to at all, at this point, but the name still has a good reputation. It’s the opposite of what the Wens have to deal with, those who weren’t involved in the insurrection. Everyone knows the old clans are ancient history and you can’t judge someone on their family name. But still, no one named Wen is going to find work in Lanling anytime soon. 

The point is, the Lans have survived and multiplied, so whatever kept them going in the old days can’t be completely useless.

His original interest in the rules was mostly as a journalist, which he’d hoped his uncle might understand. Every rule implies a story. A reason. Thousands of them mean you can triangulate an entire context. Who were we? How did we get here? What did we lose, and how?

Precept 9: Do not speak dishonestly.

Precept 77: Do not make promises that you cannot honor.

“I cannot imagine myself with a child,” he’d said.

Don’t worry, Lan Zhan, we’ll figure it out together. “I’m not sure I want to imagine myself with a child.” It will be different when it’s ours. You’ll see. “The more you talk about it, the less sure I am.” That’s okay, Lan Zhan, I can be sure enough for the both of us.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want this with you.”

Precept 424: Do not be needlessly cruel.

Lan Zhan had killed men during the war. Cultivation was useful for long-range attacks, but he still found himself in the situation of killing up close, of watching the light leave an enemy’s eyes.

He saw the light leave Liu Shirong’s eyes. For a moment his instincts had jolted, shocking through his nervous system. You’ve killed him. You activated your core, by accident, and you’ve killed him.

But it wasn’t the end of Liu Shirong’s life, of course, just the end of his love for Lan Zhan, the end of their life together, the end of whatever future he’d imagined for them. Lan Zhan had meant to release him gently, like a small rabbit with a newly-healed leg, back out into the world he came from. But he’d crushed him instead, under his clumsy feet.

Do not be needlessly cruel.

There are pools of guilt around Moling. Every place that he recognizes, everywhere they went together, even if the memories themselves are good. The guilt gathers on his clothes, soaks through to the skin, makes him cold.

It’s not that he misses Shirong. Perhaps he should miss him more than he does. It’s been nearly three years since they split up. It should perhaps hurt more than it does. It’s embarrassing that it took longer for him to get over Wei Ying—a relationship that never happened. 

The worst part of the breakup didn’t even have to do with Shirong himself. He hadn’t made a special call after Shirong left, or even after he officially moved out a week later, but he had mentioned it when Lan Huan called him as usual on the second Tuesday of the month.

“Oh, I’m sorry, didi,” Lan Huan had said. “I know you did love him, in your own way.”

In your own way.

Is he not— Did he not—

Had he never—

He is nearly to Moling. The train track curves here, about fifteen minutes out, and the rails were laid in crooked. It’s a jolt, every time. It’s easy to see who the regular commuters are, whose coffee sloshes over, who widens their stance in time, who looks suddenly out the window, worried. Sabotage on the tracks, maybe, or someone under the cars. The younger people don’t look worried, only bored. 

The landscape is odd, he realizes suddenly. He’s been staring vaguely out the window, letting his mind wander, but where he’s used to a few farms, a man-made lake, and mostly open country there is torn up ground, heavy machinery, and miles of chain-link fence. Did he not notice this on his last trip? Had he been reading?

Out the window he sees a large sign on the fence announcing, “Future home of Jin Industries Moling Satellite Campus.” Typical.

In your own way.

He never asked what Lan Huan meant by that. Lan Zhan has won multiple awards for his reporting, for his ability to encourage others to talk. The right facial expression at the right time. A direct, polite question with just the right emphasis. Merciless is what they say about him, sometimes. He’s like a swordsman in an old movie, Nie Mingue used to say, in a way that sounded like a compliment. He moves so quick and so sharp, you don’t even know he’s cut you until you’re around the corner and your head falls off.

He’s poking at it like a sore tooth, needlessly. His golden core makes itself known, just a little sense, a small awakening. It’s always ready to defend him, even so many years later. He does nothing with the awareness, of course. No cultivation is authorized outside of combat. But his core was never removed, never shut down. Can’t put the hot sauce back in that bottle, Jiang Cheng had said once.

The train slows, stops. 

“Moling station. Depart here—” The pleasant voice is cut off by a beeping. Lan Zhan stands and shoulders his bag.

“Attention passengers,” a crackled voice comes over the loudspeaker, far less pleasant than the recording. “Due to a security concern all passengers must depart the train at car fourteen. Doors will not open except for car fourteen. Departing passengers, please make your way to car fourteen.”

Lan Zhan looks around the car, then sees a “3” on the far wall. He sighs and follows the few people who are struggling with the connecting door to car four. The chimes that gently demand Get off the damn train are going. He has to speedwalk down the aisle, which is undignified, and everyone looks up at him with that poor bastard expression reserved for torn grocery bags and flat tires. 

He makes it off the train a second before the door closes and it pulls away.

“Close one!” an old man grins at him, more humor than teeth.

The police have roped off most of the platform, everyone standing around looking at each other. A few are smoking. Lan Zhan goes over to the rope, coming up next to a kid with one of those handheld electronic games. The kid’s staring around at the cops while his game beeps vaguely in a lonely sort of way.

“What’s happened?” Lan Zhan asks him.

The kid answers without looking at him. “Abandoned bag. Nothing’s happening.” He sounds disappointed.

“Hm.” Sure enough, there’s a nondescript green backpack slumped on a bench.

“They always say it might blow up, but it never does.”

“Not so much these days,” Lan Zhan agrees.

“Like, if it was gonna blow up they wouldn’t be smoking near it, right?”

Lan Zhan smiles despite himself. “Good eye,” he says. His golden core is settled within him, curling beneath his breastbone like a sleeping cat, uninterested and unconcerned. No danger.

There had been a certain amount of withdrawal, after the war. And grief, and nightmares, and a limp for a while. But the end of regular cultivation, of relying on his golden core as a seventh sense, a second consciousness, a second self, the end of healing himself from the inside, of Wangji at his back and power at his fingertips . . .

It’s not entirely the government’s fault, if he’s being fair. Governments have always thrown away veterans, no matter who is in power. Always have, always will. Use you up and spit you out with maybe some benefits and the number of some overtaxed and underpaid case worker. And cultivation, being both new and more ancient than anything, was an unknown since the beginning. There are no peer-reviewed studies on the long-term effects of using a golden core. If Jin Guangyao hadn’t been doing his own research with the Wens for all those years, only to defect back to his father’s side when the tide began to turn, there wouldn’t have been a cultivator corps at all. So Lan Zhan can’t put the responsibility on any one person’s shoulders.

But it still claws at him, sometimes. His core wants out, wants to stretch, to strike, to light something up. It’s like wrapping his head in blankets, sometimes, stifling and muffled and hard to breathe.

Jin Zixuan likes to talk about it, how it feels. Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng do not.

He checks his watch and picks up his pace, passing by another building down the block under renovation with a Jin Industries sign. The logo is close enough to the Sunshot flag that the government connection is implied, but different enough for plausible deniability. 

Lan Qiaolian is leaning on her car a few blocks away, exactly where she said she’d be. Lan Zhan appreciates it—they’ve met only once, and he doesn’t trust his ability to pick her out in a crowd. She’s a short woman, but solidly built. Doesn’t look like a Lan, is what his uncle would say.

“Lan Zhan!” she waves to him and drops her cigarette on the pavement. “Thanks for coming.”

He nods and takes his place in the passenger seat. The drive to the Moling Children’s Center is quiet for a while. The Center is near Yilong’s old gym; he remembers the road.

“You had a meeting with the detective?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

“Yeah. Still stonewalling me. Everything’s fucking confidential. They say they’ve canvassed the neighborhood, everywhere between the school and the bus stop and home. But it’s like everyone saw him walking home with his cousin, his cousin turns around for a minute to chase a damn neighborhood cat up a tree, and Sizhui is just . . . gone. How does a kid just disappear like that?”

“But this lead?”

“The administrator I talked to at the Center said they might have something, some record of where he was born. Maybe someone from his birth family has been looking for him, would take him? There’s just— Even if the records do exist, if they weren’t destroyed, I don’t know who has access. And he’s just a kid, you know? I’m not special. We’re not special. So I can’t think of anything but the worst. You know what happens to kids, especially if they take them West, I know they sell—”

“You don’t know,” Lan Zhan cuts her off, gently. “No one knows. No reason to go down that road unless the evidence points there.”

Lan Qiaolian rubs her face. “I just don’t know what the evidence is.”

“We’ll find something. I have a hunch.”

He does not have a hunch. He doesn’t believe in hunches. Or, rather, he didn’t before he started cultivating. Now he believes in the extra-sensory perception of his golden core, which he has been ordered—and signed pages of documents agreeing—to never use it again.

Either way, he’s learned that the general public like hunches. It’s comforting, apparently, someone taking the lead off of no information. It doesn’t make much sense, but most reassuring things don’t.

“I can’t help thinking—” Lan Qiaolian trails off, tapping her thumb on the steering wheel. “Maybe he left because of me.”

This is not a comfortable situation. Lan Zhan should respond with Of course not, don’t think like that. But for all he knows it could be true. He doesn’t really know Lan Qiaolian, and he certainly doesn’t know Lan Sizhui.

All he knows are the facts. Lan Qiaolian began fostering Lan Sizhui a year ago, when he was eight. It was just the two of them until a few weeks ago when Lan Sizhui went missing. It’s not his job to find missing children, but they are technically family, and if there’s some kidnapping or a dangerous part of Moling where children are falling into holes in the ground, that’s a story.

“Why would you think that?” It’s not as gentle, maybe, but it’s useful.

“I got laid off a few years ago. A lot of us did, mass layoffs.”

“Construction?”

“Yeah. Everyone from site managers to the detailers to— well, everyone. One whole firm shut down. So I thought, you know, I’d be home for a while, I got some unemployment, so maybe it would be a good time to finally start fostering. You know? I could stay home until he got adjusted, then when he started school I’d have found something new.”

“And he was happy?”

Lan Qiaolian smiles. “He’s always happy. He’s a real happy kid. Whatever he went through when he was little, he doesn’t seem to remember. Makes friends easily, fine by himself. He’s a dream. But maybe he was just good at showing me what I wanted to see. You know? Coming from a traumatic background like that, being in the system. You know, kids learn how to survive.”

“If he seemed happy, I’m sure he was.”

She sighs. “I just— The work never came back. The last six, seven months I’ve been calling everywhere I can think of. Even considered moving. Nothing. And so it’s been tight, even though it’s just the two of us. I figured with my husband’s life insurance we’d be fine until I found something, but I didn’t anticipate it taking this long. I’ve got some unemployment, but the support payments from fostering messed with my benefits. And so it’s been tight. And maybe he— You know, the secondhand clothes, no takeout, no games. Not getting to go on the school trips because I can’t pay the— I can’t help thinking, maybe all that time in the system, he must’ve been dreaming about a home, you know, what it would be like. And then when it wasn’t—”

“That’s a lot of conjecture.”

She laughs. “True. I just— The brain, it spins. You know?”

“Hm.” Lan Zhan looks out the window at the familiar neighborhood, then startles a bit. “Did they tear down the market?”

Qiaolian glances over. “Oh, yeah. Couple months ago. No more independent groceries in this part of town anymore. Not that most people could afford it at the end. They tried to stick it out, but the big chains moved in after the war, got those tax breaks.”

“Ah. ‘Economic revitalization.’”

She laughs again. 

“So, if I can ask,” he starts, glancing out of the corner of his eye to gauge her response. “On the train I noticed building sites. Jin Industries?”

Her jaw clenches. “They’re not hiring.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“We’ve all tried. They’ve bought up half of Moling, and whoever’s running the construction’s not hiring local. Union’s totally shut out.”

“Really?”

“I’ve tried, okay? I’ve called so many—” she cuts off with a frustrated noise.

“Forgive me. It wasn’t a criticism. I’m just curious.”

She nods curtly. “We’re here.”

The administrator who has agreed to meet with them has black toner smudged up the inside of her left forearm and a framed picture of a cat on her desk. She offers Lan Zhan room temperature water in a cracked coffee mug.

“So you’re my eleven o’clock, right? Okay, right.”

“That’s an old flag,” Lan Zhan says, nodding up at the wall behind her. “I haven’t seen that design for a while.”

For the most part, it’s a standard Sunshot, but in addition to the golden hand and red sun, thin black lines reach up the palm like branches.

The administrator looks surprised, turning around to it. “Oh. Yeah, I guess. I don’t know, I don’t have time to keep up with all that. We have to pay for our own, you know. We’re required to hang a flag in every room but the bathroom, but it comes out of our general operating budget. The official ones aren’t cheap.”

Lan Qiaolian chuckles. “My cousin got it tattooed right after he got discharged. He was pissed when they got rid of the black squiggles in the update. I told him, that’s why you gotta think for more than a week before you make a permanent decision, you know?”

The administrator smiles politely. “Anyway. Let me see here.” She starts digging through her pile of folders. “Lai, Lai—”

“Lan,” Lan Zhan corrects.

“Sorry?”

“The name, it’s Lan.”

“Right! Right, okay, Lan. Lan . . . Here we go. Lan . . . Qiaolian. Foster mother. Yes?”

Qiaolian nods.

“And you are?”

“Family,” Lan Zhan says.

“Right. Okay, let’s see. Lan Sizhui, age nine.”

Lan Zhan leans forward. “Anything you can tell us about where he came from, his life before Lan Qiaolian met him?”

She clicks her tongue and runs a finger down the page. “War orphan, typical story. Moved around, a bit once he got to Gusu. No injuries or disabilities. Hearing and sight all good, average height. Slightly underweight, but that’s not unusual.”

“When did he arrive here?” 

“At our facility? Looks like ‘98.”

“So he wasn’t here long before you got him,” Lan Zhan looks to Lan Qiaolian.

“Yeah, I guess. We don’t really talk about his past. That’s what the counselors recommend. You’re supposed to wait until they volunteer, you know? You don’t ask first.”

“Any idea where he came from? Birth family?”

The administrator clicks her tongue again, flips a few pages. Lan Zhan catches a sight of a grainy printed photograph, a kid looking around six, big chubby cheeks and shaggy long hair.

“Came in through law enforcement. No note of any charges or juvenile detention, so likely if he had surviving family they lost custody due to a criminal conviction. Looks like the child didn’t offer any details to counselors or placement. Um, looks like Sizhui was the name he got here.”

Lan Qiaolian frowns. “You named him? That’s not his birth name?”

“Common practice, especially if we have multiple kids with the same given name. He never gave a family name—Likely he either didn’t know his parents or forgot after being in the system for a while. A-Yuan is what he was called when he got here.”

“Yuan,” Lan Zhan turns it over in his mouth. “Something Yuan. Any record of where he was born?”

“Mmm, can’t be sure. But he entered the system in Yiling.”

“Yiling?”

“Yep. First registered into care in Yiling, 1995.”

Lan Zhan looks back up at the flag. The others must be thinking the same thing. Yiling in 1995, the Sunshot Massacre. But that’s a ridiculous thought—there were no survivors then, and plenty of other battles, bombings, one-off murders in the area at the end of the war.

“No family names though?” Lan Qiaolian asks. “Any record of someone who might be looking for him, might want him back?”

The administrator suddenly yawns hugely, covering her mouth with both hands. “I’m so sorry. No, no siblings, no recorded birth family. I’m so sorry, I haven’t been sleeping.”

“It’s all right,” Qiaolian says.

“I live over on the East side. They’re building some new damn complex, pounding in pilings at all hours of the night.”

“At night?” Qiaolian asks. “Why?”

The woman sighs. “I don’t know. Lights coming in the windows at one in the morning. I had to dig out my old curtains, thank goodness I still have them. Wake up in the middle of the night thinking the bombing’s started up again, ha, the banging and the lights. We’ve been complaining, but the company offered all the neighbors a settlement stop reporting it. Two months’ rent, we couldn’t turn it down.”

“Lots of construction,” Lan Zhan says, carefully. “Unusual construction.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the administrator shrugs. “I just hope they finish up quickly. My cats are getting stressed to death.”

“Have you noticed— Never mind.” Qiaolian chews her lip.

“Noticed what?”

“The site over by me, there’s a lot of trailers.”

“Like trailers you live in?”

“They look similar—usually there’s a double-wide or two for an on-site office, break area, you know. The site by us there’s a dozen at least. I just find that odd.”

“I haven’t noticed. Maybe. I don’t know, I try to ignore it. Whatever office complex or hotel or whatever it is, I don’t need it.”

The administrator flips through the file again. “I’m afraid that’s about all I can give you. Yiling might have more information—I think the children’s home there moved a couple years ago so files might have been lost, but it’s worth an ask. Signature on the transfer form looks like a Xie Ling. It’s not a huge town, anyway, could be someone remembers the kid, or the family. Local police or courts maybe, if they keep decent records.”

Lan Zhan and Lan Qiaolian exchange a glance.

“Sounds like I’m going to Yiling,” Lan Zhan says.

“You don’t have to—”

He shakes his head, then hands his card to the administrator. “If you think of anything, or hear anything.”

She takes it. “Gusu Herald? You’re not going to mention the flag thing, right? We’re compliant with everything, this one’s just a mistake.”

“I doubt you’ll even be mentioned. I’m just following the story.”

She looks doubtful. “Okay. We’re compliant, though.”

“I work for a newspaper, not the government.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Okay. ”

It twists a little in his stomach, but he nods at her politely as they leave.

The hallway takes them past a large window showing some kind of playroom. Three adults huddle around a low table, arguing in hushed tones, while a child who looks around four plays by himself with a few scratched up toy cars. The child has a cast on one arm, rolling one car at a time solemnly around on the carpet. He looks up as they pass him and tracks them all the way down the hallway. Lan Zhan can feel his eyes on the back of his neck even as they go out into the sunshine.

“Did Sizhui talk about anybody here?” Lan Zhan asks as they get back in the car. “Any friends at the group home, or children he knew when he was younger?”

“Not really. I was worried he’d have a hard time making friends, because he always seemed so content playing by himself. It’s why I was so glad he had Jingyi, his cousin. He’s the same age. He’s the one who was with—” Qiaolian breaks off, blinking hard. “Sorry. Long day.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. He should say something else like It’s okay. It will be fine. We will find him. But he doesn’t, because that would probably be a lie. His silence rises like water in the car, over his mouth, his nose, stifling.

Do not be needlessly cruel.

“Yiling,” Lan Zhan says, to fill the space. 

“Fucking Yiling,” Qiaolian agrees.

“I’ll go this weekend.”

“What? You can’t just take off across the country.”

“I haven’t taken vacation in three years. I can go.”

“Lan Zhan—”

“I will go. I’m not saying I will find him, but I will go.”

Lan Qiaolian doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. When she drops him at the station, she just nods, lips pressed tight together.

“I will call you,” he says. She nods again and he gets out.

He stops by the payphone on the way in to the station to call the office.

“Can I talk to Lan Shu? Yes, thank you.” He waits while the call is transferred down to the basement. “Hi, Lan Shu. Have we got anything from Yiling? Anything we’ve covered. Is there a local paper there? I haven’t—”

Lan Shu snaps her gum on the other end of the line. He pulls the receiver away from his ear, wincing. It’s a very wet sound. “Yeah, I got some. I’ll check our clippings, but they’ve got some shitty local rag. A weekly, I think.”

“Please pull that for me. I’m looking for 1995, don’t know what month.”

“Eh, looks like it’s only been running a couple years. First edition I have is April ‘98.”

Lan Zhan taps his finger, thinking. “I’ll take everything you’ve got. Any of our coverage from ‘95.”

“So, Sunshot.”

“And anything else we covered.”

Lan Shu laughs around her gum, “What else is there? No one gave a shit about Yiling before Sunshot, and nobody’s given a shit since.”

Lan Zhan sighs. “Just pull what you can find. Please. I’ll be by in an hour and a half.”

He hangs up before she can snap her gum again. It gives him a headache, the wet sound. 

He grabs a copy of the Herald for the train ride back. Instead of reading, he flips through the entire paper looking for one word: Yiling. He finds three mentions: once as the birthplace of a soccer player (a rags-to-riches story), once as the site of a hailstorm in the weather section, and once, as expected, in reference to the Sunshot Massacre. 

He hasn’t thought about it much before. He’s never been to Yiling, but there’s never really been a reason. Even before the war it was a small, poor, middle of nowhere town with low property values, high crime rates, and the worst literacy numbers in the country. It was shitty, but not in an interesting way. Qinghe was always shitty but exciting—drug kingpins and porn producers and a famous red light district. It’s become more respectable since the war, though it’s kept some of it’s sleazy veneer. Lan Huan likes to visit, says there’s a good arts scene, but Lan Zhan has never been tempted. He traveled a lot during the war, but since returning home he’s never really felt the urge. For a while it was justified. Recovery. But five years? Maybe he’s more than comfortable, now. Maybe he’s stagnating.

Lan Shu gives him two-and-a-half years of weekly papers in a brown paper bag and slim folder of photocopied clipping from the Herald’s own files. He hauls it all home on the bus piles them neatly by year on the coffee table, then settles in with a cup of tea to read. There are empty gum wrappers in the bottom of the bag.

The Yiling Observer is a quick read, only eight pages in its first edition. There are no bylines, oddly, no editors listed, no photographs, just one phone number and a street address in the masthead. The stories are . . . not quite what he expected. No gruesome crimes or depressing statistics. Just coverage of a local amateur basketball tournament, a car accident that took out a storefront, an interview with a grandmother about her vegetable garden. Small stories, almost defiantly local, but clearly and concisely written. Professional. A recipe for xiao long bao attributed to a Mrs. Yi.

He flips to the back page, under the fold. Whatever it says in bold. 

This is your humble author’s own column, where our fearless and frightening editor has given me these few inches to write whatever I like. Hence the name, Whatever. Today we’re going to talk about the Sunshot Flag, or as I like to call it, “Hey, let’s slap reminders of a war crime up on every building in the country, that’s a great idea.” 

Lan Zhan snorts. Whoever the writer is, they’re not wrong. He gets up to heat more water and adds to his list of things to do on the kitchen counter. Read all of the newspapers. Call the HR department and schedule a few days of vacation, maybe a week. Wait until his uncle sees it on the out of office calendar and calls him in a huff to explain the story. Book a train ticket to Yiling. Make an appointment at children’s services. Find a hotel. Ask Lan Huan to water his plants. Do laundry. 

He feels better with a list, like all of the static of potential responsibilities has focused into a clearly intelligible sound inside his skull. 

He goes back to the paper.

And before you complain—and I know some of you will—you’re the one reading my paper. Maybe someday you’ll have better options and can use this only for lining your bird cages, but for now I’m the best you got. That’s Yiling, baby.

Part Five

[concussed-to-pieces]

The Mettle Of A Man; Part Seventeen

Fandom: Fallout (4)

Pairing: Eventual Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: Tagging @anonymouscosmos, @culturalrebel, @mercy-and-malice, @deepkittycollecto and @nelba! Enjoy!

Part One: ArcJet

Part Two: The Prydwen

Part Three: Orders

Part Four: Finding Brandis

Part Five: Weston Water And Oberland

Part Six: Meeting Preston And Matthew

Part Seven: Radstag And Radstorm

Part Eight: The Return To Sanctuary Hills

Part Nine: Domestic Ruminations

Part Ten: Institutionalized

Part Eleven: Two Weeks, Three Days

Part Twelve: Haylen’s Warning And The Glowing Sea

Part Thirteen: Under Fire

Part Fourteen: Dichotomy

Part Fifteen: The Litany Trial

Part Sixteen: Nice Try

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains intense recounts of previous abuse, intense depictions of self-loathing, self-deprecation and brief mentions of depression. Stay safe!]

Cade caught Danse before he could depart after the rest of their unofficial 'war council' had been dismissed, the medical officer inquiring, "How are you coping, Paladin? I hope that your adjustment to your newfound knowledge is going well." The arch of his eyebrow indicated plainly that Cade was looking for a clear answer, possibly to dissuade his own concerns.

  "I am still uncertain, Knight-Captain Cade." Danse stated bluntly. "I know that Quinlan's reports are accurate. I know that I must be a synth. But it is...it's difficult to wrap my head around it."

  "My door is always open, Danse. As it's been since the day you were assigned to the Prydwen." Cade reminded him. "I can't say I've ever had the pleasure of doing a mental evaluation on a synth, but…" he trailed off thoughtfully. "Hmm, that's not quite right. You and I have had sessions before. Maybe synths aren't so different in their cognition. Perhaps this is a nature versus nurture scenario."

  "Perhaps." Danse allowed, but he knew that he sounded less than optimistic.

  "Maybe in a day or two, once everything has calmed down and you've had time to think?" Cade suggested. "Collect your thoughts, then come see me and we can discuss your current state and the repercussions of Maxson's treatment."

  The paladin nodded, relieved that Cade didn't wish to immediately evaluate him. It had been an incredibly stressful and arduous several weeks. More than anything, the paladin was longing to finally get some sleep.

  After he spoke to Haylen and Rhys, of course. They deserved his gratitude, if only for their combined efforts in delivering the tip-off that had literally saved his life. To say nothing of their care for Elizabeth in his absence, even though they were unable to free her. They had kept her alive, and that was more than the paladin had dared to hope for.

  Danse watched Cade depart, his mind miles away now. Backhand would be incredibly busy in the lead up to the assault. He felt almost irritated by that; it was unfair to ask so much of her so soon after what had transpired. But the luxury of time was no longer on their side. Danse understood, in a practical sense, that they needed to strike as fast as possible. It was entirely within reason that the Institute already knew of their plans and were preparing their own countermeasures.

  It still didn't erase the hollow sensation in his gut, the fear that Backhand was all too willing to stretch herself paper-thin for her various factions. He promised himself then and there that he would do his best to absorb some of the burden. 

  As much as she would allow. 

  The memory of her ripping her knuckles apart on the manual release of his armor, talking to Matthew's parents, taking her helmet off and smiling at him. Thank you, Danse or I thought you were dead or please don't do that to me again --

  Danse chewed anxiously on his lower lip. As much as she would allow. As much as he could feasibly handle. It should have felt odd that he was trading one leader for another, but Danse could only rationalize that it must be another portion of his programming. 

  "Paladin Danse, sir?" 

  Rhys . Danse started, turning around. He hadn't even heard the knight approach down the catwalk. Hell, he hadn't even realized he was spacing out in the hallway. "Yes, Knight?" He replied, nodding out of habit to acknowledge Haylen beside Rhys.

  "Elder Brandis said you wanted to see us, sir." The knight stated, sounding a bit hesitant. "He said we needed to discuss...certain things."

  Of course he did . Danse sighed heavily, bracing himself for some level of a disappointment-fueled tirade.

  "Danse, I'm so sorry." Haylen blurted out, her voice shaking. Danse was startled, tilting his head while she carried on, "I wish there had been some other way for me to tell you. You must have been terrified ." 

  "I was certainly confused, if nothing else." The paladin admitted with a wry smile. "I am immensely grateful to both of you, regardless of my own trials. You followed your training and stuck to your guns, and I couldn't be more proud." He deflated slightly. "Even if the pride of a synth means precious little."

  "The synth shit doesn't matter to either of us, sir." Rhys muttered. "We don't care. We're just glad you're back and that Maxson didn't manage to kill you. That's the important part, right?"

  "In a way." Danse agreed, grimacing. "Our battle is far from over, however."

  "Hey, we're doing something. That's more than a lot of people can say." Haylen reasoned, ever the optimist. "I've got faith in whatever plan you guys come up with."

  "Thank you for believing in me." The paladin murmured, giving the only surviving members of Squad Gladius a stiff salute. 

  "We know you, sir. You protected us, trained us. Built us up from basically nothing." Rhys sounded angry, his typically-sullen expression gone even more sour. "You think we could ever turn our backs on you? You're not that stupid."

  Haylen began to protest, "Rhys-"

  "Haylen, you and I both know he'll just self-deprecate until he dissolves. I'm not letting that happen." Rhys grumbled at the scribe, who fell silent at his reasoning. Her eyes were narrowed to slits and the sight was immensely entertaining to Danse, who couldn't keep a nervous chuckle from bubbling up in his throat.

  "I'm certain the two of you are aware of the devastating depression you dragged me out of all those years ago in the Capital Wasteland." Danse clapped Rhys on the shoulder and caught Haylen up in a rare one-armed hug. "How many times will you two save me? Should I start taking you for granted?" 

  "Paladin Danse, sir, w-we…" Haylen trailed off, her lower lip quivering. She buried her face in Danse's ribs and Rhys grunted.

  "Haylen, c'mon . Pull it together." He huffed, his own eyes looking suspiciously wet. "Listen, sir, I think I've made our position pretty clear. We follow your orders. Learning about that shit with Maxson-"

  "I'm so angry! " Haylen interrupted him, glaring upwards. "God Danse, I'm furious . What he did to you is unforgivable, inexcusable." She announced hotly. "Everyone assumed something was going on, but we also assumed it was consensual ."

  " 'Everyone' ?" Danse echoed, a weird surge of retroactive embarrassment seizing his body. "I suppose I should be thankful you all were so willing to offer me the illusion of privacy." He mumbled.

  "He's never coming anywhere near you again, sir." Rhys stated, his jaw set in an angry scowl. "I don't care if he's the last of the Maxson line. I'll break his fucking skull."

  His words stirred Danse's guilt to life, the ugly feeling rearing its head once more. "It is a difficult situation to be in. I do not envy our elders, past or present." Danse tried to pose the sentence with a modicum of compassion, though he was unsure of the attempt's success. The paladin knew that despite Maxson's position of power, Danse bore a majority of the blame for not standing up to the elder until it was too late to prevent his spiral.

  "Difficult, my ass ." Rhys growled under his breath.

  …

  "So we've got Preston, someone by the name of John D., the…" Ingram narrowed her eyes at the readout. " Atom Cats ?"

  "Yep. Real into their power armor. And Zeke owes me a favor." Backhand explained, continuing to scroll through her Pip Boy notes. "If I can get them to walk across the pond and cover the Castle, that will free up more Minutemen to join us."

  "Should I ask how you managed to ingratiate yourself with so many of these people?" 

  "I'm a sucker for a lost cause." Vega answered, her tone dry. 

  Ingram snorted, shaking her head. "Lucky for us, I imagine. Also lucky for us that you're the forgiving sort."

  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Proctor." Backhand retorted. "I'm just not yet in a position to combat your aerial superiority."

  "Whew, gonna' file that one away for later consideration."

  A soft knock on the comm doorway interrupted the two women, and Vega turned to see Danse peering cautiously into the room. "Paladin! You're just in time, we were about to start rallying the troops. Want to lend a hand?" 

  "What needs to be done, General Vega?" The paladin asked, his posture gone stiff and proper. 

  Backhand could feel her smile dim slightly, but she reined herself in. They had all been through so much, she reasoned, and old habits were usually a comfort. "Well, I've got a few calls to make on my own, but if you can get in touch with Lieutenant Garvey that would be a huge help."

  "Understood." 

  Proctor Ingram (who had been watching their exchange with poorly-veiled interest) stepped out of the way so that Danse could settle down at the desk alongside one of their many radio switchboards. "Vega, I think the two of you can handle this." The older woman remarked, giving Elizabeth a sly wink behind Danse's back. "I'll start whipping the base camp into shape. Make myself useful, y'know. Ad Victoriam."

  Vega went bright red as Ingram saluted, the proctor sporting an absolutely infuriating smirk. "B-But Proctor--"

  "No buts! You guys handle the easy stuff. I'll manage the elbow grease." Ingram then mouthed talk to him! , before strolling out of the comm area. Backhand swore under her breath, thumping her fist into the desk in mute frustration. 

  "I can leave, General Vega." Danse offered, making her start and whirl to face him.

  "No no! No, uh, you're fine. You're not the problem here." Vega assured him, waving her hands nervously. "I'm just...I'm a little uptight, that's all."

  "Will your forces refuse to join us?" The paladin asked, his rigid posture easing slightly as he tipped his head back to look up at her. He continued in an undertone, "Would it be simpler to do it with your troops alone? Do you truly need the Brotherhood?"

  "We do need the Brotherhood, yes. But I don't think we'll need them for the fighting. We'll need them for the mass casualty options and the refugee care after the fact." Backhand began to pace, mostly so she didn't have to maintain eye contact. The paladin looked fatigued yet determined, and it pained her to know that rest was still so far away for them. Rest and the possibility of actually speaking with him about the thing that had been on her mind in one form or another since…

  Well, it had been a long time.

  "We'll need help rebuilding more than anything. Not a lot of settlements will be keen to take on synths, so I'll need to figure out some kind of alternative. I really need to talk with Nick and Dea--er, John D ., and get their input on this whole engagement." Backhand rubbed her temples. "And here I thought getting in would be the hard part!" She tried to joke. 

  After a moment of silence, Vega heard Danse clear his throat. "General... Elizabeth , I know you already have many responsibilities, all of them miles more important than my own struggles."

  Backhand looked over at him expectantly, a little confused. 

  "I have to give Cade a full report." The tall man said abruptly. "I...he wants to know everything that's transpired." He stared down at the floor, the heel of his boot scuffing the grating beneath them as he rushed to add, "I know it's selfish of me to ask you to--I mean, you've been through so much, b-but I was...rather, I am uncertain of this endeavor, and my ability to maintain my composure during it. You tend to have a mollifying effect on me for some reason."

  "You want me to be present when you give your medical officer the full rundown?" Vega raised an eyebrow, further confused. Danse was a soldier , surely he had endured a full physical before?

  "I am overly anxious. It means reliving some portions of my past that I find...traumatic."

  "Oh." Oh . Backhand felt stupid as the truth dawned on her. Everything that's transpired . Of course Danse would want someone he trusted with him, this wasn't a physical exam at all. "What about Haylen or Rhys? Are they more appraised of the situation?"

  Danse was shaking his head before she had even finished. "I did my best to keep everything that happened quiet, though it appears that I was unsuccessful. I was told that was my only option, and I did not wish to disobey Maxson's orders." 

  "That fuckin' asshole." Vega growled. "Alright, if you're sure it's me you want with you, I'm here."

  "You don't have t--er, that is, I regret taking up more of your valuable time, General Vega. I promise after this meeting with Cade, I will be fully at your disposal." He assured her, seemingly pained by his current state.

  "Danse, I don't care about that. I don't want you better just so you can get used up again, I want you better for you . I'm sorry that all of this robs you of the proper time to regroup, y'know?" Backhand apologized, her words deliberately quiet as she boldly laced her fingers through his own. "Once we're done here, though, you need to take some time off. General's orders."

  "I would have to speak with Elder Brandis on the matter. As his most senior paladin, I am unsure if he would be able to permit me that luxury." Danse replied unhappily, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before he released it. "' A run ashore ', always just out of reach."

  "I'm getting you time off, even if I have to kidnap you myself." 

  The paladin's chuckle in reply to her threat was subdued, but it still sent a frisson of happiness through her body. Backhand choked down the guilt of having those feelings in the first place for just a second, choosing to bask in the warm sensation. 

  "When you're ready, General, I'll need the proper frequencies to speak with the Castle." Danse's request brought her crashing back down to earth, and Vega rushed to oblige him.

  There's always something else to do .

  …

  Two days later, on the cusp of their attack on the Institute, the both of them were seated in Knight-Captain Cade's main office aboard the Prydwen. The older officer sat across from them in the cramped space, a clipboard propped up on his knee.

  "The only questions I'll ask will be strictly for clarity's sake." The knight-captain informed Danse quietly. "If you don't want to answer, that is entirely acceptable and within your right, but the more information we have, the better."

  Danse nodded, the motion stilted. "I understand, Knight-Captain. I'll do my best to cooperate." 

  Vega squeezed his hand. God knew she didn't like this one damn bit, but she was going to stick it out for him. After all, he had gone to bat for her against the elder . Loyalty like that was in short supply. "I'm right here with you, Danse." She said softly. He had gone pasty white beneath his usual windblown complexion, and he gripped her hand wordlessly. 

  "If you could start at the beginning, Paladin. Or as close to it as possible." Cade prompted him.

  "Yes, I...of course." Danse rasped. "The first time we engaged was shortly before the Brotherhood lost Knight Cutler."

  Cade looked at him over his half-moon glasses, seeming perturbed. "That was...so this was a prolonged assault."

  "Not an assault. I did as I was ordered." The dull tone of Danse's voice, the way his eyes had gone almost grey ...Vega wanted to know how the hell Maxson had ever justified this. "I could not bring myself to question Arthur. He came to me, at first simply asking for help even though it was an order. He said he couldn't sleep. I...I never told Cutler. I didn't think it was relevant. I thought I was helping the new elder." Danse looked up at Cade. "I know what it's like to not be able to sleep for all the thoughts in your head."

  "Was there a specific point in time where his behavior shifted? Perhaps when it became more clear to you that there was something wrong?" Backhand was grateful for the delicate way Cade phrased the question.

  "I…" Danse's brow furrowed. "...had just come back with...after what transpired with Cutler. Four days on base. I was furious with Maxson for stationing Cutler out there, furious with myself for not saving Cutler. I was grieving and hurt both physically and emotionally, as you recall." Cade inclined his head. "I assume you also recall the bite on my arm that appeared shortly thereafter. That was a...result of my inability to perform."

  "Ah." Cade murmured, jotting something down.

  Bite? Vega could feel Danse trembling. "I-I was...unable to function or perform for him in a satisfactory manner and that was his method of voicing his frustration with me." Danse swallowed hard. "I was mourning , Cade." He sounded like he was begging the other man to understand, begging him not to judge.

  Perform for him. Backhand sucked in a deep breath through her nose, willing herself to stay silent. 

  "After that, I would just comply. It was never as bad as that time. I would perform for him to the best of my abilities." Danse paused, "but I never sought him out, and nothing occurred without me being ordered to do so." He then proceeded to rattle off a distressingly-long list of dates, every time that Maxson had coerced him. "I was not interested in...well, anyone , after Cutler." He muttered after a brief pause, "the term broken seems fitting." 

  "You weren't allowed proper space to heal yourself after what happened with Cutler. You were injured and then forced to deal with someone who kept prying open your wounds because they enjoyed lording their power over you." Cade theorized, his voice a little sharper. " Broken is not fitting in the slightest, Danse."

  The paladin shrugged. "Whatever the terminology might be, then." 

  " Traumatized , Danse. Emotional wounds take time to heal, just like physical ones. Losing Cutler in the way that we did-"

  "I deserved it!" Danse cut off the medical officer, leaning forward and clenching his free hand on his knee. "I failed Cutler, Cade! I should have gone after him sooner! The treatment from Maxson is what I deserved ." His eyes were wild, frantic. "He's an abuser, but I am a man deserving of every last instance of that abuse for my inaction when it came to Cutler!" The paladin reasoned intensely.

  Cade sighed, rifling through his clipboard. "Danse, you did not deserve or garner punishment for the consequences of Maxson's orders." He informed the other man quietly. "You were simply a man who lost someone that he cared deeply about."

  "And to find out that I'm not even that much!" Danse spat. "I'm still trying to cope with the reality that I am a living lie . My identity as Paladin Danse is nothing but a memory now. Everything I held dear, everything I ever believed in is completely gone. Can you imagine how that feels?" Danse was nearly shouting at this point, moving to stand. "I started out as nothing , and I've ended up as nothing . And I don't know what the hell to do about it!" 

  Backhand brought her hand up over his elbow, hauling him back down into his seat. " Listen to Cade, Danse." She growled. The paladin fought her grip briefly, but ultimately slumped in the chair. Good thing too, Vega wasn't exactly up to full strength just yet. The large man was shaking again, his breathing coming in harsh bursts. "It's okay, it's okay." Vega found herself repeating the phrase, rubbing circles on his back between his shoulder blades. Many members of military factions found repetition comforting and Danse appeared to be no exception, the large man heaving a massive sigh under the weight of her hand.

  "Danse, I'll fully admit to being out of my element here. I never expected to have to treat a synth." Knight-Captain Cade said plainly. "However, I've known you for many years. We have an established rapport. Your body is indistinguishable from an ordinary human body, as proved by my records. Your mental processes and pain responses are normal for a human. I suppose what I'm trying to say is learning that you are a synth may not change all that much, despite what you may be feeling."

  Danse choked out a forlorn noise that might have been a sob, burying his face in his hands. "I'm so confused." He confessed plaintively. "You're saying I did not deserve punishment for my failings, but...how else am I supposed to atone for Cutler?" He looked up, tears welling up in his eyes. "How am I supposed to reconcile with these human emotions, Cade? I barely kept myself under control when I believed I was human!"

  "Your feelings have always run deep, Danse. Your empathy for your fellow man has landed you in hot water more than once." Cade gestured at Vega. "According to our infiltrator, even the most brutal of synths feel regret and remorse just like we do, though they have not been taught how to cope with it."

  "I still feel like a human. Nothing feels different, yet now I constantly second-guess everything I do. I've had a plan from the beginning to shape my future, but I have to wonder about whether that's a lie as well." Danse remarked bitterly. "I had...I had hoped…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "It doesn't matter."

  Backhand could feel her heart breaking the longer he spoke. His true identity was an immense blow to him, and on top of it he was still struggling under the burden of the guilt he carried due to Cutler's demise. He blamed himself for Arthur's demands. 

  "Listen to Cade, Danse." She urged. Her hand was essentially on autopilot as she traced small patterns on the center of his back, moving up and down his spine without rhyme or reason. "You're not to blame for what Maxson did. It's not yours to bear. Trust me, coming from someone who's more than willing to take on other folk's problems, that weight is not yours."

  "But-"

  "You trust me, right?" Vega interrupted him softly, cupping his face so that he had to look at her.

  "With my life, General Vega." 

  The rapid sincerity of his reply startled her and Backhand needed to take a moment, steeling herself yet again. "I know you trust Cade too, and I know this won't be a quick or easy process. But you accepting that whatever happened was not your fault would be a huge first step."

  "I...If I do…" Danse paused, hesitating. "Vega, if I forget about him..."

  "Hey, nobody said anything about forgetting. You told me about Cutler, about how important he was to you. There's no way someone like you could forget about him. But you need to forgive yourself, you have to understand that losing him was not your fault." Once more she found herself in over her head, but she did her best to tell him all the things she wished someone had told her when Sergeant Cathan had died.

  "He was...he was everything to me." Danse's voice cracked. "And I had to--I had to, he was...I had to."

  "What happened to Cutler and his team was an immense tragedy, and a needless one at that." Cade spoke up from his seat, his brow furrowed. "Maxson outed himself quite thoroughly during the trial, I would say. It will be difficult for him to explain his actions away when so many witnesses heard exactly what he said." 

  Elizabeth felt Danse go still, the paladin hanging on to Cade's every word. "Am I even permitted to be happy that he may face consequences?" He asked uncertainly, wringing his hands. "Is that a breach of protocol, Knight-Captain?"

  The medical officer shifted his weight, leaning forward to prop himself up with his elbows on his knees. "I can't promise you swift justice, you know how the Brotherhood operates. But Arthur invoked the right of a litany trial, then proceeded to break his own terms. To say nothing of the fact that he nearly killed someone uninvolved in the trial." Cade shook his head. "His abuse flourished in secrecy. Now that everything is out in the open, I do not believe even his status as the last Maxson will sway the other elders when they pass judgement."

  "Thank you, Knight-Captain." Danse closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. "I...thank you, Vega." He continued, a little quieter. He caught her hand in his own, giving it a cautious squeeze. Almost as if he was imitating her gesture from earlier in the week. "I have so much to think about."

  "Agreed. Shall I put in a request to Brandis for a leave of absence?"

  Danse visibly recoiled at Cade's suggestion, his eyes going wide in dismay. "No! No, I am needed, Knight-Captain. After our assault has been carried out, and the Institute has been wiped from the map, I…" he hesitated, like the words were caught in his throat. "I will gladly take a leave. Until then, however, there is still work to do."

  "There is always work to do, Paladin." Cade chided. "Remember what I told you? You will burn yourself out and the Brotherhood can ill afford to lose you."

  "I'll see to it that he takes time off after our successful operation." Backhand stated firmly. Cade raised an eyebrow at that and Danse flushed across the bridge of his nose, stuttering a little. "Your health is important to me, Danse. You can be as stubborn as you want, but I'm not letting you weasel out of this." 

  "I suppose that will have to do." Cade sighed. "Do you have any questions for me, Paladin?"

  Danse shot a sidelong glance at Vega that she was relatively certain she wasn't supposed to see, the large man worrying his lower lip. Maybe it was just wishful thinking on her part, though, as Danse shook his head after a moment. "No, I...I just have some reflection to do." He got to his feet abruptly, saluting both Cade and Elizabeth. "Ad Victoriam, Knight-Captain. Ad Victoriam, General Vega."

  Cade returned the salute absently, already absorbed in writing something else down. Vega was a little slower, her query of, "do you need me, Danse?" coming out softer than she had intended.

  She wanted to believe that the paladin hesitated before he replied, "No, General Vega. I can manage."

Part Eighteen

[idonotbitemythumbatyou]

Found a prompt list and would love to see one (or more than one!) of these done for an OC pairing if they resonate:

- things you said while we were driving

- things you said too quietly

- things you said at the kitchen table

Also happy birthday month :)

Thank you for this fun prompt!

These are characters from a piece I’ve been playing with on and off for a year. I hope it makes sense with zero context.

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

You asked me to pay for breakfast like a normal person. With money. I don’t know what it was but something about that pissed me off. 

So when the waitress came back I said, “I know you have to smile for work, but we’re very lucky to see it.”

“What?”

You rolled your eyes and scowled out the window - muttering something in Irish under your breath. She didn’t notice, and I ignored you.

“You have a beautiful smile” I said, finishing the attack with a sincere smile of my own. 

She blushed and opened her mouth only to find herself speechless. 

Thus disarmed, I extended my will to encompass her like a warm embrace. I held her in my heart and said simply, “Maybe this breakfast could be on the house.”

The waitress faltered - I felt her shift inside the comfort of my will - but not very far. She grinned as though the two of us were sharing a delicious, intimate secret. She really did have a beautiful smile, it brightened her round face and transformed her from an unremarkable person into a heart-stopping beauty. “On the house, darlin.” she said, placing an empty check on the table in front of me with a wink, “Don’t tell.”

Tammy gave us some serious guff when we tried to leave - choking and stuttering and belching when you turned the ignition. You gritted your teeth and turned the key with increasing irritation culminating in a hearty slap to the dashboard (followed by a gentle pet and a whispered apology).

You pulled out of the diner parking lot and towards the poorly lit highway. You looked carefully before turning (even though the flat terrain would have revealed headlights a mile off and I think I saw one car pass by the entire time we were in the diner.)

We were on the road in total silence for an excruciating three minutes. Not even music. Only the grumpy rumble of the deteriorating engine. 

After a long time you took a deep steadying breath. “You probably got her in trouble,” you said.

I laughed - relieved that that was all you were annoyed about, “We’re in trouble, Maeve.” I cranked the window down to vent the trapped sun-heat into the night air. “You act like we have money to spare. I don’t just do that for fun.” The ends of your crimson hair whipped in front of me, drawn by the wind outside. I brushed it out of my face, revelling in the feeling of the strands between my fingers, the smell of you through the horrible motel conditioner. My voice came out gentler, softened by the contact. But I was not ready to back down on how right I was, “Do you think I’ll be able to do that when Tammy here finally gives up? We have to be tactical about where we spend money. Thank you. A-very much.”

You sighed. “But did you have to go that route?” 

“I had to disarm her.”

“Don’t give me that, Lilias -”

“O~oh full names.”

“You only use compliments when you’re trying to annoy me.”

“That’s not true!” 

It was true. A little light flirtation is the easiest way to disarm someone, but it also has the most painful hangover for the person influenced - once they realize that something strange has happened. Especially if I lie. You were the one to point that out to me.

“I didn’t lie to her.” I said (petulantly. I can admit it), “She does have a beautiful smile.”

Without another word, you pushed the wired tape into the tape deck and scrolled down your phone to choose a discordantly jaunty pop song for the rest of the drive back to the motel.

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

I have loved you since we were fourteen. Part of me knew you were the only one who could understand what I was - even if I hadn’t wrapped my own head around it yet.

The first time we kissed - years later - I was terrified because by then I understood the power I wielded. I wanted you to love me the way I loved you. But I hated to think you might love me because I wanted it. I tried so hard not to feel anything about you that night. Because I wanted you so badly it was certain to encompass you if I wasn’t careful. I sat beside you, nose to nose, rooted in place  shaking like an ash tree, with tears (tears!) welling my eyes. 

Absolutely mortifying. I could have died of embarrassment.

But you had touched my face and brushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “I have resisted the influence of fair folk kings.” you had said, in that melodic voice of yours - a little sadly, a little exhaustedly, with absolute gentleness, “you cannot make me do anything I do not desire.”

And then you waited for me to close the distance, and smiled into my lips. When we kissed, I realized the love I’d had for you up to then had only been practice. It could have been anyone, but now I was ready to love you in full, with all of myself in return.

From then on, I have faced everything with you. I would not change you for the world. But I did sometimes wish that we could have loved each other in a world that didn’t ask us to face so much. 

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

You took a shower while I warded the motel room. A dull routine by now. When I was nearly done, I looked up to find you sitting at the table of what could only be called a “kitchen” under the most generous definition. You had a towel wrapped around yourself, and your hair - usually a majestic flaming halo of curls - hung damp and lank down to your waist.

On the table beside you, my practice scissors rested on a newspaper made entirely of useless coupons.

“I think it’s time to cut my hair.” you said.

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve been leaving bits of myself everywhere. It’s becoming dangerous. And if they send a hunter -”

“Of course. I can-”

“A hunter will know exactly what to do if they find my hair.”

“Yes. Let me just-”

“So will you cut it for me?”

I noticed then that your hands were balled into white knuckled fists in the towel on your lap, and your chin was trembling. I stood from the knot I was twining around the doorknob and went to you, taking your face in my hands.

“Of course, Maeve.” I said, and I kissed your forehead lightly, “Let me finish these wards, and I’ll be back to help you.” I took the scissors to cut the twine - extending my will to protect us into the knot. I then went back to you and helped you spread the paper under the kitchen chair. I brought over the ugly standing lamp with it’s fuzzy, peeling lampshade to illuminate our work with dull orange light. You played some quiet music and sat back on the kitchen chair.

I asked you what you wanted.

“Just… short. As short as you can,” you said, “if I can still have some of my curls left, that might be nice. But short.” 

I hardly knew where to start. Your hair is so thick I had to tie it off into five different sections to get the scissors through it, before tossing it piece by piece into the little plastic waste basket.

“We’ll have to burn it in the morning,” you said.

After the first chop, your hair was around the length of your jaw. You wanted it even shorter. I told you it would seem shorter when the curls finished drying. You insisted. So I sectioned your hair with pins instead of bands and kept cutting. Careful snips to the sound of your soft acoustic music.

“Do you know why they’ve never found us, Lily?” You said.

I did. But the theatre of this conversation had kept us safe so far, and it had become a comforting prayer, “Why Maeve?” I said gently (snip)

“Because,” (snip), “they think they know how we should be feeling.”

“Oh?”

“They are reaching their mycelium tendrils out to search for our fear. They don’t expect us to feel anything else. They only know what our fear smells like. They haven’t scented out our joy yet. They don’t know what our love is like.” (snip)

I took another section of your hair down. “Then they’ll never find us.” I said, “What I feel for you is stronger than fear.” (snip), “I’m sorry about the waitress.” 

(snip) “Thank you.”

“We can check on her tomorrow if you’d like.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea. We should be moving on.”

I nodded, though I knew you couldn’t see. Of course we would keep moving. We would do so for as long as we could. I wondered when the folk would learn to track my exhaustion.

It took nearly an hour to cut your hair all the way down. You were blessed with gorgeous thick curls. Back when I was “jealous” of you, this was my greatest source of consternation. I obsessed over your hair as I sat behind you in algebra class. I was irritated beyond all reasonable measure that you didn’t even seem to know how to style it, and imagined vividly what I would do if I could style it for you. I did poorly in algebra and only later interrogated what that jealousy had masked.

If only I could tell my fourteen year old self that I had run my hands through your hair more times than I could count since then. I had braided and combed your hair. Nestled my face into its depths, kissed it so many times that surely my love had reached every strand by now. I had even, on occasion, nearly choked, breathing it into my mouth in moments of uncontrollable ecstasy (a detail I would certainly not share with my fourteen year old self).

I cut it nearly to the skin on the sides - as evenly as I could manage with scissors (I am sorry, my love, the sides looked a bit uneven and plucked for a few days before we acquired the clippers), leaving a long flop of red curls on top to cascade down nearly to your eye-line on one side. I stepped back to behold my clumsy effort, and was about to apologize when your muddy green eyes met mine and my breath caught in my throat.

You had gone from an ethereal beauty to a striking creature whose appearance was less easily defined with words like “beautiful” or “handsome.” I saw for the first time how your cheekbones ran parallel to the sharpness of your jaw. Your long neck arced gracefully to meet your slim freckled shoulders. Even the bow of your lips seemed more prominent. You furrowed your brows at my reaction and turned to see yourself in the mirror through the open bathroom door.

You blinked in disbelief. Then grinned. “I look… They’d never know me now.”

The folk do not rely on vision. If we were found, of course they would know you in an instant by the impression of your being - even if you somehow grew an extra four inches taller or switched bodies with me they would know you. Normally I would never imagine a haircut could make any difference. But as you looked in the mirror your entire demeanor changed. The carriage of your weight, even the set of her shoulders shifted. We had cut your hair so you might not leave such distinctive tracks behind us, and instead we’d revealed an entirely new essence of your being. “You know Maeve,” I said, wonderingly, “I think you’re right. You look like someone they’ve never known before.”

You looked like yourself for the first time in 400 years. 

I felt a pang of self reproach that I’d been perfectly happy these seven years only knowing the masked version of you. You took another rinse to get the clippings off your skin while I swept up. I hesitated before dumping all the hair and paper into the bin. After a moment, when I was sure you weren’t just about to get out of the water, I reached into the bin to pull out a long lock of your hair. I opened my kit and tied the hair with twine, then wrapped it around a quartz with an iron emulsion to keep it safe, and placed it all in a little pouch. I packed it at the bottom of my kit, and put everything else on top of it.

By the time you re emerged into the room, the kitchen was clean and I was in one of the twin beds, scrunched up to the side to leave room for you. It was a tight fit, but we were used to it, and we both felt safer together. You crawled in next to me, and took your place in my waiting arms. 

“There’s more room now without your hair.” I said, nestling my face into the back of your neck, feeling your damp hair against my forehead. I felt you laugh in my arms, and then you were still, breathing steadily for so long I thought you were asleep. Until you spoke again.

“I know you are tired, Lily.”

I closed my eyes and held you tighter. “I just worry, you know? Like. I don’t know if I can run my entire life. And we’re no closer to finding a permanent solution.”

 You shifted a little closer to me. “There might not be one.” You said. “But whatever happens, I’ll be here.”

I kissed your shoulder and breathed you in, finding solace against the inevitability of our eventual failure in the weight of you against me. After a long time, when you were asleep - for sure this time, I whispered to myself, “I’ll be here too.”

[miss-tc-nova]

Hey - Riku x Reader

Aha, Xeha-non! I tricked you! I wasn’t writing Roxas, I was writing Riku! It’s about time I gave this boy some love. 

~~~~~

               “Hey handsome.” I slide the book from the desk and take its place, grinning down at the boy. A snowy brow arches in response, before those teal orbs peer up at me. “Slackin’ on your homework?”

               “Maybe,” he grumbles. I display the text and he continues scribbling down his answers.

               “Ooo, even I got the homework done. You’re not tellin’ me I’m about to slip ahead on our grades are you?” I tease.

               He doesn’t even bother to look up. “Not even close.”

               I laugh. Of course it’s not. This kid could miss an entire month of school and still manage to beat me in almost every class. Not that I’m dumb or anything, he’s just that smart—now if only I could get him to realize that I’ve been hardcore flirting with him for over a year now.

               Riku and I have been neighbors since we were little. We were never really friends and that was fine by me; we only occasionally passed by each other on our way to school or in the halls. It wasn’t until we turned fourteen and actually had a class together that I lost my mind. He probably just views me as a mild nuisance at this point, but I can’t help myself around him anymore. He doesn’t acknowledge any of it though.

               The end-of-day bell rings and I stand up with a stretch. “Wha’chu think, Riku? Shall we do the project together?”

               “Hm?” Like a needle pricking at my heart, he wasn’t paying attention. “Oh, I mean we can. But it just sounds like you’re trying to keep that gap between us from getting bigger.” Gods, if I could turn that smirk into something sincere, I’d probably die happy.

               “Please. You may have me in maths and science, but you suck at English.”

               “I’m one grade below you. Also, what does telling a story have do with any career?”

               I count on my fingers. “Journalism, news, authors, basic communication skills.”

               “We’re communicating aren’t we?”

               “Barely.” Oh honey, there’s so much more than what we say…

               His eyes roll but we agree to meet tonight at six to work on this story we’re supposed to write. I waste the day away mulling over this nonsense between us. Clearly this boy isn’t going to get the hint; I could probably kiss him and he would just blow it off as an accident. Yet I still can’t tell if it’s because he’s not interested or just strangely oblivious to flirting. Eventually, I admit defeat—I’m going to have to just flat out tell him. I decide it’d be best to do it tonight, when there’s time for us to talk it out; though that does put me at risk for making this project insanely awkward. I suck it up and plan my words out for the end of the night until six rolls around.

               I pull open the door to find my classmate there, staring out at the horizon. “Hey handsome.” There’s still time to drop plenty of hints before the night ends, but he doesn’t respond. “You okay?” There are some gloomy looking clouds in the distance.

               “Uh, yeah,” he replies, shaking it off. “Let’s get this dumb project done.”

               “And here I thought you just enjoyed my company,” I say, letting him in.

               We start to flesh out a basic a plot for this adventure short, all the while he keeps glancing out the window at the approaching storm. I, on the other hand, am starting to feel the nerves gnaw at my gut.

               “Are you sure you’re alright?” I ask, pulling his attention from the window for the umpteenth time since we started.

               Looking away from his distraction, Riku scribbles on his paper. “Yeah.”

               He’s not going to tell me what’s bothering him. Perhaps it’s time to tell him what’s bothering me instead.

               “Hey Riku?” He hums that that he’s listening before meeting my gaze. This could be it: the end of my endeavors, the end of my shenanigans, possibly the end of a friendship. Here goes nothing.

               Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to start again, but the storm lets us know that it’s here.

               When the lightning flashes, Riku abruptly stands. “I gotta go.”

               “What?” I stand with him but he heads for the door.

               “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” All those worries he’s been holding back all night have finally broken through. He hurriedly shoves his feet into his shoes.

               “But-” The boy rips the door open and takes off down the street, not even in the direction of his home. I stand in the doorway, stunned, confused, and a little heart-broken. “…Be safe.”

               The storm that night was terrible.

~~~~~

A year later…

               This last year or so has been kind of dreary. Since that storm hit, three kids disappeared from our islands. Days were spent searching, but only the ocean could’ve kept them hidden from us for so long. Then we came across a miracle; some weeks after their disappearance, Kairi had been found on the beach of the smaller island. From what I heard, she had been groggy and confused for a while, but remembered nothing of what happened. As for Sora and Riku, we never found them.

               I was upset for a long time but time heals all wounds supposedly. In reality, I’d just learned to think about it less and went about life. There wasn’t anything else I could’ve done. Even if my heart is still hung up on him, it’s not like I can bring him back. So, on the surface, I take my dreary days the same as my normal ones: one step at a time, no matter how hard the next step is.

               Nope. Don’t think about it.

               Clearing my head of memories I don’t have time to dwell on, I brush the hair from my eyes and readjust the bag of groceries in my arms. It’s Friday, school’s out, I’ve just done my shopping for the week, and now it’s time to go home and relax.

               “Hey.”

               My body freezes before I turn to person I just passed. He’s a tall, young man, his muscular arms bare. The first instinct is to put some space between us, but that mop of white hair is unmistakable; sure it’s longer than it was but it’s his.

               “Riku?” I breathe, afraid to believe it is. Have I finally lost it?

               His aqua eyes are just visible beneath that mess. “It’s been a while,” he tells me.

               That voice; it’s the same and it still makes my heart flutter. The bag in my arm is hastily set aside before I barrel into the boy, arms around his waist as tightly as I can hold. I could melt when he returns the gesture but I’m too busy trying to keep from crying.

               I step back, wiping at my eyes. “Sorry. I just…Everyone thinks you’re dead.”

               He’s taking the fact pretty lightly. “I can imagine so.”

               “What happened?” I murmur.

               “Uh, I can’t exactly explain it,” he answers, dodging my question. Something about him seems softer than before. “The storm took me someplace far away and a lot of stuff happened. But I’m here now.”

               Taking in his words, I want to question him. There was a whole year where I thought he was at the bottom of the ocean; of course I want to know everything. However, above all of that, I’m relieved he’s back.

               I smile. “Well hey, welcome back handsome.”

               Riku’s responding chuckle dies out to something hesitant. “Are you busy tonight?”

               Reaching down, I scoop my groceries back up. “No. Just making dinner and being lazy tonight.”

               “Do you want to hang out?”

               It takes everything I have to not scream ‘Yes!’ at him. “Didn’t you just get back?”

               “Yeah,” he says with a sheepish grin. “But Kairi spent a few long hours nagging me about being so oblivious.”

               “What?”

               His shoulders bounce but I don’t miss that old spark of mischief. “That whole year before I left, you were flirting with me.”

               It’s suddenly a bit too hot for me and my brain threatens to malfunction. Instead, I take my turn to answer sheepishly, “I mean, yeah. But I think you settling in again is probably more important.”

               “It can wait. I’ve got a lot of stupidity to make up for.”

               I may never stop smiling again. “Only two years worth.”

               “Then I’d better get started.” I could just squeal. “I’ll pick you up tonight.”

               “I’ll see you then.”

               I bid the boy goodbye and it takes everything I have not to explode before I’m sure he’s well out of sight. And that’s it; my brain is shot for the rest of the day. I’m not doing homework, none of my chores get done, and dinner is nothing that I had planned. I just lie around, giddy as a teenager should be.

               I force myself not to bolt for the door when I hear a knock; I cannot, however, help the swelling happiness in my chest when I see him waiting for me.

               “Hey handsome,” I greet. That’s an adorable blush trying to spread across his face.

               “Hey. Are you ready?”

               I tilt my head. “We’re going out? Isn’t it kinda late?”

               “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from the monsters.” There’s a bit of the old self-confidence I remember him having.

               “Oh my knight in shining armor.” I follow Riku to the docks and I should’ve known he’d be taking me to the smaller island; it was his favorite place to hang out. But I’ve never been there at night so this will be a new experience for me.

               After he’s tied up the little boat, he offers a hand to me. “Careful.”

               “You’ve become quite the gentleman,” I tease, taking his hand.

               My joking goes right out the window when he pulls me up with absolutely no effort. “I think not wanting my date to hurt themself is just common courtesy.”

               “Fair enough.” I pray he doesn’t catch the mild quaver in the two words. “So what exactly are we doing out here?”

               “Whatever you want; just hanging out,” he says, walking out onto the moonlit beach. With a grunt, he plops down into the soft, white sand. With a bit more grace, I sit beside him.

               The ocean before us is dazzling. The water is calm, gently lapping at the land and reflecting the light from above. An endless sky is filled with millions of twinkling stars painting shades of blue and purple around the shining moon. There are no birds or strangers to interrupt the white-noise of the water; just us. And we’re not exactly quiet. We talk and laugh and joke about all sorts of things. I get vague hints that Riku’s time away had been quite an ordeal but we skirt around those topics. Still, I feel like I’m finally connecting to him; I’m not hiding anything or hinting at hidden feelings. I’m able to fully express myself. And though he may not be as snarky as he had been, I’m still enamored all the same.

               “It’s funny.” Riku says, looking up to the stars. “I wanted nothing more than to get off this island, but when I found out about you, I couldn’t wait to get back.

               Thank goodness it’s dark. “That’s kind of a silly reason to suddenly change your dreams.”

               “Not after the adventure I’ve had.” I don’t get a chance to dwell on the darkness in his words. Instead, my heart jumps into my throat when his hand sits on top of mind with a gentle squeeze. “Besides, I think you’re discounting yourself way too much. You’re worth changing dreams for.”

               What the hell do I say to that?! I sigh. “I know I was flirting with you but that doesn’t mean you have to do this. You don’t owe me anything. If you want, we can just-”

               My words are effectively silenced. It’s not smooth or gentle but Riku jams our lips together. I never would use the word awkward to describe him but this is terribly so. I still don’t hate it.

               I don’t know if it’s my own blush or the heat rolling off him, but the air between us is hot. When he breaks away, there’s that smile—I can die happy now.

               “If you end that sentence with ‘be friends,’ I’m going to throw you in the ocean,” he warns, a note of longing there.

               The astonishment in me takes a dive, succeeded by desire. Pulling myself up by his jacket, I swing a leg over Riku’s. My hands weave into his hair, pushing the locks from his face, revealing those beautiful teal eyes. Without another moment’s hesitation, I take a second kiss.

               First kisses are overrated. They’re awkward and never certain of both people’s feelings. But second kisses; with the confidence, understanding, and trust; those are the moments of passion that melt hearts. I am no exception. My insides are filled with thousands of butterflies but I can’t get enough—I will never get enough. I could live in this moment forever: just the two of us in this beautiful scene with our new-found love. I would’ve been gone only a moment too soon had I died earlier.

               Lips part, gasping for air. My eyes rapidly scan his face, trying to commit this moment to memory. Then the wave of euphoria washes over me and I let out a breathy laugh.

               “Fine. We’re not friends.”

~~~~~

Months Later…

               I trail through the sand, water lapping at my feet, birds cawing overhead, sun raining warmth on this quiet, little, lonely island.

               It’s been several months and it sucks. I got warning this time that he was going, but that doesn’t make me feel any better about his absence. The way he talked about it was like I may never see him again and he wouldn’t even give me any details. It was just ‘I gotta go’ and ‘I don’t know if I’ll come back,’ then he kissed me and disappeared; left me crying on the beach by myself. Even Sora and eventually Kairi disappeared too, but no, I get left behind. I’ve been flipping between anger and depression so much sometimes I just cry while I break things. Maybe it was ridiculous for me to think we’d always be together, maybe it would’ve been easier if he just said he was sick of me, but the fact that we were still so infatuated when he left makes this all the more miserable. I had less than a year to fall head-over-heels in love with him and, boy, did he leave his mark.

               Today’s one of those low days, where I miss him so much it almost hurts. So I’m on the little island, hoping for distractions; I’d even take memories of our little moments here—anything to dull the pain.

               Another round of sorrow creeps up on me and I take a moment to attempt clearing my vision.

               “Hey gorgeous.”

               My heart shudders so forcefully everything goes black and my ears ring. It clears quickly enough that I whirl around. He’s there, gasping like he ran a marathon to get here. I can’t believe it; also, I can’t take it. I take a running leap at Riku who falls on his ass to catch me.

               Sobbing into his shoulder, I manage to get out, “You’re not allowed to leave me again. I swear to the gods that I will tie you down if I have to.”

               Hugging me with his entire body, Riku answers, “I have so much to tell you.”

[dennou-translations]

Violet Evergarden Gaiden: Chapter 5

Please feel free to message me about possible corrections. If you can, consider supporting the creators by purchasing the official releases here.

← Previous || Index || Next →

“The Military School of Leidenschaftlich’s Army does not inquire people’s social ranks. The gates are open to all youths, and anyone at least fourteen years old can devote themselves to it regardless of their gender. National defense means protecting everything you love.”

Where had I seen a bulletin with these contents again? If I was certain, it had been in front of our business partner wholesale store, when I entered and exited it on an errand for my family. One particular sheet had been standing out on a board where the townsfolk stuck anything they felt like, from job hunts to searches for people. While biting into an apple that I had received from the store’s owner as recompense for the errand, my thirteen-year-old self had gazed at it intently. It was a good-quality paper rendered perfectly straight, firmly nailed by thumbtacks in all four corners. Pushed into the paper at the end of the text was a gold screw, as well as red sealing wax, bearing the emblem of Leidenschaftlich’s army.

As a child, I had thought that was a pretty cool life choice. How stupid. Even I would want to laugh at myself for being so naïve. Back then, I had not yet come to know the meaning of granting and taking away lives. Truth be told, once I tried becoming a soldier, reality ended up crushing many delusions of mine, but that’s a tale for later.

Let’s go back to my current story.

There were many reasons why I had decided that “yeah, I’ll become a soldier”. One was that I’m the second son of a merchant household, and since my older brother was the one who would take over the inheritances, I wasn’t needed there. Another one was that, as I had been raised in a big family, I wanted to hurry and become independent so that I could have my own space. Yet another was that the name my parents had given me was “Claudia”, which had made me think of wishing to become manly. Lastly, well... my older brother’s fiancée was a beautiful woman just my type, so I had wanted to keep a distance from her. The most important was that I desired to protect the family I loved but wanted to depart from, I guess.

The war had been progressively intensifying back then. A resources conflict between North and South. It was that one messy Continental War of a few years ago, where a religious confrontation between the West and the East became involved.

Leidenschaftlich was the continent’s southernmost extremity. If we had been attacked at that point, our defeat would have been certain and my family would likely have lost their lives. Because I was fond of my town and my people, and because I was fond of Leidenschaftlich, enlisting had been an inclination from my spontaneous feelings. The many things that had happened to me at the time boosted them... and so, I decided to become a soldier. I applied without telling my parents, and as for the entrance exam, I took it after lying that I was going to hang out with friends.

When a letter of acceptance was suddenly delivered by a postman to my home, my Pops beat the hell out of me. I hit him back, though. Pops was surprised at that. So was I. Like, “Pops is surprisingly weak”. During childhood, people think that their guardians are damn huge existences...

Yup. My parents had probably been worried. Choosing soldier as profession earns you a higher mortality rate than from leading a normal life.

In the Military School, all officers living inside the dorms was something enforced, so no one had a choice but let go of their parents. Still, I was stubborn, so I took a photo of my family with me as I left.

Two years after that, I guess, was when it happened. I met Gilbert.

   Gilbert Bougainvillea and Claudia Hodgins

   Do you know the true meaning of that flowering tree’s name?

They bloom every year. They’re planted all over the country as roadside trees, and when spring comes, lovely white buds sprout on them. When the petals fall, they form a pure-white carpet that never melts away. During that time, the colors of the city disappear like in a snowy country. People who go abroad have their mouths agape when coming back. You don’t see that sight anywhere else. No matter where I go, I remember that scenery whenever spring comes about. It’s like an extraordinarily fine woman that you get to spend only a single night with. If you listened to the music playing while the two of you were sleeping together, you’d remember her. Just like that, I’d reminisce to it. Whenever spring arrives, my memories summon the past along with the white of those flowers.

Gem-like emerald-green eyes hidden under a deeply burrowed military cap. Lifeless fingertips from pale hands that would not move after reaching out to the person walking away on him. Whispered words not conveyed.

I’d recall over and over again the Gilbert Bougainvillea of that time.

Gilbert... Gilbert Bougainvillea. Right, I started this story in order to talk about him. I spoke too much about myself. Let’s discuss him.

Bougainvillea, Bougainvillea. A clan named after a flower. If you live in this country and ask about the Bougainvillea family name, you’d know that it’s a famous family of military descent.

Didn’t you know? Statues and things like that of his ancestors are all over the city. After all, Leidenschaftlich has a history of having fought other nations that attacked and invaded it since the distant past. It’s easy for brilliant soldiers to be treated like legendary existences. It went to the point where it could be said that a soldier come from the Bougainvillea family was someone sure to take up employment. Even at present, this hasn’t changed.

He’s the young master of a well-off house. Actually, his bloodline is a high-class one. It also had matrimonial ties with the royal family of the monarchy period from before the country was administered by the military. The royal family is used as a symbol nowadays, though.

If times were better, he’s a person who we would not be allowed to talk about so casually. Yup, right on. This is why you exist now. They have that much power. Why I became friends with Gilbert, you ask?

It all began in early spring at the Military Service School of Leidenschaftlich.

The Military School was located near the national border. So that it could become a shield at the very front in case something happened, you see. The way it started from an all-seeing tower surrounded by a sturdy fort was just like a fortress city. If you went inside, you’d be sandwiched by narrow stone walls in a pathway that went on for long, and after passing through it, you’d finally be able to get out at the square. The city of Leiden was made like that too, right? If there was an attack, we’d defend it at the entrance, and then engage in confront at an open space.

Did you know that there’s a height limit to the buildings of Leiden? Most buildings were erected to the same height. But public institutions built inside the country were pretty big. Yup, that’s right. High-rise buildings were intentionally constructed in fixed intervals. For the sake of long-distance snipers. That’s the kind of country we live in. Hearing it that way, you might imagine it as some ostentatious building, but it’d turn into a beautiful thing when spring came. The roadside trees in our country will bud with white flowers every year, right? Yes, that kind. Strangely enough, its name is “bougainvillea”.

I don’t know why his household has that surname, but surely it’s got something to do with the fact that those vines were planted all over the country.

The completely white carpet that can be made out of those tiny flowers falling little by little is a gentle beauty. That sight is enough to be sometimes praised as the “residence of angel feathers”. Those vines surrounded the Military School in rows.

A few years after having enrolled into it, my hobby was going on idle strolls during that time of the year, so I was taking a walk. I got greeted by a passing freshman. “The place you’re about to enter is hell~,” I thought to myself while greeting back with a smile.

It was warm and pleasant under the lively sunlight, and just as it was about to melt the insides of my head, I found an eye-opening person. What kind of person was it? He was a beauty. Yep, he was... the kind of beauty that you don’t see around so often.

It was about as lengthy as yours. His long black hair formed a lenient curve and his eyes were a deep green. He had handsome facial features that gave off an androgynous impression, but the long limbs that he was gifted with and his well-trained body looked pretty cool in the white naval uniform he was dressed in. That’s what people would say. He was the kind of man that other men would fall for on sight, so to speak. That was the kind of person he was.

He was arguing with someone. As the two were side-by-side, I could soon tell they were siblings. The big discrepancy was that the boy who was presumably the younger brother was the one with a more awe-inspiring look. The two had not noticed that a passerby like me was walking their way.

It was weird for a guy wearing a naval uniform to be in front of the army’s Military School in the first place. They piqued my interest, so I couldn’t help standing there to eavesdrop. I could hear what they were talking about in bits.

“Brother, you’re selfish.”

“It’s for your sake; understand it, Gil.”

“Why do you never tell me anything?”

“Then cut off our ties as brothers.”

“All I ever do is say yes.”

When the younger brother said so, I got sad and felt like siding with him. I was at loss, so I stayed as a spectator.

After a while, the two stopped yelling at each other, and the older brother deliberately took off the military cap that the younger one was wearing, reached a hand toward his head and patted it messily. The younger brother was making a face that seemed like he was frustrated from the bottom of his heart. As if to hide that face, the older brother buried the cap deep onto the other’s head, turned his back to him and left. He didn’t even turn to look at the younger brother, who was probably crying.

I felt bad for the boy and tried to go talk to him. But when I saw him raising his lowered head, I stopped. He wasn’t crying. As if none of the emotions that were there until just then had ever existed, his expression became cold and he went through the gates of the Military School.

That was the first instant I saw Gilbert. I had never seen a boy make a face like that before, so I just continued staring at his back as if I had grown senile.

It became the topic that a son of the family of national heroes had enrolled as the top student among the freshmen that year. I had skipped the freshmen’s entrance ceremony and didn’t see anything, so I had no idea, but thinking back about it now, that was him.

Despite all of us being fellow students, we didn’t get to interact with each other if our school years were different. Even if we had joined training, it was impossible to make a distinction since it was just men. What caused the occasion for us to properly meet face-to-face was a small incident.

The ratio of enrollment in the Army Service School of Leidenschaftlich was of seven men to every three women. The women’s duties were normally of telegraph soldiers or replenishment troops, so our curriculums were different, and of course, our dorms were separate too. Our curriculum? Running, running, running. Building muscle. Firing guns, firing, firing, running, running, running. A repetition of that. The rest was classroom lectures. We’d learn how to form strategies, set up camps and use communication equipment. There were also the subjects learned at ordinary schools like normal. The girls had it easier than us, but it didn’t change that it was hard for everyone.

Guys and girls who devoted themselves to national defense day and night getting into relationships away from the eyes of our demon-like instructors was something, well, natural. After all, we didn’t have any other form of amusement. Romance was an amusement.

I’d also played around with countless people myself, but I never had a love that went as far as making my body burn. In that point, I’m sure I might’ve never had a true love. I never stuck to only one person. I like all women, so loving just one feels weird.

No biggie for me. Romance was a diversion anyhow. But diversions can cause some pretty dangerous stuff to follow you around. There were times when it was just pleasure for me but the other person was betting their life on it.

Maybe due to that attitude of mine being the one to blame, one of the girls I had fooled around with pushed a letter of challenge onto me. A letter of challenge. Do you know them? Letters with contents like, “I hate you very much”, “I’ll send you flying”, “Be here on X day of X month”. That’s right. There are letters like those in the world too.

It seemed she was going out with me with the intention of getting married. I had no idea. No, really. I didn’t even lay a hand on her, y’know? Did we ever go as far as kissing? I’m serious, I tell you. Kissing is a greeting to me.

“I’ve got no choice but to apologize wholeheartedly for this in my own way.” Just as I thought so, when I went to the place I had been called over to, there he was. Who?

Gilbert Bougainvillea.

That boy I had seen on the day of the entrance ceremony, standing fleetingly in the middle of those white flowers with his head hanging down, was there. From the very start, he had been piercing me with a scornful emerald-green gaze as I walked over. He was fourteen, I was sixteen.

“Are you Claudia Hodgins?” was the first thing he said. Just like his face, his voice was gallant.

At fourteen years of age, Gilbert somewhat gave off the feeling of a small adult. His black hair was settled down in a way that not a single thread would dishevel. He had dignified facial traits even though he was young. From his voice tone to his gestures, the man named Gilbert Bougainvillea was already pre-made. He had come from a family of soldiers, so from his point of view, maybe the Military School was just an extension of his home.

Surrounded by trees under the shadow of the school building, those training barracks were a place that didn’t have any popularity, but other than Gilbert, the girl who had sent me the letter of challenge and quite a number of onlookers were there too.

“Don’t say ‘Claudia’ ever again. If I get called by this name, it’ll turn into a chronic toothache for me. And you are…?”

“I’m Gilbert Bougainvillea. I’m your junior, but in this situation, I’m in a position equal to yours as her representative in the duel that she requested. Therefore, I will be omitting honorifics and protect her dignity as just a man. I shall be your opponent in her stead.”

He was a kid with way of talking that quite reeked of seriousness, I thought. I was also a child with not too big a difference in age from him, but if a fourteen-year-old boy talked like that, you’d be surprised, right? More than anything, I was surprised at that fateful chance meeting. I had only seen him for a moment, but the Gilbert of that time and that scenery of white flowering trees had stayed seared into my heart, and he was a person remarkable enough to make you remember him unintentionally out of the blue.

I beckoned him with a, “C’mere, c’mere” and whispered into his ear, “Gilbert – can I call you Gilbert? Why’s an underclassman like you getting involved in the fight between me and that girl? Are you her new boyfriend and got mad after she told you about me?”

“I don’t mind being called Gilbert. You’re wrong about that. I’m not her lover. I just happened to come across her when she was crying by coincidence, and after I heard about her circumstances, I was put in charge of representing her in the duel. I’m also not willing to fight an upperclassman... one that I don’t hold a personal grudge against, to boot... but I have no choice. If she will be at ease with this, I mean. It seems you’re a pretty terrible man.”

I looked at the girl who was the source of that comedy-rather-than-tragedy over Gilbert’s shoulder. I didn’t have any memory of our relationship being anything other than drinking tea together a number of times.

“What’d she say I’ve done to her?”

“The kind of indecent things that I can’t say aloud at all.”

I was so embarrassed at being called “indecent” by that boy that I couldn’t bear it.

“I didn’t do it; I definitely didn’t do it. There’re girls who’ve slept by my side, but I haven’t slept with that one. We’ve dated. But I haven’t laid a hand on her. I guess I’ve so much as kissed her on the cheek. But relatives do that too, right?”

“Then, why would she lie to me?”

“‘Cause she wants to catch my attention, doesn’t she?”

“And probably yours too,” I added in my mind.

“If she tried to catch your attention with ill intent, it wouldn’t be effective, would it?”

At that statement, I felt the cleverness of the young Gilbert, but at the same time, I thought he was a child who still didn’t know what the crudeness of the world was like.

“Gilbert, you’ve never gone out with a woman before, have you? There’re two paths that guys and girls broken by love go through most of the times: to get attached or to hate each other. When one hates the other, they try to push the other down both social and materially.”

“Even though it’s someone they fell for?”

“It’s exactly because it’s someone they fell for.”

Gilbert furrowed his brows, looking troubled, and then turned his back to me, saying he was going to properly ask the girl once again about her story. He was a serious guy.

I grabbed his arm and prevented him from doing it. “Listen, Gilbert-boy, this is a fight that you got involved in because of some boring sense of justice. Act out your role until the end. If you don’t, you won’t get to protect her dignity, right?”

“It’s not ‘boy’. Are you... okay with this? If what you said is true, you’d be accusing yourself of a wrongdoing that you didn’t commit and fighting for no reason. And it’d mean that I’m being lied to and used by her. Seems so foolish...”

“With all due respect, Young Master, but there’s a limit to how much of a goody-two-shoes you can be to accept being someone’s duel representative in itself, and I think it’s also a foolish action, y’know?”

“It seems I’ll have to shoot your words back at you as well and I’m sorry for that, but there’s no way anyone could not listen to a lady’s story if they saw her crying along the way... even if the result of it weren’t something good.”

Gilbert had whispered coldly with a bitter expression, but I mostly got a positive impression from that reply. He was a young man with a will that you’d rarely see in recent years.

I took the hand of the arm that I had been holding and forcefully shook it. Perhaps because I swung it too broadly, his body rocked along with the swaying of the handshake.

“I agree with that. What, so you’re an appreciator too? A women praiser?”

“I was merely educated like that by my parents.”

He was just a high-pedigree dog. I felt let down.

“That so? Well, it’s fine. Anyway, from your words just now, the points that our interests have in common became clear. What’s important here isn’t the face-saving of guys who got rounded up for a fight, but the feelings of a girl broken by love. She wants to feel better by giving me a blow, right? Why don’t we do that?”

“You’re saying you’ll lose on purpose?”

“I committed the sin of making a girl cry. I can do as much as let my face lie on the ground and get some mud on it.”

The shade of disdain in his eyes of a rare emerald-green color disappeared and I could see a bit of admiration sprout in them. “By the looks of it, I’ve misunderstood you. My deepest apologies for speaking impolitely to you, my senior.”

“No problem at all. We’re the ones who got you involved in the conflict.”

“It’s my first time in a duel like this and I don’t know how it goes, so it’d be helpful if you could tell me.”

“We can hit each other however we see fit and I’ll fall down after they watch us roll over, so twist my arm or something and end it there. I’ll act in a way that the onlookers will know it’s your win.”

“Speaking of which, do you know who those spectators are?”

“Gambling customers I called over. I’ll get twenty percent of the earnings from the leader of the gamblers, so it’s half of that for you and me.”

“I take back everything I said before. I’ll knock you down.” I didn’t understand very well why, but Gilbert started referring rudely to me and clearly ruined the mood.

Then, the gong of the fight resounded with a “clang, clang, clang”. Having grown tired of waiting for us since we wouldn’t stop talking, the boss of the gamblers played a battle-start tune with a pot and ladle. My relationship with Gilbert began originally from that fistfight.

“You’d better regret starting this stupid wager,” Gilbert cursed upon me, letting go of the stand-up collar of his school uniform’s jacket onto the ground.

We both measured a chance for the first blow. In contrast to me, who firmly kept my arms glued to my sides and balled my fists, Gilbert shook his arms as if adapting them.

——What? I’ve never seen this stance before.

Since my older brother and Pops used to throw fists with me and I to throw back by way of playing around, and since there was also a time when I would do nothing but get into fights in the city, that type of fistfight was part of my lifework. I was totally thinking that my opponent would come at me with Leidenschaftlich army-style martial arts. After all, he was the son of a family of soldiers. If you were to talk about martial arts learned by men who lived in Leiden, that was it. But Gilbert’s stance was different.

My principle in fights was to first observe the other’s attitude with non-aggressive defense. Following that principle, I waited for my opponent’s move. Yet it seemed that the same applied to Gilbert, so we just sluggishly watched each other’s battle preparation. When the audience jeered at us to “hurry and start beating each other”, I clicked my tongue.

The performance was important for the gambling. Left without a choice, I struck him with a big kick after drawing my leg to behind my back as a test. He dodged once. I hit his tight the second time, but he acted as if nothing had happened. The third time, he grabbed my foot and knocked me down face-up just like that. He dealt me a series of consecutive straight punches to the stomach after dropping onto me. It wasn’t a heavy attack, given that he was a boy who still weighted light, but it could make even my eight-pack abs scream.

It’d be boring if I lost in that way, right?

Taking advantage of my flexibility, which had a favorable reputation with the girls, I squeezed his neck with my legs and twisted him upturned to the side. He was light, you see. Being light also means being astute. He escaped from my leg technique smooth and quickly. We both stood back up to readying ourselves once again.

“Hodgins, don’t play around! We’re betting on you!”

“You two, don’t get injured because of me!”

“That’s the spot! Do it, do it, do it!”

The spectators were loud, but even as I heard them, it all only came in from one ear and left from the other. That was because my senses of sight, smell and many others were directed at Gilbert Bougainvillea.

Maybe having finished studying my way of fighting, Gilbert started actively hitting me. Of course, I also counter-attacked and hit him back. Nothing to be proud of, but my fists are heavy and they hurt. An attack where I socked with all of the weight in my body, which was a congregation of muscles that I had polished, would usually cause my opponents to collapse after I hit them three times, but I didn’t manage to settle it on him straight away.

Gilbert had converted his battle style into one of simultaneous offense and defense. I hit him. While Gilbert covered with one hand, he at the same time shoved his other fist into my stomach. It wasn’t just that his movements were agile. His fighting method was something you couldn’t manage unless you had trained a lot. To top it off, even though that guy was getting hit, he had a face like he wasn’t feeling a thing.

“Gilbert, where’d you learn that stuff?”

Gilbert sleekly avoided both my kick and my question, “Well, where was it again?”

——You really fourteen?

Just as those words had come up to my throat, Gilbert said, “Let’s end this already.”

Gilbert’s fists suddenly became heavy. Annoyingly enough, it seemed he had been holding back until then. He came aiming accurately for my body’s vitals with a calm expression – so dirty of him. I became defensive-only and eventually fell on my ass. Gilbert looked down at me from above with a face that said, “Now, lose just like you wanted”.

“Gilbert, you’d better review your attitude towards your elders.”

By then, I’d forgotten that I had to lose on purpose. I surrendered my body to the blood going up my head, raised it from my position of having collapsed onto the ground, placed my hands on the soil, and rammed his beautiful face hard with a lateral kick using as much strength as possible. That was my favorite stunt. A tactic I didn’t use for just anything.

The one who had rolled onto the ground now was Gilbert. I merrily mounted him and punched his body. Enveloped in a swirl of excitement, the onlookers rose in whispers. It was also a pleasure for me to hold down the guy that had been scorning at me until just a few seconds before.

No, wait a minute. Stop judging me with those big eyes of yours! This is the past. A story about the past! Yep, yep, listen closely to the continuation, ‘kay?

While I became absorbed with self-satisfaction and beat the crap out of Gilbert, with no regard for appearances, Gilbert grabbed a handful of dirt from nearby and smacked it into my eyes. It also got in my mouth. Tasted of earth. I spat it together with saliva.

“Bastard, that was unfair!”

“Tell that to yourself.”

Unexpected, quite unexpected. Apparently, he’d do anything to win. I thought he had seemed like a more scrupulous guy.

He pushed me aside and made an escape, and after taking a large distance, he swiftly did an approach run and came back my way. What I could see with my field of vision clouded by the dirt were the shoe soles of his military boots.

First of all, his right foot sent a blow to my chest, and as my body rotated midair, his left leg kicked for the second and third times, then his right leg attacked me again after I had rotated once. Having received three kicks in a row in the span of an instant, I collapsed onto my back.

——What kinda attack is this?!

Above thinking of it as terrifying, irritating or anything like that, I honestly thought it was “cool”. Nowadays, I know there are people of superhuman fighting races such as you and Benedict, so I wouldn’t be too shocked if I were shown a feat like that. But back then, it was impactful for me. Yeah, it was impactful.

Gilbert Bougainvillea was to me a new type of human being who had suddenly revealed himself. His rotational kicks hadn’t overwhelmed just my body. He took my heart too.

What we did after that? Beat each other muddily without paying any mind to the observers. Tired of waiting for the outcome of the match, everyone gradually left.

It seemed the girl who was the center of the whirlpool at that time had attempted playing tragic heroine at the beginning, but one of the onlookers came to talk to her midway, and she hit it off with him and vanished. The only ones watching in the end were a friend of mine who the head of the gamblers had trusted with the task and people with too much free time.

“Hey, when are they gonna settle it?”

We didn’t settle it.

At last, it was decided that we were at a tie and both of us were sent to the infirmary. Our fight was found out too, so the two of us had to take penal regulations on cordial terms with each other from our group of instructors. As to prioritize the medical treatment of our injuries, the disciplinary measures were the light punishment of ordering us clean up the bathrooms of every facility.

I had done something bad to him. It would’ve been fine if I had just lost right away, yet I got serious... Well, he’d gotten serious too, so it wasn’t just my fault in that point. No, I’m sorry. It was my fault.

In a way, I apologized, but Gilbert said with a look of disdain that he never again wanted to be involved with me when we were cleaning the bathrooms. There was no helping that, since his brilliant school history, which had been about to start from there, ended up being tainted by the fight that he had with a senior as soon as he enrolled. We were of different ages and had different personalities too. The truth was that we were supposed to be alienated from each other.

You’re here now because this didn’t happen.

   Ever since the fight had ended, I stalked Gilbert. Calling it “stalking” is heavy-handed, but thinking back about how I was at the time, no matter how you look at it, there’s no way of wording it other than that.

“Gilbert, I’ll treat you. See, as an apology for back then.”

“Not necessary.”

“You’re reserved with others, huh. We both took the same punishment, right? No need for formal language. You using that at this stage of the game makes me feel itchy. I’ll introduce you to a girl, then. What’s your type? And the breast size?”

“I’m begging you, don’t follow me.”

I’d invite him for meals despite his unwillingness, have him learn the taste of adulthood through alcohol that I had managed to get my hands on in secret, and occasionally bicker with him. I was also the one who taught him how to smoke. He didn’t know most of the general forms of amusement, so even when I taught him card games, the reactions he’d show were entertaining. Soon enough, the guys from my year that I hung out with started doting on him too.

Gilbert was the type that older people got attached to. But what I’m talking about is a different way of showing affection. I mean, he wasn’t affectionate. I guess the right way to put it is that he piqued my interest.

From the get-go, I had been so, so interested in him that I couldn’t help myself.

About that, the same could be said of you. I’m not hitting on you, though. Huhu, not hitting on you.

It was different from that... In retrospect, ours might’ve been a relationship where I did nothing but chase after him. He was kind of... a hard-to-figure person. Though he had a strong sense of justice, he was rather cold-blooded, and if he had a reason that compelled him to gain victory in a given situation even if through an unfair move, he’d do it just fine. He had a man-of-character side to him, but he was also self-interested and prideful. He had a charm that drew people to him, but he himself didn’t have much interest in others. He was a man who only ever thought about how he’d tread the pure-white path towards his own future that had been laid out to him.

I once asked what had been best out of the things that I taught him. “Smoking. It’s not bad as a means of exchanging information,” was what he said.

I found out why he had turned out like that later on. It feels awkward to tell you about this, but it’s an episode that can’t be left out if we’re talking about his past.

Gilbert Bougainvillea had a fiancée.

He told me that when I was about to graduate. At the time, we were in a state where the two of us hanging out with each other was something that looked extremely normal to the people around us.

What happened? Well, nothing. Just a repetition of the same stuff. I’d follow Gilbert around, tease him, give in most of the time, occasionally apologize to Gilbert... We became normal friends.

The instructions had told me severely, “Don’t pay mind to the Bougainvillea heir” and things like that, but I didn’t listen to them. Gilbert had also seemed to warn me with a “don’t get involved with me”, but I didn’t listen to him either. In that point, I wasn’t a good kid. I probably knew him better than his buddies of the same age as him did. That’s exactly why learning such new information when I was already going to graduate had been so shocking to me.

He came to talk to me during a recess day in the Military School. Said he had a favor to ask.

“I’m going to eat out with my fiancée right now... Can’t you come too? We’re in a slightly complicated situation, so I want to request the help of a third party.”

“I’ll go. Of course I’ll go. Hah? Speaking of which, you up and got a fiancée behind my back? Since when? ‘Since six years ago’? You—How old were you back then? ‘Ten’? Why didn’t you tell me?! Could it be you’ve been going on dates with her or something during the holidays without me knowing? You have? Gilbert, you bastard!” I followed him while saying stuff like that.

We properly took written permission to leave campus, making meticulous arrangements. Even though he had intended to take me along from the beginning, the part of earning consent was just like him.

The meeting spot was a small café located halfway the road from the Military School to Leiden. I’d also gone there sometimes to have tea. The shop had a nice feeling to it.

Well, we met her there. Skip. All right, next topic.

Eh? What kind of person was she, you ask? Hm~, I don’t wanna talk about that. If I were forced to say it, she gave off the feeling of a Young Mistress from a fine household. Didn’t seem like she went out... I really don’t want to talk about her. Why...? Because I feel Gilbert would definitely get mad at me.

As for why he had called me... just like he had said, they were in a slightly complicated situation.

At the beginning, the fiancée wasn’t Gilbert’s. There’s that older brother of his, and the brother was the one supposed to take over the family inheritances, but – who knows what he was thinking – he had enrolled into the navy’s Military School as practically a runaway. That even though the men of their family are set to join the army.

Since you’re an ex-soldier, you know about it, right? Though both are national defense organs, there’s this unseen ditch between the army and the navy. Like in the ratio of defense expenditures and stuff. It’s an adults’ problem.

Yeah. Looks like the Big Bro didn’t get along well with his family. I heard he had a spontaneous personality. With that, it was doubtlessly painful for him to have grown up in an authoritarian household. Thinking about it now, the man that had been with Gilbert when I first saw him had been that very brother. And the Big Bro had run away from home, so everything was pushed onto the ten-year-old Gilbert, because both his parents had decided he was going to be the family head and made Gilbert take over the fiancée too.

This is rude to both of them, but they gave off a feeling of keeping a distance from each other. Unlike his brother, Gilbert was the kind of guy who wouldn’t suffer if pressured to live as the role model of the Bougainvilleas... so everyone around him naturally chose to place their expectations on him instead of rectifying his brother. It seemed that Gilbert was also cherishing the fiancée, in his own Gilbert way. But the fiancée had a wish, and Gilbert decided to fulfill it.

Eloping. The thing that men and women would do to oppose the flow of the world and escape from their status in the social ladder to satisfy their love.

Not with Gilbert. You see, the fiancée... had tried to fall for Gilbert, but hadn’t managed to. And then she fell for another guy. A butler from her house, she had said. It was romance, after all.

Making him listen with ridiculous earnestness while his own fiancée confessed this to him and then going as far as requesting him to help her elope had been insensitive of her. But Gilbert had acknowledged it with a two-worded response and summoned me for an assistance plan.

When listening to the story, I wondered if he actually had the function called emotions running inside his body.

I wanted to scold his fiancée. Like, “You go do as you please on your own”, “Don’t get Gilbert involved”. But Gilbert started studying escape routes into other countries with shit-eating seriousness.

“The access from the border is monitored strictly. Hodgins, your home was a store that also deals with imported goods, right? Of course, it probably also has permission from the government to ship them. Couldn’t you have them mixed in and get them out of the country? If it’s possible, we could change the migration route to water transportation afterward... and avoid the conflict zones, no matter how much of a detour it is,” he said, dispassionate and business-like. “How much can you spend? It’s better for you to convert into money every possession that you can manage freely while there’s time. This or you can make wheat into products of your preference... That won’t be enough. It’s uncertain whether you’ll be able to set up a basis for your livelihood right away. I understand. I’ll provide aid too. No, this much is just... There’s the whole matter with my brother, after all.”

The more level-headed Gilbert remained, the more rage bubbled up and erupted inside me.

The conversation that had my help as prerequisite came to an end. On the way back, I asked Gilbert if he didn’t like her. If he didn’t feel even just a little bit of sadness or irritation at those circumstances – they had been engaged for several years, after all, no matter whether it was something that their parents had decided.

Gilbert, who had been walking silently, looked my way. The flowering trees that painted the roads white in early spring had lost their petals and were dyed green. Yet even though we were in a world with a different scenery, as expected, Gilbert was reflected in my eyes as a remarkably exceptional existence.

With the corners of his lips curling up just a little, Gilbert said, “The fact that there’s no meaning in chasing someone who’s departing has been drilled into my body with my brother’s case.” Again, he was aloof. His mouth moved as if being made to speak borrowed words. “I can’t say I don’t have empathy for her, but... if I were asked whether I have attachment, I don’t. That person wasn’t mine from the very start.”

“‘Yours’, you say... You...”

“Bad way of wording it, huh. It’s not like I’m referring to her as a property because she’s a woman or anything.”

“No, that’s not it... You...”

Aah, so this is it, I thought.

——Since it’s you, you’re always...

I felt for the first time right then that I’d come in contact with the essence of the person named Gilbert Bougainvillea.

——That’s why, even if you’re surrounded by a big number of people, you’re always...

That guy didn’t have a sense of attachment.

——No matter how much positivity you get or how praised you are...

It’s possible that his brother who had left was the one he had some sort of attachment towards. But even if it weren’t just that, he was surely...

——You look alone.

...a person who had gotten used to giving up on things. That’s why he treated all sorts of matters and people in a measured way. Even if his true intentions weren’t so.

“To begin with, we’ve caused trouble for their daughter thanks to my brother. Doing this much is nothing.”

——But where do your feelings go?

“Our parents will certainly have something to say about it, but mine will just match me with someone new to become my wife.”

——Aren’t you disturbed by having the person that will accompany you for the rest of your life decided for you like a board game piece?

“The eldest son of her household is the one who will take over the inheritances, so there’ll be no problem for them other than their reputation. If they can continue being related to us through my generation, it’ll be solved with that.”

No matter how much Gilbert talked in order to convince me, I never said, “That’s right”.

The one by my side was a young man still in his teens. He was a child who, as a result of being demanded reasonability, didn’t look for meaning in his own existence other than just as something “convenient” for people. He saw himself and others as nothing but assets.

“I was... happy that you had a fiancée, still. I did get pissed at you for hiding it from me, though.” For some reason, I was the one who’d gotten sad and my voice broke into falsetto because of suppressed tears. Gilbert asked what was wrong, but I deceived him by pretending to cough.

You know, I had... seen Gilbert’s future. No matter how much glory he achieved, or how long he walked through a brilliant path without deviating from it, there’d be hardly anything left in the palm of his hands. Throwing things and people away when he had no business with them and not caring if he himself were thrown away, he would merely continue treading the narrow, risky, pure-white path that had been laid out to him in a world of complete darkness. But he’d likely cross it in an extremely beautiful way, more skillfully than anyone.

What his hands were holding onto was already nothing but guns.

I’m a selfish person. Which is why I was simply sad at the truth that, even though I thought of Gilbert as my number one friend, it was probably not the same for him.

   Yeah, the eloping was a success.

I have no idea where those two are or what they’re doing now, but they trampled over my friend’s dignity, so I hope they’re happy. The aftermath was full of trouble, but the problem with the Bougainvillea heir’s fiancée running away soon wiped out.

Gilbert’s Old Man had died all of a sudden.

Just as we pushed the rude lovebirds into my family’s business truck and the two of us came back with nonchalant faces like, “My, my, it’s over”, an instructor called Gilbert to stop him, his facial expression altered.

“Where have you been? What were you doing? We were looking for you. He passed away. You didn’t make it to his last moments.”

The instructor must’ve been panicking too. He bombarded the stunned Gilbert with a hail of words mayhem. Gilbert did get agitated, but not confused. He’s the kind of guy who can cut off his emotions and do what he’s supposed to do. He said he understood and immediately went back to his home.

I wasn’t allowed to accompany him, leaving the campus only with permission to go to the funeral. My relatives were mostly healthy people, so my first time attending someone’s burial was the one of Gilbert’s Old Man. As I nervously went to it, there he was before me, performing the role of chief mourner with a grounded appearance... Gilbert, who had become the head of the Bougainvilleas in both name and substance, was discreetly clearing his throat.

“Why, if I knew this would happen, they wouldn’t have had to elope... Now that their main obstacle is gone, I could have pulled out of it... I’ve done that person wrong,” he said.

He called his father an “obstacle”.

That was surely because of the way Gilbert had been raised, as a “tool” of the Bougainvillea family who would give continuation to the household. He had been treated in a way so that he’d live as a strategic arrangement for the prosperity of the clan. It had swerved him. People give back what others do to them.

The closer you are to him, the better you understand. He’s a kind-hearted but lonely guy. Even though he’s got a cute face when he laughs, he hardly does so. He knows it’s not something suitable of his role.

I thought that when I... when I... died... either this, or if I ever disappeared from before him... the only thing I didn’t want was for him to treat me like an object. I couldn’t take it.

Whenever the dices of fate rolled in his emerald-green eyes, he didn’t see anything other than a windingly stretched future. He’d just earnestly stare at a path that wasn’t the one of a human being.

Was there ever gonna come a day that a man like him would chase after someone? Somebody – anyone would do. Someone, someone. A person that he wouldn’t be able not to be affectionate with.

Would he ever get to have that?

   Hodgins cut the words short at that point, reaching out his hand. His fingertips touched the hair of Violet, who was tucked in her bed. He slowly ripped off a thread that had become sticky due to sweat.

“Then, President Hodgins, after you graduated... when... did you reunite with that person?”

Upon being requested a continuation of the story with long wheezy breaths typical of those whose bronchi were suffering, Hodgins gave a strained smile. He stood up from the chair he had been sitting on, placing the blanked that stopped at Violet’s chest securely up to her neck. “Let’s continue this after you’re cured from your cold,” he whispered with utmost tenderness and a soft gaze. The ends of his statement overflowed with an affection similar to paternity.

They were inside a room large enough for two people to live in. It had light blue flowery wallpaper and a chandelier decorated with violas. On a round table sitting at the center of the room, there were boxes, bags and fruits baskets wrapped in ways that made clear they were get-well gifts. The interior of the bedroom was not too cold, yet wood burned in the fireplace, popping into sparks with a snap. The windows, which had its curtains closed, shook clatteringly due to the wind. The needles of the room’s clock pointed an hour just before evening.

“This surprises even me. I wonder if it is because I have distanced myself from the battlefields... To think I would grow this weak. My apologies for not managing to keep control of my health.”

“What’re you saying? The reason why you had a fever was that the difference in temperature got to you, right? The place you were commissioned to was a northernmost land, after all... Sorry for making you push yourself. Don’t mind it and go to sleep, ‘kay?” while speaking, he gently caressed the slightly dark circles under Violet’s blue eyes with his index finger. It was not as if they would disappear with that at all, but it was a display of his wish for them to do so. “We’re keeping in touch with the clients that booked you, and most of them want to rely on you even if you’re late, so there weren’t any cancellations to the requests. Don’t worry about anything and take your time, Little Violet. You look pretty tired.”

“I shall cure myself soon. By tomorrow even.”

“No can do, no can do. Take at least three days to rest from work counting with today. ‘Cause I’ll come over after these three days to decide whether or not you’ll be in condition to go back. Sorry for forbidding visits from the others.”

“No, it would be terrible if they caught this. President Hodgins, you too... My apologies for having you talk about so many things in addition to making you come here... I have caused you to stay too long.”

“I’m fine. If catching it would cure you, Little Violet, then I’d rather catch it. After all... I was something like your foster parent, though for a short while. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

At that response, Hodgins smiled with his whole face. “The book that Little Lux asked me to give you is in the brown package. I ended up seeing the contents, and turns out it’s a popular romance novel. If your eyes get tired, make sure to stop reading immediately.”

“Yes.”

“The rest is from the members of the company. Benedict told me to say ‘take care’. Cattleya’s scheduled to be back tomorrow, but even if she comes here on her own accord, you shouldn’t keep her company.”

“Yes.”

“Tell the people here at home if there’s anything you want me to do. I’ll leave work and rush over.”

“No, Lux would cry, so please do your job.”

Hodgins bid his farewells and attempted giving her a kiss on the cheek, but his lips were blocked by the palm of a hand burning with heat. As he asked with a sad voice if she did not want it, Violet replied that he could catch her cold, so it was dangerous.

Intentionally making a noise, he kissed the palm covering his lips. “G’night, Little Violet.”

“Good night, President Hodgins.”

Silently leaving the room, Hodgins walked through the broad corridor with a quick pace. On the way, he informed a passing servant of his intention to take his leave. His aspect of haste also showed after that in the way he drove his car.

Perhaps because the residence he had visited was located away from the capital Leiden, the Sun was about to set when he arrived to the city. The madder red sky was gradually starting to envelop itself in dark colors.

By the looks of it, today was a day of strong winds. Hodgins’s classic car swayed unsteadily during the fear-inspiring journey.

The place Hodgins headed to was a lodging facilities district in a place a little out of the townscape of Leidenschaftlich’s capital, Leiden. Inside it, there were not only the types of inn that one could stop by unexpectedly without reservations but also inns that one could not pass through the gates into the site unless an inviter let them. The kind of inn that he rang the bell of was exactly the latter.

The first floor was the entrance for the residents, as well as the level of employees who carried out the administration of everything. There were five floors above it. Despite the single-storied buildings being tall and three-floor ones being mainstream, the building could be considered quite a high-rise amongst them. Only contractors could live in each floor. It was a high-class one-floor-rent inn, where the bedrooms, bathrooms, kitchens, etc. had all been designed in a luxurious fashion. Even just a one-night stay required quite a sum. Incidentally, the residents were chosen ones.

As he rang the bell of the top floor’s apartment, there were footsteps from the inside.

“Who might it be?”

Hodgins grinned at the well-mannered words. “It’s me. The little fox who saved you on that day.”

“I don’t have a fox for acquaintance.” The voice of the residence’s owner suddenly grew lower as he recognized the other person.

“Then, the one who threw fists with you in our first meeting on that day, Hodgins.”

“Wait there. I’ll open now.”

The chosen resident who opened the oak door with a gun at hand was a man past his twenties at the prime of his working life, as well as the head of a family that no one knew not of within Leidenschaftlich’s army. Despite it being the middle of the night, he was dressed in his military uniform. Only his collar was loose, unbuttoned at the neck. Perhaps due to him having no time to rest, his hair, usually combed down flatly over his forehead, lay disheveled and he had grown a stubble. He had also removed his eyepatch, displaying his lacerated eye.

“How’s Violet?”

Hodgins shrugged at the words said to him the instant their gazes met. “‘Hodgins, you’ve worked hard late into the night. Good evening.’ – Can’t you ask after you tell me that?”

“Hodgins, you’ve worked hard late into the night. Good evening... I’m exhausted.”

Unable to bear the look that said, “Just tell me the situation already”, he answered, “It’s just a cold. I told you not to worry, didn’t I? If you’re gonna visit her tomorrow, isn’t it useless getting a report from me?”

“I was concerned...”

Maybe because he had been reminiscing to the past, he felt that the current Gilbert had become quite amicable. To think that he, who used to be so prickly during his boyhood, now loved somebody. Hodgins bit down a laughter that suddenly came out of him.

“Hey, what was that? Why did you laugh?”

“I didn’t. By the way, it seems so expensive here... Did you finish paying for the place you were living in a while ago?”

“I’m renting it for a cheap price thanks to my household’s connections. I’m in the middle of looking for an apartment... so this is a temporary residence. I was... moving houses periodically so that Violet wouldn’t find me before, but the need for that is gone...”

After the train hijacking incident, Gilbert apologized to Hodgins and the Evergarden family, stopped hiding himself and continued interacting with Violet. The two were working things out with each other.

As one was a colonel of the army and one was a demanded Auto-Memories Doll, they had little time to meet. The moments and places where they could be alone with each other were valuable.

“Aah, no wonder you wouldn’t want to go back to the main residence where your honorable mother and sisters are.”

Gilbert nodded. “I don’t want to call her over there... Hodgins, you telling me about her situation directly has helped me out. Come in.”

He probably was truly tired. The words he uttered had frequent pauses.

Hodgins was let into the largest room. Perhaps because the lights inside said room were not properly lit, it was dark. Only a lamp sitting on a chest in a corner of the room illuminated the area around it.

“Don’t open the window. The papers will fly.”

The desk in front of the chair that Hodgins silently sat on had an awl, binding rope and piled-up documents. There were also other things, such as sealing wax, a fountain pen and stationery left half-written. A heap of letters tied with rope lay next to the stationary.

Showing a face of surprise, Hodgins quietly reached a hand toward the stationary. Gilbert had left him and gone to the kitchen. While reading the stationary, Hodgins asked with a placid expression, “Were you sleeping?”

The sound of a clock’s corkscrew ensued.

“Yeah, until just a bit ago. Hodgins, I’m going to make dinner, but will you eat it?”

“Huun, you were pretty worn-out, huh. It’s gonna be a feast. Gilbert, you gonna be having a drink while you cook?”

A sweet scent had suddenly drifted towards him.

“I’m not you... I’ll put it in the food.”

“So you do stuff like cooking.”

“I do it when my friend comes over at least.”

The eyes that had been reading stopped completely and Hodgins turned his head to the direction of the kitchen. Gilbert was not visible from that room.

“Liar. You’re simply hungry ‘cause you just woke up, aren’t you?” Hodgins spoke with a smile in his voice, yet he was by no means smiling.

“Then I’ll eat all this by myself.”

“Y’know, you’ve been calling me ‘friend’ out of the blue lately. What kinda service is that?”

“‘Lately’...? Is that so? But what other definition should I use? We’ve had this relationship for over a decade. Why is calling you my friend a service?”

The words smoothly replied to him pierced his chest.

“No, I mean, you... treat nice people like tools. You don’t show respect for me even though I’m older than you.”

“About the matters regarding Violet, I’m sorry. About not showing respect for you, why would I have to show respect due to age difference at this point?”

Silence.

“Hodgins?”

Despite being called, Hodgins wordlessly returned his gaze to the letter for a moment. It was his first time reading one of those, but Hodgins knew about them. After all, whenever Hodgins visited his room, there would be a sealed letter with no addressee somewhere. Hodgins knew one more person who used to accumulate letters without sending them.

“You’re an idiot.”

Just as Gilbert said, they had had that relationship for over a decade. They had also had a period of breaking contact. Within the letter that he was finally seeing again after those years, the feelings towards a certain girl that Gilbert had been unable to back from writing down were registered. He probably intended to throw away the old ones and hand over new responses. Written in them were his repeated apologies for what he had done until that point, as well as his words of gratitude thanking her for sending him countless letters.

Hodgins twisted his neck, observing Gilbert’s back as he stood in the kitchen. The same was valid for him, but Hodgins thought that both of them had aged quite some.

——To think that those two who had parted ways would meet again.

It was a common love story, which seemed like it could happen anywhere. But that was precisely why...

——...I think I want them to be happy enough to make up for their detours.

He and she. Both of them were irreplaceable people for Hodgins.

“Gilbert.”

“What?”

“Back to the topic... Y’know, I believe that friendships can also be unrequited.”

“Yeah.” Gilbert did not negate the exorbitant statement.

Hodgins felt he was giving an empty answer without actually listening to the talk. His feeling of discontentment accidentally seeped into his manner of speaking. “You say ‘yeah’, but do you really get it? I think you don’t... I’ve felt that way with you for many years. Gilbert, you can definitely make do without friends. But I’m not like that. Yet I really didn’t want us to be like... like this, with me being the only one... who wishes for you to stay that way, doing fine. Or who wants to see you every now and then to talk about trivial stuff. Like, ‘Is it just me who likes you?’... You’re a cold one, after all. That’s why I’ve been surprised with you lately. You... You probably don’t get these feelings of mine, though.”

Both knew of each other’s temperament and comprehended that their friendship existed. They also certainly trusted one another. The proof of it was that Gilbert entrusted Hodgins with the person he was currently attempting to protect by putting his life at stake. However, Hodgins nevertheless thought that, to Gilbert, he was not in the position that he had in mind. He had not once voiced it, for such attachments seemed foolish in male friendships.

After having said that, Hodgins soon regretted it. He regretted it, and yet...

“No, I understand. I don’t have any friends except for you.”

Perhaps because he had been holding the paper in his hands with force, it wrinkled a little. Hodgins desperately placed it on the desk and carefully stretched it. Still, he heard Gilbert’s footsteps approaching while he was at it and returned the letter to its previous spot.

The two remained silent once they faced each other.

Maybe finally having noticed the half-written letter, he mixed it together with his documents and quickly cleared it away from Hodgins’s eyes. Hodgins followed the letter’s trajectory from the corners of his eyes.

Upon sorting them out thoroughly, Gilbert exhaled a long breath that sounded like a sigh. “You said I probably didn’t get it, but even I understand,” little by little, his voice trailed off into silence. “You were always surrounded by a large number of companions. But you’re my only friend.”

——That’s a lie.

Even without companions that he had a relationship of associating himself with in the way he did with Hodgins, Gilbert was already a person who attracted those around him. He was not the type to act like a lone wolf. He would attend the class reunions and socialization banquets during their days in the Military School. He could flawlessly hold a conversation with anyone.

But before Hodgins was able to deny it with words, Gilbert spoke, “I have many acquaintances but you’re my only true friend. After you graduated... I thought it would’ve been great if I’d been born two years earlier for my student days.” His way of speaking seemed sulky.

The illusion of a fourteen-year-old boy overlapped with the figure of a battered man in his thirties. Hodgins felt that he himself had returned to when he was sixteen as well. Back then, he was always chasing after Gilbert and fooling around with him.

——We were always together.

The pain that had pierced his chest gradually tinged with warmth. A smile crept in his egoistic heart, unable to help itself.

——Gilbert, you...

The man named Gilbert Bougainvillea was not the kind to say such things at all. Over a long time, he had become able to show a side of himself other than being an “asset” that served for smoothly administrating himself and his surroundings.

——That side of you is unfair.

And strangely enough, the girl who Gilbert loved had also been a “tool” for his sake. Yet that “tool” was becoming able to gently undo the ropes firmly tied around her and show a humane face. Just who had been the one responsible for the biggest part of those achievements?

Claudia Hodgins, indifferent to his own deeds, merely rejoiced and smiled broadly at his friend’s bashful face. “Hu—Ahah, ahahahaha!”

“Hey, don’t laugh. You made me say something embarrassing. As if I’ll ever say that again in my life.”

“Ahahah, no... you’ve got it wrong. It’s not like I’m making fun of... Ah, Gilbert. Is the stuff you left in the oven okay? It’s kinda making a weird noise.”

“It’s not okay.”

Hodgins stood up and followed Gilbert as he clatteringly returned to the kitchen. A familiar quarrel flowed comfortably throughout the apartment, turning into a nightly tune.

And the same applied to time, no matter how much of it flowed. For two people who had a relation called friendship, it would go back to their bosom days regardless of there being a period where they had not seen each other.

“Move over, I’m gonna sprinkle the seasoning.”

“Fool, you’re mistaken, that’s not salt.”

“You’ve got no spices at all. D’you live off just salt and sugar?”

“I’ve had a long-standing habit of eating out. Hodgins, let’s stop it already. This isn’t food.”

“Don’t spout nonsense. There’s nothing that can’t be recovered.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so. Don’t give up.”

No matter how many hundreds, thousands of years they lived, the two would go back to the versions of themselves from that time.

To the fourteen-year-old Gilbert and the sixteen-year-old Hodgins.

[entitycradle]

A Tree Without Wind

Content warnings: mention of, discussion of, threats of, and plans to commit suicide. Panic attacks, disassociation, and paranoia are described, sometimes in detail. An eating disorder is alluded to. Characters are horny for each other but there’s nothing sexually explicit.

I promise the ending is hopeful. I genuinely am not trying to trick you, I know what this sort of thing is like, I want to respect your capacity while still being truthful to the experience and allowing tension in the story. If you’re in the right place for it, click that button.

A TREE WITHOUT WIND

I was nine years old the first time Phoenix told me he was going to kill himself. Is that too brutal? Sorry. It's where this starts. We were outside, in the morning before it got too hot, kicking around a ball in the scrubby grass. We used the long shadow of the I34Q tower to make the rules--you can't use your hands if you're in the sun, that sorta thing. It was fun because the boundaries of the shadow were always moving with the shape of the tower, and because the tower was a little scary. Phoenix lost a game and just said it, frustrated, "I'm gonna kill myself." I laughed.

When I was that age I loved looking at the shadow of the tower, because it made so much more sense than the real thing. You'd look at the dark, fuzzy stain on the ground and you could imagine it was some sort of antenna, or house, or marker. But then you'd look at the structure itself and your eyes would glaze over trying to figure it out. Unevenly rotating, stacked polyhedral structures, dark gray but covered with a rainbow film like an oil slick. Irregular pieces would be transferred between different sections with no apparent pattern. It smelled like someone you'd never met. The tower was doing something but no one was ever clear on what. That's how it is with I34Q stuff, I think.

I'm stalling. It was some stupid shit, he must've picked it up from some awful caster or something. As a kid Phoenix liked that sorta thing. He'd watch videos of mean people cursing and laughing and he'd laugh with them. I preferred my cartoons, or the I34Q casts, as weird as they were. Later I repeated what he said when I found out my dad was making squash for dinner, "I'm gonna kill myself," and my mom told me off pretty hard. Kept me from saying it again, at least in school and at home. Phoenix kept at it though.

- = -

Phoenix and I got put in the same dormitory when we went to T-school. Do they call it T-school in other places? It's the thing where 4Q tanks (as in I34Q) come and take a bunch of eleven-year-old kids to stay at "training" facilities. No one I've asked knows what T-school is actually for, same as the towers, same as all the 4Q stuff like I said before. An organic shape attached to the ground heads a classroom, gibbering except for the occasional english sentence (Phoenix said he also recognized some Cantonese). Mrs. Lough, who apparently also lives in the facility, tries to teach "formalist english," which is like english but the rules contradict themselves. You take notes on the behavior of a tank filled with inky fluid for four hours a week. One day a three-legged machine packs up your stuff and shepherds you to the gate.

I was ejected a year and a half after Phoenix. I went home on the bus and met him at burger king that afternoon. I caught a glimpse of him from outside. His hair was in long, tight braids. I felt self-conscious about the uncontrollable smile growing on my face. "Aco!" he said through a grin as I opened the glass door. A green poster advertised a meal made from "water beads," an I34Q plant thing.

"Dang," I said, grinning as I sat down. "Dang."

"You make it out? Fuck you to 4Q?" He'd stopped eating to greet me. His grin looked as uncontrollable as mine. Phoenix's nose was wide and flat, also like mine.

"Fork you, 4Q." I still felt nervous about cursing. I was fourteen. "How ya doing, Phoenix?"

"I'm good, I'm good. High school is interesting."

"Oh, man..."

"It's actually like, fucking nice to understand what's happening. But now there are actual smart kids and you actually get punished when you, y'know, mouth off. I'm like, I gotta get around to--" He swiped with his hand, bent his neck, and made a cracking sound with his mouth. I laughed. "Don't worry, I'll show you around. Maybe we'll have a class together."

- = -

We did have a class together. High school with Phoenix was fun, because I got to have a proper crush on him. Pining, sexuality, youthful obsession, yards and yards of it. It was weird, we kinda drifted--Phoenix hung out with kids that I was afraid of, I hung out with kids who played too many videogames. As our familiarity waned, I started seeing him differently. A foreign, adult desire began to penetrate me, replacing childish affection. It took me a while to realize that's what was happening.

It was a shame our familiarity waned, though, because Phoenix was really struggling, and I didn't see it. His friends were mean, when they weren't outright abusive. Not a lot of people liked him. I learned later that he started hurting himself when he was sixteen. Little cigarette burns, and then cuts. He got put on meds at seventeen--the wrong meds, for a year. He went to a psych ward when he was nineteen. His family did not have the money to pay for an extended stay. I still don't know exactly how that worked out. I do know he went into debt after his second stay two years later.

I wasn't doing too well myself, after I hit twenty-two. Something in me broke I guess. So when Phoenix told me he was going to travel to the Santitos digger and throw himself off a cliff, it didn't take me very long to ask if I could go with him.

- = -

"I... I didn't..." He paused for a long time. Ten seconds of silence feels unbearably long in a conversation, and I was quiet for fifteen. My teeth held each other tightly as his thoughts whirled. "I didn't..." He looked me in the eyes. There was an intensity to both our gazes. He'd stuck his jaw out, just a little. "I guess I did. I was, kinda, hoping you'd say that."

"Fuck," I said, looking away and down. "Fuck." I put a hand over my eyes, gripping my face as tears came.

"I'm gonna die," he said, beginning to smile and looking up. I felt the discomfort I'd felt since we were nine.

"Yeah, I wanna go, I wanna go," I said, pulling my hand away midway through and looking back at him with a force I didn't recognize.

He looked back at me and said, "I'm gonna die, and you're gonna die with me."

- = -

The Santitos digger is in northern California, in the Redwood national park. People have figured out the basic idea of what the digger is doing, unlike the towers or the T-schools: the digger is making a big hole. I'd heard that in some places it had dug more than a mile, almost straight down. Don't ask me how the digger would've done that. Don't ask me why it's called Santitos, either, since it's pretty big and not very saintly. Maybe it was the name of a town. Getting to the digger from Prince George County was about fifty hours.

"I figure we could do it in three days if we really fuck-you-pushed-it. But I'm planning on five." I craned my neck to look at Phoenix's cracked phone screen, where he'd pulled up the route.

Gas is expensive because 4Q takes most of it. Basically no one flies. Even in Phoenix's hybrid, it would be a thousand dollars to get to the west coast. But it's not like we'd need the money afterwards.

"We'll eat along the way," he continued. I bit my thumbnail. "I'm not picky, we'll just stop at wherever they won't run us out of town."

We'd sleep in the car. It was April, so temperature wouldn't be a concern. I packed a change of clothes, a water bottle, my meds, and a box cutter I'd stolen from my last job.

The next morning, he pulled his blue, dented '38 prius in front of my apartment building. I saw the car arrive out the window. There was an anxious pit in my stomach that deepened when I opened my front door. I didn't want anyone to see me. This is it, I thought, this is it, this is it. I repeated that phrase down the stairs. My landlord could fucking charge rent to my corpse, I could give a shit. This is it, I thought. That final T stretched to enrobe me. The sky was gray and wet. The sensation wasn't enough to rip me from my inwards reverie. I was about to get in the back of the car when Phoenix spoke. "That ain't it."

He was leaning out the window, regarding me coolly. "Morning. Shall we go?" I walked around the car and got in the front seat.

- = -

Virginia is beautiful once you get into the mountains, forested and rolling. I told Phoenix, "Once I read the Appalachians are millions of years old, and used to be taller than the Himalayas."

"No shit. Was there like an Everest? Where's the old Everest?"

"I don't know, I never heard anything about that. But yeah the continental plates looked totally different. And then things changed and the rain and wind and plants broke them down."

"Hah. Fucking awful. Just being broken down like that. I mean, it's better than what 4Q did to Everest."

I was quiet for a moment. "That's... the worst thing they did, right?"

"I dunno, dude, I think taking kids from their families is worse."

"No, right, right. But like... Everest was like... like everyone knew about Everest. When I was really little I had this big book about mountains and I read the bit on Everest so many times. And now it's like... they made it about them. And people lived in the Himalayas before 4Q came! It forced everyone out and carved a bunch of nonsense into it. A forever reminder that we're below them."

"Hah, literally. Hmmm. I still wouldn't say worst, but, I get what you mean. I'm so numb to it. It's good some people still care." Phoenix shrugged. "I mean I dunno. It doesn't matter much to me, at this point. But from an outside perspective it's good."

That first evening was alright. I drove Phoenix into a beautiful sunset. You hear the phrase "rode off into the sunset" and you think, what a nice ending, but it's not really an ending. If you're the cowboy you keep riding, and eventually the sky darkens and you have to set up camp and eat and sleep and wake up the next morning and eat and go riding again. A feeling of dread and desperation fills me when I think of surviving alone like that. Maybe I'd get used to it. The trip to Santitos was an attempt to write a story with a proper ending.

We didn't stop until we crossed into Illinois. We parked on the shoulder of a country road. I used the light in the car to look at the atlas we'd bought for when we didn't have cell service, and laughed. "We've been in five states today. Pretty good. Keep it up and we'll have visited every state by June."

"What the--?" Phoenix snorted, laughing. "You mean if we visit five states a day. Asshole."

I always giggled when he snorted and called me an asshole. "Hey, I'm just saying."

"Fucking dumb. Doesn't even work. You'd have to wake up in a different state than you fell asleep in." He caught my eye. The smile felt intimate, mutual. Born of sleepy exhaustion from a shared journey. I looked at the divot between his nose and upper lip.

I realized something. "Shit, I forgot to bring a blanket."

"Poor baby. You cold?"

"Hmm. I guess not really."

"Oh, you know what I do have..." He leaned towards me and reached toward the back seat. I watched his shirt stretch over his chest. Phoenix retrieved a big gray sweater. "Feel free to stretch it out."

My fingertips touched the back of his hands as I took the bundle. I did that on purpose. His skin was warmer than I expected, as skin always is. We tipped our seats back. Not the most comfortable, though the sweater would help, hopefully. I checked out Phoenix to see him on his side, looking at me and smiling. I let my own smile relax into me as I watched his eyes. His irises were a rich, beautiful brown. His skin was the color of cardboard in your childhood memories. I loved the way his smile wasn't symmetrical, wider on one side than the other. I carefully resisted scanning my gaze down his body. I actually saw his eyes flick down my form, instantaneously. His eyelids half-lowered, and then, horribly, what seemed to be a great tide of sadness overtook him. I watched him hold it back. I watched his smile mix with growing grief and fear, then bow to neutrality. He covered his gaze with his eyelids, breathed in, breathed out. "All right," he whispered, then opened his eyes. The gaze was gone. "Time to sleep." He sat up and turned off the light.

The sweater had a very particular, subtle smell to it. I guess it was his smell. I was desperately horny, yet blasted to pieces. A heady mix.

"I think I could fall in love with you, if things were a little different." He broke the silence, fifteen minutes later. "I probably would. But I'd cling to you like a fucking baby. And you're here, right?" He paused. For a response? I didn't give him one in time. "That's what I mean, codependent hell. I'd only be alive for you, and you'd only be alive for me, and then the second anything goes wrong we'd be right back here except I'd, fucking, direct all my shittiness at you... and you'd blame yourself."

I was quiet. "Ain't... ain't being codependent better than dying?"

"Hah! But that's what I'm saying, it doesn't change anything, it just leads us back here."

I fumbled for something. "Yeah but if it could... like stave it off..."

"Why is that good? The world is fucked, Acoatl, totally and truly fucked. Things don't get better from here, for me, for people. Should I beg? Stay here in misery out of some misplaced sense of morality? We're doing the only thing that makes sense."

I stayed quiet, not unconvinced. Sleep came, eventually, uncomfortably, anxiously.

- = -

The International Astronomical Union provisionally called it 8I/2034 Q1. I had to look that up. The eighth interstellar comet discovered, identified in 2034. I don't know what Q1 means. The name was briefly changed to 8I/Pasarati, for the research group that had discovered it, but by that time I34Q was clearly accelerating non-gravitationally and on an Earthbound trajectory. 8I/Pasarati is still in orbit, technically. You can see it through a telescope, it's like five miles across. But I34Q is the name for all of it, the craft that came to the surface, the life it brought with it, the structures it built, the war, all the consequences. No one can make any sense of it, except the one thing everyone knows: something else controls the world now.

- = -

I just barely remember waking up to switch seats in the morning, and then desiring nothing more than to return to sleep. Eventually Phoenix nudged me awake. "Hey." We were parked somewhere in Missouri. I'd slept all the way through the night and Phoenix's turn to drive. At least twelve hours, depending on when I actually fell asleep last night. I'd missed the big arch in St. Louis.

Phoenix was curt and reserved as I drove. I thought he was still thinking about last night, or angry at me for leaving him alone on his drive. Then he tilted his head back and began to gag. "My... heart..." Tears streamed down him face.

"Phoenix." I glanced back and forth between him and the road. There were abandoned cars on the shoulder; I couldn't pull over. "Phoenix, Phoenix, um."

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, stop." He bent, heaved, and emitted a yowling, harsh retch. Nothing else left his mouth. "My heart..." He was breathing hard. A panic attack, I realized, stupidly too late.

"Do we have..." Panic attacks can be interrupted with certain intense sensations. The general goal is to increase awareness of the environment, focus the mind on the current moment rather than the future or past. Holding an ice cube can help. There were no ice cubes. I reached into the back seat for my water bottle, which would at least be cool. A truck behind us laid on the horn. I swerved back into my lane. "Sorry." Phoenix dry heaved again. It was a uniquely distressing sound.

I searched for the hazards, feeling useless. Far too much time passed before I found them and started slowing down. A different truck laid on a different horn. I was able to slip in a gap on the shoulder between an abandoned pickup and a rusting minivan.

I led Phoenix onto the tall grass beyond the asphalt, where he collapsed onto all fours. His torso flexed as he heaved. I put a hand on his back. "Phoenix, look at the trees." There were bushy, broken trees lining the sides of the highway, a vibrant green against the blue and white sky. "The, listen to the road." No, the road was stressing me the fuck out. "Listen to the grass waving, feel it." Stalks crumpled in his fists. I twisted my head and saw the tip of an I34Q tower peeking up over the treeline. "Look, a tower, just like when we were kids." Over the next few minutes, his breathing slowed, his heaving stopped. But the tears stayed. He sobbed away the panic. I read somewhere that tears actually contain different chemicals depending on the emotion causing them. Something to do with hormones I think.

He apologized to me. I would've done the same thing. I've done the same thing. So I got it, but felt indignant at having understood--he didn't need to apologize!

We got back on the road and listened to static on the radio. Sometimes the edge of a station would pass by, and we'd get fuzzy country, or christian rock. I changed it whenever there was a sermon. Sermons always come back to 4Q and they're always awful. The 4Q broadcasts are actually better than sermons about 4Q. They're kind of like static, anyway, totally unintelligible. We encountered more of them than I expected. Maybe static itself is a 4Q broadcast. I don't think that's right, I think static is like cosmic background radiation. But maybe 4Q has changed it somehow, like it used to be white noise and now it's blue noise, a different random distribution but still random.

"I'm off my meds," he said, as we rolled into darkness. The moon was a crescent, low on the western horizon. He spoke flatly and calmly. "I didn't even bring them with me. I thought you should know."

I hesitated. I wanted to voice this diplomatically. But then, we'd be dead in four days, anyway. "Is that why you had the attack?"

"No. I panic even on meds." That made sense. I remembered a few times in the past year when he'd canceled an event with little notice, or left early. "But I'm not a person right now, and that's definitely because I'm off my meds."

"You're not a person right now?"

"Yeah. It's called depersonalization. Also derealization, which is when nothing is real. Or that's how it feels, as I'm told. It's pretty freaky if I'm honest. You don't get the same emotional reaction from stuff. It feels like you're watching from somewhere else." He wasn't looking at me. He was looking down. "You're not you. You're not even real." He whispered. "Pretty freaky."

"Can I--do you--"

"Ahh, I'm coming out of it. Some of it is just recognizing that you're in it." He drew a knee up to his chest and shook his head. "Uhh, could you. Could you hold my hand. Touch helps."

I gripped the wheel with my left hand and held his palm with my right. It was warm and sweaty. I wish I could say that was okay. I felt miserable. I wanted to feel happy, holding his hand, comforting him. I didn't.

Sleep came quicker that night, though still uncomfortable, still anxious.

- = -

I slept late, again. I hadn't touched the chicken sandwich I'd gotten from a drive-thru last night. It had awful 4Q stuff on it anyway. I hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours, so I was pretty hungry, but I had no actual desire to eat. I'd deal with it later.

My own panic attack must've seemed similarly unbidden to Phoenix, though I felt it coming about an hour beforehand, and tried to stave it off. We were on I-80, driving through the hypnotizing flatness of Nebraska. Every ten or fifteen minutes I kept seeing this scarlet structure. It was like a giant, bloody caricature of a water tower, a skinny, triangular column maybe ten feet across and at least two hundred feet tall, supporting an enormous squashed sphere more than twice as wide as the column was tall. I'd watch it rise from the horizon, far too big. I'd never seen them before but guessed they must be 4Q. I started thinking we were somehow traveling in a loop, that my sense of direction was faulty and we were passing the same structure in the same field over and over again. Then I started thinking about how crazy that sounded. But I couldn't stop the thought.

I wanted to pull over but I couldn't stop anywhere in view of the structure, because it was watching me. Of course it wasn't, but I couldn't stop the thought that it was. Hell, maybe it was. Maybe only the mad can decode the purpose of I34Q stuff. I felt how hard I was breathing and glanced over at Phoenix, wondering why he hadn't said anything. He was staring down. He was probably disassociating again, I realized later, but at the time all I knew was that I was alone.

I get angry at myself after my attacks. I feel so stupid. Phoenix apologized to me that night, which made me feel even stupider. I couldn't wait to get to the Santitos digger.

- = -

The next day was bad. Quiet, lonely, and frustrated. A further reminder of the reasons. I saw patches of 4Q purple grass climbing up the Rockies. We both took long shifts and entered Redwood park just after midnight.

- = -

I read a story once about a man that was falling in the dark. He was falling so far that he would die instantly when he hit the ground. He realized that his brain wouldn't have time to process the impact, or even the few moments before. And he couldn't see the ground. He couldn't see anything. All that was left in the world was him and his death. I wondered if Phoenix had read the same story, and was hoping for a similar effect, coming here at night. Of course, we got it wrong. There were clouds, burgundy with light pollution, and every few minutes a star would gaze through; an unearthly glow was cast up from distant pieces of the digger.

Some parts of the digger looked like the towers, spinning and shifting. Some parts looked like exposed microelectronics, cables sutured to shiny terminals of minute complexity. Some parts were just made of asphalt blocks, cream-, gray-, and lime-colored pebbles tightly embedded in dark tar. Distant redwoods, many damaged by fire, ringed the horizon. The Santitos digger was less an object and more a place.

I felt wordlessly close to Phoenix as we scrambled over asphalt, looking for a pit. We touched each other frequently in our effort, to assist, to communicate. We'd have to give each other boosts, lift each other up, look for alternate routes. This place was not made for people.

Finally we came upon a deep canyon. I had half a mind to walk off the edge immediately. But both Phoenix and I stopped to regard it.

I couldn't tell if the rumors were true. You could only see maybe a hundred yards down before the walls of the abyss disappeared into ink. Or, not ink--not blackness, either. People are black. This was something else. The most prominent features were the semi-perceivable red blotches left on my optic nerve after gazing at one of the digger's glowing sectors. The unknowable told me nothing. It just revealed the flaws of my being. Maybe we would achieve our effect after all.

"This is it," I said, elliptically. The beginning is the end. If you take out the 'h' that phrase is a palindrome. "That was the first thing I said out of the door before I got into your car on Saturday. If you take out the 'h' the phrase is a palindrome. The beginning is the end. This is elliptical. This is it."

"That ain't it." He was regarding me coolly.

I laughed.

He was angry. "Are you fucking kidding me? The point of this thing, the whole fucking point is you do it in your right mind. You're letting your madness make the decision for you. You have to make the decision!"

I found that extremely funny. I laughed harder.

"Shut up! Fuck!"

"What's a right mind?" I asked, still grinning. "There's no such thing anymore. Even when it was a thing, all it meant was the most socially-acceptable, capital-promoting mind. Now? The world doesn't fit us anymore. The human condition is inconvenient to its purpose. 4Q can't even train us. The right mind is a dead one. You want a right mind, go ahead." I gestured at the abyss. That's what I did.

He stepped forward. He stepped forward. A foot hung above the end.

I don't know what I would've done if he had lowered that foot, changing his balance, tipping him forward. Jumping in after him wouldn't have felt right. Maybe I'd have gone back to those red eyes in Nebraska and begged for them to torture me. Maybe his idiosyncrasies would have been repelled by the unknowable, flowing away from his body and into me, and I'd be lost forever in a derealized paranoia. Maybe I'd have gotten in the car and driven back home.

His foot remained, hanging, the edge a gallows. "Suicide is about pain. It's the ultimate response to ongoing distress. I never wanted you to be normal. I just didn't want you to be in pain. In a twisted way, I guess I thought, if this was your way of dealing with pain, I wasn't going to stop you. That is your right. I feel like that has to be your right." His balance was incredible. He remained still, a tree without wind. "But you can be abnormal, you can be a bad fit for the world, you can be utterly broken, and you can still live without pain." We're both crying. Tears descend into the pit.

| ' , |

I do think madness is the right way to understand I34Q. I feel this mysteriously. I wonder what it would be like if I tried going to T-school while embracing my altered states, living in them. I suspect Phoenix would have more success, being more comfortable with unreality. Not that either of us would participate in whatever hegemony 4Q perpetuates. More that we'd figure out what it wanted, and how to resist. I've been thinking about this a lot. Maybe other people are, too. We need to find each other.

Phoenix and I wandered north. We found this incredible queer community in Oregon, with actual traditions and mechanisms to deal with communal trauma. I can't say anything about the world, the world is unknowable. But I think there's hope for us.

Phoenix and I are together, now, in a way I can't quite name. We did finally make love. That was beautiful. But we don't live together. I make love to other people, sometimes, and he does the same. Sometimes I'll go a week or two without seeing him, without notice. Sometimes I'll go a few days without even thinking about him. I love him, and I tell him that, and he says the same to me, though both of us have admitted that we don't know what that means.

We still panic. I still get paranoid. Phoenix disassociates. He's been using the state to make art. I think about I34Q and write down what I think. I'm pretty good at eating regularly, even if I don't feel like it. I don't know if we're living without pain. I think maybe that's a pretty tall order. But I don't want to kill myself anymore. So I think that's pretty good.

[Ed.: have this little treat. It takes me about the length of this playlist to read the story.]

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5VD5lJJqNUJsITPj3Rg8Sn?si=d262096479104d4f