#other than drown himself in all his favourite vices like he's always done | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wincore · 4 years

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atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of.

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low.

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours.

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget.

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore.

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume.

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type.

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises. If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts.

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself.

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask.

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it.

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it.

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily.

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year.

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately.

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one.

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt.

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover.

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours.

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth.

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words.

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table.

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad.

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back.

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing.

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters.

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs.

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.”

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can.

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off.

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating.

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know.

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young.

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.”

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling.

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung.

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses.

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention.

Inviting him somewhere.

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure.

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more.

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter?

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him.

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.”

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.”

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.”

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts.

You’re disappointing.

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose.

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps.

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask.

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you.

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue.

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.”

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you.

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families.

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe.

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard.

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them.

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out.

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure.

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up.

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt.

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder.

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart.

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it.

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him.

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak.

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time.

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional.

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love.

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved.

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding.

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either.

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple.

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action.

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t.

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days.

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.”

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by.

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers.

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever.

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout.

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!”

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?”

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this.

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose.

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond.

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—”

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder.

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him.

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too.

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again.

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling.

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you.

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care.

“Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there.

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally.

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer.

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand.

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wickedmilo · 3 years

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THREE, MIRROR | MILO & BEA

PLACE: A coffee shop near the university campus TIMING: 10:37 PM SUMMARY: Bea notices Milo being the worst vampire in the world, and makes a begrudging effort to help him. WRITING PARTNER: @beatrice-blaze CONTENT WARNINGS: Very brief mentions of substance abuse, mentions of emotional abuse

Milo’s mind was still reeling. From finally running into his killer, from being forced to accept the fact that he had allowed the man to escape Dani’s stake, from being given the chance to explore the space where he had lost his life, and really see it for the first time since waking up as a vampire. It was an awful lot to process, which was why he was feeling slightly idiotic, and simultaneously slightly desperate, as he waited in line to order a coffee. Of all the places he could be drowning his sorrows, searching for an answer at the bottom of the bottle, a coffee shop was probably the last place anybody would expect him to be. Maybe that was a part of why it felt so comforting; the unpredictability, the spontaneity of the decision. Also, he supposed, the mundanity. He was waiting in line alongside late night students, people working on screenplays, or trying to complete assignments that were dangerously overdue. He could hear scribbling notes, hear the tapping of keys, even the subtle whir of laptop machinery if he allowed himself to focus. But he wasn’t here for other people, he was here for himself. For the familiar scent of coffee. For the feeling of wrapping his hands around a hot paper cup. He could only assume that was what everybody sought when they visited a café after dark.

He couldn’t count the amount of times he had stumbled into this particular shop with a bad hangover, or even still drunk. It had been a saving grace first thing in the morning. And it was proving to be a saving grace now. At least here he felt vaguely human, at least here he could pretend everything that had happened to him over the course of the past few months had been some awful fever dream he had finally woken up from. Something he could move past, and forget. Something he could wash away with the right combination of syrup, coffee, and oat milk. When he reached the front of the line, he placed his order, asking for far more syrup than he usually would in the hope of granting the beverage a stronger taste. A few more minutes of waiting, of forcing any unwanted thoughts to the very back of his mind, and he picked up his cup, making his way over to the wall lined with mirrors.

It was a staple of any coffee shop trying to appear sophisticated. And he was so used to the décor that he didn’t stop to consider whether his favourite spot could still safely be his favourite spot. Pulling out the chair closest to the wall, he dropped down onto it, leaning back against the cool surface of the glass as he began to tap his fingers against the drink in his hands. It was a nervous habit, one he never could seem to shake. Taking a careful sip of his coffee, a quiet sigh managed to escape him at the dull, one-note taste. If only it would taste as strongly as it smelled. It didn’t seem fair that one sense had been heightened while he had essentially lost another entirely. Maybe if he mixed it with some blood? Could he do that? Would that work? So lost in his own thoughts, it took him far too long to realise he was being watched. Catching the eye of a stranger, when they didn’t look away he raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Apparently he wasn’t even allowed to wallow without being interrupted.

Bea had gotten used to sleeping when it was light out in New York. The habit had still lingered after her return, her night owl tendencies too much of a hassle to break at this point. It helped to sleep in the light, to wake up gasping and be able to see everything in her room. There was no fear that the Hunter stood in the corner of her room in the light. The ocean could not flood her room. She could see that Adam’s dead eyes weren’t staring at her, crawling to her and telling her he needed to come back. The day rid her of her nightmares far faster than the night did. There were no corners to hide in. She was safe awake at night and safe asleep in the light.

Usually after a show, Bea would find herself at the Stacked Deck, martini in hand as she gambled. She was trying not to drink on bad days, on the days where memories tore at her. Partaking in another vice, that seemed safe. Her mouth was dry as she stared into the steaming coffee in front of her. This wasn’t usually her first pick of a café, but it was the closest she had been to when her walk started to turn into wandering, aimless. These moods, they hit like waves, battering her over and over again, small moments of reprieve falsely claiming the storm was finally over. It exhausted her, cement added to her bones, trapping in the cold, dragging her down further into the sea. Water slipped into her lungs, coughing it up, inviting more in, but there was no release of consciousness, no, she was forced to live it all, feeling herself drown, over and over again.

A hand gripped the back of her seat and Bea jolted with the motion, magic rushing to her fingertips as she looked for an enemy. It was some college kid, punchdrunk from hours spent in front of a laptop. Her heart hammered in her chest, her pulse screaming that she was alive, they were safe. Find five things you can identify in the room. That’s what her therapist had said, right? She couldn’t remember, but she began to count. “One, coffee,” She forced her eyes around the room. “Two, table. Three, mirror.” Mirror… She could see the mirror clearly, could see herself from across the room, all too sophisticated looking for the wild look in her eyes to fit, but not the man in front of it. He was a vampire, he had to be. She had stood in front of a mirror enough with Kian to know. His eyebrows went up and now she was too. A tide pulled her to him, pushed her to do what always made her feel safe and take care of someone else. “You’re in front of a mirror,” She said, her voice stronger than she expected.

Milo hadn’t been expecting the woman to approach him, and he stared at her as she closed the distance between them both. It took far too long for her words to fully register, but when they did he felt an irrational surge of annoyance. “What?” He snapped. Why should she care where he was? What business did she have trying to tell him something he already knew? The mirror had always been there, it didn’t exactly feel like an important piece of information. But as quickly as his irritability had risen to the surface, it was replaced by a sudden realisation. Oh shit, he was sitting in front of a mirror. A jolt of panic shot through him without warning, uncomfortable, and disorienting. Had he really just announced to the entire coffee shop that he wasn’t human? As if hoping to prove he hadn’t been quite so moronic, he glanced behind himself to be met with the reflection of the woman, the shop, and absolutely nothing else. “Fuck- shit-” He muttered, scrambling to his feet, backing away until he was standing beside a window. No longer within reach of the mirrored wall, he still felt nervous, and unsteady. Only when he took a deep breath in an attempt to regain his composure did he fully understand what this stranger had done for him. But why? What had compelled her to care?

Offering her a hesitant smile, still battling the anxiety clawing at his chest, he did what he could to calm down. Part of him understood there was a possibility this wasn’t the end. The person standing by his abandoned table could be a slayer who had decided to toy with him, or somebody who loathed vampires and was hoping to laugh at his lack of intelligence. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. He would deal with that later, for now he needed to focus on the present. “I-uh… thanks.” He muttered, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. It was important to look unassuming, he knew that. Lest he be seen as a threat. But the sheepish demeanour came naturally to him, so he said the first thing that came to his mind. “It’s easy to forget sometimes… I just…” Glancing back down at his coffee, still sitting on the table where he had left it, he let out a quiet huff of frustration. “Hey- I don’t suppose you could pass that to me?” He asked. She was only going to say yes or no, he didn’t see the harm in pushing his luck. “That drink is… it’s me trying to stay sane. Apparently it isn’t working…” He added, gesturing vaguely to the mirror.

Irritation rose swiftly in her chest as the man snapped at her. For a moment, Bea considered turning around and letting him suffer the consequences of his actions. The memory of her sister cradling Adam’s body swam to meet her anger, tempering her. This vampire was not Adam, but just like with Eddie, she had the urge to force him to take care of himself. Death had been a friend when she was the one reaching out to it. She understood who truly held the power now. No matter what she could do, there would be people who she lost. Death might be something she could circumvent herself, but that did not mean she would not witness the ramifications of it. She could still try to make others safer from it, even if after it took them, they refused to come back to her.

Dull brown eyes watched as the vampire scrambled back from the mirror. “It shouldn’t be,” Bea said with reproach. She didn’t want this man to hurt, but she did not like him. She still remembered the taste of Kian’s disappearance in her mouth. She still felt the sting of rejection. The understanding of his goals with her, had come later in life. She had even truly realized that he had been using her until she spoke to her friends about their relationship. Abuse seemed like a terribly harsh word for it, but she could not think of something softer that described it correctly. Her lips pressed and for a moment she thought of saying no. She passed it to him wordlessly, eyeing him with suspicion. “Are you always so careless?”

“Oh, come on. Like you don’t forget to eat sometimes, or put on lotion before you go out into the sun.” Milo countered. Self care, and self preservation consisted of so many little things, things that were difficult to remember when you were busy, or tired, or your life was getting complicated. Surely anybody could understand that. Pointedly ignoring the tone the woman had chosen to take, he was surprised when she handed him his coffee. It wouldn’t take a genius to see she was annoyed, maybe she too had come to the coffee shop for some kind of escape, and he was ruining it for her by being an all too present reminder of the supernatural. Focusing on her scent, on the sound of her heartbeat, she clearly wasn’t a werewolf, vampire, or zombie. So what was she? A spellcaster? A human who knew too much? “Thanks…” He said quietly, his demeanour softening. She didn’t owe him anything, and she had given him his coffee in spite of that fact.

Hugging the cup to his chest, he watched her, unsure how they were supposed to move forward in such an unusual circumstance. But then she spoke again, and a laugh managed to escape him. He pushed his hair back away from his face, relief at only being caught out by one person was beginning to wash over him. Lowering his inhibitions, and making him all the more grateful for the stranger’s begrudging intervention. “Not always.” He insisted, feeling the need to defend his intelligence. “Sometimes…” Mirrors weren’t always an issue, and when they were he had proven relatively competent when it came to avoiding them. But he had an awful lot on his mind. He didn’t want to dwell on his many mistakes. He wanted to pretend, to enjoy the little bubble of safety the coffee shop felt like it was providing. “Look, it’s been a really fucked up week, okay? I just… I needed a break.”

Bea’s expression soured even further at the man’s reply, “Those things aren’t the same and you know it. I’m not going to have someone attempt to kill me if they notice I didn’t eat.” She didn’t know why she cared, maybe she didn’t actually but wanted the distraction, but whatever caused her to come over here kept her here, even with her mounting irritation. Hadn’t her therapist said something about this? She couldn’t remember it, not with her pulse roaring in her ears, but she knew that Miranda wasn’t going to be happy with her for butting into something again. She’d probably say that taking care of other people to ignore her own self care was a form of escapism or some shit. Bea wasn’t really all that willing to work on breaking out of that habit just yet, it’s what made her useful to the people around her.

It was always a fucked up week in White Crest. There was always another building disaster. There was always something that ruined someone’s life. It was just how the town was. She bit her tongue and said nothing. Taking a moment, she looked away from the man, back to the mirror. She stared back at herself and her eyes lingered on the scar circling her neck. Wicked’s Rest always took something from the people who lived here, it was just how it went. She looked back to the man, “Find a place that doesn’t have mirrors to take a break then. Or one day a hunter will find you sitting in front of a mirror and they will try to kill you. They’ll make sure you stay dead too.” She certainly didn’t hate hunters, especially knowing the ones she did and how they were driven to make the world a better place, but she didn’t want to be a bystander to someone’s death.

Milo was half expecting to win over the woman’s sympathy, convince her in some way to feel for him rather than see him as an idiot. The fact that his words only managed to irritate her further only managed to irritate him further too. Maybe she had a point, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “Whatever, I’m only saying it’s easy to forget the important shit. Especially when your life is a mess. So, bite me.” Taking a sip of his coffee, out of habit more so than in an attempt to calm down, he found the hot drink did manage to soothe him a little. It reminded him of why he was here. The desperation, and longing for an escape. He wouldn’t be able to find one while he was being yelled at by a stranger, that much was undeniable. Though he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to escape this interaction. This woman had genuinely helped him, he couldn’t bring himself to walk away from her. No matter how determined she seemed to ruin his night.

Watching as she turned away from him, he saw her stare at her own reflection, but couldn’t follow her gaze without stepping closer, something he absolutely wasn’t willing to do. She would only berate him again, and he didn’t want to encourage her. “I used to come here a lot while I was studying.” He countered, glaring at her even as she ignored him. “Forgive me for wanting something familiar.” If he had chosen almost anywhere else in the cafe he might have been able to avoid the mirrors, but he hadn’t been thinking, too lost in his own pain. As far as he was concerned that was understandable, more than valid given the circumstance. Though his company would probably argue otherwise. “No shit,” he shot back. “I’ve met one or two, I-” He broke off before he could insist he knew what he was doing. How could he say that after such a ridiculous mistake? “I’m fine.” He answered instead. “Okay? I don’t need your help, or- whatever it is you’re trying to do here.”

“You’ll have to excuse me if I decline that offer,” Bea sneered back. Maybe on another night she would have been kinder, gentle in her correction. The combination of bad night and an unshaken dislike for vampires was a potent one. She wouldn’t apologize for it, not when she felt she was justly annoyed. She took a deep breath in, Miranda’s voice ringing in her head. She had to keep her cool, they were still in public and she had a reputation to uphold. She kept her eyes off the mirror now, unwilling to see how her face had shifted as anger took over. She was better than this. She knew she was better than this. It was just that this vampire was in front of her and she could barely stand the proximity. The grief of her past had never truly been dealt with, pushed aside instead in favor of continuing on. That was the way of the Vurals, wasn’t it?

Familiarity. Bea could understand that. She found that in the Stacked Deck and Coffee Plus after her death. A place to feel normal just for a moment. It was the most human thing a person could want. “Be more mindful about where you sit here then,” She conceded, her throat tight at the grim reminder that he was struggling with his own demons. A sharp smile took over her face, “You don’t need my help now, after I helped you.” That was the way of it though, wasn’t it? She never wanted help after she proved she needed it. She could, in a way, sympathize with that. “Look, I don’t like vampires, but I wasn’t going to let you get caught like that. I’m not in the business of watching someone make a fatal mistake, even if I don’t like them. That’s all I’m doing.”

“You’re excused.” Milo countered, unable to think of a witty comeback. He was torn between gratitude and frustration. The fact that this woman had done something genuinely good for him, and then turned on him almost the moment he was safe, was pathetically causing his head to spin. Was it really too much to ask for a quiet night? He didn’t have the mental capacity to deal with such inconsistency. He had been polite, he had thanked her, and he had been met with a less than positive attitude. It didn’t feel fair. Raising his eyebrows as a few beats of silence passed between them, he watched the stranger as she turned away from her reflection. She was a difficult person to read, which only served to make the interaction feel more irritating, and unnecessary. “I don’t know whether it counts if you stick around to insult the person you helped.” He pointed out, although he knew she could argue against his statement. Regardless of whether she was being kind to him, she had stopped him from potentially becoming a target. Nothing she said now was going to change that. He and Deirdre hadn’t exactly parted as friends, but that didn’t erase the medical attention he had offered her.

Letting out a huff of breath, unsurprised to hear she didn’t like vampires, he appreciated the reason for her behaviour. Even if said reason was bullshit. “I’m sorry, it’s not my fault you’re Team Jacob. I’m not about to fucking fall at your feet because you did me a solid in spite of what I am.” He awkwardly crossed his arms over his chest, careful not to drop his coffee cup. His confidence was rapidly fading as he realised he didn’t always like vampires either. When he met them for the first time, he felt nervous, and scared. It was a product of his history with them. It was only after getting to know them that he became comfortable in their company, maybe this was something they both had in common. “Okay, shit. I get it…” He muttered begrudgingly. Shifting awkwardly on the spot, he chewed on his bottom lip, steeling himself to be honest with her. “You think I like vampires?” He asked. “I was fucking killed by one… but that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me like you already know who I am. We’re still people. There’s still good and bad.”

“Asking someone if they’re always careless isn’t an insult. My attitude towards you isn’t an insult just because it’s not immediately positive.” Bea could feel the heat in her blood, felt herself simmering under the surface. The world was unfair, so why did she have to be fair to everyone she met? She was kind when she didn’t have to, better than other people had been to her. It shouldn’t fall on her shoulders to carry on with optimism and generosity at all times. Shouldn’t she get to be as bad sometimes? You’re spiralling, she thought grimly. Miranda had told her she did that, where all of her thoughts started to go too fast to logically go through them. She wanted to go home, but what waited for her there. Felix was in New York, Nell at their parents’ house, Luce at the cabin. The house was empty and it was too late to call anyone over to fill in the gaps that ghosts had left.

Bea’s eyes narrowed, “When you spend three years of your life getting used as a convenient blood bag, I’ll listen to your opinion on how I should feel around vampires.” The relationship she had held with Kian was complicated, but she had grown to realize that their love had been toxic. She had begun to understand that they had only lasted so long because he hadn’t felt motivated to find someone else only a year or so ago. Her throat tightened, she had assumed that he was like Kian, someone who had chosen this life. She had never forgotten with zombies that many of them didn’t pick this. It was harder with vampires. It was hard to look at him now, the stripped truth of what was in front of them almost too much to bear. She nodded, such a small movement that it could have been lost with a blink. An apology stuck on her tongue, thick, hard to move. She could type apologies, but speaking them, that was a very different story. “You’re right,” She conceded. “I let my bias get the better of me.”

“It wasn’t what you said, it was the way that you said it.” Milo pointed out, although he strongly suspected the woman might already know. He wasn’t sure why he was even bothering to continue with this argument, but walking away felt too much like admitting defeat, like agreeing with her. “It is when you’re generalising.” He added, figuring it definitely counted as an insult if her mood was in relation to his vampirism. It wasn’t the first time what he was had managed to make somebody uncomfortable, and it didn’t seem to get any easier. But at least she was making it easy to be annoyed, at least she was making it easy to not feel guilty. Bex had been different, she had been soft, and regretful in a way that made him self-conscious, that made him want to apologise for being himself. His current company had an edge, one that as far as he was concerned, gave him permission to be less than content.

Fully prepared to defend himself, he found his expression shifting once again when he registered what he was being told. There were so many details to her story that would change the context of it. Had she given blood willingly? Was it being taken by someone she knew? Was she being held captive? Or manipulated into sharing? But as quickly as his mind began to run through the possibilities, he was reminded of her obvious trauma. How it had happened wasn’t relevant. It didn’t matter. What mattered was how upset she clearly was, how deeply affected by the past. She had damage, same as him. He couldn’t exactly blame her for that. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” He said quietly, a frown creasing his brow. He had been used as a blood bag once, and it had cost him his life. He tried and failed to imagine how he might feel if he had been used for three years, if he was still alive, and vulnerable to another attack. He still felt vulnerable, though he knew nobody was going to drink his blood now. She couldn’t say the same. “Yeah, you kind of did… but it’s whatever.” He unfolded his arms, trying to assure her without letting her think she might have won. “That shit stays with you, I know it does…”

Irritation continued to mount, but now it was focused inward. Bea did not lose control. She presented herself as a measured person, her actions had meaning. There was hard to find meaning with the pressure building between her ears. She had fallen from her path without realizing it, twigs broken from her blind tumble. Left behind her an ugly, broken mistake. Her jaw locked, unwilling to deny the truth of his words, unwilling to apologize or put herself in a worse position. She felt young again. At least there was no threat that she would break all the windows in the café, even as far she had fallen, she had more control than she did at nineteen.

“It’s not,” She finally said. She had let him speak, let him apologize for what happened to her. She knew he deserved to be heard after she spoke to him as she had. “It’s not appropriate or kind of me to treat you the way I did.” The way, she knew, certain witches had in the past. The way her zombie friends had. “It’s not alright or whatever. I was wrong,” The words throttled her, the alarms in her brain begging her to shut up. She never enjoyed admitting she was wrong, it made her feel dizzy, out of control. But she was already there tonight, she was already spiralling, might as well dive in to fix something she had made. “I’m sorry too, for the little that it’s worth, that it happened to you. That you were killed.” She knew the feeling, the wrongness that came after that. She didn’t know how being changed into something else felt however. “White Crest isn’t kind. Just try to be careful and maybe it’ll avoid pressing its misery on you again,” She finished softly, weakly.

Milo listened to the apology, taking a moment to really register the woman’s choice of words. He recognised the fact that she was trying, in the same way he understood how difficult it was to take responsibility for a mistake. He appreciated it more than he could say, so he offered her a hesitant smile, hoping to show her he was no longer offended, or upset. He was too tired to cling to so many negative emotions, too desperate to forget, if only for a little while. “You, uh… you don’t have to be so dramatic about it.” He teased, careful to gauge her reaction. He was attempting to lighten the mood but he knew there was a possibility of pushing her further away. He wanted to move forward, he just didn’t know how to. “Look,” he said, becoming serious again. “I know how it feels, I really do. Or part of it, at least. I also know that’s weird because I guess I’m like, one of them now. But I didn’t ask for any of this… You were used by a vampire, and I was used by a vampire. Different outcomes but it still fucking sucks...” Catching the ironic phrase the moment it left his lips he laughed quietly, unable to help himself. “I mean, figuratively but…”

Falling silent when his company warned him White Crest wasn’t kind, it made him wonder what else she had been through, how else she might have suffered at the hands of his hometown. His memory flashed suddenly back to Dani, and his killer, to the moment he had allowed the person responsible for his death to touch him. He couldn’t do anything to suppress a shudder. As it always did when he truly considered what had taken place, anxiety began to claw at his chest, and he swallowed, staring down at his coffee so that he could collect himself before looking back up again. It was a strange conversation to have, and maybe not one he was ready for given recent events. But he pressed on. “I’m Milo. I probably should have said that earlier.” A soft sigh escaping him, he pointedly ignored the pain still weighing him down, remembering distinctly why he had come to the coffee shop in the first place. “Hey, I don’t suppose you want to, uh… start over? Maybe get another coffee and find a table that isn’t in front of a mirror?” He asked. He didn’t have anything to lose, but maybe, just maybe, he could gain a friend. A friend who partially understood the way the aftermath of his attack was still affecting him.

A snort left Bea, an amused smile lighting her face, “Trust me, this is me not being dramatic. I’m usually far more over the top.” She knew how to make a show, knew the words to say to get crowd reaction, knew how to dress and act to get the attention in a room. Her calm was often everyone’s dramatic. She watched his face closely, knowing that these conversations were never easy to have. Personally, most people didn’t know the details of her relationship with Kian. They didn’t know her history or how she felt dirty after it was all said and done. She had never gotten close enough to another person with ties to vampires to compare notes, see how trauma was different on other faces. “I find a lot of people turn into the thing that destroyed them, your’s just couldn’t be stopped.” She had become a killer after the Hunter, had walked this world with the goal of making sure others knew she could end them if she so wished. She had picked that, this man hadn’t. “It does fucking suck, pun intended, considering what happened,” She repeated back, that small smile still on her face.

Bea considered her options. She could just walk away, this had ended amicably enough, or she could give him a shot, accept company and let herself get pulled from the hole she had placed herself in. “I’m Bea or Beatrice, either work.” She always introduced herself that way, even though she rarely went by Beatrice anymore. Her mother had loved her full name though and so Bea had never stopped. Maybe it was time to. “I know a spot here where there are no mirrors, should be pretty safe.” She had never really stopped looking for those safe spots, not after three years of it. “I’ll get us more coffee and meet you over there?” She offered, guard still up, but willing to take some time to pull it down.

Milo watched the woman, pleased to see a genuine smile light up her face as she spoke. He smiled too, unable to help himself, but it didn’t take long for the expression to fade. He tried to imagine a world where he killed people so callously, where he was willing to take a life because it was convenient, and made him feel good. He refused to let himself become that, he was never going to forget the trauma, the unrest his experience had caused him. It might actually haunt him forever. He knew he could be selfish, knew on the odd occasion he put his own wants and needs before the wants and needs of others, but never to such a scale. That wasn’t him, and it was never going to be him. “I really hope that isn’t true…” He murmured. Maybe his company was right, and becoming a vampire was enough. Maybe she wasn’t talking about the murderous tendencies that apparently came as part of the package. Humming quietly in response to the pun, he glanced back up at her and was surprised to find she was still smiling. It made him feel better somehow, the knowledge that she might actually be enjoying the conversation.

“Bea...” He echoed, committing her name to his memory. He didn’t enjoy being given a choice, not when names could carry so much weight, and be so personal. It only made sense to use the first option he had been given. A laugh escaping him at the mention of mirrors, drawing him out of his thoughts, he was struck by how ridiculous it was relying on a human to show him where he would safely be able to sit. He felt like a child, although he knew he was in no place to complain about that fact. She was helping him, and considering how their interaction had begun, that alone seemed like an outright miracle. Following her gaze to a handful of tables, he nodded before catching her eye. “Coffee sounds good.” He agreed. “With oat milk, and as much syrup as they can legally give me.”

“Sometimes hope can be enough, if you follow it with determination.” There were moments where Bea looked toward Luce and saw hope in a manner she didn’t with many other people. It was a Vural trait to never go down easily, but Luce always felt like the most hopeful somehow. She was by far the least optimistic, yet somehow when hope was introduced to a situation, the eldest sister thought of the lightning caster. She couldn’t completely explain it, but it felt right in her chest. Luce didn’t let go of hope once she found it, she held fast, a dragon with her horde. “Oat milk,” Bea nodded, heading over to the front. “I’ll convince them to give you some illegal syrup too, don’t worry.”

Milo grinned at the mention of illegal syrup before turning away from Bea, making his way over to their new table. He felt okay, he realised. Not good, and definitely not whole, but okay, and that was undeniably the best possible outcome of the evening. He had been expecting the drink to help him. Had been expecting the solitude, and the quiet sense of normalcy to ground his overwhelming emotion. When in actuality it was the company helping him settle. Bea may have been cold, and short to begin with, but he was really beginning to like her. Maybe there was something in that. He had called Evelyn, hadn’t he? To help him when he was catatonic. Didn’t he usually call Orion when he was feeling particularly miserable, or confused? Even Macleod and James on the odd occasion had helped him to organise his thoughts. It struck him suddenly that he didn’t need coffee, he didn’t need to cling to his old life, or wallow in it entirely alone. He needed to find somebody to be with, somebody who could distract him from his thoughts, and allow him a sense of freedom. He knew the clubs now, he knew the substances. But did he know anybody willing to get on his level? If he looked in the right places, he strongly suspected White Crest might finally deliver.

#c:bea #milo and bea #emotional abuse tw #drug abuse tw

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jade-marie · 4 years

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Top 10 books fics I read in 2020

Tagged by @sothischickshe

I don’t read books. I’m trash. So have my top 10 fics. These aren’t in any real order, btw.

Finally got round to adding some content to each one. Send word to my family, I died doing this. All the fluffy goodness is hitting me right in the feels😭😭😭

Do not collect $200 by @mrslackles

My OG favourite series. I will talk about this till the cows come home, I will read it over and over again until the day I die. So fucking good. The plot, the characterisation, the angst, the fluff, it just has everything and I fucking love it.

Favourite snippet:

Her touch is so light that Rio shivers and his tongue darts out for a second, meeting two of her fingers, and it makes their eyes meet.

And the look she finds there, god, it’s indescribable – no words, there are no words. Yet she knows what it means. Nobody’s ever told me I’m a good kisser and nobody’s ever touched you like this.

She doesn’t say it aloud but it doesn’t matter, not really. They both know it.

And Beth doesn't know when she falls asleep, only that it's with her palm on his throat and her fingers splayed over his lips.

Lush life by @hereliesbb

Lush life is basically my comfort blanket. I have a bad day, I read it and I’m smiling again. Every time. Without fail. The fluffiest fucking shit I’ve ever read in my life, even the angst is fluffy. I love it so much, I cannot find the words.

Favourite snippet:

“What?” she asked when she saw he was staring. She looked back in the mirror to make sure she didn’t have anything in her teeth.

“You’re beautiful,” he said and then huffed like he was making fun of himself. Beth felt her face flush and about a hundred thousand butterflies take flight inside of her.

Warm water by @inyoursheets

Angst, yearning, friends to lovers, slow burn AND THEY WERE ROOMMATES. Such a good read omg 😫

Favourite snippet:

She kisses him.

Elizabeth. Elizabeth kisses him.

He can’t move—can’t think, not with her up close, her scent overwhelming him, her soft body pressed into him—when she’s already pulling back, jerking to a halt.

And just like that, he’s done. Finished. Can no longer find it in him to keep it up, his carefully crafted indifference, the control he tried to grasp so eagerly. No point guarding it from her any longer, not with those wild, wide eyes peering up at him like he can give her something, here, now.

Good sport by fireinsideforfun

Again, phenominal characterisation. I love the way she portrays their vulnerability. It’s just so so so beautifully written.

Also, the image of Rio drowning in a pair of ginormous pyjamas makes me feel some shit🤣

Favourite snippet:

“You’re not going to go rotten on me, are you darlin’?” he quietly asks her.

The question takes her aback, because although his voice is gentle his eyes are speaking volumes, something dark and desolate brewing.

“No. Never,” she says to him and means it.

He scoffs. “How can you know?”

“Because we’ve already been there before,” she says, and she can tell he knows what she’s referring to. “I already tried to get rid of the king and I couldn’t do it. We’ve been through those motions together. It’s done.”

Milkshakes by @emilykolburn

Dad Rio vibes, Rio and babies. Milkshake meetcute. I cannot. Literally so adorable.

Favourite snippet:

Rio was looking her up and down, slowly taking in every inch of her that he could, and she noted that he had that twinkle in his eyes again. When his eyes eventually found hers, he tilted his head to the side a little, tongue running slowly across his bottom lip. The intensity in the eye contact alone made her want to shrink away. She wasn’t used to it, she realised, but the longer they looked into each other’s eyes, and the way the corner of his mouth slowly twitched up into a smirk, she found she liked it.

Irresistible by @wakeupflawless

Highschool au. Enemies to lovers. I eat that shit UP.

Before anyone could say anything, she grabbed the front of his shirt, yanking him down to her for a very public, very dirty kiss.

“Oh, shit,” She heard Pedro say.

For once in his life Rio must have been stunned, because he was frozen against her for a moment. He grabbed her hips, pulling her closer to him and deepening the kiss. The bystanders erupted, she heard hoots and hollers coming from the guys and exclamations of “Oh my God!” from the girls.

“Hey! That’s enough” Called the Vice Principal, “Everyone get to class!”

Beth broke their kiss, panting slightly and grinning ear to ear.

“What was that?” Rio asked, raising his eyebrows.

“So everyone knows I’m hittin’ it,” Beth replied, smirking, “And also to say sorry,”

Love despite by @itsbriology

Dad Rio strikes again. If Lindsay throws in one more big-hand-small-baby-ratio reference... i’m pretty sure my ovaries will explode inside of my body and I’ll die of internal bleeding 🙃🙃🙃

Favourite snippet:

The hiccups lasted longer than he thought, almost to the point he wondered if there wasn’t something else he could do for her. But they eventually slowed and so did her tears, and then he stopped and looked down at her little head full of soft brown hair that had landed on his chest and watched her eyes drift shut again from the pure exhaustion of the near traumatizing event.

“There ya go, sleepy head. See, I told ya.” He laughed down at her as he continued holding her and pushing the cart down the aisle. A little old lady stopped and took in the sight of them.

“Someone’s a good daddy,” She smiled up at him with Jane cozy in his arms and he stopped. The lady looked to be about eighty and probably weighed seventy pounds.

“Uhh, no… this ain’t…” He tried telling her but she interrupted.

“What an adorable little girl you’ve got there.”

The lady looked up at them grinning.“Thank you.” He smiled back, not knowing what else to say in that moment.

Criminology 101 by @sdktrs12

College au. Cars being destroyed. Fluffy shit. Idiots being idiots. LOVE ITTTTT

He moves one hand up to brush her hair out of her face. “Do you trust me?”

I do that’s the whole problem, she wants to scream. She finds herself nodding quietly instead.

“That’s good.” He leans down, presses his lips against her temple in a soft kiss that makes her heart skip a beat.

Beth closes her eyes as she leans into him, giving in and letting herself fall into the dark abyss that is his touch, his smell, his voice.

Shit.

She’s in so much trouble.

Both sides of the law by @joeyjoeylee

Slow burn. Y E A R N I N G. But they don’t even know they’re yearning. Taking the constant oneupmanship and translating it into a law school setting - genius. So so good.

Favourite snippet:

“Shouldn’t you be at the bar?” She really needed to let Gretchen know some of the staff had a distinct professionalism problem. If, or when, she was in charge of throwing the party next year, she’d have to make sure they did a better job of recruiting the help.

“Was just there, actually.” He wiggled his hand to show her the beer bottle he was holding. “But Gretch got on me ‘bout not having my nametag.”

She was confused and a little scandalized. Was he really drinking on the job? And…”Gretch”? He had to mean Gretchen? Granted, Beth barely knew her, but Gretchen hadn’t seemed like someone who would be on a first name basis with the staff. And why would he have a nametag? Nametags were for the students, and he was just a bartender…

Oh.

Oh no.

Everything seemed suddenly to be moving very slowly and she seemed to be watching it all unfold from outside her own body.

She watched him lean closer again to reach behind her and pick up the last nametag from the table.

She watched him pluck the Sharpie from her hand and use it to cross out “Christopher” then write “Rio” in big block letters that still managed to look messy.

Then she watched as he made a production of pinning the nametag just so to his lapel, mirroring her, exact and mocking, grinning down at her all the while.

Oh no.

A time to kill @sothischickshe

JUSTICE FOR MICK. And his shirt. Poor bby did not sign up for dealing with these two dumbasses and their dumbassery. Grumpy Rio pov is always a winner in my book. It’s comedy gold.

Favourite snippet:

Jesus, her hair is past lank. He sniffs. “You’re ripe. Go shower, man.”

Elizabeth grumbles incessantly until he agrees she can have coffee first, but he draws a line under a single cup, demanding she hurry.

Rio opens the windows wide as they allow. There’s a distinct scent of manure in the air, but it honestly might be preferable.

“That shirt needs washing too!” he yells from a safe nasal distance.

She literally punts the shirt at him from the bathroom, before slamming then locking the door. The handle vibrates for ages after.

He debates sourcing some tongs to handle the offending item with. When he can’t find any, considers setting fire to it instead. Surely Elizabeth can make herself a dress outta all the hair she incessantly moults over every inch or some shit.

Eventually he chucks it in for a wash with some other bits, holding his nose closed.

Elizabeth’s in the bathroom for fucking ages. He assumes it’s payback for pointing out she stunk, or whatever. But it ain’t cute.

He jiggles the handle, knocks on the door. There’s no response.

“Oi!” Rio shouts. “Hurry up, I gotta piss!” It’s not, strictly speaking, true. But. It could be. Hogging the bathroom’s just rude.

“Go away!” she squawks. Then, “Go outside!”

He keeps it up, and she mostly ignores him. Though when he insinuates she’s taking the world’s longest shit, she does straight up tell him to fuck off.

Tagging @purplemagic @wakeupflawless @00gangfriend00 @joeyjoeylee

#tag game #fics #gg fic

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thewhumpstuff · 4 years

Text

Tariq - Aftermath [YaIMaY - D1]

@quirkykayleetam - I hope you like it! [CW: Implied nudity, references to another character’s ideation about death]

[Teaser and Master List]

Wet trails followed him. Water dripped from the strands of his hair, from the hem of uniform and each footstep was a drag and it with an uncomfortable squelch, leaving a pool in its wake. Faces passed him, a few stopped and stared. He ignored the onlookers and let them have their secret fun at his expense. But more and more of them began to gather, some even changed course to linger on after him. They had taken his silence to be consent. Like it was okay to stalk him and witness a piece of his misery, to stop and stare at the spectacle that Tariq had become. Finally, he too paused. He held out his hands like he was a mannequin. “Like what you see?” He bellowed; his voice boomed like Ezekiel’s had on the mic. Which made him want to flinch, but he was not giving this motley crew of an audience any more satisfaction.

His darkened gaze pinned one of the fascinated watchers. Tariq looked into their eyes and noticed the familiar tint of orange surround the iris. The fucker’s SmartEye was recording this… This walk of shame. The agent quickly and shamefully averted his eyes. Tariq walked up to the man, who was taller and had a few pounds on him. They both knew that did not matter. Tariq grabbed their pristine, starched white collar and shoved them against the wall. Then held their jaw in a vice-like grip to force eye contact again. “What’s wrong? I thought you wanted to see this. Do you want to keep following me and take this outside?” The man shook his head in Tariq’s vicious hold. Tariq let him go. “Good.” The agent scrammed, looking over his shoulder as though he had been attacked by a monster. “Don’t you all have something better to do?” His voice boomed again, and the agents scattered. Tariq sighed and stood a little less straight than usual. His fingers found the intentionally misshapen medal that drooped over his chest pocket, heavily. He plucked off the brooch, without unpinning it. It took some effort to rip the soaked stitches of his uniform shirt. He stared at the scratched ‘Squadron Leader’ title. Someone had gone through the pain of doing that and then stamping on it. He threw it against the wall in disgust and clenched his fists. He walked on, now alone in the corridor, towards his room. Shutting the door once he was inside, left him weak with relief. He slumped against it. The carpet was slowly drenched under him, he undid his shoes and rolled off his socks. He left a string of soppy garments on his way to bar—a shelf with a small assortment of alcoholic beverages. He opened a flask of rum with his teeth and spat out the cork… somewhere. It hit something, a door of some cabinet. He took a long draught and then another as he hauled himself along to the empty bathtub. He kicked of his briefs and turned to reach for the faucet, then turned away and then turned back to it… He put one foot in the bathtub and left one out. An awkward uncertainty clung to him like sweat on a warm day. All choices felt overwhelming. Did he want to soak in the bathtub or just take a quick shower? Did he want hot water or cold? He took another swig and plonked himself down in the empty tub, facing away from the faucet. He’d sat with Kira like this under an hour ago. Even that felt like an eon. Absently, his hand reached for the drain plug, he plugged it. The other left the flask on the side of the tub and reached groped the wall behind him blindly till fingers found the faucet. He did not bother setting any precise temperature and just accepted whatever the last setting had been. Tepid water. His least favourite – Tariq had always been fond of the extremes. He must have been in a rush the last time he was in here. He could not recall when that was. He could not recall much of anything that transpired over the last week or so. And for a moment that felt like a blessing. He embraced the peaceful blankness of his mind. And then it very fervidly was not blank any more. Memories collected and pooled like the water around his folded body. Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards... Something tightened around his chest. Breathing felt difficult, so he drew one deep inhale and held it. His head dropped between his knees. His tense neck craned forward, his shoulders and back stretched, somewhat pleasantly, but everything was drowned in the echoes of his mind. And in the echoes of his voice against the bathroom tiles. It did not strike him that he had listed the things that anchored the flashes till he heard his own voice chanting the words again. “Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards...” He spoke into the space his legs made, into the water that streamed upwards to cradle him. The gentle drizzle of the water felt foreign. Too soft, too gentle, too kind. Fingers groped the wall for the faucet again, he craved something stronger and harder. The water struck his back with a pressure that left a haze of mist around him, as fine flecks splashed off him. He hissed softly and let his forehead rest against the ceramic border of the tub. “Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards...” Discoveries. Pain. Suffering… and Betrayal. I thought Eze was a friend. Tariq didn’t care that he was whipped under Eze’s discretion. It hurt, but he deserved it. He was guilty of the charged against him. But, what the fuck was with Eze’s cruelty against Kira? He knew that she was a friend… of Tariq’s. Couldn’t he cut her some slack? Tariq should have known better. He did know better; it was just that Ezekiel crossed some lines that he had not before, and his victim was someone Tariq was attached to. Hate won over friendship—If one could even call it that. Tariq was vaguely aware of the history that he shared with Jared. On more one occasion they had fantasized about all the moves they would use on Jared if they got a chance to fight him fair and square. We both had our chance and we squandered it with cowardice. They had all broken so many rules and he now wondered if Ezekiel had any rules. And Kira wanted to die? He hated himself, in that moment. But he clung onto life even more dearly. He had amends to make. Amends that would take time. Something shook inside him. In fact, something shook him. The water hid his tears. It got even harder to breathe between the grizzling. Tariq sloshed in the tub as he swivelled and faced the wall behind him. His eyes fell upon the forgotten flask of rum. He guzzled it and then turned the dial of the temperature setter till he was lost in the thick cloud steam. The water sizzled against his flesh, his back stung and it made the whipping scars scream. The pain felt familiar, it felt comfortable. It felt like all he deserved. He felt betrayed by Akira too. She had made her mother a promise. They had made promises to each other and more importantly to themselves. She should not have allowed herself to give up like that. She mattered, no more and no less than he did, or Nova… Or Jared. Sure, she went through shit. She went through a lot of shit. He shuddered again. He did nothing to protect her, friends were supposed to have each other’s back. They had failed her, more than anything. Ezekiel had picked at her; he had picked her apart. And they could just watch. Kira survived. No thanks to me. At least Jared tried. What did I do? Nothing. She was alive; but would she live again? Tariq felt his stomach knot. I never quite stood up for Nova either. It was an impossible predicament, but he could have done something. Especially after all the times she had gone out of her way to make him comfortable when he returned from a mission, a mess. A part of him always knew and he conveniently did not ask too many questions. He felt nauseated. And Kira wanted to die? What were her options? What were my options? His threw away the empty flask, glass shattered. He punched a tile… It shattered too, but the pieces remain wedged against each other and stayed slotted in the wall. Maybe we can hold each other up like this, within the walls of this system. He could not really pull the faith to believe the bleak positive suggestion. “Get a grip. Get a grip. You’re a soldier damn it.” Blood. It stained the wall and quickly dissolved in the moisture, slipping down the tiles, the tub and disappearing into pool of water. He had seen so much of it. Friends and enemies alike. “Knife… Gun… Scalpel… Batons… Holding Cell… Poles… Whips… Syringes and Needles… Cards... GET. A. GRIP.” He punctuated the words with a few more punches, this time with the side of his fist, the tiles remained intact, but his little finger felt broken. He assumed its why his hands shook the way they did. If he fought the flashing moments with enough spirit, they would lose their hold on him eventually… … Right? He stood up and rested his forehead against the wall, in a sort of surrender.

#shower panic whump #guilt whump #flashback #whump #you and I me and you

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spacehologramcollection · 6 years

Text

Orm Marius Proposing would include;

I’ve posted a lot of NSFW stuff on my blog like recently, so have some fluff! Orm finally gets happiness, because that man deserves some! GIF not mine.

Orm isn’t the kind of man to get into a relationship which he doesn’t see progression. He isn’t the type to want a fling. It’s not in his nature to do anything short-termed or half arse it. No. He would only get in a relationship of he knew you’d be in it for the long run.

So, when the time comes where he starts to think about proposing and organising it; he’s been observing you for a while, seeing how you work and function. He’s become an expert in You. So much so that he could put your own Family to shame. That is how he works. Dedicated to the end with knowledge that could fill a library.

Every little thing you’ve told him that holds relevance he’s held onto. Your ring size? He’s known this since he got you a ring for your birthday. Favourite food? He knows this because he let you pick the first date. Orm is a tactician and someone who plans for the long term, he stored all the information on your preferences, in case of use in the future.

He would not do this engagement half arsed as well. He’ll make it special. Orm is a pretty smug and cocky person by nature; so, he will want it to be memorable, he wants no other man to top him. He wants to show Surface Dwellers how it’s done and remind you how a Queen should be treat. Because to him, you’re his queen and nobody else can compare to you. You’re his everything and you deserve to be fussed over.

But don’t expect a giant display of affection and a public proposal. He wouldn’t have even done that if you were Atlantean. It’s making a scene and drawing unnecessary attention. Attention that would be taken away from the moment and more importantly, you. He can’t have that.

He plants it so meticulously and keeps it a secret till the time drawers closer. He figures it’ll be hard to plan, since he doesn’t drive, and he’ll have to convince you to drive there without too many questions. But he works out the logistics and thinks of every potential glitch and how to remedy it.

Closer to the time, he’ll start asking for advice on Human Courting rituals. He wanted to google it, but him and technology are still a work in progress. He knows you can look at what he’s searched and he’s not confident enough to delete the history. Instead he opts to read books from the Library.

He will ask for your hand in marriage. It’s the polite and proper thing to do. He needs to ensure your family that you will be well taken care of. It’s just how he was raised, to be proper and prim. He follows etiquette because it was how he was trained.

He’d tell his mother the day before, she’s the only person apart from your parents to know. He couldn’t bring himself to not tell her. He knew she’d understand, she fell in love with a Surface Dweller… she’d understand exactly what he was going through.

She eases and calms his nerves, reassuring him he’s doing the right thing and telling him how proud she is. How he’s overcome his prejudice and drowned his father’s voice and teachings out. This brings him comfort and confidence.

On the day in question, he asks you to drive him to the place you had one of your first dates. When you sat watching the ocean and talking atop one of the cliffs. Watching the Ocean had turned into watching the Stars, with you teaching him the constellations and him doing the same; it was interesting to see how the two differed on their stories of the stars.

When you’d get there, you’d be confused as to why you were driving to the Cliffs at Sunset. He’d end up reminiscing about your date, reminding you of the most significant bits. It’s then that he’d ask you.

Timing it just so the orange sky bleeds into the blue, the sound of the oceans crashing against the side of the rock. Just the two of you, surrounded by the land and the sea.

He’d probably say something along the lines of

“The Surface has always scared me. That fear turned to anger and hatred. I dreaded coming here and I couldn’t bring myself to stay here… but then I met you. The monochromatic world around me changed; you were the burst of colour that provided clarity to me… A King is nothing without a strong queen who shows him patience and provides him clarity. You do just that Y/N. Will you accept this ring as a proposal, for a life time bond, for this life and the next”?

You’re shocked and you can feel tears welling into your eyes. His eyes are looking up at you, longing for you to speak… the silence is killing him, and mere seconds feel like a year to him. He’s a wreck inside. He’s exposed himself to weakness and rejection, two of his worst fears realised. His Fathers words screaming at him, bursting forth through his memories and shouting louder than his common sense.

That all ends when you say yes. His Father finally banished from his mind. The release he’s had on him for all of his life finally ending and crumbling.

You swear you see him cry but you’re unsure. Orm rarely cries. You do hear him laugh a little as he placed the ring on your finger. Standing he grabs your waist and pulls you close, resting his forehead on yours. This is as close to PDA as you’ll ever get.

He’ll whisper how much he cares for you, how happy you make him and how his soul belongs to you and vice versa.

He tells you the ring belonged to his mother and that she wished for him to give it to his soulmate. And that it had been in the family for generations. You feel honoured to have it. Orm smugly smiles before shaking his head; remarking on how he got to give it you, rather than Arthur giving it to Mera. He has to always one up him. He’ll break the contact, gaining composure and remembering you’re still outside.

He’ll insist on going to see his Mother and Brother. He wants to tell his mother the good news and boast to Arthur. He’s the first to get married and will probably be the first to give their mother a Grandchild. He’s still a smug little shit. But you love it for him.

#Orm Marius #Orm marius x reader #king orm #orm #orm x reader #King Orm x reader #King Orm Marius x reader #King Orm marius #King orm headcanons #king orm imagines #Orm marius headcanons #Orm Mairus imagines #King Orm marius imagines #King Orm Marius headcanons #Aquaman #aquaman imagines #aquaman headcanons #Oceanmaster

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sweetcatmintea · 5 years

Text

He’s Only Hurting Himself

Hello hello ^u^ Back again for Flash Fiction Friday! (I know I’ve missed some and have messages to reply to and I promise I’ll get to them soon! I’ve been running around chasing my own tail lately @A@;;)

This is @bookenders flash fiction prize for the giveaway I did. Thanks so much for your patience and I hope you like it!

Feedback is very appreciated!

Prompt: I'd love for you to write in a style that you've always wanted to try but haven't yet, for whatever reason, on any subject! 😊

I decided to try a meaningful, future tense story

TW: Alcohol, Alcoholism, Dementia, Death, Brief mentions of illness, Sad

Words: 1351

____

A long day, a deep sigh, sinking slowly into the battered and overstuffed couch cushions, an icy beer safely in hand. The children were asleep, the day was close to over. He leaned back, letting the tiredness seep from his pores. The tv flashed one program or another, whichever was required to complete the Thursday ritual. Weekday programs never really caught his interest. His wife, lovely, his rock, was invested in the prime-time dramas, so he sat while she watched. He toyed with the bottle, briefly rolling it in his palm, absently drawing out the anticipation. The first crack was always the sweetest. Bitter bubbles scratched the building itch in his throat. A sip, then a mouthful, then a new bottle, then he woke up. Friday repeat.

He could say he loved the malty flavour in the evening, that he was a man of taste, sampling the local beverages. He could say a lot of things. He was beginning to think the longing was a problem, but he would never say that. It was his body after all. His choices weren’t hurting anyone but himself. There were issues beneath the surface – aren’t there always? Maybe it was the stress, maybe a simple need to placate the thirst, maybe his childhood came into play. He didn’t need help. He told his wife so many times. His pride wouldn’t allow it. So what if he went a little over sometimes? Everyone has their vices. At least he was a happy drunk.

So he sank into his favourite chair, air warm and beer cold. The children were asleep, and his wife was watching the weekday program. He knew he wouldn’t remember the rest of the night but that doesn’t stop him from raising the bottle. He took a sip.

What he doesn’t know is that there will always be enough money for alcohol, even when the pantry is slim. That his wife, lovely, his rock, is left alone when he comes home, her words falling into nothing so often she stops talking.

He couldn’t imagine that, a few weeks from now, his son will be preparing for an important recital. He will be so excited. Months of practice all leading up to the big performance. The struggles, the triumphs. His son can’t wait to show his parents how hard he worked. And then he will slip. Ankle broken and heart shattered, he will wait in the emergency room with his mother. His father will be too drunk to come to him. He will never be able to look at the man the same way. He will forgive him, but the stain of abandonment will never come out. Bottles collect to dampen the failure. He hates the noise.

A few years later, the man’s daughter will come to him. She’ll be laughing, burnt red from the sports festival and waving a blue ribbon in triumph. She’ll be so proud, telling him that she’s going to be the best in the world at the javelin throw. He will agree, as any parent would. As long as she’s happy, that will be the future he wants for her. When she starts feeling unwell on the drive home, it’s chalked up to heat exhaustion. An ice block, water, and an early night to fox her tiredness. He and his wife discuss their worries over drinks while their kids are in bed. Heat stroke is a genuine concern but it was a stable of growing up here. She should be fine in a few days.

His daughter’s skin tans golden while she stays tired and dizzy. The vomiting sends them to a GP. He makes sure he is present this time. He will wish he wasn’t. The diagnosis is troubling, but unlikely. They’ll have to run some tests just to rule it out. The tests are positive. They determine acute liver failure four days before her fifteenth birthday.

Donors will be scarce. She’s on the waitlist but her blood type is a complication. She’s always been the spitting image of her mother, sharing only two traits with her father – his oak brown eyes and his O- blood. He will offer his liver. He will offer over and over and over. Take it, take the while thing if you can salvage one piece, please, take my liver. The check box glares back

🔲 No active substance abuse

In the twist of a cap, she’s gone.

He will never recover. Night after night, he will drink his sorrows, drowning his wife in the process. The final straw, an ultimatum. Sober up or be alone. He can’t lose anyone else. The pain is too much. It will be hard, one of the hardest things he will ever do, but he will sink into that old couch, son in college, and the tv playing the weekday program. He will share a tea with his wife. The house feels empty.

It’s sad when the damage is invisible, the result inevitable. Wrinkles will set in a little earlier than expected. Grey overtaking blond. Sometimes he forgets his appointments. Old age, they laugh. His wife will age much more gracefully. There’s a tiredness in her eyes, one that she hasn’t been able to shake for years now. But she’s still beautiful. The crow’s feet set in beside them, deepening with every smile. It’s one of his favourite features. Sometimes, he gets irritable. He will yell without meaning to. He was never really one to yell. She smiles less.

When he panics in the shopping centre, she will know something is wrong. He was lost, scared, frail. She will see the diagnosis before the doctor says it, his face a written apology. Dementia. She will hold herself together well, all things considered. He will not. The road paved for him was one that terrified him. With each detail the doctor will paint, he wishes he could look anywhere else. Ten years to lose himself. Ten years to die. His son will come home immediately. They will get through this. One day at a time, they’ll be ok. The promise was made in the late evening, the family holding each other on the old comfortable couch, tv playing the weekday program in the background.

Confusion will come more and more. Week and disoriented, he will struggle as the days blur on. One morning in the early spring, he approaches his wife in tears. He can’t remember the feel of her hand on his cheek. She will hold him tight and cry.

Time becomes fuzzy. He will shift between selves. On good days, he will be him. On bad days, he is angry. He yells and storms, drinks and swears. He hates the old woman who pleads with him to stop. On terrible days he begs the strange man to let him see his boy. He’s so proud of his son. He hasn’t seen him in so long. He doesn’t want to miss his recital. He’s so, so happy when his wife visits him. She’s older now. He doesn’t know when that happened. But she will still be so beautiful. He loves the crinkles around her eyes. Sometimes, he will remember he needs to pick up his daughter from the sports festival. She always tries so hard, you know. The old woman and the strange man cry when he tells them.

He will die. Quietly, in his sleep. The disease finally corroding his brain stem, stopping his heart. The guilty relief tears his wife apart. She stands at his grave, praying he finds peace. She will spend her entire life waiting for him to get better.

His son is hollow. He will have been for a long time. In the quiet evening when work is done, he will pour another glass of wine. He doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts.

There is no way the man could predict all of this as he takes another sip of his beer. His wife, lovely, his rock, gives him a worried look. He smiles and kisses her cheek. A few beers weren’t hurting anyone. Besides, he was a happy drunk.

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To be real for a second, Australia has a really prevalent drinking culture. It makes me worry about both the people getting drunk on the regular and the people around them. This story is in no way intended to shame people who drink, it’s supposed to highlight the false belief ‘it’s fine if I harm myself because it doesn’t hurt others’.

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Tag list

@snobbysnekboi, @inkovert, @kainablue, @i-rove-rock-n-roll, and @goblin-writer

#This is kind of a downer story so let me know if you want something else #writing #writblr #original writing #flash fiction #Flash Fiction Friday #story #short story #Alcohol #alcoholism #character death #death #dementia #sad stories #More at my deviantArt SweetCatMint

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katecarteir · 6 years

Text

signs of life.

Chapter One | 5k | Teen Audiences and Up.

Chapter Warnings: Gay slurs, period typical homophobia.

Author’s note: You do not need to read SCL in order to understand this fic, or vice versa. They both work as stand alone fics :) They just happened to exist in the same universe at different periods of time.

The sun made Beverly’s hair look like it was on fire, Bill was climbing onto Ben’s shoulders and Richie’s damp hair was sticking to his forehead while his whole body shook with his laughter.

It’s the summer of 1994 and Eddie thinks to himself, pulling his knees up to is chest, that if he could ignore the incoming panic of senior year and turn off his turbulent feelings that threaten to drown him every night then everything could be just fine.

[or: the most self-indulgent 90s!Losers high school AU that nobody ever, ever asked for but is going to be a monster of a fic anyway!]

Playlist | Read on AO3 | Semi Charmed Life

The final bell rang through the class, and it took every inch of self control that Eddie Kaspbrak had not to toss the papers on his desk up in the air and cry out with joy. Richie Tozier, it seemed, had much less self control than Eddie did- and Eddie had Richie’s papers landing on his desk and Richie’s shouts in his ears.

“Mr Tozier,” Ms Campbell, their junior AP English teacher, gave him a long withering look but Eddie could see her fighting off a smile. Richie seemed to be the only person in the world who’d mastered annoying and amusing somebody at the same time. “I can still give you detention for this afternoon.”

Richie gave her a small half smile. “But I’m pretty sure that you’re just as excited as I am to get out of here, so you probably won’t.”

Richie Tozier was all things that a good girls’ daddy would warn them about. His hair never laid flat on his head, and his clothes were always rumbled with wild patterns and mix-matched styles. He still forced his feet into the same pair of Dock Martens from freshman year, even after growing up them back at the beginning of the year, and it gave him a permanent skip in his step. He wore braces on his teeth even at sixteen years old, and the grudging white women down at the salon always seemed to have something bad to say about the Tozier family.

Eddie wasn’t like Richie. It sometimes felt like Eddie’s mother still dressed him, even if he technically chose out his own outfits every morning. Eddie Kaspbrak was similar to Richie in one way; he was also the kind of boy that men didn’t want around their daughters. No man wanted their daughter running around with a boy who dressed like a faggot. Eddie may not choose his clothes, but that didn’t make all of their claims untrue.

Ms Campbell shook her head, fully smiling now. “Get out of here, Richard.”

Richie let out another excited noise, slightly quieter this time, and grabbed hold of Eddie’s hand. Eddie barely had enough time to grab up his own things before Richie was dragging him from the building. He seemed to not have any regard for his own belongings that were scattered all over the classroom. Eddie had known Richie Tozier for pretty much as long as he could remember. A real sandbox love, and Richie had been this obnoxious ever since Eddie could remember. Richie had been a messy child, loud, and Eddie’s mother had forbid him at four years old to ever see the boy again. Being friends with Richie Tozier had been the first time Eddie had ever disobeyed his mother, and every time since had been Richie inspired.

Richie openly pranced into the hallway, slipping and high fiving some random person that Eddie barely recognized. He looked ridiculous in his too small boots, and jean overall matched with a Hawaiian print shirt that lost what little fashion cred it had back in the early 80s. Richie quickly returned to Eddie’s side, tossing an arm around his friend shoulder and pulling Eddie into his side. “Eds, my love, I have a feeling that this is going to be the best summer of our lives. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Don’t call me that, dick,” Eddie shoved at Richie, but not enough that they actually broke contact or that Richie would pull away. Richie just grinned down at him. “You say that about last summer and then I spent the whole six weeks with a cast on my wrist. Thanks to you, I might add. So, sorry if I maybe don’t take your word for it.”

“Eds…” Richie sighed, shaking his head. “I’m telling you. This is the summer of Losers.”

Richie dropped his arm from around Eddie’s shoulder and skipped towards the doors to freedom. Eddie slowed his steps and watch Richie move, a small smile growing on his cheeks.

→ → →

“I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”

It was fifteen minutes after Stanley Uris had been supposed to meet his friends outside the front doors, and he was still sitting in the guidance counsellor’s chair. Mr Barton gave a small sigh and rubbed at his chin.

“Your grades fallen pretty low this last semester, Mr Uris,” Mr Barton said, repeating nearly the same words as before as though Stan would be able to accept them the second time. “At this point, we think it might be in your best interest to start looking at.. different schools options.”

Stan’s mouth fell open, twisting his report card towards him and staring down at it angrily. Stanley Uris did not slip up, ever. His clothes were always perfectly ironed, never dirty, and fit him promptly. He managed his hair into perfect swoops every day, even on the mornings when his curls seemed to want nothing more than to be wild and free. He had good posture, he never skipped class. Maybe he’d struggled a little bit with concepts in some of his classes, but he hadn’t given much thought about it. There was no way his grades had slipped so much, but the report cards don’t lie.

Mr Barton was still speaking. “Now, you don’t need to do anything just now. Take the summer to think about it, and you can always works towards getting your GPA back up next year. Maybe a tutor…”

Stan tuned him out, ears ringing.

→ → →

Beverly Marsh tucked her hands into the pockets of the much oversized jean jacket that she’d stolen from Richie, and watched Bill Denbrough upend his pack into the green garbage can outside the school. She was pretty sure at least three calculators and an actual full-sized novel fell out and into the garbage, but she didn’t make a peep.

“Don’t you think you’re going to need those things?” Ben Hanscom asked as he approached. Ben had always been a cute kid, Beverly remembered when they first met in the seventh grade. He had been, for a lack of better word, fat. He’d hit a good growth spurt the year before, and gone out for the football team with Mike Hanlon in sophomore year and it had slimmed him out a little bit. His sandy brown hair still flopped all over his face, and his cheeks still pushed out with chub, and Beverly wouldn’t have had any other way. She would never tell anybody, but she thought that out of all her friends Ben Hanscom was her favourite.

Bill Denbrough looked up and smiled. This past year, Bill had started letting his hair grow out and it now tickled at the back of his neck, and fell well into his eyes. Richie hadn’t yet managed to convince Bill to tuck it back into a ponytail, and Beverly often wondered how Bill even saw. He glanced down at the bag, seeming to think about it for a moment, then tossed the whole bag into the garbage behind his belongings.

Mike walked up to them, still wearing his red-and-white letterman jacket that Ben would never be seen wearing outside of game days, and grinned. Mike Hanlon was definitely the nicest jock that Beverly had ever met in her life. The Hanlons were on the of only black families in the very town of Derry, Maine and they lived out of the outskirts on a beautiful farm. Beverly practically lived out there when she could. Mike had been homeschooled through their elementary school days, and she’d only known him through reputation until then. He’d fit right in their little group of Losers immediately, and they’d all been inseparable since.

“That was overkill, Billy, don’t you think?” Beverly asked, pulling out the package of cigarettes from the pocket of the jacket and lighting one up. She supposed technically they were Richie’s, but she told herself that Richie would never have started smoking if it hadn’t been for her, so that made them partly hers. “You really didn’t need to throw out the whole bag, dude.”

“I don’t want to th-th-think about school for the next s-s-six weeks!” Bill announced, cheeks turning pink the way they always did when his stutter came through. It was remarkably better than it was when they were children- the speech therapy his parents had been taking him to Portland was working wonders- but it seemed to slip through just often enough that he couldn’t quite live down the nickname of “Mush Mouth.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not going to need that stuff next year, man,” Ben said with a laugh. In the past few months, it had seemed that Ben Hanscom had been trying pretty hard to give himself a newer image. His sentences got shorter, he’s words got rougher, and his little black notebooks stopped appearing in his hands. Beverly figured that he was still writing poetry- or at least, she hoped he was- but Ben had effectively been shutting himself out the last few weeks.

“What are we talking about?” Richie’s voice carried over to them, wrapping an arm around Beverly and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Junior year had done wonders to Richie’s height factor, springing him up almost a foot and prompting him to finally catch up to the other boys in their grade.

“Bill here thinks that because the school year is over that he can just throw out all of this stuff from this year- backpack included.” Ben informed Richie, reaching into his own bag and tossing the curly-haired boy a PEZ dispenser that had Daffy Duck from the Loonie Toons on it.

Richie caught it without concern, grinning a little sheepishly as Eddie Kaspbrak came up to them. He was a little wheezy from trying to keep up to Richie’s larger steps, but had that same mischievous grin on his face that he always did. “That’s nothing,” Eddie said with a cocky wiggle of his eyebrows. “Richard here tossed all his shit up into he air once the bell rang like they were graduation caps, and then left them laying around the classroom.”

Beverly and Mike burst out laughing in the same moment, turning Richie’s slightly embarrassed grin to the genuine smile that always came out his friends laughing. Eddie looked at Richie’s smile, and the sound of Bev and Mike’s laughing sort of dimmed in his ears.

“Where the hell is Stanley?” Bill finally asked, looking around as the court yard quickly emptied around them. Most days the courtyard would be filled for hours after school let out, with clubs and teams all loitering around for meetings, but nobody wanted to stand around on school property once summer had officially started. “It’s not like him to be late.”

“He had a meeting with the counsellor after school, said it wouldn’t take long.” Richie said, popping out three of candies and popping them into his mouth.

“Probably discussing a way to get Stan valedictorian over you,” Mike said with a smirk. Richie clicked his tongue and winked at him.

Eddie’s gaze moved towards the loud rumbling of a certain Chevy truck that was moving down the road towards the school and his chest hitched. “Oh, shit. Incoming.”

Beverly groaned, quickly reaching down to tighten the laces on her combat boots. “Don’t they ever get tired of harassing innocents?”

“Nah,” Richie said, looking towards the truck with the few expression of true disgust that he owned. “People never get tired of the things that get them off. Why did you think I spend so much of my time picking fights with Eddie’s mom?”

“Oh my GOD!” Eddie squeaked, whacking Richie on the air. “You’re so fucking gross, Tozier, I swear-“

“Okay, we gotta move,” Mike said suddenly, reaching out and taking hold of Bill’s arm. Bill had already squared his shoulders, readying up for the fight as he always did at the sight of Henry Bowers and his gang. It was sometimes like there was a tiny part of Bill’s soul that burned for getting his ass handed to him by bullies twice his weight.

“What about Stan?” Eddie asked hesitantly, glancing back at the building. The last thing Eddie wanted was to be caught in any sort of altercation with the Bowers gang that he’d so carefully avoided since they’d graduated from Derry High the year before but he also wasn’t the type to leave a man behind.

“Don’t worry about it,” Richie said, patting Beverly between her shoulder blade and ushering her towards Ben. “Patty boy and I have an understanding. You guys just get out of here.”

Eddie’s chest clenched slightly, and he noticed the same panic settled over Beverly’s face. “Babe, we can all go. We don’t even know how long Stan is going to be in there, we don’t know that they’ll even still be around when he’s done.”

“I don’t know,” Richie said in a voice sung with false confidence. “I’ve sort of missed them. It would nice to have a reunion with our old pals.”

“You’re on your own feeling that way,” Mike said with a nervous laugh. The truck was approaching rather quickly, and he pressed an arm around Beverly’s shoulder. She ushered her away, Ben right on their heels. The truck started to honk, and Eddie squeezed Richie’s wrist before taking off after the others. Richie turned slightly, making eye contact with Bill, who grinned back at him. Richie lowered his hand slightly, and Bill met it with a low five.

Patrick Hockstetter was jumping out the passenger door before the truck had even skidded to a stop. His black hair was longer and greasier than Richie remembered it being, and his clothes looked like they hadn’t been washed since the last time they’d seen him. His boots were caked in mud, and it was definitely the same flannel that had once been oversized. He grinned at them wolfishly, actually going as far as to lick his lips. “Well, well,” Patrick said with a chirp. “If it isn’t my two favourite Losers. Where are the rest of your gang?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” Richie asked, raising his brow and matching Patrick smirk for smirk. “Seems the end of days has finally come. Everybody else was raptured up to Gods playground and we’re the only poor bastards left on Earth.”

Bill snorted and tucked his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. As Patrick limbered closer, Richie realized that he was actually the same height now and he couldn’t control the pride that settled in his chest.

Henry and the other two minions that mattered a whole lot less all came strutting out of the truck and towards them. “Huh-huh-huh-huh-hey buh-buh-buh-Billy,” Henry Bowers exaggerated stuttered as he approached. It was weak and overused means of teasing, but it still made Bill clenched his fist and grind his jaw. “You guys all alone here?”

Richie exhaled hard, with an overdramatic roll of his eyes. “We’ve been over this. If you’re going to show up late, at least have the courtesy to be quiet.”

“Oh, Trashmouth Tozier is telling me to be quiet? That’s rich.” Henry stepped towards Richie, a good several inches shorter now. For the first time in his life, Richie Tozier felt he might have the upper hand in a situation. Until Patrick opened his mouth again.

“Hey, Tozier, where’s you’re little fairy friend?” Patrick slurred over to him. Richie’s posture stiffened and he heard Bill let in a small inhale behind him. “I wanted to give him a special hello if you catch my drift.”

Richie saw Patrick grabbing at his crotch from the corner of his eye, and forced a smile onto his face. “You know what I love about bigots.” Richie said, forcing laughter into his voice. He could practically feel Bill vibrating behind him. Richie turned quickly from Henry to Patrick, socking the bully directly in the nose. “Nothing.”

“OH SHIT!” Bill shouted behind Richie, grabbing at his friend’s arm and pulling. Richie stumbled slightly as they took off in the opposite direction of the school.

I picked the wrong day to wear shoes that don’t fit, Richie thought to himself. He could hear the angry shouts of Patrick and his buddies as they chased the two of them through the crowded Derry Park. Richie took a running jump over the park bench, and laughed breathlessly when he heard the distinct thud of Belch Huggins running into it.

Bill took a sharp left and slid underneath the singing out legs of a child on the swing, and nearly fell when he heard Vic Criss shout when the girls feet landed directly in his face. Glancing over his shoulder, he watched Hockstetter mad dive forward and tackle Richie into the sandbox. Wincing, Bill turned away as Patrick began to rub Richie’s face into the sand.

Bill stumbled and collapsed, falling face first into the lap of girl reading the newspaper under a big oak tree. She had long black haired and glasses that looked pretty fake to him, but he wasn’t one to judge. She looked up at him, horrified, and Bill quickly clamped a hand over his mouth. “If you cuh-cuh-cover for me I’ll owe y-y-you my life.”

The girl raised her brow, and seemed to fully take in the scene around them. Henry was seeming bored with cheering on Patrick’s revenge on Richie and was clearly looking for him. The girls eyes narrowed and sighed. “Get behind the tree, dumbass.”

Bill quickly scrambled to go behind the large tree, praying that he hadn’t been seen as Henry stalks over to them. “Hey, bitch.” Henry greeted her, and Bill clenched his jaw at the obvious disrespect.

“Can I help you?” She asked him, voice absolutely cold.

“Have you seen a guy,” Henry said, laying on the southern accent rather thick as he spoke to her. “’Bout yay high, greasy as fuck, stutters like a weasel?”

“How does a weasel stutter?” The girl challenged and he heard Henry let out a frustrated noise. “Look, I haven’t seen your guy, alright? But your buddy over there seems to have caught himself one, maybe he’ll let you take a turn.”

Henry was mumbling some explicits as he walked back over to Hockstetter, and Bill popped his head out from behind the tree.

“So, w-w-w-what’s your name?”

The girl rolled her eyes but she was smiling.

→ → →

Beverly blew air onto her fingers while she sat on one of the low hanging branches of the tree in the Denbrough’s front yard. “You know,” Mike’s voice carried over to her as he came to stand below the tree. He was tall enough that she barely had to lean down to look at him. “If you wore gloves that actually had fingers then your hands would be a lot warmer.”

Beverly stuck her tongue out at him. The sun was starting to get lower in the sky- not quite setting just yet, but giving the hint that it was coming- and Bill and Richie still hadn’t turned up. “If Richie gets murdered, I’m going to be a widow at sixteen.”

Mike laughed as he hoisted himself up into the tree beside her. “I think you have to actually be married to be a widow. You’ll just be the girl whose boyfriend got murdered.”

“Damn.” Beverly snapped her fingers and grinned. “Guess that means I won’t be inheriting in his house and all his assets either, then? Married people get all the luck.”

Mike hummed, looking out across the street. He supposed that he wasn’t much higher up then he normally was, but it was still a different view of a something that he’d only ever seen one way before. The street was half hidden by green leaves, and touched by rapidly orange-ing sunlight. The air around him was starting to chill with the promise of falling night, and Mike had always been a fun of the world’s true beauty but he’d never associated it with being in town before. There had never been anything he’d consider beautiful about being in the town of Derry, but as he looked out at the empty street he had to think that maybe it was… nice, sometimes.

“Real talk, though,” Beverly interrupted Mike’s internal rambles as she drummed her hands against her thighs. “Do you think our friends have a death wise or are just stupid?”

“Richie probably has a death wish,” Mike replied without hesitation. “Bill’s just stupid.”

Beverly laughed, clapping a hand over her mouth and leaning against Mike’s shoulder as she giggled. Mike’s heart flared in his chest and he fought to ignore this brain a little bit longer. To keep that bridge in the distance until he absolutely had to cross it.

“I made soup.” They startled and looked down at where Eddie was now standing under the tree and looking up at them with a pretty unreadable expression on his face.

“What did you make soup for?” Beverly asked, still giggling slightly.

Eddie shrugged, and seemed to only contemplate it for a second before scaling up the tree himself. He wiggled himself in between Mike and the trunk, looking down at the ground a little nervously.

“It’s not that high,” Mike said with a small smile. “Don’t worry.”

Eddie cast him a dark look, frowning deeply. “Last time somebody said that to me, I broke my fucking arm.”

“I…” Mike cleared his throat then nodded. “Okay, yeah. That definitely happened.”

“Why are you guys in the tree?” Stan called up to them, Ben standing beside him. Stan had shown up at the Denbrough’s house not long after the rest of the Losers had gotten there. He’d been quiet since he’d gotten there, more so than usually, and kept worrying his bottom lip. He hadn’t given up any sort of information about his meeting with the guidance counsellor, and Stanley Uris wasn’t the kind of person you pushed. (Unless you were Richie Tozier, who pushed everybody.)

“We’re waiting for Bill and Richie,” Eddie and Beverly answered in unison. They quickly pointed at each other and shouted “JINX!” and then burst out laughing. Mike smiled and looked back out to the street, tuning out Eddie and Bev’s continue attempt at jinx through their giggles. He saw Bill and Richie making their ways down the street before anybody else, and Richie wasted no time coming forward and slapping Stan on the shoulder.

The boy looked a little worse for wear, dirt and blood streaked on his cheeks, eye already seeming to be bruising. But he was smiling none the less, a regular old Tozier grin, and he looked up at his friends in the tree. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!”

Beverly giggled but Eddie jumped out the tree as though he had some sort of Spider Man powers and hadn’t just been fretting about the height. Mike crinkled his brow, as Beverly jumped down from his other side.

Eddie touched the cuts on Richie’s cheeks and his lips tugged down in a worried frown. “What the hell happened to you?” He asked in harsh words that didn’t match the concerned tone of voice.

“Patrick beat him up in the sandbox.” Bill came practically skipping up onto the lawn. “It was like being seven again, which i-i-isn’t something I thought I n-n-n-needed but I really enjoyed.”

Richie scoffed and rolled his eyes. “The only thing you enjoyed, Denbrough, was chatting up that weird newspaper girl in the park.”

“That’s n-n-not true,” Bill challenged, but the flushing of his cheeks implied that it was at least a little bit true. “I also enjoyed you p-p-p-punching P-P-Patrick.”

Richie grinned and nodded but Eddie let out a horrified squeak. “You punched Patrick? Have you lost your absolute goddamn mind, Richard? What could be possibly say that would make you do something so stupid?”

Richie and Bill exchanged a quick look between the two of them, almost a silent conversation, before Richie was reaching out and ruffling up Eddie’s meticulously styled hair. “Awe, don’t you worry about it, Eds. Just trust that he deserved it.”

“Of course he deserves it,” Eddie snapped but he was starting to smile. “Doesn’t mean you should be stupid enough to actually do it. Now, come on. Let’s get those scratches cleaned before you get an infection and they have to cut your dumbass head off.”

Richie wrapped an arm around Beverly and grinned as Eddie pulled him towards the house by his hand. “Did you at least make soup? You know I love soup after getting my ass handed to me.”

Mike smirked, watching as the back of Eddie’s neck turned pink. He turned and winked at his friends, getting a return grin from Ben. They moved into the house, talking about some sort of sportsing that Stan had never had the patience to learn. He moved to follow them when he felt a hand coming down on his shoulder.

Bill raised his eyebrow and gave Stan a serious look that Bill rarely gave anymore. Long gone were the days when Bill was a strong and fearless leader of the Losers Club. As they’d grown, they’d balanced and developed an more equal standing in friendships. No doubt thanks to the influence of Bev and Richie, Bill had let himself loosen up and free himself to the point where sometimes he was so Richie-like that Stan’s head spun. It didn’t mean that he wasn’t able to put that serious front back up and lecture like the Mom Friend he’d been long ago. Stan had just never been on the receiving end before, always so good at keeping himself in check.

“You want to talk about it?” Bill asked, his voice light and stutter free.

Stan sighed. “There’s nothing to talk about, Big Bill.”

Bill raised one eyebrow, a move he’d mastered at ten years old and Stan suspected he’d practised in the mirror until he got it right. “Do you really expect me to believe that? The guidance counsellor d-d-doesn’t just haul students in on the last day before v-v-vacation if nothing’s wrong.”

Stan pursed his lips and tried to think of any sort of excuse to get out of this painful, unwanted conversation when one came rolling down the street. Bill and Stan both turned to watch a large moving truck seemed to come right out the horizon. They turned and raised their brows at each other as it pulled up in front of the long empty house on their street. The house had been empty so long that the grass had grown over most of the for sale sign. Sharon Denbrough always complained that it brought down the look of the whole neighbour, and what a shame it was that even the real estate agents seemed to have given up on it.

A blond girl in a frilled skirt and Converse sneakers hopped out of the bed of the truck, and her eyes seemed to land on the two boys on the lawn immediately. She smirked at them as though one look told her everything she’d never need to know about them. She turned back to the truck, leaving Bill and Stan to walk back tot the Denbroughs house feeling rather unsettled.

→ → →

Richie was rested on the Denbroughs kitchen counter, as Eddie rummaged through the cupboards and complained about how ill stalked it was. Mike chuckled into his bowl of soup, knowing that all Richie really needed was a some soap and hot water. Toss the lanky boy into the shower, and he’d be good as new.

He turned to where Ben and Beverly were both sitting, talking quietly to each other and seemingly blind to Eddie’s frantics not three feet away from them. They all snapped to attention as Bill and Stan came into the room. They both seemed a little knocked off kilter and Mike felt concern settle into his gut at the sight of them.

He didn’t seem to be the only one, Richie shifting to sit up straighter on counter. “What happened, dudes?”

“Somebody is m-m-m-moving into the old Gr-gr-Gray house.” Bill stumbled through his words. “A f-f-family, I guess. There was a g-g-girl…”

Richie waggled his eyebrows and grinned deeply. “A girl, yeah? Is she hot?”

Beverly grabbed one of the bread rolls off the dining room table and wiped at Richie, nailing right in the head, at the same time that Eddie whipped him with the dish cloth in his heads. Richie yelped, rubbing at his arm and pouting. “DAMN! Forgive a man for asking a damn question.”

“You’re not a man,” Stan told him dryly. “You’re an extremely tall, skinny infant that was somehow cursed with the ability to speak.”

Richie blew him a kiss, and Stan rolled his eyes with the tiniest hint of a smile playing on his lips. Stan moved over to reached past Eddie to the rubbing alcohol that was on a shelf just out of Eddie’s tiptoe’d reach.

Mike scooted a little closer to Bev, putting his arm on the table in front of Bev. “You’re coming over tonight?” He asked her. He watched the way Ben’s face seemed to twitch slightly, as though he was listening in and trying not to look like he was. Beverly turned to him and gave him a small smile.

“No, that’s okay, Mike. Thanks. My dad is out of town on a construction job, so I’m going to have a girls night with my mom.” Beverly said it simply enough that Mike knew the real answer underneath it.

Richie was letting out loud screams as Eddie attempted to clean his cut, while Stan had hopped up on the counter beside him and was drinking apple juice straight from the carton. Bill was somewhere near by having an argument with his eleven year old brother, but Mike only had eyes for Ben; who seemed to watching him as though he was waiting for something.

Mike stood and walked towards the kitchen window and watched the family move into the house across the street.

#reddie #reddie fic #my writing #losers club #it fanfiction #scl tag #sol #this is going to flop bc like 1/2 of the people who actually reblog my stuff are being real life people #but i wanted to post it anyway #:)#there's two (2) pretty relevant OCs btw

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alexandralyman · 6 years

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Fic Update: Between Heaven and Hell

Summary: A Hook/Emma angel/demon AU. They hide in plain sight, the servants of heaven and hell. The angels and the demons, who can save your soul or damn it. They stand on opposite sides, they are the bringers of light and the agents of darkness, they are enemies in an eternal war, but what happens when an angel and a demon are inexplicably drawn to each other?

Read this chapter on AO3 here or on ff.net here

Part Twenty-Three

On any other evening the Jolly Roger would be in full swing by now, the lights turned down low and the music turned up, a sensual beat that made the blood rise and the pulse quicken. The liquor would be flowing in intoxicating rivers enough to drown a man and the dancers would be gyrating, all lithe, bare limbs and come-hither looks. It was a decadent playground of the rich and beautiful all watched over from above by a lone demon who was the sole captain of the ship, steering them on their pleasure cruise straight down to Hell while they partied on in blissful ignorance, unaware and heedless of the danger that lurked just below every polished surface.

They never saw what was truly coming until it was too late.

But tonight the club was virtually unrecognizable. All of the tables and chairs where the vastly overpaid bankers and stockbrokers sat and drank vastly overpriced cocktails with women young enough to be their daughters and granddaughters had been removed, leaving a large, empty space in the middle of the floor and revealing the symbol that was etched into the wood, normally concealed by the furniture. Not that anyone would have noticed it anyway, mortals were, for the most part, utterly blind to what was right in front of their own damn noses. There was no overlooking it now, the carved lines were stark under the overhead lights, turned up to full brightness and revealing everything that normally lay hidden for the first time, as harsh as the midday sun in the middle of the desert.

Killian stood with his arms folded across his chest and surveyed the room for a moment with a critical eye before giving a tiny nod. It wasn't ideal, but it would do. The Jolly Roger was much more than just a high-end strip club, it was the central hub of his operation in the city, the root from which everything else had grown. Illegal backroom casinos and sports betting, corrupt cops who answered to him and not the mayor's favourite pet, the chief of police, industrial espionage and blackmail, even a bit of his old, lucrative sideline, smuggling, this time in the form of knockoff sneakers and fake designer handbags that were sold out of the backs of nail shops and tattoo parlours. Captain Hook was long gone, just another forgotten legend in a dusty book, but Killian Jones was still that ruthless, cutthroat pirate at heart underneath his elegant, bespoke suits and perfectly pressed shirts.

A pirate with a secret treasure that must be kept hidden and protected at all costs.

His club served a dual purpose, it was a business, and a highly profitable one at that, he could have lived like a king on the revenue from it alone and not wanted for anything (except the one thing he wanted more than everything else, the one thing no amount of money would buy or he would have already spent every last cent of it to obtain his heart's desire and done so gladly) but it was also a literal den of sin, where countless men and women had all given in to temptation and damned their immortal souls forever under his corrupting influence. Lust, greed, wrath, gluttony, pride, they had all left their mark behind just as he marked the ones who fell with his demonic brand and the sins permeated everything around him as if the building itself had been soaked in gasoline, ready to alight with just a single spark. His power was strongest at the Jolly Roger, where the deep leather banquettes served as the pews facing the altar of the stage, the raised DJ booth housed the choir, and an unholy Communion of body and blood was served nightly in the nubile flesh of the dancers and the liquor poured from behind the bar to those who came to worship in his name instead of His. Killian could feel it under his skin, moving through his veins quicker than any drug with a burn that was a dark, addictive ecstasy. He cracked his neck, the pop and hiss echoing loud in the silent room while pleasure and pain coiled and twisted along every nerve, making the cords stand out as he drank deep from the unseen chalice and drew on the reserve of wickedness and vice. The one thing he'd always had was time, centuries to carefully plot and plan, but the ticking clock was now his enemy and he needed to be at full strength as fast as possible before facing him.

Rumpelstiltskin

Killian hadn't told Emma the full truth, that he'd tangled with the Dark One more than once in the past and long after their encounter in Paris. The animosity between them ran deep, and no one could hold a grudge longer than a demon, immortal and immoral as they were. Years had passed, decades, but it was no matter. They would face each other again, and this time only one of them would walk away, Killian was certain of that.

He still had his old iron knife, the same one that had spilled the cackling succubus Zelena's infernal blood onto the Parisian cobblestones when she'd learned his secret and dared to threaten his angel. Iron could both repel and harm demons, hence the old custom of nailing an iron horseshoe over a doorway. It wasn't originally done for luck, it was to prevent malevolent creatures from entering the house and gaining a foothold among the souls. Freshly sharpened, the blade was pitch-black without a speck of tarnish and gleamed like a pool of oil. A few other supplies were ready and waiting, both esoteric and humble in nature, but he didn't need much. Killian couldn't summon Rumpelstiltskin directly himself, their master could as he could with all demons, but he wasn't going to bring the Fallen One into this squabble to play mediator. If anyone would recognize the faintest whiff of the divine about him, it would be Lucifer, born of Heaven before he was bound to Hell. He needed a sinner to do the summoning for him and for that he had Jacqueline, the thieving bartender who was about to learn exactly what the "perform other duties as needed" clause in her employment contract really meant. The summoning itself would be done at the Jolly Roger, his own private house of worship to the many vices of man. Emma would remain safely removed from the whole event, and once Rumpelstiltskin was dealt with there would be nothing keeping them apart and Killian could resume his seduction, finish what had begun the night he'd first caught a glimpse of that single light in the midst of the darkness.

The harsh, artificial light that filled his club now was a miracle of science but it was nothing compared to that golden glow, mesmerizing enough to tempt even one who knew better than to fall for something shiny to get closer and try to get a better look.

Funny that. He was the corruptor, the one who offered the poisoned apple, so sweet and juicy and irresistible, and yet she had drawn him in first and before he could stop himself he was turning his back on the delights of a rampaging army let loose like a swarm of locusts to destroy and defile everything in their path and heading away from the delectable feast instead with an angel and a group of frightened nuns all following behind that reminded him later of a regal, unruffled swan leading a clutch of confused, orphaned ducklings. Their innocence grated on him during the whole of the brief journey, pure souls that were too naive, too trusting. So trusting that they had all placed their faith in him to see them to safety, even as they visibly shied away from what they glimpsed behind his eyes.

Except her.

His phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. The one he'd thrown against the wall in a rage had been completely destroyed but he had backups stashed in his office, just in case. It wasn't the first time his literally demonic temper had gotten the better of him and the cost of a few spare phones kept in a drawer along with all the jewelry Emma wouldn't accept from him was nothing. Killian's heart leapt into his throat as he fumbled in his pocket with uncharacteristic clumsiness, hoping against hope that it was Emma calling him again, despite the risk. If he had the chance to explain why he had taken up with Caroline Spencer when he was supposed to be dealing with the Dark One and made it look like he was more interested in sporting with a married woman and satisfying his lust than in doing what he'd promised then maybe she would forgive him for his infidelity and he would offer her anything she wanted, anything. But it was Jefferson's number that popped up on the screen instead and he grit his teeth in frustration. Still, the dealer wouldn't be calling him unless he had something important to share, he knew better than to bother his best customer, the infamous Mr. Jones with anything inconsequential and Killian needed all the information he could get so he answered on the second ring.

"Jefferson. What have you found out?"

"This shit is seriously fucked up."

He'd sent a sample of the Heaven's Gate heroin to Jefferson for testing and analysis since he wasn't just some low-level dealer, he was a brilliant chemist who had funded his entire degree at a prestigious, pricey college by selling his illegal concoctions in the dorms to his well-to-do classmates living it up on mom and dad's dime. Jefferson had been courted by several large

pharmaceutical companies even before graduation and could have had a storied career developing new treatments for modern plagues like HIV, Zika, bird flu, but he had fallen down a rabbit hole of uppers and downers and now made colourful pills with "Eat Me" inscribed on them instead. He hadn't completely fried his Ivy League brain though and he sounded dead serious.

"Explain," Killian demanded.

Jefferson immediately launched into what sounded like a textbook description of heroin, dry and clinical and peppered with very long words that Killian mostly recognized for their Latin origins and not for whatever the hell it was Jefferson was actually trying to say.

"Spare me the chemistry lecture," he interrupted when he could finally get a word in edgewise, "And get to the bloody point, Jefferson."

There was a loud huff on the other end. "Okay, okay...look, you know where heroin actually comes from, right?"

That he did know. "Poppies."

The bright red flowers had been used since antiquity to produce medicines and narcotics, it was the origin of both morphine, a miracle drug for pain relief to untold multitudes, and heroin, a hellaciously addicting destroyer of lives. As the forbidden fruit in the Garden contained the knowledge of both Good and Evil linked together in a single bite, so too did the poppy flower contain two opposing forces locked together for eternity in their innocuous-looking seeds. Killian had sent Emma many different flowers over the years, endless bouquets of roses, tulips, buttercups, forget-me-nots, orchids, gardenias, but he had never sent her poppies. As beautiful as they were, they meant death, the eternal sleep, and while he wanted eternity with a burning desire that had never abated, he didn't mean it like that.

"That's right," Jefferson agreed, and Killian could practically see him nodding over the phone. "Poppies, mostly from Afghanistan, but also China, Mexico, Columbia and Burma."

The mention of Burma reminded Killian of something else, but he pushed the thought away. Now was not the time for that.

"Usually the country of origin doesn't really matter, though, they're all the same flower anyway."

Killian picked up on that immediately and his tone sharpened, "Usually doesn't matter. But this strain is different, isn't it?"

"Yes," Jefferson sighed. "Heroin comes from the Papaver somniferum variety of poppy, the opium poppy. But poppies are like any other plant, there's more than just one kind. Most of the others are inert, they can't be used to produce opium and therefore heroin, but there's a few, rare subspecies of the common opium poppy that yield a stronger, more potent product. They've never been cultivated to the same degree because they're much more temperament, difficult to grow, harder to refine and your average illiterate Afghani poppy farmer isn't going to bother with it, if he could even get enough seeds to try, which he probably couldn't, not to turn a profit, at least. But if someone figured out a way to get a viable crop from one of these subspecies, then, well."

He thought of the list of names given to Emma by the Angel of Death herself, dozens of fatal overdoses fallen victim to a drug that promised Heaven and delivered Hell.

"And that's where the Heaven's Gate heroin comes from? One of these rare subspecies?"

Pieces were starting to click into place, a more potent strain explained why the high from the drug was reported to be much stronger and why it was so much easier to OD on it.

"I believe so, yes. But the real question is how. When I say these subspecies are rare, I don't mean they're unusual, I mean rare. They're nearly impossible to get outside of a few specimens in botanical gardens and university collections, it must have cost a fortune to establish, there's no supply chain in place, the usual importers have been completely bypassed, none of my contacts can even get their hands on a full brick. No one's wholesaling, which makes no goddamn sense, it's like it just appeared out of thin air one day already on the streets."

Killian gripped the phone a little tighter. Nothing Jefferson had said contradicted his theory that Rumpelstiltskin was somehow behind the trendy new drug, but neither was it definitive proof. The imp still chained up in his basement could have gotten it from someone else, they were naturally attracted to chaos, after all.

"Was there anything else? Anything at all, no matter how far fetched it might seem?"

There was a pause on the other end that told Killian there was something, his own instincts sensing that the dealer was holding back information. He felt his eyes flash crimson and when he spoke his voice was a dark, slithering growl.

"Tell me."

Jefferson answered with clear hesitation, "It's probably nothing, I mean, it's just something I found when I was doing a bit of research, trying to trace it back to the origin. Apparently the Nazis did some experiments with opium poppies, hell, the Germans were the ones who basically invented heroin in the first place anyway. Afghanistan and Germany had close ties even before the war, and I found some references to diplomats bringing poppy plants back to Berlin, including the rare varieties that the Nazis later used to try to crossbreed with the common opium poppy to create a hybrid strain that had the heightened potency combined with the ease of cultivation. They called it Himmelstür, which means-"

"Heaven's Door," Killian interrupted. He hadn't spoken German in years, but he was still as fluent in the language as he was in English and he knew what the word meant as soon as Jefferson said it. Heaven's Gate and Heaven's Door, the names were too similar for it to be a coincidence. Not to mention that the last time he had seen the Dark One in person had been right smack dab in the thick of World War II. As in all times of chaos and sin, the damned of Hell were there to enjoy the feast and the war that had engulfed the entire globe had practically been an all you can eat buffet.

"I know, I noticed it too. But that was what, seventy years ago? Anyway, the estate in Bavaria where they were actually growing the hybrids was bombed by the Allies near the end of the war and the plants themselves were all destroyed."

Seventy years was a long time to a mortal who could live out his entire lifespan in less than that, but to a demon, it was a blink of the eye. Heroin usage was rampant in the German army during the war and now it was on the rise again, had the Dark One planted seeds more than seventy years ago that were now bearing new fruit? Killian had been too focused on his own interests back then to pay much attention to what Rumpelstiltskin was up to, especially when he had come so close to…

"Mr. Jones?"

Jefferson's voice pulled him back to the present. "Right," Killian said, trying to put all the pieces together even though some were still missing. "A hybrid strain, possibly the same one the Nazis cultivated, but there's no proof, and no leads on who's behind it. Anything else?"

"No, at least, not about that. Look, if you take over the business I can definitely run the distribution for you and probably triple what it's doing now within six months, there'd be no competition for this and with my network already in place, you'd make a fucking fortune."

Killian had more money now than he could even spend despite his very expensive tastes and his secret contributions to Emma's charity, but that had never stopped him from greedily wanting more and he felt a surge at the prospect of doing exactly what Jefferson proposed. Cut the Dark One down and take everything for himself, make it his. It was a tempting idea, very tempting, he could even revive his old Hook persona and keep the drugs separate from his other business, just as he'd done with smuggling rum and other spirits as a pirate once upon a time.

"And…" Jefferson added, sounding a bit hesitant for a moment before he plowed on. "I just wanted to thank you for whatever strings you pulled with CPS, I get to see Grace twice a week now unsupervised and they said I can start overnight visits next month so long as my next two tests come back clean, I've already rented another house so there's no chance of her getting anywhere near anything again, it's even in a gated community and everything. I'm getting my daughter back, and I owe it all to you Mr. Jones, so if there's anything else you need-"

"I'll call you if there is."

Killian hung up, not bothering with goodbyes. The reminder that he'd done more than he was strictly obligated to under his deal with Jefferson made his shoulders tight and he grimaced as he dropped the phone back down on the bar. He'd only promised the dealer one afternoon with his beloved daughter, but it had been easy enough to get the paperwork approved for ongoing visits with a few well-chosen bribes and a bit of blackmail (everyone had skeletons in the closet, even social workers) and it kept Jefferson both compliant and in his debt. At least that's what Killian told himself.

He ignored the fact that there were other ways he could have made Jefferson much more permanently beholden to him that had nothing to do with the man's only child and focused on the new bits of information instead. Heaven's Gate and Heaven's Door. On the streets it was said that the name came from the euphoric high the drug produced, but Killian wasn't so certain now. He understood the "heaven" part, but the reference to gates and doors gave him pause. Both were barriers, boundaries, where one could go no further unless passage was granted. A damned sinner could reach the Gates of Paradise, but they would never open and grant admittance to what lay beyond, pure heavenly ecstasy unlike anything else.

Killian had a sense of what that was like. It was why he had never bothered trying the heroin himself, why he had told the succubus Zelena all those centuries ago when she tried to tempt him with Emma's face that he wouldn't settle for a false idol. Everything else was nothing but a pale imitation of what he really wanted, and he was far too greedy to stop trying to obtain the one thing he coveted above all else. It had taken years, but he had carefully arranged an almost perfect situation to bide his time until Emma fell at last. Her charity bound her to the city, giving her more incentive to stay and nurture it like a garden, not just answering individual prayers, but overseeing the soup kitchen and food pantry and other programs that his money went to fund every month. Her apartment and his condo were only a short drive apart, perfect for late night trysts and in an increasingly secular world there were very few gates left to bar him entry, no doors shut in his face as Damnate Infernum, Demon of Hell. Heaven was so close that he could touch it.

"Just let go and fall right into my arms, I'll be there to catch you, Emma, you know I will."

He couldn't afford any more indulgences now like Jefferson's daughter or the night he could have had everything but hesitated at the last second, unwilling to press his advantage and take what she was so close to offering at last. All she'd needed was the tiniest push...

Emma might forgive him for his other sins, but he couldn't be sure she would have forgiven him for that.

Killian wasn't sure if he would have forgiven himself for it.

The phone buzzed again an hour or so later, after he'd relived that night in his mind again a dozen times or more, cursing himself for his moment of weakness. It lit up on the bar, flashing like a beacon and he crossed the empty room faster than mortal eyes would have been able to follow to snatch it up. He moved like a shadow, casting himself in a whirl that briefly revealed his true form in his haste before it was hidden back under the handsome face and sea-blue eyes once more. A quick glance at the screen showed it was Scarlet calling now, hopefully with useful information or Killian was probably going to end up destroying another phone. He hadn't bothered to personalize the settings yet and with the way his night was going he didn't expect he was going to be setting the wallpaper or assigning ringtones anytime soon.

"Uh, Mr. Jones?"

Scarlet had found something, Killian could sense it with demonic instinct, keen as the blade on his iron knife. He rested his free hand on one of the tables shoved next to the bar, ruby ring as dark as a drop of blood heavy on his finger.

Dark as a demon's blood at least. Angelic blood was gold.

"William Scarlet," Killian drawled, slow and deliberate. Names were as important as the soul within the mortal vessel. Names, true names, were power, the only thing he had ever asked of Emma in exchange for his assistance was her name, something that, once given, could never be taken back. His invocation of Scarlet's name was followed by a single command, "Tell me what you know."

If Scarlet's soul had been his then it would have been impossible for the man not to answer, he would have been literally hellbound to obey. But while Scarlet was a sinner like everyone else who worked for him, he hadn't completely signed away that most valuable part of himself and there was no immediate reply to Killian's order.

"Okay look," Scarlet breathed, clearly flustered by what to him probably felt like a sudden compulsion to spill his guts. "I went to the hotel like you said and poked around, and I've got something, something pretty major, but before I tell you what it is I have one condition."

Killian's eyebrows raised at Scarlet's daring while the demon within began to salivate, awakened even more by a word that could only mean one thing. "You think you're in any position right now to impose conditions on me, Scarlet? You want to make a deal?"

The offer was like a stone dropped in a still pond, rippling out in waves much further than the initial fall. A single, seemingly small act, appearing no more significant than biting into an apple had, once upon a time, but everything came with a price. Killian wondered what it was that Scarlet wanted, money, probably. He was a thief, although he wasn't as stupid and reckless as Jacqueline and had never stolen anything from Killian directly like she had, or he might have been the one locked up in the basement.

"Yeah, I guess, just...no matter what happens, Anastasia is out. Completely. She walks away from the club, from everything and you guarantee that you won't go after her in any way, she's a hundred percent off limits. Deal?"

So it wasn't money, it was sex. He knew Scarlet's jealousy when it came to Anastasia would get the best of him eventually in the sadistic game Killian had been playing with the both of them, playing off Ana's lust for jewelry and designer clothes against Scarlet's white knight fantasies and there was a swell of dark satisfaction that made the air around him seem to shimmer with a smoky haze. "You want to make a deal for her? Your own private dancer, is that it? She only sucks your dick from now on?"

He was being deliberately crude because he wanted to hear Scarlet say it, to admit that he really wanted to own Anastasia and was giving in to his most selfish desires to acquire her, that deep down he was no different than the other men who came to the Jolly Roger and thought that their money could buy them not just a dance or a fuck, but that it gave them possession over the girls to use and abuse however they wanted.

"There is no greater sin than this."

"No, that's not-" Scarlet's voice rose with anger that only fueled Killian's glee even more, he relished these moments when the sinner finally gave into temptation and fell over the edge. Greed, lust and wrath, it was all oh so predictable but it didn't lessen the delightful anticipation of the damning confession that was about to come. There was a sound of a deep breath over the line as he clearly tried to get himself back under control and then he continued, sounding like he was talking through gritted teeth. "Look, I'm not asking you to give her to me like she's some kind of fucking trophy or prize, she's not, it's not like that, OK? I just...I just need her to be free of all this bullshit, she doesn't have to be with me. I know I fucked that up and it's my own fault."

Demonic glee was replaced by surprise, he hadn't expected that. Still, he recovered quickly, Anastasia must have promised Scarlet something, manipulated him into asking, wrapped him neatly back around her manicured finger. He let out an annoyed huff, he didn't really have time for this but he was still a corrupter of mortal souls and that side of him would not be so easily dissuaded from teasing out the real reason behind Scarlet's request. "That's what you want in exchange for this supposedly valuable information that you owe me anyway? Why?"

He could hear the discomfort in Scarlet's voice when he answered. "Does it matter?"

It did, but not for a reason Killian was about to explain to the man. He tapped his finger against the tabletop, making the ruby flash like a tiny flame. "If you want to make a deal with me, Mr. Scarlet, then you'll answer my question and tell my why Anastasia Tremaine's well-being is suddenly so damn important to you."

There was a long beat before he answered, mere seconds passed, but it was an eternity when standing on that precipice, the space between the decision to jump and the fall itself.

Scarlet decided to jump.

"Fine. Because I love her. That's why it's so damn important."

Killian literally pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in utter disbelief. Scarlet was in love with Anastasia? And more than that, he was willing to make a deal for her? For a woman who had flaunted and fucked other men right under his nose and by Scarlet's own admission, was unwilling to take him back?

"You love her," Killian repeated his voice practically dripping with his contempt. "Really. Under that thin veneer of elegance and class you know exactly what she really is by now, don't you, Scarlet? She's a cold-hearted bitch, a grasping, gold-digging slut who only cares about one thing you don't have, money, no matter what convincing lies she's spun to tell you otherwise. Do you think she's capable of being just your girlfriend or your wife or is she going to drop you like a hot potato the second she gets what she wants from you and go running after the next CEO who walks through the Jolly Roger's door? You can't rescue her from the life she chose, you can't save her, she's...she's not worth it! That pretty face might be nice to look at but underneath it all is nothing good, nothing but the ugly truth that she'll never be more than an albatross around your neck, dragging you down to her level and mark my words, you'll end up despising her for it. How can you possibly claim to love...someone...like..that?"

He was breathing hard by the time he was finished, nostrils flaring and the temperature rising with each exhale as the hot puffs of air filled the room. Unseen flames licked down his spine and he was hot enough to scorch, to burn, to brand. The words had spilled out of their own accord, cracking like the lash of a whip and ready to leave scars.

"Yeah, well," Scarlet sighed, sounding resigned instead of angry, all of his wrath had leaked away. "Never said it made sense, did I? But I do love her, no matter what your opinion on the matter is, Mr. Jones. Do we have a deal or not?"

"It's going to cost you a lot more than just the information, which better be fucking good, by the way but yes, we have a deal."

There was another ripple in the air, pulsing like the beating of a heart as the word fell from his lips, sealing the agreement between them and fanning the fire even more. Scarlet was too stubborn for his own good, and his honourable streak would be his downfall in the end, just as it had for another man in another time, another place.

"Jones?"

"It was as good a name as any."

Not quite a lie, but not yet the truth. She would hear his confession if he chose to make it, he knew, but what absolution could there be for the damned of Hell? There was no point in unburdening himself and he put the smile back on his face while he reached again for the rum.

"I found the heroin dealers."

Killian's surprise that Scarlet had somehow managed to pull that off melted into something far more sinister as the man continued in a fast clip, talking about someone named "R. Gold" from London and his associates, a woman and the dealers Killian had fruitlessly been combing the city for, two young, clean-cut looking men, one of whom was named Mike. He filed the name and the descriptions away in his mind and listened to the rest of Scarlet's report with growing alarm, that the dealers had some kind of arrangement with this R. Gold to take out both Caroline Spencer and himself and he had unintentionally thwarted them by leaving the hotel early, not wanting to linger after the adultery was done.

He felt a pang of something he couldn't place at the thought of Caroline left alone to get caught in the crossfire of an ancient feud. She was a sinner, guilty of the crime of laying with a man not her husband, but she wasn't past redemption and Killian preferred to fight his own battles head on, not flee like a coward. If he had been there when the two dealers had come knocking...but he stopped that train of thought right in its tracks once he heard Scarlet's next words.

"Phase two? Twice as pure?"

Jefferson's talk of Nazi experiments with crossbreeds and hybrids immediately sprung to mind, along with the image of a pale, redheaded dancer with a needle in her arm and two grinning imps, feeding off the chaos they had caused and delighting in her overdose, one of many according to the Angel of Death herself, Elsa.

Had that merely been phase one?

"They're going to flood the streets with it...and boss, these people are freaks. They want to cause some serious damage with this stuff, deliberately and they think you're in their way."

Rumpelstiltskin must be smarting over the loss of his imp lackey, but leave it to the so called "Dark One" to rely on others to do his dirty work for him. Always the unnamed figure in the shadows, silently slipping between the pages of history and myth to sink back down unseen like a crocodile, hiding just below the surface until his next victim wandered too close to the water.

Scarlet was still talking while Killian listened with half an ear, at least until he said something that made him go still as a statue while the hairs on the back of his neck rose.

"And I think they're planning to kidnap some woman too, someone named Angela."

Angela.

There was complete and utter silence for a moment, even his heart stopped beating and then started again with a rush of blood that Killian heard as a loud roaring in his ears as if a bonfire had just blazed to life. Only it was no ordinary fire, it was Hellfire, kindled in the very bowels of Infernum itself and fueled solely by his rapidly growing rage. If what he suspected was true...

"Angela," he repeated, pronouncing it the way Scarlet had, the modern name given to many women who probably gave little thought to the actual origin of it. In Latin, the pronunciation was different, the second syllable stressed slightly more than the first, the "G" sound was changed. A minor difference, almost unnoticeable. Almost.

"Was it Angela...or Angela?"

Beata Angela

Blessed Angel

Emma

"Yeah, that was it," Scarlet said carelessly, unaware of the real meaning. "Angela. Said she'd be theirs at last, their very own, blah blah blah. Like I said, freaks."

His eyes were no longer blue like the sea and the sky and his vision had gone completely red, as if everything around him was burning. Everything would burn, he'd turn the entire city right to ash to destroy the Dark One and damn the consequences.

"Boss?"

Scarlet was waiting for his orders. He would learn the full truth soon enough about just who Killian Jones was and what he had agreed to, for now he would remain in the dark. But he could still be of use this way.

"Find out everything else you can, I want names, pictures, license plates, addresses, everything. We have a deal, Anastasia is free to leave immediately. But you're not. Get me what I want, Scarlet or there will be literal Hell to pay."

It echoed in the room even after the call ended and stirred the curtains next to the stage while the empty glasses rattled with a loud clink that Killian scarcely heard. His shadow stretched and lengthened unnaturally across the floor, no longer the form of a man, hand snaking into the curved shape of a serpent. Or a hook. He slashed out violently with his arm and the shadow on the floor followed suit, scoring a line into the wood and completing the graven image that was etched there. Above him the lights flickered, liquor ignited into flame in their bottles behind the bar, the polished surfaces rippled like quicksilver and Killian stood in the middle of it all with his arms outstretched, letting it all soak in, every last sin that had been committed in the Jolly Roger, sins of adultery, greed, vanity, gluttony, theft and dozens more.

Rumpelstiltskin was R. Gold from London, the same city that the imp he had marked had immediately fled back to upon orders to deliver a message to its master. Rumpelstiltskin was behind the heroin, named for the impenetrable Gates of Paradise, through which a demon could never pass. Rumpelstiltskin would be responsible for untold misery if the next, more powerful batch was released on the streets, the cause of the inevitable violence and death that would follow and could turn the city from peaceful to a state of war practically overnight. He'd seen it happen dozens, hundreds of times before throughout history.

Rumpelstiltskin was after Emma.

Killian called her on his phone. It went straight to voicemail. He texted her. It stayed unread. There was one other surefire way he could reach her, but it was a method of last resort now. He couldn't risk her answering him in that way before he faced the Dark One, appearing in a blaze of heavenly light like she had in the Inquisition's prison. Zelena had tricked his secret out of him once and he wouldn't, couldn't, chance it happening again.

Unless….

The thought was as insidious as a spill of ink, sinking and spreading into every nook and cranny inside of him that it could find, a seductive whisper in his ear that was both terrible and wonderful at the same time. Pure sin coursed through his veins, not the ecstatic high promised by the drug he refused to touch but a siren's song he heard in her voice, trying to lure him towards the edge with a promise that he could finally have what he'd always wanted most of all.

Rumpelstiltskin coveted power, always had, he was drawn to talented souls full of potential like Maleficent's in Paris and he bargained and twisted and took that power for his own. Killian was not without his own abilities, but he knew he hadn't done nearly enough to reach the same level as the Dark One. The contract that lay ready and waiting with the silver pen for Scarlet to sign, the adultery with a married woman, the sins that took place in his club, it all served to enhance his true form and made him a more formidable opponent, but there was one thing that he could do and Rumpelstiltskin never could that would utterly guarantee his victory. He had sworn that he wouldn't, he hadn't wanted to win this way...but with everything on the line, what choice did he have now?

Killian closed his eyes against the lights that continued to burn overhead, harsh and unyielding, the light that revealed what had been hidden away in the dark under the shiny gloss of decadence and excess. Her voice echoed from the past, a memory of a night when he'd made a choice that was coming back now to haunt him.

"Don't look into the light!"

She had said that she always heard him. Was she listening, now?

"Forgive me, angel."

"Forgive me."

So long as she forgave him then it didn't matter if he never forgave himself. But there was no answer and he stood alone in the middle of his empty nightclub, turned away from the light and contemplating the greatest of sins.

#bh&h #cs fic #cs ff #my fic #cs au fic

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