#that i actively ignored myself tying to keep myself alive

[kitswag]

A little art about a headcanon of mine for Dragon and Sabo, and a little fanfic about it under the cut

"Dragon-san," a familiar voice, Sabo's voice came knocking from the door of the cluttered office. Dragon perked up, putting down the pen he's writing with- just a follow up rough plan for the revolutionary's next strike.

The door was opened and there was Sabo with a bleeding arm. Instinctively, Dragon reached for the cabinet on his desk, pulling it open to grab for a roll of bandages and a bottle of antiseptic.

Sabo sat in front of Dragon, reaching out his roughed-up arm, his face not showing a trace of pain. (Dragon always knew the surges beneath his mask anyways.)

Dragon sighed as he saw the gnarly wound on Sabo's arm. The boy had a knack on being risky, sometimes even too keen on self sacrifice. Even though being a revolutionary always costed a price, Dragon couldn't help but worry about Sabo's knacks.

"I got a little reckless with my plans, " Sabo offered a little charming smile to Dragon (cut out the reprimands just this time?)

"I always told you to be careful. You're too good to lose, " Dragon said (again, Sabo?).

Sabo offered another cheeky smile, "Next time," he said, as if Dragon never feared for his name written on the list of fallen revolutionaries in a mission report.

When Sabo first arrived in Baltigo, still wrapped with bandages all over, not even able to move his wounded limbs freely, he would only turn to Dragon to replace his bandages, any nurses who tried to replace it would only make him flinch violently.

Dragon tapped a cotton smeared with antiseptic liquid on his arm, following it up with the roll of bandages. Soon, after falling into the familiar act of wrapping Sabo's wounds, Dragon couldn't resist the nostalgia that went flying right to his head.

But of course, they understood (despite being concerned) , that Sabo was a child, a child that had no one familiar except for Dragon in an unfamiliar, new building far far away from his home island.

When his burns healed, and when he finally got to trust the nurses, it still became a habit. He would knock on Dragon's door or tug at his coat, show his wounds, and Dragon would pull out his cabinet and fish out a bottle of antiseptic liquid and some bandages. And there it was, a repeating pattern of tapping a cotton smeared with the antiseptic against Sabo's wounds and wrapping it up with soft bandages.

Dragon always thought of it as a comforting habit.

It was not rare that he would receive reports about his fallen men, people that had died for his own cause. And being here, bandaging Sabo, feeling the warmth of his skin, reminded Dragon that his Chief of Staff, his son, was still here, still alive. Still able to go knock on Dragon's office and offer a smile and a wound.

Sabo's small hiss of pain suddenly brought Dragon abruptly out of his daze. He softened his pace and grip, finishing wrapping Sabo's arm with tying the end, cutting the excess bandage with a small pair of scissors.

"Thank you, Dragon-san, " Sabo smiled, softly.

Dragon couldn't resist reaching his hand out and ruffling Sabo's hair, "Be careful next time," he warned.

Sabo's smile turned into a grin, "This time is just a slip up. "

Dragon couldn't help but smile back. Thin, but soft with fondness for his son sitting in front of him. He pulled his hand out of Sabo's locks of blonde and hope that tomorrow, his name wouldn't be written on the list of the fallen.

[beckstriad]

Ten Trails Writing Challenge 6-1

I’m giving the @yuckwhump 10 Trails writing challenge a go! (Info here: https://yuckwhump.tumblr.com/post/629485275921383424/welcome-to-the-ten-trails-whump-challenge-and ) Trail 6: Aches and Pains Prompt 1: Burns I’ve challenged myself to write 500-1000 words (this is 1105 oops) and to make more generalized whump since I tend to get real specific with my characters. So I’m going with a barely used OC I created last year for that purpose! These stories will center around ‘Caretaker’ who works on space stations as a first aid/paramedic type person, and the things that they do. I don’t normally write caretaking so that’s another challenge! Feedback is welcome if you have any, thanks! TW: suggestion of PTSD/Traumatic events, large disaster, people trapped, descriptions of injuries, death (un-named characters) any other TW/CW please let me know! --- Frantic pounding of feet and fists, screeching alarms and an extra large shot of adrenaline brought Caretaker so quickly to their feet they ran into the door of the tiny sleeping quarters. In a moment of pause as they pressed their palm to their forehead they realized the need to get dressed in something more practical than pajamas. Flying past security and tearing through the panicked crowds of people going the opposite direction, nobody thought to check the security tag around Caretaker’s neck; their bright green jumpsuit worked fine. Arriving at Sector 83 they could smell the disaster even with the massive firewall closed, but the chaos amidst the deafening roar of flames were what Caretaker would remember for years to come. 

Desperately looking around they spotted the hovering marker for the Zone Commander and activated their own marker, MEDIC: LVL 5 SC60-100. Throwing a quick salute they waited as the Commander pulled up the current deployed ranks and quickly tossed a new designation at them, changing the marker to MEDIC: FIELD TRIAGE 20. Pointing in a vague direction they turned to direct incoming stretchers and further personnel.

People were trapped. Screaming. Burning alive. The smell of melted flesh and plastic was acrid on their nose and the heat singed the back of their throat as they carefully but quickly made their way through the wreckage to the Triage Officer with the number 20 above their head. Alarms blazed and flames whistled in the distance as the fire team fought the inferno, the space so large they looked like dolls in the distance under the towering waves of fire.

Caretaker forced themself to keep their eyes on the destination and not on the desperately people waving fingers or scraps of cloth from below rubble. They focused on the sound of their breathing as they tried to force it into a rhythm instead of hearing the pops, sizzles and moans of people and things that somehow could be heard above the flames and overworking ventilation system. 

A flick of the wrist and Triage Officer 20 gave Caretaker a map that they pulled up, highlighting their search area. No further communication was needed, everyone had done the same simulations and studied the same scenarios. Everyone had the same hope they’d never have to use it. “Yes, Xur!” Caretaker hurried onward. 

Firefighters were pushing back the flames to the source, exposing more areas and wounded. Letting the marker overlay a pattern that traced where Caretaker had been, they started in one corner of their map with a person laying beside a control panel, their limbs black and red and split open in several spots. Still breathing. The air moved slowly, jagged and sharp as it whistled through a small space in a throat not yet swollen shut. Not for long. There would be many more like this, time to move on. They hovered their hand over the body for a moment, “Black.” A chirp confirmed their marker had registered the assessment and uploaded the data, now any medics would see the overlay instantly and the transporters would know to move on and leave this one. “Red.” Tying a tourniquet around the severed limb, Caretaker patted the shoulder of the wide eyed janitor but said nothing more, they had no comfort to give and no time to give it.

“Yellow. Xur, you need to move.” Caretaker’s careful eyes met red and panicked ones as the woman tried to say things back but Caretaker didn’t have time for it. “You can and you will. Xur, please. Go. Over there to Beacon 20, see? GO.” The push of authority in their voice startled the woman but she started moving, cradling her broken arm and moving almost robotically. 

Their boots slipped on a hot metal plate and they shouted, scrambling up to their feet and blowing on their burned palms. Mostly first degree and some minor second degree, but they could push past it and worry about infection later. They could only carry so many supplies with them and their patients needed them more.

Three times Caretaker triaged their area, the second time managing to rescue and drag out three people themselves to cut down on the work for the transporters. It wasn’t exactly policy, but Caretaker needed to do something besides changing Red to Black while waiting for more help. After the third round there were no more Reds left, one way or another. 

They went back to the Triage Officer for a new area, hiding their shredded and swollen hands. The officer noted their boots almost melted to their feet and their voice was too hoarse for comfort, sending Caretaker away from the hot zone to treat the Yellows. 

Oxygen masks were shared amongst groups of three, wounds were cleaned and left out in the open air since clean bandages were rationed to place between fingers and toes or to keep membranes moist. Pained cries were ignored as Caretaker and the others swiftly moved from one patient to another, reassessing and changing priority for who was transported out next. 

Their throats were gritty with soot and choked with resolve, there was little energy spared for kind words or comforting measures as the few treated the many. Caretaker’s hands were agony with every touch, they couldn’t spend the energy to comfort their patients despite the outreached hands and tears in their eyes. The hysterical ones were harder to manage, but Caretaker couldn’t hold it against them if the alternative meant the far off look they saw in the eyes of the silent ones. 

It would take almost a full week for Caretaker to smell anything but singe and char again and two weeks before they would be able to enter the dining hall or kitchen areas without the smell of cooking setting their stomach off. Their friend helped them shower afterwards, pretending not to hear the hisses and whimpers of pain from every touch and splash. It was worth it to be rid the soot and smell, but Caretaker still didn’t feel clean after.

Their fingers were swollen and painful to move or touch despite the painkillers they took, which earned them three weeks of medical leave, useless for the first aid rooms since they couldn’t even do paperwork. Lighter burns covered their body in sensitive patches and they wore shorts for a week to give the blisters on their knees a chance to heal over. Caretaker wanted nothing more than to go back to work, needing something, anything, to take their mind off the images and the smells that clung to them and projected onto the insides of their eyelids.

[parachutingkitten]

I’ve Never Done This Before: A Huebby Fic - Ch 3

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2

Again, it’s been a while. Sorry about that fam. I think there will one more chapter after this? Are there even any of us Huebby people left? I feel like we’ve all kinda died. Anyway, for those of you who are still alive and active, please enjoy :) 

“Alright! So, how does this work?” Webby asked, looking down at their belongings they had hauled beside the lake. But Huey’s eyes were stuck on her. He was caught in this weird, confused daze. He had to face facts. He liked Webby. He had been ignoring it for a while, but it was so clear now. 

And he didn’t really know what to do about it.

Webby turned to look at him, still waiting on an answer. “How does this work?” She repeated.

“Sorry,” Huey shook himself out of it. “We put the canoe in the water, very carefully place our supplies in the middle, and then we, even more carefully, get in. I’ll be the sternman since I’m more experienced, and you can be the bowman.”

“What does that mean?”

“...It means you sit in the front,” Huey sighed, picking up a life jacket.

“Ooo! Yay!” Webby picked up her ore, wielding it like a staff as she looked out over the lake. “I’m so ready for this!”

“Safety first!” Huey tossed her the jacket. She caught it, staring down at it blankly. 

“What? You legally responsible for my life vest situation too?”

“Nah, I’d just rather you not drown,” he shrugged with a wink.

Webby smiled coyly at him and resigned to struggling with the various straps that now had to be buckled around her. Huey picked up his own life vest, still sitting at the very stressful crossroads at the forefront of his brain. 

What was he supposed to do? Knowing that you have a crush on someone doesn’t exactly make being around that person any easier. Was he supposed to just keep going then? Pretend that he hadn’t made this earth bending revelation? Knowing him, things were about to get real weird, real fast, and Webby is the kind of person who will force your secrets out of you. Ignoring it was not going to be an option. Then what? Tell her? 

That can’t be right. 

“You ready over there?!” Webby’s voice came from the edge of the lake. “I’ve already got the canoe in the water!” Huey looked up to see Webby waving frantically at him. 

“Yeah! Right, just a second!” He called back to her. “Come on Huey. Shake it off. It’s just Webby,” He muttered to himself, picking up their backpack of things and starting over to the dock. 

“You seem out of it. You okay?” And… she already knows something’s off. 

“What? Me?! No. I’m great.” He forced a smile. “In fact, I feel… more like myself… than usual. What would even make you think something like that?” he shook his head, knowing that speaking any more wasn’t going to help. 

She shot him a questioning glance, taking the backpack from him. “Your straps are messed up.” She pointed to his life vest, as he glanced down, finding that, indeed, the straps were not lined up with each other.

“You said our stuff went in the middle, right?” Webby asked, a thud coming from the canoe.

“Yeah,” Huey sighed, quickly undoing the tangled straps.

“And I get to go in the front, right?”

“Well, yeah, but the front is the less important position, you understand that, right?” He asked, still focused on hurriedly re tying his straps. 

“Yeah, but the front is more fun!” Webby laughed. 

“Well, that’s debatable,” Huey argued, looking up to find her already standing in the middle of the boat. “Webby! Slow down! You don’t want to tip it!” He kneeled down, holding onto the edge of the canoe. “Balance is very fragile in these things!”

“Stop worrying! We’ve fought literal Gods, I think we can handle a canoe,” She rolled her eyes, and leaned down, meeting him at eye level. Huey could feel his heartbeat pick up a bit being this close to her. “Plus, I’m wearing your stupid life vest. What’s the worst that could happen?” Webby lifted Huey’s hat, standing up, and placing it on her own head. “Now, off to adventure!” She lifted her ore in the air victoriously.

“Could you stop moving around so quickly!” Huey gripped the boat. “Seriously, sudden movements will capsize us out on the water.”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” She rolled her eyes. “No teasing you on the water.”

Huey picked up his ore and stood, letting go of the boat. “Could I please get my hat back? Webby smiled, ruffling his hair. “You know, you look cute without your hat. If anything, you should let me steal it more often.”

Huey could feel himself freeze.

Cute? What exactly did she mean by cute? She was probably just teasing him again… right? Teasing. Wait. Don’t girls usually tease guys they like?

Hold on. What? No. That’s not right. 

That can’t be right… right?!

“You getting in, or what?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Huey took a deep breath. “You just slowly make your way to the front while I get in so we can keep it balanced, okay?”

“You got it, Skipper!” Webby took a cautious step forward as Huey began to board. 

“How long do you think we’ll be out?”

“Um… I don’t know. Hadn’t really thought it out that far.” Huey admitted, pulling his other foot off the dock. 

“Well, we should probably get back before dinner. But that gives us hours!” Webby chuckled.

“...hours.” Huey breathed, realizing what he’d gotten himself into.

Him and Webby. On this tiny thing. In the middle of the water.

...for hours.

This was no way this was going smoothly.

[moonflower-31]

Determination - Sabriel Rapunzel AU

Part 4 

Part 3

Part 2 

Part 1 

Sam let out a shriek of fear as he hit the stranger on the head, watching him fall to the ground with a thud. He pants in fear, gripping his hair as he stays his distance.

"What the hell... no one had ever climbed the tower other than father...who even is this guy?" He asks, lookinh over at Crowley, who shrugged at him.

Sam furrowed his eyebrows at the rat. "You're no help." He huffed, before he looked back at the stranger, seeing his golden brown hair strewn about his head, almost like a halo. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to have a warmth to him. It was nothing like how Father had described humans. Or even angels.

Sam took the end of his frying pan that he had used to knock the poor man out, and lifted the man's top lip. Instead of fangs or some unnatural teeth, he saw pearly whites. They seemed to be normal, all things considered.

Sam let down his guard a bit, approaching the intruder slowly. He was still shaking with his bare feet against the wooden floor, but he was less scared.

That was when the intruder opened his eyes, giving Sam a quick glance at his golden, and whiskey colored ones before he hit the man over the head again, wincing at how much it had to hurt.

Sam sighed to himself, wondering how in the hell he'd gotten himself into that situation.  How this man had climbed the tower without Sam's hair, for instance. That's when Sam noticed the satchel. He tilted his head in confusion, slipping it off the man and opening it curiously.

Sam's eyes twinkled as he looked at the shimmering crown of jewels. Crowley scampered closer in curiosity, climbing up Sam's hair to get a better look.

Sam turned the crown in his hands, confused as to what exactly it was. What it could be. He put it on his arm, looking at Crowley for approval. The rat shook his head.

Sam sighed, taking it off and trying to fit it over his head, but no, it wouldn't fit and Crowley nipped his ear as he tried it. Sam huffed at Crowley, before he took it off and then resettled on putting the crown on upright on top of his head, making his eyes widen in amazement of how much it fit him.

It was just like the lanterns. It was almost like it was made for him.

He quickly took it off and put it back in the man's satchel and hid it. (In a pot, btw) Afterwards, he heaved the man into his arms, grunting as he pulled. The man was much heavier than Sam ever thought a man his size would evem be. Yet again, Sam had only been able to do so much exercise.

Finally, Sam got the man into his arms, and heaved him towards his closet. He swung the door open and pushed the man inside, only for him to fall back out on Sam.

Sam let out a yelp, and Crowley scampered away from the collision, taking deep breaths. Sam shot him a look before he heaved the man up again, and put him in the closet again, grabbing a chair and hoisting it against the closet door handles to hopefully keep him in there this time.

Sam sighed, pulling at the top of his head gently, stressed completely out by all of the recent events. He looked over at Crowley on his shoulder, panting a bit from the activity.

"Okay... don't panic Sam...its..." he males a face of consideration. "It's just a person in your closet..." he says, nervous and a bit annoyed. Then it hit him.

"I have... a person in my closet!" He exclaimed, making Crowley give Sam a very, very confused look.

Sam laughed to himself triumphantly.  "Haha! Oh, you think I'm unable to handle myself father? Try me wotha. Frying pan!" He exclaimed, before accidentally hitting himself in the side of the head with his pan.

Sam smiled to himself, looking down at the pan. Then the thought of the crown recrossed his mind. He'd heard of hats like that. Jeweled ones. Tiara's that princesses wore. But he didn't think that the jeweled headband thing was a tiara. It was too regal. It demanded a different name and a different title.

Sam couldn't put his finger on it. Crowley tried to snatch up the crown, only to almost fall from the jewel's weight. Sam rolled his eyes as he caught both of them.

"Crowley, I know you like shiny stuff, but this is way heavier than you." He says. And at that moment, he heard his father again.

"Samuel! Let down your hair!" He hears. Sam jumps and puts Crowley down, the rat soon after running off to Sam's room again.

"I have a big surprise!" Azazel announces, soon grabbing onto Sam's hoisted hair and letting the boy pull him up.

Sam grunts as Azazel weighs his hair down. "Uh... I got one too!" He announces, pulling harder and harder, heaving as he tried not to let go.

"Oh I bet mine is much bigger!" Azazel says again. Sam rolled his eyes, still pulling hard.

"I seriously doubt it..." Sam mutters under his breath as he finally heaved the demon up enough to let him climb  in easily.

Azazel jumps up into the tower and smiled at Sam. "I brought back enough kale and vegtables to make your favorites for weeks! Every night! Surprise!" He exclaims.

Sam nods, pretty much ignoring Azazel's surprise. "Yeah yeah, great but uh, father you said before that I couldn't handle myself outside the tower and I-" he starts.

Azazel narrows his eyebrows, unpacking his basket. "Oh Samuel I know you are not strong enough to handle yourself out of this tower." He warns.

But Sam persisted. "But if you just trust me-" he started. Azazel rolled his eyes.

"Sam, I thought we were done with this." He warns again, his eyes glaring a bright yellow as Sam kept pushing.

"I promise, I know what I'm doing-" he starts again.

Azazel rolled his eyes again. "No you don't-" he tries in a harsher voice.

Sam reached for the chair, almost being able to pull it back. "Oh come on Father-" he tries.

Suddenly Azazel jumps up and Sam is forced against the wall with his hand. "Enough with these damn lights Sam! You are never leaving this tower! Ever!" He growled, releasing his hold on Sam.

Sam lands on the ground, rubbing his neck. He coughed a bit as Azazel groaned, collapsing into a chair.

"Great, now I'm gonna be the bad guy." He guilts, making Sam feel his heart pang. He didn't want to make his father feel terrible. He'd already bothered him enough. But this was too far. Wasn't it?

Sam sighed and got to his feet, stepping in front of the closet. Then an idea hit him. He took a piece of his hair into his hands and he starts playing with it.

"W-what I r-really meant to say was... I uh..." Sam started. Azazel rolled his eyes.

"Speak up son! I hate mumbling! You know this!" He exclaimed, making Sam flinch. Oh hell no. Sam gathered all the courage from the heros from his books before attempting to speak again.

"I know what I want for my birthday now Father. It.. it's not the lights." He says, almost like he was cushioning the situations so that when he asked, it would be easier to get Azazel to agree.

Azazel rolled his eyes. "Then what is it, Samuel? You are not leaving this tower." He warns. Sam sighed but nodded, still playing with his hair.

"New books? From the library of Alexandria?" He asks. Azazel widened his eyes.

"Samuel, you know that that library os a far off distance away. The journey takes up almost three full days." Azazel warns. Sam sighed.

"I just...thought it was better than the stars idea..." he says, giving into Azazel's notion of them being stars.

Azazel rolled his eyes and stood up, taking a heavy sigh. "You're sure that is what you want?" He asks.  Sam nods.

"There's nothing else for me to want." He assures. Azazel hummed triumphantly.

"Well then alright. You'll have to wait on your favorites. I'll be back in three days. Understood?" Azazel says. Sam nods in understanding, smiling at Azazel.

"Yes father." He answers. Azazel lets a small smile slip onto his lips.

"Then go fix up my travel basket boy." He says, half joking. Sam smiled at him before he walked past him, and wss unable to see how Azazel's smile fell.

Azazel's eyes looked down at the one strand of dark hair that Samuel had on his head. It was as long as the rest of his hair, but it still showed a discoloration. It reminded Azazel of the importance of keeping Sam alive and kicking to keep Azazel powerful.

Sam anxiously packed Azazel's basket, and handed it to him. "Here. You should be set." He says. Azazel takes the basket and wraps an arm around Sam, pulling him into a hug.

"I love you very much my son." He says. Sam sighed softly but hugged back.

"I love you more. He replied, his mind still on the plan he had forming in his mind.

"I love you most." Azazel replied as usual, before pulling away and using Sam's hair to hoist himself down, only making Sam wince a tad bit.

As Azazel left, Sam waved. Then, as soon as Azazel was out of sight, he bolted away from the door and towards the closet.

He removed the chair, and took a deep breath. "I can do this... he can't hurt you." He whispers reassuringly to himself, before he launched his hair and opened the closet. The still unconscious stranger immediately fell, and landed on his face.

Sam winced as he saw the man hit the ground. He was surprised he didn't hear a crack. Then the stranger's unconscious form began to slide forward, making his body lay flat against the floor.

Once he was sure the man was still unconscious, Sam heaved him into his chair.  He sat back, wondering how exactly to keep this stranger in the seat. The man had gotten up into the tower somehow, he could always leave. Then Sam's plan would be useless.

Then, Crowley clawed his way to Sam's shoulder. He gestured to Sam's hair, and made a tying motion. Sam smiled at Crowley and nodded, before taking parts of his hair and wrapping the man securely to the chair.

Then, Sam lost his bit of confidence. He shrieked a bit and hid atop the stairs. Crowley huffed at Sam, gesturing for him to slap the man awake. Sam shook his head, widening his eyes even more in fear.

Crowley rolled his tiny black eyes and then turned to the unconscious man, and nipped his ear, causing the man to stir from his sleep with a yelp.

This was gonna be fun. Said no one.

[kashimos-hajime]

boy next door

Summary: Katara moves into the same apartment building as Sokka and Zuko happens to be her next door neighbour. Or, Zuko and Katara know each other better than they think they do.

A/N: For @zutaraexchange​ and @cobraonthecob​ who deserved this way earlier but I was so busy this week! My prompts were Painted Lady and Blue Spirit, Modern, Superhero AU, Element Swap/Different Elements. I decided to challenge myself with a modern AU. 

I write and I do have a taglist so send an ask if ya want ;)

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF DRUG ABUSE, VERY, VERY BRIEF. also, bro there’s like some swearing i think.

Wordcount: 5.1k Pairing: Zuko and Katara (Zutara)

Zuko mostly kept to himself. It wasn’t that he hated people — no, he was alright with Sokka in the apartment across the hall in 1C despite how loud he could be, and the guy who owned a grocery store upstairs in 2D wasn’t so bad. He mostly tended to the gardens and when the harvest was good, they’d hold a barbecue. Yue and Suki, two girls who lived diagonally across from him in 1A didn’t do much more than make polite conversation when they bumped into each other in the hallways and that guy Aang could hold his own in a game of Super Smash. He and some old guy, Bumi, lived upstairs in 2A along with Aang’s huge dog, Appa. In 2B was another set of girls, Mai and Ty Lee, both Zuko had known since childhood, but they were never close.

That left two more apartments. The one next to Zuko, and the one left upstairs.

No one talked about upstairs ever since the last tenant had been evicted for illegal activity, not that Zuko ever paid any mind to that, not that he cared, not that it was Azula who was forced to move out and away. Not that Zuko drove her to the hospital himself after he found her OD’ed on the floor. Not that anyone knew.

All anyone ever saw was his scar. He saw it in people’s eyes, the way they tried to focus on anything else on his face. His eyes, maybe. His mother used to say he had lovely eyes. But she was the only one. Everyone saw the scar.

So Zuko kept to himself, sue him.

He went out for his job, which was a fun time as the CEO of his dad’s company which  he managed to build back up after a scandal way back when, which meant he didn’t have spare time to go to barbecues, even if he wanted to. He knew they judged him, probably talked shit behind his back. But he couldn’t help it.

“Oh, crap.”

Zuko looked next to him as he was locking the door that morning. Fridays were the only days he got half-off and he intended to get as much work done as possible before relaxing. But, it appeared that wasn’t gonna happen today when he caught sight of one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen in his thirty-years of being alive. Standing there, surrounded by boxes and a rambling Sokka, was a woman with chestnut hair pulled into a messy bun, frustrated, blushing cheeks, and narrowed blue eyes.

“Sokka, if you touch anything else, I’ll literally kill you.”

“Sorry, Kat! That time, it really was an accident.”

‘Kat’ didn’t say anymore. She picked up a box and stormed into the apartment, revealing a tumbled box at Sokka’s feet. The man looked up and noticed Zuko standing there, immediately traversing the boxy hallway and saying his hellos.

“Who’s she?” Zuko asked, trying to sound as disinterested as possible as he slipped the key into his pocket.

“My sister. She’s moving in for her neuro fellowship at the hospital nearby.”

“Oh, cool.” Smart. Check. Pretty. Check. Zukos’ boxes were all getting ticked off as the woman re-emerged, thoroughly disappointed but unsurprised by what her brother was doing.

“Isn’t that right, Katara?”

“What.”

“My little sister’s all grown up and moved across country all by herself.”

“Sokka!” Kat sighed in annoyance and Sokka quickly picked up a box with a wide smile, disappearing through the door as she finally noticed Zuko. “Hey, sorry about that.”

“No problem.” Their eyes met and she blinked once, then again. Zuko knew what she was looking at but her eyes stayed rather determinedly on his. Eyebrows elevating, he looked at all the boxes. “You need help moving in?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” She blinked again, and turned to look at the boxes. “Sokka’s supposed to be helping me and he’ll do fine once he focuses.” Stepping over the boxes, she extended a hand and offered a smile. “I’m Katara. I guess I’m your neighbour now.”

“Katara,” he repeated, knowing he’ll have no problem remembering it. “Zuko.”

“Nice to meet you, Zuko.” She was even prettier up close. Zuko swallowed hard, finding his mouth dry as he struggled to say more.

“Yeah, you too.” What a lame way to end the conversation. Katara smiled again and turned back to her boxes, and Zuko swore he didn’t look at her an extra second before he remembered he had work. Opening his mouth, he tried to say goodbye, but then shut it. She won’t notice, he thought as he turned and walked down the hall. She’d never notice someone like me.

.

Katara frowned, wondering if this was too much. Her first weekend at her new place had gone without a hitch and all the tenants had attended the BBQ the landlord hosted.

All except one.

She knew who he was — what reputation he had, and what he’d done to prevent his father’s company from going belly up. Still, she was determined to get him to notice her or at least be on amicable terms no matter how high up he held himself.

Katara had brought a specialty of hers — lychee ice cream — and stood outside her neighbour’s door. She knew he was at home due to the fact he’d slammed the door closed earlier that afternoon and that she could now hear him yell at Sokka.

Her brother had never mentioned the guy next door with the huge scar on his face. He was kinda good looking, in an unconventional kinda way. But Katara didn’t focus on that. Instead, she focused on his CEO status, how he lived in a second-rate apartment despite how loaded he must be, how she knocked on the door, and how she was gonna get through this.

So she knocked.

And the door opened.

Ask and you shall receive.

And what Katara received was a wonderfully puffy-haired neighbour, scratching his head and glaring at her though half his face was twisted in an eternal scowl. A far cry from the prim and proper, suited up man three days ago.

“Hi, Katara.’

“Hey, Zuko. I made lychee ice cream for you,” she said although words were running dry as Sokka popped out of nowhere and reached to grab it. “Not for you! It’s for Zuko.” Her brother pouted, complained about something, but Katara didn’t hear him. Zuko didn’t seem to hear him either.

The man looked at her for a moment, then took the carton with a soft ‘thanks’ and Katara found her cheeks warming under his stare. He was wearing nothing but a white tee and grey sweats but he still looked so good. Better than a suit and tie, that was for sure. His warm amber eyes scanned her up and down, and Katara noted the heavy eyebags and how pale he looked. That didn’t detract from how hot he was, though. Not that Katara really looked.

“You didn’t come to the barbecue,” Katara said, sidelining her concern for now, and Zuko nodded. “Why?”

“I don’t like crowds.”

“It wasn’t that crowded.”

“I don’t like people.”

“Oh.”

Color spread magnificently over Zuko’s cheeks as Katara looked to the ground. His voice rasped and scratched and sounded like music to her ears. Not that she noticed.

“I was at work,” he added. Katara noted he was a pitiful liar. Fridays were his half-off days, according to her brother. Not that she cared. “Along with the not-liking people.”

“You like Sokka, though,” she pointed out and Zuko suppressed a scowl as they heard Sokka yell there was no more orange juice. Forgetting herself, Katara withdrew from the doorway. “Anyway, I should head back. You’re probably busy doing… whatever it is you’re doing.”

“We’re playing Assassin’s Creed, if you want to join,” Zuko offered and Katara shook her head. Not that she’d basically grown up with those games. Not that she played with Sokka before he moved away.

Not that she wanted to.

“Which one?” She found the question slipping past her lips before she could reel it back in.

“Origins. Just got around to playing it.”

The offer was enticing, but Katara wasn’t in the mood. “I thought you didn’t like people,” she said, because inviting strangers didn’t sound anti-friendly.

“I can make an exception.” He crossed his arms and Katara ignored the way his muscles bunched and how his shirt seemed too small for his frame. It was tight across his shoulders and when Katara caught his gaze, she shook her head.

“You should go put that in the freezer before it melts ‘cause it’s hot out.” Katara nodded to the carton of ice cream and excused herself quickly after that, going down the hall as quick as she could and entering her apartment.

Slamming the door behind her, she pressed her back against it and sighed. That was a such stupid thing to say before she left, and she couldn’t take it back now. What happened to a good-old fashioned ‘goodbye’? A regular old ‘see you later’?

Apparently, no longer options for Katara when she spoke to Zuko.

.

“Dude, stop checking your phone.”

“Just hurry up. I want to actually play for once,” Zuko growled back as Sokka saved his game on the PS4. Zuko already had Witcher 3 with Sokka’s game savefiles in the right folder and the two had planned to switch thirty minutes ago before Sokka decided to screw around and get two more viewpoints than said thirty minutes ago.

BlueSpirit94: would you believe it if i said my best friend is a complete waste of time

PaintedLadyXO: yes

BlueSpirit94: this is why we keep in touch

The chat bubble popped up again and disappeared, causing Zuko to turn off the screen and yell at Sokka again to hurry up. Then, a ding.

PaintedLadyXO: please

PaintedLadyXO: you need me more than i need you

Smirking at the reply, he couldn’t resist typing out one of his own. Ever since meeting on Discord with their apparent mutual online friends nearly three years ago, Zuko had hit it off with this other gamer despite having never heard their voice. What with Painted Lady’s crazy hours doing whatever they did and Zuko’s extreme reluctance to gather up courage to even talk to anyone outside of his friends, they still remained on close terms.

And they were right, as they often were. Zuko probably did need them more than they needed him.

Bluespirit94: that’s rude

Bluespirit94: but true

PaintedLadyXO: i didn’t mean it

Bluespirit94: whatever

Bluespirit94: how was your move btw? Read 2:49 PM

“Alright, get off. Time to cut off some heads.” Sokka shoved Zuko off the chair and the messy-haired man sat down on the couch instead, waiting for the reply. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.  “Who are you even talking to?”

“It’s none of your business!”

Sokka’s grabby fingers scrambled to grab his phone but Zuko threw it underneath his legs to sit on, grabbing the controller and glaring at Sokka.

“Fuck off,” he hissed. “Some dick at work is slacking ‘cause he’s probably too busy being high.” Zuko grimaced, and slid the analog stick until Assassin’s Creed Origins was selected. “Not my problem.”

“You’re the CEO.”

“Hey, I came back from work and I’m looking forward to this afternoon off. If he wants to keep his job, he’ll show up tomorrow.” Zuko watched the screen blankly. Everything he said wasn’t a total lie. That dude, Jet, had come in earlier, asking if he could take a medical leave while stinking of weed. Zuko had given him the foulest glare he could muster, declined his request, and left it with a threat of ‘See you tomorrow morning.’

Sokka didn’t say anything much after that. They’d known each other long enough that when Zuko needed his silence, Sokka knew better than to argue with it. Sometimes, he could cure it with jokes. It was more often than not that he couldn’t, so he slapped on Zuko’s expensive headphones and loaded up his save file.

Zuko’s phone pinged. Amber eyes darted from the screen to Sokka, who was beautifully immersed in Witcher 3, and he deemed it safe enough to check.

PaintedLadyXO: great! the tenants are friendly and the guy next door is kinda hot ;)

Zuko’s eyebrows rose. His thumbs paused.

BlueSpirit94: didn’t know you swung that way

PaintedLadyXO: and.

PaintedLadyXO: jk who said i was a man lmao

BlueSpirit94: i can now add that to things I know about you

There was no response for a few more minutes, so he decided that maybe they — she — decided to continue the move-in. Zuko shook it from his mind. So what if Painted Lady was a girl? They were always close friends. This didn’t change that.

PaintedLadyXO: and what do you know about me mister

BlueSpirit94: probably more than you'd like to admit Read 2:59 PM.

.

Katara’s first few months at the hospital went by with ease, especially since fellowships were a breeze compared to residency. With two more aneurysms clipped, a few more brainbleeds fixed, and one more neuroblastoma diagnosed than the night before, Katara reached her apartment as the sun began to set. She fiddled with her keys, almost too tired to see straight. Finally slotting the right one in, she twisted with an irritated huff and threw all her crap down on the couch. Despite having moved in three months ago, there were still a few boxes left to open. She plugged her phone to charge.

Heading to the bathroom, she began a shower and shed all her clothes from the day before. She needed this break before her pager would inevitably go off and she’d be back in the hospital.

Luckily, she managed to snag her shower and came out ten minutes later, feeling more awake than she had before as her phone pinged. Suki, the girl in 1A who’d been the subject of her brother’s affections and vice versa, was one of the first who welcomed her. They’d become quick friends at the barbecue and Katara wasn’t surprised to see texts from her. She was more often than not the one Katara turned to with her problems.

Suki: hey!!

Suki: was just wondering if you're interested in having dinner or anything

Suki: we NEED to catch up on gossip

Katara: yeah sure

Katara: technically off shift but you know how it goes

The response was instantaneous.

Suki: totally. i’ll be there in a bit w sushi

Satisfied that she had dinner plans, she turned to texting her other favourite. BlueSpirit94 had been silent for the past few days but Katara had a feeling it wouldn’t be long before their next conversation.

PaintedLadyXO: how come i never hear anything about your lovelife? Delivered

It was a bold thing to ask but Katara felt comfortable with texting anything to her faceless friend, considering that they’d been friends for well over three years now. It was funny. She barely went on Discord anymore (that was back in the day with Sokka) but she kept the app around on her phone, both of them too cowardly to move. This little bubble they lived in was comfortable. Katara didn’t want to pop it.

BlueSpirit94: because i don't have one

PaintedLadyXO: complete bs

BlueSpirit94: no really. hbu? hows the guy next door situation?

Katara thought on that.

How was the situation?

Well, it wasn’t like Zuko and her often had time to chat. She spent most of her time in the hospital, and on the off-chance she was here, he was either at work or out. She never wanted to bother him to talk, and it wasn’t like he was inclined to talk to her either. She hoped he liked her ice cream and got some sleep. The man looked one night away from passing out.

PaintedLadyXO: gone radio silent

PaintedLadyXO: our times don't match so i don't see him that much

BlueSpirt94: that sucks

BlueSpirit94: hey do you ever think it's crazy were literally in the same city now

PaintedLadyXO: on my mind all the time. we could literally pass each other and never know

Katara’s fingers paused. The next question on her mind was one she had never proposed before, but she had imagined a hundred different faces and a hundred different lives behind BlueSpirt94 that she couldn’t help it.

Knock, knock, knock.

Katara looked at the little arrow that meant send and then to the door.

She threw her phone onto the opposite end of the couch and went to the door.

Later that night, when Katara was in her own bed for the first time in five days, she looked at the unsent text. Exhaustion weighed at her eyelids and she sent it before she could feel the wave of regret waiting to drown her.

.

Zuko stared at the notification. For a Monday night turned Tuesday morning, he felt relatively good. It was nearing 1 AM and he was working on the newest wave on hopeful employees and interns after a day at work. But he was still getting a bit tired. Hiring season always meant overtime for him.

PaintedLadyXO: so why don’t we meet up?? it’s rly been three years

He stalled. The thought had his heart hammering in his throat as he picked up his phone. Could he say yes? Then again, she was the only one who he ever told about his sister. He trusted her with a lot, but she could just be some faceless troll.

Something about that notion struck him false. She’d never do that to him.

BlueSpirit94: uh ok i guess Delivered

A wave of nausea rolled over him. It wasn’t a gut feeling per se, or regret, but he suddenly felt like he was placed outside his comfort zone. He trusted Painted Lady, but to finally put a face to the name…

What a crazy idea.

For so long, she was what he came to from work as they talked and pieced together parts of each other’s lives. They were each other’s confidant, their safe of secrets. Where would they even go? What would they say?

Zuko shook his head. The text had rattled him so far as to say he couldn’t exactly focus on the resumés. So he picked up his phone again, and texted all that nervous energy out.

BlueSpirit94: how about coffee? Delivered

Just as the text sent, he heard a high-pitched beeping and a thump on the other side of his wall. Looking up, he debated getting up to check the sound out as the beeping stopped.

Next thing he knew, there was the sound of the next-door neighbour opening their door. Katara. He hadn’t seen her much since she moved in, so Zuko got up against his better judgement and crossed the living room floor, hand stalling on the knob. Squinting through one eye, he peeked through the hole and spotted a brown head of hair dash by his door.

Zuko blinked. He opened the door and saw her running around the corner in slip on shoes and her still trying to poke her arm through a hoodie. Words failed. Her hair was flying everywhere and it was like a whole different person from that composed woman three months ago. No doubt she’d return in a few days, as was her custom. He’d probably be still awake by then, so he made a game plan to finish through the rest of the resumés, finish his coffee, and get ready for work because the giant pile on his desk did not scream sleep.

He closed his door and returned to his desk. He took another sip of coffee.

He sat down.

PaintedLadyXO: that sounds good

BlueSpirit94: friday work for you?

PaintedLadyXO: depends on work but friday seems perfect

.

Katara was brimming with energy. Ever since making plans with BlueSpirit94 Tuesday morning, she had been full of some nervous squirming feeling in her stomach that added a bounce to her step. Thursday morning meant the end of her week and she walked the halls of the hospital, wanting to head to the cafe for lunch.

Instead, there was a beep of her pager.

Checking it, she clicked it to turn off that piercing noise and blinked. E.R. She was just there. Katara spun around, pulling her hair up into a ponytail as she walked into the pit, shrugging off her lab coat and heading to the nurse’s station where the screen behind it was constantly getting updated with the new intake of patients.

“I was paged?” she asked the nurse who helpfully pointed her in the direction of bed three. Nodding, she turned to it and picked up the chart, reading it over quickly. The symptoms — dehydration, overexhaustion, swollen ankle after collapsing down the stairs. Waiting for a CT to rule out any brain damage and internal damage. Cool. They just needed her to do a neural exam.

Pulling the curtain around, she slapped on a pair of gloves.

“Alright,” she announced with a smile. “Let’s look at that—”

“Hi, Katara.”

“Zuko?” Gawking, she raked her eyes up and down his body. He was in his suit, so he must’ve been at work, and his eyebags had gotten worse, if that was possible. There was blood dripping down the side of his head but he looked wide awake otherwise. Oh, man. Rolling up his pant sleeve, she saw that his sprained ankle was already treated and thanked god. All they were waiting for was her sign off.  “Hey! How’d this happen?”

“Was late for a meeting,” Zuko hissed as she flashed a lightbulb in his eyes. Pupils responsive. Good. “Took the stairs, didn’t make it. Everything got dizzy.”

“When’s the last time you slept?” she asked, rotating his head gently. “Any pain here?”

“Two nights ago, maybe? It was my one meeting for the day. I swear I was going to go home after.” Feeling around his head as he talked, Katara felt her fingers brush against something. “Ow!”

“Yeah, and you ended up in the hospital instead.” Katara arched an eyebrow at him, unimpressed and Zuko shrugged. “If you don’t like people, you must hate it here,” she continued, eager to keep the conversation going. “Hold still. You’ve got a minor cut here where you must’ve hit your head.”

“Place isn’t so bad with the present company,” Zuko mumbled. Heat immediately rushed to her cheeks and Katara kept her eyes on the suture needle as she tilted his head to the light. It wasn’t too deep, and she wiped away the excess blood, putting pressure on the wound.

“How do you feel? It says you fell down the stairs.”

“Just a bit battered,” he admitted and Katara’s lips pulled into a smile against her wishes. When blood stopped flowing freely, she began to stitch. “Any idea when I’ll get to go home?”

“As soon as your CT comes back clear. Are you sure you’ll be able to get back home by yourself?” she asked, frowning. “You can’t drive in your condition.”

“I can call a taxi,” Zuko said with a shrug and Katara paused.

“Don’t move, please.” And she dug the needle in again. “Don’t be silly. I was supposed to be off shift after lunch anyway. I can drive you back.”

“Wait, really?”

Katara’s eyebrows rose at his surprised tone. When she looked at him again, he had a pleased blush across his cheeks and a boyish smile upon his lips. He looked quite cute in that light. Finding one of her own smiles, Katara nodded and added butterfly strips to keep the cut closed.

“Of course. As soon as your CT comes back clear, I’ll get you discharged.”

“Thanks, Katara.”

“Yeah, ‘course.” She tore off her gloves, signing that she was the last one to check on him and patted his shoulder with a final ‘see you later’ grin. He was incredibly warm under his suit, and her hand burned at his touch.

She’d not taken two steps, when: “Katara?”

“Mhm?”

Zuko’s eyes lit up. “The ice cream was really good.”

.

PaintedLadyXO: u kno what's crazy??

BlueSpirit94: what

PaintedLadyXO: boy next door is where i'm working

BlueSpirit94: what? did you talk to him?

PaintedLadyXO: yep and he’s really nice

PaintedLadyXO: we still on for tmr? Starbucks on 49th, right?

BlueSpirit94: about that…

PaintedLadyXO: what?

BlueSpirit94: i might be in the hospital.

PaintedLadyXO: WHAT?

PaintedLadyXO: are you okay???

BlueSpirit94: i’m fine

BlueSpirit94: just minor injuries

PaintedLadyXO: are you sure???

BlueSpirit94: yeah

BlueSpirit94: sorry about tomorrow guess we’ll have to cancel

PaintedLadyXO: np!! Especially if you’re hurt

.

Holding up the CT to the light, Katara squinted in front of Zuko for extra effect. The man was getting a bit antsy with how long she was staring at the thing and Zuko didn’t know what else to say other than: “I’m fine, aren’t I?”

It was like a shift immediately. Katara put down the CT and painted on a smile. “Yep! Now I can sign off and we can go home!”

Home. Zuko tried to ignore the implications that they lived together and nodded, accepting her aid into the wheelchair.

Katara’s car was a nice minivan that was full of boxes that needed to be recycled, but Zuko didn’t mind that the busy woman next to him was still mid-move despite three months living in town. It smelt like warm chicken and food, and he spotted a salad with butter chicken in the front chair that Katara hastily shoved under the chair.

“It’s been a while since I’ve had someone other than me in this car,” Katara muttered, helping him into shotgun and buckling in.

“Thanks, Kat, but I’ve got it,” Zuko said with a gentle smile. The woman was so keen on making sure he was comfortable, she didn’t quite remember her own tasks. The nickname caught her attention though, and ocean blue met volcanic amber. They both cleared their throats when they realized their faces were almost touching.

“Right, right. Sorry.” She waved her hand everywhere and closed the door, making sure none of his bags were in the car door before running around and driving. “Do you mind if I play music?” she asked once she revved up the car and Zuko shook his head.

“How long have you been at work?”

“Since Tuesday morning,” Katara responded, adjusting her rearview mirror. “Patient had a rebleed and I had a shift on Wednesday so I ended up staying overnight.”

“Oh. You’re busy, then.” Pulling out his phone, he checked for any missed emails or calls. Nothing of import. Perfect. 

“Yeah, but I love doing it. Busy is good.” Hozier’s newest album came on and Zuko adjusted his chair, leaning back and looking at his phone as they began to pull out of the hospital. Opening his chat with Painted Lady, he felt a flicker of guilt.

She had sounded so excited, and now that their plans were cancelled…

Zuko should make it up to her. After all, he had been gaining nerves akin to what one would get on a date, and he’d even thought about his outfit. A nice dark red sweater, khakis... 

He had been excited. Looking out the window, he watched glumly as the trees passed by.

“Do you need anything to eat? It’ll be hard to get around with your ankle,” Katara piped up and Zuko glanced to her. She was worrying her bottom lip but her eyes were earnest.

“Thanks, but it’s fine.”

“Okay, but remember I’m next door. I’ll give you my number when we get back.”

She was very kind, a lot like how Painted Lady was. Not that Zuko would know. This was the most he’d ever talked to Katara ever.

Keeping his screen on, he looked down at her last text.

BlueSpirit94: we can reschedule if you’re down??

It took a moment, and then it delivered.

The music paused to allow a ear-deafening ring to bounce off the car walls. Zuko looked to the phone on reflex, then to Katara. She ignored the notification, keeping her eyes on the road and a clammy feeling snuck into Zuko’s palms as she crossed an intersection and turned right onto the road their apartment building was on. Her phone screen had lit up momentarily but Zuko couldn’t manage the sneak he wanted to get besides the Discord icon.

It could be coincedence, he told himself with closed eyes. Stomach in knots, he forced himself to look at the woman beside him. Then to her phone, and then to his own phone.

Only one way to find out.

BlueSpirit94: hi katara

Another resounding ding.

Zuko felt like he was going to be sick. A cold sweat settled over him as he stared at the gorgeous woman beside him. She was exhausted, with messy hair and two day-old clothes but still—

Katara swerved into the parking lot, parking into her usual spot (the space next to his car which was still at the office) and picked up her phone, turning off the ignition. Taking out her keys, she got out of the car and took out the wheelchair from the trunk. Unfolding it for him, she was about to help him into his seat when she remembered her phone in hand. The screen lit up as she rotated it towards her to briefly check who had messaged her and their notification previews.

Zuko watched her every movement.

Which meant he caught when she read the message and when she froze. Her eyes, wide as saucers, went from him, to the phone he still held and Zuko’s own gaze only stared at her, waiting. If he moved, he was afraid he was going to actually hurl. Whether from the pain of his ankle was starting to get to him or the fact that Painted Lady, one of his best friends, was his other best friend’s beautiful sister.

And his neighbour. And his absolute-certain crush (do adults even still get those?). And Sokka’s sister. Crap.

“Hi, Katara,” he whispered because it didn’t matter. This was his best friend right in front of him, with Katara’s smile and eyes, and the Painted Lady’s humour and wit. A myriad of emotions flickered across her face, and then she let out a relieved laugh and half a smile. He extended a hand because being half-in and half-out a car was extremely tiring, especially with a sprained ankle, and her smile grew to fit her whole face. A sun on the face of a woman just as radiant, Katara saw past his scar just as she did the first time they met.

“Hey, Zuko,” she whispered as she took his hand.

[hopelessromanticspoonie]

To Keep You Safe

Title: Please, please, don’t leave me.

Chapter: 20/?

Author: hopeless_romantic_spoonie

Summary: Life as the assistant to Tony Stark was busy, but boring. All of that changed when I touched something I shouldn't have and woke up with strange new abilities. If I thought that trying to figure out my new place in life as an Avenger was tough, I had no idea what was in store for me once I ran into the frustrating God of Mischief, Loki.

Rating: Explicit

Notes: Thank you so much for being patient with my while I try to get my health back on track. Y’all are the real MVPs and I’m so grateful for you.

Also on Ao3 here :)

Warnings for this chapter: Description of injuries, blood, language, brief mention of attempted suicide and torture, talk of murder.

~~~

In. Out. In. Out.

I willed him to keep breathing with me. It was as if my fervent thoughts were the only thing keeping him alive. I didn’t know what I would do if he stopped.

His eyes remained closed, clenched tight in agony, but I selfishly hoped that that distressed expression remained on his face. It meant he was holding on, fighting, and that’s all I could ask of him until we could figure out what could be done. My brain couldn’t even begin to grasp what to do next, it had gone frustratingly blank, but someone would have an idea. They had to.

Right?

The sound of boosters winding down filtered through the haze of shock that had settled over my senses. I lifted my glittering eyes to Tony after he dropped a heavy metal hand in between my bare shoulder blades and Thor’s shoulder. The metal was shockingly warm from his use of the repulsor only moments ago. The visor of his helmet had retracted into the suit so I could see the apprehension lining his face.

“He’s gonna be okay, kid. The ambulance will get him back to the Compound. A doctor will be there waiting to get him patched up. Thor, I need you in the first car with me so we can call and tell the docs what we can and can’t do for him, since you guys aren’t human. But to do all of that, you have to let him go,” he said, voice-controlled and patient as he looked back and forth between the two of us kneeling protectively over Loki.

But Thor and Loki weren’t the same. Loki was a Frost Giant. Even if he looked Æsir, he was anything but. They couldn’t give him our blood. Would a needle be able to pierce his durable skin for stitches? What if it couldn’t? What could they do for him? I didn’t know the answer to any of the questions that seemed vitally important.

Two sets of hands clamped down on my upper arms, roughly pulling me away as the EMTs approached with a stretcher. The harsh action reignited the dull throb in my bicep to a searing heat as one hand squeezed down on the fresh bullet wound. I ignored it and threw my weight against their tight grip, kicking and snarling. When my struggling did nothing, I directed my flexed fingers at the ground. All of my frantic energy pulsing beneath my skin poured into the soft earth, lifting roots from deep underground to wrap around my ankles and hold me in place The hands released me like my skin was aflame when I let out a cry of pain; it felt like my ankles were being ripped from their sockets, and I fell onto my back when I was suddenly free. I scrambled to my feet, stepping out of the roots that sank back into the ground, and rushed back to Loki to hover over him once more.

My narrowed eyes settled on Tony since he seemed to be the one taking charge of the situation. “I am not leaving him.”

Nat walked quickly out of the shadows and lowered herself down next to me. She frowned at the dreadful state of the injured god before bringing her attention back to me. Her hand brushed off a bit of debris that had cemented themselves into scrapes on my forehead, making me wince. “You have to let them take him back to the Compound. He can’t stay here. If he stays here, he will die. At least he’ll have a chance at home.”

Die? I glanced down at Loki’s wan face. I couldn’t imagine this being the last I saw of him. Would this be my final memory of him? It couldn’t be. I wouldn’t allow it, not after knowing the beauty of his smile. I kept my eyes on him and nodded. Nat took my hand and pulled me to my feet, and Thor stood along with us. Wanda walked up to the other side of Tony and lifted Loki onto the waiting stretcher gently with the assistance of her magic. My hand sought out Thor’s as we walked just a step behind Loki’s unconscious form, seeking comfort in the only other person who could even begin to feel the anguish that pulled constant silent tears down my face.

Tony came out from behind us to stand by the open doors of the ambulance, his hands raised to halt our progress. “Neither of you will fit in the ambulance, especially not you, Thor. We’ll follow right behind him in our cars. That’s the best I can do.”

Thor looked torn as he shifted his gaze to me, trusting in my knowledge of this world.

I hesitated. Every bit of me yearned to chase after the ruined body of the god that I loved and cram myself into that ambulance, but I also knew that they would need all the space they could get to keep him stable until we arrived at the Compound. It felt like my heart had been ripped from my chest and now rested in Loki’s pale, cold hands.

And I had no choice but to watch him leave with it.

“We stay on that ambulance’s tail, or it’s your ass, Stark,” I threatened, poking him hard in his metal chest for full effect. It hurt my finger a little, but it was worth it.

Tony nodded, mouth set in a grim line. “Everybody load up!”

Thor ran off toward where the vehicles were idling in front of the museum. The rest of the team had slowly gathered around us as the scene had unfolded, and at Tony’s shouted command, they dispersed. I hobbled after them as quickly as I could, but the adrenaline had begun to wear off and the bullet that had lodged itself into my thigh sent surges of sharp agony through my frayed nerves with each jarring step. I powered through and climbed into a waiting SUV behind Tony, glancing around to see Thor, Sam, and Nat already buckling themselves in. Pepper was behind the wheel, and she slammed her foot down the gas pedal as the ambulance turned on it’s flashing lights and sped off ahead of us.

With the numbing adrenaline fully out of my system, I was aware of every bruise and scrape tarnishing my skin. Nat had ended up buckled in next to me, and she used a knife--where she found it I wasn’t sure--to cut off strips of my already ruined dress, tying them tightly around my bicep and thigh as makeshift tourniquets. I gritted my teeth against the necessary field dressings. The siren of the ambulance we followed was so loud that I couldn’t make out most of what Tony and Thor were talking about in the front, but I was too frazzled to worry about that much anyway. My mind was otherwise occupied with racing, disjointed thoughts.

Loki was a god. Gods didn’t die, that’s why they were gods. But gods could die. Odin and Frigga had died. Frigga was assassinated by a stabbing herself. I had watched bullets bounce off of him like they were made of rubber. Surely a lone puncture wound wouldn’t kill him, right? He had lost a lot of blood, though. But the blade hadn’t been that long. I’d never seen him shake like that. He didn’t deserve to die. Not when he might not know how loved he was in this world. I was supposed to stay by his side to protect him. We were a team! I had failed him. I had failed.

I failed him.

An eternity later, we followed the screaming ambulance as it pulled into the Compound. A man in a white coat and another in scrubs were waiting for us next to a rolling metal table at the entrance. We screeched to a stop a few car lengths away from the ambulance, giving it a wide berth so they could get the stretcher out easily. I pushed the door open before the car was turned off, vaguely aware of Thor doing the same as we ran around to look for Loki.

All color seemed to have drained out of pale face during the ride. I couldn’t even see his chest moving for the flurry of activity of the doctors and paramedics, but the urgency in the men transferring him from the ambulance gurney to the metal table had to mean that he was still alive. They wouldn’t be so rushed if he was already dead, right?

Thor stayed at my side as we followed the duo of doctors rolling the gurney inside and down a series of hallways into the infirmary. When we tried to go into the room that they wheeled him into, Tony, Steve, and Nat both pulled us back from the shut doors before stationing themselves in the way.

“Nat, move. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will,” I growled out, head lowered and feet spread apart so I could retain my balance as I faced off against her. The powerful stance shot fire through my injured leg, but I wasn’t about to back down because of a bit of pain when it came to Loki.

Thor took a similar pose next to me. Bloodied and covered in dirt, he was even more imposing than usual, the grime giving credence to his ability to handle himself in a fight. “There is ample space in that room for us.”

Tony, still in his suit but sans helmet, crossed his arms over his chest and pinned me down with a warning glare. “If you and Thor go in there, they won’t be able to get any work done. They need space, but they also need peace and calm to be able to focus. Do you look calm right now, kid?”

With my fists clenched at my sides, tattered dress covered in multiple people’s blood, and desperation shining in my eyes, I knew that I was anything but a steady presence. I couldn’t live with myself I was a distraction to them and that caused Loki more harm. Thor and I hazarded a quick look at each other, and the tension blew out of him with his heavy sigh that puffed out his cheeks.

“We will remain right here,” he vowed with a nod of his head. He dropped down into a metal chair that groaned beneath his weight and tilted his head back against the wall to close his eye.

“You need medical attention.”

Steve’s gruff voice brought my attention back to the slowly bleeding wounds beneath the tourniquets on my arm and thigh, the blistered burn on the palm of my left hand, and the untold number of cuts and scrapes dotting my body that my thin dress had done little to protect against. I sank heavily into the chair next to Thor and my head fell to my chest with a tired sigh. Thor’s large hand lay open on his knee, and I placed my much smaller palm over his and laced our fingers together. His hand overwhelmed mine with its size and warmth, and I drank in the strength it offered like a drug. Somehow, during this ordeal, my doubt of his intentions surrounding me had vanished away.

Maybe that’s what happened when two people are faced with the possibility of losing the most important person in their lives.

Steve stayed posted in front of the doors. He, too, looked fearsome in his dirtied Captain America suit, his blue eyes piercing as he watched Thor and I wait anxiously for any news from the doctors inside. Nat returned some time later, showered and fixed up with a bandage wrapped around her forearm. She kicked two chairs in front of me, plopping down on one and scattering a selection of bandages, gauzes, cleaning solutions, and other medical tools onto the other.

“Pain meds?” she asked, face blank excluding one raised brow as she held out the syringe and the bottle of morphine to me. It was considerate of her to ask, to show me the tools so that I could see what she was doing and know without a doubt what was in the syringe.

I nodded my consent with one caveat, “Just enough to take the edge off.” There was a bullet in my thigh, and I didn’t want to pass out like I had in the past. I needed to be awake for when they finished with him.

She pulled a small amount of morphine into the chamber and plunged the needle into my leg. The cold fluid automatically took me back to a cold, dark room filled with electricity and painful consequences. I shoved the mental image away with a shake of my head. Nothing was going to pull my focus from the present moment, not even that.

But as Nat began to work at stitching up the wounds, a combination of fatigue, drugs, and worry pulled at me until it felt like I was disconnected from my body, watching instead of feeling as she furthered the tears along the sides of my dress so she could move the fabric to get at my thigh. Expertly, she pried the bullet from my thigh and stitched up the wound left behind. It was easier to just tear away the lace sleeve of my dress for her to have enough room to stitch up the graze on my bicep. My blistered hand was left to the open air after it was smothered in burn cream.

Thor turned down any medical attention, but it didn’t look like he had any serious damage that would need any extra help.

The chair was covered in bloody rags and plastic wrappers by the time she finished tending to me. I could only meet her eyes and nod in silent gratitude before she left; I couldn’t think of anything to say. My brain was still firmly focused on Loki, unconscious and bleeding and alive, just on the other side of the wall at my back.

What I wouldn’t give to have our situations reversed, to take his pain away and shoulder it for him instead. Without that as a real possibility, my fears swirled into more terrible thoughts by the second. Would I feel the cool caress of his calloused fingertips on my skin again? Would I ever see the warm, sleepy smile that he had just for me when we woke in the mornings? I couldn’t believe that I wouldn’t hear the pleasing velvet of his voice sounding out my name again. It wasn’t possible. I would track down whoever I needed to drag his soul out of Valhalla if it came to that.

I clung masochistically to the fiery twinge that broke through the grips of the pain medication as I limped back and forth in front of the doors. My repetitive steps pulled on the stitches of my thigh, but I relished the discomfort. It kept me awake, and awake meant alive. I chewed on my bottom lip as I finally came to a stop against the opposite wall.

It had been too long. What had gone wrong? Surely by now they’d be finished with him. There had been too much damage. They didn’t want him to live because of his past and they were just letting him bleed out instead. They were killing him.

Just as I was about to barge into the room, permission be damned, the same man who had taken Loki opened the metal doors that had quickly become my obsession. His white coat and scrubs were dark red with the Loki’s blood; the table he pulled behind him also told the tale of the gory scene we had been denied access to. I pushed passed him and the doctor behind him to burst into the room, seeking out Loki.

My heart lodged itself firmly in my throat as I watched him, waiting for his bare chest to rise with his breath. My knees threatened to buckle with relief when I got my wish. Even shallow, it was there, and that was enough. I couldn’t bridge the distance between us, though, suddenly afraid to touch him. I hadn’t expected him to look so fragile.

The doctor’s tired voice came from over my shoulder. “His skin is so tough that he kept dulling the needles. It took a bit longer than we’d have liked, but we managed to stitch him up. We couldn’t give him any blood, but he does have a saline drip going. The rest is up to him.”

Thor barrelled around us and pulled two chairs up to the bed, one on either side. He plopped down onto the chair at Loki’s left, staring at his brother’s sleeping face. Seeing Thor so close reignited my own need to be with Loki, overpowering my odd fear of hurting him with just a touch, and it wasn’t even a second later before I fell into the open chair at his right.

This close, he looked both so much worse and so much better than I had anticipated. My uninjured hand came on top of his of its own accord. I had to remind myself that he was a Frost Giant, that he was always cold, and it wasn’t because he was dying. The crease between his eyebrows had smoothed out, and if it weren’t for the sterile setting and bandages I could see around his middle, he could have been in our bed, sleeping peacefully.

But there were dark shadows beneath his eyes, and his breathing wasn’t as deep as that of sleep. I had to be mindful of the IV coming out of his wrist as I skated my hand up the length of his arm, stroking the soft skin reverently. My eyes followed the slow movements of my hand, almost hypnotized by the repetitive pattern and speed.

“Will he survive this?” I breathed, afraid of the answer but I needed to voice the question plaguing my mind.

“Were we on Asgard, he would handily. But it is no more, and I do not possess the tools necessary to aid him in his healing,” he said quietly, his rich voice full of despair. “But, my brother is strong. If anyone can survive such an injury, it is he.”

“I’m sorry that you lost Asgard. I can’t imagine how I’d handle it if Earth just…” I searched for the right word, sucking my bottom lip in between my teeth. After a few quiet moments, I gave up. I lifted Loki’s limp hand to my lips and just held it there, memorizing the feeling of his skin against mine--a sensation I would never take for granted again. My tired eyes drifted up to his colorless face. “He’s so pale.”

Thor’s chair groaned as he shifted his weight to rest his forearms on the bed. “I was concerned he would look differently.”

“Hmm?” The curious sound vibrated my lips against his hand, tickling the sensitive, chapped skin.

Thor’s gaze flitted between Loki and me quickly before settling on his hands as he rubbed them together anxiously. “Oh, I was simply expecting him to look…”

I narrowed my eyes and lowered our joined hands from my mouth back to the soft sheets beneath him. “Like a Frost Giant.”

He straightened from his slouched position. “He spoke of his true heritage to you?”

“Of course,” I replied indignantly.

“And you still love him?”

A muscle fluttered in my cheek from my clenched jaw. I tightened my fingers into the stiff, blood-stained fabric over my knee. “Of course I do. He’s the man I love. Not a creature, not a god, not Æsir of Jötunn. He’s just Loki.”

“But surely you know of the Frost Giants. How-”

I cut off what was surely going to some horrible judgment before it could begin, bristling at his inference that I wouldn’t love him because of such a stupid reason. My blood boiled and my powers rushed through my veins. I worked to speak in as much of a measured tone as I could. “He is your brother. He is Odin and Frigga’s son, although I’d rather that Odin hadn’t been part of the picture at all, to be honest.”

“Do not speak of Odin in that manner.” It was a threat, delivered with a low rumbling voice that had never been directed at me before. Anger tightened the lines around his eyes and throbbed in the visible veins of his neck.

I refused to back down. I rose to my feet instead, ignoring the trembling of my legs against the foolish demonstrative stance. I wasn’t afraid of him, even if he could easily wipe me off the face of the Earth. Loki was too important for me to be afraid. “To you, he may have been a great leader, a great father, but take a look at it through his eyes.” I ticked off each point on my fingers as I made them, “Stolen as a baby to be used for political gain, told his entire life that his true self was a monster to be despised, lied to about his identity, locked away for what was meant to be an eternity, cast aside and ostracized by basically everybody but your mother, belittled when he wasn’t ignored, shouted at and demeaned in public. He fought tooth and nail for acceptance and love and to get out of the shadow of his family and it was never freely given.”

I combed a trembling hand through my disgusting hair, having to pull it out halfway through because it was so tangled. “He has every right and reason to be the way he is, to not trust anyone, to act in his own interests. Just as you are the way you are, so is he.”

He crossed his massive arms over his burly chest as he leaned back in the chair, head tilted to the side and lips pursed into a thin line. It was a pose very similar to one Loki frequented, but I’d never tell him that. “And how am I?”

Maybe I shouldn’t have opened this can of worms, but it was too late to take it back. I leaned into my judgemental anger. “Quick to action, sometimes without thinking it through. A little more motivated to fight your way out of situations than think them through. More confident, loud, outgoing. You were raised to be King of Asgard, and you act like it. Like you know your place in the world and take it for granted. You know the effect you have on people, making them trust you, and in some cases, become attracted to you. You revel in it. Because you have never had to doubt your place in the world, except for when your father banished you. But that was only temporary. You never questioned the love that Odin or Frigga had for you, not really. You always trusted that what you did was right.”

I braced myself against the bed, arms straight as I leaned forward over Loki to pin him down with the full intensity of my barely-contained fury and disappointment. “But you aren’t always right, just as he isn’t, just as I’m sure as hell not. Shit like what you did to him on Sakaar? That’s not okay. He could’ve died, been killed actually, and you just left him there, helpless. I know that he’s betrayed you, but so have you to him, every time you let your glorious four talk down to him, the entire time you allowed him to be locked up in those dungeons without even visiting him, when you ignored the obvious signs that he wasn’t okay, when you refused time and time again to even try to see his side of things.”

A cruel, low laugh devoid of humor escaped from somewhere deep within me. “He tries so. damn. hard. He carries around all this crap that Odin dumped on him, the trauma of being tortured for a year after he tried to commit suicide, and I-”

I stopped my own rant, lowering my head to stare down at Loki’s handsome face, forcing myself to take deep, calming breaths. He wouldn’t want me to lean into Thor like this, even after all they’ve done to each other. My hand skirted up his side, over his ribs, to come to rest on his chest. His heart thudded out, strong and steady, no faster or slower than it was when he normally slept. It brought me more peace than I thought it would. “He can’t acknowledge any of it. He tells me these stories of Asgard when he thinks that I’m asleep, or near enough to it that I won’t remember. But I do, because it’s heartbreaking and it obviously hurts him and I can’t… I can’t fix it. I can’t do it on my own; I don’t have enough time. I know that you’ve talked to him about my dying, about how short my life is compared to yours, and-” I swallowed around the lump forming in my throat, “he’s going to need someone there for him when it happens. I’d feel a lot better if you at least tried to be there for him, to help him and listen to him, after I’m gone. He can’t go it alone, even though he thinks otherwise. He loves you. I know he doesn’t really show it, but he does. He just wants to be your brother.”

Thor watched me silently for some time. I didn’t dare look up to him to see what effect my unplanned speech had on him. So it took me by surprise when Thor rose from his chair, swiftly closed the short distance between us, and enclosed me in the warmth of his embrace. I stiffened at first, unused to such affection from him after so many months of pushing him away, but when he didn’t let up, my body slowly relaxed. My hands even reached out to pat him on his broad, muscled back. He tightened his arms quickly before standing back to hold me at arm’s length so he could look down at me.

“Loki is most fortunate to have earned a love so complete from one so strong,” he stated quietly, a warm smile settling comfortably onto his tanned face. It fit better than the worry and anger he’d worn lately.

“Thor, Brunnhilde has called your phone several times. She says it’s urgent,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. said, her voice breaking through the platonic intimacy of the moment.

Thor darted his gaze back and forth between me to his brother, the need to stay by his side while also answering the call from his Valkyrie clearly dueling in his mind.

“I’m not leaving him,” I vowed, reaching my hand up to squeeze his hand reassuringly before stepping away to press my bottom against the edge of the raised bed.

He groaned in exasperation as he backed away towards the doors. “You will alert me if anything changes?”

“Promise,” I promised with a steadfast nod, brows lowered and jaw set. “Thor?”

He stopped his retreat at my soft call.

“I don’t love you like I do Loki, but I could see myself becoming your annoying little sister who doesn’t let you get away with acting like an idiot. So be careful out there, okay?” I offered him the kind words with a good-natured shooing motion with my hands.

“I am entrusting you with his care and protection while I am absent.”

And then he was gone and I was left alone with my slumbering god.

Time passed differently in that brightly lit hospital room. It was measured in the shallow breaths that lifted his chest, the slow drying and cracking of sweat and blood on my skin, the fatigue that weighed down my eyelids and the gradual lightening of the world through the window as the sun rose for the new day. At some point in the night F.R.I.D.A.Y. let me know that Thor had to go to New Asgard to settle some dispute, but I hadn’t cared to look at the clock to check the time.

The sun had fully risen by the time Nat walked into the room, face serious and arms crossed over her stomach. She jerked her head towards the doors she had just passed through. “Go take a shower. I’ll take a shift.”

I shook my head stubbornly. The very thought of leaving him made my heart race in my chest. I lifted my weary, red-rimmed eyes to hers. “I can’t leave him.”

She plopped down in the chair Thor had been in earlier and pulled out her phone. “It’ll freak him out to see you like this when he wakes up. Go get cleaned up and at least grab a granola bar or something. If he finds out that you haven’t been taking care of yourself while he’s taking a snooze, you’ll never hear the end of it. And then I’ll never hear the end of it from you. So, go; I’ll watch Sleeping Beauty.”

I could kiss her for saying ‘when’ and not ‘if’. I hadn’t entertained the thought that he may not wake up since my talk with Thor, but the ball of dread in my stomach had lingered there just the same. He would be pretty upset if he woke up to see me covered in blood and dirt, and probably a little disgusted. She knew just the buttons to push to get me moving. Damn it.

“Have F.R.I.D.A.Y. let me know if anything changes, please.”

She didn’t look up from her phone as she nodded and grunted, “Sure thing.” I gratefully squeezed her shoulder on my way out, my legs tingling from sitting in one position at his side for so long.

I had to admit that it felt heavenly to stand beneath the pounding showerhead and watch the water swirling at my feet slowly change from rusty brown to clear. Even the sting of the scalding water on my healing cuts and scrapes was welcome as it battled against the drowsiness that urged me to just lay down on the shower floor and take a quick nap.

After the shower, I moved about on autopilot. It was the safest option to get me through what I needed to do and back up to his room. I threw on a pair of sweatpants and a matching hoodie that I stole from Loki’s side of the closet. They smelled like him and were luxuriously soft against my ravaged body. My hair was left to air-dry into a frizzy, wavy mess. Only the desire to watch over Loki was enough to keep me from crawling into the welcoming mussed bed. I snagged a bottled coffee that Nat liked to have around and a protein bar before heading back to the infirmary, waving them at Nat to prove that I was following orders.

“Any changes?” I asked, sinking down into my previously vacated chair and stuffing a bite of the bland bar into my mouth. Cookies and cream, my ass.

“None. How are you doing?” she asked, pocketing her phone and directing her pointed gaze at my leg. “Ruining my handiwork, I see.”

“Hm?” Oops. Small spots of blood seeped through the light fabric of my pants. “Well, I guess I ripped a stitch or two coming down here. But it doesn’t hurt too bad.”

It wasn’t a lie. General unease, anxiety, and dread had blanketed my body, only adding to the throbbing ache of my actual injuries scattered over me. I was just one big wound, and pushing it to the back of my mind was the only way that I could cope with it.

I called it compartmentalizing, and Nat called it: “Avoiding the issue again?”

I wolfed down the last of the bland bar, tossing the crumpled wrapper into a trash can by his bedside. “I’ll heal up. I’m not taking more morphine. It makes me sleepy.” I pressed, cutting my eyes to her before surveying Loki for any changes. “I need to check his bandages.”

She stood up in my peripheral vision and then began roaming around as I lifted myself out of the chair to perch on the side of his bed by his hips. Nat wheeled a tray covered with medical supplies in front of me. I looked up and found her watching me with sadness softening her eyes and a frown on her face.

“If you need anything, you know where to find me, okay? Drink some water with that coffee,” she commanded, patting the table of supplies twice before leaving the room.

Alone with Loki, it was too quiet. The only sound in the sterile space came from me as I bustled about getting everything laid out to my liking. In my quick check of the room, as my hands worked at opening packages of sterile bandages, I noticed that he had a new bag of saline solution hooked up to him; Nat must have changed it. That was kind of her and somewhat unexpected. I didn’t know how she felt about him, but she had pushed us together, so she couldn’t think too terribly of him, right? No matter what happened, I was indebted to her for playing matchmaker. It was a debt I’d gladly pay, hopefully over many years with Loki grumbling at my side.

I pulled down the thin blanket covering him to get at the bandages wrapped around his middle. The blood that had seeped through the layers of gauze was dried and dark, hopefully signaling that he was already beginning to heal. Thanks to the remote attached to the bed I was able to leverage him into an upright position, but it would still take some maneuvering to get him situated so I could get my arms behind his back to rewrap the bandages.

I thought the silence might drive me mad, my mind begged for distraction, so I decided to talk to him. Maybe he could hear me and it would help? It certainly helped me, and he wasn’t awake to complain about it.

“You sure are heavy for a thinner guy.” I shifted his shoulder over a pillow with a quiet grunt. “I mean, you do have muscles, I’m very aware of how ripped you are,” a blush bloomed on my pallid cheeks, “but still. This is probably going to hurt, so I guess I’m glad that you’re asleep for this part,” I rattled on, tossing the old bandages that I had carefully cut off of him away.

The white square of gauze covering his stab wound was caked with dried blood, and I winced sympathetically as I slowly pulled it from his skin, knowing that it was tugging on the wound as well. Sure enough, after I had fully gotten it off, a small amount of blood pooled on the edge of the stitches. I took a second to admire the handiwork of the doctor as I dabbed at it gently with gauze covered in antiseptic solution. For having to change needles several times, it was good work. Clean stitches neatly spaced apart, which, if they left a scar, wouldn’t mar his skin too terribly.

“You did this for me before. That was the first time you showed that you weren’t some heartless asshole like I had thought you were. I never thought our roles would be reversed. You're a god who can’t even be pierced by bullets, and a knife from some guy catching you by surprise is what does you in?” I liberally applied some antibiotic ointment over and around the tear in his skin. “When I was in this same situation you told me that I wasn’t allowed to die. Well,” I swallowed the thick tears that strangled my voice, “I didn’t give you permission either. I know that you’re more of an ‘ask forgiveness rather than permission’ kinda guy, except without asking for forgiveness, but I’m gonna need you to follow the rules just this once. Okay?” I attached fresh gauze to his taut stomach with a strip of medical tape before I wound new bandages around his lean torso to help secure and protect my work. “I think I overheard Tony saying in that car that he thinks that was the last of Hydra. So now that we don’t have to worry about that anymore, you need to get out of this bed and take me on a proper date that doesn’t end in people dying. How weird would that be?”

Once I was finished, my fingers caressed the smooth skin peeking out from the top of the bandages gently. The muscles, even in his sleep, rippled beneath my loving touch. I carefully pulled away the extra pillows that I had used to prop him up and piled them at the foot of his bed. It was impossible to resist pushing a stray hair off his forehead and my hand naturally fell to cup his chiseled jaw afterward.

“Come back to me, okay? Please,” I whispered, unable to speak any louder for fear that I would give in to the tears that glittered in my hazel eyes. Crying wouldn’t make him wake up and it’d just give me a headache.

Even though he was a Frost Giant and probably didn’t even get cold, I still pulled the sheet up over his naked torso, tucking it around his shoulders. My aching body protested my twisted position on the edge of his bed, so I settled back down into the cushioned chair I had claimed earlier. An audible sigh of relief rushed out of me. I leaned forward, crossed my arms over themselves and rested them against the outside of his thigh. I would watch him for any changes from this position. I should really sit up and drink the bottled coffee that sat on the floor next to my chair, but that required too much movement. Besides, I wasn’t going to fall asleep this way; it was just more comfortable. That was my last thought before my eyelids fluttered closed and I dozed off.

~~~

Something startled me and I woke up with a gasp, lifting my forehead from where it had fallen onto his upper thigh. I grumbled incoherently, arching my back and stretching my arms over my head as my body made it known that sleeping in such an odd position for so long was not the best idea I’d ever had. Someone had turned off the overhead lights in the room at some point, leaving the room illuminated only by the fading sunlight and a small bedside lamp. I looked around the room with bleary eyes. A glass of ice water and a grilled cheese sat on the table beside me that had previously held medical supplies. When I reached out to grab the sandwich it was still warm. That must have been what woke me up.

“You’re welcome,” Tony commented sarcastically.

I didn’t bother to turn my head to address him. I was wiped, mentally and physically, and even that task seemed too arduous. He could come around the bed if he wanted to talk face to face. I took a bite and suppressed a pleased moan over the simple sandwich. I hadn’t eaten in way too long. I visually inspected Loki for changes as I chewed.

Did he have more color to his cheeks than he had earlier? It was hard to tell after staring at him for so long. His breathing had deepened, though, which I took as a sign that he was in less pain. His measured breaths more closely resembled those of the deep sleep that I listened to in the wee hours of the morning. Surely if he was getting worse, it'd be more obvious, right? Tony’s shoes clicked on the floor as he strolled around to stand across from me on the other side of Loki’s bed. He shoved his hands into his pockets with a sigh. “How’re you both doing?”

“Splendid,” I replied with a too wide, too-bright smile.

His dark eyes rolled in his head before settling back on me, his brows raised above them.

Apparently my satire wasn’t appreciated. Got it.

I scrubbed my hand over the back of my neck. “He seems to be breathing easier, so that’s good. I,” I stretched my arms behind my back, wincing at the pull of the stitches as they got caught in the fabric of my stolen sweatshirt, “I’ll be fine. Nothing a few grilled cheeses and naps can’t fix.”

He nodded and his jaw ticked as he shifted on his feet. “Good, well, then I need you to look at-”

“Tony, if you’re here to tell me that last night with that bastard from Hydra was uncalled for, that the press is having a field day, that we’re supposed to be the good guys, save it. I’m not apologizing and I’m not dealing with it today,” I cut him off brusquely. It was very rude of me, but I didn’t have the fucks in me left to give. Those were reserved for Loki.

He shook his head just a bit at my retort, blinking at the abruptness of it, before clearing his throat and heading toward the door. “Okay then, Poison Ivy. I’ll save it for tomorrow. Drink that water.”

I turned my head to look at him curiously over my shoulder when he called my name.

“I covered for you both, to the press and SHIELD, about that asshole from Hydra. No worries.”

He shot me a kind smile before ducking his head and leaving the room.

I had forgotten all about killing Malfoy after Loki beat him within an inch of his life. He would’ve killed him if I hadn’t gotten there to finish the job. All of the moisture left my mouth.

I had thought that killing him would make me feel better, vindicated and free. But instead, I just felt numb and empty. I had never killed in cold blood before. True, he had deserved death and so much more, but I hadn’t ever made the conscious decision to end someone’s life. I had always acted in self-defense.

Excluding last night. A wave of fierce cold anger had settled over me after Loki had been injured. I didn’t even recognize myself as I looked back at the memory. I had ended the lives of all of those men without blinking an eye. They were trying to kill my friends and kidnap me, but in the past I would have felt at least a bit of remorse or shock at what I’d done. Guilty, maybe.

I’d do it again in a heartbeat for what they did to Loki.

What kind of monster did that make me?

[tenderdnp]

we’re already each other’s, yet you aren’t mine

beta: @star-crossed-phan​

artist: @just-another-phanfic​ + a pt. ii of her art is here!

word count: 26.2k

rating: PG-13; genres are romance, fluff, and angst

warnings: mild language, homophobia (internal and external), mild homophobic slurs, alcohol, hints at sexual intimacy

summary: in a time where tattoos bloom upon the skin out of nowhere - dan is a boy who paints watercolor roses in his backyard and has a single hidden marigold behind his ear, all while phil, who has tattoos of daisies around his ankles + shoulders, writes poetry on the front porch next door. (a high school, art student au)

author’s note: aaaa my first pbb fic!! :’)) thank you so much to kayla for betaing this! you are so sweet, and we talked more than just about editing which was so lovely. bless you for sticking with me even though the word count went from what was supposed to be 5k straight to 25k; you’re a real one! and thank you to kat for being a great pinch hitter artist, your moodboards make my heart go !!!!!

and a p.s. —  this fic was inspired by @demonphannie​’s post and @audaw​’s art. ty for existing

moodboard by @just-another-phanfic

. . .

For centuries, humanity has held art to the highest of esteems. Early neanderthals began it all with their coarse hands, withdrawing the dirt from the earth below their feet to leave marks upon rugged stone walls, the ones that would convey the beginnings of history. In the millenniums that followed, an elitism has formed around the most talented ones who have managed to make a name for themselves. The names of these creators are commonplace in many households amongst the nations; buildings are erected with the mere purpose of showcasing such artistic creation.

Perhaps it is for that reason that the phenomenon in which ink would envelop one’s skin was thus regarded as a wonder, rather than as an alarming fright.

Despite seeming harmless, precaution took place of course: scientists all over the globe have dedicated themselves to research the peculiar tattoos. Theories ranging from genetic mutations related to the brain’s creative processes to shifts in the earth’s overall physical environment resulting in a strange seismic change have arisen, but nothing about their origins have been confirmed as of yet. For that matter, nothing has been confirmed as to how exactly they appear either.

<<>>

It’s the sound of lips on skin and lips on lips that makes his shoulders tense and his hair stand on end. He can’t ignore them, they’re only three lockers down after all, and his peripheral vision just happens to be especially keen. Dan Howell has the new girl -new as in she had literally transferred into their art school several days ago- pinned against the locker’s cold metal, his lips pressing against hers again and again. It isn't a shock, really. She is likely his latest rendezvous, i.e. the new girl in both the real and alternative sense.

The probable truth of that fact makes his gut twist.

His thoughts are confirmed by gossipers in the hallway, their ringing giggles unintentionally piquing his interest. Their conversation automatically separating from the bustle of bodies and hallway sound, he listens in on their eager chatter.

“Did you hear who it was this time?”

Her friend squeals —was that necessary?— in response. “No I haven't! Who?!”

“It was Erin—”

“Erin? The new girl who came in and started here last week?”

“Yes! Well, she came in a totally different way last night,” he could hear a smirk and a wink in her voice. The if you know what i mean was a little more than heavily implied, making him internally cringe. “Everybody’s saying that they just locked eyes across Chris’ living room and like, totally fell in love. Or lust. You know how it is.”

“Of course,” the friend laughs knowingly, “Not a single girl has ever lasted too long.”

From there, as the conversation topic shifted, his attention followed. Suddenly irritated, he shuts his locker with a slam, not loud enough to gain the passerbys’ attention, but enough to snap Dan and Erin (she has a name now) out of it. By the time he turns around, Erin shoots a mildly peeved glance his way. Familiar words of it's always cloudy except for, when you look into the past, one night… flow from his worn earbuds to hit his eardrums as he makes his way to class, clearing his mind and relaxing his annoyance.

He shakes his head to himself, and puts a little smile on his face. It happens all the time, so he shouldn’t be bothered. Today is gonna be a good day.

He can feel it.

<<>>

As per usual, he is the first one in the classroom. It is a basic english class, because despite being at the art school for written work and thus having several writing and literary classes under his belt, he is still required to take a “basic” class for the english language.

His efforts to convince the principal to change his situation (that other students have voiced to have as well) otherwise was, needless to say, futile.

The class bores him a bit, but it’s not like he can do anything about it. More often than not, he keeps to himself and simply chooses to not actively participate in class. Besides, being one of the teacher’s favorites due to having a particularly advanced grasp of the material is not necessarily the worst thing in the world (plus it gives him time to write rather than pay attention).

Several minutes pass before Dan enters the classroom. As per usual he is the last to enter, with Erin in tow. Her blonde curls are even more all over the place than they usually are and his typically perfectly straightened hair is a little less than perfect; to add even more to that, their clothes are crinkled, leaving little to nothing to the imagination as to what their shenanigans were. The teacher makes no comment but a slight disappointed exhale and a passing gesture of the hand for them to take their seats before he opens up the class for the lesson.

“Now for the past two weeks we have been talking about poetry…” Mr. Lamansi begins, clapping his hands together. “And for today in particular, we will be focusing on Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road.”

The class proceeds by his calling on various students in a random fashion to take turns with reading stanzas, his choice sometimes falling on the ones with their hands raised and other times upon those who were purposefully remaining quiet and avoiding eye contact. Phil allows himself to take advantage of this time to freewrite, allowing his pen and mind to wander.

brown is all sorts of golden in the sense it gives...

“Phil? Could you read these few lines for us?”

At the teacher’s interruption, Phil looks up and nods, proceeding to put down his pen and stand up from his seat as every other student had. His hands hold his textbook as he prepares himself to speak, but the moment he opens his mouth, Mr. Lamansi stops him.

“Actually Phil,” Mr. Lamansi begins, “Can you come up and read in front of the class? This is one of my favorite parts.”

Phil bites his lip. “Y-yeah. That's fine.”

Everyone’s focus is on him as he strides towards where the teacher directed him to go. He’s not a fan of this kind of thing you know, being the center of unwanted attention that is, and each stare only seems to be encouraging the swirls that are slowly appearing on his lower back. Once he reaches his spot in the front, each set of seemingly judgemental eyes causes buttercups to rapidly pop up on a concentrated spot on the inside of his wrists, mapping the places where he feels anxiety and unease.

An awkward cough to clear his throat and break the stillness of the room comes first. Then, he begins.

And it's captivating.

“The earth expanding right hand and left hand, The picture alive, every part in its best light, The music falling in where it is wanted, and stopping where it is not wanted, The cheerful voice of the public road—the gay fresh sentiment of the road. O highway I travel! O public road! do you say to me, Do not leave me? Do you say, Venture not? If you leave me, you are lost? Do you say, I am already prepared—I am well-beaten and undenied—adhere to me? O public road! I say back, I am not afraid to leave you—yet I love you; You express me better than I can express myself; You shall be more to me than my poem.”

His voice pulls at the heartstrings of everyone watching him, or at the very least, grabs their gaze so that they don't look away. Other students were bored and monotone in vocal delivery, but his take on it is deep and rich. It's lovely, and all the students (okay, except maybe a select few, but you can't win them all) are listening. Breathtaking is definitely the right word to describe it, for the full classroom of rowdy adolescents are nearly completely silent.

Unbeknownst to him, when he's finished, Dan’s lips are parted oh so slightly in a sort of soft awe.

As Phil sits back in his seat, his face burns red, a murmur of applause going through the room. His teacher praises and thanks him, but he pays it no mind. His eyes shift down at his desk as he brainstorms and works on a poem for the rest of the period, until the bell eventually rings.

Now mind you, Philip Lester was usually very observant. His eyes were open, all the time— as a poet he had to take inspiration from every facet of the world around him. However, perhaps if his mind didn't force itself to replay the most anxious of moments, and he wasn't so distracted by his writing, Phil would have caught how peculiar it was for a certain Dan Howell to throw a fleeting gaze at him just before leaving the room.

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age four.

Life was pretty nice when one’s age was still a single digit number.

While his mother was cooking, Phil was sat in the chair at the dining table. Legs swinging in the air because he was far too short to reach the floor, with a face of curiosity he pointed a small finger at what was on her bicep.

“Mum, why does your skin have different colors there?”

She briefly stopped her stirring upon the stove, her eyebrows scrunching in confusion a little before she saw what he was pointing at and laughed in understanding. “This?” she clarified while she smiled, pointing at the tattoo of a concert ticket that lay on her upper arm.

“Yeah!” young Phil exclaimed, nodding eagerly. “And Daddy has one too!”

His mother hummed in agreement and continued to make supper. “Indeed he does,” she laughed, “And that's on purpose you know. The first time I met him was at a concert.” Her voice became wistful as she continued, “I was sold a counterfeit ticket and because of that was absolutely devastated, with tears in my eyes and all, and was on the way to being sent home. On my way out, I had bumped shoulders with your father. We were completely knocked down to the floor! And then…” Her hand stopped once more as her words trailed off.

“And then he noticed my eyes and asked me what's wrong. Once he heard about what had happened, he told me that his friend became sick and that he had a free ticket. Only if I wanted it of course. I accepted it, we ended up having a great time, kept contact, and eventually started dating. I got one half of a concert ticket on my left arm, and your father had a concert ticket on his right.”

“Wow! Now you two are matching, right mum?”

“Yep! They say that nothing’s been proven but if anything,” she turned towards her son and made a pointing gesture to emphasize her words. “This appeared out of love, I’ll tell you that.”

“Love?”

“Yeah, love.”

Phil’s cheeks beam with a smile. “Love sounds so nice.”

As she sets a bowl of Phil’s favorite soup in front of him, an easy reply comes as a response. “Oh it is, dear. It really is.”

<<>>

“Just milk and a bag of crisps? Again?”

Phil places his tray down with a playful eyeroll. “Peej, you know it's because I’m not hungry.” He sits down next to his best friend, unzipping his backpack to take out his phone and aimlessly scroll while they’re chatting.

With his mouth still full, PJ says pointedly, “Yeah sure.” He swallows his food. “I’m just worried sometimes, you know.”

“I know,” Phil laughs, “And I appreciate it.”

PJ does a cheeky little grin and wave with a jokingly bashful, “Aw you’re making blush and all Philip, but let’s cut the sap.” He takes another bite of his lunch. “So how are you? How’s your day been so far?”

“Ugh,” Phil groans. He stuffs his face with practically six crisps at once, annoyed. He had nearly forgotten about how his day started, and now PJ had reminded him. He chews rapidly before he swallows so that he may continue talking.

“Dan was making out with some girl this morning at the lockers… It was obnoxious. Annoying as hell.”

PJ just smirks. His body leans in closely, accompanied by a wiggle of his eyebrows and reply in a teasing tone, “Are you sure annoyed is how you’re really feelin’ Philly? No jealousy because of ‘ol pretty boy—”

“How are things going with that film project?” Phil quickly interjects PJ’s sentence with his cheeks suddenly red, making PJ immediately drop both his smirk and the topic. Ooo ouch, how touchy.

“It’s good! It’s going. I hope to actually start the filming part soon.”

Pride for his friend swells in Phil’s chest. “That’s great!”

“Yeah I guess, but I’m stuck with the script. I’m really lacking inspiration,” PJ mutters, his eyes looking back down to his food.

“Oh, I totally get that,” Phil nods with a wave of his hand. “It’ll pass, don’t worry.”

The other laughs, immediately dismissing the comment. “Pff, yeah right! Coming from the guy who never stops writing ever.”

“Peeeej! Trust me, I’m serious! Okay listen—” Phil’s voice softening, almost as if he was revealing a big secret. “Sometimes you just need a break, you know? Or to look for inspiration in unlikely places. You have to have a muse.”

“Aw Philly, are you saying that you have a muse?” PJ smiles.

Before he can answer, Phil catches a glimpse of Dan walking to join his group of friends, and in doing so, Dan passes by he and PJ’s lunch table. Phil only lets his eyes linger for a moment more before he turns to look back at PJ, and gives him his response, letting out a low hum first. A cheeky hint of something is playing at the edges of his lips.

“I guess you could say that.”

<<>>

brown is all sorts of golden in the sense it gives as much warmth as a gentle sun    when it touches every bit of soil and soul of the earth a sign that even angels admire from afar, a bronzy glow of the ages - p.l.

<<>>

“Now creative writing has a key word: creative. And what does creative mean?” implores freshly graduated teacher Miss Caroline (who, at the beginning of the year, refused to be called Miss Alabang due to it apparently being “too formal”). A resounding lack of feedback comes from the class. Rolling her eyes in response, she shoots them all a you guys are useless look, accompanied by the typical seriously you could do better eyebrow raise.

Not many people are in this particular class, so theoretically, there should be more student engagement. But oh, on the contrary, it was not working out that way.

Throwing her hands up in the air with a passion, she exclaims, “It means to think outside of the box of course! Which is why there will be an interesting new project for the midterm. Never before done, never before seen by this institution.”

She begins to pace around the room, her voice rising and falling in a way that seems to soar over students’ heads and then capture their attention, while her gaze creates eye contact with each and every person to guarantee their engagement. “This project,” she says with a pause for dramatic effect, “will be a collaboration with the art students.”

“Exactly right.”

Art teacher Miss Land enters the scene. Her chin is raised with a sort of delicate poise and her hands are held behind her back, a contrasting yet pleasing juxtaposition that is a great complement to Miss Caroline’s own casual stance and posture. While Miss Caroline has a voice that projects itself as much as her eccentric presence, Miss Land’s is a bit more subdued in the sense that listeners had to concentrate more to hear her.

“The idea is to bridge together visual art and written art…”

“...essentially taking words and bringing them to life.”

“Both pieces must be able to both stand on their own, yet inspire one another. A mix of two mediums that are strong individually, yet when put together, fabricate something that reaches beyond what one could achieve as a solo piece,” Miss Land elaborates.

“Any questions?” asks Miss Caroline. The students helpfully provide her the deafening silence that fills the room in response.

Miss Land nods. “Good. My students, please don’t crowd around the door. Line up against the front, please.” She gestures to the front board, each art student awkwardly shuffling to their own spot, standing expectedly as the creative writing students sat and looked upon them with neutral expressions. Most are calm and collected except for a select few, who shift in their seats at the thought of working with unfamiliar people and a medium they didn't know. Among the art students is new girl Erin who couldn’t care less, and she has a hand on Dan’s arm while she whispers into his ear. He chuckles, and makes playful a face back at her as if saying, “Shh, we’ve got to listen now.”

Miss Land then glances at Miss Caroline, sharing an exchange of the eyes before coming to a silent understanding. From there, Miss Caroline addresses the group as a whole.

“So I’m going to randomly choose a student from my creative writing class, while she,” placing emphasis on the last word and looking pointedly at Miss Land, “will randomly choose an art student of her own. Okay? Sounds good. So first off: Eli Romano.”

“...Louise Pentland,” completes Miss Land.

“Andee Steiner with…”

“Erin Romer.”

“PJ Liguori.”

“Chris Kendall, you’re up.”

“Philip Lester…”

“...Dan Howell.”

As partnerships are created one by one, it is so interesting to see the reactions of each couple (couple used for the lack of a better term here, of course). For example, Eli, Andee, Louise, and many others seemed like the type to not mind whomever they were to be assigned to. Erin on the other hand? No one missed the huff she let out and the scrunch of her nose when she heard that she was not assigned to Dan. Chris Kendall stuck his tongue in his cheek with a smirk then let out a big grin when he sauntered over the PJ’s desk, while PJ himself held a soft smile.

In regards to Phil, he kept it together. If together meant his leg started bouncing at a great speed, that is. As long as no one looked below the desk, no one would notice. His fingers start picking at the ends of his sleeves. Buttercups were starting to appear.

And Dan was just an enigma. Nothing in the eyes, nothing in his stance, only a polite smile.

Once the partner assignments are completed, papers are handed out, and a direction is given for everyone to go with their respective other half of their duo, the art students disperse and fill the empty seats. Immediately, chatter begins to diffuse throughout the previously quiet room.

Squeaks come from the moving of chairs and desks, along with slight oomphs of backpacks being tossed down to the linoleum floor and pushed to the side in order to be out of the way. Phil bites his lip as Dan sits in the desk next to his own, and with every ounce of effort in his body he tries to make sure his voice is steady when he breaks the ice between them.

“So, I guess we have to exchange info right?”

“I guess,” Dan replies simply, scratching his neck awkwardly. “I don’t really know, but I guess there’s not really any other option. I mean, what else can we do.”

Not too far from them is PJ, who leans back in his chair and sends a questioning glance over to Phil, who then does a small shrug in reply. Turning back to Dan, he purses his lips a little before continuing. “Okay, so uh, my number is…” Phil lists the memorized numbers with ease, then repeats it once more. “You got that?”

Before Dan can even nod, the bell rings, and out of nowhere Erin grabs Dan’s hand right for the two of them to immediately bolt out the door.

<<>>

Dan is reading over the paper that the art teacher gave them earlier. He wants to start brainstorming, the concept of combining two different art forms seems really interesting… It would probably be best to discuss it with his partner, though.

His partner: Phil Lester. Dan knows him, he lives next door to him so how could he not, and they have gone to school together for a while now. Yet despite having known him all these years, he only knows of him. Dan has never spoken a word to Phil, to his knowledge.

Although he never paid mind to him before, when Phil read Song of the Open Road in his english class today, Dan admits that he was surprised. He never expected something like to come from him.

Dan takes out his cellphone, tapping the screen to reach the number that he put in earlier. Because Erin pulled him out before he could tell Phil his own digits, he is forced to be the one to text first. He types a quick message, and hits send. Better now than later.

from dan, to phil:

hey it’s dan. meeting in the library after school tmrw sound good?

He doesn’t expect a reply, but for some reason it’s like he’s waiting for one. When he thinks about it, Phil seems like someone he would want to get to know better. He seems interesting.

This project may actually be kinda fun.

A reply comes a minute or two later, and it’s like Dan has something caught in his throat when he rushes to see the message.

from phil, to dan:

Okkie dokes! :D

Aw. Dan can’t help but smile to himself. Heh, how cute.

<<>>

Phil ends up arriving first. In his defense, he spends most of the time in the library anyway, and extra time gives him the chance to pick the perfect spot: one with a lot of sunlight, and where not a lot of people are studying. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with wanting for today to go well, right?

Dan arrives about ten minutes following the school’s ending bell, and Phil doesn’t even notice him walking through the door. He’s got his head in his notebook, as usual.

“Bye, see you later,” bids Dan, giving Erin a quick kiss on the cheek. Although he begins to head off, he remains facing her, walking backwards, giving a little farewell salute and a quick wink to match.

Erin calls after him. “Goodbye baby, have fun with the project!” She accompanies it with a chippery wave back, and blows him a kiss right before orients his body forward so that he could see where he is going.

Phil looks up from his work, disturbed by the noise. Dan has spotted him, eyes lighting up in recognition, and he is starting to make his way to the table. When he gets there, it is a moment when first impressions are made.

For Phil, it’s like an up close confirmation of everything he has admired from afar. Everything is so lovely, and the way the sun hits Dan is so nice. His eyes aren’t just brown, they fit every descriptor that Phil has wrote with— caramel, golden, earthy, warm. Choosing this spot was the right choice.

As for Dan, he is taken aback by the scribbles of sentence fragments and various adjectives and lines that cover the pages of Phil’s notebook and Phil’s hands. They’re like stories that others want to read, but won’t understand, because Phil is the only one that can tell them.

He doesn’t know it yet, but he is one of the few willing to listen.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Dan grimaces, feeling guilty that he was the second to show despite being the one to set up the meeting in the first place. When he grabs the seat next to Phil to sit down, he misses the edge of the chair and the sound of his bum hitting the hardwood floor echoes through the library, making Phil laugh and Phil’s heart swell.

Embarrassing. Still grinning, Phil holds a hand out, helping him up. Dan lets out a laugh as well, Phil’s attitude spreading to him.

“Don’t worry about it Dan, I was willing to wait for you.”

<<>>

His car purrs as it rolls into the driveway upon his arrival home, having just come from hanging out with friends after school. Dan loves going out with them, but to be frank, it gets exhausting sometimes.

Right now, he kinda wants to take a nap.

A chirp comes from the car as he hits the buttons on his keys to lock up the thing, and the moment he unintentionally shoots a glance at the house next door happens to be the same moment that Phil looks up from his spot on the porch.

Phil looks down at his feet right when their gazes meet, before choosing to raise his head once more and give Dan a little wave. “Hey,” he mouths.

A moment of hesitance, then Dan smiles and takes a step forward. As if it’s an invitation, Dan walks over and sits next to Phil, joining him. The last time they had talked had been over text a day or two ago, and they have only met up once more since their initial meeting at the library. The steps creak a bit at their weight and their legs nearly touch, but not quite.

Slowly but surely, they are warming up to one another.

“So what are you working on? Are you working on our project?” Dan leans a little into Phil’s side to get a better look at Phil’s notebook, while remaining careful as to not be too invasive of his space. A writer’s notebook is like an artist’s sketchbook: a secluded place for the expression of thought. The cover is worn and the pages are messy, Phil’s writing ranging from neat print to rushed scrawls. Anyone could tell that that little notebook was the receiver of a lot of love. Dan’s heart skips a little at that thought; it always makes him happy when a creator is passionate about their own work.

“Yeah actually,” Phil replies, not looking up. He keeps writing as he completes his thought. “Just brainstorming about various ideas.”

“Is it okay if I stay here?”

Phil nods. “Yeah, I don’t mind.”

A few minutes pass of comfortable silence, and Dan even took out his own sketchbook from his backpack. He keeps making a few strokes then erasing, feeling the urge to do something as Phil is sitting beside him seemingly within an endless river of creative flow. He breaks the silence as he wonders in a whisper out loud, “You know, people always see you writing in that thing.” Dan then pauses, attempting to formulate his question before he voices it. “How do you… How do you constantly have something to write about?”

Phil is quiet, thinking before he comes up with a response. “It’s about being honest I think.”

“Honest?”

“Yep, honest.” Phil affirms. His pen stops writing for a second, and he makes a motion towards his body, looking forward rather than directly addressing Dan. “Let whatever is in you tell the story you know? They don’t have to be complete ideas, you just need to let them exist. Like how our tattoos appear on their own, but still tell our story to others, in a way.”

As Phil rambles on, without realising, Dan is sketching Phil’s profile. Glancing up to look at him while he speaks to give an occasional sign that he’s still listening, his wrists make little flicks and strokes across the page, while his hands are especially careful with shading. Dan spends quite a bit of time on Phil’s cheekbones, for he can’t seem to get it right.

He grins softly. Phil seems to be all angles and sharp edges, and it’s kind of enticing.

“...And most of all, with honesty, you know what is real.”

<<>>

“You know Phil, this is a bit clingy.”

“Clingy? May I remind that you were the one calling me at two in the morning for the past week and a half.”

“Pbbbt, but you said you didn’t mind!”

“Yeah, you’re right—”

“Damn straight I am.”

“But anyways, you didn’t call me tonight, and I was still awake, and now here we are.”

“I don’t need your excuses, Lester. So what do you wanna talk about? Because we’ve got all night.”

<<>>

According to Dan, working at a Starbucks coffee shop is ‘too corporate,’ and that is why they are at a local cafe now.

Chris and PJ are here as well. They’re doing a cute little “study group” thing, but instead of studying they are discussing their projects. It’s always good to have someone to bounce ideas off of, and brainstorming is better when one is able to hear feedback from other people.

They’re all casually chatting, as friends of friends all together.

What’s strange though, is this: Chris is being particularly touchy towards PJ. It was playful touches at first, to his arms and to his sides, but then all of a sudden he put his arm around PJ’s shoulders. PJ didn’t acknowledge it at all, but the expression on his face was one of someone who was definitely flustered.

Dan raises an eyebrow at Chris upon seeing this, the other only responding with an eyebrow raise back as if in a challenge of, what? Something wrong?

And as for Phil, his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth as he has a shit-eating grin, simply amused.

It becomes a source of small unacknowledged tension, but no one brings it up and they all continue their relaxed chatter. Each of them grab several pastries and a coffee each, scones and croissants and the like, “brain food” being the excuse for all of the sugar in their purchases. They then head towards a table by one of the cafe’s huge windows that overlook the London street.

PJ speaks up about their projects first. “So, what’s your guys’ idea?”

“We’re going for a kinda… like… nature-y? Is that the right word?” Phil looks at Dan, who just kinda shrugs. “Theme. Something with the forest, or the ocean… We don’t know for sure yet.”

Chris nods, and looks at Dan. “Colors?”

“Earth tones, I would guess,” Dan replies, taking a bite from his scone.

Chris hums in approval. “Some cooler undertones would work nicely with that, I think.”

“How about you guys?” asks Dan.

“Something with a whole lot of bold color. That’s kinda all we got.” PJ shrugs.

“We’re just rolling with it,” Chris barely manages to add, mouth full.

Phil points his question towards PJ. “And how’s the writing?”

“Well I haven't had too much time to really develop it, I've been working on stuff for the poetry slam…” PJ says sheepishly, momentarily preferring to watch himself stir his coffee over looking up.

“Spontaneity is the best kind of creativity!” Chris exclaims defensively, yet mostly excitedly, He lists descriptors as he counts them off on his fingers, voice all sass and eagerness, making everyone laugh. “It's gonna have a lot of color, it's gonna be bright, and it's gonna be cool as heck!”

“Poetry slam?” Dan inquires. “Our school has that, PJ?”

“Yep! It's open to all the students but mostly english students enter, I’ve been bothering Phil to join for ages—” When PJ moves his hand to point at Phil, the porcelain of his coffee mug hits the table and his drink  becomes a brown puddle of a mess out of nowhere. It had narrowly missed his crotch, and thank goodness, not a drop fell upon the notes of his that were scattered on the table in front of him.

Chris’ eyes widen, and he reacts quicker than all of them. “I’ve got this,” he assures PJ, immediately rushing off to grab napkins, but not before leaving PJ with a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Don’t worry, it’ll be fine!”

When Chris is out of earshot, Phil immediately gives PJ a look.

PJ’s face only gets redder, and he folds his hands in his lap. “Shut up he didn't mean anything by it…”  

But Phil is relentless, and he’s not buying PJ’s denial at all. He doesn’t stop giving his old friend that look that is all smiles and muffled laughs. Eventually, PJ breaks and bursts out with, “Okay, I admit it, he might’ve maybe asked me out yesterday…!” Phil smirks, and finally lets out the laugh he was holding in. “But to be honest I haven’t given him an answer yet.”

Throughout the past few moments of Phil and PJ’s exchange, Dan had remained silent, gaze bouncing between Phil’s knowing grin and PJ’s not-at-all-subtle blush. It is for that reason that when he makes a comment it catches them both off guard, even though it was more of an observation to himself, if anything. With his chin in his palm and his elbow resting on the table edge, Dan murmurs, “Huh, that's why Chris looks so happy. He's probably the happiest I've ever seen him.”

“Yeah,” says PJ after hesitating a little, addressing Dan’s words. He bites his lip, the corners of his mouth hinting at turning up as he admits the truth. “He makes me really happy too.”

“Happy enough to write about?” asks Phil with a smile, referring to their conversation from way back when. Dan sits, listening still.

PJ doesn’t look at Phil directly, but his hand unconsciously reaches up to his face to briefly touch where Chris has left a quick kiss earlier. If you looked closely, a little tattoo of a planet was beginning to fade into view.

“We’ll see.”

Chris finally returns, a wad of napkins in his grasp. Carefully he begins dabbing at the mess, nudging PJ’s papers aside so that they would be out of the way, all while PJ has a look that is entirely of affection all over him, as Chris pays no mind.

Very casually, PJ throws a question into the air. “So, what time and place?”

Chris crumples up the napkins, the coffee mess finally cleaned up, and heads towards the nearest bin. “For what?” he calls, throwing the trash away.

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten about our date already.”

Standing in place a couple feet away, Chris is frozen and his jaw goes slack, and PJ can’t help but giggle. Chris is simply beaming now. He rushes to the table to directly talk to Dan and Phil, words rushed and excited. “Sorry to cut it short lads, but we’ve got a date to plan,” Chris says matter-of-factly, adorned with an adorable little salute. After that his hands move to help PJ pack up his things, and in a matter of seconds everything is put away.

When they head towards the cafe door, PJ flashes a sheepish expression to Dan and Phil and mouths a “Sorry about this,” followed by a sincere, “Thank you.” Before they disappear, Chris then grabs PJ’s hand in his— holding it up to his lips to place a quick kiss on the back of PJ’s hand.

Cute.

As for the left-behind-two, an hour and a half more passes before they make any real effort to go. The company is lovely even if they aren’t talking. They are simply working in silence, both lost in their own creative worlds, and it is only when a worker comes up to them and asks if they would like to order anything more (to which they politely declined) do they begin to clean up their space.

“They’re cute together,” says Phil, a comment that breaks the stillness between them.

“Yeah,” Dan replies nonchalantly. He closes his bag after putting away his sketchbook and pencils bag, and slides the strap on his shoulder as they both head towards the door. To no one in particular he adds, “They’re really happy together, aren’t they?”

The edges of words seemed to be tinged with a bit of longing, if you listened hard enough.

When they step out of the cafe, Phil immediately rubs his arms, his breath forming a small cloud with each exhale from the oxygen in his lungs and the brisk air. “Heh, I didn’t expect it to be this cold today…”

Almost hesitantly, Dan places his own jacket upon Phil’s shoulders. The gesture isn’t acknowledged at all, and he just keeps walking, ignoring the fact that the chill was now getting to him. He refrains from rubbing his own arms, and just shoves his hands into his pockets. He only did as any friend would do.

In the meantime, Phil just stands there, not knowing how to react.

Steps ahead now, Dan merely waves his hand before quickly putting it back into the pocket of his jeans, beckoning Phil to walk a little faster.  “C’mon Phil, let’s go home.”

<<>>

phil: <IMG_0981 is attached. View image?> phil: LOOK AT THESE DOGS!!!!! phil: IT’S A DOG WHO HAS A GUIDE DOG

dan: asagAFGAAJHLHFW dan: THAT’S THE CUTEST THING I’VE EVER S E E N

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age eleven.

He stood outside, garden hose in hand. His mother had told him to water the plants around the front porch, and that is exactly what he did. Although the job required focus, it did nothing to prevent him from becoming lost in thought.

The age of him and his peers was one where crushes were all too common. Girls were talking about cute boys; boys were talking about cute girls. However, no one really made Phil feel the way that other people claimed they felt— Samantha from maths lent him a pencil once? That was kind of her. But he would only want to become friends with her and nothing more, he was sure.

A yelp of surprise escaped from him when he suddenly realised that the water had begun to pool around his feet amidst his musings, which formed a damp patch of grass that was well on its way to becoming a muddy puddle. Quickly, he ran to the side of the house to turn off the hose, and started to make his way back inside.

Before he crossed his driveway to head towards the small path that led to his front door, out of the corner of his eye he noticed something roll across the road.

  It was a piece of white chalk. The neighbor’s, to be more precise, who appeared to be outside as well. A rare occurrence it was: Phil had only seen them a handful of times before.

Tentatively, he took the chalk piece into his hand. Heading towards who was kneeled in the driveway next to his own, in front of a house with freshly trimmed grass and no garden, but did have a single weeping willow. As his steps drew him closer, more details about his neighbor, a somebody about his age, came into view.

And honestly? Phil couldn't help but be left dumbfounded.

The pretty boy in front of him had equally pretty hands. With those hands of slightly tanned skin he was creating art out of seemingly nowhere; slender fingers fabricated gentle strokes, images of flowers and stars, along with daisies and planets and angels amongst them stole Phil’s breath to allow for only awe to remain.

Phil was almost nervous to disturb him. If he did, it would be like catching a doe in a forest clearing— one moment peaceful, until a slight sound frightens them away. So because of that, he made sure to be careful.

His voice of “Um, this yours?” was a whisper full of gentleness that seemed mindful of the delicate flowers that the boy in front of him seemed to be growing out of the pavement.

Immediately, the boy looked up, revealing brown eyes that perfectly matched his brown curls. “Yes, thank you,” the boy replied quietly, carefully taking the chalk piece from his extended reach. His fingertips lightly grazed against Phil’s, which left Phil’s hands tingling.

In the three days that followed, Phil had fireworks tattooed upon his fingertips (and more often than not, from then on, one could catch him writing poetry on the front porch in an effort to catch a glimpse of the boy again).

<<>>

Dan throws a bag of McDonald’s on the library table, the sound of its impact resounding through the quiet studying of students. And if that’s not enough, he follows up with a loud, “Eat up babes, let's get to work!”

Laughing, Phil does an exaggerated fake gasp. “Dan! Watch your volume!” Reaching over the the table, he grabs the bag off the table, still noticeably hot. When he opens it, a little whiff of steam comes up, caressing his face. “Besides, why'd you buy this anyway?”

Dan shrugs, taking a chicken nugget and shoving it into his mouth. While he’s chewing he responds, “I’ve been noticing that you never have food when we work on school days, and we usually work during lunch. It's always just a drink and like, a bag of chips.”

Phil shrugs back, head tilting as his words trail off. “I just find eating to be a waste of time…”

Dan holds up his hand, cutting his words short as his voice trails off. “Don’t even give me that bullshit Phil, it’s because you’re always writing and you think you have no time for eating, so just eat a little bit or so help me.” He nudges the bag closer to Phil so that it hits Phil’s chest. Dan’s eyes shift to the side a little, and his voice becomes a bit demure. “Just… Take a break from that carpal tunnel catalyst, and dig in, alright?”

Phil opens the bag reluctantly and sighs, taking a bite of a french fry. His lips are pursed into a pout, for what Dan said was pretty much on the nose. He doesn’t mean to avoid eating, honest, it just… happens that way.

He smiles. The fact that Dan noticed and bought him food is such a sweet gesture, and the more Phil chews, the more Dan looks satisfied. Dan claps his hands together right as Phil swallows.

“Cool, now let’s get started.”

Today is final drafts day.

In order to proceed with the final production of their project they have to refine their drafts, and that is what today is dedicated to. For their work to not go to waste, everything has to be absolutely perfect (but to be fair, a poor outcome resulting from the two of them is actually quite doubtful).

“I’ve got these so far,” indicates Phil, pulling out various disheveled papers. They’ve got red ink that make it look like his writing went through a bloodbath, with elegantly chaotic black scrawls to match. He holds them out to Dan and is a bit sheepish about it, kinda embarrassed by how messy it is. “You can look through them right now if you want, but they’re not that great…”

Dan shakes his head, automatically dismissing Phil’s putdown of himself. “I doubt that, Phil. I absolutely doubt that.” He accepts Phil’s writing from Phil’s outstretched hand, and exchanges it with a few ripped out sheets of his own from his sketchbook, graphite smeared and all. “And here’s mine, they’re really sketchy and not as refined as they could be, but you should get the idea.”

When they’re looking over each other’s rough pieces, Phil’s fingers linger over the calculated strokes of Dan’s drawings, all while Dan is floored by Phil’s words.

Dan has never gotten the opportunity to see Phil’s work like this before. He’s taking in everything, soaking every word and descriptor in, and he makes sure he does not miss a single stanza. He never was someone with a way with words, that’s why he stuck with visual arts. But he is thankful that he was given the opportunity to read rawness such as this.

Then suddenly he notices a little something. A little bit that doesn’t seem to quite fit in with the rest catches his eye, a little snippet of a thing that was barely legible and had the last word cut off.

‘n ‘ol brunette has got that teasing grin skipping class and hands that have likely committed sin that ugly little shit messing with my h

When he reads it he snickers, and when he points to it and holds it up to Phil, he can’t keep his laughter in and he justs bursts into a giggling fit. “Aw, Phil,” his tone entirely both sing-songy and teasing, “Guess now I know that you think that I’m an ‘ugly little shit.’” Dan does a little pout. “Do you not think I’m cute?”

“Pfff! Please,” Phil sputters, realising what exactly Dan was pointing to. “Who says that’s about you?”

“I mean we could just address the ‘hands that have likely committed sin’ part…”

At the sound of that, Phil interjects quickly. “Fine, you’re adorable!” Barely processing the thought, Dan thinks, “Pbbt, so are you,” and Phil suddenly puts his index finger in front of Dan’s lips in a shhhing motion.

“What’s going on—”

“No no no, shush!” Phil holds a finger up, as if motioning “Hold on,” and Dan takes the hint and complies. Phil’s eyebrows are scrunched, clearly thinking.

“What?” Dan asks, after a few moments pass.

Phil takes both sets of their work from their respective spots and lays it upon the space in front of them, spread out but distinctly separate. He purses his lip, unsure at first then proceeding to rearranging a few. “Why don’t we… write about...” Phil picks up a sketch from Dan’s side and a page or two from his own. He hands the chosen ones to Dan, who takes it with a raised eyebrow. “This?”

Dan slowly nods, shifting through the papers and ultimately agreeing with the choices. He turns his body, his eyes looking up to meet Phil’s. “So that’s it? That’s our theme?”

Phil answers his question with an affirming hum, and when he starts explaining it just to clarify they find that they were on the same page all along. “It’ll be about humanity in its rawest form—”

“With earthy elements and other aspects of nature—”

“How we all have stories—”

“...and what makes a human human is emotion.”

Phil’s grin reaches from ear to ear. “Perfect.”

“Fuck yeah!” yells Dan, pounding a fist on the table. He holds up his palm for a high five, which Phil happily reciprocates.

When he hears a loud SHHH! come from behind him, Phil’s eyes widen, for it is most likely the librarian telling them to politely shut the hell up. He looks at Dan and silently scolds him, mouthing “Language!” to which Dan merely giggles, his laughs muffled as he tries to keep quiet.

“Fuck you,” Dan mouths back.

Phil rolls his eyes and smirks. His reply comes with a chuckle: “You wish.”

<<>>

Forget about Monopoly being end-all be-all relationship ruiner. With the way the game was currently going, Mario Kart should be the holder of that title.

“EAT MY ASS,” yells Dan. With every turn, he turns as well, because he insists it ‘helps me play better!’. His body rams into Phil’s side as he mimics the motion of the kart on the screen.

A breath leaves Phil’s lungs with an oof as Dan nearly knocks him to the floor. He automatically bursts into a laughing fit, pressing into the buttons of his controller even harder. “NEVER!!”

At this point they’re practically sitting on top of each other, and seem to have ignored the whole concept of sitting on the bed rather than the floor. Legs crossed, his knee touching his knee, the room is filled with giggles and playful banter as they keep jabbing each other in the side as they play.

When one shouts, and the other pouts— the game is officially over.

Dan crosses his arms, and presses his lips into a thin line. He withholds himself from bitterly throwing the control to the ground, but he does cross his arms. “Good game,” he mutters.

Shaking his head, Phil rolls his eyes at Dan’s dramatics. He gives Dan a pitiful pat on the back, and gives his reply all-too-knowingly. “Oh just let it out, we both know you’re a sore loser.”

A sharp inhale through the nose, and a slow exhale through the mouth.

Followed by a swift headbutt by Dan to Phil’s shoulder.

“OW!”

Dan jokingly starts to lightly punch Phil in the back, sides, and shoulders, shouting,  “YOU WERE THE ONE THAT HIT ME WITH A FUCKING SHELL AT THE END I THOUGHT WE WERE PLAYING RELATIVELY NICE!!” He pushes him down, Phil chuckling at Dan’s sad attempt to push him over (noodle arms are not that effective, Dan has learned). “I THOUGHT WE WERE FRIENDS!”

They land on the ground, the punching turning into tickling. Phil rolls around in an effort to avoid Dan’s attacks, but each attempt is futile, and instead his stomach hurts from the laughter and his face aches from the grin on his face that reaches from ear to ear. “See,” Phil laughs in between breaths, “What an incredibly sore loser you are.”

Dan finally sits back up, smug at Phil’s ‘defeat.’ “Yeah, no shit Sherlock.” He holds a hand out to Phil, and they pull each other up so that they are both standing. “I still totally should have won though.”

At a suggestion to take a snack break, the two head downstairs towards Phil’s kitchen. They continue to chat, and as Phil moves towards the pantry, he makes a gesture for Dan to take a seat at the dining table.

When Phil turns around, he not only has various food in his hand, he has a smile on his face. He walks over to the table and sets a plate of cookies in front of Dan, making Dan look up from his phone and eagerly move to grab a cookie of his own.

“You know, where you're sitting right now, is where my mum told me about what tattoos were.”

With a mouth full, Dan manages a, “Really?” Phil nods, and Dan swallows the last bits down his throat. “Was it like, a serious talk?”

Phil is at the counter now, he has decidedly chosen to make hot chocolate for the both of them. He mulls over Dan’s question as he gets the hot chocolate mix out. “Hm, no? Not really. I was like five or something. How about you? When did your parents tell you?”

“Oh, uh…” Dan grimaces, suddenly feeling awkward. “They— they never really told me? I kind of just found out on my own. From classmates, and the internet, and stuff. They never brought it up, and I never really asked…”

“Oh.” For a moment, Phil stops moving. “So they didn’t even tell you where they come from?”

“What do you mean? No one knows where they come from. Isn’t there still no confirmation from scientists about their origins or whatever?”

“Yeah, but my mum told me.”

Phil hesitates a little, the tiniest bit embarrassed.

“She told me they came from love.”

Dan sputters, laughing, nearly choking on his food. Phil doesn’t say a word and continues to prepare the drinks. “No offense Phil,” Dan chuckles. “But really?”

“I know, I know. But at the same time, there’s no harm in believing in things like that, don’t you think?” Phil hands a mug to Dan, who takes it gratefully. They clink their mugs together and drink a bit at the same time. Phil laughs when Dan makes a face at how hot it is, and Dan rapidly starts blowing on the drink to decrease its intense heat.

“Love though? Quite doubtful.”

“Are you not a believer in love? How about you and Erin?” Phil takes another sip from his hot chocolate. When a little residue is left on his upper lip, his tongue easily leaves and licks it away in a moment. “How are you guys doing?”

Dan’s eyes don’t quite meet his, sounding distracted. “Oh we’re great.” When he looks back up at Phil, Phil’s expression is expectant, waiting. Dan quickly rushes to elaborate on his previous sentiment. “She’s lovely, and so sweet!  Every date I’ve been on with her has been amazing. She’s incredible. I like her a lot.”

Phil nods. “I’m glad.”

After that, he says nothing more.

He takes Dan’s now-empty mug from his hand, and washes it after his own. Dan’s eyebrows are scrunched in thought, he’s staring at his phone again, but he’s not really processing what’s on the screen at all.  

Phil finishes up rinsing their cups in the sink, and puts their mugs into the dishwasher. He dries off his hands with a hand towel. Once he’s all done, he asks Dan, “You wanna go back upstairs and keep playing?”

Dan’s phone vibrates.

from erin, to dan:

Hey babe! I’ll be finishing up work soon, you wanna come over?

Rather than unlocking his phone, he reads the message as it is on his lockscreen. He ignores it, and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Dan smiles up at Phil. “Yeah. Let's go.”

Phil grins back, and as he leads them back to his bedroom, he has his hand on Dan’s back. The atmosphere is nice and easy. Uncomplicated.

He makes a comment about how Dan is ‘totally going down’ again, but to be honest, Dan isn’t really listening.

Later at night, in his own room, Dan takes off his shirt before he goes to bed. He always sleeps shirtless (that is nothing new), but it’s different this time: for if he had looked in the reflection in the mirror behind him, he would have noticed that there were dandelions on his back exactly where Phil had touched before.

By the morning though, they are gone.

<<>>

phil: I remember you saying you had a test today, good luck! phil: The universe may test ya like this but I believe in ya

dan: oh shush go pay attention in class dan: but ty that’s v nice dan: u’re too good for me

<<>>

“Aw, they’re so cute together!”

These are the words that seem to be just about everywhere: in the comment section of various social media, in the giggles of the hallways, in the not-so-subtle gestures and points of the cafeteria crowd. They can't seem to go anywhere without encountering what seems to be a fan club around the two of them.

But don't get him wrong. Because there is nothing wrong in the first place.

Erin is a lovely girl, and they have been together for a while, three weeks almost four weeks now. And that is far longer than any previous girl of Dan’s. With a wild head of curls and an even wilder personality, she is a whole lot of fun, and he loves to admire the beautiful ink upon her arms. She has these beautiful gradients of rising suns around her arms along with clouds that often change in hue.

Each and every time she goes on her tiptoes and she wraps her arms around his neck to place a kiss on his lips, he can’t help but be reminded of the idea of them, both in regards to the tattoos themselves and of him and Erin as a couple. Of all things though, he is reminded of Chris’ party especially.

Additionally, as if that isn’t enough, there are whispers of new ink starting to bud on her hands. Rumors that the new ink matches his own spread like wildflowers, even though so few have seen the hidden marigold to the extent that there are doubts of its existence. The possibility of Erin’s budding flowers being identical to his still makes his own blossom burn at the thought.

Because even though he did say that there was nothing wrong, there is an issue. And that issue is that nothing has happened to his own skin.

Besides the common flare ups of ink that happens to most people including himself, the only thing constant that he has is the single flower on the spot behind his ear, and that has been been on his skin for years.

Maybe he could— No. He couldn’t.

Could he?

It wouldn’t hurt —it couldn’t hurt— if nobody found out.

Besides, it couldn’t hurt to fake tattoos for a while, right?

He ignores the prickling of stars appearing on his ribcage, and takes some skin-safe ink to his own arms to mimic what Erin has on her own body. When the prickling starts going around his abdomen and begins to reach his shoulder blades, he still pays no heed to it.

He just continues on.

With each mark and movement of his nimble fingers, his stomach turns once more, even more so as he recalls the words that Phil mentioned before. What he said about honesty, about truth. This thing, what Dan is doing right now, he knows is the exact opposite of that.

He shakes his head in an attempt to shake the words off his mind. Phil has nothing to do with this. Phil has nothing to do with the state of Dan’s feelings for Erin. Why is he thinking of him at a time like this? For that matter, why is Dan doing it in the first place?

To be brief, he does not want to be rude. It’s not like Erin isn’t a nice girl anyway, so it’ll be fine. It will only be for a little while until those typical boy-girl feelings become stronger, because that’s how it works. That’s how it should work. And it will. There’s no reason to not reciprocate what Erin evidently feels for him. Naturally, it will all work out.

Yet if he were to take Phil’s words to heart right now and be honest, in reality, Dan was actually pushing certain feelings away.

Dan touches up the final details of clouds on his forearm, and presses his lips into a straight line, shoving the spiraling feelings that were welling up in his chest far deep into the ground below his feet.

If he were to be honest, he was actually just pushing certain feelings away… And with regards to other things, he was simply burying them further.

And covering them up.

<<>>

daniel james howell. flashback; age thirteen.

“...NOW AS A RESULT THE ENGLISH GOVERNMENT IS CURRENTLY HOLDING DISCUSSIONS IN REGARDS TO THE POSSIBLE LEGALIZATION OF HOMOSEXUAL MARRIAGE. THERE IS NO FURTHER INFORMATION AT THE MOMENT, BUT RADICAL ADVOCATES FOR THE LGBT COMMUNITY ARE CURRENTLY LINED UP IN FRONT OF THE GOVERNMENT HALL—”

A harsh, snarky tch came from Dan’s father, his blatant irritation had jarringly interrupted the newscast that came from kitchen radio. In his hands the steak knife threatened to start shaking with his tight grip, his knuckles whitening to nearly match the teeth he was gritting in anger. “Those homosexuals,” he spat, while he slammed the table with his fist at the same time, “Those homosexuals need to get the fuck out of our country, or better yet off our planet, or I will BEAT THEIR ASSES!!”

His mother simply took a napkin to her lips and daintily dabbed at her mouth, taking a breath before she added input of her own. “Now honey, some of them may be nice,” her tone calm and even. With a voice tinged with what seemed like genuine concern she continued, “I just don’t understand, they can’t have children, so why even bother if they can simply choose a lovely lady or a strong man?” She reached across the table to squeeze her husband’s tense fist. “If anything dear, I think it’s just a trend.”

The entire “discussion” only progressed from there, all while Dan remained silent. His shoulders hunched in as if he was going to fall into himself, he ate his food with minimal noise whether it be chewing or cutting into it for a bite, merely taking everything, every comment— “It’ll blow over, for this it just sounds ridiculous”, retort— “Ridiculousness has wrongfully made it’s way to the law of the land!”, and remark— “To put it simply, the gays need to know their place”, in.

Eventually he asked if he could be excused (he was given permission by a grunt of acknowledgement from his father and a nod from his mother).

Dan’s room was his sanctuary. Constantly he would go there for escape, or to remain in solitude with his thoughts, and this was one of those times. From the back of his closet he revealed his unfinished painting, taking it from its resting spot and placing it upon the floor so that he could resume his work. The canvas was one that he left alone but kept coming back to—maybe he would finish it one day. A year or two had passed since his work on it began.

His paints were in his lower bedside drawer, and he took those out as well. Every movement was routine, a relaxing habit, and essentially his mind was a step ahead of his actions. But perhaps the ease of not thinking only gave way for other, bad thoughts to come.

The harsh tongue of his father as he spat out the words “those homosexuals” could not leave his ears and only further buried itself in his mind. The comment made his hair stand on end, even though he didn’t know precisely why. Dan knew that he couldn’t like boys. Liking boys was wrong. Boys like girls, and girls like boys. Nothing else. And why would Dan care about liking boys anyway? Dan liked girls.

why would he care why would he care why would he care—

His chest was heaving. He only snapped out of his train of thought when he realised his breathing had become erratic, his chest heaved and his hands were shaking and his heartbeat was far too rapid for it to be normal. At an attempt to relax he tried to breathe, he inhaled and exhaled in time as he closed his eyes.

Darkness came.

Darkness came, and colors followed. Shades of blue, green, and yellow. His painting was actually composed of only that particular color palette, a set of hues that seemed to be set in not only his subconscious but also within the motions of his brush. They reminded him of someone’s eyes, but no one he knew. They reminded him of the ocean, of waves he wasn’t used to.

They were always comforting. Those colors never failed to ease him.

Through his open window, he heard the neighbors’ garage open, and he opened his eyes. The sounds of their laughs made their way into his room, which made him smile a little. Those laughs eased him too. The family next door must have arrived home.

Within his own house, dinner had presumably ended. He could hear his parents’ footsteps in the hallway outside his bedroom door, their bickering anything but quiet. “I don’t want him drawing, I don’t want any of that sissy shit.”

That was his father.

“He is super talented and we should be supporting our son!”

And that was his mother.

He put on headphones to drown out it all, and dipped his brush into his paints. This time, he focused on blue. As his strokes hit the paper, shivers went up his spine as a tattoo of tree branches spread out across his back, and as its roots went down to his hips; the only signs of life that the tree’s branches held was the idea that it used to be budding once.

<<>>

In basic english, the poetry unit is coming to a close. For the past couple of days, the students have been presenting their favorite poetry pieces to the class, an assignment that the teacher thought would be a fit way to wrap up the unit.

“Dan, you’re up,” calls Mr. Lamansi.

Finally, now he can get this done. He is the last student that needs to present.

Although he isn’t nervous, his heart is pounding incessantly in his chest. He definitely has jitters, a finite flow of energy that is coursing through his veins and he can’t seem to calm it down, and everyone can definitely tell. Who couldn’t? His hands are trembling so much.

The amount of anxiousness in his body makes this whole ordeal feel like confessional.

Before he actually starts, he awkwardly coughs to clear his throat. “Um, I picked a part from that poem we read a long time ago? Walt Whitman’s Song of the Open Road?” Mr. Lamansi then nods and jots the title down, and makes a motion for Dan to begin.

When he makes an attempt at a taking a deep breath, he hears a whisper. Turning his head slightly he sees Erin, who makes a silly face at him, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing a little. Instead, he opts for a simple smile.

And then he (he couldn’t help himself) casts a glance at Phil, who's beaming at him, all warmth and encouragement and support. Dan’s small smile widens just the littlest bit more. What did Dan ever do to deserve a friend like him?

With that, his shoulders relax, and he breathes.

Swallowing his worry, Dan feels ready now.

“I will recruit for myself and you as I go; I will scatter myself among men and women as I go; I will toss the new gladness and roughness among them; Whoever denies me, it shall not trouble me; Whoever accepts me, he or she shall be blessed, and shall bless me.

Now if a thousand perfect men were to appear, it would not amaze me; Now if a thousand beautiful forms of women appear’d, it would not astonish me. Now I see the secret of the making of the best persons, It is to grow in the open air, and to eat and sleep with the earth.”

When he finishes, he does everything in his power to not completely rush back to his seat. He tries to keep it cool, but he can feel his face burning, and if anyone looked hard enough they could see little leaves and thorns popping up along his collarbone.

A couple seats away, Phil’s heart is swelling. For some reason he feels like this poem has an underlying importance to Dan, and if he were to reread the lines to himself perhaps he would even realise what its significance even was. For now though, that was something that Dan could keep all to himself. Phil is proud of him for standing in front of the whole class like that (Lord knows that Phil’s confidence in his own public speaking is quite mediocre at best).

Small moments like these only fuel Phil’s admiration for this boy, and this time he can't help but feel pride and a sense of wonder all at once.

In Dan’s pocket, Dan’s phone vibrates. Before sliding it out, Dan quickly glances at the teacher to check whether the coast is clear, and upon ensuring so, he reads the notification under his desk.

to dan, from phil:

You did so great!

The small gesture is so sweet, and although it isn't much, it makes Dan undeniably happy. He has this expression of light, a grin reaching from ear to ear. While he can't see it himself, he swears the marigold behind his ear is tingling for the bud of another golden flower.

As they are leaving class, Dan comes up to Phil’s side and puts a hand on his shoulder to catch Phil’s attention before Phil has the chance to head off in the other direction.

“So, see you later?”

Cheeks red, Phil replies shyly, “Yeah, see you.”

<<>>

Soft taps are hitting metal, and Phil knows that Dan doesn’t even need to look to see who it is. He already knows it’s Phil. When Dan shuts his locker and he pokes his head out, saying “Heyy!” with a huge grin and the cutest dimple, Phil can’t help but to match with a smile that’s equally as big.

If someone told Phil that he and Dan would be friends one day, he would doubt them. But right now, he’s chatting with his crush, they’re face to face, laughing and shining with ease and happiness. Phil is on top of the world.

But Dan reaching up to close his locker door placed Dan’s arm at Phil’s eye level, and for a moment, Phil saw Dan’s tattoos up close. When his hand eventually falls back to his side, Phil’s eyes linger over them for a moment more. He has forgotten something important, something more prominent than the dimple in Dan’s soft cheek that Phil adores. The tattoos are a reminder: Dan isn’t his.

The wings on any of the butterflies Phil has in his stomach rapidly frumple, suddenly shy and abashed, and his smile can’t help but falter a little.

<<>>

Even though they don’t have an audience or anything because everyone has already headed to class, when Erin is kissing him, he’s not really kissing back. At all. The hallways are pretty much empty and the only sounds that remain are her lips on him. But even then, he can’t focus on her. If anything he is much more interested in absentmindedly playing with her hair.

Erin pulls away from him, noticing his lack of enthusiasm. She places a kiss on the marigold behind his ear, a tender thing, but to him it just burns. “Love, what’s wrong?”

Dan only brushes the question off, the ringing of the first tardy warning bell easily makes it so he doesn’t have to answer much. “Nothing, I promise.”

The expression in Erin’s face shows that she doesn’t buy it. “Oh Dan,” her voice sympathetic, one hand rubbing the space on his back between his shoulder blades.“Let’s just ditch class and go to my house? I can make you feel better and get you out of this funk.” She ends that last sentence with a wink.

As gently as he can, he pushes Erin off of him, politely giving her a cordial smile. “Uh, maybe next time?” His eyes not-so-subtly look away from her, and he just scratches the back of his neck, with his shoulders hunched stiffly. He starts to open his mouth to say something, but abruptly, the second late bell rings this time. “Let’s just head to class, alright? We’re gonna be late.” From there, he attempts to make his leave.

Erin hastily grabs his arm before he can make it too far. Her grip is firm.

“What has been with you lately?”

Despite sounding tender, she definitely comes off as confrontational. All the little things she has been noticing about him for the past few weeks begins to spill out of her one by one, in the form of pent up evidence supporting a suppressed argument.

“We’ve barely hung out, you rarely approach me first, and don’t think that I haven’t noticed that you hardly ever text me back anymore,” her voice cracks, just the slightest bit, but it is not vulnerability, it is only irritation. When she looks at him, she makes perfect, dead on eye contact, as if daring him to look away.

She starts getting louder. Her face is getting more red and more frustrated, the emotion further emphasised in her tone. “I thought I had it. I really did! I thought I was in one of the most important relationships of my life— here I thought I was different, and that I changed the ‘unattainable Dan Howell’…!” In a flash, it all shifts and she suddenly becomes a bit reserved. A bit meeker, wishful. Regretting and inhibited. Her voice is quieter. “…And that I found a really, really sweet guy.” She smiles the smallest bit, but her eyes are dull.

Her fingers start fiddling with the ends of her hair, and she looks down at her feet. “Instead, you just seem disinterested.”

“Look Erin, it’s not you it’s me—”

At that, her glare rises up once more, red lines suddenly appearing in wings at the ends of her eyes, further emphasizing her vexation. “Stop.” Her index finger threateningly pokes his chest with nearly every word that she says. “Don’t you even dare give me that load of bull. shit. I had to have done something.”

“You didn’t do anything, I promise,” Dan tries to reassure her, but he can tell that in the same way she didn’t believe him when he said was fine earlier, she absolutely does not believe him right now.

“Dan, don’t lie to me,” Erin huffs. She then furrows her eyebrows and kinda tilts her head and frowns, but it’s not directed at him, not really, and Dan knows that it means she’s thinking. When the corners of her mouth turn up a little and she shakes her head and laughs to herself, that is when he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to react. And he certainly does not anticipate the words that would then exit from her lips.

“I bet it’s that boy. It’s that boy, isn’t it?”

Dan bites his lip, his words are caught in his throat, and for some reason he can’t make himself reply.

A moment passes. One that lasts a beat too long for it to be salvaged.

“Oh.” Her voice and face suddenly falls and softens. It’s evident that she did not expect her ‘revelation’ to actually ring true. “Oh, Dan. I’m right aren’t I?”

Dan’s brows raise and his eyes widen, his hands waving frantically in an effort to convince her of the truth. “No!! No no, no way. We’re just friends, plus, I think that you’ve forgotten that I’m straight.”

Erin sighs. “But straight boys don’t look at other boys —well, just a single boy in your case— like you have, Dan. It makes sense now that I think about it, and honestly why didn’t I see it before, and I don’t care about the whole ‘gay thing’ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

She turns away and opens her locker, packing a few things into her bag, then slides one strap on her shoulder. “Love is love, and who am I to deny that?” Instead of then moving her body to face him, she bites her cheek. Her head tilts to the side a bit as she looks down. “I just hate that I had to find out like this.”

“Erin, I’m telling you!! We’re just friends!!”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say,” she waves, brushing him off. She doesn’t move, hand still on the locker door. She only turns her head so that he can look at her when she makes her point. “But baby, it’s obvious. And if you still can’t see it, then maybe you should stop and take a good look at what you’re missing.”

“You’ve got it all wrong—”

“Look…” Erin lets out a low exhale and lets her eyelids fall over her eyes, slamming the locker hard enough to both make the sound echo off the walls of the now empty halls. To her relief, it also  effectively shuts Dan up. She sounds tired. “I’m gonna head home alright? I don’t really feel like being here anymore. You can go back to class.”

After beginning to walk off, she stops after only taking a few steps.

Her back remains as the only thing facing towards him.

“Dan?”

He hesitates before responding. “Yeah?”

Before she speaks, she takes a second to articulate what exactly she wants to say. Even though it’s not a goodbye, it sure as hell feels like one.

It’s like a final admission.

“You… You were a good time. Even if you ignore me after this, since we’ll just be classmates, say hi once in awhile, yeah? And consider who’s important to you. Really, really consider it,” she then angles her body a bit to look over her shoulder, so that their eyes may meet one last time. Her lips tilt upwards a little bit at the corners, but even that is twinged with a hint of sadness. “That Phil boy… He really does make you smile.”

<<>>

They’re walking home, and the warm tones of the sky perfectly complement the warmth of the caramel macchiatos in their hands. Phil had treated them to the delicious drinks once school was over, despite Dan’s protests, and the late afternoon sun showed that they definitely ended up spending a little bit more time at the coffee shop than originally expected.

Oh well. Becoming lost in a sea of conversation of topics they could no longer remember gave them a much needed break from thinking about anything —or anyone— at all.

When they reach Dan’s house, Dan fumbles for the key and unlocks the door. Noticing that is Phil hesitating at the welcome mat still, Dan laughs. “C’mon,” he invites Phil in warmly, as he starts removing his shoes and places it next to the front door after closing it. Dan motions for Phil to do the same. “Let’s get started.”

Tonight is the night they finish their project. With only visuals remaining, and their use of a different type of surface for their piece, they only have the next several hours to complete it.

Dan grabs blankets for them to sit on and he tells Phil where to find the paints they need, and together they make their way towards the backyard. With perfect weather accompanied by a lovely sky, it is no wonder as to why it is their work space of choice this evening.

Outside, the air is quiet. The only noises come from the soft hum of suburbia and the chirping of crickets. “I work here often,” Dan says, his voice casual and not as loud as it normally would be.

Phil nods. “I understand why. It’s peaceful out here.”

They start setting up, picking a clear spot in the grass. Dan tosses the blankets to the ground and they both slide their backpacks off their shoulders, and Dan leans down to take the supplies they need out of his bag. As he is getting situated, Phil asks if he should get ready now. Although Dan just passively gives him a “Yeah, yeah,” he can’t seem to resist looking up when Phil turns around to slip off his shirt.

Phil isn’t the most fit person in the world, but he is certainly a bit toned, and the movement of his shoulder blades and back do something to the heart beating in Dan’s chest. The first thing he notices even before that though, are the daisies that seem to go all across Phil’s shoulders. They are admittedly quite hard to miss. That too, gives Dan this tingling feeling that starts in his chest and spreads through his arms. He can’t put a name to it, but it’s just that the flowers seem so endearing. Because oh, how lovely is that?

When Phil turns and faces Dan again, he catches Dan looking at him. Quickly, Dan looks away, but by then it’s too late, and Phil is standing there flustered, hints of pink coming off like paint splatters and freckles on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose.

Suddenly self-conscious, Phil shifts the moment’s attention to something else when he quickly moves to pick up one of the many blankets that Dan brought outside. When he hands one end of the blanket to Dan, Dan takes it with a sheepish smile.

For a split second, their fingers graze each other’s, before parting so that they may set the blanket down upon the grass together. After they put the blanket on the ground, Phil rubs his fingers together. A reaction, he can’t help it: last time there were fireworks, after all.

And even though his hands show no ink this time when he checks, by God does it feel like the moment was electrically charged.

“So, where do you want me?” asks Phil, the question effectively gently breaking the comfortable silence.

Dan laugh cuts through the thick air between them. “Pff, Phil,” He teases, “You know that anywhere is fine as long as we’re together.”

Phil shoves him playfully in response, making Dan grin, and the pink in Phil’s cheeks becomes just the tiniest bit redder. “Oh, shut up!”

“Lie down on your stomach here,” Dan gestures to a certain spot right by Phil’s feet, “Just relax okay?”

Phil follows Dan’s orders, and underneath him, he can feel the rustling of the grass. He rests his head on his arms, closing his eyes, his voice muffled by his mouth being covered. “Don't worry about me. I trust you.”

Dan chuckles. “I would hope so.”

The scenery around them seems unreal. The setting sun’s light gently lays a golden cast upon everything in the backyard, as if graced by Midas’ touch. Flowers and plants of every color grow here: a personal rainbow, a trove of jewels. Even the grass is a true to life representation of ‘the grass is greener on the side,’ for Phil knows that the grass on his side of the fence is wild and unkempt.

The atmosphere of it all is airy and seraphic.

Dan awkwardly squats down while muttering an apology, for in order to begin the actual painting process, he doesn’t really have any other option besides straddling Phil’s back. Of course he could just sit down next to Phil…  But then he would have to work sideways, and that would simply not be optimal.

He shifts in an attempt to make himself as comfortable as he can, and he makes sure that Phil is okay too.

Next to Dan lies the sketches of what he wants to achieve for the piece. Their idea is to demonstrate and illustrate what the definition of humanity, with an emphasis on the relationship between man and earth. The execution of Dan’s vision involves painting upon Phil’s back, sort of as a way to mimic the concept of tattoos and tell the story of man.

It is now time to work.

Underneath him, Phil’s skin is clear, pale, and soft. Like a blank canvas would, it invites him to have his way with it, a call to let his hands take over his mind. When Dan does any kind of art, he doesn’t like thinking at all due to its hinderance on creative flow. He takes a deep inhale, counting the seconds that pass as oxygen comes in, and lets a deep exhale pass his lips.

His fingers lightly trace the flowers upon Phil’s back, taking in the detail of each and every one of them. The intricacy of it all is so pretty, and almost delicate.

Finally, Dan starts.

The coldness of the paint makes Phil shiver.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Phil laughs awkwardly, “It’s cold, that’s all.”

Dan can’t help but laugh a little too. “Yeah, sorry ‘bout that. I’m gonna need a steady surface though so…”

“What should I do?”

“Hmm…” Dan starts, trying to think. He makes a long, broad stroke with his brush. “Maybe you can like, I don’t know. This might sound dumb. But maybe you could recite some poetry to me?” Dan dips his brush into the water, cleaning it off so that he could change colors. “It’ll distract you from the cold. It can be from the project, your own stuff, whatever. Tell me anything on your mind.”

Phil thinks it over, taking about a minute to contemplate over what he wants to share.

While he thinks, the sun finally finishes setting, and the moon eagerly moves to replace it. No longer is the sky burning ablaze with oranges, vermillions, and magentas; instead it’s all dark. Only a star or two glimmers. Everything is void except for the light of the moon that only seems to shine on them two alone.

“Yeah okay,” he agrees. “Alright.”

Another breath. “This is one of mine,” Phil adds.

Then a beginning.

“in a field of forget-me-nots, he’d try to forget them a lot the one who made his heart bloom from freckles that were like seeds, and smiles like sunshowers: pulling handfuls of grass out of the ground beneath him and picking petals of any flower he touched, choruses of ‘like me’ and ‘like me not’ in a golden air

there was something about them, who with hands made soul out of oxygen of every color and texture and medium who made his knees shake and his cheeks redder

Dan’s breath hitches. Phil continues, seemingly not noticing, and Dan shakes his head to shake the ridiculous thoughts out of his mind.

So what if the story seems to tell of a boy in love with an artist? It doesn’t mean anything.

“for although they was a mere windowpane away, their red threads seemed to be nothing more than fishing lines leading them to a separate sea and him to an empty shore

The brush in Dan’s hand has completely stopped moving. His arms have goosebumps, and although he can see that Phil has goosebumps across his skin too, Dan is sure that his own are not from the brisk air.

He bites the inside of his cheek. Perhaps he’s reading too much into it. Maybe it’s not even about him.

But is it too strange to say that Dan doesn’t seem to mind at all?

Before, Dan wished that Phil could see what he’s making while he was making it, but he is very thankful that Phil can’t see him right now. His free hand reaches to cup the side of his face, and under his palm he can feel the heat radiating off his skin. Although he can’t see it on himself, his suspicions are basically confirmed, and he has a good guess as to what is there.

Because at this moment, only visible by the moonlight, Dan has a fierce blush— a coalescence of roses and carnations on his neck that reach and bloom upon the apples of his cheeks (along with a few freckled stars).

More stars that could be seen in the night sky, to be precise. Side-by-side a whole garden that rivals the one that is blossoming around them.

“so from the coastline, he would admire them —this caramel boy— and he would watch the boy pull in the many fish of the sea as for he, he would merely sit writing words in the stand with a tidal wave heart that consumed him and stole the air from his lungs”

The chill of the night is starting to set in, but he feels like he’s on fire.

<<>>

They finish incredibly late. The idea of time is lost to them, and honestly they can’t tell the difference between the the evening’s final hours and the earliest hours of the next day.

Phil fell asleep towards the end, and Dan finds it endearing. The rise and fall of Phil’s back, along with the faint sounds of his breathing, are the only things keeping Dan company in this standstill of a night.

“Wake up,” Dan murmurs. He nudges Phil gently. “Get up, Phil.”

Begrudgingly, Phil sits up. He yawns and ruffles his hair, and as Dan begins packing up the supplies, Dan makes sure to keep a watchful eye on Phil to make sure that he doesn’t ruin the painting. Ultimately, he tells Phil to sit on his hands to ensure that no excessive movement leads to crackling in the piece.

Once Dan has returned everything inside, he comes back out to see that Phil is still sitting there, and the sight makes Dan chuckle a little. Phil has his eyes closed, clearly he dozed off despite sitting up; how he managed to do it, Dan doesn’t know.

He first lifts up Phil’s right thigh, then Phil’s left, sliding his hands out from under his legs. He keeps his hold on Phil’s palms and pulls Phil up so that he can stand, then picks up the last blanket that is left on the ground so that he can sling it over his shoulder.

With Phil’s hand in his, Dan carefully guides him inside, to a seat right beside a window.

“Dan…” Phil is still incredibly sleepy, his voice groggy. “Dan, what… What are we doing…?”

“It’s okay, I’ll handle it. You’re alright,” He assures him. “I’ve got you.”

Dan proceeds to sit Phil up in a chair. He makes sure to be gentle. Phil’s eyes keep going back and forth between either being open or closed, his eyelids eventually settling for the middle ground of being drowsily half-open; his body is simply too sluggish for him to stay completely awake. He is doing his best, though.

While Dan does have a soft yellow light lit up so that he can properly operate the camera, he had picked this spot next to the window so that the light of the moon could hit the piece just right.

What a good choice that is.

He snaps a couple photos. He takes some shots that are up close, in addition to others that showcase the big picture. The ones that are closer show all the detail; they show every single one of the strokes and the way the colors seamlessly blend into one another. Those are his favorite, for they caught what the eye wouldn’t normally catch.

The paint doesn’t completely hide the imperfections of the skin and Dan loves it. Humans aren’t perfect, and it only further emphasizes their project’s theme, but it also makes the piece uniquely Phil as much as it is uniquely Dan’s.

Click. And that one’s nice too.

This photo frames everything perfectly, it is one of the far-away shots: showing how Dan’s depiction of a skeleton matches exactly where Phil’s own bones would be. Amongst the rungs of Phil’s ribcage, Dan weaved an entire garden of flowers, blossoms come in azure, olive, and honey, and all of the other related shades.

Where the veins would run through, instead of being where the blood would run its course, it is red thread intertwined with vines, and it even leads all the way through Phil’s arms and hands. Where there is empty space, Dan filled it with a mix of daisies and stars, along with the colors of a midnight sky, the sky’s colors are a contrast almost as striking as Phil’s hair to his pale skin.

It isn’t a physical manifestation of the poem Phil recited to him, no. But if Dan said that he didn’t think about doing that, he would be lying. Dan ended up completely disregarding his original drafts and ended up giving into what his hands and mind seemed to want to do, and this was it, a portrayal that was a likeness to the relationship between nature and man, with a subtle hint at man’s idea of a red thread fate (perhaps Phil’s poem had more of an impact than he originally thought). And it turned into something lovely, he thinks. He hopes.

It almost resembles how Phil makes him feel inside.

How Phil seems to make everything bloom in color.

Softly, he taps Phil on the shoulder. “C’mon, wake up, Philly,” Dan whispers. “You did great.”

Phil rubs his eyes. They’re fully open now. “Oh hi Dan…” he replies, “I know I’ve been awake, but I think I can actually think… Coherently now.”

Dan smiles. “Don’t worry about it.” He holds a hand out to Phil, to which Phil accepts, and he pulls Phil up so he can stand. “I handled it. It all turned out fantastically.”

Phil stretches, and yawns. Then his eyes widen, face suddenly full of worry. “Wait, what time is it?? I never told my mom what time we’d finish—”

“Why don’t you just stay here?” Dan suggests. Phil looks at him and tilts his head, thinking it over. “It’s so late anyway, and my parents won’t mind, they’re out on a business trip anyway.”

Phil nods, “Okay. Alright, I’ll just let my mom know.”

Then they go to the bathroom upstairs, and Phil follows. While they are walking, Phil sends a quick message to his mom: I’m still at Dan’s, just right next door. Staying the night. I would’ve told you sooner but I fell asleep. Love you ❤❤

Upon reaching the bathroom, Dan gets a hand towel from the closet, and runs the towel under the sink. Out of nowhere, Phil laughs, and Dan turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, perplexed and wanting an explanation.

When all Phil says is, “Heh, Howell with a towel,” Dan smacks Phil in the shoulder playfully and can’t help but laugh too.

Dan then adds a bit of soap so that it will wash better. Before he starts to clean the painting off, Phil sees the piece in the mirror and loves it. “You’re so talented,” he whispers, and Dan’s ears flush with pink, he’s positively bashful. “It really is a shame that we have to wash it off.”

“Yeah,” is all Dan can reply. “It is.”

He finally starts washing Phil’s back, watching the colors smear together into something incomprehensible. Abruptly, Dan hesitates, really taking in the situation. “This isn’t weird, right?” he asks.

Phil doesn’t miss a beat. “No, you’re just helping me. I wouldn’t be able to do it properly myself.”

Dan can’t seem to argue with that, and so he finishes. When he’s done, he tells Phil to wait a moment. About a minute or two passes by, and Phil is humming to pass the time, and when Dan returns, he tosses Phil the clothes of his that he grabbed. Then he shows Phil how to use the shower.

“So those clothes are just some of mine that you can borrow,” Dan finishes. “My room is just across the hall when you’re done.”

Dan’s hand is on the door handle already when Phil stops him. “Oh wait, hold on! Before you go…” Phil pulls him back to the counter, and takes a new towel from where he saw Dan take one from earlier.

He does just as Dan did, and runs the towelette under water with a bit of soap, and he cups Dan’s cheek with his hand. He dabs at Dan’s cheek gently, cleaning up paint that had somehow made it’s way to Dan’s chin and other miscellaneous parts of his face.

“I didn’t know you had freckles,” Phil whispers, continuing to tenderly clean Dan up. “I love them.”

The comment automatically makes Dan flustered. His cheeks threaten to flare up, as they usually do at words like that, but he wills every atom to his body to refrain from doing so in that moment. He can only hope that it works out like that, though.

He barely manages to utter the two words. “Th-thank you.”

Eventually Phil finishes, and Dan subsequently leaves and retreats to his room. He uploads the photos from the camera to his laptop while he waits for Phil to shower. Once they are uploaded, he is pleased to see that they did indeed turn out as great as he thought. He starts editing, retouching them a bit here and there, just overall playing with the exposure and sharpness of them.

Fifteen minutes go by, and he’s still editing. That’s when Phil comes in, having lightly knocked on the door before entering, with his hair damp and Dan’s t-shirt and pajama pants on. In response to the opening of the door, Dan spins in his chair to watch as Phil comes in.

And there is just something about Phil in Dan’s clothes that makes him look so incredibly cute, that Dan has no other option but to smile.

Phil walks over to look at the photos that Dan has pulled up on his laptop. He asks if he can see the others, and Dan turns back to the screen to watch Phil scroll through the rest of them.

“Oh, Dan…” Stunned by the photographs, Phil is breathless. The lighting is spectacular, and the attention to detail is amazing, and none of it goes unnoticed.  “These are beautiful.”

He says some more things, but to be honest, Dan stopped listening. He’s just looking at Phil instead. That is, until Phil turns his face too.

Their faces are so near.

And their lips are so, so close.

Phil pulls away though, and Dan feels strangely empty. But why does he feel like that? he asks himself. He instantly shakes off the thought, getting up from his seat and heading to the closet to grab some pajamas. “You can just sleep on the bed Phil,” he states simply, “I’ll just take a quick shower.”

In the shower however, the thought of Phil can’t seem to escape him. Yet again, he pushes it away.

Nothing happened, and besides, it’s just Phil, he thinks, but it’s like he’s reassuring himself.

Nothing more.

When Dan is done, he heads back to the room, in far comfier clothes. As he opens the bedroom door, Phil cracks an eye half-open at the sound. Dan walks over to the bed, leaning down so he is looking at Phil at eye level.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Phil yawns, and pulls the covers up a little. His eyebrows scrunch up, and his eyes squint a little, questioning. “You have curly hair?”

Dan grimaces, a bit embarrassed. “Mmm, yeah. I always straighten it though.”

Phil reaches over, taking a curl in between his two fingers. “It’s like a little pig tail,” he giggles, “Why do you keep getting more and more damn adorable, whenever I learn more about you?”

This time, Dan doesn’t even acknowledge the comment, except for the playful hint of the corners of his lips turning up. He then stands up straight, and heads towards his desk. “I’m gonna edit a little more before I hit the sack. Good night you little shit.”

“Goodnight,” Phil calls.

Dan is editing for another twenty minutes more before he decides that it is time for him to finally sleep. He makes his way over to the bed, and he would lie down, but Phil is in the middle, looking cozily wrapped up in the black-and-white duvet.

Dan smiles softly. As he adjusts the covers so that it covers Phil’s feet, followed by tucking him in a little more, he mutters and laughs under his breath, “And I am the one that looks more and more adorable? Has he even seen himself?”

When he’s all done, he takes one of the extra pillows on the bed and tosses it to the ground. He then goes out and grabs one of the last clean blankets, and tosses that to the ground as well.

He doesn’t mind sleeping on the floor tonight.

<<>>

phil: We definitely did great on that project! :D

dan: hECK yeah i hope they grade us soon

phil: alhfdlhls What if I told you that they did already??

dan: W H A T dan: but they usually take ages??

phil: It’s been a couple days materino phil: Plus like, my teacher told me that she graded ours first sooo,, phil: In THEORy it should be up by now! ;P

dan: omgomgomg i just checked and it’s uP

phil: And??

dan: WE GOT AN A

phil: YAY!! All thanks to your amazing art!!

dan: pbbbt your writing is the loveliest thing ever don’t even come for me dan: like shakespeare who?? i don’t know her

phil: Oh shush asdfgjjhg phil: That’s so sweet I hate you

dan: nooooo don’t hate me

phil: Don’t worry Danny boy phil: I don’t think I ever could.

<<>>

The rain outside is dreadfully heavy, and Dan is late. Usually, that wouldn’t be anything out of the ordinary, but he had been doing so well with being on time these past few weeks. Since there is no point to alarms if they don’t even work as they should, alarm clocks are dead to Dan now.

When he runs in, he looks so scattered. Sleeves are three-fourths rolled up, creating a look that lies somewhere between rushed and on purpose, and to add to that his hair is frizzy, he has mismatching socks (well, one is black and the other is dark grey, but still). A white umbrella that has baby pink ribbons all over it completes the whole ensemble.

Honestly? A fashion icon.

Phil sees him on the way to his second period class, and he has to cover his mouth to keep from giggling at the sight of Dan looking completely frazzled from the rain. One little laugh does escape him though, but he can’t help it: what is likely Dan’s little sister’s umbrella makes Dan look cute as heck.

Yet when Phil begins to lightly run towards him to give a quick hi, something doesn’t seem right.

Dan’s tattoos seem… Blurry?

At first glance, the ink seems to be what Phil expects it to be. That being, what Phil knows to be on Erin’s own arms: grey, stormy clouds. Yet at the same time— it seems to have changed?

Phil is just standing in place now, stopped in his tracks, a fair distance away from him still. He isn’t looking up close, the exposed skin on Dan’s forearms show it all. The texture is off and that the colors are melding together in an unnatural way, and overall it is just wrong.

Phil continues to stand by and watch.

Dan rolls up his sleeves more, revealing his whole arm. When he reaches into his locker, he takes out a variety of art supplies, of various mediums and hues and purposes, and begins to mess around a bit with the tattoos. As if he’s touching up.

Why would he need to…? Oh.

They’re fake. The tattoos are fake. And scratch what Phil said earlier— they are not blurry. They are smeared.

Dan finishes his work relatively quickly, and by that time, Phil has already begun heading to class, asking himself whether or not the scene he just watched unfold in front of him was real. Whether the sight of Dan amending the ink on his skin was true, or if it was a sleep-deprived induced dream. Yet no matter what he tells himself, he can’t deny what he saw.

Eventually Dan looks up and sees Phil’s distant figure. When he lets out an, “Oh hey! Phil!”, a moment passes that seems like a reluctance to greet Dan back. But Phil turns around, because that’s the kind of person he is, and he waves. Dan swears that it seems a bit stiff, though.

After that, Phil doesn’t acknowledge anything else.

He simply bites his bottom lip and keeps walking.

<<>>

(2) missed calls from Danny Boy.

<<>>

“Hey Phil! Let’s head to the library for lunch?”

Phil forces a smile. “Maybe another time, Dan? I have to… uh, go to a teacher.”

<<>>

You missed (5) Skype Video Calls from Daniel Howell.

<<>>

dan: hey why rnt you replying to me? dan: phil, did i do something?          ✓ read 9:22 PM

<<>>

Rumors are spreading all across campus. The hallways are littered with whispers and gossip of the school’s proclaimed ‘It Couple,’ and even teachers are chatting about it in the teachers’ lounge. Everyone seems to be aware that Dan and Erin had a falling out, but to be fair, it wasn’t necessarily hard to guess. No one needed to hear it from the source.

It is evident from how they no longer walk together, sit together, or talk to one another. Even more apparent, Erin’s arms no longer displayed the sunrises that everyone believed (she, included) to represent new beginnings and the birth of something new. Instead, it is now rain. It is stormy clouds on a setting horizon, the sunset for the sunrise, to match the end to the beginning.

Even the flowers she had, the precious flowers that convinced even the doubters of her and Dan’s love (if you could call it that), are wilting.

There are claims being made; there are those who are attesting to seeing Dan leave parties early with people on his arm while he has his hand on their waist, as he leads them out the door and to his car. Some said it was Dan whose neck and chest was splattered with purple from what the night had entailed, others said it was his company who adorned the marks. People told of the moans that would come from bathrooms, bedrooms, and even in one instance, a closet, where sounds of ecstasy made passerbys envious and left his partner of the night a pleasured mess.

Amongst all of Dan’s hookups, there is one thing they all have in common: they are all boys.

And that common fact makes Phil’s heart go from skipping a beat at even the mention of Dan’s name to sinking six feet below the floor.

Girls? That he can handle. He can handle it because he is used to it, he has been used to it for years. But Dan being with boys puts Phil on an even playing field— Phil isn't different from any of those boys. He has gone from watching on the sidelines to being an average player on the losing team.

When it comes down to it, these are the truths: he is in love with someone who, until the project, hadn't spared him a glance for years. He is in love with someone who —he was sure of it— had tattoos that were ingenuine and painted on. He is in love with someone who is known for playing the game, for having issues with commitment, for being someone who picked up people then dropped them like flies.

He is in love with someone who lies.

And so now Phil sits on his front porch, writing, restraining himself from going beyond the brink of tears. For someone who treasures honesty, the truth hurts. No matter how much he tries to hold himself back, two or three droplets still manage to escape, smudging some of the words that were written out of a mix of anger, disappointment, and emptiness.

They were words written by a heart who lost the game, a game rigged by a player of the most gut-wrenching emotion.

<<>>

skin of freckled honey and a body of clouds, sweet and soft— in the same way that only thoughts could fabricate the idea of how your lips taste. fabrication does not compare to the reality of it all though and no one ever warned me, for although tattoos of roses don't have thorns blood pours from the prick in my fingertips because i picked you - p.l.

<<>>

Everything is white noise. His surroundings are a blur and his head is pulsing intensely from the conglomeration of far too much alcohol and far too loud music. He can barely feel himself existing within his own body. The bustle of people dancing around him, the sounds of the DJ and the people singing and screaming at the top of their lungs, and the scent of sweat and booze: it’s all much more than he wants in that moment.

But to be fair, he does not really know exactly what it is he wants.

Whoever he is kissing is much more into it than he is, for he isn’t into it at all. He’s barely there, just a shell of a kiss upon the person’s lips. A disappointment for anyone sober to be honest.

Yet the other one couldn’t care less.

“S-so do you wanna, like,” the boy, probably two years younger than him, stammers as they separate for a breath, “Take this somewhere else?”

Numbly, Dan nods. No harm in going along with it, right? “Y-yeah. Yeah, okay.”

On the drive to Dan’s house, the boy (Justin? Jake? Josh? Oh forget it, just calling him J will be easier) is texting rapidly. The entire drive is silent except for those keyboard clicks and the nervous tapping of J’s foot, and from the light of J’s phone screen, Dan can see that J is sporting a huge grin on his face. Dan doesn’t even have to see the texts to know what they are about.

If he were to guess, it would be J bragging to his friends about how he is getting to sleep with The Great Dan Howell™ and how “OMG HE CAN’T BELIEVE IT.” Or you know, another statement that is equally as dumb.

It makes Dan feel sick.

When they actually arrive, things escalate from Dan leading J into his home with his hand on the small of J’s back, to rapidly making out on the couch. The way J kisses him is incredibly zealous. Dan tries his best to match his passion, but his efforts fall short. It’s just different, for Dan’s kisses are intense in a different manner; his lips press against J’s lips and skin in a way that is almost forceful, as if trying to forget about something.

But regardless of how fervent they both currently are, it all stops the moment the boy reaches to unbutton Dan’s jeans.

Immediately, Dan breaks away.

The boy, Jared, Jace, whatever his name is, looks confused. He leans in in an attempt to just restart where they left off, but Dan only shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says quietly, pushing him off. “I can’t do this. I’m so sorry.”

He gets up, and the younger one awkwardly follows, the way the boy carries himself shows that he is definitely disappointed. When they reach the front door, the boy takes a second to send a quick message, letting his friend know that he needs a ride, knowing what Dan will say next.

“Go home,” Dan tells him, his voice gentle as he opens the door. “You’re sweet, but go home. Please.” A nod from the other passes as a silent “Alright then, goodbye,” and Dan knows that he’ll never see the boy again. When Dan shuts the door and locks it, he runs his hand through his fringe, letting out a groan that comes from deep within his chest.

He makes his way upstairs eventually. When he gets there, he sits upon the edge of the foot of his bed, elbows resting on his knees and his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. His knuckles are white when he forms a fist, fiercely punching the bed once. And that’s the point where he just yells.

Dan yells so loud that it genuinely scratches his throat, it is of such volume that it bounces off the walls of the empty house.

Next, he just allows himself to fall onto the bed. His body sprawls out in the center, amongst all of his sheets that should seem familiar, yet somehow don’t smell like home at all. His eyes are squeezed shut. One hand reaches up to rub his one eye, the other arm rests in place and remains outstretched.

After some time, breaking the quiet, a soft gravelly whisper finally leaves his lips. “Dang, she might’ve been right all along…”

<<>>

chris: i heard from pj that u + phil aren’t on the best of terms right now chris: you okay mate?

<<>>

daniel james howell. flashback; age sixteen.

from chris, to dan (and 63 others):

party tonight. my house (u should know the address, lmk if you need it tho) until whenever u wanna leave ! gon be lit be there or be square lads

He only had a little bit of time before Vanessa —well, because she insists he actually calls her Van— arrived. Chris Kendall was having the party of the summer to celebrate the end of the school year and the beginning of vacation because his parents were out of town, and he and Van agreed that they would go together.

As a casual thing of course, nothing serious.

The party started in about half an hour. Black skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees and a shirt he knew he looked good in was the look of choice for the night. He nearly chose to leave his hair in waves, but after he ran his fingers through his fringe he ultimately decided against it. His hair looked stupid if it was anything but straight.

Right when he was straightening the last curl, the doorbell rang. How perfectly timed, and even their arrival at the party was perfect too: not too early and not too late. As soon as they got there, they were greeted by the mob of people who were bumping along to the music. While they gave quick greetings to their friends, they quickly made their way into the center, amongst all those who were dancing like it was the night of their lives.

Van had her hands on his chest, her moves sensual and easy. She’s dancing with him, and Dan doesn’t hate it, because any onlooker could tell that she was very attractive. She’s pretty, and admittedly they have had fun together before, but Dan had realised for a while that he hadn’t been actively interested in her for quite some time.

But who was he to decline her company when they should be having fun?

“Let’s go grab some drinks,” Van commented, as she took his hand to drag them both out of the cluster of partying bodies. Even before she reached the drinks table, people started to hand her drinks as if they knew exactly what she wanted. She grabbed two, nudged Dan with her elbow, then held out the one cup out to him. “Drink some, Dan!”

Dan made a face, unsure. “I dunno, I don’t usually drink much…”

She gave an ‘ol pbbbt and a playful eyeroll that clearly meant that she didn’t want no for an answer. Van gestured towards the cup in her hand once more, and with her eyebrows raised up at him, she follows up with a plead. “C’mon! Take a fuckin’ sip babe.”

Giving in, he took the drink from her, downing it all in a matter of gulps. Van laughs, and they went right back into partying.

However, whether he realised it or not, one sip had quickly turned into multiple sips. And sips turned into finishing the cup, and one finished cup turned until multiple finished cups, and then he completely lost count. He’s completely, he thought as he hiccuped, he’s completely —as his friends would say— tabled.

If he’s honest, he had no idea how much time had passed. He just knew that he was currently all over the place, dancing one moment, chatting the next, then suddenly beer pong or something after that. When the music got softer, that’s when his drunk high started to diminish too, and that’s when he started to get tired.

He terribly needed a bed.

It was at this time that he started to head towards the stairs (anything after that however, he couldn’t recall for the life of him).

<<>>

Why is Phil doing this?

Dan knows he’s not imagining it. Dan can feel Phil distancing himself away from him more and more with each passing day, and he just wants to know why. It’s not just ignored texts, Phil won’t even glance at him. And that’s what really hurts about it all.

At lunch, he goes to “their” spot in the library, but Phil isn’t there. He brings food and everything, but even if he waits, Phil never shows. As a matter of fact, he isn’t in the library at all. To add more salt to the wound, when Dan goes to the cafeteria to check out the lunch table where PJ, Chris, and Louise sit at, Phil isn’t with them either.

Even when it is time for class, Dan is determined. He shows up first rather than last in an effort to try and sit by him. Dan will get him this time he’s sure, because he knows that Phil likes having time to himself in the beginning of class. Dan knows Phil. Dan is positive that he is right in this notion —there is no way he wouldn’t be— and when Phil walks in through that door, Dan will just talk to him and everything will be normal again.

But as if he’s aware of Dan’s plan, Phil ends up arriving last. Every time.

<<>>

“Please Chris!” his tone is embarrassingly pleading, but Dan doesn’t care. Anyone could be listening in on their conversation as they’re strolling the halls, but Dan doesn’t care about that either, he just grabs Chris’ arm and begins shaking it violently as he keeps begging (these are clearly some great persuasive tactics he’s using, perhaps he should consider becoming a lawyer).

“Pleaaaseee!! Talk to your cute boyfriend for me!”

Chris stops in his tracks, nearly making Dan stumble. He stares at Dan dead in the eyes. “Okay first of all, only I can call him cute, back off. And second,” he says the last parts slowly as he takes a couple tentative steps forward. “I don’t think it would be smart. If anything, you can talk to my cute boyfriend yourself.”

Dan lets go of Chris’ arm, letting out a small reluctant exhale. “Okay. Fine.”

It takes a while. Dan has to wait until the afternoon finally comes to an end in order to talk to PJ, and even then, it takes a good chunk of time to convince him. Dan’s proposition is for PJ to somehow provide Dan with an opportunity to talk to Phil.

At first, PJ declines. Right away.

But then he manages to go from “Oh, I don’t know Dan…” to “Alright, okay,” after a little over an hour of persuading. After Dan explained the circumstances, and with a bit of begging, PJ changed his mind. He makes it clear that he’s not the most supportive of Dan right now due to Phil’s current state, but that he is appreciative of the fact that he did make Phil so happy before.

And above all, there is one thing that PJ can’t deny, and that is that Phil deserves closure. If anything.

PJ looks away from Dan, not able to directly meet his eyes. He scratches the back of his neck, before turning to face him once more, voice firm. “He’ll meet you in room 109, alright? Tomorrow, fifteen minutes after school ends. I’ll tell them there’s a meeting for a club he’s in or something. But if you miss it… That’s on you. This is the only chance you’re getting.”

<<>>

The clock on the classroom wall shows that seven minutes have passed since their supposed meet-up time. Not that he was counting or anything. Understandably, Dan can’t help but to feel on edge, for what if PJ changed his mind?

What if Phil never comes?

Out of nowhere, words start coming from the other side of the door. “Yeah, this is the room. Text me when you’re done, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

“Thanks for letting me know about this meeting Peej.” That one is Phil. That’s definitely him. “You’re a great friend.”

The door then opens with a flourish. Phil closes it behind him.

Dan coughs, making Phil turn around. He does a small wave and says meekly, “Hey, Phil.”

Phil’s eyes widen and the color drains from his face. “Oh no. Oh no no no…”

“Phil, please listen to me—”

“But I don’t even want to talk to you…” Phil’s firmly points out. He is looking all around the classroom, at every place and every thing except for Dan. Annoyed, he mutters, “I knew that something was up when PJ said there was a meeting for a new writing program. It just seemed sudden, and I never heard anyone talking about it or anything…”

“Phil, please talk to me?”

“And why should I?”

“Please.”

Instead of responding right away, Phil walks over to Dan, and gets all up his face. He nearly spits at him, and to be honest, he kind of wants to. Inked images of flames are flickering from his bottom of his neck, threatening to reach his chin. He entire demeanor is radiating with bitterness. “Don’t you get it? Can’t you take a hint?” He crosses his arms. “You’re with her, and I’m a total idiot, and you can just live your happy lie. Ignorance is bliss, right?”

“What are you even saying, I don’t understand…” Dan’s voice trails off, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. Brashly, Phil grabs Dan’s arm, hastily rolling up the sleeves. His lips are pressed into a straight line as he takes out his water bottle from in his backpack. Proceeding to pour a bit of water onto Dan’s forearm, he then takes his hand and rubs across Dan’s skin.

The ink smears, as Phil expected.

A sharp intake of breath comes from Dan. His eyes widen, and suddenly it’s like something has lodged itself in his lungs. Frantically, he waves his hands, crying, “Phil, whatever you’re thinking right now, don’t believe it! There’s more to the story, I promise you…” Phil doesn’t respond, he simply twists the bottle cap closed and slips the water bottle back into his bag. “Can we just talk? We need to talk, Phil!”

Phil’s voice is hard and stilted. He doesn’t acknowledge what Dan is saying, not really, but his words speak directly to him. “Dan, if anything, you have to understand this: the project is done, so there is no logical reason for us to talk anymore—”

This is where Dan attempts to shut Phil up. Hurriedly, he had leaned in to close the space between them, with the aim for a chaste kiss on the lips. Just so Phil would stop talking and calm down. That kind of thing works in the movies, right?

But Dan misses.

He misses because Phil turned his face, so that instead of his lips, Dan would hit his cheek instead. A futile attempt overall. When they return to simple eye contact, Phil is anything but pleased. Dan grimaces. He’s worried now.

“Art students,” begins Phil bitterly, “are the worst.” He moves his head so his fringe is out of his face, and all of his focus is on Dan. He shakes his head, a forced chuckle almost escaping his lips.

“Just so you know,” Phil’s eyes are like steel. Unbearing, unyielding, a disclosure with resolve. His words are steady. “I was pretty damn close to falling in love with you.”

Dan’s expression has become a mess of emotion, his voice laced with a desperate want for Phil to stay. Yet Phil is already for the door. “Well I’m pretty damn sure—”

Phil cuts him off one last time, his fingers lingering on the door handle. His face turns so that Dan can see his profile, but can’t see his expression. To be fair, he doesn’t need to, for the impenetrable accusing, disappointed tone of his voice is undeniable.

“Do you tell that to everyone you sleep with?”

<<>>

philip michael lester. flashback; age fifteen.

Apparently this party was supposed to be a big one. More so than usual anyway, and that was why James had forced him to go— and that was why he was here. People seemed to be filling up the house to its brim, and the scent of sweat and alcohol blended into what Phil guessed to be whatever Nirvana imagined teen spirit would smell like. When Phil and James arrived, they were greeted with the same chorus of “heyyy!”s that all the other houseguests probably had to endure.

They had only stepped through the entrance moments ago when James had nudged him in the side with his elbow. “I’m just gonna go and mingle, yeah?”

Phil just passively nodded him off in reply, and turned around to head towards the living room. Before he makes his leave, James patted him on the back with a brief, “‘Kay mate, I’ll be back in a minute.” Phil rolls his eyes, because he highly doubts that. Yeah, yeah. That’s what he said every time.

An hour and a half passed on by. To elaborate, an hour and a half was how long it took for Phil to finally look up from his phone, get up from his spot on the couch, and go to the kitchen for a change of pace, and maybe a drink perhaps. His journey to the kitchen was mildly ruined however, when he realised James had been preoccupied —and was still preoccupied— with making out with someone in the hallway.

Phil simply pursed his lips, blatantly ignored it, and headed towards the drinks. Despite being close, the two were never actually close. As evidenced, that guy was never really a good friend anyway.

Life sucks sometimes, you know? Phil grabbed the nearest drinkable-looking liquid. but before he could pour himself anything, he was stopped. Someone else was offering a red solo cup to him.

“Are you looking for something harsh, or you just want to let loose?” The person says.

“Let loose,” Phil affirmed, with a shrug. “I just want to have less of a crappy time to be honest.”

“Well then here you go mate,” he replied, as he handed him the drink. “I’m PJ by the way.”

The conversation took off from there. Introductions were made, and so were jokes and banter; overall they were having fun getting to know one another. PJ was a film-video major, and was studying directing, writing, and special effects. It turned out that they both attended the nearby arts academy, and that they were in the same lunch period. Numbers were exchanged, and agreements to hang out were arranged.

It seemed like a friendship was to start. One already far better than the one with James.

“It’s been great talking to you Phil,” PJ grinned as the conversation came to a close, patting Phil on the shoulder. “I gotta make my way out though! The party host is a past friend of mine, and I just wanna see if I can give a cheeky hello.” With that, he turned and headed off with a little salute.

“See you!”

And with that, the night went on. The party dwindled down, and as early morning approached, people transitioned from either quietly chatting or leaving, to being completely knocked out or sleeping. The sleeping ones included Phil amongst them, who had succumbed to that heavy-eyed feeling on the stairs. It was one of the only places left that was free: his peers littered the couches, the floors, and the hallways. Along with all of these people, there were cups, half-eaten pizzas, and a whole lot of other trash that were haphazardly left upon every surface and within every possible nook and cranny of the house.

The music that had previously been blasting loud enough to vibrate the whole block had now been turned down to a lower volume, presumably by someone who did so out of the courtesy of others. A simple light pulse could be felt through the floor, and it stood as the only sound left to resonate through the house.

Well, except for the footsteps of one person. A person who, in their completely hammered state, had decided that he wanted to sleep in the comfort of a bed, and was thus attempting to trudge their way to a bedroom. That was before they tripped on Phil.  

Who was on the stairs.

Blocking his way.

Phil’s eyes kinda squinted and fluttered open, eyebrows furrowed as he half-woke up from the sound of whoever fell near him. Once he realised that someone was helplessly lying face down upon the steps, he made the effort to help them up. Even though he himself did stumble a couple of times.

He placed an arm around the person’s shoulder, and the other did the same back at him. In their matching hazy, sleepy states, they made their way to the bedroom together, nearly tripping on more than one occasion as they attempted to hold each other up on the way up the staircase.

A couple fumbles, and they were finally at the top.

“Are we nearly there?” The guy asked, sounding out of breath.

“Yeah,” Phil replied quietly, as he pushed open the first door he came across. “Yeah, nearly.”

When he opened the door, it was easy to tell that it was probably the master bedroom, for it had a bed fit for kings. The duvet looked silky to the touch, and the pillows looked fluffed to homey perfection. It just seemed so, so inviting.

The music from downstairs could still be fairly heard from where they were. The boy Phil was holding onto sorta hummed along and tried to spin them around the room in a dazed dance.

A laughably graceful spin, an uncoordinated dip. “Mmmm, mmm mm mmm…”

It all quickly went downhill though. Expectedly, rather than dancing, they instead clumsily fell onto the bed, the covers being as soft as they looked. Phil giggled as they fell down.

One person on one side, and the other person next to them. They laid down together, back to back, not touching and ready to fall asleep. Phil’s eyes began to close once more. Both of their breathing patterns were becoming slow and even.

Rustling all of a sudden came from the other side of the bed, the shifting of sheets were followed by a genuine, dazed slur of question. The guy spoke at a volume that hardly goes above a hummingbird’s whisper. “Hey, doyouthinkit’sstrangethat… I don’t know. That society is simply made, made up of concepts that are in… inherently real and. And not real?”

Reluctantly, Phil turned on his side to face him so he could reply. He yawned, and shrugged. His voice is gravelly. “I don’t know. Maybe. Some people see marriage as just being a piece of paper.”

The stranger nodded, seemingly accepting his answer. “That’s, that’s true...” He paused for a moment, taking a second to think before he voiced his next thought. “Hmmmm, next question: why are we here?” His voice was more stable now, despite all the alcohol in his system. Probably because he was more awake due to holding a conversation.

“If this is an existential question, that’s too much thinking.” Phil’s face scrunched up as he attempted once more at a better response, but inevitably gave up. A mostly-tired tipsy brain is only capable of so much at two am. “It’s too early for that, mate. Sorry. But if you’re asking for why I’m at this party? Then it’s because,” Phil moved his body so he could be more comfortable, resting his head on his arm. “Well, my friend forced me to come.”

The other one’s body mirrored Phil’s, moving in the bed as he did in order to better situate himself. He replied with a nonchalant shake of his head. “I did mean it as existentia-whatever, but eh, you’re right. Too much thinking. I’m here because of a friend too.”

Somehow, they began to talk about everything. And by everything, it meant just that: worries, fears, existential thoughts, random animal facts. They became so relaxed yet so awake, because if they closed their eyes they would miss these fleeting moments of an almost trance-like unreality. There were no holds barred. Everything left was raw.

After a while, there was a lull. It’s either that or they have fallen into a comfortable silence, Phil truly didn’t know. They were both still lying face to face —but also not really looking at each other— in an absentminded stupor. The stillness was broken when the guy reached over, almost as if he wanted to play with Phil’s hair. He hummed and muttered, “You kinda look like my neighbor, you know?” Phil’s eyebrows only raise slightly in response, like a silent question of “Oh really?”

Dan pursed his lips with an mmhm, decidedly rubbing the black locks in between his fingers and brushing Phil’s fringe out of his face. “You are the prettiest boy I have ever seen, you know...”

After hearing those words, Phil took the other’s hand into his, away from playing with his hair. He brought their hands down to rest in between the both of them, fingers interlocked. Chrysanthemums quickly bloomed on the boy’s face in a blush, which then faded as fast as they appeared. “And that is you, to I,” said Phil.

The boy laughed, the flowers reappeared on his cheeks for several moments fiercer and brighter than before, right before they faded again once more, slowly this time. A soft rosy patch of red on the apples of his cheeks was all that was left behind upon his flushed face. “What are you, a poet?” he jokes.

“Maybe,” Phil smiled.

Whoever made the first move after that moment wasn’t relevant. It was just that at one point they were no longer at an arms’ length away from each other, but yet they somehow had moved closer to one another. Close enough for Phil to see that this pretty boy had the prettiest eyelashes and the softest brunette hair, and for the other to see his three favorite colors within Phil’s eyes. They were simply lying down amongst shared bedsheets face-to-face, alcohol on their breath; two boys with no care in the world.

Phil moved forward just the slightest bit more, letting go of the guy’s hand to move and kiss him behind the ear first, where a tattoo of a marigold immediately began to bloom. Then Phil continued and left soft kisses down the male’s neck.

In response the boy sighed with the quietest ah, nearly moaning from the slightest touch. With the utmost tenderness, he ran his hands across Phil’s shoulders and down Phil’s arms, letting one hand rest on Phil’s waist before he leaned in and gave him a peck of a kiss, making the both of them smile.

“Your touch is so gentle,” Phil says to him. Echoing the other’s words from earlier, Phil continued in a teasing tone, “What are you, an artist?”

The boy only winked, with a hint of a knowing smirk. “Maybe.”

That portion of humanity’s daily twenty-four hours in which the ongoing evening merged with the early day, and when the stars met the morning sunrise, was not only comprised of only the physical world that night, but also of the whispers of yes between strangers and the unspoken confessions between two people who had somehow already met. Perhaps through a past life, or unknowingly, a connection even closer than that.

Because even acquaintances can be something more.

In the morning, it’s skin against skin, amid silken bedsheets and marks from the night before. Their legs were entangled with one another— leaving daisies around Phil’s ankles, while the boy’s arms around him left daisies upon Phil’s shoulders.

When Phil awoke, sunlight had only begun to trickle in. Reluctantly he moved to break away from the guy’s hold, careful to not wake him up, and groggily, Phil grabbed for his phone that was on top of the nightstand.

Four missed calls. Seven texts. His mother must be worried sick.

from mom, to phil:

Where are you Philip???!!!! I’ve called you so many times!! I trust you to be alright, but please contact me to ease your old mother’s heart. Come home as soon as you can, dear. Call me.

Phil sat up on the edge of the bed. Cellphone in hand, he immediately dialed for his mother. As it rang, he began to shuffle around the room to pick up his clothes off of the floor. Pants here, shirt there. Boxers somewhere. The phone rang five times, to which afterwards it then went to voicemail, accompanied by the traditional “Please leave your name after the beep!”. While he struggled to put his jeans on, Phil pinned the phone in the nook between his shoulder and ear.

“Yeah, mom? Sorry I didn’t answer or come home right away, I fell asleep at the party from last night. I’ll be heading there now. Don’t worry, I’ll take a taxi or uber or something.” A quick message and then he hung up, it was just a sign to let her know he was okay. Finally, he slipped his shirt on over his head.

Before he left, he took one last glance at the boy in the bed. It was only at this point does he realise exactly what happened last night. He wasn’t a stranger at all, in fact Phil knew him, he knew him much more than he would like to admit.

The boy was Dan. Dan, the one Phil admired from afar, the one he wrote about in secret.

Phil bit his lip, feeling a twinge of something twist his insides. It’s a mix of guilt and some other emotion. His stomach did not contain butterflies, oh no; right now his ribcage swelled with bumblebees. Stabbing the inside of his chest, filling his lungs so he couldn’t breathe.

But perhaps that was only fitting. Because that couldn’t stop him from confessing the fact that this sight of Dan left Phil a bit breathless.

A state that left Dan looking so vulnerable, while at the same time, looking so damn gorgeous.

Leaning down, Phil’s fingers grazed Dan’s forehead so that he may push those adorable curls aside, and his lips left a light kiss on Dan’s forehead, just above the space between his eyebrows. A farewell that would have to suffice, for after that Phil went back home.

When Dan awoke, he woke up to strewn sheets and duvet, and a slight tingling of where someone had left their mark— literally. There was a small red heart where Phil unknowingly kissed him, along with even smaller ones splattered along his hairline. When he touched them, they gave him a pleasant feeling, but at the same time he was just confused.

On Monday, when he went back for the last day of school, he hid the hearts under his fringe. If anyone were to catch a glance at them, he’d say they were freckles.

The matching redness of his cheeks and his glance towards the floor alluded to otherwise, though. And the way he picked at his shirt collar that hid a hickey or two showed that he was a bit unsure as to where exactly they came from.

<<>>

It has been almost three weeks since he first started avoiding Dan. At first it wasn’t on purpose at all, it was simply a reaction. He felt like he couldn’t help it— he just didn’t want to be around Dan for a while. Being around Dan felt like a confrontation.

But now, Phil is well aware that he has been purposefully distancing himself from him. From ignoring Dan’s texts and calls, taking a different route to classes, and turning the other cheek when Dan attempts to catch his attention. He has been doing it all.

And each and every time he does it, it hurts him. The feeling of contrition makes his insides wrench.

A new tattoo appeared on his thigh a while ago. It’s a clock. Every time he avoids Dan’s persistence, another crack appears on the clockface.

Needless to say, the clock is very close to being completely shattered.

People say that time heals all wounds, and at this point, Phil is praying that the saying rings true. The very idea of disingenuity tears him apart, because if something is built on falsehoods, does it even have any true worth? The answer is no, it doesn’t.

If he were to consider the amount of time he has spent on Dan, Phil has worn his heart on his sleeves for years. Dan was never his, but yet Phil feels like he lost him.

So much of himself, more than he’ll ever want to admit, has gone into this boy. It’s too much. Putting more of himself into someone who does not seem to value him to nearly the same extent is exhausting, and ultimately emotionally draining. Letting it continue on isn’t right.

This is the right choice. Phil is making the right decision, for he is considering every element of the bigger picture. So what if he didn’t hear Dan out back then? That he didn’t listen to what Dan had to say? He’s sure that Dan will just try to cover up his tracks, and move on. He’s sure that Dan’s just that kind of guy, the one who sees everything as temporary, ultimately forgetting about Phil in a matter of months. Dan will just be dishonest because it benefits him somehow. Phil is positive about that.

Because more than anything, Phil doesn’t want to be in love with a liar. And that’s what Dan is.

He needs to put everything behind him.

Phil needs to end it all tonight.

<<>>

pj: Are u sure

phil: I’m sure.

pj: Alright. I let her know. She says you can be the last performer so you should be ready by then

At the last moment, Phil took into consideration what PJ told him about the slam poetry night, and he asked PJ to let the teacher know that he wanted to participate in the school-run event taking place at the local cafe.

Phil decides to do it because such a great number of his poems are about this boy. PJ was right about Dan being his muse; Phil would write stanzas upon stanzas based on him in messy scrawls in the margins of his school notes and frantic jots on his hand.

If he mentioned eyes, the color would always be brown. If he wanted to create a particular atmosphere, it would almost always be one of warmth. And if they were about love…  Phil wrote from experience, because that was an emotion he was all too familiar with.

That is why this performance tonight needs to happen. He needs to get all of this pent up emotion out of his heart and into the world, rather than keeping his feelings restrained to the confines of himself, wishful thinking, and paper.

Phil glances at where the current poet is standing. Whoever is at the microphone right now is doing great, and it is only making him more anxious. The audience is clearly affixed to their words, eating it all up, and clearly enjoying the show.

Remember, tonight is not about the actual performance, Phil whispers to himself.

His palms are laying flat against the table in front of him; an abundance of the poems he has written are scattered all over the surface. There are scribbles in various pen colors and the worn papers are even ripped in some places. Any onlooker could see that these pieces were nothing but the tangible forms of pure amour.

After tonight, the burn he feels in his chest at the thought of him will stop, and the ashes of discarded literature will be its only remains.

Itwillstopitwillstopitwillallstop.

A vibration sends a tremor through the table when his phone screen lights up.

from dan, to phil:

where are you?

Phil picks up his device and shuts it off. Although it could be said that this night was about Dan, it is mostly about Phil, it is about Phil’s feelings, it is about Phil putting it all behind himself. He needs this.

Because it’s justified, right?

Two taps are hitting on his shoulder. It’s PJ, who actually ended up becoming a spur-of-the-moment volunteer to manage the behind-the-scenes for tonight. He leans in to whisper to Phil. “You’re on in a minute or two.” And almost as if he could sense Phil’s worrying, he continues and reassures him with, “You’ve got this, you’ll be great. I believe in you.” PJ clasps his hand on Phil’s shoulder, and gives it a squeeze. At that, he corners of Phil’s lips turn up slightly. He really is grateful for having a friend like him.

“Thank you.”

The supposed minute or two passes by quickly, and soon enough they are introducing Phil’s name. “The final poet of the night,” is what they say. Phil takes a deep breath and goes under the spotlight, the cool metal of the microphone in his hand is doing its best to calm him. He holds onto it tightly. With the spotlight in his eyes, and the cafe lights dimmed, he can’t see the audience at all.

Perhaps that’s for the best. For more reasons than one.

Because right when Phil opens his mouth to begin, someone quietly enters into the cafe. Despite the fact that the slight little twinkling of bells signaled his entrance, no one pays any heed to him.

He chooses to sit in the back.

And Phil notices nothing at all.

“brown is all sorts of golden, in the sense it gives as much warmth as a gentle sun…”

After a few poems, some cafe patrons swear that they see a shadow move from the back of the cafe to the front, as if to listen to the poet better.

“...for although tattoos of roses don't have thorns, blood pours from the prick in my fingertips because i picked you”

With every line, with every poem, with every eloquent sentence having their origins rooted in enclosed secrets, each word that leaves his lungs also lifts a small weight off of his shoulders and manages to carry it over to listening ears. Everything is on the line tonight. Every emotion is on Phil’s sleeve, not just his heart, and every person in the room is hanging on to each otherworldly wordy confession that falls from his lips. And speaking of confessions, Phil’s biggest one is coming up. He wrote it last night, so it’s fairly new.

His final poem. About everything.

Including the night from two years ago.

“young days are of bubbles and bubble gum little girls are so kind, they are so soft that little boys can’t help but fall for them with their small smiles and neat handwriting from tentative hands for a crush and descend

however, i never took the plunge for i saw a boy who was softer: with a subtle cotton candy blush who grew daisies from concrete and carnations on flushed cheeks

a mirage, admiration from afar became inkstained fingertips and etched scrawls on every surface imaginable

(he had freckles that were far more than just constellations, they were made of stardust)

adolescent times; time stopped for one drunken night when only the moonlight was sober, an evening full of whispers and kisses and care that faded when faced with the sun

artists are known to create somethings out of nothings with elements derived from the earth, they turn strokes into paintings clay into sculptures a-and unspoken promises—”

He coughs, his voice caught up in his throat.

“and unspoken promises into h-hope”

Phil’s voice is wavering. His eyes aren’t on the audience anymore. Instead, he’s staring at the floor.

Hands shaking.

“poets are known to write about tragedies and this is no exception there is red on those hands: is it from the words of my pen, your paint on my skin? or perhaps from the thorns from the flowers that bloomed, with your smile that could make the heart grow fonder

perhaps he truly loved her but his smile could tempt a lover

and my dear, even the lawfully good fall into temptation.”

He’s out of breath now. By the end, he was just rushing to get the last few words out, and he was straining his throat. His eyelashes are wet, he can feel them, and he knows that he’s probably on the brink of crying.

Phil bites the inside of his cheek. If he doesn’t, he doesn’t know what will come next. He stays standing there for a moment more, doing a small nod and awkward bow. Barely registering the trickling of applause, his shoulders curl in and he crosses his arms, one hand reaching to rub the place where the all too familiar daisies bloomed.

Would they still be there?

When Phil steps out of the light, it is an unexpected sight. Dan is there, right in front of him: one of Dan’s hands is all tremors while the other is reaching up to his face, desperately wiping away his salty tears. Dan’s hair, in those beautiful curls Phil loves, are in disarray; Dan’s lip trembles; Dan’s eyes are red and looking up at him through wet eyelashes that match his own. It is a state of vulnerability that only God should see. And seeing that? That is the breaking point.

A truth revealed. Barely louder than a bumblebee’s hum, that Phil almost misses it, but good thing that he happened to be great at reading lips.

“I love you,” Dan whispers.

Now that is true the breaking point. At that moment, Phil breaks into sobs, and they both reach out to one another to each other into a bone-crushing hug. “A conversation between us is long overdue,” one of them mumbles into the other’s neck, and the other one just nods, unable to respond with words.

They’re in tears.

<<>>

“I wrote poems about you, you know. Mostly on my front porch. I would never see you, but I always hoped that I would catch a glimpse of you.”

“I would paint in my backyard, among all the plants. I loved painting roses in watercolor, they were my favorite, but so many paintings of mine were made with three particular hues: blue, green, and yellow. My favorite colors. And they just so happen to be the colors of your eyes.”

<<>>

Out on a sidewalk curb, two boys sit with a cup of local coffee. “It’s good to support local businesses,” one says, “and Starbucks is overrated.”

“Yeah I know, you’ve told me,” the other replies. “I remember everything you tell me.”

He puts his head on the other boy’s shoulder. The other boy lifts his hand to gently wipe away the tear stains on the boy’s cheek with his thumb, while the boy softly places a kiss on the other one’s  neck.

<<>>

You have (1) voice mail from Philly-delphia.

“I’m sorry for distancing myself from you. Call me back? Let’s meetup and talk. Bye bye.”  

<<>>

“I’m sorry for not telling you the whole truth. But please know that I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t even being honest to myself. I don’t think I have been honest to myself for a long time now.”

“Dan, it was immature for me to assume. To be frank? Out of line. It was stupid for me to be upset over what you were doing with your own life. What you do isn’t my choice, and I shouldn’t have been so personally affected by it.”

“We’re our own people, of course. I know you know that. And besides, I get where you were coming from.”

“What do you mea—”

“If I lost you, I probably wouldn’t be thinking rationally either.”

A pause.

“...I shouldn’t have acted like you were mine, when you weren’t mine to own.”

“A fair point. And you’re completely right. But I think you’ve had me since the beginning, Phil Lester. I feel like I’ve finally found something that I’ve been looking for my whole life.”

<<>>

dan: let’s take it slow?

phil: That sounds perfect.

<<>>

For centuries, humanity has held art to the highest of esteems. Early neanderthals began it all with their coarse hands, withdrawing dirt from the earth below their feet to leave marks upon rugged stone walls that conveyed the beginnings of history. In the millenniums that followed, a sort of elitism has formed around the most talented ones who have managed to make a name for themselves. The names of these creators are commonplace in many households amongst the nations; buildings are erected with the mere purpose of showcasing such artistic creation.

Perhaps it is for that reason that the phenomenon in which ink would envelop one’s skin was thus regarded as a wonder, rather than as an alarming fright.

Despite seeming harmless, precaution took place of course: scientists all over the globe have dedicated themselves to research the peculiar tattoos. Theories ranging from genetic mutations related to the brain’s creative processes to shifts in the earth’s overall physical environment resulting in a strange seismic change have arisen, but nothing about their origins have been confirmed as of yet. For that matter, nothing has been confirmed as to how exactly they appear either.

There are two people though, who have it all figured out. No matter how many times you ask them, they will always give the same answer: if anything, they appear out of love, they’ll tell you that.

They have graduated now. They are at a graduation party right now actually, and their time at their high school art academy has finally come to an end. Blood, sweat, and tears have been spilled all over the canvases and films and publications and music at that institution, and now every student can only rely on hope that their work does not go to waste as they move on to pursue the rest of their future.

But for now, that kind of worrying does not exist.

There are no drinks this time around. Okay, maybe one or two, and perhaps they are a little tipsy as well, but they are definitely not drunk. They are, however, definitely on a bed again.

Dan and Phil are lying together on a bed again.

Phil throws a question into the air between them. “You know, this is how we met?” Although the words come out in a way that sounds like a rhetorical question, Dan nods.

“I wish I remembered more,” admits Dan. Phil squeezes his hand, and this time, it’s Dan’s turn to ask a question. “Do you regret it?”

Phil thinks for a moment. “I regret how it happened. So in that way, I do, a bit. Maybe even a little more than a bit. Even though I remember that night, the details of it all are hazy, and we weren’t really in the best state of mind.” Dan curls into Phil’s chest, looking up at him as he listens to him speak. Phil affectionately looks back at him. “But then again? I don’t regret that it took place. In some ways, I feel like that night was our starting point.”

With Phil’s arm wrapped around his waist, they are only a breath apart from one another. “And now we’re here,” whispers Dan. His lips pepper a few soft kisses upon Phil’s skin.

Phil echoes Dan’s words with a fond smile, placing a kiss on top of Dan’s head. He absentmindedly runs a hand through the brunette’s waves, Dan finally confident enough to adorn the curls after all those years.

“Yeah, and now we’re here.”

When Dan then comments on how far they’ve come and Phil marvels at how much they’ve grown, it is to be noted that their growth is not just a growth of spirit, or of themselves as people. It’s also evidenced, it’s also proven that is, by their skin.

The single marigold behind Dan’s ear is now a small gathering of flowers. Its stem winds down his neck, its petals and leaves falling to meet the leaves of the tree that grows on his back. The tree on his back is grand, absolutely lovely and absolutely bountiful. Its signs of life are held within every branch, and where the roots end on his hips, are a freckling of small hearts. According to Phil, it is because it thrives off love (“that’s so cheesy,” dan always says. laughing, phil always replies, “it’s supposed to be cheesy!”).

In the meantime, Phil has a whole garden on his shoulders, with flowers of every hue and type. If he ever took the time to search up the meanings, they would not only mean love, but forever, and admiration, and warmth, and together. Upon his ankles are the cutest little succulents and cacti, pretty little plants that are hard to kill. They remind him to remain grounded, and who it is that helps him do so, a representation of how hard it would be to forget the one who is such a big part of his life.

They are kissing slowly now, every touch between them is an embodiment of care and devotion that would put the bond between the moon and tides to shame. Nothing else exists around them. The future is unknown, but as said before, worries don’t exist here.

Because if they are being honest, they are ready for anything.

<<>>

“Mon enfant! I give you my hand! I give you my love, more precious than money, I give you myself, before preaching or law; Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me? Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?” - Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road

(and also, those would happen to be the same lines that dan would propose to phil with a couple of years later.)

[tokidokifish]

i went on another rant about fanfiction with @audrey-scorne and since there’s no point in my suffering if i can’t share it with others, here it is.

it’s not as long but i’m still gonna cut it. there’s... kind of a lot of talk about abortion, for one thing. it’s also a lil nsfw.

tokidokifish: wanna hear about another bad fic i read

audreyscorne: Only always

tokidokifish: so you know i'm not into a/b/o

tokidokifish: but i read a lot of fanfic and if a summary doesn't sound immediately awful i'll give it a read

audreyscorne: hoo boy, one of those huh

tokidokifish: oh yes

tokidokifish: and being Not Into That, i've noticed there are two, like, specific categories of a/b/o fanfic

tokidokifish: one being "essentially everything's the same but people fall into these categories and maybe there's mpreg because i can't conceptualize my fave characters being trans"

tokidokifish: and the other being "holy fuck i am way too into this idea, here is a world built around people being a/b/o, with significant differences in culture to accommodate shit like heats and ABSOLUTELY mpreg"

tokidokifish: this was the latter

audreyscorne: Oh no

tokidokifish: and it's a man from uncle fic. movie version, probably because people who were fans of the show were writing fic before all this bullshit became popular.

audreyscorne: A whole world based on bad studies of captive wolves.

tokidokifish: and weird sexism, but we'll get there

tokidokifish: so napoleon is an omega, and apparently when he was younger he really objected to the idea of the "traditional omega" (which weirdly involves them barefoot in a kitchen, which, okay, but also specifically mentions them wearing "sack dresses" or something of that extent, which makes me wonder, like... was that a part of early 20th century sexism that i just missed out on? is that a big part of a/b/o sexism that i'm just not aware of because i don't do this to myself very often? i don't know, it was weird)

tokidokifish: anyhow, napoleon acts out by sleeping with everyone and then gets pregnant and has an abortion because oh my god, of course

tokidokifish: now, please be aware that this fic was tagged with abortion, and i assumed this was it

audreyscorne: Oh. Oh

tokidokifish: then he goes on suppressants, which i DO know are a big part of a/b/o culture because i do do this to myself TOO often, and yada yada yada we get to the events of the movie and he hooks up with illya, who is an alpha, and goes off his supplements, and ends up like going into heat in the middle of a mission and i... swear to god this happens in the fic, because of course i couldn't make this shit up, but illya Must Fuck Him and this being a/b/o, it's got... fucking... knots, and they end up being extracted STILL CONNECTED, and oh my god would you BELIEVE this isn't even the worst part of this fic?

audreyscorne: I am covering my mouth aghast right now

audreyscorne: You are practicing a very specific and scary form of anthropology

audreyscorne: Thank you for your service

audreyscorne: In the trenches

tokidokifish: it's a form of self-flagellation, probably

audreyscorne: Medieval Catholic monks had nothing on you

tokidokifish: anyhow, illya has to go on a mission alone and napoleon realizes he's pregnant, again, and he wants to keep it this time, but he doesn't tell anyone because he wants to tell illya first

tokidokifish: but because apparently uncle can't just NOT include the fact they extracted two of their agents like actively fucking in the post-mission reports, it gets back to the cia, and they call napoleon back in, because he literally fucking belongs to them, and they force him to terminate the pregnancy

audreyscorne: Bad

audreyscorne: Bad bad no

tokidokifish: hey, guess what, it's not over yet

tokidokifish: so napoleon deals with this Badly, which isn't something i have a problem with because of course he fucking would, you awful goddamn gremlin author, you, but he STILL DOES NOT TELL ANYONE even after illya comes back and their relationship fucking implodes because it's kind of hard to make things work when one half of said relationship is silently suffering from serious trauma they refuse to divulge.

tokidokifish: please be aware that the author tags for "miscommunication" and blames ILLYA for it, which.... come on

audreyscorne: Uhhhh

tokidokifish: anyhow, their partnership suffers, because of course it does, and eventually waverly finds it all out when they're like "hey, so fucking something's wrong with napoleon", and then eventually ILLYA finds out and he and gaby start filling their off time with planning to kill napoleon's cia handler, and he finds out and flips out and in response, i SHIT YOU NOT, decides to dissolve their partnership and go back to the cia

tokidokifish: which illya is understandably a Little Upset About

tokidokifish: specifically pointing out that the cia hurt napoleon and "killed [their] child", which napoleon gets upset about because it wasn't a child, it was a fetus, which, yeah, is a distinction that one would make if they had personally decided to get an abortion, but i think once someone decides to KEEP a baby it officially probably graduates to baby status

audreyscorne: Boy, abortion is definitely a thing the author Gets and is Good At Writing About

tokidokifish: y e a h

tokidokifish: anyhow, napoleon goes back to the cia, and then he disappears. illya is tasked with uncle into hunting him down, and he does, finding napoleon in south america, f u c k i n g pregnant

tokidokifish: by a dude he seduced as part of a mission, not illya

audreyscorne: Of course, narrative rule of three

tokidokifish: so illya is like "yes, i was sent to find you, but now we can go back home and uncle can protect you" and as napoleon is a reasonable person who makes good choices in this fanfic, he responds by tying illya up and fucking bouncing

tokidokifish: and he disappears into europe, where illya tracks him down AGAIN on his own, but it's just to share like fucking... longing, or something, i have the fic open but i do not care enough to remember why this scene happened, all i remember is that illya promises he won't tell anyone about napoleon and napoleon responds by fucking bouncing, AGAIN

tokidokifish: and so it goes until illya shows up fucking SEVENTEEN YEARS after napoleon's twins were born and only then do they hook up again, and i guess the fic ends... happily?

tokidokifish: fucking what?

audreyscorne: It was either that ending or a third abortion and the author flipped a coin

tokidokifish: ignoring the utter incomprehensibility of napoleon's behavior and how completely fucking unnecessary so much of that goddamn fic was, they were together for like MAYBE a few months, and are apparently so fucking in love they have no fucking problem just lingering for SEVENTEEN YEARS after separating to hook up again

tokidokifish: WHY

tokidokifish: how the fuck do you think these things WORK

tokidokifish: what the fuck is your goddamn fetish for abortion

audreyscorne: Oh, it's Dramatic

audreyscorne: Sexual assault not edgy enough anymore? Worry not, shitty writers

tokidokifish: sounds about right, honestly

tokidokifish: fucking GOD

tokidokifish: oh i'm remembering now, they hooked up seventeen years later because illya couldn't leave the kgb while his mother was still alive in russia. i shit you not, the seventeen years was WAITING FOR HIS MOTHER TO DIE.

audreyscorne: True Love

tokidokifish: because their love was strong enough to last seventeen years, but not strong enough to get illya to just move his mother out of fucking russia and leave the kgb. holy FUCKING shit.

tokidokifish: i fucking hate it

audreyscorne: It's bad!

[routinely-unamoosed-blog]

13x03 ~ Familiar Taste of Poison

Summary: Sam struggles to be on Maddie’s side as Dean continues torturing her, all the while Toni is becoming more of a bother.

Character(s): Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester, Maddie Rayner (OC), Toni Bevell

Word Count: 4,876

Warning(s): shit ton of angst, explicit language, mentions of the biggest bitch named toni, mentions of cas’ death that r really insulting to cas as a character but that’s just maddie being maddie so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

One | Two

“Hey,” Dean muttered, his flannel opening a bit at the hem as he walked into the library.

Sam looked up from his lore book. His mind was somewhere else as his eyes drifted across the page, facts about birds being included on the list of monsters he and his brother would hunt. He was dumbfounded when nothing on the combination of a bird, or anything avian, and a human was mentioned.

He lifted his brow a bit higher than it was when Dean jerked his thumb back in the direction he came. “She’s awake,” he finally said after standing there for a solid minute.

The youngest Hunter cleared his throat and slowly closed his book. “O-okay. I’ll, uh, be there in a minute,” he said, voice dropping to barely a whisper. A lump had risen to his throat, and his gut twisted. He tried to talk—he begged, even pleaded—to his brother, and knock some sense into what he was doing with one of the greatest Hunters in the nation.

Kidnapping a Rayner was one thing, but Tasing her? Tying her up and putting her inside of the Impala’s trunk? He felt sick about it, and he could only make himself feel worse when he found himself comparing his brother to Toni; he had kept his mouth shut during the ride back. He went with the flow of things and just . . .  went with it.

“Dee?” His brother stopped in his tracks. Sam understood this game all too well; using nicknames was when he wanted to talk about something serious or get something off his chest.  Dean pivoted on his heel. Sam didn’t give his brother a chance to speak. “Don’t you think you’re . . . kinda emulating . . . you-know-who?”

Dean frowned. “Who are you . . .”

“I mean, come on. Tasing Mads? Tying her up and putting her inside the trunk? I can’t really find myself not relating to her a little bit.” Sam let his voice trail off. He felt his patience wearing thin, especially when the devil herself clicked her tongue in disagreement.

Toni sat in the war room, her elbow leaning on what appeared to be the southern coast of Argentina. Her fair hair was done in a neat bun parallel to her eyes on the back of her head, with a tan leather jacket accommodating a white undershirt and matching dress pants. Black flats completed the look, along with beige eyeshadow to bring out those stupid eyes.

She shook her head slightly. “You don’t like me, Samuel, but I get it. Maybe Maddie would enjoy the same activities we endured during our time together. Or, perhaps, once that strapping lad of a brother leaves, we could have some . . . alone time, hmm?”

Sam glanced over at her with a slight shudder, tears springing to his eyes when he saw the needle in her hand. He managed to keep his fear and anger under control, but the second his brother rolled his eyes and retreated down the hall, the Hunter jumped from his chair and dashed down the stone stairs. He stopped at the world map, bracing himself on it with both hands trembling and his fingers turning white. Anger made his face hard, with his upper lip twitching in irritation.

His veins rose along his skin. Toni glanced down at them and licked her lips to his disgust. Sam lifted his arm and pointed at her with a stiff hand. “Shut. Up. You’re not . . . real.”

Standing, Toni sauntered her way around the table at a slow and predatory pace. Her eyebrow was arched slightly, with her tongue set between her teeth. Maddie had done the same exact thing in the motel parking lot. He thought it was hot, but now? He felt disgusted for even considering the action as sexy on Maddie’s part.

He shook his head at Toni, pressing his thumb into his palm where his scar used to be from years ago.

It still worked. Toni flickered away with an eyeroll.

He was finally greeted with silence. He finally felt calm in what seemed like weeks, or months if he counted the tension between his brother and his estranged mother. He knew Toni would be back later, but Sam decided to embrace this moment of silence with open arms.

A hand ran through his hair as he sighed deeply, feeling hesitant when he stepped back into the library. His book, checked out from the local library when he couldn’t find anything bird related in the Bunker, lay closed on the nearest table closest to the steps. His hand reached out and scooped it up with ease, the book opening to the page he marked with a sticky-note.

His mind went directly to Maddie the second he laid eyes on a depiction of the Greek god Eros. A marble statue of the god was said to be of Pompeiian decent, one line said, and a blush ran to his cheeks when he read that Eros was, officially, the god of sexual desire and attraction.

Even mythology can predict his future. He shook his head and turned the page, only to be greeted by another mouthful of a paragraph of Eros. His jaw clenched. His cheeks burned with embarrassment, but he read on. One part of the paragraph quoted a Greek comic playwright named Aristophanes that detailed the birth of Eros:

“At the beginning, there was only Chaos, Night (Nyx), Darkness (Erebus), and the Abyss (Tartarus). Earth, the Air and Heaven had no existence. Firstly, black-winged Night laid a germless egg in the bosom of the infinite depths of Darkness, and from this, after the revolution of long ages, sprang the graceful Love (Eros) with his glittering golden wings, swift as the whirlwinds of the tempest. He mated in the deep Abyss with dark Chaos, winged like himself, and thus hatched forth our race, which was the first to see the light.”

Sam’s lips parted a bit, his brow furrowing in deep concentration. He turned the page again, reading more on winged humanoids in folklore and mythology. There was the Greek legend of Icarus, the son of an Athenian craftsman who built the famous Labyrinth in Crete. Icarus and his father, Daedalus, were imprisoned in the Labyrinth when King Minos’ daughter helped Theseus, the enemy of the king, defeat the Minotaur.

He knew this legend all too well. He was always a fan of mythology, even if it wasn’t relevant to a case. Daedalus fashioned a pair of wings using wax, feathers and a thread given to them from Ariadne,  King Minos’ daughter. Escaping the Labyrinth, Daedalus instructed Icarus to not fly too low above the Mediterranean Sea or to not fly too high, for the Sun would melt the wax. Icarus disregarded his father’s advice and flew too close to the Sun, whose rays melted the wax and sent Icarus to his death.

The thought of death made his mind wander. He thought about how iron and silver were the two number one things that monsters could be killed, but he remembered seeing an iron ring on Maddie’s middle finger. Plus, not to mention, the angel sword she wields must be made of iron or silver, so she couldn’t be killed by either of those elements.

Maybe it’s not a mythological thing, he thought and shut the book. He stood from his chair and stalked to the staircase, hustling down them and jogging to his bedroom. He rushed past the closed dungeon door, not even taking a glance at it. He was worried about what Dean was doing to Maddie, but he was paranoid now that Dean would do worse if he didn’t get what he wanted.

Sam ignored Toni’s figure on his bed. Her jacket was off, and with that revealed her bare arms from the shoulder down. He hated to admit that her arms looked quite nice despite her age.

He blushed slightly when she crawled to the end of the bed at yet another predatory pace, her fingers wrapping around the footboard. Her hair fell from over her shoulder to rest above her breast.

Her hand reached for him when he finally found his tablet. He unplugged it from its charger atop his dresser. Toni’s fingers gripped his sleeve and tugged him closer to the bed, her other hand trailing up his chest. Sam clenched his fists with his jaw hinging forward in protest.

He knew she was trying to reel him in. She was trying so damn hard to make him fall for her again.

He shoved himself away and left the room, pressing his thumb into his palm as he did so. He heard the strained flickering behind him; he didn’t look over his shoulder. He felt her, though. He felt her presence looming over him from behind even though she was massively short compared to his monstrous height.

He ignored her again. He turned the corner and stopped in front of the dungeon door. It was the only thing that kept him away from Maddie. His heart tugged at what Dean was doing, and it tugged even harder when he heard her groaning inside.

Sam dug deep inside himself to find the courage to open the damn door. His hand shook as he turned the lever, the gears inside of the eighty-two-year-old door groaning in protest as it slowly opened. It was quite heavy, in his opinion, but he found it easier to open each time he did it. His daily workout routines were paying off, both on and off the job.

The bookcases were closed. Chains rattling echoed in the large room, with the combination of old books and blood making Sam’s eyes water. He blinked and shook his head. His hand trembled even more now when he reached out and pulled open the two bookcases, revealing a pissed-off Dean and a bloodied Maddie.

The first thing he noticed about her was the giant scar running from the center of her forehead to her jawline. It was a wide wound that was bleeding profusely, with thick trails of blood dripping into her lap and on the floor. Her left cheek was slashed, as well, as were both her arms. A dried pool of blood soaked her shirt in the stomach area; her shoulders were bleeding with large X’s carved into them.

How is she alive? he thought.

Dean set down a machete that was covered from tip to heel with blood. His hands were turning pink and crimson with new and dried blood.

The tray next to him, mocking the youngest Winchester’s former demise with Toni, was filled with instruments of torture. He shifted on his feet uncomfortably and cleared his throat, toying with the tablet as he swept his eyes over Maddie and the table.

Turning, his brother looked up at him. Suddenly Dean’s face lit up a bit, and that darkness in his eyes was gone. It disturbed Sam more than when Dee had the Mark of Cain, or when he was a demon. Eye wrinkles creased in the corners of his brother’s eyes, a characteristic that the women of the world couldn’t resist.

“Hey, Sammy,” he said with happiness in his voice.

Sam cast a concerned glance Maddie’s way. Her shirt and jeans were in pieces. Both items of clothing were covered in blood, with her lap being the most covered from the scar on her face. What alarmed him the most was how still she sat.

He shifted on his feet and showed Dean the screen. “Maybe she isn’t anything, Dean,” he muttered, pain cracking his voice. His gut churned the second he saw her like this. It pained him to see her tortured to a pulp and barely breathing while chained to a chair in a place unfamiliar to her. The least Dean could do was loosen the bonds, but even he knew that was a horrible idea.

His mind sent off alarms in his head. when he thought about what would happen if she got free. She’d kill us both, that’s for sure, he thought with a dizzying wave of uneasiness.

Maddie’s head lifted a bit. Sam’s jaw clenched when her shoulders rolled and her head lifted itself up to stare at the ceiling. The chains behind her rattled quite loudly when she began to struggle, her teeth baring and a snarl leaving her lips. She glanced behind her at her bonds and stared up at Dean with death in her eyes.

“Are the chains necessary, Dean, or are they here to satisfy your kinks?” she spat, a taunting arch of an eyebrow clearly setting the Hunter off. Sam fought a snicker on his part and managed to keep it on the inside.

Dean stepped over after he retrieved a dagger smaller than the machete. Sam’s gut churned the closer his brother got to her and tensed when Dee grabbed Maddie’s jaw in his hand and rested the tip of the blade on her chest. He chuckled to Sam’s dismay. The eldest Hunter’s head lifted a bit as if narrowing his eyes and twisted the blade on the surface of Maddie’s skin. Her face contorted to a slight grimace, but her expression remained taunting.

“I’m gonna ask you once and once only,” Dean spat, voice dripping with venom, “what are you?”

Maddie let out a devilish chuckle that mocked Dean’s. Sam felt a pang of regret for just standing there and not doing something, for the angel killer’s next words would haunt him forever: “Your questions can kiss my ass, Dean.” Dean’s hand flew between her side and right arm, his fingers grabbing the reinforced steel chains and pinning them to her wrist. Hissing filled the dungeon, mixed with Maddie’s pained grunts and profane threats she spewed at him. Sam shifted on his feet, fists clenched at his sides, and forced himself to not grab Dean and throw him across the room.

“Dean,” he said quietly, voice deeper than usual with emotion. Dean ignored him and grabbed the dagger from the tray and stabbed the blade into her leg. Flesh squished and blood boiled to the surface, pooling over her leg and dripping to the floor. A violent scream burst from Maddie’s throat, with the chains rattling loudly in the dungeon.

Bile rose in Sam’s throat. Toni stood behind the chair, an arm draping on Maddie’s shoulder. She was dressed in the same outfit as earlier, this time a blowtorch replacing the needle she had held. His jaw clenched when it turned on, which made him jump to his dismay, and told himself this wasn’t real.

This isn’t real, he thought when Toni placed the nozzle of the torch directly on Maddie’s scar.

Before he knew it, Sam was barreling down the hall towards his room. A wave of coolness slammed into the back of his head as he bent over the sink and vomited, his eyes squeezing shut. He remained there, arms braced on the sides of the sink, until nothing but stomach acid came up.

His throat burned, his mouth hurt. He shuddered and coughed, hoping and praying nothing else would come up. He rested his forehead on his arm, turning the sink on and washing his vomit down the drain.

When he looked up, a single tear slipped from his eye when, in the mirror, Toni stood behind him. A soft smile was on her face as they stared at each other for what seemed like forever. Those crystal pools haunted him both in and out of sleep, and today marks the eighth day he hasn’t slept a full night without nightmares.

She took a step forward. Another tear slipped, another drop of his dignity falling with it. His soul felt weak inside of him; it cowered in the corner when Toni stalked her way closer to him. He watched her in the mirror, his entire body shaking when her ice cold hands wrapped around his frame. He closed his eyes and shuddered in front of the sink.

“I missed you,” she purred, resting her head on his shoulder, hands snaking around his chest. He shook in her grasp, with tears dripping into the sink. “You know, Sam . . . I know you enjoyed our little fling together. How you groaned my name? I’d—”

Sam grabbed the glass sitting beneath the mirror and hurled it across the room over Toni’s head, with her figure fading away like smoke as he screamed, “Leave me alone!”

He stood there with his chest heaving in anger. He ran his hand through his hair and blinked, squeezing shut his eyes and opening them wide as the room swayed beneath his feet. Voices added to his dizziness, with most of them being different things Toni had spoken to him during his time with her.

Sometimes objects in his room flickered to things in the farmhouse. His duffle bag on his bed changed to cow prods, and his stash of ammunition flickered to needles and drugs of various sizes and doses. The voices grew in volume.

Toni’s degrading words and taunts rose to shouts, with moments of Ms. Watt carving into him flashing across his eyes.

The last thing he remembered was falling to the concrete floor.

It took him about five weeks to finally gather the courage to go back into the dungeon. He had busied himself with research sessions and bidaily jogs to the store, where he would stock up on whatever things the Bunker needed: beer, food, ingredients for his “disgusting and nasty” protein shakes, as described by his wonderful brother; and over-the-counter sleeping pills.

He drove himself to insomnia as the weeks crawled on without sleep. He had kept his lack of sleep from his brother, of course, claiming he had stayed up too late doing research for various or sparse cases; last week, there was a werewolf in Elkhorn, Nebraska, that took only four days to finish.

Dean had found him unconscious in his bedroom. Apparently, he had passed out from lack of sleep, and Sam even suffered a concussion from slamming his head on the floor. His brother said he needed stitches, but it didn’t take long for his memory to come back.

It didn’t take long for him to remember Maddie was still here.

Maddie’s screams slipped their way beneath his door. He flinched when her screams suddenly stopped. He slammed shut his book. It was a lore book on Chupacabra, and everything he’d read went out the window as he hurled himself off his bed and opened the door.

It took a while to make it to the dungeon. Even though he and his brother had been living there for almost five years, he still found himself becoming lost and continuing straight when he should’ve turned the corner.

Toni appeared next to him, her shoulder leaning on the wall next to the door. Sam ignored her, as per usual, as he stepped inside. The dungeon was consumed in darkness, save for the domes of yellow given off by the lights above him. His head shook in irritation when the soft clacks of Toni’s heels sounded seconds later.

The bookcases were closed suspiciously. It was obviously Dean’s very poor way of covering something up that happened to Mads, and it didn’t take long for Sam to realize how quiet it was in the musty room. It was too quiet, in his opinion, and as he made his way toward the bookcases, Toni couldn’t help but commentate.

“Quiet like you,” she whispered.

“Screw you,” Sam replied, his hands reaching out and wrapping around the shelf’s iron case. He gave the two rolling bookshelves a good tug, and the doors opened, sending a wave of pale light to shine on his lower body and on Toni’s entire, fictional and completely nonexistent body.

Maddie sat in the chair with her head bowed, her chest never rising and falling. A piece of duct tape was positioned over her lips, with her head wound bleeding more than he’d seen it earlier. It seemed like her knees were cut and bleeding to beyond restoration, but it looked like her wounds from weeks ago were already healing.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” Toni quipped with intrigue. Sam’s heart twisted with disgust as Toni made her way to Maddie, stopping and admiring the damage on the Hunter’s body. “Beautiful handiwork.”

He ran over when he saw the machete embedded into her shoulder, keeping the right side of her body pinned to the chair.

Sam fell to a kneeling position, his hands immediately going to cradle her head. His hands stopped, however, and instead went to check her pulse. Her skin was cold beneath his, and a tear came to his eye when her pulse was deemed faint.

Her head snapped up and muffled screams filled the room. Her eyes were wide as ever, scanning his face for the apparent darkness she had witnessed with Dean. Sam clutched her face and rubbed his thumbs along her jaw, quietly shushing her as she struggled and screamed. His heart tugged.

“Hey. Hey, Mads,” he whispered, “Maddie. Maddie! Listen to me, okay? I’m not here to hurt you. Promise. Just lemme take this off and I can help you. Okay? Do you trust me?”

She quieted a bit. Her chest heaved and shone with sweat, soft grunts leaving her sealed mouth. Her head lolled when she lifted it up, to which Sam grabbed the sides of her neck and held her head up with his thumbs. His heart thundered in his chest as he shook her to try and keep her alive or conscious; he couldn’t tell if she was hyperventilating, passing out or dying.

Finally, she nodded and allowed him to pry the duct tape off her lips. Her breath shuddered and she shook in the chair. When Sam went to get a grip on the machete, she shook her head and let her head fall back slightly with exhaustion.

It took her a few seconds to find words. Seeing her so exhausted from fighting the pain Dean had caused her made him feel gross. For once in his life, he could relate to Rayner. For obvious reasons, the Rayner bloodline couldn’t necessarily be deemed as relatable, but now? He never felt so complete with Maddie.

He waited for her to speak, and once she did, his tormentor snickered next to him.

“Leave it in. I-I don’t him to think you’re . . .  he-helping me.” Maddie’s voice was beyond raspy, possibly from her five weeks’ worth of torture on his brother’s part. The thought of Dean made Sam tense and glance over his shoulder, thankful he didn’t see his brother.

Toni paced around Maddie and stopped at her side, legs bending so she could be level with the angel Hunter. Sam took his hands from Maddie’s head and pressed his thumb into his palm as hard as he could, grunting when Toni’s figure simply flickered like a television losing its signal for a few moments. Instead, he focused on Maddie. She was his number one priority at the moment, and at any time, Dean could return from his break. It pained Sam to know that he had a ticking time bomb in his hands, plus a hallucinogenic Toni Bevell weaseling into his life like Lucifer did.

Least you’re not with him, he thought. He felt a little better after that thought came and went, but the glare from the Woman of Letters made him resist making eye contact with her.

“The question is, Samuel, would you rather be with me or Lucifer? After all, you were tortured by him, so what makes you think I’m any better?” Toni’s voice annoyed him, and this accent in a pantsuit bitch made him want to punch a wall. He ignored her; it was the only thing he could do without looking insane. Sam clenched his jaw as he stared at Maddie. Her eyes, he realized, were struggling to stay open. He looked at the machete, which was probably the only thing that was keeping her from bleeding out.

He looked up at the second door not far from Maddie’s chair. If he could get her out of the chair without severing any major organs, he could have her in a motel a few miles away in less than an hour. An hour could save her life, he thought. His hand lifted to grab the machete, but he knew Maddie would start bleeding the second he moved the weapon.

Praying that Toni would go away out of annoyance, he waited until Maddie returned her gaze to him. Tears were in her eyes, and Sam’s soul felt crushed. She was scared—horrified was a better word—and in serious pain, possibly thinking that he was here to hurt her. He wanted to yell at her that he was here to help, but even he knew she’d think that was bullshit.

“Maddie. No, no, no, hey. Hey, Mads. Stay awake for me, okay?” Her head was bobbing up and down, and he knew it wasn’t long until she lost consciousness. Her lips barely moved as she looked up at him through her drooping lashes. “I’m so tired . . .” Her voice was barely a whisper, either, and it broke his heart. Just seeing her like this broken, defeated woman who didn’t deserve any of this.

Sam bowed his head, lips scrunching to the side in thought. His brow furrowed, too, and the idea that hatched in his brain went burning to the ground when the door opened behind him, and Dean’s halted footsteps stopped.

“Sam.” Dean’s voice was deep with confusion and slight anger. “What’re you doing?”

Mads lifted her head as much as she could with a groan, the flesh around the machete squishing around. More blood oozed from the wound and dripped to the floor. The chains rattling filled the silence that wrapped its arms around the Hunters. Dean held his knife, twirling it on his fingertip nonchalantly.

Sam’s jaw clenched tightly when Maddie spoke. “Bet you wish Castiel could zap on in and heal me. Brand new slate for a brand new session, huh?” She drew in a sharp breath as if wincing and continued. “Ooh. Hold on. That’s right. He’s dead as a doornail.”

Dean stormed over and placed the dagger’s tip on her chin. Sam moved to push him away, but his brother’s other hand reached into the back of his pants and took out his pistol, cocking and raising it to Sam’s head without looking away from Maddie.

“Don’t even, Sam.”

“Course, I’m not saying that you wish he was here. You want him here, need him here. Is that right? That longing, depressive feeling that’s been eating at you for weeks is simply delicious, in my opinion. The greatest Hunter in the nation had his precious little boyfriend put down like a dog. But, alas. If only I were the one who made that killing stab, my life would be so much brighter.” He was shocked Dean didn’t end her right then and there. What happened, however, was his big brother grabbing the machete and twisting it clockwise, sending a fountain of blood to lightly spray from the wound.

Instead of screaming, Maddie let out a maniacal chuckle. “Y’know, the little bastard deserved it. Fucking up the world for one measly human, rebelling against his superiors for one measly human. Almost killing seven billion people for Dean Winchester.

“I wonder how it feels to have the love of your life taken from you so tragically, so soon,” she continued, her voice cracking and dipping as she spoke. “But, I guess he died knowing you didn’t love him. Bet he never got the chance to say, either, considering his little problems he had to deal with. His family never accepted him—his true family, might I add—and everybody talking about him like he was nothing but a piece of shit walking this earth. Oh, wait! He still is, even in death. I sleep great at night, by the way, knowing that he died without a purpose. Guess he’ll always be the one who got away, huh, Dean?”

Sam stared at her in horror. Tears were in his eyes at the degrading and shocking words that this woman just said about his friend, but he wasn’t prepared for the bone-rattling punch that Dean threw, Maddie’s head whipping back and going limp as she slumped to the side, unresponsive. When her chest rose and fell, a sigh of relief left both Hunters.

The younger Hunter stared awkwardly at his brother. Dean’s knuckles were bleeding and cracked, but apparently, he didn’t care. When Dee exhaled sharply, Sam cleared his throat. “Why don’t I take a stab at her? Y-you need a break, anyway.”

Dean turned and stared at him like he had said that Dad was alive and breathing. At first, he was confused, but then his brother shook his head and turned to leave. “Cut her tongue out next time,” Dean said over his shoulder as the door was opened. It creaked closed faster than Sam could unchain Mads and carry her towards the door.

[mythomagically-delicious]

Okay so I had this weird dream last night, probably spurred on by the amount of Deep Space Nine I’ve been watching.

I lived where, for the most part, it felt like we had freedom. But the Cardassians were in charge, with (surprise, surprise) Gul Dukat in charge overall of the city. There were strange rules applied to what we humans could and could not do.

But the strangest law of all was the Selected Rule. The Selected Rule happened like this: at some point after a human turns 17, whether days, weeks, months, or years later, they are Selected. Hundreds of humans can be Selected within a time frame. Once you’re Selected, you have 1 week to find a mate, according to the laws of the city, or else you’ll be publicly executed. 

There is, understandably, a frenzy when one is Selected. All the events that were going on at the high school or around the block suddenly become life lines. The desperation to stay alive is clear, but somehow people are still holding out for a marriage other than convenience, in some cases. Hoards of people swarm, looking and searching during their week for another of the Selected, hoping the one they loved would be Selected too.

In my dream I had searched all the week for a Selected who had not yet married. Everywhere I turned, though, people were pairing off. I thought I had made a friend among the Selected, and hoped that if all else failed, she would marry me. (But in my dream, despite it being in accordance with the Laws, I knew my family might shun this decision, and I was scared). 

Her name was Reach. She had a brother among the Selected as well, and one day she set us up to see if we could be married. My time was running out, I had maybe a day left before my Selection expired. I went to the meeting place to meet her brother (his name was E). When I got there, I was surprised. He wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, but he was still beautiful to me.

I rushed forward, excited to meet him, but his face was closed off and reluctant. I hesitated, asking him what was wrong. He sighed but did not beat around the bush.

“I know this night I was to meet you, and for the sake of my sister, help her friend who had been Selected with her, and still be accepted by our families. But I do not want to lie to you. Earlier this day I met with another, a more beautiful Selected I had hoped to marry. Her name is Ezra Short. She would have been my ideal match. Not you, you’re pathetic. She is worth something greater than an average Selected. You-you’re nothing. And were it not for my sister’s sake, I would leave immediately. Knowing what I have told you, do you still wish to wed? Knowing you will always be a regret in my heart when the one I wanted is waiting for my yes, even now?”

I was crushed. Reach had told me her brother was honorable, smart, maybe rough around the edges, but kind. He displayed none of that to me. By the end of his speech I could feel the anger rolling off his words, pinning me to where I stood. But I couldn’t do it. Not to another Selected. I couldn’t take that away from someone who’d found a True Match, the rarest thing of all during a time of Selection. So I looked down and told him to go be with the other.

He smiled and thanked me, and left. 

I ran to the nearest building and wept. My time was running out, now with just a few hours left, and nothing to show for it. 

Reach found me later, hand in hand with a tall man. She told me she’d wed while she’d sent E to me. She thought he would be a good match for me. She apologized, crying as well. Her husband knelt before me and said there was still time. 

I knew there was not. I stood and thanked them, gave Reach a kiss and hugged her husband, their kindness in my last moments meant a lot. But it was not enough. I went to the Hall of the Lost (popularly called ‘the Hall of Lost Causes’ behind the backs of the Cardassians) of my own free will. This is where the executions would be broadcast to the entire city. Usually a Selected is rounded up and brought in. Once you enter the building, it is too late to wed. You cannot meet there out of a ‘last-chance’ mindset. The Cardassians will not allow it.

Going inside sealed my fate. 

Or, it should have.

Inside was Odo, whom I’d met earlier in the week, but he was not of the Selected, so our conversation was brief. I talked with him again, shook his hand warmly, even so far as to hug him. He allowed it, knowing what it meant to be in the Hall at this time. I watched Odo as he went around the room as it slowly filled up with more of the Lost Causes, greeting them warmly and welcoming them with a gesture of affection. It was kind, from him, to do this. I saw a few people I vaguely recognized from my life before the Selection, the shopkeeper on 8th was standing here. He was 27 before he’d been Selected, apparently. 

I walked over to him, expressed my condolences on the store. We talked for a bit and hugged before parting. (I promise, all of the hugging is relevant).

I walked around the room, following Odo’s example, trying to be kind in my last minutes, ignoring the taunting eyes of the Cardassians, ignoring the jeers and mockery aimed at us from the soldiers surrounding us. I found myself standing with Odo as the last of the people were brought to the Hall, and the doors were locked. 

Gul Dukat began a speech about how fair he is with his rules, and how much it pains him to see us unhappy, but there must be law and order in our society, and without us adhering to those laws, we have no place (and so on and so forth, talking about his big heart for us, and for the regret he has for what his actions must now be--basically BS as he talks for a long time about why he’s going to kill us). 

Odo leans down and tells me to be ready. I look up at him, startled. I want to ask ‘ready for what?’ but before I can a flash runs through the room and the lights flicker momentarily. When they come back on, I find myself encased in gold filaments, almost as if the transporter were activated, but instead of blue it is gold around me. I can turn, but my body is shaking and it’s hard to control my movements. I see Odo is similarly encased, as is many occupants of the room.

Dukat’s speech is interrupted as he starts to call for Order and an Explanation and the soldiers try to round us glowing, golden people up. But we couldn’t be. Somehow it worked as a shield and repellant. If anyone who was not Golden tried touching us, they were shoved away as if burned. But the Golden could touch each other just fine. Odo waved us on, moving through the ranks as we tried to get the hang of walking around in this new form. A surge of sound echoed outside the Hall, and the doors are burst open, with non Goldies and non Selected (or successful Selected, there were both here) rushing into the hall with weapons. 

They shot down the Cardassians. We Goldies helped by forming rings around the Cardassians and keeping them from escaping. I looked at who else was encased in gold, and realized that all Odo had touched or hugged before the start of the ceremony was encased. Somehow he was the key to this.

We succeeded in taking the room. Odo and some of his friends who came from the outside grouped around Dukat and took him prisoner, tying him together with the rest of the soldiers we’d captured alive, making sure they were guarded to be tried for crime against us after we took control of the city back. Apparently as we had been gathered up to the Hall, riots were taking place all over the city, rising up against the Cardassians. 

The Resistance had been using physical touch to transfer the material that allowed the golden body shield to activate at a signal, so all around the city people had been infected by it through hugging, mainly. The gold wore off after half an hour, thus why the people who came from the outside were no longer encased by the time they made it to the Hall.

Once the city was back in our hands, we knew it was only a matter of time before Central Command sent reinforcements to reclaim us. But our resistance spread to other cities, the methods they used to take control, and soon they had a real fight on their hands to keep us contained. (One they eventually lost).

Our city, though, stayed free throughout the rest of the fighting. Local government was established and many of the Laws were repealed and replaced. Including the Selected Rule. No longer would we be restricted in that way. All marriages made during the time of the Selected Rule were allowed resources to divorce and re-establish themselves. 

I ran through the streets, seeking out my former friends, excited to share this news with them, now that there was no fear and no timeline. I ran into Reach on my way, and she told me she and her husband were one of the many who would divorce now that the Selected Rule was over. I picked her up and twirled her around in excitement. We agreed we wouldn’t marry for at least a year, just to be sure we were actually a True Match. We no longer looked for the approval of our families, we were just elated to be alive and able to make our own choices. We saw other people, we dated each other, we didn’t date anyone.

Five years later, we wed. We were a True Match all along. But we were finally able to discover that on our own, and not out of the desperation or fear the Cardassians put on us. 

[gothjjk]

how are you dealing with jjong passing away are you doing alright? 😥💗

ty for your concern!! i am doing better than when i first heard about it but im still not 100% okay, nd dont think i’ll ever be, i hope ur doing ok tho !!!! 💕

also u can ignore whats under the keep reading part i just need a place to write about how ive been dealing with it all just so that i can keep it somewhere for myself its boring nd long nd not worth reading

i remember opening tumblr after coming home from work and seeing a few sad posts/edits about shinee but i was scrolling pretty fast nd not reading through posts properly and the first thought i had was that shinee had disbanded (which, looking back, i now hope that was actually the case instead of what happened) so i clicked on a mutuals blog to find out what the fuss was about and i saw an ask saying what happened? and they answered that jonghyun passed away and i. didnt believe it i didnt want to believe it it hadnt been confirmed yet by sm at that time so i was like okay this is fake he is alive and safe but after a few minutes the news about him passing away turned out to be true yet i still didnt fully believe it i started crying so hard i was hyperventilating and all i didnt know what to do i dont think i even remember what i did after that i was just full on in a hysteric crying mode i went through tumblr some more hoping thatd help calm me down but seeing all those posts about him talking about how he’s gone made it all worse i just closed my laptop turned off all the lights and started listening to all the shinee songs on my phone and every time i heard jjong’s voice my tears woudlnt stop coming i think i cried for two hours more after that and stopped, i didnt eat dinner i had no appetite at all my head felt like it was going to burst and i actually really wanted to kill myself i didnt want to be alive any more i didnt want to live when he wasnt either it was a really bad night for mei just took some sleeping pills and hoped for the best. the next morning that i woke up my eyes were so fucking swollen i looked so bad had the worst headache and had to go to work which i was looking forward to a bit cuz i thought it would take my mind off of this all especially since i had to work for 8 hours three days straight and i gotta say working did help distract me even though i was feeling dead inside it did help a bit to not actively think about him and destroy myself even more i also had to work at the asscrack of dawn and i could still see the stars when i was walking to work i started tearing up staring at them thinking about jjong again i will think of him every time i look up at the nightsky now. that day i also couldnt listen to any shinee songs anymore when tell me what to do came on shuffle i got so fucking mad even though thats my favourite song of theirs i skipped it and put on another song i really could not deal with it its a wonder i didnt burst out crying at work tbh i also had the worst migraines this whole week and felt sick and nauseous all the time this really took its toll on me i’m exhausted. i also took a break from tumblr, actually i was tempted to delete my acc since i couldnt get myself to think i would ever be able to post happy things again but idk, anyways that didnt help immensely i think tiring myself out by working a lot helped i also saw my friend whom i hadnt seen in like 2 months today we hung out and chilled and it was rlly nice being with him so that distracted me as well also i started istening to jjong’s songs and his voice has been very healing and soothing i feel like he’s still here with us i think i still dont want to believe that he’s actually gone like when i watch videos and see him have fun in them or when i see pictures of him or when i hear his voice and laugh it really doesnt sink in that he’s not here anymore when i can experience his presence like that i dont think he will ever fully be gone from this world he still lives on especially in all of our hearts and i think coming to terms with that is important this is also the first time that someone i love passed away so i didnt know how to deal with it at all especially since i love jjong so fucking much he was and still is so important to me i wanna thank him for everything that he has done i still feel bad knwoing that he had to suffer and that i couldnt do anything for him but i think just as we dont want him to suffer he doesnt want us to suffer as well so as hard as it may be we should live our lives in thebest way we can and show him how much he meant to us i willnever forget about him and my heart will always feel heavy because of what happened but i think the love i have for him is stronger than the sadness i feel and thats realy important or maybe i’m just bullshitting but thats okay too i think if i killed myself here right now he wouldnt have wanted that not that he knows me or cares about me specifically or anything but im sure he didnt want to cause this much sadness and hurt and as much as i would like tp say that he’s happy now and that he’s watching over us in heaven i dont believe in the afterlife so i wont say that but i do believe that he’s watching over us his energy is still present in the world and i do like that thought hes still here with us he still loves us and we still love him so jjong, i thank you, i miss you and i love you from the bottom of my heart.