#that or cough up enough to try trans tape but friends when I tell you I get rashes from ''sensitive'' plaster adhesive--

[falderaletcetera]

my old binder was a constant hug and I miss it. unfortunately it was also a handsewn monstrosity of scrap denim and elastic panels and that means I have to go through all that again (including all the measuring and guesswork because guess who didn't take notes on the very experimental process). and all because [redacted just trust me that traditional binders don't work for me]

[platypanthewriter]

Dildos and Hayfever

Harringrove April prompt day 13, Hayfever.  Detective Billy Hargrove's had a rough time lately, and Captain Hopper assigns him a partner who'll either make everything worse...or everything better.

“All you need to know is he’s the commissioner’s son,” rang in Billy’s head as he stalked down the hall.  Hopper had followed up with “I told him you were fresh out of rehab,” and  “I’m sure you can remember enough of the ropes to show him, right, it’s not like he’s gonna be doing the work anyway,” and Billy gritted his teeth, punching the elevator buttons with a vengeance.  

The light flickered, worsening the headache that always came on in the spring when all the flowers bloomed, and every tree on every sidewalk in the city shot its rocks off in midair—or when he had to walk into the office of the captain.  This morning, to his utmost joy, he’d had both, and he took the opportunity of alone time in the elevator to blow his nose, hard.  

Captain Hopper meant well, probably, Billy told himself, and set his shoulders.

 He found the right building because of the smoke pouring out half the upper windows, the six fire trucks, and the EMTs coming out with the victims—a nice brownstone, before.  Billy looked—somewhat hopelessly—for an elevator, sighed, and hauled himself up seven flights of stairs, sneezing.

Police Commissioner Harrington’s son was interviewing witnesses.  Billy’d seen him before—always with his own office, always flirting with whoever worked reception, always with his uniform tailored.  How he’d brokered a transfer to Major Crimes was a riddle Billy couldn’t wait to ask about—though if he was absolute dead weight, Hopper would probably come up with another solution to Billy’s bullshit, and kick Harrington back onto a desk somewhere.

Harrington was on an upper landing, listening to a black lady and her husband.  They looked in their...seventies, maybe, well-off, both crying, and clutching tabby cats.  “I can speak to you later,” he said gently, “—if you’d like to—” but the woman shook her head, grabbing his hand.

“He’s a good boy,” she said, sniffling, “—and you better catch whoever did this.  Anyone who could do this.  There aren’t many young men ready to haul an old lady’s groceries up nine flights, or open her pickle jars, either.  Anything we can tell you—”

The man nodded too, holding her hand, and Harrington crouched, jotting down their story, while Billy showed his ID and ducked under the crime scene tape into the half-gutted apartment.  He listened as he pulled the whole crime scene kit on, his gloves, mask, booties, and haircap and all.  

It smelled horrible, still thick with greasy smoke that clung to the inside of Billy’s sinuses, and he was grateful for the mask.

The parts of the apartment that hadn’t caught fire were nice—nicer than he could afford, certainly—with art everywhere, photos, paintings...and a floor-to-ceiling, sculptural mobile he couldn’t help thinking looked like a cock.  He surveyed the scene—a coffee table with wine glasses for two, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and chocolate dick-shaped marshmallows, in front of a couch with penis-shaped pillows.  

There was a spray-painted  ‘GOD HATES F—’ on the wall, the last word obscured by char from the fire, but Billy honestly wasn’t sure it was new, given the decor in general, and the adjacent broken glass glued to the wall in a penis shape.  He leaned in and sniffed it, and he could still smell the fumes of the paint.  He snapped a few pictures of it, for later.

When he backed up to get a wider view, his shoulder thumped into someone.  “Sorry,” said Harrington, and then, showing why he’d made detective, “...that huge thing on the ceiling kinda looks like a dick.”

“A lot of things in this apartment do, you’ll find,” said Wheeler, the lead CSI, raising her eyebrows at Billy with a smirk.  He tensed, a little, but she just started giving him the report, and he nearly shut his eyes in relief.  “Including the weapon.”  She waved at a bagged, cement dong sculpture that looked like art deco.  “It probably didn’t take any prints,” she said, sighing, “—with a gritty surface like that.”  Harrington grimaced, wincing, and touching his head.  

“The victim will probably regain consciousness,” Wheeler went on.  “He left the windows open all along that side of the apartment,” she pointed, “—and with as windy as it’s been today, it sucked the fire away from him, so he didn’t get much smoke inhalation.”

“What even...robbery?” Harrington asked, then, “Domestic violence?” and she grimaced, clicking around on her tablet.  

“From his phone, it looks like a first date.  We’re going over it with a fine-tooth comb, though,” she said, frowning at Billy, then down at her tablet.  “Since the assailant obviously wanted the crime scene burned to the ground.”

Billy nodded, his eyes watering either from the fumes, or the pollen count.  He sneezed inside his mask, and grimaced as it stuck to his face wetly.  “Who is the victim?” he asked, sighing, and wrinkling his nose.

“Ishaq Hill,” Harrington put in, glancing between them.  “Profession, camboy.  Posted photos and videos of himself, pinup style mostly, artsy, sometimes naked.  Neighbors don’t think it was stressing him out any, though, he just talked about being single a lot.”

Wheeler raised her eyebrows.  “Because of the head trauma, they’re keeping him in a medically induced coma, so we can’t ask him what happened at least until tomorrow.  But look,” she said, leaning between them to flick between photos on her tablet.  She zoomed in on the victim’s crotch, and Billy automatically shot an alarmed glance at the nearest human, who happened to be Harrington, his brown eyes frowning back.  

“Was there evidence of sexual assault?” he asked, and Wheeler shook her head, waving him closer.  

“No, no, look,” she said, zooming it in further.  “It’s hard to see, but look, the harness.  The color, there, against his white vinyl?  It’s a leather harness, dyed rainbow tie-dye.   The straps are cut—and it’s empty.”

Billy stared at her.  “...you’re saying the victim is trans,” he said slowly, making sure he had it right, “—and the attempted murderer stole his dick.”

“What the hell,” Harrington breathed.

She raised her eyebrows, waving her arms in a dramatic shrug.  “I have no idea!  But go look, there’s another one in the bedroom—” she pointed, and then bent back to sweeping something into a tiny ziploc bag.

In the bedroom, Harrington pointed at the waist-to-hip sculpture of a man, used to demo, apparently, turquoise leather straps similar to the rainbow straps they could make out in the photos.  This one had a securely-fitted glass dildo in it with a whole blown-glass coral reef inside.  Harrington bent close to stare at the cock made of tiny jellyfish and anemones, while Billy took in the display on the dresser—a whole array of fancy condoms and butt plugs, with decorated stands, and nameplates.  

“He must have used this stuff in videos,” Harrington said.  “Like, you know, unboxing.”

“I think he probably filmed less taking them out and more more putting them in things,” Billy muttered, as Harrington snickered, and then waved at the small, rhinestoned pastry stand labeled ‘God <3 Fags’.  It was empty.  

He looked over to see whether Harrington had noticed the empty stand, but he was fiddling with his phone.  “...doesn’t look like he had any nasty public messages, or anything,” he said, frowning.  “I’ll look through his account when we get back—”

“I’m gonna see where he gets all these dildos,” Billy said, frowning at one with what looked like birthday candles, and ‘Ishaq 23rd’ floating inside.  He pulled a drawer open, and found a few boxed vibrators, and a lot of lingerie.  “Some of this stuff has to be custom.  Maybe they’ll know which one got stolen.”  

“Oh,” Harrington said, brightening.  “Good idea!”

“You can call around,” Billy told him, and Harrington shot him a sideways glance that made Billy wonder if he was gonna be a shithead about his dad being the commissioner, but he just nodded.  He dropped into a chair at a desk out on the floor like any other cop when they got back to the precinct, searching up both Ishaq Hill’s social media, and local sex shops.

Billy went to find coffee and gossip, avoiding the old guard—his father’s friends.

“Steve’s all right,” said Holland, another CSI he thought he could trust, since she was friends with Wheeler.  She considered, crossing her arms.  “Everybody figures he’ll be bad at the job, so he gets all the desk work, and he’s kind of obnoxious, but he’ll get down and dust vac a bloody trunk, if you need him to.”  

Hagen in Vice sneered, and yelled for everyone to come say hey to Neil Hargrove’s son, back from rehab, and Billy turned on his heel and stalked back to his own department, his heart racing.

 He returned to hand Harrington a vending machine coffee, and Harrington looked grateful, toasting him in the air as he talked on the phone.  “No, ma’am, I’m not trying to make any trouble.  No, it’s nothing like—” he groaned, leaning his head against the handset, then sipped his coffee, and hit redial.  “Hey, I’m looking to buy custom, handmade dildos.  I’ve got a—” he grimaced at the wall, screwed up his face in thought, and then shrugged, glancing at Billy, and grimacing as he sighed.  “I’ve got a highschool ring I wanna put in a dildo.  Uh, go 2011!”  He listened.  “Oh, you do?  Oh, thanks so much,” he said, writing down a phone number, and mumbling more thank yous.  

“What’d you get?” Billy asked.

“Just another store to try,” Steve muttered. He kicked the desk, and rolled a couple feet closer to hand the post-it note to Billy.  “They don’t want to talk to me until I want a weird sex toy,” he said, flushing a little, but laughing.  “I’ve looked for one with plastic dinosaurs in it, a butt plug with my old glass eye—”

Billy snorted his coffee, coughing as Harrington scrambled up to pat his back.  

“I think one time I maybe said moose antlers,” he muttered, counting off on his fingers.  “That one must think I’m pretty weird.”

“Not the eyeball one though,” Billy choked out, trying not to die.  “The fake eye ass plug store thinks that’s normal as shit.”

“I just mean,” Steve said, blushing, and waving his arms in a vaguely antler-like shape from his head, “—moose antlers wouldn’t probably fit in my ass, you know?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Billy gasped, wiping his eyes, leaned in to where Harrington had brought up Hill’s social media, and scrolled.  

“What’s all this shit about the Westboro Baptist Church?” he asked.

Steve was mumbling and scribbling, and then he hung up.  “Oh,” he nodded.  “They’ve been spamming ‘God Hates Fags’ on all his sites.  He’s been doing a big photoshoot with teasers, kind of...at them?  He kept tagging them.  It’s gone viral.”  He held out his phone, and Billy was treated to a lock screen of their assault victim on his knees, arms out like he was singing, his glittery dick spurting a cartoon rainbow.

“...sorry, that’s not very professional,” Harrington said, grimacing, and yanking it back.  “I’ll change it.”

“Did you see this at the crime scene?” Billy asked him, yanking his phone out and showing Harrington the spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ he’d found on the wall.

“Holy shit,” Harrington said.  “Eugh, imagine them knowing where you live.  Shit, I didn’t even notice that.”  He sighed, and Billy kicked his chair, lightly.

“Kinda busy walls in that place,” he pointed out, and Steve shot him a smirk.

 “Hargrove!” a familiar voice yelled, and Detective Holloway ran up and gave Billy a hug.  “You look so good!” she told him, and then nodded at Harrington, and smiled back at Billy.  “We found the guy the date was with on Grindr.  They’re bringing him in.”

It was nice to have somebody happy to see him, even if her face made him kinda uncomfortable, knowing she’d been the one to catch him drinking in the supply room after all the—after.  

“Make him wait,” Billy said, considering.  “I wanna go through the conversations on Grindr.  He can work up some nerves first.”

“He’s ex-military,” she said, grimacing.  “His CV says his last job was as a ‘fully armed and trained combat specialist’ who did security for diamond mines in war-torn areas.  I don’t think you’re gonna make him nervous.”

“Eugh,” Harrington said, making a face.  “I can see why that date didn’t go well.  He probably dresses like a supervillain.”

Holloway’s look at him was a little withering, and he shut up, turning back to sit at his computer.  “Lemme know if you need anything,” she told Billy, frowning into his face, and he pushed her shoulder away, quirking his mouth.  

“...I’m okay,” he told her, and she didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t hug him again, at least.  

 “How are you doing?” Harrington asked, after she’d left, and after swallowing half the cup of coffee in one chipmunk-cheeked slurp.  He wiped his mouth, blinking wide brown eyes up at Billy, and Billy groaned.  

“Look, about what the captain—”

“I know the story,” Harrington said, tossing back the rest of the coffee like a bathtub drain.  Billy reminded himself to make Harrington pee before they got in a car together, like a little kid on a road trip.  “My dad’s the commissioner, I know the whole...thing,” he said, grimacing.  “You shoulda got a commendation.”

“...he was a dirty cop,” Billy grunted, hunching his shoulders.  “It’s our job to make sure—”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve agreed, nodding at his screen, and Billy relaxed a little, out from under the weight of sympathetic eyes.  “It’s our job, but not everybody does it.  And you knew what it was gonna be like.”

“I did,” Billy said, grimacing.  “I thought I did.”

“Hey, they let me into Major Crimes for this,” Harrington laughed, unhappily.  “Even if my police work isn’t up to scratch, they won’t try anything on you if I’m standing there.”

Billy watched him, and felt a kind of brotherhood, suddenly, looking at Harrington’s tight smile, and tense shoulders.  “...police work’s been okay so far,” he said, and Harrington shot him a startled grin.  “I’m gonna go...call the hospital,” Billy told him, suddenly needing to be somewhere else.  “Maybe swing by and take a look at our victim.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, nodding.  

Billy had a few more pictures of the harness sent over—Wheeler was right about what it was, at least—and then they brought the ex-military Grindr date in.  He didn’t look that intimidating, actually—his huge biceps were flexed as he held kleenex over his nose, sneezing so hard every few feet he staggered, and he was wearing a t-shirt with a badly-designed logo for a Queer Youth Charity Marathon.

“Hey,” Harrington whispered, touching his shoulder just before they went inside.  “Uh, there’s a lot of hate on there from the Westboro Baptist Church.  Like, they were getting specific, said someone doxxed him.”

In the interrogation room, their person of interest sneezed so hard snot dangled from both his nostrils, like a drooly dog.  Steve snorted a laugh, and walked off to lean against another detective’s desk—Carol’s, Billy thought.  

“Can I bribe you for some of that kleenex?” he asked, leaning in like he was flirting on a movie poster, and Carol laughed out loud, and hit him with it.  

“Take it and git,” she said, and Steve ran back, grinning.  

“Here we go,” he said, handing one to Billy.  “One for you, the rest of the box for him.”

 “I didn’t even stay for the whole date,” said Braxton Haglund, 34 years old, dark haired and caucasian, with a tattoo Billy could see peeking from under the sleeve of his t-shirt.  Haglund blew his nose, again, and the kleenex was so wet it made a noise as he dropped it against the table.  “He’d left the windows all open.  I walked up so many stairs—” he sneezed, miserably, several times, wadding handfuls of kleenex under his nose, and wiping his eyes.  

“God,” he mumbled.  “If I didn’t have hayfever, I’d probably still have been there when...whatever happened,” he said, between sneezes.  His wide shoulders were hunched despairingly, and even Harrington had a sympathetic grimace.  “Dunno if I’d have been much use, though.”  

“Did you see anyone as you left?” Billy asked, and Haglund thought, taking deep breaths between blowing his nose.  

“...nobody that stood out,” he said.  “Some neighbors, maybe.  Think I walked into somebody, once, my eyes were watering.”

 He hadn’t seen anybody going in, either, so after they let him leave, Billy spent a while scrolling through all the victim’s media accounts.  Harrington stayed doggedly on tracking down the dildo maker—Billy nearly felt sorry for him, except it was giving Billy such a good read on what to expect—and he was coming up with a continuous stream of weird sex toys to be in search of.  “I’m an author,” he told one.  “I want a dildo containing the pen I wrote my first book with.”  He jotted down another number, called it, sighed, and tried again.  “Uh, I want a dildo full of baby teeth—” he started, and then stopped, frowning at the phone.  “They hung up,” he said, sounding betrayed.  

“Wouldn’t you?!” Billy asked, smiling despite having to see comment after comment by the Westboro Baptist Church.  He found further reasons to hate them, but nothing specifically actionable, so he finally stretched and grabbed his jacket.  “I’m done for the day,” he called over the other empty desks.  

“Go ahead,” Harrington said, frowning at the screen.  “I won’t stay much longer.  How the hell hard can this be, really?”

 He was there before Billy the next morning, his jaw set, with dark shadows under his eyes.  Billy detoured to the coffee machine first, and plonked it down in front of him, and Harington rewarded him with widening eyes, and then a bewildered stare.  

“...thanks,” he said softly, then smirked up through a yawn.  “Heard back from the arson investigators, and guess what?  The fire looks accidental.”  He bounced a little in his chair, and Billy wondered whether he was really into murder mysteries, or whether he was just trying to stay awake.  “There was a pan on the stove, some kind of chocolate fondue, they think.  Just caught fire, and with Ishaq unconscious, nobody turned off the stove.”

“...lucky bastard,” Billy said, grimacing, and Harrington raised his eyebrows.  

“You think?  Oh, also, guess what—I found her.  Our dildo artist.  She’s not all that local, but she did send me a few pictures of the dildos she’s made for our guy.”  

“Had to track her down eventually,” Billy said, sipping his coffee, and then caught the way Harrington just bit his lips, his jaw tensing.

“Good job,” Billy told him, feeling a little...stupid, like he was praising a dog, but Harrington brightened, smirking up at him again.

Billy studied the printouts, as Harrington spun around on his chair, guzzling down coffee, and explaining his triumph.  “She says that photoshoot that had the Westboro Baptist Church up in arms?  Upcoming?  Get this,” he said, getting up to lean over Billy’s shoulder.  “—they’re pissed because our boy was staying at a hotel once with the new leader, Steven Drain.  He pretended to be maid service, snuck in, and took the guy’s wedding ring, and made it into a dildo.  He describes it as ‘surrounded by rainbow unicorn confetti and delicious queer flesh’.  Our victim stole his wedding ring,” Harrington cackled, beaming.  “I’m subscribing to his...everything.”

“Lemme see if any of these comments can be traced to Steven Drain,” Billy said, heading off to ask someone to do computer magic.  Steve hopped up and came with him, which was kinda weird, but it was nice to walk down a hall without people shoulder-slamming him like he wasn’t there.

  “Hate that he has my name,” Steve muttered, as they walked back.  “Drain’s got restraining orders for beating up and threatening two young teenagers his daughter talked to, it’s on the public record.  We could see what kinda injuries they had,” Harrington said.  “...imagine taking down the whole Westboro church.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Billy laughed, dropping into his own chair as Harrington got more coffee, then called around and discovered the assailants had both been right-handed.

“Get this,” he said excitedly, “—Steven Drain is in town.  Gay soldier’s wedding, they’re planning to picket it and scream at his widower, you know, their whole thing, but he flew in the night before the assault.”

“We should talk to him,” Billy said, most of his brain on the photos of dildos and butt plugs.  

“Can’t we just drop a piano on him?” Steve muttered, and Billy snorted, flicking back through, and trying to figure out what was bugging him about the dildos.  There were lots of them, more than Billy’d seen in the victim’s room, and Billy stopped, squinting at his phone screen at one that looked like it was full of tiny antique coins.  “...wait,” he muttered.  “Where did you say she lived?  Dildo lady?”

“Upstate,” Harrington told him, blinking up at him, as he held his pen on the list of neighbors he’d called to ask whether they’d seen anyone that looked like Steven Drain.  

“I need to talk to Dildo Lady,” Billy announced, and Harrington blinked at him, then glanced at his screen and back to Billy, waiting.  “...we should go talk to her,” Billy amended, and Harrington grinned, grabbing his jacket.

“Should we talk to Drain first?” he asked, “—since he’s local?”

“Let’s wait and see the CSI reports,” Billy told him.  “We’ll be on a lot firmer ground if he clipped his nails after he clocked Ishaq Hill upside the head.”

“Hard to believe somebody that loud went down quietly,” Harrington said, nodding.  “There’ll probably be hair or something.  Even if he doesn’t wake up and tell us.  I called this morning—he’s out of danger, it sounds like,” he said, grimacing, and Billy nodded.

“Nice if we can tell him it’s all handled, though,” he said, and Harrington laughed.

“That’s a definite yep.”

 Billy led the way to the level where his car was parked, and then stopped. 

His car had dead rats on it.  He walked closer, and there was a scratch where somebody’d jimmied his window, and tossed more rats inside, and suddenly he longed for a drink.

“Shit,” Harrington said, putting an arm around his shoulders to steer him away, and whipping out his phone.  “Yeah, hey—”

“Stop,” Billy hissed, grabbing for it.  “You’ll just make it worse, don’t tell your fucking dad—”

“Wheeler,” Harrington said.  “Mmm, yeah, you know you said you had some CSI training to do?  I’ve got a, uh, little crime scene in the parking garage.  Could you get your most annoying rookie to come down and—yeah.  Yeah, blue Camaro, license plate PCE 235.”  He listened for a long second, and then thanked her again, tucking his phone away.  

“...shit,” Billy sighed, as Harrington manhandled him to a different car.  

To his relief, Harrington didn’t say anything sympathetic.  After a few minutes, driving at a snail’s pace through downtown traffic, he took a breath, and Billy’s hands twitched.  “Huh,” Harrington said, glancing down, and then biting his lips in a cartoonishly intent face.

“...jesus, just say whatever it is,” Billy told him, snorting a laugh, and sipping his coffee.

“Sorry your dad is a bastard asshole shithead,” Harrington said, wincing, and Billy choked again, coughing and spluttering coffee down his shirt, but he hadn’t been able to laugh about it before, ever, and it felt good, even if he tried to breathe coffee, and couldn’t stop coughing.  

When he could finally draw breath, he sighed contentedly, leaning his head against the window.  “...he is, isn’t he,” he said.

“He is, and so are most of the officers he came up from the academy with,” Steve said, clenching his hands on the steering wheel.  “My dad too.  He didn’t—ugh.”

“What?” Billy asked, curious, suddenly, about Steve Harrington, instead of just the commissioner’s son.  

“He didn’t want me to transfer,” Harrington muttered.  “He said Major Crimes doesn’t need the dead weight.  Hopper had to kinda go out on a limb.  I fuck up and I’m kicked all the way down to traffic, I think.”

The thought that the commissioner had stepped in to help Billy, Detective Neil Hargrove’s son, had gotten Billy through some long nights in rehab.  He drew a long breath, realizing he was even more alone than he’d thought.  “...shit,” he said softly.  His eyes stung.

“It’s fine,” Harrington said.  “Hopper’s got your back.  There are enough of us.  I’ll lean on Hagen some, I think I can talk him around.  It’s good you turned your dad in.  You did a good thing, and everybody shit on you for it,” he growled, glancing over.  “I’ve got your back.  Jesus, man, don’t cry.”

“It’s the pollen,” Billy said thickly.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have hayfever,” Billy hissed at him, rubbing his face.

 The Dildo Lady looked about sixty, Pakistani probably, and wore a hijab.  Her name was Faiza Khalol, and she was delighted to tell them about her work.  

“Do you have any better pictures of these?” Billy asked her, showing her the one with the coins in it.  “Or could you describe them?”

She could, as it turned out—and even better, when she’d asked about them, Hill had given her one, and she handed Billy a tiny silver coin which, after some googling, he thought might be an Athenian drachma.

“Oh,” she whispered, her brows drawing together.  “Um, is it valuable?”

“I have no idea,” Billy told her, but flicked to another picture.  “But these are, I think.”  The clear butt-plug was full of greyish crystals, with a huge one where it would show.  

“I didn’t see these in his dresser,” Harrington said, leaning in warmly against him, and Billy annoyed himself by shivering.

“No.  These are uncut diamonds, I think.”  Faiza and Harrington gasped satisfyingly, and Billy grinned.  “Ishaq Hill stole more than a wedding ring, I think.  We’ve had the wrong motive.”

“Braxton Haglund guarded diamond mines,” Harrington breathed.  “He’d probably recognize them.  Did Ishaq post pictures with these?”

“He always put up pictures of my latest work,” Faiza said, covering her mouth in horror.  “Do you think…”

“I think we better talk to Braxton Haglund again,” Billy said, reveling in Harrington’s impressed grin. 

 “You’ve got duthing on be,” Haglund gasped, blowing his nose miserably.  “You gan’t brove I saw ‘s pictures.  You gan’t brove anything.”

Billy tried to parse that for a long second, and then, for Harrington, who looked bewildered, said, “Oh, that’s not all we have.  Have you wondered,” he said, turning to his partner, who grinned back, “—how anyone could come in to Ishaq Hill’s apartment, clonk him from behind with a dick sculpture, then search his apartment, and not notice he’d left chocolate heating on the stove?  Chocolate burns fast,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Haglund.  “How did you not notice the smell?”

“His hayfever,” Harrington breathed, his eyes widening at Billy as his cheeks flushed, and Haglund slammed his fist on the table, opened his mouth to yell, and then stopped to blow his nose, and sneeze.

“Also while you were waiting,” Billy told Haglind with satisfaction, “—we searched your apartment.  The warrant judge was convinced by our diamond-and-hayfever argument, and guess what we found?” 

Haglund’s eyes widened in horror, and his back thudded against his chair as Billy shot Harrington a grin, and Harrington smirked back.  “Good job framing a hate group for the crime,” Billy said, his grin widening, “—but why were Ishaq Hill’s dildos on the table in your front room?”

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

[dngrdyke]

May The Best Bitch Win Part 2

"Let's go, bitches!" Dyke whooped. "Last one to the Hub has to clean up after the party!"

Poison rallied the engine. "I can't wait to beat your ass twice!"

Dee said nothing, and instead sped off without warning, making Faggot yelp and grab her waist tight.

A vague "motherfucker!" was heard and soon the Trans AM was catching up on her right. On her left, Ghoul and Cola were keeping pace, seemingly effortlessly.

Assholes.

The convoy made it to the Hub just as another gang pulled up. Dyke skidded to a stop in front of the leader of the pack, followed closely by Ghoul. Poison rocked up a split second behind and climbed out.

"I wanna rematch! You've less mass so you go faster!"

"I have better mass," she grinned, kicking down the stand and flicking her hair out of her face.

"Why'd I join a posse with a bike," Faggot mumbled as he climbed off shakily. Dyke killed the engine.

"The Fabulous Killjoys, huh?" one of the other gang scoffed. "Seems like a buncha kids to me."

"And who the fuck are you then?" Poison asked, coming over to stand beside Dyke with a hand on his hip.

"The Angels of Road Slaughter. I'm Roadkill. This is my second, Rock Machine. You gotta be Party Poison, or is it bootyshorts there beside ya?"

"The name's Dyke. Pretty sweet ride ya got there, Roadkill. What is it, a Chopper?"

"Yeah, got her from some Blind warehouse a while back. You don't have a bad bike yourself."

"Power cruiser, baby. I'm gonna smoke all you bitches outta here."

"Nobody's smokin' me out unless it's your little friend there," Roadkill said and winked at Poison.

"I think that's enough conversation for one day," Doctor D said, materialising out of nowhere. "At least while your old man is listening. The afterparty is a different story. Don't gotta pay attention to no-one at a party."

Dyke glanced at Poison, who was looking anywhere but at Roadkill, who was looking directly at Poison. You coulda cut the tension with a knife.

"Oh, hey, D, you'll never believe what happened earlier," Dyke said, seizing her chance to escape the awkward situation unfolding before her. "C'mon, let's get a soda and I'll tell you. Ya still got orange?"

He took the hint. "Sure do, DB. Come on in. I got a tape just about to hit replay so you can pick the next one."

He turned himself around and went back inside. Dyke took Faggot's arm and squeezed gently. He glanced at her and nodded.

"Jet, you wanna go over your battle plan?"

"I- yeah, good call." He silently thanked whatever god there was.

"I'm coming too!"

"Yeah, same here!"

Kobra and Ghoul followed, with Cola shaking his head and coming in the rear, saying nothing.

"Y'know, Roadie, a soda sounds pretty good right now," Rock Machine said. The rest of the gang murmured their agreement.

"Fine. We'll get some soda then. See ya later, prettyboy. You're gonna eat ass on the track."

Dyke bit her lip as she walked away, trying hard not to laugh. Doctor D looked back at her with a glint in his eye.

Poison ran up and draped his arms around Dyke and Jet. "Those are some hardass motherfuckers."

Dee snorted but covered it up with a cough. It was a talent of hers.

"Anyway, DB- you said you had some crazy story to tell us."

"That I do, Doctor D, that I do." She ducked out of Poison's grasp and lead the group walking backwards. "So I was headin' out to the Rendezvous- thanks for those supplies, Cola- and I saw these two assholes without any masks on takin' the kidneys outta some Drac. Y'all know I hate Blind as much as the next person, but you just gotta show some respect, ya know? Anyways, I pulled my guns on 'em and told 'em if they didn't scoot asap I'd shoot. They left together on a bike but they kept the kidneys for some reason. Dicks." Dyke turned back around and smacked her face into the beads that hung over D's doorway. She moved them out of her face and went straight to the kitchen- the only place with a working refrigerator. She took out an orange soda and cracked it open. Everyone else just stood, watching her.

"What? Somethin' on my face?"

"Dyke... Like, no offence or whatever, but how in the hell are you still alive?" Faggot asked. His eyes were huge, as if her head would explode at any second.

"DB my good friend, I'd bet my left arm that you just had a clap with Scarlet Ripper and the Mongoose," D said, running a hand through his hair.

"Those freaky-ass motherfuckers you were talkin' about earlier? Then why ain't I dead?"

"You musta got lucky," he sighed. "I gotta go tell the world to start showin' up. You gonna choose a tape?"

She chugged her soda and tossed the can into the trash. "I nearly died today. Of course I'm gonna choose the fuckin' tape."

"And it's Doctor Death-Defying back at you desert-dwellers with a whole new tape. But first, a drag race update from our very own DB."

Dyke's eyes widened and D motioned to the mic. Go crazy, he mouthed.

She grinned.

"Well hello there, desert kings, queens and everything in between. Tonight's gonna be a clear night with a high chance of road dust. Anyone willing to eat my shorts in the drag race better hurry up and get here, else someone'll take your spot. So far we have tension brewing 'tween the Killjoy squads and the Angels' racers. Who knows what's gonna happen next? Not me, but 'til then, here's Quiet Riot to keep ya kickin'."

D loaded the tape and set it playing.

"Not too bad for a first-timer."

She shrugged. "Sometimes you want the attention. I'm gonna go take a smoke break, see who else is here. We should get goin' soon."

Outside, the Angels were milling around on their bikes with some sodas.

"Hey! Dyke, wasn't it?" Roadkill jogged over to her.

"That's me," she said lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag. "You need somethin'?"

He scratched the top of his greasy, black hair. Roadkill sure lived up to his name.

"Party Poison he, uh... he knows I was just dicking around, right? Well, kinda, anyway. Mostly."

"Probably. He's not pissed or anything, if that's what you're worried about. He just hasn't had anyone 'cept the mirror flirt with him in a while."

"Ah," he said and nodded, then "can I bum a smoke?"

She said nothing, but instead drew out the pack and offered it to him.

"Hey, thanks. You know you look like him though, right?"

"Long story. Might tell you one day."

"Hey, Dee! Doc says we're ready to go!" Faggot yelled out a window.

"You two gonna come out and watch?"

Dee knew from experience that he had the Girl scooped up in his arms and was making faces at her.

"Be right there. Oh, and Jet says to meet him out back with the bike."

She stubbed out the cigarette under her foot. "You comin' to the afterparty?"

"Wouldn't miss it, DB."

Jet was standing with his arms crossed when Dyke rounded the corner, pushing the bike.

"Poison wanted me to ask you if Roadkill was being serious. He said he has a nice butt."

"Kinda serious. He would. It could happen."

"God-fucking-damn it."

"Racers!" the crackly sound of Doctor D's PA system came towards them. "If your bedazzled ass isn't at the starting line, go put it there or get it kicked out."

"My ass isn't even bedazzled..."

"C'mon, Jet. We got a race to win."

They took their places at the starting line, Jet with his lanky frame scrunched up behind Dee. She had the motor running and her legs on either side of the bike for balance. Doc had better start the party soon, she thought.

She scanned the crowds lining the track and saw Faggot with the Girl on his shoulders. He grinned and waved, then took the Girl's hand and waved with that.

She smiled.

"Alright racers, I want a nice clean match. No bashing, slashing or body flashing, ya hear? And that includes you audience members, too. We don't care how well God has made you- this is a road race. Save it for the afterparty! But I think that's all an old man like me's gotta say so... On your marks!"

Dyke snapped back into reality and tensed her legs. A few of the racers revved their engines. Road Kill caught her eye and winked.

"Get set!"

She flexed her fingers and tightened her grip on the handlebars. For her, driving gloves weren't just a fashion statement.

A foghorn sounded and Dyke kicked off. "Heads down, elbows tucked in, DB and Jet Star take an early lead," the Doc's voice came over the roar of engines. "But look's like Party Poison and the Kobra Kid are close behind. Damn! Road Kill and Rock Machine leading by a hair."

"We need more speed!" Jet shouted in her ear.

"No fuckin' shit!" She sped up, taking back her spot. No way was she losing to some short, ratty-ass clown. Or Poison either, for that matter.

"Nice view, Dyke! You steal Poison's ass, too?"

"Jet, honey?"

"Yeah?"

"You remind me to break his nose at the afterparty."

"Sure thing, Dee."

She pressed harder on the accelerator. "C'mon. Please. Carla, if you can hear me..." she mumbled.

The bike, against all odds, against all the laws of physics, went just that much faster.

"Holy shit!" Jet shouted. "Dee, we- Dee! We're gonna die!"

"No way, Jet Star! We're gonna win!"

They could still hear Doctor D's voice narrating the race, but quieter now as they sped further away. "And that's DB with Jet still in the lead! I didn't know her bike could even go that fast- but don't tell her that, else I'll lose the use of my remaining working limbs."

"We almost there, Jet?"

Dyke was trying to focus on keeping the bike going as fast as possible. Sure, she had here eyes on the road, but it was a kind of tunnel vision. She didn't care about anything that wasn't directly in front of her.

"Not sure... maybe- yes! I can see someone with a flag!"

Dee whooped. The engine whined.

"Shit, will we make it?"

"If we believe, Jet! Just pray and don't stop 'til we cross that line!"

Sure enough, Jet started to mumble something. Whether he was praying or cursing her, Dyke didn't know.

She couldn't speak Spanish.

She saw Road Kill out of the corner of her eye and her face hardened. They were so close. She could almost taste it.

A rush of colour. The flag was waved. They did it. They did it!

She screamed. "Jet! Jet! We did it! WE DID IT!" She gently lifted the accelerator and braked hard to skid to a stop. Down went the kickstand.

"Did we do it?" she asked doubtfully, looking between Jet's face and the person with the flag.

"Only one way to find out, Dee. We gotta wait for the rest of 'em."

The Trans Am and Road Kill's Chopper had come in neck and neck, while someone riding solo came in just before them. The only people the two had been keeping an eye on were Road Kill and Poison. Other than that- who knew?

The crowd at the starting line started to make their way to the finish. Some people had spread out along the track, but most had stayed at the start where they could see everything that was going on.

"Alright, alright, simmer down you folks."

Doctor D spoke through a megaphone. Where the hell was he getting all this stuff?

"After careful consultation with our flagboy V, it would appear that Dyke and Jet Star have stolen the scene and come in first place!" There was a mix of cheering and groaning from the crowd as accessories were exchanged. Faggot ran up with the girl on his hip and threw an arm around Dee.

"I knew you could do it, you old bitch!"

"Hey! Poison's older than I am!"

"Dee! Dee!" the Girl giggled, clapping.

"Now that first place is settled, in second place we have Maximum Voltage, riding solo."

The crowd clapped half-heartedly. Nobody knew who this Max guy was.

"Wait... Maximu-?" Dee started. She was cut off by the Doc shushing the crowd again. The flagboy whispered in his ear.

"And in an exciting turn of events, in third place is Party Poison and the Kobra Kid tied with Road Kill and Rock Machine!"

More accessories were exchanged. Dyke was even sure she saw masks being swapped.

"Yeah, yeah, all prizes will come in due time, but for now I think we all just need to party."

Dee and Jet were swarmed with people congratulating them, and all thoughts of Maximum Voltage were pushed from her mind.

"We did it, Dee. I can't believe we actually did it!"

"Fuck, me neither! Hey- careful, these pins are sharp. To the afterparty!"

[rainbow-sides]

Anomalies: Chapter Seventeen

Summary: Anomalies is about different reactions to grief and how four brothers each respond to the death of their mother. The oldest brother, Roman, gets custody of the twins, Patton and Virgil, and the youngest brother, Logan, after their mother’s death. Virgil is also trying to navigate through a multitude of anxiety disorders, including OCD and trichotillomania, with the help of his brothers and his therapist, Dr. Picani. But meanwhile, Roman isn’t sure he can handle the responsibility of taking care of his brothers, Logan doesn’t process loss in a way most people can understand, and Patton isn’t nearly as okay as he seems…

Warnings: Death of a parent, grief, cancer mention, mention of attempted suicide, mention of severe depression and self harm, gift-giving, food, Christmas.

For a list of the content warnings for the whole story as well as more information, please see this post. Please heed the warnings and stay safe.

Word Count: 3,236

Notes: This is mostly just the Christmas chapter, with bonus Remy! <3 ~Martin

Masterpost to All Chapters

“Don we now our gay apparel, eh?” Roman called, bounding into the living room wearing a slightly ugly rainbow Christmas sweater. He laughed at Logan and Virgil’s groans, and at Patton’s delighted squeal.

“Can't we just open presents?” Logan complained. “A fashion show is not necessary.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Roman tossed a package to each of his brothers. “Actually, a fashion show is absolutely necessary. Go on, I want to see you all wearing them!”

The tearing of wrapping paper filled the room. There were sounds of delight as everyone saw their sweaters. “Are these hand-knitted?!” Patton exclaimed.

“I didn't know you could knit,” Logan said, stroking the soft material and smiling.

“My friend Kelly from work taught me and helped me,” Roman explained. “I've been working on them for months.”

“They're beautiful,” Virgil said softly. “Thank you.”

Patton had already put his sweater on and ran over to hug Roman. “Thank you, I love it!”

Roman squeezed him tightly. “Love you, Pat.”

“My turn!” Logan scrambled to hand Patton a large, heavy package.

Patton opened it and looked at it confusedly for a second before his eyes widened. He pulled out a large, blue and grey plaid quilt. “Is it a weighted blanket?” he asked.

“Yeah, it's heavier than mine because they're supposed to be twenty percent of your body weight,” Logan said. “I thought...you might like one. They're grounding.”

Patton had sat down on the ground and was wrapping the blanket around him, an expression of pure contentment on his face. “It's so cozy and warm and soft,” he sighed happily. “Virgil, come share!”

Virgil slid under the corner of the blanket. “Oh, this is a nice one,” he said. “It is really soft, you're right.” He nestled down in the blanket next to Patton, closing his eyes.

“We're not getting them out of that anytime soon,” Roman laughed. The twins looked very comfortable. “Maybe you should've saved that one for last, Lo.”

“Perhaps you're right,” Logan said. “I do have a gift for you, too, but I think it would be better if I showed you later.”

Roman tilted his head. “Some big secret?”

“Yes, exactly. Can we give Virgil our present to him instead?” Logan suggested.

“If we can distract him from the blanket for long enough,” giggled Roman. He picked up the box under the tree that had Virgil’s present that he and Logan had gotten together.

Virgil reluctantly pulled his arms out of the blanket to take the box into his lap. “It's heavier than it looks,” he observed. He carefully sliced through the tape on the package with his fingernail and took the wrapping paper off in one piece. There was a long pause where he just stared at it. “Whoa,” he breathed.

Logan and Roman exchanged a glance. “Do you think he likes it?” Roman asked.

“Hm, I'm not sure,” Logan replied.

“I think he needs to tell us what he thinks,” Roman said, reaching out to poke Virgil. “Hello? Anybody home?”

“I...I wasn't expecting…”

“If you don't want it, give it back,” Roman teased.

“No, it's mine!” Virgil retorted, hugging the box to his chest. “Oh, my god, guys!” He looked close to tears.

“You better take lots of pictures with that,” Roman instructed. “That is a good camera.”

“Yeah, I know! I haven't...I haven't been taking many pictures lately,” Virgil confessed.

“I know.” Roman reached over and put his hand over Virgil’s. “This is so you start again. Okay?”

Virgil nodded. “I will, I promise. Oh, Roman, Logan, thank you!” He blinked his tears away and smiled. “I love it.”

“It was Logan's idea,” Roman made sure he knew. “I just provided some of the funds.”

Already opening up the box, Virgil said, “Its battery needs to be charged...but I should be able to start taking pictures tonight. Oh, it's beautiful!”

“I'm glad you like it!” Logan said.

“Here, this one is for you,” Virgil told him, handing him a thin, flat box. “I...um, it's from a while ago, but I gave it some new life.”

Logan opened the side of the box to slide the picture frame out. His face didn't give much away, but his eyes sparkled as he turned the frame around so everyone could see it. Roman recognized the picture as being from a photoshoot that Virgil had made them do at the beginning of his photography class last year. He had taken them all out to a field in the middle of the night, all of the brothers and their mom, and taken pictures of them sitting together with their backs to the the camera, holding hands and gazing up at the sky. They had to sit very still, Roman remembered, because Virgil had set the shutter speed slow enough to capture the light of the stars. They shone clearly in this photo, probably having been enhanced, and thin white lines had been added between some of the stars to form the constellations.

“It's alright,” Logan said in a small voice, but it meant so much more, and Virgil understood.

“Good, I'm glad.” Virgil looked at Roman and Patton. “I hope you like it, too, ‘cause you all get photos.”

“Well, hand them over!” Roman took the package that Virgil held out and opened it. “Ahh,” he breathed as he opened it. It was a very simple photo of himself sitting on the edge of the stage at the community theater, deep in thought and not aware of the camera. The golden lighting and red curtains behind him made the picture seem more dramatic than it probably had been at the time. Roman’s shape was slightly out of focus, more the background than the subject. The silhouette of three people sitting in the audience was the foreground of the photo, and Roman recognized their shapes as being Logan, Patton, and their mother. The rest of the audience was empty. Roman didn't even remember sitting there like that. He had no idea that Virgil had taken his picture. “It's really nice, Virge. Thank you.”

Virgil gave him a thumbs up and a smile, and then passed Patton the third package. It was a smaller frame, and Patton stared at it for a long time before he showed the others. Virgil watched him carefully, pulling the blanket tighter so he could snuggle closer to his twin.

Roman didn't say anything when he saw the photo, just nodded. There was a sudden lump in his throat.

“Your first homecoming,” Logan stated.

In the photo, Patton was standing with a bright smile, holding their mother's hands as she laughed about something. He was wearing the dress he had fought the administration to be able to wear to the dance in support of their trans and nonbinary friends at school, and she was just in a t-shirt and jeans, but she looked beautiful. She had always been beautiful, even when the cancer had made her thin and weary, her hair fallen out from the chemotherapy. But this was before the cancer has touched her--or perhaps it was already there, and they just weren't aware of it yet. Her diagnosis had come just a couple months after this picture had been taken. It captured a moment of pure joy, and Patton stroked the glass of the frame lovingly and longingly. He didn't seem to have any words. After a few more seconds, he turned to bury his face in Virgil's shoulder, hugging him so tightly that Virgil coughed.

“Patty, I'm glad you like it, but I can't breathe!” he yelped.

“I love you so much,” Patton whispered, barely audible. He loosened his grip. Virgil got his arms out to hug him back.

Roman waited a minute, then said gently, “Patty, are you gonna give us your gifts or should I grab them from under the tree myself?”

“You do it,” Patton responded, muffled. He was crying a little bit, and Virgil rocked him back and forth.

“It's okay, Patty, we can wait,” Roman said, sliding closer to the twins and touching Patton’s shoulder. “Take as long as you need.”

“N-no, you get the p-presents,” Patton stumbled. “Yours is from both of us.”

Roman took the gift bag addressed to him and opened it, gasping at the beautiful notebook and pen set inside. “Oh, it's gorgeous! Oh, thank you, I'm gonna write such good words in there, you have no idea.”

Patton was smiling and wiping his eyes, sniffling a little. “Glad you like it.”

“Someday when you're rich and famous, you better not auction those away,” Virgil teased. “Unless it's for charity, I guess. ‘This is the pen that the great Roman Sanders wrote the first lines of his award-winning script with!’”

Roman laughed. “I wouldn't auction it away, don't worry.” He handed Logan the other gift bag. “What's in here, hm?”

There was an actual squeal of delight that came from Logan's mouth as he pulled the book out of the bag. “Patton, this is wonderful, it's exactly what I wanted!”

“May it bring you hours of joy from reading it,” Patton told him.

Logan was already flipping through the pages of the collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, making ecstatic remarks about each one he came to. They all listened fondly as he talked. Virgil opened his gift from Patton, putting the sweatshirt on and smelling the purple candles with a content expression.

Roman eventually managed to drag them all to the kitchen to make pancakes, which was almost a disaster because one of them burnt so badly it started smoking, and they narrowly avoided setting off the fire alarm. It turned out fine, however, and the pancakes were delicious. Christmas movies followed, starting with The Nightmare before Christmas by Virgil’s request.

Halfway through It's A Wonderful Life, the house phone rang. Roman flinched. Hardly anyone called them there.

“Are you gonna answer it?” Patton whispered. “We can pause the movie.”

“It's fine, you don't have to pause it.” Roman wriggled out from underneath the excessive amount of blankets they were cuddled under and ran to get the phone before it stopped ringing. “Sanders residence.”

“Hey, girl, merry Christmas.”

Roman bit his lip. “Rem, this isn't the best time.”

“Please?” Remy begged. “Please, you haven't answered my calls in months and I just wanna talk for a few minutes.”

“Okay, okay! Fine. Hold on.” Roman came back over to the couch. “It's Remy,” he whispered. “Don't pause the movie, I'll be back in a few minutes.” They all gave him a sympathetic look. Roman fled to his bedroom and closed the door behind him, sitting on the bed. “Yeah, Remy. I'm here.”

“Girl, oh my goodness, it's nice to hear your voice,” Remy sighed. “You okay?”

“I'm…” Roman hesitated. “Yeah, I'm okay.”

“Okay, I know you've...had a lot going on,” Remy said. “And I know you've needed to spend your time taking care of your baby bros. But...I've been kinda worried about you. All of you. Can I have any sort of an update?”

Roman clutched the phone tightly and said nothing. This was hard. Really hard. It was hard to talk to Remy after everything that had happened between them.

“Ro, honey, listen. I'm good with giving you as much space and as much time as you need, I promise. I told you that before, and I'm telling you again now. I'm waiting, for as long as it takes.”

“I know,” Roman managed. “And I love you for it. You deserve better, someone who can actually be there for you--"

“Don't you start that again,” Remy warned him.

“Sorry.”

“It's okay, girl, it's okay.” Remy paused. “How's Patton? Poor baby.”

“He's doing better,” Roman answered.

“Yeah? Oh, that's good, that's good, I've been so worried about the kid. Miss him. I see Virge sometimes when I'm helping out in the school theater, but he doesn't talk much. And how's the baby genius?” asked Remy.

“Logan's doing pretty good.”

“And how are you?” Remy said seriously. “Roman. Be honest, ‘kay?”

“Rem...if I'm honest, I'm gonna start breaking down on the phone with you,” confessed Roman, his voice shaking. “I can't talk, not really. Not yet.”

“Come see me soon,” Remy said softly. “Come see me when you can talk, really talk. I'll be here."

“I know. I know.” Roman swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Merry Christmas, Rem.”

“Yeah, girl. Merry Christmas. Love you.”

“I love you.” Roman hung up quickly before he could start crying. He closed his eyes. After a minute, he stood up and went back to the living room. He slid underneath the blankets next to Patton and grabbed his hand, fixing his eyes on the movie.

“You okay?” Patton whispered softly.

“Hardly,” replied Roman.

“Is Remy okay?”

Roman squeezed his hand. “He's fine. Shhh, talk later.”

“Promise?”

“Yeah, I promise. It's okay.” Roman smiled reassuringly at him and kept watching the movie.

Late that night, after Roman had talked to Patton a little bit about the phone call and everyone was supposed to have gone to bed, Logan came into his room.

“Hey, nerd, what's up?” Roman yawned.

“Did you forget? I have a present for you,” Logan said.

Roman eyed him suspiciously. Logan didn't seem to be carrying anything. “Okay, where is it?”

“It's not an object.”

“Okay...what is it, then? You've sufficiently piqued my curiosity.”

“Promise you won't be angry?”

“Uhhh...tell me what it is, first.” Now Roman was slightly worried.

“It's just, I did it without your permission--but if it's not something you want, it's easy to back out, I promise, I did a lot of legal research, and nothing is actually signed, of course.”

“Logan,” Roman said calmly. “What did you do?”

“I got you a book deal.”

“A...book deal.”

“With a publisher. A small publisher, but a legitimate one. Like I said, I did a lot of research. And you can back out of the contract at any time.”

“Okay, first of all, how?” Roman demanded. “You're fourteen!”

“I registered myself as a literary agent with a company that didn't have an age restriction, and I communicated with the publishers only via email,” Logan answered. “I, well, I got the idea from School Story, by Andrew Clements.”

“Oh, you did, did you?” Roman scoffed. “Is this legal?”

“Morally dubious, but technically legal. And the publisher wants your book, Roman. They aren't supposed to sound eager, but the way she was talking about how much promise your novel has and how much she liked your writing, and the deal she offered you...of course you should look at the contract before you sign it. I just…” Logan shifted where he stood. “Perhaps this was a bad idea.”

“Logan,” Roman said softly. “How long have you been working on this?”

“Since I finished editing the first draft three weeks ago. Well, longer than that, actually.”

“And there's a publisher who wants to publish...my novel.”

“Yes. It's a very good deal for a first novel, too, and above average royalties, and…” Logan was fiddling with his thumbs, looking rather nervous as he swayed from side to side. “But as I told you, you don't have to take it. I just got the opportunity for you.”

Roman was trying to wrap his head around this. Part of him wanted to chastise Logan for doing something like this behind his back. Another part of him just wanted to pull Logan into a big hug. “You think it's good enough to publish?” he asked.

“Not only do I think it's good enough to publish, the publisher agrees with me,” Logan said.

“My silly little novel?” Roman checked. “Are you sure you didn't accidentally send them something else?”

“I'm positive. Your novel. A publisher wants it.”

“And you did this for me.” Now Roman was getting a bit choked up, which made Logan seem even more nervous.

“Roman?”

“Come here,” Roman demanded, and he wrapped Logan in the tightest hug he could muster. “Come here.”

“So you'll take the deal?” Logan squeaked, clearly having a hard time breathing.

Roman let him go. “I'll have to look at it first, and actually talk to this publisher myself.”

“Of course!”

“And under no circumstances should you ever do something like this again. I thought we were done keeping secrets?”

Logan crossed his arms. “I thought it didn't count if it was a present?”

“Finding loopholes now, huh? You'd make a good lawyer if you weren't so set on being a medical researcher and college professor, buddy.” Roman nudged him playfully. “Okay. You're gonna show me everything tomorrow morning. But right now, we're going to bed. Night, Lo.”

“Then...you're okay with the present?” Logan checked.

Roman’s face split into a grin. “It's the most thoughtful present I've ever gotten.”

“I didn't do much,” muttered Logan. “You're the one who wrote the book, I simply made someone else see the potential.”

“And you edited it and encouraged me and had faith in me even when I didn't.” Roman poked his little brother's nose. “We make a really good team, huh?”

Logan gave him a tiny smile and backed out of the room. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Lo. Sleep well.” Roman laid down on his bed in the darkness. He reached for his cell phone and hovered his finger over Remy’s contact for a minute before putting it aside again.

He and Remy had been together for almost two years before they had parted ways. Remy was Roman’s first kiss, first love, first everything. They had a friendship based on trust, which had been hard for Remy to form at first. It had broken Roman's heart to tell him that he needed space, that he didn't have the time or the energy to maintain their relationship when it became clear that his mother wasn't going to make it, and that he was going to be responsible for his brothers.

Remy, wonderful Remy, had understood. He had told Roman he would wait for as long as it took until Roman could be with him again. They were both in the production of Singin’ in the Rain even after they had broken up, with Remy absolutely nailing the role of Cosmo even when Roman was struggling to balance rehearsals and family, and Remy had been the one to tell the cast that Roman had to quit after Roman had officially told the director. Roman was so grateful to him for that.

He had fallen apart in Remy’s arms only once, a week after the funeral. Roman had left work and found himself driving to Remy’s house. The door had opened before Roman had even knocked, and Roman let out everything that he had been holding in because he couldn't let his brothers see how much he was struggling. They had to believe he was strong, or they would have been so scared.

“I can do it, I can take care of them,” he had insisted, sobbing and barely able to stand. “I just need to...I just…”

Remy had pulled him inside and held him as he collapsed to the floor. He didn't say much, but he didn't have to. Roman only needed someone he could break down around, someone with whom it was safe to show his weakness. Remy drove him home a few hours later, long after sunset when the other three boys were all asleep. Roman didn't know exactly how long Remy had sat with him. He remembered falling asleep to Remy rubbing his back, and the next morning, there was a text saying that Remy’s ma had picked him up and brought him back home.

Roman hadn't replied. Virgil was the only one who talked to Remy much after that, since he occasionally drove him home from school. Resolving to at least text Remy tomorrow, Roman closed his eyes.

Hope you enjoyed! It’s been a while since I posted, I was just having a hard time finding the time to post over the past couple weeks because I’ve been so busy doing adult stuff. <3 ~Martin

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@a-lexicon-of-words @am-i-heaven-or-am-i-hell @sassy-in-glasses @iamsilentwolf @theshipqueenarrives @alurea-actually @haikyuupaladin @my-happy-little-bean @faithfulcat111 @iris-sanders-athena @riverblujay @faacethefacts @sushipug43 @decaffeinatedpersonnel @finger-gunsss @wicked-universe​ @escapingslowly​ @greeneggsandham1998​ @blue-fluffy-dragon​ @fuzzypurplecloud @anuninspiredpoet​ @justanotherpurplebutterfly​ @insultme-notmyfandoms​ @your-username-is-unavailable​ @candiukas-deactivated20180808​ @spectacled-renegade​ @ocotopushugs​ @runawaysketch97​ @unikornavenger​ @generously-sweet-asexual​ @icecoldparadise​ @nerdygeekyscience​ @starjames-pma​ @jamiecambrera​ @lunareclipse-13​ @shesavampirequeen​ @theboywhodaredtofangirl @ihateitwhenyourejustvague​ @k9cat​ @wilford-woofstache @generalfandomfabulousness​ @echomist13 @a-whole-lot-of-screaming​ @ninjago2020 @danielscupoftea​ @the-fandoms-are-takin-over​ @melorabarton​ @alextheodd​ @the-better-bard​ @aidenneedstogetalife​ @vulnerablevirgil​ @trust-me-i-just-get-weirder​ @romanssippycup​ @journalanxiety​ @shadowsoul357​ @dr-gloom​ @heck-im-lost​ @otaku-marijane​ @starryfirefliesbloggo​ @lienlovesshadowhunters @dontaskmyfandomidontknoweither @everyday-emo-stuff @bi-shy-and-ready-to-die​ @interesyvrany @bestestwaffle​ @today-only-happens-once​ @5-second-cookies​ @vigilantvirgil​ @evilmuffin​ @ajdraws0430​ @youreverydayinternethobo​

Anomalies taglist

@i-will-physically-fight-you @alextheodd @a-lexicon-of-words @cinderlunarcyborg @justamassivenerd @quietdeerfan @haikyuupaladin @anonymous-at-midnight @toriwithacamera @k9cat @anuninspiredpoet @afilhadehades-blog @logicallyanxious-morallyromantic @akiraaria @drunken-ghost @hanramz-the-fander @callboxkat @blubblubfish @spectacled-renegade @fillyourteacup @im-a-bin-child @keys117 @brikcsandbones @jadekitten1 @too-queer-for-the-binary @arandomkoalainaustralia @cinnnamonrollpatton @infinityonthot @romanssippycup @kirsten-the-freak @ab-artist @super-magical-wizard @illiani @angels-are-beautiful @dailylogandoodle @merlybird500 @imherefortheheckofit @moonfang03

[maybeyapping]

The Five Stages of Falling In Love by Edward Elric

People tell you that there are 5 stages of grief, but what they don’t tell you is that there are 5 stages of falling for someone.

 Hi, I’m a linguistics and science major at Royal Amestris, and I’ve fallen in love with my novelist Best Friend, Naomi Brighton.

 Perhaps you’ve heard of her, she wrote the groundbreaking Soul Cross triology, and a series called Koralyne, which revolves around a closeted trans lesbian. I’ve won a few awards for my projects too, but nothing she has.

 Anyways, I think I should get back to the story. Here’s stage one.

 1.       Encounter

 It was a sunny day, way too hot for my mechanic leg to rest comfortably on my skin. I was sipping a milkshake while sitting in my town’s local library, Books n’ Cookies. The name really suited the place, since it was a sort of safe haven for homeless guys, or LGBT folk hiding from family members or homophobic friends. They didn’t charge you for the cookies, at least in money. If you want a cookie and a drink, all you had to do was show your receipt for borrowing a book.

 Sheska, my classmate, was the one who first introduced it to me, and wow, I’m glad she did.

 Anyway, I was sipping the white, icy, beverage, when the door’s bell chimed. I was sitting at the tiny café area, flipping through a YA novel written in my target language, French. It was about an Asexual Biromantic girl, learning how to understand how Homophobia originated. Naomi walked past me at first, and ordered a drink and a cake. She then walked past my table, and she must’ve read an entire paragraph before saying: “The Girl and The Homophobes? Good choice. A LGBT Classic.” I looked up, and scanned her appearance. She was wearing a red headband, a light blue cardigan over a white blouse, a jean skirt with multiple LGBT and fandom badges; biromatic, demisexual, Percy Jackson, Zelda, Voltron, and some of her own merch. She was also sporting white sneakers on which she had painted the words ‘I’m Here and I’m Queer’ over them both. Her left leg was made of the same metal which my right one was created with. She had light brown skin, which reminded me of Professor Miles, freckles, deep black hair, and steely silver eyes.

 “Wh—oh, yeah. You know it?” I spluttered after a moment. She laughed, and leaned against the table, “Know it?” she asked, “I wrote it!” I gaped, “Seriously?” she laughed simply, nodding, “Yeah. It’s the first thing I’ve published,” she supplied. I nodded, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. “It’s good,” I said, “have you published anything else since?” Naomi nodded, “I’ve written the Soul Cross Legends book, and the short story Petrified.” My jaw dropped, “Seriously!? I love Petrified!” Naomi laughed, and nodded to the chair in front of me, “May I?” she asked. I nodded, a little surprised she wanted to continue talking.

 She sat down and unpacked her macbook. I whistled, “sweet.” Naomi rolled her eyes, “Only one of the perks of being a semi popular author,” I clicked my tongue, “Semi? Dude, my entire linguistics class loves your books. You should start your own library.” Naomi barked a laugh, “What? I wouldn’t make any money with that! I don’t even have enough books to fill a library.” I propped my arm on the table, “But you could.” “Do you have any idea how long it takes to write a book?” “No, but I bet you’ll tell me.” “Petrified took two years, with character creation and research. I asked people with PTSD and war veterans to write Gabby.” I whistled appreciatively, “That’s commitment.” Naomi huffed, starting up her macbook, “Or is it just proper representation?” She asked, at my widened eyes she chuckled: “I asked my trans lesbian friend on Koralyne too, so don’t underestimate my ability to do the proper research.”

 I raised my arms defensively, “Alright, I won’t. You’ve proven yourself worthy, bookworm,” I joked. Naomi laughed, “If I’m bookworm,” she pointed at the Bill Nye The Science Guy badge on my sweatshirt, “Does that make you Science Prince?” I laughed, “That’s better than Alchemy Prince,” Naomi giggled, tilting her head, “What’d you do to earn that name?” I groaned, rolling my eyes, “I held a presentation in High School about Alchemy Theory, and I’m researching it now, I got the name from my High School science teacher,” I grinned, “Man, Mrs. Curtis was an amazing teacher, always encouraged me and my brother.” Naomi smiled, “You have a brother?” I nodded. “He’s a year younger than me, studying linguistics and history currently.” Naomi sighed, leaning on her palm, “Wow that’s so cool. I can’t afford going to college, so I work at a cozy little Library.” Her smirk told me that yes, I work here.  

 We ended up talking for two more hours, and exchanging numbers.

 That was how I met my best friend.

  2.       Friendship

I’ll be honest, I hadn’t noticed I’d befriended her until she invited me to play Zelda with her at her apartment. It was a larger apartment uptown, and the mailbox in the entry hall had three names pasted onto it: Brighton, Alvarez and Mckinnon. I guessed Alvarez and Mckinnon were her roommates. I knocked on her door on the 6th floor, and let her pull me inside. She jumped over her couch and crashed onto it with a muffled ‘POOMPF’.  I dropped my bag onto the floor and fell onto the couch. She had moved to sit in front of it, cross legged, controller on her lap. “Welcome,” she said, as I lied on the couch, “to El Palacio de la diversidad, The Palace of Diversity.” I chuckled, “How diverse can it be with three people?” “You’d be surprised,” she said cockily, “Lysanna is Latinx, Cuban, to be exact, Ashley is from Cherokee decent. My parents moved to France two generations ago, then, my parents moved to madrid and I was born there. Then, I came here with Lys and Ash.” I whistled, “A woman of many cultures I see.” “Not to mention the diversity in sexuality and gender; I’m Demisexual and Bi, Ash is Pan and trans, Lys is queer.” I raised a brow, “just queer?” Naomi nodded, pressing buttons on her remote, “yep, she’s still trying to figure it out, but she has dated men, women, in between – basically, she’s seen it all.” I laughed, “Seriously?” Naomi giggled, “Yep! Without her I doubt Ash would be so confident today.” I tilted my head, “And you?”

 She froze. Her muscles tightened (and believe me, there was a lot to tighten), and her nostrils flared. Her eyes turned steely, “I don’t think anyone can help me recover from my lost pride.”  For a moment, I simply stared at her. When I inhaled, ready to ask her ‘Why’s that’, she bolted up. “I’ll be right back,” she said, and waved. Then, she disappeared down the hall. As she was absent, I looked at the polaroids decorating the walls, shelves and tables. There was a white string above the kitchen counter, as well as the TV. On all pictures stood Naomi, with two other girls, sometimes just one, other times Naomi wasn’t depicted. There was a pink polaroid camera on the shelf above the TV, next to it a picture of a girl with brown skin, dark brown curly hair, and sparkling green eyes. In pink marker the white area of the picture read, ‘I’m better than you at everything, but above all else: sex. –Lys’ There was a manuscript of The Girl And The Homophobes, next to it was a picture of Naomi in a bright blue, flower printed sundress and straw hat. It read: ‘Feelings aren’t sensible. People don’t make sense, and love doesn’t either. The people who do, are often times the wrong ones. – Nao’ the last item was a mannequin head, on which orange cat-ear headphones rested. The polaroid taped to the mannequin had a picture of a girl with light brown hair, dark red eyes and brown skin, and scars along her arms. She was wearing an orange sweatshirt-vest, and black jeans. It read ‘I have a free life long trial of feeling okay. –Ash, 2017’

 Just then, Naomi returned. She was holding a blue, white and silver bracelet that she had made herself. It was made of wool, one of those classic friendship bracelets that were popular a few years ago. She must’ve noticed the ones I wore, green and blue from Winry, a brown and gold one from Al, a yellow, white and gold one from Ling, a green and black one from Lan Fan, the list went on. “Here,” she said, handing it to me, “This is for you. A gift.” I took it, eyes blown wide, “Thanks.” Naomi smiled, and sat down again. “I consider us friends, you know.” I hummed, “That’s good to know, Bookworm.” After a moment of silence, the only sound coming from her controller, I added: “I consider us friends, too.”

 She grinned, silver eyes sparkling with delight.

 3.       Trust

She hadn’t come to the Library that day. That set me off. “Don’t worry about it, Brother,” Al had said, “She was probably just feeling under the weather.” I had hummed, but I didn’t believe it. She normally texted me if she wasn’t feeling well, so this was new. I left Al when he began talking to Mei, and ran uptown – to Naomi’s apartment.

 I bounded up the stairs and knocked on the apartment door. At least, I slid to a halt before it, just as the door opened and a familiar face exited. “Hm? Ed? What are you doing here?” Lys asked, green eyes glittering curiously. “Naomi didn’t show today,” I said, “Just wanted to check that she’s okay.” Lys deflated, green eyes turning dark. “She’s in her room,” she said grimly, “last door on the right. She’s…she needs someone she can trust.” I frowned, “And it’s not you?” Lys smiled sadly, “I’m not you, apparently.” With that, she dropped the apartment key into my hand and left.

 I unlocked the door and stepped inside. After dropping the key in it’s holder on the dresser next to the door, I headed towards Naomi’s room. There was a whiteboard pinned to the door, and the quote had been written with wet marker: “Dying is Easy, Living is Harder –Lin Manuel Miranda” From behind the door I heard coughing and broken sobs. I pushed the door open carefully, and my eyes flew over Naomi, wrapped in a bi pride flag blanket, curled up into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

 I slowly walked to her bed and sat down. She continued to cry until I placed my hand on her head tentatively. She stopped sobbing, and moved her head to my lap. “What happened?” I asked, voice quiet. Naomi hiccupped, “M-My step mom…I-I thought…I thought she—she had texted me…” I was no mind reader, but I guessed she didn’t like her step mom much. The way she avoided talking about her ‘Family’, I could only guess that she was the victim of Homophobia, Sexism, Abuse, or all of the above. I pet her head, and whispered, “I’m here. You’re safe.” I wanted to say ‘You’re safe,’ but I couldn’t lie to her, and I didn’t know if it really was safe. She coughed. “I’m…I’m sorry, I’m bad at this.” I said. “J-Just…cuddle?” she sobbed, and I froze. After a moment my shock morphed into a smile, “Sure.” I said, crawling into bed next to her.

 We lied in silence, me cradling her in my arms. I found we did this a lot, acting like a couple, even though we weren’t. I never did this with anyone else, it was something only Naomi knew of me.

 Suddenly, she spoke: “I was 7 when Ash told me she thought my mom was abusive,” I froze, my hand stopped stroking her back, “It wasn’t until I was 11 that the police did something. I was put in a foster home. I thought…I thought mom’s hit their kids, and that they refused to feed them when they got bad grades. I though Mrs Mckinnon was the weird one.” Ashley Mckinnon saved Naomi. That was a fact I knew then. I pulled her closer and whispered, “You’re free now. You’re here.” Naomi hummed, the vibration resonating through my body, “To this day, I flinch everytime someone gets really angry.” I frowned, I knew that. I had been on the ‘really angry’ side of the situation sometimes.

 “I won’t let her hurt you again,” I said, “I know Ash and Lys won’t either.” Naomi nodded, and grasped my shirt. “Thanks,” she husked, “Thanks Ed.”

 4.       Recognition/Acceptance

It was simple, really.

 It was such a small thing, I’m surprised I didn’t notice it sooner. We were sitting at the library café, laughing, joking, talking, brainstorming fic and novel ideas. Her eyes crinkled, and her grin was wide. Her gray eyes were sparkling, and looked like pure silver, she was curling a strand of hair around her fingers, her raid nails creating a contrast to her black hair. Had her eyes always been such an indescribable shade between silver and blue? I wasn’t sure.

 I felt my face grow hot, the warmth spreading to my ears when she began to play with her red earrings. Red reminds me of you, she had said when buying them with me, so I’ll be sure to always think of you when I wear these.

 Remembering that sent electricity through my body.

 Oh no.

  5.      Confession

We were on the Central City Pier, our feet dangling over the edge as the sky painted the sea in dark shades of blue under the setting sky. The sky was dipped shades of red, blue and purple. She was wearing shorts and a blue bikini top. A red ribbon held her braid together.

 She was smiling, licking her strawberry ice cream. Her lips were red from the cold, but she never shivered. She looked at me, and I whipped my head away. I felt hot from my nose to my ears, and then she did something that made me grow hot all over:

 She touched my ear.

 I turned around and she pulled her hand back. “You’re warm,” she said, silver eyes blown wide. The wind picked up and brushed her hair into a frazzled mess. I probably looked just as disheveled. “Mhm,” I hummed, glaring at the horizon. Naomi pouted, and scooted nearer. She studied the side of my face as I sipped my slushie. I felt my cheeks heat up. She tilted her head. “What’s wrong with you? You look like the sun just ruined Al’s surprise Birthday party.” I rolled my eyes and glared at Naomi. She smiled, “Now you look like I missed an expertly planned Chemistry pun.” “That’s how I feel, too.” Naomi laughed, “Oh yeah? Pray tell, what did I miss?”

 I glared at my slushie, now, and felt the heat spread down my neck. “You’re such a hypocrite,” I deadpanned, making her squeak indigilantly, “You call me oblivious while being 100% clueless yourself.” Naomi frowned, “What do you mean?” She got on all fours and stared at me intently. I looked at her, which was a mistake. Her face was positioned in a way that it was nearly impossible not to look down her shirt. I cursed, then turned to her. I grabbed her arms and pulled her into a sitting position.

 “Are you stupid?” I asked, “or just in denial?” Naomi deflated. “Denial,” she hummed, “I just don’t get how you could possibly have a crush on me.” I scowled, “Hell if I know. You’re cute I guess.” She laughed airily, “You guess?” I shrugged, releasing her. After a minute, she said: “How can you be in love with a fuck up like me?” “If with fuck up you mean you fuck me up, then, easy, you just…do.” Naomi smiled, and intertwined our fingers, “Can you help me love myself again?” I looked at our hands, face hot, “I can try. No, I…I promise I will.” Naomi laughed, “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” “I only make ones I can.”

 I hadn’t realized how much her words affected me (and vice versa) until that moment.

 Then, she pushed me against the pier and kissed me.